The Death: The Complete Trilogy Read online

  ‘October 5: Illness Spreads Coast to Coast’

  ‘October 6: Governors in Several States Declare Emergency’

  ‘October 8: Panic Sets In’

  ‘October 9: Pandemic Spreads Worldwide’

  ‘October 10: President Declares National Emergency’

  ‘October 12: Death Toll Reaches 35 Million’

  ‘October 13: Riots’

  As he read, he couldn’t help but be distracted by the red spray paint that covered the clippings, ‘God Save Us All.’ The last clipping of October 13th was not the last newspaper to be sold, but it was the last to be placed on this wall.

  Devin tore himself away from this torturous ritual and proceeded with his daily routine. One of his routines was writing in a diary. He found it therapeutic, and in some ways it kept him connected to his past. As his pen coursed across the thin pages of the spiral-bound notepad, he felt the sun’s rays greeting him. He took a moment to peer through the only window the barn had. This little portal was his only eyes into the world that now existed. There he saw what he had seen every day for the past six months. The never-ending fields covered in carefully planted corn, now since dead. The tall dead stalks of corn stood like statues, a remnant of a time now gone. Like everything else, they suffered and died. Not from the pandemic that swept the world but from neglect. Now they provided a barrier between his sanctuary in the old barn and the contaminated planet.

  Daily he thought about his journey from Indianapolis to his cousin’s house in Decatur, Illinois. It was an understatement to describe his drive as hell; it was much worse. Without a place to go after the pandemic spread and with all airports shuttered, he had been stuck in Indianapolis. Armed with only the address on his phone, he drove for his cousin Tom’s farm. He had met him twice, both times were when he was very young, but like many families, they never kept in touch and outside of Facebook, he never communicated with him. What brief exchanges they did have always ended with the standard ‘let’s get together soon’. Of course, those words were always meaningless and were mainly a form of conversational decorum that society couldn’t let go.

  Today marked the six-month anniversary since he had found out about Cassidy. Looking back, Devin wished he had picked up his phone those many months ago. He had never been the type of person who couldn’t live without his phone; he looked at it as nothing more than a tool to make life easier and primarily for emergencies. This love/hate relationship he had with his mobile phone led to it being left several rooms away and on silent mode.

  Devin had been a successful ghostwriter, and for him to work, he needed an environment free of distraction. He had heard some of the vibrations coming from his phone that day many months ago, but he ignored them. Only after he picked it up did he see the half-dozen missed calls from a number unfamiliar. Upon listening to the first message, he regretted not picking up the phone; that regret soon turned to despair. After going through several people at the hospital, he was put in touch with a person who could tell him what was going on with Cassidy. Without hesitation he put himself on the first flight out to Indianapolis, but that wouldn’t be till the next morning.

  The delay in looking at his phone had a cascading effect; by the time he had reached the hospital in Indianapolis, it was too late. There was confusion at the hospital, and when he finally had the chance to talk to someone, they informed him that Cassidy had died. To add insult to injury that day, he never had a chance to see her body, as it had been confiscated and taken away by government agents.

  The last images he would have of her were those taken from the boy’s phone in row 22. The bumpy but crisp resolution from the video gave him chills. Seeing Cassidy sick and in pain was too much for him. He could never stomach completing the video, and for a couple days following, the video was on every local news channel and had gone viral on YouTube and social media. What had been a unique incident soon spread, and within days what had played out on the plane was now everywhere. Soon everyone’s screens and devices were showing images and videos of others with the same symptoms.

  He peered into the deep blue above; the clouds were still randomly traveling along, but the one companion that was noticeably absent was the birds. He hadn’t seen a bird or other flying creature in months. His self-imposed confinement had kept him safe but also ignorant to what was happening outside the twenty-acre farm.

  The Death didn’t discriminate in its killing; it had mutated quickly and soon affected all wildlife and animals, killing them much like their human cousins.

