Affliction Z: Abandoned Hope (Post Apocalyptic Thriller) (7 page)

The overwhelming feeling of fatigue led Kathy to take exit
133. She stopped at the end of the cloverleaf ramp, removed her helmet and took
out her phone. The cool night air penetrated her sweat-soaked hair and raised
the flesh on her scalp and the back of her neck. Gas vapors overwhelmed her
nose.

She searched for the exit on her map and realized she was
only three miles away from the Highway 20 exit. That was the road she planned
to use to take her from West Virginia into Virginia. Though she was only forty
miles from home, she knew from experience that the road that traveled through mountains,
and it was full of jagged switchbacks. The trip would take a good two hours,
and she’d need to be on top of her game for it. And at the moment, she was in
danger of falling asleep at the handlebars.

She secured her phone and placed the helmet back on her
head. Then she turned right onto Pluto Road and made the first left. The narrow
road dead-ended into a dirt trail. She walked the bike onto the trail and
around a cropping of trees. The area on the other side was a deserted lot,
shielded from the road and the interstate. The closest home stood a
quarter-mile away. They probably heard her pass, if they were home, but being
so close to the highway, she doubted they’d bother to investigate.

Kathy cut the headlight and rested the motorcycle on its
kickstand. Moonlight lit up the area, revealing no more than her artificial
light did. She stripped off her jacket, shirt and pants and let the night air
wash over her body. It wasn’t a jetted tub, but it was still better than
nothing.

Sufficiently cooled, she put her clothes back on, balling
the jacket up and placing it on the ground. She lay down and rested her head
against the makeshift pillow. The engine of the motorcycle ticked, and gas
fumes lingered heavy in the air. She didn’t care. Every muscle in her body
fought against moving, so she stayed where she lay.

She imagined the occasional vehicle passing by on the
interstate to be a wave crashing to the shore. The sounds of the night,
crickets, the wind through the trees, and the tidal cars, lulled her to sleep.

When she woke, the sun had begun cresting over the tops of
the trees. The first rays fell upon her face. She winced after opening her
eyes, reflexively shutting and covering them with her hands before reopening.
Cars passed by on the interstate in regular intervals now. She recalled seeing
on the map that there was no direct way to get to Highway 20 without getting
back on the interstate for a few miles. Though loathe to do this for fear of
who and what might be on the road, Kathy gave in, realizing she had no choice
in the matter.

She propped herself up on her elbows and glanced around.
Where she had slept was recessed from the rest of the field, so it would be
difficult for someone to see her without walking up to her. Of course, the bike
stood out like a sore thumb. Still, no one had approached her during the night.
At least, not that she was aware.

She hopped up, stretched and then straddled the seat. She
turned the key in the ignition while engaging the clutch. The motorcycle turned
over, but did not start.

“What?” she muttered.

She tried again. The engine coughed back at her. She glanced
at the gauges and realized that the bike had no fuel. The fumes she smelled
last night were just that. The final vapors of gasoline that powered the
motorcycle down the narrow road.

Kathy glanced up and cursed out loud. She’d been so tired
the night before that she’d forgotten to check the simplest, yet most important
thing.

She placed her left foot on the ground and swung her right
leg back over. There had been a gas station on the other side of the interstate
where she exited. She could walk the bike there and refuel. She started toward
the road, both hands on the handlebars, her legs awkwardly avoiding the bike
and each other. The toughest part was getting through the grass and around the
trees. Once she did, it became easier as the bike seemed to roll better on the
asphalt, no matter how worn and cracked the road was.

She stopped in front of the lone house on the street. The
battered, weathered wood siding looked as though it held generations’ worth of
stories. She contemplated going up to the door. Someone could live there, she
thought, although it wasn’t likely. Not with two two-by-fours across the front
door and several broken windows. The one thing that stood out was the detached
garage.

What if there was gasoline in there?

She rested the bike on its kickstand and cut across the
lawn. A musty smell surrounded the garage. Cobwebs covered the row of five
darkened windows. Why weren’t they shattered? She reached down for the handle
and pulled. The door didn’t budge. She walked around the structure in search of
a regular door, but didn’t find one. She did find a brick though. She picked it
up off the ground and returned to the front of the structure where she cupped her
hands over the glass and peered inside. The garage was mostly empty, with a few
cans stuck on dusty shelves. One looked like it could be a gas can. The
building was the right size to house a riding lawn mower, too.

