Arize (Book 1): Resurrection Page 6

  A digital countdown showed he had three minutes of air-time left to fill. Normally he’d ease toward a request for donations, but today he would let the on-screen graphics do the job. If these truly were the End Times, then money might not matter. But since no one knew the hour, he might as well keep the coffers full.

  Besides, blessed were those who gave, and who was he to deny them of that comfort in this wicked time?

  He concluded with the Lord’s promise by paraphrasing Matthew, since he couldn’t remember the exact verses: “The sun will be dark and the moon won’t reveal its light, and the stars shall fall from the heavens. And then the Son of Man will appear in the clouds and ride in on great glory. The angels will gather on the sound of a great trumpet, and the Lord shall gather His people. And we want to be His people, don’t we?”

  Ingram paused to let each audience member contemplate the return and nod in affirmation. He was about to wrap up with a fervent plea to those who had not yet been saved, but a commotion to his right broke his rhythm. He squinted toward the noise, hoping the gesture would be taken as a frown of concern. But the sudden scream cut off any pretense and pulled him from the fantasy of prophecy to the reality of hell on Earth.

  A camera operator staggered into the spotlight, blood pouring from a gash in her arm. Ingram didn’t know her—the studio employed an ever-revolving cast of artistic types who probably smirked at his sermons. She looked to be in her thirties, plump and plain, but the graphic crimson splash on her sleeve was a color that would look fake in a movie.

  A struggle sounded beyond the circle of lights and a Klieg light crashed to the floor. The wounded woman staggered toward Ingram, reaching out as if for help. She fell at Ingram’s feet and then he saw what had ripped her skin open.

  The deader was not a crew member. Probably a janitor or equipment tech. But the pale, feverish skin and blood-slick lips were the visage of a demon. Satan’s slave shuffled toward him, live on air.

  Ingram glanced at the camera directly ahead and confirmed from the red indicator that the feed was going out to the world. He halted his reflexive retreat and let benevolence wash over his features.

  “Come forward, my child, and be saved,” he said, opening his palm in welcome. “For Satan only owns this world for a time, but the Lord shall rule forever.”

  The deader growled and shambled toward him, but once it came within reach, its eyes changed from a glazed longing to blank peace. It seemed to bow a little as if in prayer, and Ingram was compelled to reach out his palm and rest it on top of the thing’s sweaty scalp. Mystic energy flowed through Ingram, as if he were a conduit for a bizarre kind of baptism.

  “Let Him in,” Ingram coaxed.

  The deader murmured in contentment, chewing on the gristle of its victim’s flesh like some sort of profane sacrament. Its head lifted slightly, and in those cloudy eyes, Ingram saw a flicker of grace.

  Ingram had not only healed this wayward creature but had saved its eternal soul!

  A gunshot roared—Ingram would later learn that his bodyguard killed the infected attacker—and the director shouted, “Cut! Cut! Cut!”

  Despite the shock, Ingram couldn’t help but feel the Lord at work here. Satan had jumped right into Ingram’s face and his faith had proven strong. Millions would now know that Cameron Ingram was truly a man of God and a mighty prophet.

  The next half hour was a blur as the police responded, broadcasters apologized to the audience for the graphic imagery, and local reporters gave him even more publicity. Ingram walked in a daze. The spirit of the Lord had moved within him in a way he’d never felt before.

  By the time his personal assistant ushered him out to a waiting SUV to drive to his mansion on the outskirts of the city, he was convinced the Lord had a special role for him in this time of trials. That was confirmed when his assistant handed him a cell phone and said, “White House, Mr. Ingram.”

  Ingram took the phone with a steady hand. He’d met the president several times at political functions and considered the old fool about as spiritual as a stump. But his personal judgment no longer mattered, and the president had claimed a sudden religious conversion on the eve of his candidacy. They would sit before the Judgment of the Most Righteous soon enough, and voters would have no say there.

