Virulent: The Release (21 page)

“Do me a favor,” the woman said, turning her attention back to Spencer. “Give me another day. Same time. I think I have something that might interest you.”

She then bent down and examined Lucy, pulling on the handcuffs, patting her down for weapons. When she saw the gash on Lucy’s head, she shot Spencer a frustrated look.

“I need her compliant. And in good condition. Handcuffs, good, fine, whatever. Violence, bad. Are we clear?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spencer pointed to the door. “Tomorrow. And I better not be disappointed.”

“That’s entirely up to you,” she replied. “But what I’m prepared to offer you is so rare it has no value. It might be the single most important item left on our Godforsaken earth. And you’ll take it. Eagerly. Then I get the girl in excellent condition. I mean…for the love Spencer…fix her a decent breakfast, share your deodorant.” Then she turned to Lucy, looked her up and down one last time. “Tomorrow.” She started to walk away.

Spencer followed her back out to the doors, his rifle raised again. He started to punch in the code to slide the metal locks apart.

“Who are you?” Lucy cried out after the stranger, her voice full of anguish and fear.

The girl spun. She paused as if debating whether or not she would answer. “I’m Darla,” she called and then disappeared back outside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Six days after The Release

Lucy wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her mind kept spinning around thinking of Salem and Grant out there in the world for the first time since the attack. She wondered if they found it cruel or peaceful, and while she hoped they had located her brother, she was not optimistic. But more than anything, she kept imagining that kiss, and she pondered whether or not she would be rescued. After waiting and wondering, she just assumed they had forsaken her for more romantic pursuits. It pained her to think of their closeness while she was so alone.

Her hand ached above her head and she could not find an ounce of comfort. Occasionally she dozed, but when her body pulled on the chain, she would jerk awake to the sound of metal rattling on metal. All through the night, her anger and pain increased, but Lucy didn’t cry. Five days ago, she wouldn’t have stopped crying, but she could not find it in herself to shed tears. Spencer watched her like a caged pet—balancing his interest with both fascination and indifference.

When Spencer attempted conversation with her, Lucy turned her face away from his and stared off at the beige office walls where pictures of former students had been taped up in equally numbered columns and rows. Tiny squares of smiling faces, painted and plucked, wearing brand new outfits, without a hair out of place. Lucy’s own senior photos were sitting at home, already distributed to her mother’s friends and distant relatives.

Spencer never wanted to talk about anything that made sense. Instead it seemed that he was excited just to hear himself talk to a human being at all, even if that person was his prisoner. He held court in front of her and recounted movie plots and stories of crazy students and he told her the details of teacher scandals—all of which might have interested her a few days ago, but not anymore.

After he realized it would be a perpetual one-way conversation, Spencer retreated to his office with his bottles and his pills. In no time at all, he was snoring. His rattling breath kept Lucy wide-eyed and awake until the wee hours of the morning.

When Spencer rose with the sun, he was slow, grumpy and suddenly silent, but otherwise fine. He fixed them both a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and French toast sticks drowned in maple syrup from a collection of tiny plastic packets, which he opened for Lucy without so much as a good morning.

But even if he handled himself in virtual silence, Spencer abandoned his antagonistic banter. He didn’t have to be nice to her, but somehow Darla’s instructions were weighed with authority. They spent the morning like awkward houseguests—one not sure what to do with the other—even though the reality of her situation was never far from Lucy’s mind.

After hours of waiting, Darla was back. Right on time. Her four short knocks, beat, two knocks. The song and dance of raised guns, sliding bolts, mutual distrust, locking doors. When she returned, he seemed jittery with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. His morning moodiness was lifted.

“Easy, easy,” Darla said. Her messenger bag was empty and light. She set it down on the table slowly and then kicked out a chair and sat down. Plates with the remnants of their breakfast were beside her, and Darla took her pointer finger and made lazy circles with the leftover syrup. Then she brought her finger to her tongue and licked the syrup off with a deliberate smack. Lucy had left a bite of sausage and Darla ate that too. If it bothered Spencer, he didn’t say. Instead, he watched her curiously and anxiously as he leaned against one of the walls, his gun at his side.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Enough. I’m waiting.”

