CHAPTER ONE
It was as if someone had sent out an
invisible signal that let people know summer had officially ended.
All around him people began pouring out of their hotel rooms, as if
on cue, packing their cars until the entire parking lot was crammed
full of them. Carefree smiles creased slightly sun burned faces.
Summer beach folk mindlessly packed suitcases and beer coolers into
pickup trucks, sedans, family vans, and SUV's. Beach balls were
deflated. The trash and recycling bins overflowed. A line of cars as
far as the eye could see glistened in the golden light of the late
August afternoon as they made the slow crawl down Ocean Boulevard, up
along Orange, and back over the Coronado Bridge towards San Diego and
the Five.
Donovan could not remember having a
better summer vacation than the one he had just spent with his
girlfriend, Poppy, on Coronado Island. He'd loaded his Kindle up with
over twenty new books he’d wanted to finish before heading back to
school. His smile grew as he realized that he had not fired it up
even once.
He pushed his way through the mess,
getting high fives and back slaps along the way from friends, some
old and some new, until he reached the edge of the beach. Poppy was
standing there in cut off shorts, a bikini top, and a see-through
blouse. Her long blonde hair whipped around her face in the ocean
breeze.
God, he thought. She is so
beautiful—I am truly lucky! Not that he'd ever let her know
that. He'd acted aloof since they first started dating, convinced
that if he ever did tell her just how much he cared about her she
might freak out. No need to ruin a good thing. But every now and
then—like that moment—it hit him, and damn near knocked the air
out of him in the process.
“It's a shame, isn't it?” she asked
herself just loud enough to be sure he heard her. “A summer beach
vacation without being able to go in the water even once.”
“We're lucky they didn't just shut
down the island altogether,” he replied. “It could have been so
much worse than this.”
“Where did they go? It's like they
just disappeared overnight, like it was a bad dream,” she said.
“I don't know,” Donovan replied
with a shrug of his shoulders.
“It's all wrong,” she said, staring
toward the expanse of glistening blue water, yearning and loss
reflected in her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her from behind,
pulling her warm body into his. He looked down at her tiny hand as it
touched him. “They didn't even take down the signs. That's the only
way I know I didn't make it up. Isn't that technically littering?”
“I think it is,” he agreed,
whispering into her ear before kissing her neck. “It's downright
criminal if you ask me but it's not like anyone cares when it's the
government. Hell this whole town is in love with the military.”
Poppy leaned into him, lingering just a
moment too long before jerking away. She grabbed his hand, dragging
him with her despite his protests towards the ocean. She let go of
him and crawled under the fence set up to block access to the beach,
the one with all the bright new warning signs she was just
complaining about. She turned back to him and flashed a wide smile.
“Don't be such a chicken,” she
taunted. “Come on!”
Donovan glanced around nervously before
following her. He complained under his breath the whole time – just
loud enough to let her know he disapproved but not loud enough for
her to make out his string of curse words. Once she got an idea in
her head nothing could slow her down again and he knew it. The truth
of the matter was this was part of what he found attractive about
her, her devil-may-care attitude. Poppy was always in search of a new
adventure. Her enthusiasm was nothing short of infectious. He could
feel the excitement growing in him, a nervous tickle in the center of
his chest that seemed to radiate outwards.
Poppy let go of his hand and raced at
full speed toward the water, her long beautiful legs flashing as she
pulled away from him. Donovan tried to keep up with her, but it was
no use. She was fast when she wanted to be; damn near uncatchable.
She'd run track all of high school, no doubt driving the other boys
crazy with her sexy legs and her long, honey blonde hair wildly
flowing behind her, waving in their faces like a victory flag as she
passed. She made short work of the distance between the fence and the
water. By the time he reached her, panting and out of breath, she was
calmly leaning against the warning sign put up to keep people out of
the water. He was trying not to let on how out of shape he was
feeling. Summer had definitely taken a toll on him. When he got back
home he was going to hit the gym and up his cardio routine. He was
going to have to lay off the beer as well, a thought that made him
wince.
“What took you so long, slow poke?”
“Very funny,” he managed at last,
straightening up to read the sign.
It had all started the same day they'd
left for summer vacation. Donovan had been randomly flipping through
radio news channels in search of a traffic report that explained the
insane snarl he'd been caught up in when he'd come upon the breaking
story. The Coast Guard had intercepted a burning tanker off the coast
of San Diego headed up from Mexico. It was believed that some of the
passengers were escapees from a Mexican island prison colony and
might possibly be infected with an aggressive new strain of highly
contagious leprosy. The President of the United States had even made
a statement, assuring all Americans that he was taking every
conceivable precaution to ensure public health and safety were not
endangered by this event.
Donovan flipped between talk radio
stations where usually irreverent radio shock jocks were now arguing
whether or not one of the Cartels had been involved in the prison
break and if high ranking Mexican officials had been involved.
“Whatever is on that boat,” one
particularly obnoxious host cajoled, “they don't want it getting
off. It's trouble, not just for the current administration, but for
you and me. Mark my words friends because the liberal media is going
to try to cover this up as quickly as they can. We're on our own here
and your life may just depend on how much you know.”
