Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box (2 page)

BOOK: Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box
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“No.” Mike’s voice was bleak, empty of all emotion. “She wasn’t allowed to. They made her sign a lot of papers.”

“A lot of papers in exchange for what?” asked Andy.

“Medical school.”

Mike pressed the button.

“The release happened six days ago. The infection has a latency of twenty-three days. Additional releases are ongoing. Because…” Cole stopped again before starting back up, sounding more and more like a broken marionette. She was running down. “Because the government funded the original project, they might be able to find a vaccine if they start looking immediately. It wouldn’t be hard to type the bacterial strain, and there are only a few researchers working with it. They don’t know about all the modifications that I…that she…that were made. They’d need to start right away. But there’s a catch.”

“Isn’t there always?” asked Mike, leaning back in his seat.

“The researcher who created the disease, she’s listening in on all the big channels, and a lot of the small ones. She has people feeding her information, people who have really good reason to be loyal to her. People who see the same solution she does. And if she hears a whisper from any government, anywhere, that links this pandemic to her research, she’ll release the second project she worked on. The bad one.”

“This
isn’t
the bad one?” Ryan sounded incredulous. “I mean, come on, Cole…”

“Here’s where things get dicey, guys. See, the second infection isn’t bacterial. It’s a virus, based on a hemorrhagic out of Africa called ‘Lassa fever.’ It’s got a long latency and a high mortality rate, and that’s without clever virologists playing with the way it works. And this one hasn’t got a vaccine, although it
does
have a nasty little interlock with the vaccine for the bacterial strain. If you would have been immune to the original pandemic, either naturally or due to immunization, you’ll get the second virus and you’ll die.” Cole sighed deeply. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Is she crazy?” demanded Sandi.

“I don’t know,” said Ryan.

Cole’s laughter startled them all, even Mike, who jumped in his chair and nearly knocked over Sandi’s root beer. It was a brittle, jagged sound, like broken glass.

“Okay, okay, I give, you guys,” she said. “This ‘oh, I have a friend’ shit is so high school, isn’t it? I built the virus. I built them both. The scenario is still valid: The releases started last week. Manhattan, San Francisco, and—best of all—Disney World. I put it in the misters, just like Elsa’s Black Fungus Apocalypse. Thanks for that, Elsa. It works great.”

Elsa looked ill. Cole kept talking.

“I love you guys. You’re the best friends I’ve ever had. I mean, you may be the only friends I’ve ever had—the only real ones, anyway. That’s why I’m leaving this up to you. I vaccinated you all against the first disease months ago. You’re probably the safest people on the planet. Yes, even you, Sandi. I know you slept with Mike, but I don’t really care about that anymore. It’s too trivial a concern.”

Sandi and Mike exchanged a glance, her eyes wide and horrified, his merely resigned. Cole kept talking.

“You’re all going to live through what comes next. It won’t be fun, but you’ll live. I knew you wouldn’t want to do it alone—you were always more social than I was—so I’ve arranged to have a box couriered to Elsa and Andy’s place tonight, during the Game. Inside, you’ll find ten doses of vaccine for each of you. Use them however you want. Save your family, or your friends, or your doctor. It’s up to you. You can even give them to the government. And if you do, I’ll die with you, because I’m immune to the first pandemic, just like you are.”

Cole’s voice turned wistful. “I wish I could’ve given you this scenario in person. I think it’s the best one I’ve ever put together. I really wanted to, but in the end, I couldn’t risk it. I love you all. I love you all so much. I hope you’ll find the answer that’s right, because to be honest…I can’t. All I can do is end the world, and let you decide how much of it survives.

“This is Cole Evans, signing out.” A pause, and then, in a whisper they all had to strain to hear: “Forgive me?”

The recorder beeped one more time. Silence fell.

Ryan was the first to react. He laughed nervously, shaking his head. “Okay, wow. That’s the best mind-fuck we’ve had in a while. Points to Cole.”

“I don’t think she was kidding,” said Elsa.

“We haven’t answered the scenario yet, guys,” said Mike. He picked up the recorder, cradling it in his hand. “Do we call the government and die, or do we condemn millions of people because we’re too chicken to pick up the phone?”

“Dude, did you really sleep with Sandi?” asked Ryan.

Mike didn’t answer.

“Won’t calling the government mean killing even
more
people?” asked Andy. “She said the second virus was worse.”

“We don’t know that,” said Mike. “Maybe there’s only one virus.”

“Because Cole was always an underachiever,” scoffed Ryan. “If she says there’s a second virus in the scenario, there’s a second virus in the scenario. I’m just not buying the idea that it’s real life.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” asked Elsa.

“We’re not risking anything,” snapped Sandi. “It’s a game. It’s a stupid game, and that’s all it’s ever been, and that’s all it’s ever going to be. Stop taking this so seriously. Cole’s just messing with us. That’s all.”

The doorbell rang.

Silence fell again, thick and heavy as a curtain going down. Elsa looked around the group, meeting everyone’s eyes in turn. Then she slowly pushed her chair back from the table, stood, and walked to answer the door.

She was halfway across the room when the person outside began to cough.

Meet the Author
 

Born and raised in California, Mira Grant has made a lifelong study of horror movies, horrible viruses, and the inevitable threat of the living dead. In college, she was voted Most Likely to Summon Something Horrible in the Cornfield, and was a founding member of the Horror Movie Sleep-Away Survival Camp, where her record for time survived in the Swamp Cannibals scenario remains unchallenged.

