Immune Read online

  How cruel. How awful it was of her as a mother to abandon her sick child.

  Grace took Macy into her arms and held her up. Macy didn’t move from the embrace, she was emotionless and stone faced.

  In the kitchen holding her baby, Grace had to rethink her whole plan.

  FIVE – Highway To hell

  The eastern rising sun cast through the window of the cockpit, jolting Max Ryker awake. His feet flung forward, smacking into the numerous tiny empty bottles of booze. The barricade he had made with the beverage cart had plenty.

  Max Ryker drank them all.

  Of course, the pilot, Eugene, kept on giving him the side eyed look of disappointment.

  For all Max knew, the plane was going to crash or the bite he received the night before boarding the plane was going to do him in. He was still very much alive and well at the moment. The bite, however, was sore and pulled his skin when he moved.

  “Hung over?” Eugene asked.

  “Nah, I don’t get hung over.” Max leaned forward to lift his shirt and he realized he was glued to the seat by the dried blood of the co-pilot. He groaned. “That’s just gross.” After a hard pull his shirt released.

  “You didn’t mind last night.”

  “I was drinking heavily last night.”

  “To ward off pain or fear?

  Max cringed again and rolled up his tee shirt. “Both.”

  Eugene whistled. “Well, I’d say better make your peace with God. Because I’m willing to bet it isn’t long before you turn into one of those things.”

  “Do I look that bad?”’

  “No, you look fine,” Eugene said. “The wound is bad and, you know, they are all sick. How can you not get sick?”

  “Maybe I’m immune.”

  Eugene laughed. “I doubt that. You’re infected, that’s why those things don’t come after you.”

  “You’re probably right.” Max stood and walked to the cockpit door. “No banging anymore.”

  “Stopped some time after you fell asleep.” Eugene pointed to the monitor. “They calmed down. Sick or not, they’re alive and they need rest.”

  “How is she alive?” Max pointed to the flight attendant that not long before was strewn across his lap gutted. Yet there she was, walking with a gaping hole in her midsection.

  “How is she not?” Eugene asked. “The dead don’t walk.”

  “Ever see the movies?”

  “Movies don’t count.”

  “Then how about Lazarus and Jesus?”

  Eugene groaned. “For sure, you better make your peace.”

  Max looked at the controls and saw flashing lights. “What’s that?”

  “We’re on fumes. We are gonna have to land.”

  “Where are we?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Lost track. Who cares? Looking for a stretch of highway to land. I’ve been circling for about thirty minutes. I spotted one.”

  “Can you land this on a highway?” Max sat down, it was painful and he winced.

  “At this point,” Eugene said, “it doesn’t really much matter now does it?”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Seeing how you don’t fly, my advice right now to you is, buckle up and …”

  Max looked at him. “Make my peace with God?”

  “You got it.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d say that.” Max grabbed the seatbelt and watching with a high level of anxiety as Eugene prepared to land the plane on a stretch of highway... somewhere.

  <><><><>

  The two-story, ‘E’ shaped elementary school didn’t sit far from the road. In fact, Paul was worried when he saw the location. The property wasn’t secure, though the building was.

  The woman he met at the Public Safety building was Tara. She was not immune to the virus, but two of her pack were. While Paul went his way south, she led the others to initiate a second shelter.

  They communicated via radio. Had it not been for Tara, Paul wouldn’t have known that a lot of the reservists that had been activated were seeking where they would be needed.

  She ran into a whole group of soldiers and sent half of them to Caramount to assist Paul.

  Paul was at a loss as to what to do. He was supposed to be a management expert, yet Tara and her two had located the Emergency Management Storage and had loaded a truck. They were well on their way to establishing a shelter long before Paul set forth his own plan. He went to the school first, knowing there were supplies there. That was his first mistake.

  Sergeant Stanton, a middle aged African American man who was a high school principal when he wasn’t serving his country, was a huge help and a life saver.

  He picked up right away that Paul was somewhat disorganized.

  “Look,” he said. “Shelter first, you have that. Let’s make that secure and the rest will fall into place. There’s a lot of supplies out there we can go get.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “We’ll deal,” Stanton said. “We been beating these things off since the onset. We’ll keep beating them off.”

  It was his idea to create a barricade using cars for the front and side of the school property. The back was fine, it had a fence and beyond it a wooded area.

  By dawn they had a perimeter set and two armed soldiers on roof watch.

  The announcements were made on the EBS, and not long after people started arriving.

  More than Paul bargained for, more than he was ready for, and none of them were immune. It frazzled Paul because he had the ‘big idea’ and the binder with information, he just needed to work on coordinating what was actually happening and the plan set forth by the county. Paul knew for a fact Stanton hadn’t slept. Yet, he kept busy.

  Stanton had told Paul he was activated and ‘called up’ three days prior, two whole days before everything hit. He wasn’t told anything, only that things could happen.

  “Some were sent to roadside checkpoints to look for infected,” Stanton told him. “I was sent to Mercy Hospital. In the snap of a finger it got bad, No one moved and the place sounded like an orchestration of chain saws. Don’t think I’ll ever hear someone snore again without getting freaked out.”