  Right now, Ingram was called to service.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” he said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What should we do?” Meg asked, peering out the shades of the living room window.

  The sky in the east was pinked with the haze of morning. The neighborhood was quiet, but a body lay sprawled in the center of the cul-de-sac. It was so mangled that she couldn’t identify the dead person, but those bright nylon pants looked like something only Diane Ward would wear.

  “Stay inside like we were ordered,” Ian said as he checked the front-door locks for the tenth time.

  “Since when do you ever follow orders?”

  “When I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  The tension was palpable, hanging in the air like an electric current. Meg hated herself for arguing, but she felt helpless and afraid. The kids were upstairs in Jacob’s bedroom, which didn’t have a window. She didn’t want them to witness the horrors erupting around them, but she didn’t know how long she could hide the truth from them.

  At least her illness had subsided a bit. The media reports of an epidemic alarmed her, especially when she’d heard the disease was believed to have originated in Alaska. The radio was on in the kitchen, but the news announcers seemed as confused as everyone else. Aside from occasional advisories and government bulletins, the sporadic information did little to calm their nerves.

  “It almost looks normal outside,” Meg said.

  Except for the dead neighbor in the driveway.

  “Sorry I yelled,” Ian said.

  “We’re both jumpy, honey. But we need to stick together.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Still a little woozy, but better.”

  They hadn’t slept much at all. They’d brought the kids into the room with them, where they slept on the floor in a bundle of blankets. Meg and Ian pretended they were camping to help allay their anxiety. The kids could sense their worry but eventually managed to fall asleep while the two parents monitored the radio via earphones. Ian kept the bedside lamp on and warily eyed his wife, as if expecting her to attack them all at any moment.

  “Maybe you should try to contact Toolik again,” Ian said. “If this has anything to do with Lang and those samples you were studying, maybe they can pinpoint the cause.”

  She’d tried to call several times but the main line was busy and none of her personal contacts there answered their phones. She imagined the field station had been evacuated—or else everyone there was dead—and the Toolik massacre had faded from the news in the wake of more widespread carnage. Their Internet connection had slowed to a crawl, making it even more difficult to determine fact from fiction.

  “I should go straight to the CDC,” Meg said.

  “Even if your bacteria thing caused this, how come it didn’t kill the people who found it?”

  “It’s a bacteriophage—a parasitic virus that uses bacterium as a host. The samples were brought in by an archaeology team working a site in the remote mountains. They’re out of contact, so who knows what happened to them? They might’ve been the first people to show symptoms.”

  Ian joined Meg at the window. “Surely the state troopers tried to contact them once they noticed the Toolik connection.”

  “They’d have to travel by either helicopter or sled dog. Things probably fell apart before they could organize it.”

  “Even if it started there, how could it spread so fast?”

  “That’s something the CDC should be able to figure out, if they have enough time. It mutated between the time the sample was brought in and I examined it the next morning. It could be evolving as it goes, getting stronger.”

  A siren interrupted
them, pealing down the adjoining street. Meg could imagine the panic rolling to the horizon, with so many families huddled behind closed doors. The uncertainty was the worst thing—based on the sketchy details from news reports and wild speculation on the Internet, the foundation of reality itself seemed to be cracking apart beneath their feet.

  “Try to get through,” Ian said, pushing her cell phone at her. “They’ll probably think you’re just another lunatic with a conspiracy theory, if they’re even answering the phone.”

  “I’m going to try BioGenix first. If they’ve received the sample, maybe they can send it express to Atlanta to support my story.” Meg began tapping in the number for the BioGenix office.

  “The system’s broken. I don’t know how you could ship anything right now.”

  “If it’s important enough, the feds could send a helicopter—” She held up her open palm to pause the conversation while she listened to the dial tone. It rang ten times with no answer and didn’t kick over to voice mail.

  Ian gripped her shoulder, looking past her out the window. Meg turned in time to see a teenaged boy running across the lawn of the Peltiers’ house fifty yards away. Someone followed him, legs jerking awkwardly in chase.

