Read You and Me against the World: The Creepers Saga Book 1 Online
Authors: Raymond Esposito
You and Me against the World: The Creepers Saga Book 1
You and Me against the World
Copyright © 2014 Raymond Esposito
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1481055836
ISBN-13: 9781481055833
You and Me against the World
The Creepers Saga Book 1
Raymond Esposito
Dedication
The support and encouragement I received during this process was truly a gift.
To my wife, Cheryl, for her unwavering encouragement, for her willingness to be a sounding board for each chapter, and for providing me with the time and love necessary to write.
To my children, Devin, Austin, Ashley, Ann, and Golden—they are a constant source of inspiration to my work and to my life.
To the DFL boys—Brandon, Nick, and Chris—for their friendship, their constant readership through many unedited chapters, and because their interest in talking about the story made it even more rewarding to write.
To Jim, for his feedback and thoughts (very detailed thoughts) on this second version.
To Lynda, for helping me finally get the editing correct.
And yes, many of these names appear in this book, but of course, it is not them—I like to think, though, that in a way, it is a part of them—the hero in each that I see and hope that someday they recognize.
Contents
Chapter 2: It’s Never Too Early to Panic
Chapter 3: The End of the World
Chapter 4: The Living and the Dead
Chapter 7: An Epic Retrospective
Chapter 8: The South Shall Rise Again
Chapter 9: The End of the World
Chapter 10: A Deceptive Cadence
Chapter 11: The Living and the Dead
Chapter 13: Echoes in a Quiet Room
Chapter 14: Village of My Sweet Redemption
Chapter 15: Village of My Sweet Insanity
Chapter 16: The Queens of the Tarot
Chapter 17: Village of My Sweet Revenge
Act 1
In the beginning …
The Mimi virus, first isolated in 1992, is a giant double-stranded DNA virus that is almost the size of a single cell. Research has linked the virus to human pneumonia. The Mimi virus has genes associated with translation, metabolism, DNA repair, and protein folding, which are the same gene components found in a living organism’s cells. Scientists speculate that the Mimi virus may be a vehicle whose mutation accounts for evolutionary changes on our planet.
Prologue
The Creepers
The Creepers began to turn in June.
Creepers
had once been an amusing term used by the Facebook generation. A way to describe a person who perused one’s Facebook “wall” a tad too often, especially if said person was a parent or other “low-level” and obligatory Facebook friend. The humor no longer applied. Nosy parents and social media piranha didn’t tear people apart in the literal sense.
The first documented infection occurred on June 2, although the public was never aware of that case. During the subsequent outbreaks, the media coined the phrase “beach flu” because it initially showed up in the Florida beachfront communities. Many wanted to call it “Florida flu,” but the Sunshine State’s politicians and pundits rallied against it. They argued that naming a virus after their state, which so heavily relied on tourism revenue, was tantamount to naming a cruise ship the
Titanic
. When the virus outbreak spread to the Carolinas, California, and the Texas Gulf coast, the argument became a moot point.
The timing of the virus was fortunate. Had it arrived in February or March, at the height of tourism, the Florida survivors would have had little time to prepare or space to defend themselves. The volume of visitors would have exponentially increased the spread. As it was, most of the preparation was pointless, and survival became a thing measured in days, not weeks, months, or years.
Chapter 1
The Flu
Consultation
On his last day as an oncologist, Dr. Russell Thorn worked his shift on the sixth floor of the Gulf Coast Memorial Hospital. He was aware but overly not concerned with the influx of the large number of summer flu cases showing up in the ER. In his experience, more patients came to the emergency room with the summer strains. The symptoms felt all the worse in the hot, humid summer air. This particular strain seemed no different from the other Type A strains. Patients suffered from fever, aches, pains, sinus congestion, and a cough. The CDC had not issued a potential pandemic alert, so the hospital followed standard procedure. The at-risk patients, which included the elderly and small children, were administered Tamiflu, and only the most aggressive cases were admitted for observation and treatment. The lower-risk groups received an antibiotic prescription and were told to go home, rest, and drink plenty of liquids. The antibiotics were useless of course, but it was health care’s version of a consolation prize; it gave the patients peace of mind, which, in turn, made them feel better.
At two in the afternoon, the emergency room paged Dr. Thorn. As a cancer doctor—after too many years of explaining “oncologist,” he had abandoned the fancy title—the majority of his patients came by referral: the unlucky men, women, and children whose routine checkup or visit to treat a nagging cold revealed a dark, malignant thing inside them. Seldom did a referral originate in the hospital’s emergency room. Cancer was never the first diagnosis. Still, from time to time a late-stage cancer sufferer would appear, usually at the insistence of a relative, a relative who could either no longer bear the sight of their beloved being eaten away or who held some final hope that medical intervention might provide a final and miraculous cure that the months of treatment had not.
