The Liger Plague (Book 1) (19 page)

“What kind of nonsense are you going on about, wanting to hurt themselves? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“One minute they’re fine, the next they want to bite off their own fingers or gouge their eyeballs out with a spoon. It’s unlike any other condition.”

“Get outta here with that, Colonel! Now I know you’re full of crap.”

“Wish I were, Versa, but it’s a very real and rare condition. Apart from appearing crippled, the people suffering from it seem normal most of the time. Then, without warning, they’ll lash out at either themselves or others for no apparent reason, almost like they can’t control their hands.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Sounds like the devil got into them. I can’t even imagine trying to gouge my own eyeballs out with a spoon. What a bunch of freaks.”

“Except they can’t control themselves,” he said, staring vacantly out the window. “We’re going to see some ugly things out there; I can already feel it.”

“Hell, Colonel, if you seen the guy I was married to for twenty-three years, then nothing would scare you no more.”

Tag burst out laughing. The woman had a morbid sense of humor that he found endearing in a strange sort of way. Versa had a hard shell, but he had no doubt that she’d be mortified once she got out there, as would he. Combine brain impairment with the hideous effects of smallpox, and the liger virus had the potential to be one of the most horrific infectious diseases to ever strike mankind. Not just a killer, but a virus that would forever alter mankind’s perception of himself and the moral code that rose out of the Christian-Judeo civilization.

The hands of the clock seemed like immovable objects. With fifteen minutes to go, he filled two backpacks with magazines for the Saiga, hand grenades, hollow-point bullets for the Magnum and some protein bars. He put the cell phone in his pocket just in case someone tried to get hold of him. He had no idea how long it would take to find his family, but he knew he wouldn’t rest until he did.

Mercifully, the clock struck noon. Tag double-checked his watch to make sure they didn’t leave prematurely and jeopardize his family’s lives. He helped Versa put on her backpack, and then he put his on as well. As hard as he tried to get her to wear the AVAB mask, she refused to put it on. It was her choice, and he couldn’t force her to wear it. Once they had everything they needed, the two of them left the house and headed down the street. He had no idea where they were going or what house they would start looking through, but he swore that he’d search every last one of them until he found his family.

The air outside felt warm and muggy. The sun had burned off the morning haze and now beat down over the island. Out in the bay a Coast Guard cutter cruised through the choppy waters. He didn’t see any other recreational or fishing boats and figured that the Coast Guard must have set up an airtight perimeter around the island to keep all vessels from entering or exiting. Typically around this time of year there’d be hundreds of sailboats, jet skis, powerboats and lobster boats cruising around the harbor.

They trudged side by side down the long, winding road that fed down to the beach. On either side of them, along the shoulder of the road, stood the thick trees and shrubs that dotted most of the island, especially the birch trees with their bark peeling like paint. He and the kids had always used that bark to start campfires, as it lit easily. Most of the other homes on the street appeared further down the hill. They reached the bottom, and once there, he stopped, wondering what direction to go next. It felt eerily quiet, and this worried him. He pointed toward Atlantic View Road and told Versa that they should walk toward the beach and then turn left and up the first street on the grid. That way they could start at the southern tip of the island and work their way to the northern sector, covering as much ground as possible.

The pack was heavy on his shoulders, a reminder that he was still recovering from his bout with the pox. Sweat streaked down his scalp and trickled into his eyes. Versa looked to be moving rather effortlessly, not in the least affected by the rising heat or humidity. He steeled himself to the pain and suffering he’d no doubt experience. Not until he found his family would he relax. He’d served in times of war and in the hottest of climates, and wasn’t about to let a mild Maine summer bring him to his knees, especially with his family on the line.

They took a left on Cherry Street and trudged up the hill. In all his years living here, Tag had never been on this particular street. It looked like any other street in America. Modest bungalows sat on either side of the road, yet eerily enough, not a single person could be seen from street level. He took out his Magnum and started up the granite stairs of the first home on the street, situated high up on a hill.

