Origins of the Outbreak Read online

  “That’s it? He didn’t say anything else?”

  “Well, he said that we shouldn’t open the door.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Geez, that’s helpful. Why on earth does he think we’d open the door?” she asked.

  “I don’t know… Maybe he just wants to make sure that we don’t,” Tristan offered.

  Headlights angled across the dining room wall as his father’s patrol car pulled into Julie’s driveway. “I think he’s here.” The pounding on the door stopped in response to the car’s arrival.

  Tristan started to open the door and Julie slapped his hand. “Are you crazy? Your dad said don’t open the door.”

  He grinned sheepishly, “Yeah you’re right.”

  She grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the dining room window. The police car was up on the lawn, which would allow Tristan’s car to back out of the driveway. His dad stood beside the car with is gun drawn. “Holy shit,” Julie muttered. “He means business.”

  They both dove to the floor as his father began firing his weapon towards the two women who advanced towards him. The firing stopped after he’d emptied his magazine and Tristan peeked up over the windowsill just in time to see his father bowled over by the two girls.

  Tristan watched in horror as the blonde’s clawed fingers ripped his father’s throat open and a fountain of blood sprayed from the gaping wound. She bent down and began to tear away at the soft flesh with her teeth. “Oh my God…”

  “Tristan, what is it?” Julie asked and peeked up. “Holy shit. Oh my God, oh fuck. Tristan, what’s happening?”

  “I… They just killed my dad, that’s what the fuck is happening – shit, get down!”

  The two women stood and peered around their surroundings. Nothing caught their attention so they wandered off together down the street.

  Tristan risked another look out the window and saw the women staggering away. Then his gaze fell to his father’s body. The last memory he would have of the man would be his quivering feet as the nerves in his body continued to fire. Deep inside, Tristan’s resolve hardened and he gripped Julie’s wrist. “Come on. My dad told me to get Mom and Gertie and leave town. This is gonna get worse, we gotta get out of here.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Look at him; he’s dead. We’ve got to go.”

  Her eyes searched his and she pulled him close into an embrace. “I trust you,” Julie said into his shoulder. “Where are we gonna go?”

  He pulled her to her feet and ran to her room. “We’re going north, maybe Dallas. We need to pack some clothes and get out of here before they quarantine the town and we get stuck here.”

  Julie began throwing clothes into a suitcase while Tristan called his mother. He was the man of the house now and there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would let what had just happened to his father happen to anyone else in his family.

  The Delivery Guy, 9:41 p.m.

  The little Datsun hatchback sped along the highway access road at nearly 60 miles per hour. It was twenty miles over the speed limit, but with the illuminated “Presto Pizza!” sign on the top of his car, Gregg knew that the cops wouldn’t stop him. His boss was a slimy son-of-a-bitch and he’d somehow greased the skids with the police in the little town so they wouldn’t stop the delivery drivers.

  The pizza shop had a thirty-minute guarantee on the delivery of the order as long as it was within the city limits. That guarantee also ensured that Gregg and his fellow drivers got good tips because everyone enjoyed the speedy service. He was working part time after school while he paid his way through the University of Mary Magdalene in Belton and every little bit – like an extra couple of bills in the tip – helped.

  He’d worked at Presto Pizza for all four years and was looking forward to graduating in the spring. His degree was in English and once this semester was over he’d have to reduce his hours as a deliveryman so he could devote some serious time to finding a job. He planned on becoming a teacher, but in the State of Texas they required potential teachers to take a total of 300 hours of courses and training, plus take the Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills exam, so he needed a decent-paying job after graduation to help pay the bills until he could get his certification and get hired on at a school somewhere.

  He depressed the clutch and shifted into neutral and his car glided to a halt at a stop sign. He was delivering an extra-large meat-eaters pizza with extra sides of ranch dressing and a two-liter of soda to one of the pizza shop's regular customers. Rick, the guy he was delivering the pizza to, was a big video game player and he’d order pizza and soda all weekend long while he played his video games against strangers online. Gregg had asked him one time how he could spend so much time online and the guy said something about losing himself in the alternate reality of the gaming world. Whatever the hell that meant, he thought.

