Hour 23 (21 page)

Stephanie leaned forward slowly. “Your cooperation would be
greatly appreciated in this matter.”

Paul groaned.

“Agent Ritchie or myself will be in contact with you to discuss your script, and what you’re allowed and disallowed to discuss—”

“My script?” Paul asked in disbelief.

“Doctor,” Stephanie continued, “I understand your apprehension and I wish you were no more involved in this than myself or Agent Ritchie have to be. These are all choices that were made outside of your hands and outside of our hands, and for the benefit of all those involved it’s probably best that we just…roll with it, for lack of a better term…okay?”

“Fine,” Paul said. “Is there anything else?”

“A bit more,” Matthew added. “We’d like you to help put together a time line for us, okay?”

Paul nodded.

“Yesterday afternoon, Marc Cooper arrives at your hospital, sick. You knew his father?” Matthew rearranged several pieces of paper in his briefcase.

“I did,” Paul said.

“So Marc comes in—dies—and I get it, this entire phenomenon is new, so it’s quite startling when Marc comes back to life. Time passes, now it’s morning, and you find out John and Geraldine Cooper pass—”

“Yes,” Paul said.

“Within an hour of their passing, Alicia Cooper is brought in—”

“You must be mistaken,” Paul said. “Alicia Cooper is not in my ward.”

“Yes she is, doctor. Patient 06784. You have her listed as unidentified. She was involved in quite the bus accident this morning.”

Paul’s eyes welled with tears. He pulled his fist to his mouth and bit it. “Little Alicia? I didn’t even recognize her.”

Matthew paused for a moment so that Paul could regain his composure.

“Then, just this afternoon, a transatlantic flight piloted by who? None other than Russell Cooper—John and Geraldine’s child, Marc’s Brother, Alicia’s uncle—crashes into the Henderson High School.”

“What do you want me to tell you?” Paul said, his voice crackling.

“I mean, it seems like an awfully big coincidence, does it not?” Matthew asked, his voice rife with sarcasm.

“I’m sure many families perished today. Where are you going with this?”

Matthew cleared his throat and pulled yet another folder from his briefcase. He opened the folder, flipped some pages, then pulled out a black and white photo of a young man and woman. “Look familiar?”

“Yes,” Paul said.

“Would you please identify them?” Matthew asked.

“Adam and Kimberly Cooper.”

“Ding-ding-ding,” Matthew said. “Alicia’s parents, Adam and Kimberly Cooper. The only members of the Cooper-clan not seen in the past thirty-six hours. Not once. They’ve vanished into thin air. Have you seen them, doctor?”

Paul shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

Matthew leaned close into the doctor’s desk. “You seem like one of the good ones, Paul. An honest guy. A miracle worker, literally. So I’ll ask you just once more, and this time I’ll inform you that both Adam and Kimberly Cooper have—as of 2:30 PM this afternoon—been classified as enemies of the state, and to withhold information regarding their whereabouts would be considered treasonous.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh. “Treasonous? I haven’t seem them in years, let alone today.”

Matthew studied Paul’s face for a moment. He sighed when he realized that the doctor was telling the truth.

Stephanie stood up from her seat and excused herself and Agent Ritchie. “Thank you doctor,” she said, extending her hand, “your help and cooperation tonight have been—”

“Greatly appreciated?” Paul asked, laughing.

Stephanie smirked. “I apologize for any inconvenience we’ve caused you. Please know we’re only acting in accordance with today’s extraordinary circumstances.”

“Sure,” Paul said.

“Get some rest, doctor,” Matthew said. “You look like hell. We’re about to put the word out over every television and radio channel in East Violet—your hospital will be an evacuation zone come sunrise. National Guard units are on their way now for escort. It’s going to be a busy day.”

      
NINETEEN

In the balmy, summer air Jim watched her. Chloe swung carelessly back and forth on her swing set, the one Jim assembled in the backyard of the home he made with his wife. His young daughter laughed wildly, kicking her feet at the ground, rocketing higher and higher with each thrust.

Jim found himself worried by the speed and height of each subsequent swing.
You’ll fall off.
He reached out towards her from across the yard when—

The sound of a car pulling up outside woke Jim. A cool dribble of spit hung from the corner of his mouth. His back was sore and stiff from dozing off in the wooden chair at the head of the kitchen table.

Across from him Nolan slept, unalarmed by the approaching vehicle outside. He lay face down on the table, his arm outstretched in front of him. Clutched in his hand were a pair of queens.

“You bluffing little shit,” Jim chuckled softly.

Jim stood up and adjusted his belt. Quietly, he tiptoed into the living room, passing Chloe and Dana where they lay sound asleep.

The drowsy officer peeked through the blinds. Parked halfway in the driveway and halfway on the front lawn was a familiar looking silver Chevy sedan.

What the hell?

Jim opened the front door and shut it firmly behind him. The driver side door of the Chevy burst open. Exploding from inside of it was a dark, short, stocky frame. It rose to its feet and waddled up the driveway towards Jim.