“Are you sure you still want to go?”
Poppy looked concerned as she switched the radio off before he could
hear any more. “We don't have to you know. We can turn around and
head back home. I won't be mad.”
“And miss out on our big beach
vacation?” The thought was more than he could bear.
“What if they've closed down the
bridge?”
“They won't,” he said fiercely,
trying to ward off his shaky nerves. “There are too many people who
live on the island. They depend on the tourist economy to stay alive.
They need us to come.”
“I don't know,” Poppy grumbled,
looking at her nails.
“I do,” Donovan fired back.
“Besides, we've already paid for the hotel. Do you want to lose all
that money so we can sit around the public pool back home with all
the high school kids?”
Poppy shook her head no without making
a sound.
“What is it?”
“I got a bad feeling about this
Donnie,” she said in a tiny voice.
“It's going to be fine,” he cooed.
“They've got it all under control. Aren't you excited to see the
Hotel Del Coronado? I thought that was one of the main reasons you
wanted to come to San Diego?”
“I was,” she sulked.
“Listen,” he said, turning to look
at her as they came to another frustrating dead stop in the middle of
the road. “Nothing is going to happen. I promise. I will look out
for you. Got it?”
She turned and kissed him on the cheek.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too baby,” he replied.
After hours of slow crawling traffic
they finally reached the bridge. There was a military checkpoint
stopping cars leaving the island and a single soldier waving traffic
in. It didn't look any worse at first glance than most airport
security details he'd seen.
“You see,” Donovan said. He
couldn't resist letting her know he was right. “They're on it.
Nothing to worry about.”
Poppy smiled and shook her head in a
supportive way but her eyes betrayed her fear. By the time they'd
checked in and unpacked it was long forgotten and she was back to her
bubbly self. Donovan raced to settle in then changed into trunks. He
practically ran out of the room towards the water just in time to see
the Army National Guard putting up barricades. Behind them, workers
in hazmat suits took readings from the water and put up signs.
Donovan felt like a total idiot standing there shirtless in his
trunks and flip flops, towel over his shoulder, bottle of tanning
lotion and a copy of the Economist in hand. He turned to the
soldier. He looked the same age as Donovan, maybe slightly younger.
“When are they going to reopen the
beach?” The minute the words were out of his mouth he realized that
he sounded like a spoiled, whiny child.
“This area is currently off limits to
civilians, sir.”
Donovan couldn't read the guys face.
Was he annoyed to have to answer to some rich kid? Donovan
wasn't what others would call wealthy, but surely next to this poor,
pimple-faced teenager who had to stand out in the hot sun telling
guys in swim trunks to stay off the beach, he was well off. Donovan
had studied plenty about income inequality in his civics classes. He
wouldn't blame the soldier if he had some misplaced anger about their
respective positions in society; that was for sure. Not that it was
his fault. He hadn't chosen to be born slightly better off. It was
just the way things had worked out, the cards that he’d been dealt.
No amount of reasoning seemed to take
the guilt away though. The beach air was hot, flushing his face red
with embarrassment and twisting up his guts. The fact that the kid
had no facial expression just seemed to make things worse. Donovan
rationalized that one day, when he was an elected official in
Congress, he would work toward reducing poverty and creating better
opportunities for people like this kid. He drew himself up and
saluted the kid.
“Thank you for your service,” he
said.
The kid soldier didn't respond. Already
committed, Donovan dropped his hand from his brow, turning as he did
and confidently strode away. He wanted to make sure his body language
was congruent with his patriotic display. Otherwise it would look
like he was mocking the guy. Not wanting to take any chances, he
opted not to look back. It was only when he was back in his room,
sitting on the edge of his bed and staring out the window, that he
noticed his hands were violently shaking.
I’d make a lousy soldier, he
thought, trying to calm his nerves. What rattled him most was the
soldier’s total lack of emotion. It was as if the guy was a robot
devoid of feelings. How did people get that way?
During the rest of their stay they had
set up camp by the pool. Poppy worked hard at making all the guys
jealous with her amazing body and endless supply of tiny bikinis.
Nights were spent going across the harbor in water taxis to the
Gaslight district and drinking until they closed down the tiny,
crowded bars. They'd missed the last boat back more than once and had
to take a yellow cab back over the bridge. Once they went home with
another couple, Frank and Amanda, but had chickened out when it
became clear they wanted to swing and left early. They'd walked over
a mile to a Denny's to order breakfast and sober up. They slept most
of the next day. Poppy hadn't brought it up again and neither had
Donovan. The rest of the days had flown past them like pages being
ripped off a calendar.
From time to time, Donovan would look
over and see Army trucks rolling in and out of the island. There were
no reports of bodies washing up on the shore. The government's
official position was that the disease had been contained. Donovan
kept an eye out but he never saw that pimple-faced kid again. Time
seemed to go by in a blur. By the end of their vacation Donovan and
Poppy were spending more time indoors, drinking and exploring each
other’s bodies than they were outside partying with their friends.
