The Fall of Society (Book 2): The Fight of Society (13 page)

            “Yeah, that’s right.”

            “Bullshit,” Joe said. “Why would they leave AIDS in that village when they knew that it would spread to the rest of the world?”

            “Because they had the cure,” John told them. “They didn’t care.”

            “Bullshit,” Joe repeated.

            “Really?” John shot back. “Let me ask you something; when was the last time that you heard of a high profile politician or world leader dying from AIDS, huh? Or a rock star? A movie star? Or some overpaid athlete?”

            No one said a thing and John continued:

            “Plenty of people have died from it, even a few semi-famous people, but the rich and powerful? No. I’m sure you’ve heard of a politician that contracted HIV and a famous athlete in the Eighties and Nineties, but they didn’t die, did they? The public thought that the rich just paid for some magic drug therapy to combat the deadliest disease that the planet had ever seen. Now
that’s b
ullshit.”

            “How much did the cure cost?” Lauren asked.

            “Last I heard it was around two hundred million, three injections.”

            “Two hundred million dollars for three shots? Jesus,” Lauren said.

            “Each. Two hundred million for each shot. If you didn’t get all three, it didn’t work,” John added.

            “They accidently created themselves a cash cow, huh, John?” Anthony said.

            John smirked, “That’s just it, kid, I don’t think it was an accident.”

            “What the hell? That’s not right,” Tom said under his breath.

            “How do you know this, John?” Ardent asked.

            John thought for a moment, choosing his words, “I knew the Director of the Army’s bioresearch division.”

            “You knew him? What? You two were drinking buddies or something? What the fuck does that mean?” Joe said.

            Ardent knew, “You’re that John Mandall?”

            “Yup.”

            “Who are you, John?” Asked Anthony.

            “The Director of the Army’s bioresearch division…was my father,” John confessed. “He created Project Terminal and he released it.”

            Maggie laughed—an almost hysterical burst—then went quiet.

            “That’s fucking great, man,” Alan said. “Awesome for you,” he said sarcastically.

            Ardent stood up and stepped closer to John, “When you said that the Army abandoned Project Terminal and moved on, what did they move on to?”

            “’Project Bully,’ which was a faster strain of the Project Terminal virus, but it wasn’t designed to kill the host,” John said.

            “Wait, so did your father create the undead virus or not?” Bear asked.

            “He did,” John replied and lowered his eyes in thought, “but not directly…”

DAY 18:

SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA

THE CITY OF SAN BERNARDINO, CALIFORNIA, BASKED IN TWILIGHT AS THE SUN WENT TO SLUMBER. This neighborhood was upper class and the homes were larger than in the rest of town. There were no children playing because most families were preparing for dinner, or already in the middle of it, so the streets were empty.

            A car came fast down the street, a 1969 Dodge Charger muscle car, painted cherry black, and everything else chrome. It pulled into the long driveway of a very nice two story, prairie-style home and just as the car stopped—a woman, in her fifties, ran out the front door—she blew right past the muscle car and across the street. The driver got a good look at what ran by his window: The woman’s skin was grayish in color and her veins were pronounced purple scars that tracked her skin. Her lips were without lipstick, yet they were dark in color—abnormally dark—and covered in saliva that dripped down her chin. It was
her eyes
the driver noticed the most, though. He couldn’t believe what he saw in those three seconds.

            The crazed woman got across the street and into a neighbor’s front yard. The man got out of his car—it was John Mandall—he was very confused, “Mom?” he called out to her, but she was already over a high fence that she scaled as fast as an Olympian . . . too fast.

            “Mom!” he yelled, but she was gone.

            He was about to run after her when he heard a commotion come from the house she had run out of. He though he heard breaking glass, maybe a window. John was torn on what to do, but made a decision as he pulled a .45 automatic pistol from his car. He loaded it and headed to the house.

            As he walked, he recalled what he saw about his mother that bothered him the most—her eyes.

            Lightning struck in the distance, illuminating his dark path for just a moment.

            He looked back for any trace of his mother, but there was nothing.

            Lightning struck again and he saw the quick memory of her eyes as if they were right in his face—they were bloodshot, but that wasn’t what burned his mind. It was their
color
. They were milky and the veins had expanded in starburst ruptures of a greenish, yellow substance. Her pupils were such a dark red, that they were almost black.

            Unnatural
…

            Lightening struck once more…

           
Inhuman
…

            He proceeded toward the house with his gun.

            His steps were quick, but careful on the cobblestone driveway. He checked every corner and shadow as he moved toward the front double-door. It was open but looked awkward. John got closer and saw why—somehow, his mother had busted one of the doors out—which bothered him immensely because the front doors of the house where he grew up opened
inward
.

            “What the hell?” he said under his breath.

            The top door hinge was broken clean off in splintered wood; the bottom hinge was still attached, leaving the door tilted in his path. He squeezed through the narrow opening, checking the foyer first. It was clear.

            Inside the house, John aimed his pistol ahead of him and took a tactical stance. It was quiet and the foyer light was off. He reached for the light switch, but nothing happened when he flipped it. Down the hall he could see the entrance to the kitchen; one dim light was on, so it must be an oven light. A flickering white light danced off John’s face from the right and he turned to investigate. A large flat screen TV was on in the living room—no one was there, just the muted, pepper-filled static screen.

            John snapped his gun upward at a sudden disturbance upstairs—something was toppled over and hit the floor hard—followed by breaking glass. He moved down the hall toward the stairs, his hands cuffed tightly around his weapon and his taut arms shifting his aim left and right in quick cuts, ready for any possible foe. Even though it was dark in the house, the green, glowing night sights on his pistol allowed him to acquire any target. He moved up the two-tiered flight of stairs quietly. Stopping at the second floor landing, he checked the hallway; no one was there. He decided to go left. The first door he got to was a bathroom, empty. One door remained at the end of the hall. There was another door, but he knew it was a linen closet.

