Outbreak Read online

  Outbreak

  A. P. Schofield

  This work is fiction. Any relevance to characters living or dead, names, incidents, and organizations are coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 A. P. Schofield

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover By Blazing Covers

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Outbreak

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Outbreak

  It had been developed as a vaccine with intent of immunity from all strands of influenza. Extensive testing in the lab found that Sbedsraks, as it was later named, would not only work against the flu, but increased an individual’s stamina and energy, as well as gave them more radiant skin. The vaccination created new cells within the body—refurbishing it back to a more youthful and healthy status from what scientists later revealed.

  Julie Velterra had doubts about it and told others to stay away from vaccines, ones in particular that had been marketed in the way Sbedsraks was. Now the city she’d had sworn to protect, maybe most of the country by now, was an infected and decomposing wasteland.

  Within the first year it was out, cases of people being hospitalized for skin problems became common. Samples were taken and the lab results came back as decomposition; the body was unable to rid itself of the dead cells fast enough that were accumulating on top of the newer ones created by this vaccine.

  Those who developed it began looking for another vaccination to counter-act the decomposition brought on by Sbedsraks, though no positive results came to be. While it created new cells, the old decaying ones remained and in no greater than eight months, they overtook what had been created before breaking them down. The person would still be alive, even as they decomposed from the outside-in, until they were a mindless bag of rotting flesh and bones. While some would shuffle, others ran toward the living as they tried to spread the disease through direct contact such as biting.

  Julie had to find refuge somewhere. Anywhere until everyone who was infected had rotted away at least. She had survived this long and had no plans of becoming one of those things.

  Armed with both her duty and personal Generation Four Glock 19, Julie was ready for the inevitable. It was different shooting . . . What would I call them? she thought. They’re not living people anymore but they aren’t dead, neither. Just infected.

  She had killed about twelve of them so far in-order to stay alive while conserving her ammunition by shooting them in the head. With a total of six magazines, she had to stay a step ahead of the things while they came after her and not run dry. Along with those, she had four and a half boxes of nine-millimeter FMJs in the backpack she brought along.

  Being the middle of summer, and not wanting to fry in the near one hundred and ten degree heat, Julie had dressed in a simple pair of shorts, a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of nylon combat boots to protect her feet.

  She was now looking for a vehicle to escape the city and survive the outbreak with. Her car, a red 1996 Miata Hardtop, had been t-boned by a bus out front of her apartment. I just paid that off a few months ago. Damn, she grumbled, not all that worried about it though. She found an abandoned two-tone red and grey 1990 F-350 crew cab—with a lift kit, 38” tires and keys in the ignition!

  After she started the truck, out of curiosity, Julie checked the glove compartment. “My lucky day,” she said to herself while retrieving her find: A 6-inch barrel Smith & Wesson 686 .357 Magnum. All six slots were loaded with hollow points and there even was a box with nineteen auxiliary rounds.

  Pulling the gear selector into D, Julie sped off down the road, avoiding the “things” which staggered through the streets. Most other people would just run them down for the enjoyment but she didn’t want blood all over the windshield. Just because I can, doesn’t mean I should, she thought to herself while about to dodge a former officer—Drake Cole was his name. He and Julie had gone through training together; she surpassed him on just about everything, the range qualification in particular.

  “Sorry,” she said as she stopped near him and rolled down her window the rest of the way. Julie squeezed the nine-millimeter’s trigger and sent a full metal jacket through Cole’s right eye; he fell to the ground and twitched as she drove off.

  *

  Clodoveo Ortiz had been asked by a buddy of his while at the bar one night if he wanted to earn some extra cash and get to use his military training once again. After having left the army just six months ago, he wanted some action; now he wished he had thought a bit longer before he agreed to the job.

  Himself, along with thirty-nine others—five superior officers and thirty-five mercenaries—had been flown in by two Chinook Helicopters and dropped off in the city’s core. Each superior had seven under his command during this “job”; he had a retired US Army Colonel named Nester MicDerman as his and the other six men under MicDerman’s command all had greater training than Clodoveo. He had been in the infantry but spent more time cleaning his issued M4 than anything—three of the others were Navy SEALs.

  When the Chinooks began to hover, all forty men slid down ropes onto a rooftop. They had been briefed and given their orders prior to dust-off:

  1). Assist local law enforcement in effort to best neutralize the threat

  2). Rescue and evacuate civilians to one of six rendezvous points

  Armed with the HK416 fitted with an ACOG and VP9 provided to all of them, Clodoveo, the other mercenaries and superiors made their way to street level. Once out in front of the building, his superior acknowledged them to advance towards the blockade a few streets ahead.

  “Keep your eyes open and shoot anything that isn’t a civilian or officer,” commanded MicDerman as he led them along. “Ortiz! O’Maley! Cover the port—clear it when necessary!”

  “Aye, sir!” they replied in tandem. Clodoveo and O’Maley, one of the former SEALs, did as commanded.

  “Clear!” O’Maley reported to the superior as they advanced up the sidewalk into the crosswalk.