Thorn had been treating the disease for over ten years. He had come to understand three truths. The first was that the patients demonstrated a strength and fortitude that their families did not. It was not only a professional observation that led to his conclusion but his personal experience as well. As a scientist, he knew that when the disease reached a certain stage, there was nothing more that could be done. The final treatment was to keep the patient on the highest dose of pain medication allowed, a level that was just short of killing them.
The second truth was that he believed that in some cases, it would be far more humane just to administer a lethal dose. In the eyes of the wives, the husbands, and the parents, he saw the third truth—that they could not see their loved one’s pain as clearly as they could feel their own. The cancer ate the survivors too, although not in the physical sense; instead, it reduced them to a point of one final desire—a wish that they might have just one more day with their beloved. He knew this truth because once, it had been the cry of his own heart.
He left his office and walked to the elevator. He hoped that if a cancer patient awaited him in the ER, the victim was elderly and not a child. The detached emotional state that other doctors achieved still eluded Russ Thorn. A decade and a half of medicine had not erased his hate for the disease. This hate burned all the brighter when the afflicted was a child. He hoped that his call to the ER was simply to assure a distraught parent that her child’s sunburn did not mean instant skin cancer.
In Florida, sunburn was common among the tourists. The occasional distraught parents arrived in the emergency room certain their child faced the impending doom of skin cancer. Thorn would examine the child and explain that the probabilities of cancer from one exposure were slim, and if necessary, he would suggest they schedule an appointment with a dermatologist. He would then remind them that sunblock was not intended as a once-a-day application. Satisfied, they would return to their vacation with some peace of mind and a lot more sunscreen.
Yes,
Thorn thought as he punched the elevator button marked ER,
let it just be a case of sunburn today
. Later, he would discover that with all things considered, a room full of lung cancer would have been a blessing.
It’s cold in here
The attending physician, Scott Benson, met Dr. Thorn in the hallway and directed him to a small triage room. Russ did not know Scott well, but it was rare to see a seasoned ER doctor look so stressed.
“Dr. Thorn, good to see you.”
“You too, Dr. Benson. What’s the problem?”
He noticed the black smears on Scott’s lab coat.
“A couple of hours ago, we admitted a patient with flu symptoms. Mr. Drake is a white male, thirty-five years of age,” Scott
began.
“Hmm, not an at-risk group.”
“No, he’s not, but he was presenting with hypothermia.”
“Hypothermia, it’s at least ninety-eight degrees outside. Boating accident?”
Most people were unaware that prolonged immersion in even the Gulf’s eighty-five-degree water could result in hypothermia.
“No, there were no unusual circumstances to explain his condition. By all measures, it appeared to be just the flu. After the first reading, the triage nurse assumed that the electronic thermometer had malfunctioned. She tried two others, with the same result, and then used a standard mercury thermometer. All the readings were the same: ninety-four degrees.”
“Does patient history provide any explanation?” Thorn asked.
Russ Thorn was head of Oncology and a respected member of the staff. Scott did not demonstrate the slightest impatience while answering the routine questions that even an intern would have checked. Doctors, through training and habit, always went through a checklist, even with their colleagues.
“Nope, blood alcohol is normal, no report of recent trauma, and clearly not anorexic. But that’s not all.”
“Chilblains?” Thorn guessed.
Chilblains were skin ulcers that appeared in predisposed patients as the result of exposure to cold or humidity.
“It looks that way, although the skin ulcers have spread and they’re almost black in color.”
“Has his condition progressed?”
“Yes. His core body temperature has dropped to ninety-two degrees. The intravenous warming and the heating blankets are barely keeping it there.”
“Is he lucid?” Thorn asked.
“
Surprisingly so, but he seems to be suffering from some dementia. Mr. Drake was agitated and aggressive, and although his mechanical functions were uncoordinated, he demonstrated surprising strength for a person who should be too numb to grasp anything.”
“It sounds parasitic or maybe allergic. Have you checked with Internal Medicine or Allergy?”
“That was the plan, until the patient began to vomit. He complained of extreme thirst, so a nurse gave him a glass of warm water. Shortly after, he began to emesis a thick black fluid.”
“Blood?”
The young doctor looked down at his stained lab coat.
“No. It’s some kind of bile, but nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Thorn was surprised. There was no bodily fluid a medical professional, especially an ER doctor, had not encountered.
“Interesting but not likely cancer. You probably should call Internal Medicine for a consult.”