            He reached the door and it was closed. He took hold of the knob and opened it with a rush, scanning his gun everywhere. The bedroom was empty, just a slept-in bed with disheveled sheets—

            CRASH!

            A sudden eruption of more breaking glass reported behind John and he spun around, his weapon at the ready. He moved down the hall toward the disturbance. He could tell it had come from the last door so he passed the others rapidly. Reaching the closed door he heard something growl inside, the throaty sounds slowly trailing away. John stepped back and kicked the door in. He swept his gun across the room and the first thing that caught his eyes were the window curtains blowing inward through broken glass. No one was in the teenage decorated room. He rushed to the window and looked out into the night for any signs. Nothing, until he noticed something past the edge of the window, through a jagged piece of glass. He saw a figure move slightly. He looked intently, and as his eyes adjusted to focus on the person some seventy feet away.

            A boy, small in stature.

            John didn’t understand what the boy was doing, especially where he was perched. Lightning flashed and illuminated the area, revealing the boy, who was squatting on top of the wooden fence in the backyard.

            “Tommy?” John murmured.

            The boy looked like a bird of prey as he stared up at the lightning filigreed sky. He cocked his head in strange motions, as if his eyes were locked in position like an owl.

            “Tommy!” John shouted, but thunder rolled and covered his voice.

            The boy looked back at the house and lightning struck again…

            John saw his eyes—

            They were just like his mother’s when he saw her in the driveway.

            The boy jumped off the fence and ran away, moving fast—strangely fast—and all he left behind was a twisted bawl…

            “Tommy!” but he was gone.

            John turned to leave and, as he did, lightning flickered the room into white, and for the first time since he’d entered it, he saw its condition . . . It was a shambles, torn apart as if some wild animal had destroyed it. Everything made of glass was broken and there were scratch marks all over the walls.

            There were also fresh blood splatters everywhere.

            “Jesus,” he exhaled.

            He left and in the hallway, he saw blood all over the walls and carpet. Even though he was a veteran of two wars and countless covert missions for his country, he had trouble trying to control his panic. He stuck to his training and proceeded back down the stairs with his .45 leading the way.

            He passed the kitchen and proceeded down the hall to a back room in the house that had long served as a den. He stopped at the door. His eyes scanned the den with military precision. The room was large, adorned with fine wood and antique lighting. A big mahogany desk was the centerpiece at the rear of the room. John approached cautiously, his gaze concentrated on the desk’s tall leather chair that was presently positioned in the corner of the room by a window. The chair was cast in shadow, but John could see that someone was sitting in it—the person’s legs and hands, one holding a drink, were visible—John kept his aim on him.

            “Thomas, is that you?” John asked.

            The person in the chair didn’t respond, instead, taking a drink from his full rock glass, finishing half of the amber-colored liquid that had an expensive shine.

            “What’re you doing here, John?” he asked in a strained voice.

            “You called me, don’t you remember?”

            The man thought, “Did I? No, I don’t remember doing that.”

            John was upset at his nonchalance and his anger materialized in the form of wrinkles in his face deepening, “What the hell happened here? What happened to Mom and Tommy?” John asked and he hadn’t lowered his weapon.

            “I guess I should start at the beginning.”

            John snapped, “Fuck the beginning!” he shouted and took a couple steps closer to guarantee his aim, “What happened to my mother and brother? Tell me, you bastard!”

            He said nothing as he finished his drink.

            The man leaned forward to grab the liquor decanter off the corner of his desk and John saw his face…

DAY 1:

PIEDMONT, ARIZONA

THE OLD MAN WALKED TOWARD THEM SLOWLY, ALMOST TRIPPING TWICE. He tried to shout at them, but he was actually talking as loud as he could since he was so weak. The generals couldn’t hear him clearly, but he grew louder as he drew near. The soldiers wasted no time and converged on the old man in a defensive posture.

            “Hold your fire,” the white general ordered.

            “You government people did this!” the old chief said.

            “What’s that, old timer?” the black general asked.

            “You did this!” he barked.

            “Sir, we’re here to help. We need you to be calm and put down the weapon,” the white general said.

            The old man didn’t do what was asked of him and kept walking toward them with his jagged machete. “You did this! You killed my town and all my friends!”

            “Sir, please, we’re here to help you. Put down the machete,” the black general asked sincerely.

            He limped closer to them, within fifteen feet, and started to swing the machete at them, but he was so weak that he wasn’t even cutting the air.

            “Drop the weapon!” a soldier shouted.

            “You bastards killed my town!” he said as he swung and hit nothing.

            “Sir, try to calm yourself,” the black general said.

            Suddenly, the old man cried out in pain, let go of the machete, and grabbed his face in agony. He dropped to his knees, and his body began to convulse in a seizure.

            “Everybody step back,” the white general ordered.

            They all withdrew as the old man writhed in pain, his mouth salivating so much that it was a constant ooze of liquid. The seizure stopped, and the old man removed his hands from his face to reveal bloodshot eyes that were wider than humanly possible and filled with rage. The frail old man got to his feet in one hop, howled in a twisted screech, and immediately ran to attack the generals.

            “Stop!” one soldier shouted, but he didn’t and they fired.

            The gunfire struck his chest; killing him instantly, and he dropped to the ground face first and slid a couple feet in the dirt from momentum.

            “Jesus!” the black general said in disbelief.