  “I hear you,” Paul said. He knew what Stanton was talking about. The obstructed breathing sound they all made. It was worse while they rested and right before they turned.

  Paul was tired and his brain was fried. He needed to rest. He desperately searched for where he fit into the equation. His job training, other than being a nurse, was to investigate, document, and report public health emergencies.

  He was in over his head.

  Staring at the binder as he sat in the corner of the gym, the smell of coffee crept under his nose and he looked over to the cup set next to him.

  “Thought you could use that,” Stanton said. “We separated the ones I thought were suspicious. You may want to check them out in case they’re sick.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Paul lifted his mug.

  “What are you doing?”

  Paul groaned. “I’m trying to do a speed read of this book. Find out what to do, how to do it to make this run more efficiently and…” he stopped talking when the three ring binder closed.

  “You can read all you want, but it’s a simple solution. You have people. They need help. Shelter, food, protection, some medical attention and the biggie—safety. They need to feel safe.”

  “The book tells you to—”

  ‘The book will not tell you what you can see. Follow your gut. The shelter is good. We let people see that, they’ll feel safe, be less panicked, and the energy will calm down some. This gym for example, is a great lockdown location. We get enough supplies in here, we can stay safe in here until this thing is over with.”

  Paul only looked at him.

  “You do know how long that will be, right?”

  Exhaling, Paul stood up. “I have no idea. It hit so fast there are no case studies. Some got sick, real sick. They died right away. Most of the sick turned into �
��whatever you want to call those things out there.”

  “Ragers.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Ragers, that’s what we call them. Because they are enraged. Ragers.”

  “Uh huh.” Paul nodded. “The sick turned into… them, the ragers. They attack and infect more. And some… some are…” he cringed, “dead-ish.” “Oh, I’ve seen them. Eventually, the Ragers have to turn into the dead… ish. We’re all organic material. They’ll decay and drop, right?”

  “In theory. But if they move while they are dead… ish, that may slow down decomposition. Then again, they can’t be dead. They can only be dead … ish.”

  “We need to get a few,” Stanton suggested. “They don’t react to you. You check them out.”

  “For now. What if this thing mutates and suddenly they attack those of us they ignored?”

  “Then you’ll be the same as most of us.” Stanton gave a swat to his back. “Time to hone in on those fighting skills. Right now we need you in the right frame of mind. I think getting you on track will do that. Let’s go down our list.”

  Paul reached for the binder.

  Stanton stopped him. “Walk with me. Let me show you what’s going on out front.”

  The main door wasn’t far from the gymnasium wing. Stanton led him to the double glass doors and opened them. The front of the school was clear, yet in the parking lot there were two tractor trailers that formed most of the barricade. A borough dump truck and numerous cars filled in the cracks. There was another tractor trailer toward the back by the gated entrance into the school lot.

  Paul could see the infected reaching between the cars, making attempts to get by, but failing.

  “Will this hold them?” Paul asked.

  “For now. But if more come, probably not. We don’t want to start shooting them because that will cause more noise. We have shelter and protection covered,” Stanton said. “We don’t need to block the doors yet. How are we on medical supplies?”

  “Not much.”

  “And we need food. We need to go out in small groups to get supplies.”

  “I should go,” Paul suggested. “Right now I can slip in and out. That’s what we need.”

  “No, we need more immune,” Stanton said. “And another thing. Maybe you can talk to them. Get them calm. Assure them.”

  “Talk to who?”

  “The forty people in that gym.”

  “And tell them what?”

  “Lie. I don’t care. Tell them it won’t last long.”

  “Why don’t you do that?” Paul asked. “You’re more of a leader than I am.”

  “I have a job to do and—”

  “Sarge,” a male voice over the radio interrupted.

  Stanton brought his radio to his mouth. “What’s up, over?”

  “We have two survivors walking straight through the Ragers. Over.”

  “I’ll grab the riot gear and go help, over.”

  “No, Sarge, they don’t need help. They’re walking right through.”

  Stanton smiled at Paul. “Ask and you shall receive. More immune.”

  Paul felt a twinge of excitement. More folks that could go out and help. Plus, according to Stanton, more survivors meant more protection. There was a soldier on top of the tractor trailer. He lay belly down and lifted his arm with a short whistle. Paul supposed that was his signal to the incoming survivors.

  The solider must have gotten their attention because he was indicating, without noise, where they were to go. Of course, that would be to the back of the barricade and Paul, along with Stanton rushed there.

  A younger man walked, embracing an older women, almost as protection, leading her to the back of the school. Paul watched them through the cars. The infected stayed clear.

  At the end, Stanton climbed into the cab of the truck, signaling that it was the way for the new arrivals to enter.

  Paul had watched others arrive an hour earlier. They were followed by infected; the younger man and woman were not.

  Stanton climbed back out and stood by Paul waiting.

  “I got it, I got it, Bubby,” the woman said.

