American Infection (Book 2)

Hopefully, if you're reading this, it means you enjoyed the first volume enough to purchase the second! Thank you very much for your support!

In Book One, we saw Jason, Rob, Anne, Sarah, Matt and Melissa flee their homes in southern Maryland after an infectious outbreak in four major cities on the Eastern Seaboard. The group manages to escape on a boat, but not before Melissa's father, Tom, is infected and killed.

In Book Two, the group heads north, first to West Chester where Matt's parents live, then further north in an effort to locate Jason's and Anne's parents.

I hope this segment of the story keeps you entertained! And if you find any grammatical errors, don't hesitate to e-mail me at
Justin Smith
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Monday, 3 p.m.

By late afternoon, the wind had picked up. Earlier the bay had been calm, allowing the Wakesetter to make steady progress, but now the surf crested with white plumes and Matt was forced to slow to a near crawl.

There were other boats on the water and we had stopped to talk with a few of them, but not much was learned. The other seafarers were waiting out the epidemic, just like we had originally intended. Most of the other boats were much larger than Matt's. Some certainly had kitchens and cabins below deck, and were much better equipped to handle a long‐duration event.

The sun had been beating down all day, but the sky had filled with slow‐moving clouds, providing some relief. The cool breeze off the water helped, as well. If not for the whole zombie apocalypse thing, it was a great day to be out on the bay.

From the boat, things looked normal on land. The shoreline was dotted with homes and beaches and restaurants, and for the most part they stood quietly, appearing unaffected by the chaos that we had fled. That changed when we arrived off the coast of Chesapeake Beach.

Chesapeake Beach was a tiny resort town on the western shore in Calvert County. It had a small, pay‐per‐use beach open to the public, a couple hotels along the water, and a two‐ or three‐block shopping district. It was by far the most densely populated area along the Bay that we had encountered. As such, the town was also the most devastated we had seen thus far.

Large clouds of black smoke were rising over the residential area a few blocks off the water; likely a burning home, although the source was unknown from this distance. The flashing lights of a police car could be seen in the beach parking lot. The driver's side door was left open, but no officers were in sight.

North of the beach and hotels were a number of waterfront homes, most of which had private docks. On one of the piers I saw two infected, on their knees appearing to feast on something, or someone. As we cruised past the dock, Rob fired a shot into the air. The two infected's heads shot up. A third infected stood up on the boat, just feet away from the first two. The victims must have been attacked as they attempted to flee their home. I considered that maybe we were lucky to have only lost Tom, though I kept my thoughts to myself.

Minutes later the town was behind us and more trees and cliffs and private beaches dotted the shoreline. Sarah was seated next to me and rested her head on my shoulder. I breathed in deeply and she settled closer. Despite the comfort of Sarah's body pressed against my own, I knew the next few days would bring more death. And Chesapeake Beach was a clear reminder that once we returned to land, anything could happen.

Monday, 7 p.m.

As the sun continued its descent toward the horizon, Matt mentioned that we would soon need gas. The boat had had more gas than he thought, but we had lost the full cans in our rush to the docks, and the slow pace through choppy water was burning fuel. We didn't want to risk running out before we found more and we wouldn't be getting gas in the dark, so Matt dropped the anchor and shut off the engine.

"How're we gonna get gas?" Rob asked, taking the opportunity to rig a fishing line with bait.

"Don't some of those restaurants have gas pumps at their docks?" asked Melissa, thinking of a place back in St. Mary's County that did indeed have such a hook up. I hadn't seen many others like it, though.

"Not gonna be much help with no power," responded Anne. "What if we siphon it somehow?" she continued. "Like from other boats. We passed so many that are just sitting there."

"Shit," Matt said. "I had a hose at the house too. Not a bad idea if we had one."

"It's summer. Can't be that hard to find a hose outside someone's house," Anne said.

"And who do you suggest we send to go find this hose?" Melissa asked, glaring at Anne. She clearly did not like the idea.

"I'll go," Anne said, shutting down Melissa's negativity.

"I'll go with you," I said. "We'll find a neighborhood near the beach. Should be able to run up, disconnect a hose and get back quick."

Rob insisted on going along, as well. I wondered if Rob was enjoying our circumstances a tad too much. Not that it mattered. His enthusiasm made a difficult situation easier to bear. Plus, he was in great shape and good with a gun. That left Matt with Sarah and Melissa on the boat. Matt agreed that if the dock was overrun with the infected, he would anchor further off and wait, but I prayed it didn't come to that.

Pulling in three successive fish, Rob joked about how God was on their side because he was never this lucky. We grilled again, although Holly refused the rockfish and had some beef jerky instead.

As the sun set, Matt pulled out his grass and rolled a joint. Rob, Sarah and I gave him a hand smoking it, each getting three or four puffs as it was passed around. The high eased the tension in my body, but also heightened my awareness of the troubles that lay ahead. I used to love marijuana, but as I've gotten older it only seems to make me worry. My brain starts spinning and only slows when it reaches something that concerns me.

We talked about our school and wondered how some of our students were doing. We joked that some of the county rednecks were probably enjoying the apocalypse, doing some zombie hunting. Those students were difficult in class, but were the most prepared for the reality of the past few days. I knew, however, that most of my students were gone. Maybe their parents had tried to drive north out of the county, only to get stuck in traffic and attacked on the highway. Or maybe they had bunkered down in their homes, only to be overwhelmed by the raging hordes that were now scattered throughout St. Mary's. Either way, I feared the few boats we'd seen on the water represented the only survivors.