Kathy inhaled deeply, and then took a step back with her arm
raised and cocked. All she had to do was break the window enough to get her
head inside. If the garage contained gas, she’d smell it.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

She let the brick fall to her side and lifted both hands
over her head.

“Turn around,” the man said.

She turned to her right and came face to face with a man in
a uniform. He looked to be in his early sixties, still in pretty decent shape.
Probably working as a cop out in the sticks to support his pension from a gig he’d
had earlier in life.

“What do you think you’re doing, miss?” he asked.

“I ran out of gas,” she said. “I’m just trying to get home.”

He looked at the bike and then back at her. “That’s yours?”

She nodded, fearing that he’d run the VIN and the motorcycle
would come back stolen.

“Don’t move,” he said, turning in the direction of the bike.
He walked over to it, circled it once, then reversed and circled back. “Guess
that’s the right bike for a girl. How long have you had it?”

She didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. She’d
handled more powerful machines than that one. “A few months now. Got it for
myself as a birthday gift. My husband hates it. He always says I’ll end up
losing a leg.”

He smiled and nodded. “I’m sure I’d say the same thing to my
wife. Anyway, I got some gas in the trunk. Should be enough to get you a
hundred miles. What do you get, about sixty miles to the gallon on that thing?”

“Something like that.” She smiled and dropped her head to
the side.

He returned to his squad car, opened the trunk, and pulled
out a red gas can. Two minutes later, he’d drained it dry. “Be careful out
there, Miss.”

She smiled as she whipped her leg over and settled onto the
seat. The cop took a step back and started coughing. His lungs sounded thick
with mucus. He turned and covered his face with his hands. After the coughing
subsided, he spat on the ground. Whatever came up was coated in blood. He
turned back toward her.

Kathy cringed at the sight of blood smeared around his lips
and on his chin. She forced a smile anyway, nodded and looked away.

She started the motorcycle and took off, merging onto I-64
for a few short miles before beginning the final leg of her journey home.

The first night in the bunker had not been without its
trials. Sean woke up every hour with a nagging feeling that something was
wrong. He’d roll off the couch and shuffle to the computer only to find that
all systems were working properly. The security cameras, which had infrared
capabilities, showed a still, hazy-green scene surrounding his house and above
the bunker. He didn’t suspect there would be much threat of looters in the
area. However, if someone did stumble upon his home, he wanted to be aware.

There had been an issue with the ventilation system, but an
adjustment to the fan speed corrected that.

Though sleep had been fleeting, Sean felt alert at six a.m.
He fixed a single cup of coffee and scrambled two eggs. They had enough fresh
food to last three days. After that, they’d have to resort to the MREs he’d
stockpiled over the last several years. There were enough of those to support
them for over a year if necessary. He didn’t expect that to be the case. They
would also come in handy when it came time to leave the bunker. He could load
enough to last a few months in the back of his pick-up truck, along with a
month’s supply of water. Not that it would take that long to get to Charleston,
South Carolina. His mind had been working on plans to leave since he’d sealed
the bunker door.

Sean cycled through the screens on his phone while eating
breakfast. He had a full-strength signal thanks to the antenna range extender.
It didn’t matter though. Service was gone. Either heavy usage had crippled the
cell networks, or the carriers had given up and shut down.

He gripped the phone tightly in his hand. All he wanted was
confirmation that Kathy had arrived in Charleston safely. If she was there and
at the airport, Turk could get her to his compound. Not could, he would get her
there.

He picked up his plate and moved to the computer. A tap on
the mouse resurrected the machine. He restored the SSH terminal window and
typed, “Turk, you there?”

There was no immediate response.

Sean took a bite of eggs, then set the plate down off to the
left. He opened up a new tab on his browser and typed in the web address for a
news site. The page looked the same as it had four hours ago when he last
checked. He leaned forward and, narrowing his eyes, looked at the light gray
text that time stamped the articles. They were all from two a.m. or earlier.
Nothing had been updated since.