He looked down from the home’s porch and saw Versa on the sidewalk, waving up to him. He twisted the handle and pushed the door open, carefully making his way inside the dark house. Versa climbed the stairs and tiptoed behind him, whispering something he couldn’t quite understand. He put his finger to his lips and continued moving through the living room, struggling to see. One thing seemed immediately certain: this house would never be featured in
Homes & Gardens
magazine. The powerful stench struck him first, nearly causing him to vomit into his mask.

The odor of smallpox was something he’d heard about many times in his profession but had yet to experience. Nor did he care to experience it as it signified the horrible progression of the disease. He inhaled through his nose, hoping the vaccination would protect him. The smell inside the house had an unwholesome, sugary quality to it that caused his nostrils to flare. It was a cross between overripe bananas and old trash. He tried not to think about it as he made his way through the disgustingly cluttered kitchen. Trash, dishes and silverware lay all over the place. Were there people on Cooke’s Island who actually lived like this?

He found the dark stairwell and started up. Versa had her hand on the small of his back and followed behind him. Piles of clothes and cardboard boxes lined the stairs, and he had to be careful not to trip over them. As he moved higher, he heard grunting noises emanating from one of the rooms above. For a brief moment he held out hope that he’d found Monica and Taylor, although he tempered his optimism with the reality of the situation. The odds of finding them so soon seemed long, but he tried to remain positive.

The human voices got louder once they reached the top. He could barely see anything now because of the dark. Pointing his Magnum in front of him, he tried to adjust his eyes, cursing himself for not taking the night goggles with him. Versa tugged his shirt from behind and whispered something that he couldn’t quite make out. He turned to face her but saw only pitch blackness. The smell of her strong perfume punched him in the nose.

“It’s coming from the end of the hall. I been in plenty of these old island homes and know my way around,” Versa whispered.

“No offense, Versa, but you don’t seem like the neighborly type, coming over for tea and crumpets.”

“I was a nurse on Cooke’s when I was younger. Used to do home visits for all the islanders who couldn’t get over to the mainland.”

“Come on, Nurse Ratchet let’s see where this noise is coming from.”

They walked down the dark, cluttered hallway, running their hands along the peeling wallpaper for guidance. It almost seemed to him as if the inhabitants of this house had thrown their possessions around the rooms in all directions. The noises got louder the closer they got to the bedroom. He felt his stomach turn as he listened to what sounded like intense grunting and moaning. His hand moved around in the dark until he found the brass door handle. To his horror the handle was covered in a sticky fluid that he guessed was blood or pus, and the unctuous sensation nearly made him sick. Versa moved in front of the door and waited for it to open. Attached to his backpack, he’d inserted a small flashlight into one of the belt loops. He removed the flashlight and placed it in his free hand, and held the Magnum ready to fire.

“You ready?” he whispered.

“Quit stalling, and open the damn door,” she replied.

Someone in the room screeched loudly.

“One…two…three.”

Tag turned the sticky handle and rushed in, aiming the beam of light into the center of the room. What he saw horrified him. A family of four lay sprawled over the bed. Two young kids and two adults writhed over a bare mattress slicked with blood. He couldn’t tell their genders because their bodies were covered in sores from head to toe. They gazed up at him like hungry wolves, their eyes cloudy and distant. In a matter of seconds the four of them rose up from the bed. They raised their arms and wailed, slowly moving forward, most of their fingers having been chewed off at the knuckles. One of the young children, maybe eight or nine years old with greasy long hair, had a chewed finger protruding from its blistered lips. One of the adults had bloody sockets where its eyes had once been. Another had half an ear. The cloying, sick stench of pox was so strong that he puked into his mask. He quickly tossed it away as the four family members continued to stagger toward him. Versa raised her rifle, but he reached over and pushed the barrel away. A round fired off into the ceiling, the shot ringing in his ears. He shoved Versa back into the hallway, slammed the door shut behind him, and held her by the collar. Taking a deep breath, he tried to control his emotions.