They managed to pull themselves out of
bed one Sunday long enough to visit the Hotel Del Coronado. It was
old and beautiful and gave Donovan the chills to look at. Poppy had
seen an episode of Ghost Adventures on the Travel Channel talking
about a lady in a black dress named Kate Morgan that committed
suicide while she was a guest and has haunted the place ever since.
They wandered through the lobby in search of otherworldly clues,
admiring the woodwork and sitting on the ancient couches before
hitting the endless gift shops. Once Poppy had gotten her fill of
candy and souvenirs for her little sister, they walked out into the
gardens that overlooked the ocean.
Down by the water guys in white lab
coats came and went, like mad scientists from a black and white
horror film on basic cable. Soldiers in hazmat suits waded into the
water, taking samples and bringing them back to the scientists.
“What are they looking for anyway?”
Poppy asked.
“I don't know,” Donovan replied.
“But whatever it is can't be that serious or they'd evacuate us
all, right?”
“Did you feel the chill in the
lobby?” Poppy said suddenly. “All the hairs on the back of my arm
stood up at once.”
“You think it was that woman's
ghost?”
She shook her head, her eyes growing
almost as wide as her smile.
“Why didn't you say something?”
“It freaked me out,” she said, “but
in a good way.”
Donovan suggested they walk the street
back and hit the New York style pizzeria for beers and slices. Poppy
jumped at the idea. They turned away from the water and scurried
around the haunted hotel.
That afternoon the news reported that
the tanker had sunk. Donovan thought it was strange that no one was
saying why it had gone down, whether it had sustained damage from the
fire and taken on water or whether the Navy had deliberately
torpedoed the hull to intentionally sink it. The twenty-four hour
news feeds all had the same details. The only channel not playing it
was ESPN so he spent the evening watching an NFL exhibition game and
a documentary on John Wooden.
The next day they were just gone—all
of them. He woke up to get coffee and couldn't help but check for
that kid one last time. To his shock there were no trucks, no
scientists in white lab coats, no guys in self-contained white suits
and masks, not even any soldiers. The posted warning signs were the
only reminder that any of them had ever been there. It was, as Poppy
had described it, eerie.
“We're not supposed to be here,” he
said. “The beach is still closed.”
“Don't be silly, Donovan,” Poppy
replied with one of her trademark carefree laughs that always seemed
to melt his resistance away. “You’re always finding something to
worry about. These are the last few hours of our break, the last
chance we might have to be alone for a while. Between your obsessive
devotion to your studies and my demanding social calendar, we might
not even see each other again till graduation.”
“I thought that's why we moved in
together,” he replied. “Why we’re living in sin.”
Poppy held her hand up to her mouth in
fake shock and outrage. Donovan smirked, fighting back a smile. As
much as he hated it when she mocked him, he had to admit she was
pretty adorable. After all, wasn't her ability to lighten the mood in
any situation part of the reason he had chosen to ask her out—over
several other girls from wealthy families that insisted they would
make a better match than a vacuous party girl who flunked out of
college?
“Ah, I can see the start of a smile
on your face,” she teased.
“Come on,” he protested, trying to
fight it back.
“It's fine,” she continued,
ignoring him. “See?” She lifted one foot to show him the soft
pink underside. “No tar. No dead bodies. Nada.”
“I just don't want to get into any
trouble. This whole area has been closed off by the military the
entire time we've been here. That has to mean something.”
“And they left in the middle of the
night?”
“The signs are still up, Poppy.”
“Which they probably just forgot to
take down on their way out of town,” she offered. “Why are you
being such a little boy about this? You sound chicken. Are you a
chicken, Donovan?”
She twisted her hands up into her arm
pits and flapped her fake wings, dancing around as she mocked him.
“You do understand we could get
arrested,” he countered, his argument growing weaker by the second.
Poppy stopped and gave him a serious look, creasing her brow and
locking her eyes on his as if she hung on his every word.
“Do you have any idea what that could
do to my chances of being President one day?”
He tried to stick to his argument, to
stay focused, but as he spoke she began to perform a very sexy strip
tease like nothing he had ever seen before, pulling her light blouse
over her head first, then pushing down her cut-off jeans. His head
swam.
Where did she even learn to move
like that, he wondered? It was as if she had been hiding this
secret talent from him, waiting for the perfect moment to unveil it.
Her shorts hit the sand about the same time as his jaw did.
“I wouldn't want to make you do
anything you’re uncomfortable with, Donovan. You know that.”
His mouth had suddenly grown as dry as
the sand they were standing on. Who was this amazing woman in front
of him? He did his best to recover. He didn't want her to know how
bad she’d rattled his cage.
“Very funny,” he replied, darting
his eyes back and forth, checking up and down the beach to make sure
they were still alone. He thought he saw something that looked like a
clump of seaweed about the size of a dog off in the distance, but her
gentle cooing drew him back.
“Happy Birthday, Mister President,”
she sang slowly in a perfectly breathy, high-pitched rendition of
Marilyn Monroe. With one hand she reached behind her back and
unhooked her bra, removing it with a quick motion and flinging it at
Donovan. It landed over his head like something out of a bad 80's
sitcom. Donovan was too distracted by her sudden nudity to reply.
