Humanity Gone: After the Plague Read online

  HUMANITY GONE

  Book I

  After the Plague

  by

  Derek Deremer

  with Dean Culver

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2012 by Derek Deremer

  Editing by Sandra Finley

  Prologue

  So this is what the world has become.

  Bullets continue to tear through the other side of the car. The small explosions and ricochets cement my feet tighter to the asphalt and I press as close as I can to the outside of the driver's side door. Every muscle in my body aches, but I know that I cannot give up here. She needs me. More than that, I promised my dad I would keep her safe. But most of all, I swore to myself that I would never let anything happen to her, no matter what it took. It was an odd promise for a seventeen year old to make at the time. A bullet shatters through the window above me and showers me with glass. I reach to my neck and swipe the shards away, cutting both my neck and hand in the process. Warm blood runs down my spine and I see a puncture on my left hand. Red droplets fall to the street.

  If I don't move now, they are going to kill me.

  I glance behind me to where the twins are hiding over the hill. I imagine they are still as I left them, huddled together with tears in their eyes. When I had first charged into the fray, they screamed at me to stop, and their screams continued for a while, but were barely audible when I went over the hill. Any noises from them would be completely gone amidst the chaos.

  Could they have been found already? Probably not. They are safe from these monsters' bullets on the other side of the hill. I am the one in danger. My sister is the one in danger.

  Mustering up the courage, I quickly peer through the shattered glass toward the shooters. There are at least six boys in the house. Two hide behind a make-shift barricade of wood and brick on the front lawn and the others were peering out the house's already shattered windows. At least three of them have guns. I duck down just as another bullet embeds itself into the car’s steel on the other side. They have me pinned down, and my only small hope is their need to reload. I use my bloodied hand to recheck the cylinder in my own gun. It only holds five shots, my only five shots, and it is not nearly enough. They have bigger guns. Most of all, I would be lucky enough to even hit the house with this thing.

  I hate guns again...

  A portion of the tire to my left is torn away by another flying bullet. What’s left of the tire deflates and the car crashes down to the hubcap. I really hate guns.

  The gunfire all of a sudden ceases. An eerie silence spreads over the lawn. My ears still ring from the noise of bullets, and the boys are shouting amongst themselves. I look up and notice all of the boys staring back at me. They have stopped firing, but my heart continues to the rhythm of the gunshots. What are they doing? Then I hear his voice. His rusty tone seems to echo off the asphalt street and stirs my insides. To think I trusted him.

  “Is that really you ole' Johnny boy? Well if you want her this bad, I guess I could offer a trade.”

  Chapter 1: Jonathon

  I turn up the volume on the television set. I had muted it as I finished my geometry work, but I took note of the banner across the bottom of the screen. I read it again and again. The information is nothing new, but I still find that my eyes fix themselves to the screen when they see the words:

  ...60 MILLION MORE DIE OF MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS...

  Ever since last month, people have been mysteriously dying all over the country. It keeps getting worse, and people are getting more and more restless outside of our apartments. The news and the president keep reassuring everyone that it will be okay. And when I say president, I mean the new president. The first was one of the initial victims to the “mysterious illness.” The vice president soon followed. I guess they had presidential succession for a reason.

  It starts with a rash with blisters, and then evolves into a fever. Then the body burns up so badly that it shuts down. Scientists, they say, are trying, but no one can stop it. School was suspended indefinitely two weeks ago, but I find myself still doing math to ease my mind. When I am engulfed in a math problem, my mind temporarily stops worrying what will happen tomorrow, next week, next month. Or next year. If there will be a next year. Finishing my senior year looked bleak.

  I move from the beige carpeting up into the comfort of the couch, bringing my work into my lap. My sister looks over from the dining room table. In front of her is a small cake she had prepared earlier that morning. Our dad loves the chocolate cake that my sister makes. She somehow added mint cookies to the recipe and it was to die for, but now it seems that someone is living for it. Our father woke up yesterday; a grotesque redness had emerged up from under his shirt and onto his neck. We had prayed that he wasn’t going to get it. Today, he woke up with a 104 degree temperature. Now, he is resting in between vomiting episodes.

  Tomorrow, he will be dead.