  His attention soon turned towards the main house. He wondered if the smell had finally subsided enough for him to go back in. He was running very low on supplies, and hadn’t entered the house since he had first arrived and gathered all he could quickly find and left the house as it was. His reason for staying away was because his cousin had taken it upon himself to not allow the pandemic to kill his family, so he did, then himself. He had never met Tom’s children, but from photos they looked very cute: a boy and a girl, couldn’t have been more than eight and six. When he had first arrived, he knocked and knocked. Needing a place to shelter himself, he forced his way in. Once in, the smell portended what he would eventually find: the family all gathered in a bedroom upstairs in the old farmhouse. The sight shocked and revolted him. He took all he could in the time before he lost his composure and made for the barn. There he would stay, hidden and safe. But now, if he was going to make it, he would need to venture back inside, and the thought chilled him.

  Throughout the many long days and nights in his self-imposed confinement, he cursed never taking the time to learn much less read anything regarding survival. Often, he had openly mocked those who prepared for the very event he found himself in. Words like ‘silly, stupid and dumb’ would cross his tongue followed by ‘crazy, loony and nutjob’ to describe the people who did follow this lifestyle. Now he used those words to describe himself. Regardless of his ignorance on all matters survival, he was surprised by how quickly he adapted. If he had been asked before about his chances for survival in this type of event, he would have answered, ‘Not a chance.’

  Trying to work up the courage to go back into the house, he paced the barn’s uneven dirt floor. It wasn’t that he had a fear of contracting something; he just didn’t want to smell what he had before. He had heard stories about the grotesque smell of rotting human flesh, but not until he experienced the stench could he confirm it was true. It was a smell like nothing he had ever come across. Couple that with seeing the bloated bodies and his body was racked with intense sensations of nausea. However, he had to go back in; between what he had taken out that first day and the stores of canned food he had discovered in the barn soon after, he was about out of food. He knew his hunt for food would soon have to go outside of the house and farm. That thought he dreaded.

  During his many months in the barn, he had looked through every box, cabinet and dusty corner. One item he planned on using in his search of the house was a half-mask respirator that Tom’s wife, Jessica, had used for painting and refinishing old furniture, her hobby. Devin’s hope was that if there was a smell, this would protect his senses from it and make it easier to accomplish what he needed to do.

  He slid the weathered barn door open, the sun’s late morning rays hit his skin, and he paused to absorb the warmth. The worn path from the house to the barn was still visible; the grasses hadn’t yet taken over and wiped out all traces of a once active property. He stepped closer and closer, taking each step with care till he reached the steps. He looked at them and noticed the wear from thousands of feet. The white paint that at one time covered them was missing in the center, and the wood itself had been ever so slightly carved away, eroded by every foot fall.

  He walked up onto the porch and reached out to open the torn screen door, its corner ripped from his first time there over six months ago. He opened it and took the cold brass handle in his hand; he began to turn it when a familiar but not recent sound hit his ears , the deep bark o
f a dog.

  He stopped and looked around.

  It had been six months since he had seen, much less heard, a dog or other animal. He pivoted to get a bearing on where the bark came from. The kitchen door he was entering was on the south side of the house, the dirt county road sat opposite it on the north side, all around the house were fields of corn. He calmed his breathing and listened.

  Again the dog barked, but this time it was closer, and it came from the north side of the house. Quickly, he entered the house and closed the door behind him. Hearing the dog struck fear in him, only because he worried the dog might be with someone or even hungry itself. Never in his life had he ever feared a dog, but now he assumed whatever was alive needed to eat, and dogs definitely had the capability to kill.

  He rushed across the house to a large bay window that overlooked the gravel driveway and county road beyond that. He pulled the drapes aside and peered out, but saw nothing. His heart was racing, and sweat began to break out all over.

  “Calm down, Dev. It’s just a dog,” he said to himself.

  He heard the bark again.