Anne talked about her father, hoping he had made it to Pittsburgh safely. We discussed the best route to West Chester, and then the Poconos. No one mentioned that what we were doing likely meant some or all of us would die, but we certainly had all thought it at some point.

Sleeping on the boat was uncomfortable. The seats were not very wide and no one had bothered to bring pillows. Anne, Matt and Melissa sat in the bow of the boat, on the other side of the steering column and pilot seats. Rob sat in the passenger seat and rested his head on the dash. Sarah lay down in the back, stretched out on the stiff, nylon covered row of seats. After fidgeting for a good thirty minutes, Sarah sat up, unable to find the sweet spot. She slid across the deck to the opposite row of seats, where I sat staring out over the water and watching the moonlight as it bounced off the waves. She leaned against me and swung her legs up onto the bench. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and rested my head on top of hers. Sleep still didn't come easily through the night, but I didn't mind occasionally waking to find Sarah still snuggled close.

Tuesday, 7 a.m.

As soon as the sun began to peak out over the water to the east, everyone was ready to get on with the day. Melissa passed around a bag of store‐brand cheerios for breakfast. Anne and Sarah huddled under a blanket, as the sun had yet to warm the cool morning air. Rob pulled up the anchor and Matt started the engine, heading toward shore. We cruised along for half an hour before finding a couple boats tied to a dock, and a small neighborhood just up the hill from the water.

After agreeing that there was a good chance we'd find a hose outside one of the homes, we pulled alongside the pier. I hopped onto the wooden planks, pulled the rope taut, and wrapped it around a metal bracket until the Wakesetter was secured. My legs felt wobbly after a full day on the water and I had to steady myself against a support beam. Everyone else had a similar problem as they stepped onto the pier. Melissa's knees buckled and she nearly toppled off the opposite side of the dock, but Rob was there to grab her.

Rob loaded his tactical rifle and placed an extra magazine in his waistband. Anne and I loaded our handguns, each of us also carrying an extra clip. As I handed Holly's leash to Matt, Sarah placed a kiss on my cheek.

"For good luck," Sarah said.

"We'll be fine, trust me," he replied. "Fifteen minutes and we're back on the water, promise."

Tuesday, 7:45 a.m.

The dock consisted of three separate piers, each extending about thirty feet into the water. To the right of the piers were two ramps, allowing a trailer to back in deep enough for the boat to launch. The ramps and the piers jutted out from a gravel parking lot. On the far side of the lot were two port‐a‐pots and, in a small grove carved into the surrounding woods, a picnic bench. The parking lot led to a two‐way street that ascended into a neighborhood of ranch homes and bi‐levels. Old, thick trees dotted the front yards and grass and roots had caused the sidewalk to crack and buckle.

Slowly trotting up the hill to the main street, Rob, Anne and I formed a triangle. Rob led the way, with Anne and I flanked to either side behind him. We moved quietly, consciously picking up our feet so as not to kick gravel.

The first house on the left had a chain link fence around it. Rob pointed to it and gave a "slash" sign across his neck. I assumed he didn't want to deal with the fence. The first house on the right appeared undisturbed. All the windows were closed, with drapes shut behind them. There were no cars in the driveway, and no signs of life inside the home. Rob pointed and gave a wave for Anne and me to follow.

There was no hose in the front of the house, so we quickly crossed the lawn to the back yard. Several well‐kept vegetable gardens sprouted tomatoes and peppers and other herbs, while the manicured gardens had lilies and rhododendron and even a small pond. The back porch was small and had an awning over it. I checked along the wall and behind the shrubs that lined the brick wall. I found the spigot, just off the porch, but no hose.

Probably in the damn garage, I thought.

Anne gave a slight whistle to catch my attention. Turning, I saw Rob was already moving into the next home's back yard. A bi‐level, this one had a wooden deck extending from a set of second floor French doors, and a concrete patio beneath. The patio was crammed with old toys and overflowing garbage cans and beaten‐up lawn chairs. There were a few beds of dirt surrounding the house and in the yard, but nothing that could be called a garden. The lawn was unkempt. It probably hadn't been mowed in three weeks. I felt bad for the owners of the previous home; neighbors like this surely drove down property values.

There was no hose here either. Well, there may have been one buried somewhere under the pile of junk on the patio, but we didn't have the time to dig through it.

The next house was another ranch. No awning, no deck, no patio, no gardens. But it had a hose resting in tall grass on the side of the house. Anne jogged over to it and Rob and I followed. When we caught up to her she had already pulled it out from the wall. Rob bent and unscrewed the connector. It was still wrapped around a rolling stand, however. Anne stuck the Sig Sauer in her waistband behind her back, grabbed the free end of the hose and started walking back toward the bi‐level.

"What are you doing?" asked Rob.

"Unrolling it," Anne replied. "We don't need the whole damn stand. And we need it unrolled to siphon the gas, anyway. Just back up."

Anne turned and continued walking out the hose. Forty feet later she stopped next to the trash patio, just under the edge of the deck.

"Unscrew it," she yelled.

I put my finger to my mouth and pursed my lips, telling her to be quiet. Rob squatted to unscrew the hose where it was connected to the stand. It was only then, turning back toward Rob, that I noticed the bi‐level's garage was open, as was the door leading into the house from the garage.