The Death Trilogy (Book 1): The Death: Quarantine (2 page)

Margaret and the man watched her with amazement and now fear.

That same fear and worry had spread throughout the plane as everyone was either listening or attempting to witness the scene happening.

A teenager from row 22 was kneeling in his seat, facing her. Armed with his smartphone, he was videoing the entire scene. Like many in his generation, providing assistance was a second thought as opposed to documenting every tragic or dramatic scene they could with their devices. Technology gave society many great things but in equal return gave the bad. With a slight glee in his eye, the boy shot his video with hopes that he’d get millions of hits on YouTube.

Cassidy craned her head and looked at Margaret and said, “I think they gave me something.”

“Who gave you what?”

“I’m…having a reaction to…” She again motioned to her right arm.

“What is it?”

Looking as if she had just completed a spin workout, sweat poured off her face and body. Her clothes stuck to her body, soaked through.

The pilot suddenly appeared and asked, “Margaret, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her exactly, but as you can see.”

Like Margaret, he leaned in and asked, “Ma’am, how can we help you?”

Cassidy looked at him and said, “Devin.”

“Who’s Devin?” he asked.

Cassidy cringed and, without warning, threw up all over the seat back of row 22.

Everyone reeled from her vomit.

The teenager in row 22 shouted, “Gross! I got some on me!”

Cassidy again threw up.

The smell of bile and partially digested food filled the nostrils of all around and began to overtake others on the plane.

“I’m going to put us down. Get everyone in their seat,” the pilot ordered, then headed towards the cockpit.

In between vomiting episodes, Cassidy looked up and pleaded, “Help me.”

Everyone just looked at her. Some were unsure of how they could help; others just watched, not wanting to interfere for fear of getting sick.

The PA crackled to life.
“This is your captain. As you all know, we have a very sick passenger. At the moment we are too far out of New York to make it there. We are going to make an emergency landing in Indianapolis. There, the ill passenger will receive the medical care she needs. I apologize for any inconvenience, but rest assured we will get you all to your final destination.”

April 2, 2021

Decatur, Illinois

No matter how many times he looked at the weathered newspaper clippings, the thin edges taped to the exposed wood wall, he still wanted to believe everything had been a nightmare and he’d soon wake to find himself back in his small but cozy apartment with Cassidy by his side.

His eyes darted from one clipping to the next in a vain attempt to find a clue, something that would give him an answer to all of the madness.

‘October 4: Mystery Illness Hits Midwest’

‘October 5: Illness Spreads Coast to Coast’

‘October 6: Governors in Several States Declare Emergency’

‘October 8: Panic Sets In’

‘October 9: Pandemic Spreads Worldwide’

‘October 10: President Declares National Emergency’

‘October 12: Death Toll Reaches 35 Million’

‘October 13: Riots’

As he read, he couldn’t help but be distracted by the red spray paint that covered the clippings,
‘God Save Us All.’ 
The last clipping of October 13
^th
was not the last newspaper to be sold, but it was the last to be placed on this wall.

Devin tore himself away from this torturous ritual and proceeded with his daily routine. One of his routines was writing in a diary. He found it therapeutic, and in some ways it kept him connected to his past. As his pen coursed across the thin pages of the spiral-bound notepad, he felt the sun’s rays greeting him. He took a moment to peer through the only window the barn had. This little portal was his only eyes into the world that now existed. There he saw what he had seen every day for the past six months. The never-ending fields covered in carefully planted corn, now since dead. The tall dead stalks of corn stood like statues, a remnant of a time now gone. Like everything else, they suffered and died. Not from the pandemic that swept the world but from neglect. Now they provided a barrier between his sanctuary in the old barn and the contaminated planet.