  His eyes shifted back and forth, hoping to see something.

  He didn’t want to begin looking for food until he was sure of the location of the dog and whoever it might be with.

  Out of his peripheral vision he saw something move; he focused and saw a dog. It was a large dog, a German shepherd. It jogged easily down the county road, its tongue hanging from its open mouth. Strangely, the dog appeared happy. He didn’t know why that thought came, but he imagined the dog would have a more sinister look.

  He leaned closer to the window, as if that would help him see better.

  A loud whistle stopped the dog.

  Hearing someone whistle shot a cold chill up his spine. He could feel his heartbeat rise, and panic began to set in.

  His eyes darted back and forth in anticipation of seeing the person who generated the whistle.

  The dog stood at the end of the driveway and looked around, then looked behind it, but the dead cornstalks from the field that fronted the road prevented Devin from seeing who the dog was waiting for.

  “Dev, get a hold of yourself. Calm down,” he said as he focused on his breathing.

  He hadn’t seen another person since his long journey to Decatur, and that encounter was violent. He barely made it then and only imagined now that people were probably more vicious. He knew food had to be scarce, so seeing people scavenging shouldn’t be a shock, but after not seeing anyone in six months, he'd begun to believe he might be the only survivor.

  Sweat streamed down his forehead and into his eyes. He hastily wiped it away and slicked his uneven short hair back; the sweat that clung to his hand he wiped on his pants. During his sequestration in the barn, he had kept up hygiene as best he could. Not liking long hair, he kept his thick black hair cut short with a pair of scissors he had discovered. His beard, black like his hair, was mixed with gray. He trimmed it regularly so it wasn’t longer than a quarter inch.

  Devin’s blue eyes focused like a laser beam on the edge of the corn at the end of the driveway, anxiously waiting to see who emerged.

  The dog began to sniff the ground and turned down the driveway towards the house.

  Devin’s painful wait was over when a slender woman appeared in the open. With two hundred feet separating them, Devin couldn’t make out her age or condition. She was dressed in jeans and boots, with a tight-fitting leather jacket. Her long brown hair was pulled through the back of a baseball hat and hung shoulder length. In her grasp was a rifle, from what Devin could tell it looked like an AR-type assault rifle.

  She motioned the dog to head towards the house.

  Devin flinched and ducked so as not to be seen. He now wished he had taken all those months to adequately prepare, but he had allowed his emotions and weak stomach to dictate his actions. He needed a weapon of some type and fast. Ensuring he was not in view, he darted towards the only place he could think of, the kitchen. He grabbed a nine-inch chef’s knife and held it. Looking at the stainless steel edge, he felt a bit more in control of what might be coming his way. An image then entered his mind as he remembered seeing a shotgun above the fireplace mantel in the living room. Why he chose to ignore it initially was a question he’d attempt to answer later. He dashed for the living room and grabbed the shotgun. He examined it, he wasn’t familiar with it, and in fact, he wasn’t familiar with any guns. His whole life had been one where he believed guns didn’t belong. He had been what many termed an antigun person, not for any reason except that politically he was told they were bad. Again, he found himself wishing he could go back in time and change that naïve mindset. He didn’t know how to use the shotgun, and his time had now run out.

  The deck out front creaked under the weight of the woman and dog.

  The dog's long nails clicked as it walked along the wraparound covered deck.

  Just behind the clicking, he heard the woman’s slow footfalls. Taking cover behind a large rocker recliner, he knelt and waited for them to come to him.

  The only sense he had now was hearing, as his field of view was limited. Listening intently, he could tell she was at the front door. He peered from behind the recliner to the front door not fifteen feet away. He saw the brass knob jiggle as she tested to see if it was locked; it was.

  He heard her walk to the large bay window, where he had been earlier. There her footsteps stopped. All he could think was she was looking in.

  A whine from the dog alerted Devin and her that he was at the back door.