“I’m about to honor your request.”

“I hope so. Or why are you here?”

“An unobtainable, rare, valuable product. For your own personal use, if you desire. Or for sale. I don’t care what you do with it once it leaves my hands.”

“My curiosity is piqued.”

“Sure, sure,” Darla waved him away with disdain. “Let’s set the ground rules. First, let her out of the cuffs.”

Spencer blinked. “I don’t know. She’ll bolt.”

“Let her out of the damn cuffs.”

“Tell me what you brought for—”

Darla pulled her firearm out of its holster like lightning and pointed it at Spencer; only her hand and arm had moved—the rest of her body had remained positioned calmly in the chair. “You’ll want what I’m selling and if you don’t then you lose the product and the girl.”

With Darla’s gun still pointed in his direction, Spencer bent down and unlocked one side of the handcuffs. Lucy’s hand fell into her lap. It was numb and sore, a red, raw indent surrounded her wrist and she cradled it gingerly against her body.

“Come over by me,” Darla instructed to Lucy. Whether or not she wanted to bolt, Lucy realized that fighting her request would be useless. So, Lucy slid herself over to Darla’s feet and then wobbled upward. Her legs ached.

Darla pulled her messenger bag down off the table and flipped it open. She reached inside and pulled out a brown box with a lid. Dropping her bag on the floor, she lifted the lid, and Lucy saw that the box was packed with packing balls. They fell to the floor as she reached in and grabbed a plastic baggie. She ripped open the top of the bag, held out her hand, and rolled out four vials.

“This better be good,” Spencer mumbled, clearly unimpressed.

“
This
,” Darla held the vials in her hand, “is a cure.”

Spencer looked at her uncomprehending. “A cure.” He ran the back of his hand over his nose and cracked his head to the side.

She rose to her feet and held the vials outward, but when Spencer took a step forward and tried to reach for them, she drew her hand back and waved her free pointer finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah…not so fast.”

“You mean…a vaccine.”

Darla smiled, her large, evenly spaced teeth flashing. “Now you’re catching on. I’m holding the only known and only available vaccine against the virus that was unleashed on our dearly departed Earth. Four vials. There is one for you for sure. I have three more…but we’ll discuss their fate next.”

She let the news settle and when Spencer opened his mouth, she continued, without waiting.

“I know you’re incredulous.”

“To say the
least
,” was his response.

“Of course. I waltz in here, purport to have some cure for a quick-killing tool of genocide used by bioterrorists. Hard pill to swallow?”

Spencer motioned for her to continue.

Following every word with growing anxiousness, Lucy slid her body down into Darla’s now empty chair and rested her elbows on the table.

Darla reached into her bag once again and pulled out a sheet of white computer paper and a digital camera. Still with the vials in her grip, she brandished the paper, like a gift, and placed it in Spencer’s hand. He shifted his rifle to his back and held on to the sheet with two hands, his brow furrowing as he read. “This could be forged,” he mumbled.

“Oh really? With my endless hours of available free time and design experience?”

“You could have traded for it. How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“It’s not a forgery.”

“It’s a scare tactic.”

“You’re right. It’s scary…but it’s no
tactic
.”

“What does it say?” Lucy said and she stood up.

With a sigh, Darla turned to acknowledge Lucy. The strange woman had deep, dark brown eyes with a tint of green along the edges and long, make-up-less lashes. “It’s a document from a government-run laboratory. Some timeline information about experiments involving the virus.”

“How did
you
get that?” Lucy asked. But Darla shot her a murderous look and Lucy lowered herself back down into her seat. “I was just asking,” she tried to add, but no one seemed to hear her.

“It
says
that most victims die between twenty-four hours to thirty-six hours after exposure. Quickly. Instant death. Ninety-eight percent of all…human subjects…did not last beyond that timeframe. Then there is a second wave. The outliers. After exhibiting no symptoms, no reaction to exposure at all…after one-hundred-forty-four hours to one-hundred-sixty hours…another two percent.”