Daily he thought about his journey from Indianapolis to his cousin’s house in Decatur, Illinois. It was an understatement to describe his drive as hell; it was much worse. Without a place to go after the pandemic spread and with all airports shuttered, he had been stuck in Indianapolis. Armed with only the address on his phone, he drove for his cousin Tom’s farm. He had met him twice, both times were when he was very young, but like many families, they never kept in touch and outside of Facebook, he never communicated with him. What brief exchanges they did have always ended with the standard ‘let’s get together soon’. Of course, those words were always meaningless and were mainly a form of conversational decorum that society couldn’t let go.

Today marked the six-month anniversary since he had found out about Cassidy. Looking back, Devin wished he had picked up his phone those many months ago. He had never been the type of person who couldn’t live without his phone; he looked at it as nothing more than a tool to make life easier and primarily for emergencies. This love/hate relationship he had with his mobile phone led to it being left several rooms away and on silent mode.

Devin had been a successful ghostwriter, and for him to work, he needed an environment free of distraction. He had heard some of the vibrations coming from his phone that day many months ago, but he ignored them. Only after he picked it up did he see the half-dozen missed calls from a number unfamiliar. Upon listening to the first message, he regretted not picking up the phone; that regret soon turned to despair. After going through several people at the hospital, he was put in touch with a person who could tell him what was going on with Cassidy. Without hesitation he put himself on the first flight out to Indianapolis, but that wouldn’t be till the next morning.

The delay in looking at his phone had a cascading effect; by the time he had reached the hospital in Indianapolis, it was too late. There was confusion at the hospital, and when he finally had the chance to talk to someone, they informed him that Cassidy had died. To add insult to injury that day, he never had a chance to see her body, as it had been confiscated and taken away by government agents.

The last images he would have of her were those taken from the boy’s phone in row 22. The bumpy but crisp resolution from the video gave him chills. Seeing Cassidy sick and in pain was too much for him. He could never stomach completing the video, and for a couple days following, the video was on every local news channel and had gone viral on YouTube and social media. What had been a unique incident soon spread, and within days what had played out on the plane was now everywhere. Soon everyone’s screens and devices were showing images and videos of others with the same symptoms.

He peered into the deep blue above; the clouds were still randomly traveling along, but the one companion that was noticeably absent was the birds. He hadn’t seen a bird or other flying creature in months. His self-imposed confinement had kept him safe but also ignorant to what was happening outside the twenty-acre farm.

The Death didn’t discriminate in its killing; it had mutated quickly and soon affected all wildlife and animals, killing them much like their human cousins.

His attention soon turned towards the main house. He wondered if the smell had finally subsided enough for him to go back in. He was running very low on supplies, and hadn’t entered the house since he had first arrived and gathered all he could quickly find and left the house as it was. His reason for staying away was because his cousin had taken it upon himself to not allow the pandemic to kill his family, so he did, then himself. He had never met Tom’s children, but from photos they looked very cute: a boy and a girl, couldn’t have been more than eight and six. When he had first arrived, he knocked and knocked. Needing a place to shelter himself, he forced his way in. Once in, the smell portended what he would eventually find: the family all gathered in a bedroom upstairs in the old farmhouse. The sight shocked and revolted him. He took all he could in the time before he lost his composure and made for the barn. There he would stay, hidden and safe. But now, if he was going to make it, he would need to venture back inside, and the thought chilled him.

Throughout the many long days and nights in his self-imposed confinement, he cursed never taking the time to learn much less read anything regarding survival. Often, he had openly mocked those who prepared for the very event he found himself in. Words like
‘silly, stupid and dumb’
would cross his tongue followed by
‘crazy, loony and nutjob’
to describe the people who did follow this lifestyle. Now he used those words to describe himself. Regardless of his ignorance on all matters survival, he was surprised by how quickly he adapted. If he had been asked before about his chances for survival in this type of event, he would have answered,
‘Not a chance.’