“Ingram?” Jim called out. “Jesus, Sarge, come on in.”

When Ingram had hobbled close enough to Jim, he kicked forward, landing a powerful blow squarely on Jim’s knee. Jim grunted and collapsed forward; before he could fall face-first on the steps in front of him, Ingram grabbed him by the collar and dragged him forward.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Jim gasped, shocked by the pain thundering through his right knee. It crippled him; tingly euphoric waves rolled up and down his leg. Desperately, he clawed at the gelatinous stomach dangling in front of him.

Without saying a word, Ingram propped Jim on his knees in the center of the postage-stamp sized yard. He connected his right fist to Jim’s jaw with a considerable blow.
Wham.
Without hesitation, he reeled back his left fist and rocketed it into Jim’s stomach. Jim let out a helpless grunt and fell forward, then rolled onto his back.

Ingram flopped to the ground and kneeled over Jim’s waist, then grabbed the battered man by his shoulders. Weakened and disoriented, Jim fell into Ingram’s chubby arms like a ragdoll.

“Blankenship is
dead
,” Ingram hollered, as he shook Jim’s limp body. “They pulled his charred body from that fucking high school your daughter goes to. I sent him there, Jim. I sent him there for
you.
So, this one’s for Blankenship.”

Ingram thrust his arms forward and downward with a burst of energy. Jim’s head cracked against the edge of the cement walkway that led to the front door of his house.

Jim’s world went black then exploded back to life; brilliant colors danced before his eyes. “Sarge, stop,” Jim gurgled. He reached for the service pistol on his hip, but Ingram’s massive thighs blocked him from accessing it. “Please. Stop.”

“After you and all your pussy friends jumped ship, I stayed at the station and did the work of ten men.” Ingram spit into Jim’s face. “While I stayed behind doing your job, they crawled into my house and ate her alive, Jim. My Janice is dead. Because of
you.”
Ingram slammed Jim downward once more. Again, Jim’s head smacked into the pavement beneath him. He coughed and groaned and flailed his arms uselessly. He tried to ignore the warm sensation creeping from the back of his head and down his neck, but it was futile—he knew that at any moment he would pass out, and once passed out, he would be unable to defend himself. He would be dead.

Jim gurgled out a glob of spit and blood and thought of Chloe.
Not so high, Chloe. You’ll fall off.

“And this one, you traitorous motherfucker, is for me.” Ingram rolled up his shirt sleeve, revealing a wound that looked similar to a bite taken out of a fresh, crisp apple. “I got this beauty on the drive over to my old pal Jim’s house.” Black tar oozed from the hole in Ingram’s arm.

“Ain’t it a beaut, Jim?” Ingram said. He taunted Jim once or twice before winding back his meaty fist and plowing it into the left side of Jim’s skull. Instantly, Jim’s world turned dark. His body went limp on the chilly, dewy grass.

“Deserter,” Ingram ridiculed. He reached behind his back and pulled out a .40 caliber hand gun. “You…fucking…deserter…”

Ingram began to wheeze and pant as he pressed the muzzle of the hand gun against Jim’s lifeless face. As badly as he wanted to, he could not pull the trigger. His fingers turned to rubbery goo and what felt like a small army of fire ants marched from the center of his chest and outwards, towards the end of each of his extremities. The virus had taken its hold. There was no fighting it.

The summer of Chloe’s seventh birthday, Jim drove his family out to a waterpark in Riverside to cool off. It was unseasonably warm that summer. For a brief moment, Jim lost sight of Chloe while waiting in line for a long, twisting waterslide. There was no greater happiness than the joy and relief he felt when he found her beside an ice cream kiosk. As if he could breathe again—

Breathe. I can’t breathe.
Jim’s eyes fluttered open and shut. Ingram’s massive body pinned Jim between the earth beneath him and the sky above him. Every inch of the sergeant’s four-hundred pound frame weighed down on Jim’s thin build.
He’s dead—Oh God, he’s dead, it’s happening to him!
Jim panted and struggled to reach the gun fastened to his hip, but Ingram’s gargantuan belly made accessing it difficult.

Ingram started to moan lowly. His eyes had rolled back in his head. His teeth snapped open and shut. The layers of fat on the sergeant’s neck were the only protective cushioning keeping Jim from being bit.

I’ve almost got it,
Jim thought, his fingers cramping from stretching them as far as they would reach. The tip of his index finger grazed his holster. He flicked at it desperately and unlatched it. The gun was free.

Glorp. Arkch. Blurp.
Ingram started to make retching noises and his head whipped forward and backward.             

Almost. Almost.
Jim slid a finger into the trigger guard of the gun, looped a knuckle around it, and fished it forward. He had the gun firmly in his grasp, but it was hard to concentrate. His skull throbbed so painfully that it was almost impossible to focus. The world in front of him would turn fuzzy and dark, then refill with vibrant light and color, only to turn dark again.

