The Vermilion Strain : Post-Apocalyptic Extinction
THE VERMILION STRAIN
POST-APOCALYPTIC EXTINCTION
S.A. ISON
The Vermilion Strain Post-Apocalyptic Extinction
Copyright © 2019 by S.A. Ison All rights reserved.
Book Design by Elizabeth Mackey
Book Edited by Ronald Ison Esq. Editing Services
All rights Reserved. Except as under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without prior written permission of S.A. Ison
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the production of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons – living or dead- is entirely coincidental.
OTHER BOOKS BY S.A. ISON
BLACK SOUL RISING From the Taldano Files
INOCULATION ZERO Welcome to the Stone Age
Book 1
INOCULATION ZERO Welcome to the Age of War
Book 2
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN PURGE
Book 1
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN FEAR
Book 2
EMP ANTEDILUVIAN COURAGE Book 3
POSEIDON RUSSIAN DOOMSDAY
Book 1
POSEIDON RUBBLE AND ASH
Book 2
EMP PRIMEVAL
PUSHED BACK A TIME TRAVELER’S JOURNAL
Book 1
THE RECALCITRANT ASSASSIN
BREAKING NEWS
THE LONG WALK HOME
EMP DESOLATION
FUTURE RELEASES
SMOKEHOUSE SMILES From the Taldano Files
PUSHED BACK THE TIME TRAVELER’S DAUGHTERS
Book 2
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
A BONE TO PICK
THE HIVE
SHATTERED MIND
Other books by S.A. Ison under the name: Stefany White
Dragon’s Fortune
Alaskan Heat
The Seeding
Future Releases
The Butler Did It
Little White Lies
For Billie Jo,
Thank you for reading my works and your enthusiasm
♥
ONE
Brian Philips held his dying wife, Christa, in his arms. She was drenched in sweat and blood. He smoothed back her hair. The scent of sour death was near, mixed with the coppery diarrhea. Her eyes were nearly black with blood and she was blind, Brian knew she wasn’t cognizant of his presence. It was god awful; their bed was saturated with blood and bloody diarrhea. She’d beaten breast cancer, only to be struck down by this egregious virus. EV-01-H, that designation was just handed down by the CDC in Atlanta, so swift was this bio-weapon. Brian was sure it had to be a bio-weapon. Be it China, North Korea, or the Middle East, it didn’t matter to him, with his wife in his arms.
Christa was bleeding out and he could do nothing to stop it. The hospitals had closed their doors, Lancaster was nearly a ghost town at this point. He wondered how the Amish fared, and wondered if they’d closed ranks. Since it was still unknown how the virus was spread, he thought that the Amish had a fifty-fifty chance of staying clear of it, since they were a closed community, then again, they didn’t use most modern medicines. Not that medicine could help any of them.
He’d gone out yesterday, trying to get supplies. The stores were empty of people, the shelves full. Brain knew the power would eventually go, there were fewer people now. He was sure the power stations and electrical grids were running on auto. When it came time, even that would stop. He had a whole house generator, but that would only last so long. If he used it a few hours a day, it would last longer. His mind was clicking away at all the scenarios ahead. He’d had nothing but time to think as he held his dying wife.
He’d taken his RAM truck, which had an extended bed and he took advantage of the storage room in the extended bed. He’d stopped at several gas stations, confiscating the five-gallon gas cans and filled them up. He’d filled the back of his truck with the cans, packing them neatly. He then topped off his tank, as well. He’d added fuel additive to extend the life of the gas, though he was sure he’d go through it quick enough. He was a firefighter, or had been a firefighter, only weeks before, he knew how to be prepared, or thought he did, until the Vermilion Strain.