Trying to work up the courage to go back into the house, he paced the barn’s uneven dirt floor. It wasn’t that he had a fear of contracting something; he just didn’t want to smell what he had before. He had heard stories about the grotesque smell of rotting human flesh, but not until he experienced the stench could he confirm it was true. It was a smell like nothing he had ever come across. Couple that with seeing the bloated bodies and his body was racked with intense sensations of nausea. However, he had to go back in; between what he had taken out that first day and the stores of canned food he had discovered in the barn soon after, he was about out of food. He knew his hunt for food would soon have to go outside of the house and farm. That thought he dreaded.

During his many months in the barn, he had looked through every box, cabinet and dusty corner. One item he planned on using in his search of the house was a half-mask respirator that Tom’s wife, Jessica, had used for painting and refinishing old furniture, her hobby. Devin’s hope was that if there was a smell, this would protect his senses from it and make it easier to accomplish what he needed to do.

He slid the weathered barn door open, the sun’s late morning rays hit his skin, and he paused to absorb the warmth. The worn path from the house to the barn was still visible; the grasses hadn’t yet taken over and wiped out all traces of a once active property. He stepped closer and closer, taking each step with care till he reached the steps. He looked at them and noticed the wear from thousands of feet. The white paint that at one time covered them was missing in the center, and the wood itself had been ever so slightly carved away, eroded by every foot fall.

He walked up onto the porch and reached out to open the torn screen door, its corner ripped from his first time there over six months ago. He opened it and took the cold brass handle in his hand; he began to turn it when a familiar but not recent sound hit his ears , the deep bark of a dog.

He stopped and looked around.

It had been six months since he had seen, much less heard, a dog or other animal. He pivoted to get a bearing on where the bark came from. The kitchen door he was entering was on the south side of the house, the dirt county road sat opposite it on the north side, all around the house were fields of corn. He calmed his breathing and listened.

Again the dog barked, but this time it was closer, and it came from the north side of the house. Quickly, he entered the house and closed the door behind him. Hearing the dog struck fear in him, only because he worried the dog might be with someone or even hungry itself. Never in his life had he ever feared a dog, but now he assumed whatever was alive needed to eat, and dogs definitely had the capability to kill.

He rushed across the house to a large bay window that overlooked the gravel driveway and county road beyond that. He pulled the drapes aside and peered out, but saw nothing. His heart was racing, and sweat began to break out all over.

“Calm down, Dev. It’s just a dog,” he said to himself.

He heard the bark again.

His eyes shifted back and forth, hoping to see something.

He didn’t want to begin looking for food until he was sure of the location of the dog and whoever it might be with.

Out of his peripheral vision he saw something move; he focused and saw a dog. It was a large dog, a German shepherd. It jogged easily down the county road, its tongue hanging from its open mouth. Strangely, the dog appeared happy. He didn’t know why that thought came, but he imagined the dog would have a more sinister look.

He leaned closer to the window, as if that would help him see better.

A loud whistle stopped the dog.

Hearing someone whistle shot a cold chill up his spine. He could feel his heartbeat rise, and panic began to set in.

His eyes darted back and forth in anticipation of seeing the person who generated the whistle.

The dog stood at the end of the driveway and looked around, then looked behind it, but the dead cornstalks from the field that fronted the road prevented Devin from seeing who the dog was waiting for.

“Dev, get a hold of yourself. Calm down,” he said as he focused on his breathing.

He hadn’t seen another person since his long journey to Decatur, and that encounter was violent. He barely made it then and only imagined now that people were probably more vicious. He knew food had to be scarce, so seeing people scavenging shouldn’t be a shock, but after not seeing anyone in six months, he'd begun to believe he might be the only survivor.

Sweat streamed down his forehead and into his eyes. He hastily wiped it away and slicked his uneven short hair back; the sweat that clung to his hand he wiped on his pants. During his sequestration in the barn, he had kept up hygiene as best he could. Not liking long hair, he kept his thick black hair cut short with a pair of scissors he had discovered. His beard, black like his hair, was mixed with gray. He trimmed it regularly so it wasn’t longer than a quarter inch.