  Rick’s house was about four blocks from the university and Gregg had been there about a hundred times over the years, so he knew exactly where he was headed, which was nice. Even though the town was small, there were still places that he didn’t know and sometimes he ran right up next to that thirty-minute guarantee deadline. He swore that people kept a damned stopwatch next to their phones and would call the second that time expired.

  The little hatchback protested his efforts to put it back in gear, but he was finally able to shift it into first and ease his foot off the clutch. The quiet night was shattered as his hooptie took too much gas and emitted an ear-shattering backfire.

  “Dammit,” he muttered as he heard the neighborhood dogs barking and howling at him. His buddy had told him months ago that the old Datsun probably had a bad fuel filter, but when he was scraping by on minimum wage and tips, Gregg couldn’t justify the expense of getting it replaced.

  The B-210 limped the next couple of blocks from the stop sign where it had backfired and Gregg came up behind a police officer walking strangely down the side of the road. He stumbled and then righted himself, continuing to weave drunkenly towards his destination. Gregg made the determination that the cop must have been in an accident or hit by a car because he was dragging his leg like it was broken. Wonder what in the hell happened?

  He checked the delivery timer. It only had three more minutes to go and he was still a block away from Rick’s house, but surely his boss would forgive him for trying to be a good Samaritan. Besides, there was a law or something about helping out a cop, wasn’t there? Gregg crept up slowly behind the officer and as he got closer, the man’s shadow shrank towards him.

  “Aww, what the hell?” the delivery guy said as he got to within a couple of feet from the cop without any reaction. What’s wrong with this guy, is he blind?

  He pressed his foot on the clutch and popped it out of second, then pulled the E-brake handle in between the seats to keep the car from rolling away and stepped out of the car. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

  The police officer stopped and cocked his head like he was listening for something. “Hey man, you need me to call another officer for you? You look terrible!”

  The man whirled around and bared his bloody teeth at Gregg. It looked eerie as fuck in the Datsun’s shitty headlights. “Hey, what gives? Are you okay?” he asked, frightened.

  Some sort of strange hiss came from his throat and he staggered towards Gregg, his arms reaching out like some damned zombie from a movie. “Fuck this, I’m outta here!” he said and hopped in his car. He put his foot on the brake and disengaged the emergency brake.

  Then the sick fuck jumped through his driver’s side window. “Hey, get off me! What are you? Stop! No, please, oh gungh….”

  During the struggle Gregg’s foot came off the brake pedal and the car began to roll down the gentle slope of the road. When he died, the security guard stopped tearing at his throat and fell out of the window onto the curb. It picked itself up and stumbled away into the night.

  The little Datsun rolled slowly until it hit a car parked along the street. This close to the campus, it was another
older car and didn’t have a security alarm so no one noticed the Presto Pizza delivery vehicle sitting outside or the driver waiting patiently for someone to let him out of the car.

  The Gamer, 10:40 p.m.

  Rick’s stomach rumbled its outrage that he’d been kept waiting so long for his order. He’d already called the pizza shop twice and both times they assured him that his extra-large meat-eaters would be free of charge once the delivery guy finally showed up. He was at the point now that he didn’t give a damn about the order that was traveling around the town somewhere, he needed his food now.

  “Hold on, Freddy,” he said into his gaming headset. “I’ve gotta disconnect again and try to find out what happened to my fucking food.”

  “Alright, man. I’ll go to town and sell some shit while I wait but hurry up, man, I wanna get this dungeon done before the raid,” the voice on the other end replied.