“What the hell are you doing?” he barked.

“Them poxers don’t deserve to live like savages. Best to put them out of their misery while we can.”

“We can’t go around killing innocent people,” Tag said, feeling like he might become sick again. “Besides, you keep shooting that gun off and you’ll alert every diseased person within earshot.”

“Don’t you of all people start lecturing me.”

“We should use our weapons only in the case of an emergency.”

“Look, Colonel, you mainlanders brought this crud over to my island. I’m not gonna stand here like a patsy and die at the hands of these poxers just because you’re too chickenshit to kill them.”

“I’m not going to let either one of us die,” he said, hearing the groans behind the door getting louder and more desperate. “Wait until I give the word before you shoot.”

“So now you’re the boss?”

Tag held onto the sticky wet handle, pulling with all his might, realizing that he had no way of preventing this family from breaking out of the room. The handle turned, and the door started to open. He struggled to keep it shut, using his entire body as an anchor, but the handle was too slippery to hold for long. A man’s voice from behind the door cried out for help. The sound of the man’s slurred speech startled him. He’d taken them for wild animals, but obviously they could still reason and communicate.

“Please help us out. Don’t leave.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I have no medicine or supplies. Your best bet is to go back inside and wait until this virus burns out.”

“My wife and children are dying!” the man cried.

“I can’t. I’m very sorry,” Tag said as the door handle slipped out of his grip.

“Let’s get out of here, Versa. I can’t hold onto this door handle any longer.”

He felt terrible about leaving this family behind, but he also knew that there was nothing he could do for them. There was no cure for this virus except for it to run its natural course. It simply had to crash and burn, and a victim could only hope that they made it out the other side. He aimed the flashlight’s beam down the hallway and saw that Versa had tripped and fallen on the filthy red carpet. Placing his hands under her armpits to help her up, he turned and saw the disfigured man stumbling into the hallway. Tag knew that this was a classic symptom of the Lesch-Nyhan syndrome. Combined with the hideous scarring of smallpox, the visual effect was horrifying to behold in this dark hallway.

Versa slipped on something as she tried to get up. The disfigured man was stumbling closer. Tag wasn’t sure if the man would help or hurt them, but he wasn’t about to wait to find out. He warned the man to stay back, pointing both his Magnum and the flashlight at his head. Once the light hit the man’s eyes, he grunted and raised his blister-filled forearms to shield himself. The revelation startled Tag. The bright sunlight hurt their eyes, which had become light-sensitive as a result of the pox.

He kept the light trained on the man’s eyes while Versa lifted herself off the carpet. Once she’d gotten to her feet, they started down the stairs, struggling to negotiate each step. Walking backwards, Tag kept the light trained on the man’s face. Once Versa had made it safely to the bottom flight, he turned and started to step down, but tripped and went hurtling down the stairwell. His feet whipped over his head as he released his body and let it go limp. Somehow he managed to maintain his grip on both the Magnum and the flashlight, which had now become a secondary means of defense. He crashed at the foot of the stairs, staring up into the dark stairwell. Everything was spinning, and his body pulsed with pain. He could hear the disfigured man hobbling down the stairs after him. Panicked, Tag pointed the flashlight up into the stairwell.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” Versa grumped.

His legs now felt like rubber, and his head throbbed in excruciating pain from the fall. The infected man towered over him, grunting and moaning, pus dripping from the scars rippling over his body. It dripped onto Tag’s hand as he reached out to pull himself up. The man leaned over, and Tag felt his hands grasping either side of his ankles and tugging. The hands anchoring his armpits slipped out from under him, and for a second he feared that Versa might leave without him. Pointing the flashlight in front of him, he watched the man open his mouth and prepare to sink his teeth into his foot. The entire surface of his tongue, gums, and throat were covered in blistering red pustules. The man lowered his head to take a bite when his head exploded. The blast startled Tag and momentarily caused him to lose his bearings, but the strong smell of gunpowder temporarily replaced the sickly smell of the pox.