Poppy used her right arm to cover herself quickly, a slight blush
obscuring her facial features, as she twisted back and forth in her
bikini bottom panties. A warm breeze wafted under her white bra and
made it flap around Donovan's head like a head banger at a metal
concert. Poppy laughed unabashedly as Donovan shook his head back and
forth, trying to get it off.
“You are a bad girl,” he said
matter-of-factly. “Are you aware of that, miss?”
She lifted the index finger from her
free hand to her lips and bit down gently on her fingernail, a coy
maneuver that made something deep down inside of Donovan stir to life
as he stared into her deep sea foam green eyes.
“Uh huh.”
He pulled the loose bra off his head
and flung it at her feet.
“I thought so. Well, I guess there’s
just no way around it. I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I'm
going to have to spank you.”
He sprang at her with a ferocious but
playful roar and Poppy, not expecting him to play along, was nearly
caught off guard. She shrieked in delighted surprise and leaped out
of the way at the last second, pivoting like a gazelle and racing
toward the water. Donovan stopped once he’d chased her in, pulling
his shirt off, balling it up and chucking it toward the drier part of
the sand. Poppy dashed out into the shallow waves, loudly splashing.
“Come on!” she said with a wave of
her hand.
“Be right there,” he replied. “Hold
your horses.”
“Why don't you come hold them for
me?”
Poppy bounced a little, exposing her
pert breasts and perky nipples just above the water to tease him.
Donovan almost fell over trying to get
out of his pants. He stripped down to his boxers, and then charged in
like he was making up for lost time. The water was cold, but felt
good on his skin which already felt broiled from the hot sun
reflected off the white sand. When he was up past his waist, Poppy
came over and latched herself onto him. As usual, Donovan was just
totally amazed by her—the way she moved, the way the light sparkled
in her eyes. She was always so full of life, no matter what the
circumstances were. He loved that about her, her ability to pull him
back from the brink of seriousness. He needed that in his life,
especially with all the pressure his family put on him to get good
grades.
What would I ever do without her?
Donovan wondered.
That was something he couldn't even
imagine. He hoped he'd never have to either. He pushed it out of his
mind as he began plotting his revenge on her. It was time for him to
pay her back for toying with him, and he knew just the thing.
Donovan unhooked her from him and swam
out to deeper water.
“Where are you going?” she whined.
Donovan waited until the water was over
his head. He turned back toward her, smiling. His feet brushed
against something slimy, like seaweed. He hated that feeling. It was
the whole reason he preferred swimming in the ocean as opposed to a
lake, so that he wouldn't have to feel the muck on the bottom.
Something large swam past his leg, brushing him with its rough skin.
He remembered learning that changes in water due to global warming
meant a whole new host of predators were now able to access these
waters.
Don’t spook yourself out over
nothing, he told himself.
Poppy waved for him to come back over
to her. She looked nervous.
“Donovan, come on,” she pleaded.
Just then, Donovan was abruptly pulled underwater, leaving only his
flailing right hand visible above the water. Icy cold fear shot
through Poppy. What had she done? She lured him out here and
now something was attacking him. She screamed as he thrashed back and
forth, fighting his way to the surface. She was paralyzed with fear,
her high-pitched scream the only thing her body allowed to escape.
Donovan went all the way under, and then everything went quiet. Poppy
froze in fear. Bubbles rose to the surface where Donovan had gone
under, and then nothing. She called out to him, unsure of what to do.
“Donovan! Donovan!”
All at once, a burst of bubbles rose up
like an explosion to the surface and Donovan flew out of the water
past his waist. He was laughing! The stitch in Poppy's chest loosened
and she let out a nervous laugh that melted quickly into anger as she
realized she’d been tricked. She angrily splashed at Donovan as he
waded toward her to wrap his arms around her tiny waist. He leaned in
to kiss her, but she turned her head, still upset with him.
“Don't be cross,” he said. “I was
just playing.”
“That's not funny,” she chided, but
she was already softening. He put his hand under her chin and gently
turned her face toward his, pulling her into a kiss. She kissed back
at first, soft and warm and reassuring, then pulled away and began to
swim back to shore. Donovan didn't follow her immediately. Instead he
dove back into the water, splashing around wildly like a kid turning
an unwanted bath into a new adventure. By the time he dove through a
small set of waves, she was already fully dressed, back on the shore
pouting.
“Come on back in, baby,” he shouted
to her. “It's really nice.”
“Not until you apologize,” she
icily replied. “You scared the daylights out of me!”
Donovan was amazed at how quickly her
mood had changed. It was one of the few things that bothered him
about her, how mercurial she could be. Most girls were like this
about once a month, but Poppy was like this all the time. Not that he
was a picnic to be around all the time either, with his pensive
nature and occasional brooding. He knew he was no saint, so he tried
to be as kind to her as he could when she got this way. So far, he
hadn't figured out a quick way to change her mood, especially when
they were out in public. He'd already tried almost everything he
could think of. He just wished there was a phrase he could use or a
secret move he could learn that would make everything better again.
He suspected that there was, that every woman knew it, they probably
printed it in their chick magazines, but they sure as hell didn't
plan on sharing it with him. He'd have to do this the hard way so he
resigned himself to win her back slowly. Hopefully, the nice day
would help sway her mood. Otherwise, it was going to be a long drive
home.
