Infected

Infected

The Dead Land Trilogy

Book One

    
 
By Anthony Izzo
 

Published by White Knuckle Books

Copyright 2012 Anthony Izzo

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is a coincidence.

Chapter One

Sheriff Emma Ross rolled up on the scene to find the ambulance crew leaning against their rig. One of the paramedics had a cut over his eye and was holding a bandage to it. A woman in a pink terrycloth bathrobe sobbed and rung her hands. An atypical night in her quiet little town of 800 souls.

She parked the patrol car in the driveway of the little Cape Cod and got out. Approaching the ambulance crew she said: “Evening boys. What's the damage?”

The medic with the cut, a dark-complected kid with slicked back hair said: “Dude went crazy on us in there. Bit me over the eye. That's when we called you.”

Great. Probably a meth-head. She would want backup, so she went to the patrol car and radioed for one of her deputies, George Ledger. George had played tight end for Old Miss and still benched two-eighty on a bad day.

She approached the woman in the housecoat, who introduced herself as Sara. “Ma'am, what's going on in there?”

“It's Marty. He caught that bug that's going around. He fell asleep. Then I realized he wasn't breathing. That's when I called the ambulance. But he got up, and when he did, he was different.”

“How's that?”

“Angry. Violent. I ran out of the house. I thought he'd gone batshit crazy.”

Glass broke inside the house, and it was followed by a combination growl/howl that didn't sound entirely human.

“He do any drugs?” Emma asked.

“Just the antibiotics he was on for the infection.”

The infection. It had taken over the town in the past two weeks. The hospital was crawling with cases. It started with a garden variety cold and quickly worsened into a full blown flu that treated the sufferer to a high fever and fluid in the lungs.

A second patrol car pulled up and George got out, ducking his head as he climbed out of the car.

“Hey boss,” George said. “What's up?”

Emma gave him the rundown on the situation. “We'll go in. He's going to need to be subdued.”

“Goody,” George said.

“Let's go say hello,” Emma said.

They went up the front walkway, Emma unstrapping the holster for her Glock as they went. She climbed the front stoop and opened the front door, which revealed the living room. The couch and end tables had been overturned, and the remnants of a shattered lamp was scattered across the rug. There was no sign of Marty.

From upstairs, something heavy slammed against the floor. The stairs were right off the living room and Emma went to the base of the steps and said: “Marty, this is the police. I need you to come down here.”

Her appeal was met with silence. She drew her Glock, not liking where this was headed, but realizing they had someone violent to deal with. He had already tried to dine on one of the paramedics and was obviously unbalanced.

George followed suit, drawing his sidearm.

She started up the stairs, George behind her, and the silence that emanated from the upper level bothered her more than the breaking of glass.

They reached the top of the stairs and ended up in a hallway. There were two bedrooms on either side and a third room at the end. Emma strained to listen for Marty, for anything that would give away his location.

It didn't take long as he exploded from the bedroom, the one at the end of the hallway. He was coming straight at Emma. Looking at him, she could tell something was wrong.

As he drew closer, Emma saw the man's eyes had turned entirely white.  As he charged, hisses and grunts came from his throat. Emma reached for her belt. She unclipped a canister of pepper spray, flipped the cap, and doused Marty's face.

It didn't deter him, and he slammed into Emma, knocking her to the ground. She should've fucking shot him. Now, he pinned her to the ground, his massive hands wrapped around her throat. She struggled to suck in air from her burning windpipe. The grip was iron-strong. She clawed at his hands.

George was standing over top of them and he went for his nightstick. He swung it, bringing the butt end down on the back of Marty's skull. Marty's hold loosened enough for Emma to break free.

She got her forearm up in just enough time to block Marty's snapping jaws. Pushing his face back she said, “George, little help.”

George grabbed Marty by his tee shirt and hauled him off of Emma. He had holstered his gun and was able to swing the nightstick, clubbing Marty in the temple, the nightstick making a hollow crack as it connected. Marty slumped, and Emma, being tangled up in Marty's legs, scooted out from underneath.

Marty fell to his knees and George managed to get him on his belly and cuff him.

Emma watched, her lungs burning. She gathered up the Glock and watched as George placed a knee in Marty's back, pinning him to the floor.

“I'll get the ambulance crew.”

“If they'll come back,” George said.

“They want to keep their jobs, they will,” Emma said.

She went outside and motioned for the paramedics to follow her inside.  They complied, bringing a first aid kit with them. Once at the top of the stairs, they examined Marty and determined he would live, and that he possibly had a concussion. They had no explanation for the bizarre change in behavior, and Emma felt a little twinge of fear ripple through her. The whole town had wondered if that damn army truck that crashed last week had something to do with the sickness.

“How you want to handle this, boss?” George asked.

“I want him monitored, but I don't want him hurting himself or anyone else. Strap him into the gurney. George, you ride along. I'll follow. I'll bring you back here to get your patrol car.”

“You heard her boys, load him up.”