Mira lives in a crumbling farmhouse with an assortment of cats, horror movies, comics, and books about horrible diseases. When not writing, she splits her time between travel, auditing college virology courses, and watching more horror movies than is strictly good for you. Favorite vacation spots include Seattle, London, and a large haunted corn maze just outside of Huntsville, Alabama.

Mira sleeps with a machete under her bed, and highly suggests you do the same. Find out more about the author at
www.miragrant.com
.

Mira Grant. Photo © by Carolyn Billingsley.

 
Also by Mira Grant
 
T
HE
N
EWSFLESH
T
RILOGY

Feed

Deadline

 

W
RITING AS
S
EANAN
M
C
G
UIRE

Rosemary and Rue

A Local Habitation

An Artificial Night

Late Eclipses

Silver-Tongued Devil

 

If you enjoyed THE BOX,

look out for

FEED

Book 1 of T
HE
N
EWSFLESH
T
RILOGY

by Mira Grant

 
Chapter 1
 

O
ur story opens where countless stories have ended in the last twenty-six years: with an idiot—in this case, my brother Shaun—deciding it would be a good idea to go out and poke a zombie with a stick to see what happens. As if we didn’t already know what happens when you mess with a zombie: The zombie turns around and bites you, and you become the thing you poked. This isn’t a surprise. It hasn’t been a surprise for more than twenty years, and if you want to get technical, it wasn’t a surprise
then.

When the infected first appeared—heralded by screams that the dead were rising and judgment day was at hand—they behaved just like the horror movies had been telling us for decades that they would behave. The only surprise was that this time, it was really happening.

There was no warning before the outbreaks began. One day, things were normal; the next, people who were supposedly dead were getting up and attacking anything that came into range. This was upsetting for everyone involved, except for the infected, who were past being upset about that sort of thing. The initial shock was followed by running and screaming, which eventually devolved into more infection and attacking, that being the way of things. So what do we have now, in this enlightened age twenty-six years after the Rising? We have idiots prodding zombies with sticks, which brings us full circle to my brother and why he probably won’t live a long and fulfilling life.

“Hey, George, check this out!” he shouted, giving the zombie another poke in the chest with his hockey stick. The zombie gave a low moan, swiping at him ineffectually. It had obviously been in a state of full viral amplification for some time and didn’t have the strength or physical dexterity left to knock the stick out of Shaun’s hands. I’ll give Shaun this much: He knows not to bother the fresh ones at close range. “We’re playing patty-cake!”

“Stop antagonizing the locals and get back on the bike,” I said, glaring from behind my sunglasses. His current buddy might be sick enough to be nearing its second, final death, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a healthier pack roaming the area. Santa Cruz is zombie territory. You don’t go there unless you’re suicidal, stupid, or both. There are times when even I can’t guess which of those options applies to Shaun.

“Can’t talk right now! I’m busy making friends with the locals!”

“Shaun Phillip Mason, you get back on this bike
right now
, or I swear to God, I am going to drive away and leave you here.”

Shaun looked around, eyes bright with sudden interest as he planted the end of his hockey stick at the center of the zombie’s chest to keep it at a safe distance. “Really? You’d do that for me? Because ‘My Sister Abandoned Me in Zombie Country Without a Vehicle’ would make a great article.”

“A posthumous one, maybe,” I snapped. “Get back on the goddamn
bike
!”

“In a minute!” he said, laughing, and turned back toward his moaning friend.

In retrospect, that’s when everything started going wrong.

The pack had probably been stalking us since before we hit the city limits, gathering reinforcements from all over the county as they approached. Packs of infected get smarter and more dangerous the larger they become. Groups of four or less are barely a threat unless they can corner you, but a pack of twenty or more stands a good chance of breaching any barrier the uninfected try to put up. You get enough of the infected together and they’ll start displaying pack hunting techniques; they’ll start using actual tactics. It’s like the virus that’s taken them over starts to reason when it gets enough hosts in the same place. It’s scary as hell, and it’s just about the worst nightmare of anyone who regularly goes into zombie territory—getting cornered by a large group that knows the land better than you do.

These zombies knew the land better than we did, and even the most malnourished and virus-ridden pack knows how to lay an ambush. A low moan echoed from all sides, and then they were shambling into the open, some moving with the slow lurch of the long infected, others moving at something close to a run. The runners led the pack, cutting off three of the remaining methods of escape before there was time to do more than stare. I looked at them and shuddered.

Fresh infected—really fresh ones—still look almost like the people that they used to be. Their faces show emotion, and they move with a jerkiness that could just mean they slept wrong the night before. It’s harder to kill something that still looks like a person, and worst of all, the bastards are fast. The only thing more dangerous than a fresh zombie is a pack of them, and I counted at least eighteen before I realized that it didn’t matter, and stopped bothering.

I grabbed my helmet and shoved it on without fastening the strap. If the bike went down, dying because my helmet didn’t stay on would be one of the better options. I’d reanimate, but at least I wouldn’t be aware of it. “Shaun!”

Shaun whipped around, staring at the emerging zombies. “Whoa.”

Unfortunately for Shaun, the addition of that many zombies had turned his buddy from a stupid solo into part of a thinking mob. The zombie grabbed the hockey stick as soon as Shaun’s attention was focused elsewhere, yanking it out of his hands. Shaun staggered forward and the zombie latched onto his cardigan, withered fingers locking down with deceptive strength. It hissed. I screamed, images of my inevitable future as an only child filling my mind.

BOOK: Apocalypse Scenario #683: The Box
5.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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