  “Sorry,” Rick muttered as he put his character into a protective cocoon of invisibility. The spell would keep him safe from any harm while he was logged off and not playing the game. Before he purchased the spell it was almost guaranteed that every time he logged out and wasn’t actively playing the game that someone would come along and rob him or kill his character, usually both. Hours and hours of killing minor forest gnomes had finally given him enough coin to buy the enchantment from the Witch of Westerland Swamp.

  He heaved his bulk away from the computer with disgust. He did not need this type of distraction from the mission. He and Freddy437 were on a quest to fight the Aberration of Mists, thereby freeing Princess Canterra and maybe get some cybersexout of the deal. He knew that there’d likely be a fight between themselves to determine who’d get to bed her, but that was in the future – a future that would have to wait until he could get the pizza place to send out a new goddamned pizza. He was too famished to continue his journey.

  Rick picked up his phone and hit the speed dial for Presto Pizza and waited the three rings that seemed to be the standard for the little shop. “Presto Pizza, would you like to try a three-cheese medium pizza and an order of cinnalogs for only $8.99?”

  “No, thank you. This is Rick Barret, again. Let me talk to the manager.”

  “Of course, Mr. Barret. Here she is,” the teenager on the opposite end of the line stated.

  “Hi, Mr. Barret. Has the driver shown up yet?”

  “No, he’s not here. I need you to remake my order. I can’t go into battle on an empty stomach.”

  “Ex… Excuse me, sir?” the manager stammered.

  He laughed at his slip-up. Silly non-gamers would never understand that a warrior needed calories to sustain themselves during a protracted fight against the forces of evil. “It’s a video game joke,” Rick replied. “Look, can you just send a new pizza and bottle of soda over here?”

  “Of course, Mr. Barret. I’ve given him more than enough time to make it to your house. We’ll remake your order and send it out immediately.”

  “Thanks, it’s ab—” The soft scrape of metal against metal cut him off. He carried his cell phone with him to the window and pulled aside the blackout curtains to peek outside.

  “Goddammit! Are you fucking kidding me?” he shouted out the window.

  “Excuse me? I don’t appreciate being talked to that way,” the Presto Pizza manager-on-duty replied.

  “Sorry, not you,” he quickly amended. “Your delivery driver just drove into the back of my car!”

  “Oh no! I’m sorry, Mr. Barret. Um…,” she trailed off, obviously trying to think of what to say.

  “Is this guy drunk or something?” he muttered as he continued to watch the driver through his window. “I can see him flopping around inside his car.”

  “He was fine when he left here an hour ago,” the woman replied.

  “Well he’s not now. I’m starving, so I’m gonna get my pizza from him and call the cops. I hope your insurance is up to date.”

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Barret. The driver's insurance is responsible, not Presto Pizza. All of our drivers are required to have private insurance.”

  “Whatever. I’ll see what the cops say,” he retorted.

  “Alright, your pizza is on-site. Please inform Gregg that Mindy told you that it’s free. Is there anything else?”

  “No…,” he mumbled.

  “Thank you for calling Presto Pizza. Have a nice night,” she said and hung up the phone.

  “Like I had a fucking choice,” he yelled at his disconnected phone. Presto Pizza was the only pizza place in town besides the one in the university’s student union and they didn't deliver.

  Rick looked back outside where the fucking delivery guy was still sitting in the car. “Shit,” he said as he let the curtains drop and walked to the front door. He crammed his feet into the flip flops that sat beside the door and walked outside, resigned to an argument.

  It was times like this when he wished he really was a level thirty-seven barbarian. The sight of the accident would have sent him into a berserker rage and he’d have picked up that damn hatchback and threw it across the street.

  But he wasn’t a video game warrior. He stocked shelves at the H-E-B and avoided fights at every opportunity. This was one of those times when he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut and let the offense slide. His flip flops made a twap-twap-twap sound as he walked slowly down the driveway towards the drunken idiot who’d hit his car.

  God, the guy can’t even figure out how to open his car door he's so high! Rick stopped halfway to the car, the glowing Presto Pizza! light on top of the car didn’t do anything to light up the interior so he could see what the driver was doing. Shit, what if he’s a drugged out maniac?