Chapter Two

Doctor Mike Weiss had only seen his emergency room this busy one other time: a tour bus had crashed outside of town and the ambulance crews had brought him twelve victims, four of whom didn't last the night. He'd seen fractures, amputations, lacerations, and burns that night. In fact, he'd stayed on almost seventy-two straight hours by the time every one was treated, released, or admitted.

He could deal with a broken leg or a gash that needed sutures. What troubled him now was the number of people sick in his ER. It looked like a nasty flu, but many of the patients that had been brought in last night were upstairs in St. Mary's ICU.  All of them comatose.

He popped into an exam room and found Mr. Harvey English – his next patient - sprawled on a gurney. English was a fleshy man, his Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned and exposing a pendulous belly. His chest rose and fell like a bellows. The chest hair was slicked with sweat.

Weiss introduced himself and got a quick history of English's symptoms. It was nearly identical to all the patients he had seen: chills, aching joints, a high fever.  As the illness progressed, the patient ran a high fever and presented with fluid in the lungs. As if to demonstrated this last symptom, English burst into a wet, thick cough.

When he was done hacking, English said in a weak voice: “Hell of a flu.”

“Hell of a flu, indeed.”

Jackie Romero, one of the ER nurses, joined him. Jackie was about five-two and a hundred pounds, but she had the drive and strength of a locomotive. “Mike, Emma Ross on line three. Says she's got something you need to hear.”

“Tell her I'm up to my ass in flu patients.”

“I don't think she's going to take no for an answer.”

Weiss exhaled. That's all he needed, dicking around with the local law enforcement. He liked the Sheriff, but had no time for her right now. “Fine.”

He gave Romero his orders for Mr. English and ducked out of the bay to the sound of English hacking up his insides.

At the nurses' station, Weiss picked up line three. “Weiss.”

“Bringing something in for you, doc,” Ross said.

“Better be good. I'm a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest tonight.”

She gave him a description of a patient who had come down with the same illness everyone else had, only he had slipped into unconsciousness. When he'd woken up, his appearance was markedly changed and he tried to eat one of the paramedics.

After hearing this, Weiss said: “Tell me this isn't a joke.”

“I wanted to joke, I'd talk Buffalo Bills football,” the Sheriff said.

Despite his lousy mood, he chuckled. “Okay. Fair enough. Have the crew bring him right into bay six. It's nearest the ambulance bay, so no one should see the patient. I'll have a look at him right away.”

“Mind if I ask you something doc?”

“Make it quick.”

“What the hell is this? It sure isn't a flu.”

Weiss rubbed his temples, as if trying to massage out an answer. “I have no idea. I'm going to start turning people away, sending them to County. Our beds are almost full. Almost all with this flu. Or whatever it is.”

“Don't mind telling you I'm a little freaked out.”

“You and me both. I'll see you in a few.”

Emma followed the ambulance crew as they wheeled Marty through the automatic doors and into bay six. The ER was a symphony of wet coughing, moaning, and retching. The sour smell of vomit hung in the air.

Along with George, Emma was joined by Marty's wife Sara, who was still in her bathrobe. Weiss popped in a moment later and drew the curtain shut. Weiss asked Sara a few questions about her husband's condition, and she stated that he'd started with chills and a fever about twenty-four hours ago.

“Let's have a look at him.”

A nurse popped in and started getting vitals: blood pressure, pulse.

Weiss took a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser on the wall, snapped them on, and took a penlight from his lab coat. As he lifted Marty's eyelid to shine the light in, he gasped. Emma figured that wasn't good. When a guy whose job it was to put accident victims back together gasped, something was fucked up.

“How long have his eyes been like this?”

“When he woke up, they were like that.”

“And the violent behavior?” Weiss asked

“Only since he woke back up,” Sara said.

“How'd he get the bruise on the head?” Weiss said.

“We did that,” George said. “Came at us like a wild bear. We pepper sprayed him.”

“Get a CT scan and flush out his eyes,” Weiss said. He gave further instructions to the nurse and said to Emma, “Can I see you out in the hallway?”

They stepped into the hallway, where a nurse scurried past, charts in hand. Weiss took them down the corridor until they were near the ambulance doors. Emma looked Weiss over. His lab coat bore a number of wrinkles, and his blue scrubs were dotted with brownish stains. His handsome face bore a few days beard growth.

The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger. “I got to tell you I'm about thirty seconds away from calling the CDC because I don't have a goddamned idea what's going on. Especially since you brought
him
in.”

“What about the eyes?” Emma asked.

Weiss only shook his head. “Color me dumb so far. Marty there's got to go for a CT scan. Can one or both of you stick around to make sure he doesn't freak on us?”

“I'll do it. Boss, you go up and see your mom.”

Emma's mother was up on the eighth floor recovering from knee surgery. “Appreciate that, George. Make sure Marty behaves himself.”

Chapter Three

Robert Ross waited outside the Ramsey building, which was ten stories high and the tallest building in their little town. The blue Toyota pulled to a stop near the main entrance and Kayla, his ten-year-old daughter, bounded from the car, her LL Bean backpack bouncing on her shoulders.