900 Miles (Book 2): 900 Minutes (34 page)

Bonus Content:

To read a letter from Tyler, Joh
n’
s son, visit this page: 
www.zombiebook.net/tylersletter

Acknowledgments:

Many of my best friends and family members were subjected to the early drafts of 900 Miles. Whether they read it, commented on it, or were simply a sounding board for me during its creation, I want each of them to know that I really appreciate every second that they spent with me on this journey to publish.

Specifically, I'd like to thank:

Debbie Davis

Phil Davis

Jamie Crosby

Ryan Dunn

Ashley Jones

J. Cornell Michel

Monique Happy

Jenaya Cones

Chad Davis

David Michaud

Finally,
I’
d like to thank my wife, Laurie Davis. Without her encouragement and support, I would never have sat down to type the first word.

This book would not have come to life without all of you!

THANK YOU!

About the Author

S. Johnathan Davis is an American author, best known for writing apocalyptic horror
. 
H
e 
released his first novel, 900 Miles, in January of 2013. In addition to being published in English, Davi
s’
works have been translated to German and converted to audiobook
.
 

Davis can often be found guest blogging, speaking at events, an
d 
participating on podcasts related to the zombie genre
. 
In addition, Davis is an active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), a prestigious group of global authors dedicated to all that write and read horror
.
 

Davis resides in Atlanta, GA with his wife and two children.

Website
:
 
www.sjohnathandavis.com

Twitter: @900milesbook

1

For an hour, the last patient of the day had been droning on and on about his abusive father. Dr. Jebediah Stone had heard the depressing tale so many times over the past six months; he could repeat it almost verbatim. Worse yet, the story never varied; a well-rehearsed rationale for the speaker’s abusive behavior. Dr. Stone idly stared out the window at a spotted Gila Woodpecker busily excavating a new hole in the twenty-foot tall saguaro cactus outside his office. The sunshine from a cloudless blue sky and the yellow lantanas blooming like a patch of spring in late November made him wish he could be out there in the fresh air instead of sitting bored in his office.

Thanksgiving was just a few days away and his thoughts turned to the aroma of pumpkin pie, roast turkey and cranberries. Thanksgiving had always been a season of food, friends, family and fellowship for the Stone family. However, this year, events had transpired to place his favorite holiday on the back burner.

“What do you think, Dr. Stone?”

Jeb refocused his attention on his patient, Nelson Sedge. The question was his cue to respond. This time, he decided to vary the dialogue. “I think you need to move on.”

Sedge’s head jerked in his direction at the unexpected answer. “Move on? What do you mean? He abused me.”

“Yes, yes, he beat you. I know. You said yourself you were a wild kid, always in trouble. Do you think your father beat you because he hated you or because he wanted to straighten you out?”

Sedge hesitated, confused by the new focus of the conversation. He had never been grilled before while on the couch and the spotlight made him uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

Jeb sighed. “Nelson, you’ve told me a dozen times that you’ve forgiven your father; that you want to move on with your life. Why rehash old wounds?”

Sedge squirmed uncomfortably on the leather couch, his ample backside squeaking on the leather upholstery. “I’m impotent and it’s his fault,” he snapped.

“You’re impotent because you’re 150 pounds overweight, have high blood pressure and take seven different pills a day for your supposed mood swings. It’s enough to curtail any man’s sex drive. You don’t need a psychologist. What you need is a gym and a good personal trainer.”

Sedge sneezed without covering his mouth. Jeb winced. Great, all he needed was the flu, especially since his child already had it, and his wife might be coming down with it. Everyone in the whole country seemed to have it, despite the mandatory flu shots.

“You’re supposed to help me,” Sedge said in an accusatory tone.

“You have to want to help yourself. Blaming your father is the easy way out. He might have encouraged your low self-esteem and your quick anger, but he’s dead and you are the only one who can change your life. These past six months I’ve listened to you, and even though I have made my observations time after time, you choose to ignore them because they’re inconvenient. I can’t help that. It’s time to take some responsibility for letting your past control your present.”

Sedge remained silent for a moment before replying harshly, “Maybe, I need a new doctor.”

Jeb sighed again, this time in irritation. He was tired and his head throbbed. Maybe, he was coming down with the flu despite the vaccine, after all. “You might be right. You won’t listen to me and I can’t in good conscience take your money and offer nothing in return.”