His eyes flew to Christa’s chest, it had stopped moving, the wet rattling sound of her lungs had stopped. The room was eerily quiet, his harsh breathing the only sound. He wanted to weep, but his face felt oddly numb. His brain was numb as well. He smoothed back the bloody hair from her face, her eyes unseeing and vacant, a void where wonderful animation had once been. Christa’s face was speckled with petechial hemorrhaging, as was the rest of her body. His wife had been, what his mother called, high yellow, very fair skin for a black woman. Her skin was now nearly as dark as his own. Her skin was now the color of vermilion, hence the nickname of the EV-01-H. He imagined that someone white, would be a crimson color or a deeper shade of vermilion.
Brian felt the warmth of tears sliding down his face, he’d not even been aware that he was weeping. He sighed heavily and laid his wife down gently. His large hand gently shut her eyes. He stood up from the bed, using his forearm to wipe his face. He walked through the quiet house and into the attached garage. He found a shovel and headed out to the back yard.
He paused by the row of roses; his wife had planted them years before. Pumpkin roses, she’d called them. The color of pumpkins they were her pride and joy. A soft, sad smile creased his face. He wiped absently at the tears. A shuddering sigh rippled through him, feeling his heart break, he bent to the task of digging a grave by the roses, knowing Christa would want to rest there. It was mid-morning and the day was already heating up. The world was silent around him and only his heavy breathing kept him company. Shoveling the loamy ground, he was able to make a respectable grave for his wife. He set the shovel aside and walked back into the lonesome house.
The house was cool and silent, when the power eventually went out, the house would be like an oven. He went to the linen closet and pulled out primrose sheets. He knew Christa would like that. Going into the bedroom, he wrapped his wife tenderly in her burial shroud. Lifting her slender form up, he carried her out into the yard. He placed her on the ground and then jumped down into the grave. Carefully, he gathered her once more in his arms for the last time and hugged her close to his body, rocking back and forth. His soft sobs filled the still air around them and then he laid her into the grave.
“This is the best I can do, honey. I’m sorry that it isn’t what’s normal, with a casket and all. But you’ll be safe here.” He choked and wiped his face. He wanted desperately to lay down with her.
Climbing out of the grave, Brian picked up the shovel and began to fill the hole. It was faster filling the thing, than it had been to dig. After he’d finished, he went back into the house and grabbed a beer and his Glock 17. Going back out to the back yard, he sat by the patio table. Sipping at his beer, he looked around the large back yard. He and Christa had spent many happy hours back here, tending her roses and landscaping. It had been a sanctuary during her recovery from cancer and chemo.
They’d also had many parties with neighbors, and his beloved grill. A soft smile creased his features at the remembrance. Christa had been the perfect hostess. Her wonderful laughter and beautiful smile. She made everyone feel welcome.
He wondered idly if he should dig himself a grave. Who would fill it in? He wondered. Why waste the energy? The Glock was cool in his hand and his fingers idly stroked the weapon as
he sipped his beer. He looked up into the clear blue sky, his eyes squinting against the glare. He saw sparrows gliding on the wind above him. He knew there was a nest nearby. He wondered idly, if his wife’s soul was even now, ascending to heaven?
His head turned at the sound of the gate door opening, and saw Cooper, his next-door neighbor’s four-year-old son. He was surprised, the child looked like hell. He set the beer aside on the table, along with the Glock.
“Come here Coop.” He waved the boy to him. The child walked to him and climbed up into Brian’s lap, and that startled Brian. Coop was a quiet child and shy. He’d always given Brian shy smiles, behind his parent’s legs, peeking around.
“I’m hungry.” The child said softly, his small hands fingering the buttons that ran down Brian’s shirt. The child felt thin; Brian could feel the child’s ribs under the bright orange T-shirt. The child smelled horrible, apparently the boy hadn’t been bathed, nor had he wiped his behind very well. Brian looked down into the cornflower blue eyes and noted that the child’s eyes were dull. He ran a hand through the stiff blond hair.
“Where’s your mommy and daddy, Coop?”
“Sleeping. I’m hungry.” His small voice plaintive.