“I'm sorry baby,” he began, trying
to sound as contrite as possible. “You know I didn't mean to
frighten you so bad. I was just trying to have a little fun and . .
.” Donovan's words trailed off. What he saw walking up behind Poppy
made his face twist into a mask of fear.
“And what?” Poppy demanded, arms
folded in front of her, a stern look of anger knitting her brow
together.
“Go on and finish.”
He didn't respond at first. A look of
absolute terror had washed over his face. This isn’t like
Donovan to be so playful, Poppy thought. Despite taking a
semester of drama he really wasn't that good of an actor. It was
unnerving. Poppy decided she wasn't going to let him trick her twice.
He'd never let her live it down.
“Poppy!” Donovan cried out. “Look
out behind you!” He didn't wait for her response this time.
Instead, he plunged head first toward her and began swimming as hard
as he could in to shore. A huge wave crashed over him, tumbling him
like a heavy sweater in a washing machine. He spit water out as he
came up coughing and sputtering. The tide pulled back and he got to
his feet.
“Poppy, run!”
She smirked at him, the anger fading.
He was just being ridiculous now. She was sure of it. He had to be.
She had never seen him so out of control. If that wasn't an act then
what else could it be? He was trying to humiliate her but it wasn't
going to work. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being able
to tease her for the rest of the year.
“I'll have you know I grew up with
three older brothers,” she began, cocking her head to the side.
“I've seen every trick in the book, mister.”
Just then a cold, wet hand that felt
like marble clamped down on her bare shoulder. Poppy felt an
unexpected wave of fear and shock wash over her as she was spun
around. Unbridled terror replaced the sinking feeling of surprise as
she came to a stop, face-to-face with the diseased features of what
looked like a walking nightmare. The sick man was wearing tan slacks
and a matching button up shirt streaked down the front with dirty
brown stains and dark red stripes that appeared painted on by bloody
fingers. Sunglasses rode the top of his head, twisted into the
knotted clumps of ratty black hair that remained in between exposed
sores and puss-filled boils on his balding scalp. His face was tinged
a putrescent shade of gangrene and the skin had lost its elasticity,
giving it the appearance of hanging just slightly loose, like on a
corpse. His lips were darkened the color of dried blood, with the
kind of deep grooves only fire or frostbite could inflict, and his
broken and chipped teeth were a terrible mix of rotting gray and bile
yellow. His breath smelled sickly sweet, like sugar and sewage, with
a cold coming out from him that was as bone chilling as an icy winter
wind that penetrated to the core. A low moan that sounded like a
rattle starting in his chest erupted out of him, blowing flecks of
wriggling white foam from his decaying mouth onto her, as he held her
in place with both hands.
Poppy looked up from the man's mouth to
his eyes, and time seemed to stop. Fresh streaks of thick blood
poured out of his eyes like a weeping saint. His pupils were large,
black, and empty.
Soulless, Poppy thought, like
a dead thing.
The rest of the eye had turned a dull
shade of yellow. Poppy stared, lost and helpless, as his cold grip
pulled her closer in toward his open mouth. There was a sharp pain in
her shoulder as the sick man bit down into her and tore a chunk of
skin away. She cried out in pain, a piercing and unexpected shriek
drowned out by the offshore winds and crashing tides.
Poppy turned her head to see bright
blood gushing out of the wound in her shoulder. The living foam, like
tiny maggots, was crawling over the bite-shaped opening. She turned
her face toward the man holding her, eyeing the hot blood smeared on
his face—knowing it was her blood. The taste of her seemed to
awaken a deeper hunger in him and he opened his mouth again, his
strength redoubled, and he began pulling her in for another bite.
Poppy screamed at the top of her lungs, so loud and long that it felt
like she was damaging something in her throat. Fear overwhelmed her
as she realized she couldn’t stop him from hurting her again. Then,
as the terrible mouth came down closer to her shoulder again,
Donovan's fist collided with it, knocking the man back and freeing
Poppy. Her legs gave out and Poppy fell limply to the soft, warm
sand. Her vision was blurry but she could see Donovan raising his
fist over and over again, slamming it down into the man's head and
chest. At first the man twitched and convulsed. Then, after what felt
like a long few minutes, he simply went limp. Donovan raised his foot
and stomped down on the man's head for good measure before rushing to
Poppy's side. He knelt down by her side and put his arms around her.
His skin felt like it was on fire. She didn't realize till now how
cold she was. Despite being a warm sunny day only minutes ago, it now
felt like it was the dead of winter.
“Poppy! Are you okay? Talk to me.”
She wasn't okay. She was shivering all
over. She began to cry and her body seemed to tremble even more. It
took all the energy she had just to force the words out.
“It hurts. Who was that guy? Why did
he bite me?”
Donovan let out a loud sigh. He glanced
back at the unmoving body behind them.
“Just some creepy pervert,” he said
unconvincingly.
“Is he dead?” Poppy hoped he was.
She was surprised by the intensity of her desire. She had never
wished for anything more in her life than she did for his death in
that moment.