“Cancer is not why I called you, Dr. Thorn.”
Thorn raised an eyebrow.
“I called because you’re the hospital’s liaison to the CDC.”
“You think his condition is infectious?”
Scott nodded.
“An hour ago, a nurse collapsed. Her temperature was ninety-five degrees. A half hour ago, it fell to ninety-two degrees, and she began to vomit the same black fluid.”
“Damn. Anyone else?”
Scott looked pale. He placed Thorn’s hand on his forehead. His skin felt cold and tight.
“Damn. Okay, we need to quarantine the wing and contact the CDC. I want to see the patient first.”
Scott nodded and led him down the hall to the patient’s room.
The bed was empty. Scott called to an orderly, a big guy with visible tattoos below the sleeves of his green scrubs and a nametag that read Antonio.
“Where is Mr. Drake?” Scott asked.
Antonio began to respond when a low moan came from behind the bed. The orderly was used to patients falling, and he moved quickly toward the sound. On the other side of the bed, he stopped and stared.
The two doctors moved to his side. Mr. Drake was naked on the floor. The discarded clothing was not abnormal behavior, as many hypothermia victims practiced paradoxical undressing. The patient’s other behavior did, however, shock them. He was on all fours, and a string of black bile hung from his mouth. His hands and fingers worked furiously at the floor as if he wanted to dig through the cement. The patient’s fingers were bloody, and two fingernails had torn loose. The man moaned again in a pained whimper. Thorn looked at Scott.
“That’s terminal burrowing, but I’ve never seen it to this degree,” Thorn said.
Hypothermia victims sometimes burrowed into a small, confined area just before they died. It was as if the instinctual part of their brain took over and mandated they find the closest thing to a warm, womblike environment. The most obvious choices for a patient in such a state would have been under the bed or even a chair. Attempting to dig a hole in the floor made no sense.
Antonio regained his composure and approached the patient.
“Come on now, sir. Let me help you back into bed.” Antonio gently grabbed Mr. Drake’s shoulders and tried to pull him upright.
The patient turned on him, and a sick, gurgled scream erupted from his mouth, followed by a stream of black bile. The bile drenched Antonio’s face, and he fell back, wiping frantically at it. He let go of the patient and issued his own scream. His hands worked at the bile on his face. He cleared away a small patch of the filth, and Thorn saw the blistered skin beneath. A putrid smell of dirt, feces, and vomit filled the air. Beneath the stench was another smell that Thorn could not identify.
Mr. Drake half-jumped and half-crawled toward Antonio. His movements were awkward and grotesque, but in his hypothermic state, the speed at which he moved should have been impossible. He grabbed Antonio’s legs and drove the screaming man to the ground. Scott and Thorn moved to help and each grabbed at the patient’s arms. Thorn could feel the man’s tight, knotted muscles. It felt like he had grabbed a steel coil. The patient dragged himself along Antonio’s body. Scott yelled for help. Thorn understood almost immediately the patient’s target. When the patient reached Antonio’s neck, his mouth opened, and he secured himself with a repulsive slurp as he broke the skin. Blood sprayed and pooled on the floor around the injured man. The patient made contented moaning sounds as he drank the warm blood in long, noisy gulps.
A security guard rushed in and grabbed the patient’s legs. He yanked hard, but the patient’s mouth remained firmly attached to Antonio’s throat. The guard abandoned the more passive attempt and drew his nightstick. He hit the patient several times on the back and shoulders. Thorn watched with horror as the patient’s fingers dug through Antonio’s chest and gripped the man’s ribcage. There was a loud series of snaps as the ribs splintered. The guard hit the back of the patient’s neck with the stick. The patient released Antonio and turned his head at an impossible angle. Thorn heard vertebrae crack and pop. The patient sprayed the noxious black bile at the security guard. The guard turned and avoided a direct spray to his face. His shirt, however, took most of the foul-smelling bile and smoke rose from it. The guard screamed and ran from the room, pulling his shirt off as he went. The thing, because that is now how Thorn saw the man, turned and hissed at him. Thorn moved back a few steps, but even in the midst of his horror, the researcher in him remained fascinated. The patient’s eyes had changed. The bluish-white corneas were no longer translucent, and Thorn wondered if it retained any vision or if it now relied on some other sense.
Scott pulled him away, and they backed into the hallway. Thorn pulled the door shut, held the handle, and looked for something to secure the door.
A nurse stood frozen in the hallway and stared at them, the shocked and confused expression made almost comical by her open mouth.
“Call the police,” Thorn said in a harsh whisper.
Scott looked weak and tired. The exertion had drained the last of his strength.