Brian grunted and got up. He carried the child into his kitchen and set the boy on the quartz countertop. He washed his hands and arms, cleaning the dirt and blood from them. He took a washcloth and lathered it up with warm water. He went to Cooper and began to wipe the child’s face and hands. The boy sat quietly while he did this, his eyes closing when Brian smoothed the cloth around his face. He smiled down at the child and then went to the refrigerator and pulled out bacon and eggs. He also pulled out a loaf of bread. For the next ten minutes, Cooper sat quietly and patiently on the kitchen counter watching Brian’s every move. Brian raked the scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate and then carried Cooper into the dining room, the boy’s small thin arms twinned around Brian’s neck. He set the boy down at the table and then went back for orange juice.
“I’m going to check on your parents, you sit here and eat. Don’t leave, okay Coop?”
“Okay. I’ll stay.” The child said, his cheek bulging with scrambled eggs.
Brian walked out of the kitchen and went back out to the back yard and retrieved his Glock. Going through the gate, Brian walked over to Cooper Lane’s home. The kitchen door was standing wide open and Brian could already smell decomp. He held his hand over his mouth and nose and walked in, his dark eyes scanning the room. There was canned food on the floor, boxes of empty cereal. There was a carton of milk on the floor, empty as well.
He walked into the living room, looked around. The TV was on, but there was only static and snow. It had been that way for two days. He’d lost the TV’s satellite signal. There had only been a warning banner before that. It had been a little over two and a half weeks since the virus had hit the United States with such devastating efficiency. He’d tried to use his cell phone to call his parents and Christa’s folks, but there was no service. He’d given up all attempts to contact the outside world when Christa had begun to show the first symptoms of the Vermilion Strain.
Brian made his way to Shafer and Jillian’s bedroom. The door was open and the stench that issued forth nearly sent Brian to his knees. He gagged, backing up. He saw two forms on the bed and hundreds of flies buzzing around the forms. The room hummed ominously, loud and relentless. The sheets that covered the couple, were black. He could see a large white mass of maggots wriggling and writhing around the heads of his friends. He looked quickly away, swallowing hard, trying to push that image from his brain. It was too late and he bent at the waist and vomited on the carpeted hall floor. He backed up and hit the door jamb of Coop’s room. He turned in and looked around. He wiped ferociously at his tearing eyes. He wiped at his mouth and spat out the foulness.
Going to Coop’s bed, he ripped the dinosaur pillow case off the pillow and went to the boy’s brightly painted dresser. Opening it, he pulled out socks and underwear from one drawer, the next drawer, he found shirts of all colors and designs. The next drawer, he pulled out shorts and jeans. He shoved them carelessly into the pillow case. Going to the child’s closet, he began to pick up shoes, then some toys. Shoving all this into the pillow case, he moved back to the living room. He saw an old blue blanket on the couch and knew that was Cooper’s lovey. He grabbed that as well. He saw a family photo and grabbed that. Turning, he looked around the quiet house. Cooper could not come back.
Brian turned and walked out of the house with Cooper’s belongings. He’d come back later tonight and take all the supplies and food back to his place, as well as a few more photographs, for Cooper. Coop was now his responsibility, all thoughts of suicide had gone out of his consciousness, his concern was now for the small four-year-old, eating scramble eggs in his dining room.
Ӝ
Emma Prichard pushed the shopping cart along the sidewalk. She had a deep blue, checkered bandana tied across her face; Vic’s vapor rub smeared across fabric. It was to keep the stench of the rotting bodies away, as well as the bloated flies that seemed to bounce off her face. She also wore sunglasses, and rubber gloves. The whole city was an open wound, suppurating with noxious and toxic biomatter. She was becoming used to the grizzly sights of the streets. There were no other people around and she’d not seen another living soul for over a week. Though Boston was a very large city, she’d been in Jamaica Plain, which was on the outskirts of Boston proper. Her apartment was located near Johnson Park, which had been turned into a large dumping ground for the dead.