“I’ve got plenty of money,” Sedge snapped. “I need help.”

Laying his notepad and pencil aside, Jeb looked at his watch. Since a video recorder captured each session, he seldom took notes, but patients felt reassured by the age-old façade.

“Your time is up, Nelson. I suggest you seek professional help elsewhere. I’ve done all I can for you.”

With some difficulty, Sedge levered himself from the couch, glared at Jeb and said quite huffily, “That is exactly what I’ll do, Doctor. I find your manner quite unprofessional, and I don’t think you care anymore.”

Jeb rose. “You know, you’re right, Nelson. I don’t care. Good day.”

Quickly, he ushered Sedge out the door and shut it behind him. Then, he returned to his desk and leaned against it for a moment, as a dizzy spell swept over him. I should have taken better care of myself. Nursing Karen and Josh has worn me out. He pressed the concealed button shutting off the video recorder, before buzzing Gloria, his receptionist.

“Go on home, Gloria. I’m going to change and drop by the florist. It’s Karen’s birthday. God knows a little color might cheer her up a bit.”

“Send her my love, Dr. S,” she answered.

Jeb smiled at Gloria’s irreverence for the boss/employee relationship. He liked Gloria, because she brooked no nonsense from him or the patients, and she never failed to offer her opinion about his patients, his choice in ties or his refusal to eat fast food.

“I’ll do that, Gloria. Good night.” Just as he turned off the intercom, he heard Gloria’s sneeze come through the closed door and shook his head. Her too?

Changing out of his suit coat and tie was almost more than he could handle. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, finally yanking it off over his head. Thank God, it’s Friday. I need a break. Finally, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a faded t-shirt, he felt less the doctor and more the human being. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the belly of the brass Buddha sitting on his desk for luck, a reminder of his and Karen’s vacation to China seven years earlier. His constant daily rubbing had removed the dull patina that covered the rest of the smiling statue, making the prominent belly shine. Gloria, a devout Christian, always chided him for what she called a ‘heathen idol’, but to him it was a simple reminder of better times. 

As Jeb drove west along Ina Road from his Catalina Foothills office, he was surprised at how light the traffic was. The Catalina Mountains formed a spectacular barricade to Tucson’s northern growth, rising majestically to a height of almost 10,000 feet. In stark contrast to the warm late fall day below, snow blanketed the piney slopes of Mt. Lemmon. The major east-west conduit on the city’s north side was usually crowded. People were beginning to panic and stay home. Not that he could blame them. Nearly six thousand people in the U.S. had died of the Avian Flu in the past month, and over fifty thousand in Asia where it had originated. It wasn’t just the old and young succumbing to the ravages of the fever anymore. Men and women, hale and hardy, were beginning to drop like flies.

“Damn,” he muttered, as he noticed an ambulance rapidly overtaking him in his rear view mirror, lights flashing and siren wailing. He dutifully pulled over to the side of the road. As its siren grew louder, he saw there were three ambulances, followed closely by as many police cars. They shot past him, turned north onto Oracle Road and raced toward the already overflowing medical center on Tangerine Road. Seeing the ambulance convoy reminded him of Karen and Josh. A feeling of anxiety swept over him. Forgoing his idea of flowers, he pulled back into the street and followed the ambulances toward Oro valley.

His home, a four-bedroom, Pueblo-style house near the western foot of the Catalinas, sat on a private five-acre lot atop a narrow ridge jutting into Alamo Canyon facing Pusch Ridge. As he waited for the gate to open, a second convoy, this once comprised of army trucks and jeeps, rolled northward along Oracle Road. He wondered just what was happening. Was the flu epidemic spreading? Why was the military involved? His heart sank when he saw the silver Lexus of his friend, Doctor Benjamin Reynolds, parked in the drive. He didn’t bother with the garage. He pulled his Hyundai beside Reynolds’ car and rushed inside.

His wife was waiting for him in the entry. Her disheveled appearance and worried expression filled him with trepidation. Karen, a former Miss Arizona, took great pride in her appearance and was usually very calm and collected. She rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck sobbing into his chest.

“Oh, Jeb. It’s Josh. He had a violent fit. I called Ben. He’s with Josh now.”