“This isn’t good,” he muttered while opening another tab and
typing in the address for another news site. The results were the same. Worse,
in fact. The last update on that site had been at eleven p.m. the night before.
The reports had been increasingly distressing throughout the evening, but he
didn’t expect that the major news outlets would have abandoned their posts so
soon.

He continued through every major U.S. news agency. The
results were the same. Even the AP’s site had ceased to update. There was a
banner at the top that said, “
Hope is lost.”

Sean turned his attention across the Atlantic, finding
updates through the BBC’s website. The disturbing nature of what he read had
him wishing that their site had been abandoned, too.

In Rome, hospitals were turning people away. Pictures showed
people lying on the sidewalk in front of the emergency room, and cars parked on
the street surrounding the hospital. There were already ten thousand deaths
reported. Roving bands of the afflicted had been spotted in several sections of
the city. There was a video clip of a group of seven afflicted attacking an
elderly woman who tripped and fell while trying to escape. Sean couldn’t watch
the entire thing.

To the north, Florence, Genoa and Milan fared no better.

A supposed media blackout in Spain left Sean with little
information about the state of affairs inside the country. No place was safe,
though. That was apparent when he read the reports of what was occurring in
Paris, France. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Notre Dame had all been
overrun by afflicted. Maybe they were vacationers who were sick and stuck in
the City of Lights who wanted a few more minutes with their favorite
attractions.

Apparently, groups of people had taken refuge in the
cathedral. Whether a few sick people had made their way inside and spread the
virus, or if wandering afflicted found their way to Notre Dame, was not clear.
Either way, the results had been catastrophic.

The rest of Europe had suffered a similar fate.

Things in London appeared tame compared to the rest. For how
long, though? After all, there was no escaping what was coming. Maybe a city or
a country could last a little longer than the others, but so long as they were
connected with the rest of the world, they were screwed.

That left Sean to think about societies that weren’t
regularly in touch with the rest of society. What would happen to them? Would
they ever find out? Perhaps they’d continue on as though nothing had taken
place.

If only he could do the same.

He began to consider staying inside the bunker as long as
possible. Why leave after a few weeks when they could conceivably survive for a
year, or longer, inside the structure? He knew their chances of survival would
be greater the longer they remained underground.

A two-toned beep alerted him that someone had responded to
his message on the SSH server. He minimized his browser and restored the
terminal window.

“I’m here,” Turk had typed.

Sean’s heart rate increased and he had trouble breathing.
“Have you been back to the airport yet?” He hit enter and waited.

“Yeah…”

“And?” A door opened behind him. He ignored it.

“I collected four out of five of my people.”

Sean’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment. The
next question could change his life, his world. Not just his, but Emma’s, too.
Slowly, he spelled out his wife’s name. “Kathy?”

There was a delay in responding. Too long of one, Sean
thought. How long did it take to type “yes” or “no?” He reached out for his
keyboard to ask again, when Turk responded.

“She wasn’t there. No flight came in from Cincinnati.”

Sean felt lightheaded. All at once, his world began to crash
around him. The only reason he made it through eight years of torment was
because he had Kathy by his side. But now? How would he do this alone?

“I’m sorry,” Turk continued. “I’ll go back again tonight.
After that, we have to go underground for good. I can’t keep taking these
chances.”

Sean shook his head and cleared his thoughts. “Okay. I
understand. Keep me posted.”

He pushed back in his chair and brought his hands to his
face. Unable to hold it in, he sobbed into his palms. He felt a hand on his
shoulder and abruptly stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Barbara asked.

He rose, turned, and pulled her into an embrace. “We’re
never gonna see her again.”

“Who? What?”

“Kathy.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t make it to Charleston. I’ve got no idea where
she is. Last message I got from her said that she got a flight there, but she
didn’t show up. The plane never showed up. It could have crashed, or gone
somewhere else. With the way it is out there, she’ll never make it. Or if she
does, it will be with another group. Technology is dying and almost all forms
of communication will be gone in three days, if not already.”

The news appeared to rock Barbara. The woman left Sean and
stumbled toward the couch. She sat down, despondent, tears streaming down her
face.

That was the difference between Sean and most people. He’d
already recovered from the initial shock. His mind went into recovery mode,
refusing to be shutdown in the face of apparent tragedy.

“Barbara,” he said.

The woman did not respond.