Jim pulled his firearm upward, freeing his hand from the pressure of Ingram’s weight. He swung the gun forward and had it nearly pressed against Ingram’s flabby jaw when—

Click. Clack.
Ingram sunk his teeth deep into Jim’s shoulder, then jerked his head backward. Jim looked forward in disbelief as his former sergeant knelt above him, chewing on a tattered piece of Jim’s shirt. Jim raised his gun, the tip of the barrel aimed precisely between Ingram’s eyes, and pulled the trigger. A misty, warm spray rained down upon Jim’s face, and Ingram slumped sideward, freeing Jim.

The front door of the Whiteman residence erupted. Chloe came running out, shocked by the sound of the fired gun.

“Daddy!” Chloe cried. Jim knelt in the center of his front lawn, his face and chest covered in blood. He was gasping for air.

“Chloe, stay—” Jim coughed up a glob of scarlet and collapsed forward onto the ground.

Jim’s black Suburban careened down Pigeon Hill Road.

“Faster,” Chloe cried.

Dana leaned up from the rear seat where she sat with Jim. “No, Nolan, not any faster,” she plead, her face white. Jim sat slumped in his seat, in the same position he was when Noland and Chloe lifted him into the truck and buckled him in. He was out cold.

“He’s dying,” Chloe screamed, turning back from the front passenger seat to glare at Dana.

“We’ll die too if Nolan pushes this Goddamn truck any faster. Nolan, slow down!” Dana gasped as the truck blew through a dip in the road. The maneuver left a sensation in the bottom of her stomach, like she was riding a roller coaster.

“What happened to him?” Chloe sobbed, turning back towards the road ahead of them.

“That asshole beat him half to death,” Nolan grumbled, squeezing the steering wheel tightly, “before your dad blew his fucking head off.”

“Why would someone want to beat up my father like that?” Chloe said, her voice cracking. So much of the mysterious assailant’s face was missing that she couldn’t recognize him as Sergeant Ingram.

“I can’t think about that right now,” Nolan said. Up ahead, the wreckage of a downed helicopter blocked Pigeon Hill Road just before the road widened into Maple Avenue.

“What are you waiting for?” Chloe begged.

“What do you mean ‘what am I waiting for?’”

“Drive through!”

Nolan laughed. “Jesus, Chloe. I can’t just drive through!”

Chloe pointed forward, tapping her finger on the windshield. “Drive over the side of the road there, there’s a path!”

Dana sat in her seat, a golf ball sized lump in her throat. Jim’s breathing was shallow. Sporadic. Labored. She turned to the left just long enough to see the Xtra Mart—or what was left of it, at least—smoldering across the street.

“Stop arguing, please,” Dana said. “I know a way into town.”

Nolan pulled the steering wheel left as Dana had instructed him to. The Suburban crawled between a dumpster and a ditch beside the convenient store. When it made its way into the clearing behind the store, a bloodied figure leapt up out of the tall blades of grass.

“Oh my God!” Chloe gasped. The thin male beat a palm against her window, leaving a bloodied handprint on it. His teeth clicked open and shut; his eyeballs swam around in his skull in opposite directions.

“Is that Nicky Moore?” Chloe asked, still startled.

Elliott barked from the rear of the vehicle as Nicky passed by the window. “It
was
Nicky Moore,” Dana clarified.

The Suburban zoomed through the tall grass behind the Xtra Mart, cutting a path as it sped along. When it reached the steep embankment between the clearing and the railroad tracks, Nolan cautiously slowed down.

“I don’t think we’ll make it up,” Nolan choked.

“Trust me, we will,” Dana said. “I made it in a Prius.”

Nolan cackled as the Suburban lurched forward, tires digging into the hillside. “You did this in a Prius?”

Once atop the embankment, Nolan again hit the gas.

“How does he look?” Chloe asked, turning back towards Dana.

Dana swallowed hard and lied. “He’s going to be okay, Chloe.”

The truck reached a section of track where the rails narrowed and passed over a bridge. Before Dana could speak, Nolan stomped the accelerator. The right rearview mirror clipped off with a spark as the Suburban drove over the planks of wood.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.

“Turn here,” Dana said, pointing at the back lot of a used car dealership. Nolan pulled the steering wheel to the right and the car swerved through one last clearing before making its way onto Washington Street.

The streets were mostly empty. Nolan made sharp turn after sharp turn until he was facing East Violet Memorial.

“Shit,” Dana said, scooting up in her seat to get a better look at the building before them. The street was clogged with cars and frightened residents. They crowded the parking lot in front of the building. A helicopter hummed overhead. Countless tanks and Humvees lined the street. Rows of busses filled both lanes of traffic in front of the hospital.

“They’re starting the evacuation,” Nolan said flatly.

Chloe leapt from the passenger’s seat and out into the street.

“What are you doing?” Nolan asked, before she slammed the door shut.

Chloe climbed onto the hood of the Suburban and waved her arms desperately in the air. “Help! Help!” She cried as she howled the words. “Someone, please help us!