“One-hundred percent death rate?” Lucy said and she looked up. She let that tidbit of truth wash over her. No one would survive this without that vaccine.

“Excellent math skills. Did our fine establishment help you with that ability?” Spencer shot a look upward and then back down at the camera. “So, what
Darla
,” he said her name with a sneer, “is trying to say is that we just entered a time period where we are all at risk again. Is that right?”

Darla shrugged.

“And how opportune…I mean, what a great fortune for me that she has the perfect recipe to save my life.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy it.”

“The way I see it,” Darla answered without missing a beat, “is that I can win this thing two ways. One, you realize I’m right, and you let me buy Lucy with the vaccine. Or two, you think I’m wrong and you die of the virus. I walk out of here with Lucy either way.”

“Then wait for me to die,” Spencer invited with a toothy smile.

“Happily,” Darla replied. “That was certainly
my
vote anyway. However, here is the problem.” She frowned. “I need some things. Some big things and unfortunately, you’re the only one I know who can get them for me.”

Lucy’s heart began beating ferociously. She didn’t want to interrupt and ruin Darla’s rehearsed dialogue, but she needed to know if
she
was in danger. She thought of Salem and Grant out there, outside, somewhere, not knowing that a second wave would soon hit them. Getting out of the school and finding them was key, even if she hoped that Darla’s dog-and-pony show was an act.

“That is an interesting predicament,” Spencer said, assuming his administrative tone, a cross between condescending and authoritative. “So many coincidences. I’m in danger
today
, but behold…
you
have just what I need.”

“And if
you
don’t give me what I need, then yes, you will die.”

Spencer debated, his eyes flashed. “So, what do you need?” he asked.

“Antibiotics. And a doctor.”

He laughed at her. “Those are no easy feats. What makes you even think I can do that?”

“Because if you don’t agree to it…you’ll die,” Darla answered.

“Right, I see. Well, I don’t have antibiotics right now,” he told her unapologetically. “And you think I can just call up a doctor? How exactly do you suppose I go about making that happen for you?”

Darla leaned in closer. “I know how this works. You need specific things and you put different items in the window to call the looters. The traders. The Raiders, like I call them. Right?”

He didn’t answer her.

“You do this for me and you live. The payment is handsome,” she continued.

“Darla the Great, peddling her magical elixirs, preying on fear and a sense of urgency. And of course you need the girl, but wait, if I don’t give you the other things you need you’ll let me die. A sham. I don’t believe you, so I will call your bluff. No girl, no antibiotics, no doctor. Let’s wait and see what happens. Do you need me to show you the door?”

“Are you done?” Darla asked, unmoving, and when Spencer failed to answer immediately, Darla nodded once. “Good.” She grabbed the digital camera and turned it on, its tiny ding indicating it was ready. She passed it to Spencer, who regarded the first picture with confusion and then disgust.

Lucy stood up and walked over so she could see the screen. Quickly, Spencer clicked through pictures. At first it was just pictures of dead rats in various stages of decay. In front of the rats, someone had labeled them: Day1, hour 2. And then as the rats disintegrated into fur and bone, Day 5, hour 10. But at some point the subjects changed and what Lucy saw—despite the horror of the past six days—made her gasp. She clasped a hand over her mouth and her eyes began to water. She hated what she was seeing, but she couldn’t look away.

Bodies. Real people. Dressed in paper-thin white robes. Men and women. Girls and boys. All ages, shapes, colors, nationalities. Dead. With signs. Day 2, hour 5. And on and on. Some subjects were shown alive. Day 1. Alive. Day 2. Alive. Some people held their signs in front of them without emotion, staring forward. Some of them had a hint of a smile on their lips. Lucy wondered if they knew what was happening to them; if they knew that they were going to die.

Sure enough, Darla’s clear assessment of the paper’s report rang true in pictures. Out of the people who lasted through the first phase, none of them survived Day 6.

Spencer finished the last photo, compelled to press the forward key until the first picture flashed back into view, and then he set the camera down at the table. His brusque manner had diminished and now he appeared pensive and, Lucy thought, afraid.