“Listen to me, Barbara,” he said. “Crying is not going to
get her back. What I need you to do is take these headphones and put them on.
If you hear anything, and I mean anything at all, you let me know. Okay?”

She looked in his direction with unfocused eyes.

He carried the headphones over to her along with a portable
transponder. He and Kathy had never developed a plan for what to do in the
event they were separated. She thought he was crazy to invest three hundred
thousand dollars in building the bunker, and he didn’t necessarily disagree
with her. Trying to organize anything beyond that was a losing battle with the
woman.

He’d taught her Morse code, though, and had her memorize a
specific radio frequency that they could communicate on.

“Just put these on and listen. Got it?” He handed the device
and headphones to Barbara.

She nodded, taking the items from him.

“Beeps, clicks, pops,” Sean said. “Anything like that, you
tell me.”

The door to Emma’s room opened and the girl stepped through
the opening. She glanced at Barbara sitting on the couch with headphones on.
Emma’s expression changed. She looked at Sean, confused. He gestured for her to
join him by the computer.

“What’s she doing?” Emma asked.

“I’ve got her busy listening on a frequency. There
are…people who have access to that channel, and if they reach out to me, I want
to know.”

Emma appeared to buy into his explanation. She glanced over
his shoulder in the direction of the computer monitor. Sean felt ice travel up
and down his back. Had he left the SSH terminal window up where Emma could see
his conversation with Turk?

“Did you sleep well?”

She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the monitor. Sean
turned to see the disturbing images on the screen. He had minimized his
conversation with Turk. In doing so, he’d left the BBC news site on display. A
picture that showed several hundred afflicted beings staggering through a city
street in Rome took up half of the screen.

“Can I have a gun?” Emma asked.

He turned toward her. She remained fixated on the image on
the screen. He thought about hiding it from her, but knew that would accomplish
nothing.

“Dad?” she said. “Can I?”

He paused while thinking over the question. She’d been
around firearms most of her life, and had fired several. But there was
something about his daughter walking around the bunker with a loaded weapon
that left him uneasy. What if news was delivered that upset her? How would she
react? Would she turn the gun on him, or Barbara, or worse, on herself?

“Do you feel like you need one?”

She nodded, her stare flicking from the screen to him. She
looked older at that moment, more like her mother. “If those things get down
here, I want to be able to defend myself.”

“They can’t get down here, Em. You’re safe here.”

“I’d feel a lot safer with a pistol.”

Sean took a deep breath and walked over to the gun cabinet.
He inserted his key and unlocked it, then opened it. “Come over here.” She
walked over and stopped next to him. He proceeded to point out each weapon, its
benefits and situational use if there was one. He showed her the Walther P22
.22LR pistol, indicating he’d placed the handgun in there for her. Then he
inserted his key into a lock in the upper corner of the cabinet. Opening a
small door, he said, “I’m not going to let you walk around the place with a
loaded weapon.” He reached inside the compartment and retrieved a key identical
to his. He grabbed her hand and placed the key into her palm. “But you take this.
You thread a piece of string through it and you wear it around your neck. If
something happens to me, you get a gun. If it looks like we are going to be
attacked, you use that key and open this up. Grab that Walther, an M9, hell,
even that M40 there if you think you can handle it.”

She tucked the key into her pocket, nodded and then went to
her room. A few minutes later, she returned with the key strung around her
neck. She smiled tersely as she passed him on her way to the kitchen area.

A barely audible beep sounded from the computer. Sean walked
over and sat down. He took a moment to ensure his daughter and Barbara were not
too close as he restored the SSH terminal window. A message had been sent by
Tim Lindley, Turk’s friend in the Bahamas.

“President Bryant’s family has succumbed. Although no
information has been provided about the status of the President, Vice President
Harkness has assumed the duties as president of the United States.”

Sean stared at the words on the screen, letting it sink in.
Nobody was above falling prey to the virus.

Tim continued, “That’s the word from the BBC, at least.”

Sean opened his browser and verified. In the background, he
noticed a disturbance in one of the small windows displaying a camera feed. He
clicked on the window and maximized it. Whatever it was had disappeared.
Restoring the window, he checked each feed in turn, looking for the source of
the disturbance.

“You okay, Dad?”

He nodded. “Keep your hand on that key, kiddo.”