Jeb lifted her face and looked into her emerald green eyes, red-rimmed from crying. “What happened?”

She shook her head and sniffled. “I don’t know. Today Josh felt so bad he didn’t want to get out of bed. I went in about an hour ago to check on him and he was white as a ghost, moaning and thrashing about on the bed. I tried to calm him down, but couldn’t. Thank God, Ben was home.”

Jeb nodded. Ben Reynolds, like most doctors now, had closed their offices, overwhelmed by the flood of sick patients. Most now worked at the hospitals, clinics and emergency medical centers hastily constructed by FEMA, such as the one a few miles away in Avra Valley near the Marana airport.

“He’ll be fine, Hon,” Jeb said to reassure her, though his own heart was heavy with worry. “He’s young and strong, and Ben is one of the best. Besides, we’ve all had our flu shots.” He forced a smile to his lips.

Reynolds was sitting in the living room, his face covered with both hands and his shoulders slumped. He looked up at Jeb and nodded a greeting. His tired blue eyes and worried expression made him look ten years older than his fifty-five years.

“How is he, Ben?” Jeb asked.

Reynolds sighed. “It’s difficult to say, Jeb. He has a high fever and flu-like symptoms, but it doesn’t seem to be the same flu that’s going around.” Reynolds was almost as tall as Jeb and thin, but his deep voice and slow Southern drawl inspired confidence in his patients. This time, however, he sounded uncertain. He shook his head slowly. “Almost everyone has something.”

Jeb let out his pent up breath. He had expected worse news. “What do we do?”

“I gave him a sedative so he can rest and I left some antibiotics on his nightstand. We’ll try those first and see if his condition improves.”

Karen walked up behind her husband and grasped his arm. She wasn’t convinced. “An antibiotic? That’s all? He was writhing around on the bed as if he had an epileptic seizure or something. Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital?”

“No,” Reynold’s answered quickly. “There’s no room in the hospitals and he wouldn’t receive the care he needs. They’re simply overwhelmed by the number of sick.”

“What about that new center in Avra Valley?” she asked.

The dark look in Reynolds’ eyes at the mention of the FEMA camp startled Jeb. “No. I’ll drop back by soon. Believe me, Karen; he’ll be better off here.”

His wife still didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and rushed off to Josh’s room.

“You look done in, Ben,” Jeb said. “Want some coffee?”

His smile revealed a little of the Benjamin Reynolds that Jeb remembered. “Got anything stronger?”

“Scotch, right? I could do with a glass myself.”

Jeb went to the bar, poured two fingers of Glenfiddich into two tumblers, added ice and handed one to Reynolds. 

“Now, what was it you didn’t want Karen to know?”

Reynolds frowned, took a sip of scotch and sighed. He stared into the depths of the cold fireplace for a moment as if studying invisible flames. “I’m frightened, Jeb. Josh isn’t the first case I’ve seen like this. There are a dozen more at Oro Valley.” He waited a few seconds before continuing. “They’re lying to us, Jeb.”

“Who’s lying?”

“The Feds, the CDC, FEMA – all of them.”

Jeb took a seat beside Reynolds. “What do you mean?”

Reynolds looked at him. “How many have died so far, Jeb?”

Jeb wrinkled his brow, wondering where Reynolds was going with this. “In America? Six thousand last count. Why?”

Reynolds shook his head. “It’s closer to sixty thousand, probably much higher. FEMA is afraid if they release the actual count, there’ll be a panic, and they could be right. The new vaccine is next to useless. So far, they’ve discovered five active strains of the Avian influenza type A virus. We’re beginning to see widespread antigenic shift. I’m worried, Jeb. Have you seen the new emergency center in Marana, near the airport?” Jeb hadn’t, but Reynolds didn’t give him time to reply. “Why would they need to enclose it in a ten-foot fence topped with razor wire? It has hundreds of FEMA trailers inside and an army outpost outside. I think the President is close to declaring Martial Law.”

Jeb was flabbergasted at Reynolds’ suggestion. “Martial Law? That’s ridiculous. That would create a panic in itself. Just look at the flack he got over the mandatory flu shots. The press crucified him.” He looked at Reynolds and cocked his head to one side. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”