  Devin remembered that he hadn’t locked the back door. Conflicting thoughts entered his mind; should he try to lock it or just let her come in? He finally decided that she was coming in, regardless of a locked door.

  He closed his eyes and listened. With each step towards the back, his blood pressure increased. He gripped the shotgun tightly while sweat poured off his brow.

  She had now reached the back door; he could hear her whisper something to the dog.

  An idea flashed in his mind, he knew what he had to do.

  A wall separated him from the kitchen door; he stood and positioned himself against it. She was now only eight feet away. He waited for the sound that would call him to action.

  The doorknob turned, and with a slight nudge it opened. The old alder door groaned as it was pushed fully open.

  This was his cue; he came from behind the wall with the shotgun against his shoulder. However, whoever this woman was, she was ready and took aim on him.

  “Stop right there. This is my house!” he yelled.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m just looking for food. It didn’t look like anyone was home,” the woman pleaded.

  “Well, you were wrong!” Devin exclaimed, his sweaty grip tightening around the stock. His right index finger was on the trigger, ready to pull it back if necessary.

  “Just lower the gun, and I’ll lower mine,” the woman said calmly, her green eyes intensely looking at Devin down the short stock and barrel of her AR-15.

  “You lower yours first,” Devin snapped.

  The dog began to emit a barely audible growl. His teeth now showed as he crouched down.

  Devin looked at the dog and knew that he was outnumbered.

  “Brando, it’s all right. This nice man won’t shoot us,” the woman said, her eyes not breaking away from her hard gaze.

  Brando took a step forward.

  Seeing this, Devin shouted, “Tell your dog to sit or something!”

  “He listens when he wants.”

  Devin didn’t know what to do; his actions were now guided by fear.

  Brando slowly lifted his right front leg and placed it back down. He was inching towards Devin, stalking him like a predator does prey.

  “Leave now!” Devin screamed, his voice muffled from the respirator.

  “We’ll leave, no worries. Just don’t shoot us in the back.”

  A slight feeling of victory ran through Devin after hearing w
hat she said.

  “C’mon, Brando, our host isn’t that hospitable.”

  Brando didn’t listen; he was focused on Devin. His growls had ticked up in volume, and his white fangs were in clear view.

  The woman stepped back till her back hit the screen door.

  “Brando, come, boy,” she commanded.

  Brando wasn’t listening; a stripe of thick black hair that ran along his back was raised now.

  “I’ll shoot your dog, I will!”

  “Whatever you do, don’t point the gun at him. I’ll get him to heel, just give me a moment,” she pleaded.

  Brando’s growl grew in intensity, and he let out a bark.

  Devin jumped and swung the shotgun towards him.

  Brando leapt, his jaw open. He latched onto Devin’s right arm and clamped down.

  Devin screamed in pain and pulled the trigger; however, the trigger didn’t move, it was locked on ‘safe’.

  Brando shook his head violently, his jaw tightening on Devin’s arm.

  The pain was like nothing he had ever felt. He dropped the shotgun and stumbled backwards, tripping over the edge of a thick Persian rug in the living room.

  Brando wasn’t letting go. He dangled from Devin’s arm like an ornament from a Christmas tree.

  Backwards and down both went.

  Devin was still screaming in pain, but all was silenced when his head hit the coffee table. With the force of the blow, his vision blurred, then went dark.

  FEMA Camp 13, Region VIII, Fifty Miles East of Denver International Airport

  The loudspeakers blared out the morning wake up and shattered what little sleep Lori Roberts had gotten. After a night of tossing and turning, she had finally passed out from exhaustion only an hour ago.

  The others who shared the large GP tent with Lori, her husband, David, and their son, Eric, were rustling and preparing for the day ahead, a day that Lori knew would be exactly like the one before and the one before that.

  Tomorrow would mark their fourth month in Camp 13, but celebrations wouldn’t be in order. What had turned into a symbol of hope and survival from The Death now represented despair.