“No,” Donovan said a little too
quickly. He glanced back again but the man didn't move. “I don't
know. I don't think so. I think he's just knocked out.”
“I hope you killed him,” Poppy
said, filled with fresh hate.
“Can you walk?”
“I’m . . . not sure,” she
stuttered. Donovan frowned. He pulled her to her feet and began
examining her wound.
“Honestly, it's not that bad,” he
said, looking a little relieved. “We can get it looked at by a
doctor at Urgent Care when we get back home or I can drive you to the
emergency room if you don't want to wait that long.”
Donovan nervously fidgeted.
“What is it?” Her teeth were
chattering as she spoke.
“It's just that I don't want to have
to file a police report,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“We weren't supposed to be in the water and I'm not sure how badly
injured that asshole is. I know I was within my legal rights to
protect you but you never know when someone is going to sue you.
California has some crazy laws. They could even go after my family in
a civil case.”
“It's fine,” she managed. “Just
get me to the car.”
“Are you sure?” Donovan felt like a
prick but the last thing he needed was her overreacting. It was just
a bite. It would heal. What he didn't need was some hopped up ACLU
lawyer out to make a name for himself by taking on this illegal
immigrant’s case pro bono and dragging his family into court. He
could almost hear his father's angry voice telling him to be a man
and just take care of it.
“I'm so cold,” Poppy whimpered. The
urge to sit down and cry overwhelmed her. If it wasn't for him
holding her up, she was sure she’d break down.
“It's just shock,” Donovan offered.
“You've had a horrible, traumatic episode. Let's get you wrapped up
and in the car, okay baby?”
Donovan leaned over and picked up their
clothes. He slowly began walking Poppy back to the motel. She looked
over her shoulder at the man who had attacked her. His body lay still
as the grave. A dark oily looking fluid leaked out around his head.
The sinking feeling inside of her returned but she told herself it
was just the shock. Donovan would take care of her. He always did.
The pain in her shoulder was settling into a dull, burning throb. Her
joints ached like they were on fire as she walked. It felt almost as
if they were stiffening, locking up on her, as if that white foam was
filling her up.
Donovan pulled his own shirt over her
head, the blood from her wound soon soaking through the shoulder and
making the fabric stick to her. He walked her through the parking lot
to her car. It was her car but for a minute she didn't
recognize it. Donovan unlocked the passenger side door and helped her
sit down. He gently buckled her into the seat and reclined it so she
could lie down. The world and everything in it felt like a bad dream
and all she wanted to do was lie down somewhere and sleep—forever.
Back down on the shore where they'd
been playing just moments before two more men in tan outfits came up
out of the water and began walking towards the shore.
CHAPTER TWO
Satoshi Takahashi's hands shook as he
took out samples from the freezer. He set them on the smooth counter
with a rattling clatter.
“Get it together,” he fiercely
whispered to himself. “This is no time to fall apart.”
Satoshi had dreamed of coming to
America since he was a little boy. He blamed his older brother,
Akihiro, who used to talk about it incessantly in between playing
ball in the field near their house as kids.
“One day I'm going to go to America
and be a star pitcher for the New York Yankees,” Akihiro would say.
“You will still be here helping mother fold laundry, especially the
way you throw!”
Satoshi thought about the hours he
spent helping his mother fold the neighbor’s laundry. She'd taken
on the side work to make up for his father's falling wages, but the
arthritis in her hands made the work slow going. Soon word got around
of her ability to remove almost any stain and the piles of laundry
outstripped her ability to keep up on her own. He was happy to help.
His mother often rewarded him with a new book at the end of each
week. By the time he was a teenager he had an extraordinary library
in his room. He was also doing most of the laundry himself. His
mother would sit nearby and read out loud to him, often having little
idea what many of the words meant.
Those were some of the best days of
my life, he thought. The memory of the wrinkles in his mother's
face made him smile and tear up at the same time.
His father Hito worked long hours at
the plant. Satoshi didn't see very much of him growing up. He only
came home long enough to eat before going out to drink away most of
his wife's profits. Hito was a man of few words, but from those words
Satoshi could tell his father favored his muscular, athletic older
brother over him. Satoshi had suffered from Crohn's disease as a
young child. It had stunted his growth. It had only lasted for a
couple years but he could still remember them vividly, the fever
dreams and rashes on his legs. His mother, Meiko, had fretted over
him long after the illness had gone into remission. While Akihiro was
out exploring the banks of the river bed near their home, getting
into scrapes with the local boys, and practicing his pitching,
Satoshi was stuck indoors with nothing but his books and his
imagination to keep him company. His father, who loved rice wine and
American baseball, took to calling him the daughter he'd never
wanted.
“Sick all the time,” he slurred one
night, throwing his hot soup spoon at Satoshi's head, “like a weak,
good for nothing girl.”
Satoshi had been accepted to University
on scholarship. He never planned on studying anything but medicine
even though he excelled at math as well as science. He breezed
through his studies, maintaining a high grade point average and
graduating with full honors. Next came medical school, along with his
successful residency as a pediatrician in Japan. Then another three
years in general pediatrics and neonatology in Kyoto.