  She emerged first. Stanton stepped forward and reached to help her. For some reason, Stanton coughed, sniffed outward, and turned his head. Paul wondered why until he took a step forward. She smelled horrible. Similar to a rancid litter box. It was even a bit much for Paul.

  The younger man jumped down and closed the door. “I secured the other one,” he said. “Those things weren’t chasing us.” He extended his hand. “Myron.”

  “Sergeant Stanton. This is Paul Furlong.”

  “Pleasure. Glad to have you.” Paul reached out to shake his hand.

  “This is my grandmother, Leona,” Myron said.

  Paul held his hand to the odorous woman, trying not to show any reaction. He figured she was older and had health problems. “Ma’am.”

  “I came to get my grandmother to safety,” Myron said. “If you need me, I’ll help.”

  “He’s a godsend, my Bubby is,” Leona chirped

  Paul nodded. “We can use the extra hands.”

  “I’m your man. I’m… I’m dying,” Myron stated. “So these things stay clear of me.”

  Stanton laughed. “You think they ignore you because you’re dying?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you are, but more than likely, you’re immune,” Stanton said. “Ask Paul.”

  Paul nodded. “When you are immune they don’t attack you.”

  Myron exhaled. “Oh, excellent. That’s a relief.”

  “So that means you both are immune,” Paul said. “More than likely.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” Leona said. “They come after me like flies on shit.”

  “But you walked right through them,” Paul said in confusion.

  She pointed to Myron. “He came up with an idea.”

  “I figured it was something about me they couldn’t sense,” Myron explained. “Maybe a pheromone or something. So I pissed in a cup and let it set, and put it all over my grandmother. I can’t take all the credit, she thought of it.”

  “When he was a baby, he had magic urine. Anyone got a rash we rubbed Bubby’s pee on it.” “Holy shit,” Paul exclaimed. “You put your fermented piss on your grandmother and it worked? Unbelievable.”

  “I don’t know if it was something in the urine,” Myron said, “or the smell, because she’s pretty rank now. But it worked. They were really coming after her until then.”

  Stanton laughed in a mix of glee and disbelief. “Oh, snap. He can piss on me if it keeps me safe from the ragers. You think it’s anyone’s piss or just his?”

  Paul shrugged. “We can test it. Let’s get you guys inside.”

  “And clean,” added Stanton.

  “And clean.” Paul led the way. ‘Then I think we head out for those supplies. Got to figure out where to start though.”

  They all stopped walking when a huge plane, flew by them, incredibly low.

  Leona asked, “Is it going to crash?”

  “No.” Stanton shook his head. “The gear is down, they’re landing.” He lifted his radio. “Rufus, you see that plane? Watch for direction.”

  “You got it Sarge.”

  Paul asked. “Why are we watching that plane?”

  “You wanted to figure out where to start. That’s where,” Stanton replied. “If we need to get out and get away from this mess. We just figured out how.”

  “If it doesn’t crash,” Myron said. “That was too low to be getting to the airport. I can’t think of a place around here something that big can land.”

  <><><><>

  Her concentration was divided, but Grace had to go forward.

  At sun rise, she quietly crept from the back door, walked to the driveway, and backed the car down and into the garage.

  She expected a quiet street; what she saw was neighbors roaming aimlessly. Some up and down, some in circles, all were infected. It answered Grace’s question on whether or
not it was only her family. Seeing all the sick people told her the reason 911 calls didn’t go through.

  It was a nightmare.

  Mr. Withers from next door was covered with blood. His right arm was missing, yet he walked past. Most of the infected walked stiffly, unless they ran. They seemed to move more freely while running. None of them ran for Grace. They did when she pulled out of the driveway, however, but that was only because they spotted Candice. There was something about her that they wanted.

  They chased the car, smacking their hands against it, jumping in front of it.

  It took all Grace had to keep it together and get off of her suburban street. Without thinking about what she was doing, she floored the car, drove forward, tried to miss people but in case she didn’t, she muttered, “God forgive me.”

  Once out of her division, she was safe. Fewer people. Only a couple of cars zipped by her. She beeped her horn but no one stopped.

  Grace wasn’t a survivor. She wished she would have packed more, but couldn’t. She took blankets, flashlights, some soda because she didn’t have bottled water, and whatever snacks and chips were in the family room. Hopefully, she would find more later.

  She knew where she had to go.

  Candice barely slept. When she did it was short naps and she’d wake scared and weepy. Grace was sacred and weepy, as well.

  Her heart broke for her family. Trying to not think about the fact that she had killed her husband was difficult. She justified it that he was violent and not in his right mind. It still bothered her and caused a guilty pain in her chest when she thought about it.

  Had it not been for Candice needing her, she would have crumbled. She couldn’t; she had to stay strong and get help.

  She had a mental list of places to go, and the last on the list was the shelter the emergency broadcasting announced over the radio.

  Her location was between them both. It was six of one, half dozen of the other on where to head.

  Her first stop was a mile from her home; the local police station. Surely, if there was anyone in authority, it would be there. The campus for the borough held the police, fire, and EMS buildings. It was the logical place to go.