  “That’s Danny Soto,” Meg said, recognizing the boy they sometimes hired to mow the lawn when Ian was too busy.

  “And it looks like his dad is after him.” Ian headed toward the front door.

  Meg grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To help.”

  “You can’t go out there. We don’t know what’s going on. We need to stick together.”

  Ian tried to pull away, but Meg tightened her grip. She hated her weakness, but she couldn’t stand to face this alone.

  “Danny can run faster than his dad, especially if his dad is sick,” Meg added, pulling Ian toward the window. “Look. He’s already getting away.”

  At the end of the street, Danny turned the corner, leaped a low picket fence, and vanished from view. Danny’s dad, whom they didn’t know very well, staggered after him, rapidly falling behind. The man was old and balding, but something in his gait suggested a coiled strength that didn’t exhibit itself in foot speed. Mister Soto stopped in the middle of the street, spinning slowly with small, shuffling steps.

  He jerked forward, heading toward one of the houses whose front door had opened. Ken Dobbins appeared on his porch, a rifle in hand. Meg wasn’t shocked by the gun—Ken flew an American flag, sported a Marine Corps sticker on the rear windshield of his Ford pick-up, and projected a clean-cut, conservative look. Now she wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not for their armed neighbor.

  She’d never allow firearms in the house with the kids, and Ian had never expressed interest in them. Guns were for other people—hunters who lived in rural areas, criminals, and people who hoped to become crime victims so they could legally defend themselves.

  As Mr. Soto headed onto the sidewalk and into the Dobbins’ yard, Meg braced for the inevitable gunshot.

  “That idiot,” Ian said. “Soto wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t gone outside.”

  “He’s dangerous.”

  “No, he’s sick.”

  Ken raised the rifle and waited for Soto to come within range. Another siren whooped in the distance, headed toward downtown.

  Ian sprinted for the door before Meg could react. “Ian!”

  “I can’t just let him murder Soto.” Ian fumbled with the locks and before Meg could reach him, he was outside, waving his arms and yelling. Soto turned from Ken to Ian.

  Soto’s face was twisted in pain, a pall over his olive complexion. A guttural growl rumbled up from his chest. Meg urged Ian to get back inside, but Ian called Soto’s name.

  “He’s infected!” Ken shouted.

  “We don’t know that,” Ian replied.

  “Just look at him. He’s got blood on his shirt.” Ken pointed the rifle at Diane Ward’s prone body. “We’ve already got one down. How many more are you going to let him kill?”

  “If he’s sick, he can get better. My wife was sick, and she’s fine now.”

  Soto couldn’t seem to decide which of them to pursue, but when Meg stepped outside to join her husband, he made toward the two of them.

  “She’s sick and you let her in the house with your kids?” Ken asked, stepping off his porch.

  “She’s my wife.”

  “I’m fine now,” Meg added, though in truth she still felt a little woozy and clammy. But that might’ve been because Soto looked that way now, only worse.

  “Whatever. Just don’t come banging on my door when somebody wants to eat your damned face.” Ken retreated back inside and slammed his door.

  Soto gave a few juddering steps forward, nearly falling. When he had crossed the street again and approached their yard, Meg got a closer look at him: the wild, wide eyes stitched with skeins of red spider webs, dried blood caking the front of his flannel shirt, and clots of brown matter on his chin. He snarled and showed his teeth and gums.

  “You saved him,” Meg said to Ian. “Now come back inside.”

  She was afraid for a moment that Ian would actually let Soto in through an insane act of neighborly charity. But Ian followed her inside and closed and locked the door. “Go check on the kids,” he said as he took his surveillance post at the window.

  Meg hurried up the stairs, hoping the kids hadn’t disobeyed and witnessed the showdown from an upstairs window. But she found them in Jacob’s room, watching a Disney animated feature on DVD. Jacob was propped sitting up in his bed, while Ramona lay in a pile of pillows and stuffed animals on the floor in front of the television. Meg let out a breath of relief she’d held so long it was like lava in her lungs.