Akihiro was drafted by the Angels in
Anaheim. He'd become a national star pitching left handed
successfully for the Chiba Motte Marines in Nippon. His signature
throw – a spiraling, downward breaking split finger fast ball –
regularly clocked over 99 mph and left even A-Rod scratching his head
on more than one occasion. It was enough to lift the Angels to the
playoff's but they fell just short of making the World Series due to
an abundance of last minute errors by exhausted outfielders and the
loss of their best player to a fifty game steroid ban. Akihiro had
earned the Cy Young for the American League but missed the entire
next season due to needing Tommy Johns surgery to repair his arm. He
was scheduled to make his comeback against the Yankees but was killed
by a drunk driver in Fullerton the night before the game. Satoshi
rushed home to be with his family upon hearing the news. Hito fell
into a depression that would not lift, drinking to black out and
refusing to get dressed or leave the house. His mother took the brunt
of his abuse, eventually packing a bag and leaving to her sister’s
after he blackened her eye. They found Hito drowned in the river the
next day, floating face down. It was not clear if he meant to do it
or fell in drunk.
Satoshi decided to study infectious
disease in America after that. There was nothing left for him at
home. His mother gave her blessing. She had refused to return,
preferring the company of her widowed sister to an empty house. He
applied for a job and was quickly picked up by a research firm in
Tucson on a limited Visa. While he hated his new home, the sterile,
dry heat and his casually racist neighbors; he loved the work so much
it didn't matter. He spent long hours at the lab studying how
microbes interacted with skin cells and blood samples. He discovered,
much to his own amazement, that he no longer yearned to work as a
physician directly interacting with patients. The thought of never
having to deal with another hospital administer sounded like a dream
to him. No he'd much rather work as a scientist. He was particularly
interested in splicing apart viruses in an effort to reverse engineer
them. He'd spent months attempting to increase blood flow to necrotic
cells by introducing infectious but relatively harmless pathogens and
felt close to a break through. Instead he'd come home to find his
apartment had been broken into in his absence. Everything but his
mattress was gone, and that had been torn to shreds. When he returned
to his lab his pass no longer worked. When he asked what was going on
he was told to go home and wait for someone to contact him.
Satoshi drove to a bar instead and
ordered a beer. A white man with slicked back hair in a black suit
and tie showed up a short time later and sat next to him. He quickly
struck up an overly familiar conversation with him, the central
thesis of which seemed to revolve around how Satoshi should move to
Vegas to work for his employer. He knew a lot about what Satoshi had
been up to, too much in fact, and while the tone of his voice was
relaxed and casual, Satoshi felt the hairs on the back of his neck
stand up when he spoke – as if each word was its own threat.
“Who are you?” Satoshi had asked.
“You can call me Bob,” the man had
replied, handing him just a card with a Black Helix logo on it. The
man in black promised that everything would be taken care of if
Satoshi just came along. His employer had close ties to the
government. He would be given a place to stay, a lab of his own, an
open ended work visa, and more money than he could ever spend in one
lifetime. Satoshi didn't remember saying yes. All he remembered was
the man's wide smile as he was led from the bar outside to a black
town car and driven to a private jet on a secluded airstrip in the
middle of nowhere.
He'd been working at the labs in Las
Vegas ever since. Truth be told, he'd never been so happy in his
life. He had a huge two story house with a pool and Jacuzzi in a
gated community. The closets were filled with clothes in his size and
taste when he arrived. The entry way table had a selection of tickets
to shows, sporting events, and concerts – more than he could
attend. The fridge was fully stocked and so was the wine cellar. He
fell into bed that first night, a California King, and passed out.
The next day they drove him to his new lab. All of his original
research was there waiting for him when he arrived. He was given a
personal assistant, along with a body guard, and told to begin
picking out his research team from a list of pre-screened applicants.
He'd spent most of his time in the lab
from then on, working around the clock on taking apart some of the
worst disease known to mankind. He'd tinkered with everything from
Nodding disease to Crohn's to rabies to Ebola. Occasionally someone
would pop in to check up on him but for the most part he was left to
his own devices. He'd made remarkable strides in isolating pathogens
and introducing them to both sick and healthy cells in some very
unexpected ways. When he finished he would upload the results into
the mainframe and log out for the day. He'd fall into bed each night
feeling content and empty in the best possible way.
Everything had been perfect – until
last night. He'd come home late, as usual, and flipped on the
television. The minute he heard reports of the ghost tanker he felt a
sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. That name, Islas Maria,
had been in a research folder on the mainframe. He'd always assumed
that his work would be used to target and treat diseases, sick kids
like he once was, by top pharmaceutical companies. That was the
extent of his ethical dilemma, that only the wealthy and connected
would be able to initially afford the fruits of his labors. He'd
assuaged his prickly conscience with thoughts of other scientists
taking apart the medicine and making generic copies for countries
like India and less fortunate African nations.
How could I be
so naive? How could I be so fucking stupid?