  That sobering thought made him question his decision to come outside, but he’d seen this guy fifty times before. He wasn’t a druggie, probably just drunk. He pulled his phone from his shorts and started to dial the police.

  “Ughnnn….”

  “What? Oh shit, man. You scared me!” he called to the driver. What am I doing? he asked himself and slid the phone back in his pocket. I’ll check in with this guy first. Maybe he doesn’t want it going on his record and will pay me cash.

  That sealed it in Rick’s mind. He plodded the rest of the way down the driveway to the Datsun’s drivers-side door. “Hey man, you alright?” he asked out of habit.

  “Ughnnn…,” the driver said.

  “Hey, I can’t really see you, wanna come outside and talk about why you hit my car?”

  “Ughnnn.”

  He reached out and grasped the handle. “Hey, um… Gregg, that’s your name, right? Mindy said my pizza was free.” He pulled up on the fake chrome handle and the door flew outward as the driver pushed hard against it.

  Rick fell back onto his ass and shouted, “What the fuck, man? What are you on?”

  The delivery guy tumbled out of the car and landed on his ankle.

  “Ow! That hurt,” he shouted and tried to back up, but the fucker had hold of his leg. “Hey, what gives?”

  Rick screamed like a pre-pubescent girl at a Justin Bieber concert when Gregg bit into the fleshy skin below his calf.

  “Oh my God! I… Help!” he screamed. Rick tried to scramble backwards and kick at the same time; the result was that he fell once more. The driver lunged on top of him and bit into the fatty tissue of his chest.

  Rick wailed and involuntarily tried to clutch his chest as his heart hammered wildly. Years of sitting and pretending to be whatever character he controlled hit him at once as his heart stopped. He didn’t feel it when Gregg bit into his neck; his body had already shut down on him.

  Gregg pulled the skin away and then promptly dropped it. He had no interest in dead flesh so he pushed himself up off the body and staggered away into the night to find another victim.

  The Exotic Dancer, 1:39 a.m.

  Trisha was worried. Normally,Trent checked his text messages at least once an hour when he went out to smoke, but he hadn’t replied back to any of her messag
es, including the one where she said that she’d be willing to have a threesome with Kelly. She didn’t want to seem neurotic or something so she consciously made an effort to stop texting him after thirty-seven unanswered messages. A girl’s gotta know her limits.

  After their fight over Trent wanting to hook up with three or four of her fellow dancers from the Amorous Armadillo – including that skank Brandi – Trisha had to get out of the apartment for a little while. He always got lippy when he combined weed and tequila, but he wouldn’t stop talking about wanting to have a big orgy with the girls from the club. When he started describing the exact details of what he wanted to do, that had been too much for her and she barricaded herself in the bathroom until this morning when she left to clear her head.

  Thinking back on the fight though, maybe she had been wrong. He didn’t want to cheat on her; he just wanted to share a new experience with her, which was really sweet. As she went through her shift tonight, she decided that it really was silly not to go for it while she was still young. She did all sorts of things with the girls up on stage and back in the Champagne Room for paying customers, why not offer just a little more to her man?

  Over the course of the evening, her belief that it was wrong evolved into excitement with sharing Trent with a couple of the girls. He was an amazing lover, why not spread the joy? Besides, the girls would be so jealous of her because she got to have Trent all the time and they would only get it if she decided to let them.

  Her texts to Trent had started out with an apology and a simple concession to hook up with Kelly, but became more and more explicit. She thought that would break him out of his funk, but he hadn’t replied to her yet so she decided to leave early. The ‘Dillowas still packed when she walked out at 1 a.m. It sucked because it was payday weekend and several of the guys were plastered. She could have gotten some good money out of them, but the feeling that something was wrong with her lover forced her to leave. Her mama used to call it “a woman’s intuition” before she died.