  Reaching the next alley and taking aim with his scope, Clodoveo could see what he thought was someone with his or her head down, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and stumbling in need of assistance. “Civilian!” he reported.

  “Cover me,” O’Maley growled, cautiously advancing towards the individual, 416 kept tight into his chest to control muzzle climb. “Show me your hands!” he shouted. “Hands!”

  The person did nothing but keep moping forward, a raspy noise escaping them.

  “Hands!” O’Maley shouted before the person lurched at him. He aimed down and fired a round into the person’s upper thigh, grazing them.

  The person fell back but caught him or herself and continued forward while O’Maley stepped back. He fired another round but into the person’s other leg, again a flesh wound.

  “Fuck this noise,” Clodoveo heard the SEAL mutter before firing six rounds into their chest.

  “Shit, man,” exclaimed Clodoveo. “Ears are fucking ringing.”

  Turning around, he stated, “Warned ’em. Didn’t listen,” as the others, led by MicDerman, came running due to the report of O’Maley’s 416. “Then they came at me; crazed or something. Collateral damage.”

  Their superior groaned. “At least do it right!” He pointed, keeping the barrel of his 416 down to avoid sweeping them. r />
  Flipping around, Clodoveo and O’Maley were shocked to see, now that the hood had fallen back, it was a woman. Now taking a closer look, they both noticed something very wrong with her: most of the woman’s skin around her mouth was gone, revealing the gums and teeth quite extensive.

  “That’s the threat?” a few of the others gasped.

  Reacting, Clodoveo brought his 416 up to eye level and tripled-tapped into the “woman’s” chest.

  She kept walking towards them.

  Quickly glancing at O’Maley, he asked, “Head?”

  “Head!” O’Maley answered, raising his carbine.

  Both of them opened fire and put five or six rounds total into the thing—it wasn’t a woman anymore.

  “What the hell is that?” Clodoveo thought aloud, stepping a little closer to examine the body.

  “That’s what Sbedsraks does to a human being: Dead cells eat away at newly produced ones created by the vaccination, killing the person slowly . . . painfully . . . from the outside-in,” MicDerman replied. “Soon they look like that and try to worsen the outbreak by biting people. Least it’s not air born or we’d all be fucked.”

  Aim for the head, huh? Clodoveo thought. Makes sense; the body is not the body without the mind—nor is it the mind without the body. Without the mind, nothing functions.

  *

  She thought she heard reports of automatic rifles in the distance. Maybe it’s who they sent in on those Chinooks that flew overhead, Julie thought to herself.

  Getting out of town was more difficult than she had planned. A majority of the roads leading out were block with abandoned vehicles or barricades made by her fellow officers to contain the situation. The thought about just ramming through them came to mind but concluded she might break essential parts in the process, sending her back on foot—Julie didn’t want that. Even with the truck’s lift kit she could not drive over the full-size squad cars without the possible chance of breaking something essential.

  Cruising through downtown, Julie slammed on the brakes when a squad of soldiers, two of which were being carried, and a small group of men and women burst out of an alleyway. Good brakes on this thing, she thought while putting the truck into Park. Exiting it, she came face-to-face with the barrel of—“An H.K. Four-sixteen?” Julie was surprised to see one of those since they weren’t the most common of choice in the states due to their price.

  “Uninfected civilian!” the Hispanic Man shouted. “Clear!” Lowering his carbine, he asked, “We need to get the civilians and our wounded evacuated, could you give us a lift to Town Hall?” He went around the back and opened the truck’s tailgate.

  Julie nodded, following him. “Fine. What’s your name—and are police on the list to be evacuated?” She hoped so. The city was gone and there was no use in protecting it anymore.

  “Get us there,” he began, climbing into the bed to help the others. “And you got yourself a ride. Clodoveo Ortiz .”

  Before anything else happened, she asked, “Who are you with anyway?”

  Assisting MicDerman with pulling O’Maley up and in to the bed, Clodoveo replied, “Not from anywhere in particular—just mercenaries.”

  For the next six minutes, she helped the mercenaries and other civilians load up. The body dropped a far amount from the added weight of fourteen more people—half of which were in heavy military gear. The one-ton truck must have had after market suspension or something for it to handle the capacity. It was going to be tight, but they’d make it.

  Deciding to put it into four-wheel drive for additional pulling power, Julie dropped the transmission into drive and sped away towards Town Hall.

  *

  Thinking about what had happened in the alley, Clodoveo hoped O’Maley and the other merc, Jones was his name, would be fine.

  After finding a group of seven civilians while advancing to their destination, a horde of infected swarmed them. They neutralized most of them the one proven way. O’Maley had been reloading when a few burst out from a boarded up doorway and trampled him; two of the infected had bitten him before MicDerman killed them and retrieved the SEAL.

  And while that had been happening, Jones, a former Army Ranger, stumbled over something and fell to the ground. Before he was able to get on his feet, one of the things that had been in front of him dropped down and began chewing through his right boot’s toe. Kicking it off, he was glad the thick rubber had saved it; however, Jones had sprained his ankle, leaving him unable to walk efficiently.