They'd made a
weapon from his work. He knew it at once. He'd seen the symptoms
listed on the television screen and knew beyond the shadow of a doubt
that they had nothing to do with leprosy. Biological warfare –
that's what it was. He barely slept that night. He felt like the
father of the atomic bomb, like Oppenheimer. His work would be used
to kill millions, possibly even end life on earth. For hours he
contemplated killing himself, trying to think of the most painless
and effective method. Perhaps someone would come for him, to do the
job for him, to keep him from talking, from telling anyone his story.
Maybe they'd send Bob again. He listened for footsteps, half hoping
they would end his crippling guilt, but they never came.
Morning eventually arrived and he
returned to the lab feeling jumpy and tired. He logged on to discover
that the research folders were now locked. In fact the only access he
had was to his own work. The rest of the system appeared to be
offline.
They are already covering their
tracks, he thought. That's why they don't have to worry about
killing me. They've compartmentalized. They can deny all of this when
the time comes.
He could see exactly how it would play
out. Their million dollar marketing team would release a statement
about how Satoshi was a rogue scientist working on his own pet
projects, how they'd taken him in and he'd betrayed them for his own
dark designs.
All the blame
will fall solely on me.
One thing they
hadn't taken away from Satoshi was access to the samples, his work.
If he could take one with him, if he could make a copy somehow, maybe
he could tell his side of the story. He fumbled with the clear lid of
the sample but couldn't get it open with his gloves.
Damn! I'm
running out of time. Soon they will lock me out of my own lab and
I'll be taken God knows where, Guantanamo or some black site and kept
in isolation. This may be my last chance to prove my innocence!
Satoshi ripped his
gloves off in frustration. He reached up and yanked his protective
mask free as well. He was sweating profusely now, panting from
excitement. He leaned over and pried open the lid to his most
virulent sample. He turned and looked up at the security cameras
monitoring him. Nothing happened. He laughed. He had been expecting
sirens to go off, maybe armed guards to come running in. He was so
tired he was practically delirious. Surely he was being paranoid. No
one was coming for him. Still it wouldn't hurt to have an insurance
policy.
Better to hide something now before
it's too late, he thought.
Satoshi broke apart part of the sample
with a nearby glass stir rod and transferred it to a small test tube,
corking it with a rubber stopper. He held it up to get a closer look.
In that tiny container was the culmination of his life's work – all
he was and all he'd ever be.
Mother would be so proud, he
thought, if only she knew.
He closed the lid back up and replaced
the sample in the fridge. He had a tough decision to make. What was
he going to do with the rest of his day? Should he leave early,
claiming to be sick? Should he stay and wait for them to come for
him? Who would come? Would it be one of the suits from the front
office or someone else like the man in black who originally recruited
him? What if no one ever came?
He chalked up his indecisiveness to
lack of sleep. He'd have to go home and rest. He had never taken a
sick day. No one would give him a hard time for needing some rest,
not after all the work he'd done. He was one of their most valuable
employees. He had no doubt about that.
He was undressing when he began to feel
the tickle in the back of his throat. He didn't pay much attention to
it, chalking it up to the dry Vegas air or maybe some mild allergy.
He was so hot. He couldn't think straight with all his clothing on.
He needed his car keys, but he didn't know why. He couldn't remember
where he'd parked his Mercedes. Come to think of it, he couldn't
remember driving to work in the first place. He was having trouble
thinking clearly, having trouble remembering things. Everything felt
foggy in his brain all of a sudden. He had a terrible headache coming
on. His sore throat now felt red raw, like someone had dragged a fork
through it. He coughed to relieve the tickle and a fine mist of blood
sprayed out onto the counter. It felt like chunks were coming loose
inside of him but he wasn't able to focus on it. He looked down to
see blisters forming on the back of his hands. His skin itched all
over. Something was wrong but he couldn't figure out what it was. His
stomach gurgled as he leaned over and threw up a fluid stream of
black bile all over the counter top. It felt good to get it out but
left him empty inside. He'd never felt so hungry in his life before.
He felt like he would die if he didn't get something in him right
away, something warm and living and full of blood. Just the thought
of tearing apart a small animal, a rabbit, yes, or maybe a dog, mmm,
or even a small child, made him swell with manic bliss.
A sharp pain
in his arm brought him out of his vivid daydream. He'd bitten his own
arm. Dark burgundy coagulated blood began to puss out of the wound.
It hurt so much he screamed in agony. Anger surged through him,
overpowering his reason. A terrible rage rose up from the core of
his being for not being able to feed, for not being able to quench
his overwhelming hunger. The feeling came in waves, filling him up,
making him strong, numb, and unstoppable. It was as if the anger was
a living being capable of overriding all of his other systems. It was
his God now. Yes. It would take care of him. It would lead him to
food, living breathing food. It would take all the pain away. Satoshi
gave himself over to it and soon the last of his troubled thoughts
vanished like dew drops evaporating in the desert sun. The last
things he saw were his blistered hands pushing open the security door
and heading down the hallway.
***
THE RISING DEAD will be available in paperback from Permuted Press in late 2013.
Please feel free to let me know what you think. You can contact me on Twitter @devansagliani or join the Zombie Attack Facebook page by visiting https://www.facebook.com/ZombieAttackRiseOfTheHorde
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