  “You guys okay?” she asked.

  Jacob grunted and nodded, annoyed at being confined to his room. He didn’t like being treated like a kid and not knowing what was going on.

  Ramona looked up from the floor. “I feel a little bit bad,” she said.

  Meg’s hand flew to her mouth in horror before she could stop it.

  Ramona was sick.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Arjun Sharma kind of expected all this.

  As a videogame developer, he’d written plenty of scenarios with zombies, religious cults, fallen civilizations, monsters, and fantastical superheroes. He’d always been an escapist, doodling cartoons and caricatures for his grade-school classmates. It had been a way to escape the wrath of the bullies who would taunt him because of his Indian origins. He was as American as any of them. His grandfather had settled here shortly after World War Two.

  The hobby had become a passion in high school, by which time he was winning art awards and learning how to write code. In college he was already fielding job offers and sold his first gaming script at the age of twenty. Fight 2 Hell was a fringe hit in the gaming community but it opened doors to Ubisoft and Paradox Interactive. Seven years later, he was running a writing team and developing half a dozen projects a year.

  He was hot, and it was a bad time for the shit to hit the fan.

  But based on what he could glean from the Internet, he doubted he’d get Hellbringer out for Christmas. And reality seemed to be trumping fantasy anyway. Sporadic gunfire erupted around him, punctuated by occasional screams and sirens. He’d not left his apartment three blocks from North Carolina State University since first hearing about the outbreak.

  Fearing an infectious outbreak, he’d fashioned a crude face mask out of a moistened bandanna. If he went out looking like this—a masked foreigner—he was likely to be gunned down regardless. So he stuck near his laptop and cell phone, reaching out to friends and co-workers. Everyone was just as confused as he was, and a general sense of chaos pervaded their communications. At least his parents were safe in Charlotte, or as safe as anyone could be under the circumstances.

  Someone knocked on the wall from the apartment next door. He didn’t recognize its source at first since it was so odd. Then the knock came again
, a set of three, followed by a pause, and then three more like a signal.

  He set aside his laptop and tapped in reply.

  The woman next door was named Sydney and she was maybe a couple of years older than him. They’d rarely spoken, but once she’d had an embarrassing plumbing problem he’d helped her out with. All he knew about her was from the occasional TV programs and music that leaked through the wall: Stranger Things replays, Beatles, Star Wars, generic pop culture stuff.

  From his fleeting walk through her apartment, he’d formed an impression of a tidiness that wasn’t fussy, with a couple of modern art prints on the walls and several shelves of paperback books. No pets, a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee, the bathroom uncluttered and appointed with a plunger, toilet brush, and a seashell soap dish. Her shower stall was cluttered with lots of bottles of stuff with French names, and he tried not to think of her in there under the showerhead. He had no idea why she was trying to contact him now

  Unless, like him, she was afraid to set foot outside her door.

  He didn’t even know her cell number or email address. It was like they were miles away from each other, not even Facebook acquaintances. But right now she was the most real contact he had with anyone. They were sharing a common nightmare in the same place at the same time.

  He debated going onto the landing of the second floor where they lived and knocking on her door. But that would mean direct exposure to whatever was out there. If the infection was airborne, he might catch it even through his bandanna. Of course, the HVAC unit might be circulating pathogens even now, but at least the air system was filtered.

  The tapping came again, a couple of quick ones followed by one louder thump, as if made by the bottom of her fist. It was closer to the outside wall of the apartment. Then it repeated, even farther along. He tapped in reply, moving down the wall in mimicry.

  When she reached the corner of the room, the tapping continued, but grew fainter. It sounded like she was hitting the outside wall. They each had an open kitchen and living room with a sliding window, as well as a single bedroom and bath to the opposite half of the apartment. The floor plans were mirror images, so her window and his were barely thirty feet apart.