  Now Clodoveo, the other six mercs, seven civilians and one cop, were on their way to the town hall. But while he just sat and leaned back against the wall of the truck-bed, a couple others were shooting at the infected who tried to grab on.

  “Hell yeah!” England, a Marine veteran, hollered after hitting two in the head with a single round. “Now that’s how you shoot! Wooo!”

  He didn’t care; they were already dead. Clodoveo just hoped he’d survive this ordeal—“dead” things walking around with a craving to spread the infection. What the hell has this world come to? He laughed to himself.

  “Ortiz!” called England. “Whatcha gonna do with the money you’re getting paid?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know just yet; money’s the least of my worries at this point. Why, what are you planning on?” Clodoveo fell a bit forward when the truck swerved to avoid a large group of infected. “Woman driver,” he huffed in a sarcastic tone; one of the female survivors glared at him. “I’m joking—lightening the mood; keep your shirt on.”

  Pax broke his silence. “Drives like that I can see why she’s police: woman’s got some skill behind the wheel.”

  “We all do,” another woman spoke up. “Women can do things men can’t.”

  Scratching his neck, Clodoveo asked again to change the subject and avoid arguing, “So what are you planning to buy?”

  Laughing for a second, England stated, “That new scope from Panther Optical is due out in a few months; thinking ’bout getting one o’ them and a new AR.”

  Pax looked at England a little odd. “That’s it? Shit, you could buy more than three custom-made AR-15s and still have cash left over with what we’re getting paid.”

  “Just because I’ll have the cash,” he sighed, “doesn’t mean I’ll spend all of it!”

  “He’s got a point, Pax,” agreed Wells. “How you holding up, O’Maley?”

  Groaning, he replied the best he could, “I don’t know. My head hurts like a bitch and it’s difficult to see.”

  “Sounds like mornings in Germany,” replied Schwartz, an eight-year army-infantry veteran. “Fun times.”

  He went to take off his vest but stopped when Wells exclaimed: “Shit! What’s up with your hands?”

  Having taking his gloves off earlier, he hadn’t looked at them since. Both of O’Maley’s hands appeared to be decomposing: they were bleeding and his skin was beginning to fall off.

  “Fuck, he’s infected!” yelled England, reaching for his VP9.

  Aiming it at O’Maley, about to shoot, Clodoveo pounded on the truck’s rear window, signaling Julie to stop. The sudden attempt to stop sent everyone sliding forward.

  “Did she have to stop so damn fast?” a few of the civilians groaned in tandem.

  One coughed, “A little bit harder on the brakes would have been better.”

  “Shit, Ortiz,” shouted England. “Why didn’t you just let me do it?”

  Jumping from the bed to pull O’Maley out, he replied, “Moving vehicle: the slightest bump could’ve screwed your aim, possibly hitting someone else.” After placing the SEAL against a light post, he said, “Nothing personal, O’Maley. You don’t deserve what MicDerman explained—none of us do.” Aiming the nine-millimeter at his head, Clodoveo muttered, “You served the country well; be with God and rest for eternity.”

  He squeezed the trigger.

  *

  When Clodoveo had pounded on the window and MicDerman almost blew her eardrums out when he shouted “Stop!”
Julie slammed on the brake pedal. A little too hard, she thought, jumping out to see why the mercenary needed her to stop.

  Hurrying around the bed, the sudden report of Clodoveo’s sidearm answered her question; Julie could tell by his expression, that he felt sick having just killed a comrade. She couldn’t blame him—for all she knew, the two of them had served together. It wasn’t her business.

  “Anyone else been bit?” Clodoveo then asked. When no one replied after a few seconds, he asked again in a louder voice, “Anyone?”

  The others answered in various ways as he collected the VP9 and magazines O’Maley’s had for both his 416 and sidearm.

  Jones had to defend his answer by removing his boot, revealing that his foot hadn’t been chewed on when the infected had gotten hold of him earlier. “See? I wasn’t bit—I’ll never complain about combat boots again!”

  About to say something, Julie then looked to the sky when she heard the sound of a helicopter. It then appeared and flew overhead towards Town Hall, which was just a few blocks away.

  “Everyone get back in!” Julie yelled and climbed back behind the wheel. When one mercenary knocked on the window, she pulled her transmission back into drive and accelerated, burning some rubber in the process.

  “Barricade!” pointed MicDerman and Sean Gadley, one of the survivors.

  “Hold on to ya’ rifles,” she announced and slammed her foot to the floor; glancing in her rear view mirror, she saw the others brace themselves. Smashing threw two barricades, Julie could hear the truck’s frame bolted push-bars just rip right through both thin metal squad cars.

  Keeping her foot on the floor as they reached Town Hall, Julie piloted the truck towards a car with a low front end. The momentum and pure power a great asset, she was able to drive right up it and over more cars blocking their path, which kept her and the others from having to ram through a horde of infected. It was rough and all of them hit their heads against something but they were alive.

  “Please don’t ever do that again,” breathed Sean, his tone sounding like he was about to be sick.