During the first days of the EV-01-H, she’d been in the thick of it. Scores of victims pouring into the ER, dying within hours. The morgue had overflowed and then when the staff, doctors and nurses began showing the petechial splotches on their skin, Emma knew it was the beginning of the end. After a week, she knew she could do nothing and so had gone home and stayed there. Locked behind her doors, watching from the windows and watching the news as the grim facts and numbers danced across the screen. This was an extinction level virus and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do but wait it out or die. She was a nurse, not God.
The victims had writhed in agony, their skin turning vermilion as the virus took over their bodies. Near the end, blood leaked out of their ears, eyes, nose, mouth and their bowels. She could only hope that their brains were so damaged by the virus, that they were oblivious of their pending death. The husk left behind was gruesome. Outside the doors of Massachusetts General, bodies were piled in grotesque monuments. When she’d gone home that last day, the trains had stopped running, as had the buses. She’d found a taxi driver, willing to take her. She’d had to show him her skin, proving that she wasn’t infected. His face hidden behind a white surgical mask. His eyes frightened. She was lucky to make it home.
Now, she was unsure if there were people still alive and hiding or if they were all dead. The drone of the buzzing could be heard from her apartment, the flies so thick as to be a substantial dark fog. The sound of buzzing was the only thing she heard these days. It was strange that such a large city was so quiet. No sound of cars, or mechanized droning. Sometimes she heard crows, or she’d see a murder of crows raising from a large heap of bodies. She looked away at those times. It sent shivers down back, it was the harbinger of the end of days.
She’d stayed in her apartment as long as possible, terrified to leave the sanctum. The smell from the halls and outside her window ensured her confinement. When she was down to her last can of peaches, she knew she’d have to go out and search for food and water. Every bowl, bottle, jar and bathtub were filled with water, as well as plastic bags. The power had gone out yesterday. She’d kept the receptacles full, knowing at some point, the power would go out, and it did. The apartment had heated up quickly and she’d had to open the windows. She’d lost her lunch at the foulness that wafted her way. Finding the stringent cream, she used for chest colds, she’d put a dab of it under her nose. She’d been a nurse for six years, but
nothing had prepared her for this wholesale slaughter.
She’d only been in Boston three years, having left Lancaster, Pennsylvania after a bitter divorce. She’d loved this vibrant city, but it was all different now, sinister. There were fires around the sprawling city and smoke hung low in the sky, and she was sure the smoke was toxic. She stopped when she heard gunshots in the distance. So, someone was alive. It sounded like automatic gunfire. Not the single shot kind, but a rapid tattoo. That didn’t bode well for her.
Her long brown hair was pulled up and covered by a ball cap. She’d gone to Whole Foods and filled a cart. She was making stops to gather up supplies. Stopping by CVS, she’d gotten medical supplies to add to her already extensive medical provisions. As a nurse, she’d always kept supplies handy in her apartment. For her upcoming trip, she wanted to make sure she’d have plenty. There was no shortage, with no one around, there was plenty of food, plenty of everything. She’d found an abandoned ambulance and retrieved the supplies, sterile bandages, saline IVs and anything she could lay her hands on. You could never have too much.
It had never been established if EV-01-H had been an airborne virus, spread by physical contact, body fluids or a cough or sneeze. The virus had been virulent and from the results, Emma suspected a ninety eight percent extinction rate, if not more. The extermination of the human race, an extinction event. She’d seen a segment on the news, in the first week, about the primates at the zoos. Those animals were dying as well, the large primates, gorillas, chimps and orangutans.
So rapid were the deaths, that it had never been discovered which country had unleashed this plague, if any had. The death toll she watched on TV was grim, fast and profligate. She was fairly certain that the strain hadn’t been nature made, but created by madmen, a government perhaps. They’d done their job too well, and had all but wiped out the human population.