  My sister found comfort in preparing the cake and possibly letting him enjoy it the best he could before he slipped away. I want, or rather we want, to do more, but we can't. The hospital is overwhelmed with patients and is no longer accepting anyone. Yesterday, I drove down and pleaded my case to the nurse at the front. After shoving through the sidewalks and pushing my way into the busy lobby, I made it to the hospital desk. She looked at me with sad eyes and just said, “Keep him comfortable.” I hadn't been kidding myself; not even a single recorded patient had recovered. Every woman or man who took ill was dead within three days. Mysteriously however, no one under the age of nineteen has gotten sick. Not even a single child has fallen ill. My dad begged us to just drop him off at one of the Red Cross's “sick” tents that were up all over the city, but we refused. The tents were in pitiful condition and it was just somewhere else for him to die. We are going to stay a family as long as possible. It isn't going to be much longer anyway.

  My sister, Jocelyn, sets down the icing and walks over behind me, placing her hands on the back of the couch. Jo, as dad and I call her, gazes at the television. The news has been trying to keep the country updated, but everyone is dying. On the screen, a newswoman looks back blankly at us. She seems to have more make-up than normal and beads of sweat roll down her face. Her teal blouse looks worn. She is dying too, but she works on. I imagine people like her are barely keeping the city together. Her words are labored as they escape her fatigued body:

  “It has just entered the newsroom that another estimated sixty million deaths have been confirmed across the U.S. Some reports indicate this number is even higher. A rough poll seems to show that nine out of every ten adults is or has been infected and doctors believe all adults will succumb. Children have been shown resistant to the plague, even with direct exposure. Despite America still being in quarantine, foreign aid continues to pour in from Canada and the UK. However, they still aren't letting anyone leave the country and have set up military roadblocks along all major roadways. Unconfirmed reports have said that even patrols and fences have begun to appear at the border between these roads. Canada is not taking any chances on the disease spreading to its land. There are still no reported instances of the disease in any other country. Mexico, on the other hand, lacks the resources to prevent the mass immigration of children and unaffected adults into their country.

  “If you or someone you love has become infected, the remaining doctors are encouraging you to stay at home. Hospitals are beginning to shut down across the nation as doctors and nurses are becoming scarce.” The newscaster already seems tired from talking. She coughs. Her eyes turn from the camera to her left. She seems to be listening to som
eone. I share a glance with my sister before the newscaster returns her eyes to the screen. The newscaster’s bloodshot eyes are now filled with tears.

  “My manager has just informed me that this will be our last broadcast. Nearly all of us at the station, including myself, have begun to show symptoms. We have done our best to continue to keep you informed of the horrific events of this last month. We ask everyone to remain calm throughout the dark days ahead. To the young viewers, it will be okay. People are working around the clock to create a plan for you. Stay calm, and await help.” She pauses momentarily, seemingly out of words. “May God be with all of you. Good-bye.”

  A tear flows down the side of her cheek as her composure finally gives in during her final words. She begins to cough. Then all of a sudden the television goes blank and an eerie pitch yells from the speakers. I fumble for the remote and turn it off. I feel Jocelyn's hand rest on the top of my head. Her fingers clench my hair tighter than she realizes. It hurts, but I don't say a word.

  “What are we going to do?” she says. Her voice seems to be devoid of any emotion. I turn my head up and see her hazel green eyes between the bangs of red hair. Tear stains line her pale cheeks. These stains have not left since dad became sick. She keeps disappearing into her room and comes back with bloodshot eyes. She’s a year younger than me, but she wants to look strong for me. I don't know how to answer her. I have been trying to figure out a plan ever since the news suggested yesterday that 99% of America's adults would be dead by the end of next week. No more cops, firefighters, doctors, or utility workers. I know that we need a plan.

  The city is going to become chaos, and I don't want to be around when it all falls apart.

  A piercing, explosive ring rises above the murmur of the streets below. It’s too late to avoid the chaos, I guess. It wasn’t the first gunshot we have heard in the past few weeks. I wonder if that was a shot meant to kill. The thought forces me to close my eyes and exhale completely. I don’t know if I could ever justify taking a life.

  “Jon,” Jo's voice snaps me out of it, “what the hell are we going to do?”

  “I'm working on it.”

  “Well can you clue me in just a little?” Her shortness with me begins. Ever since all of this chaos started we have been getting along.

  “We are going to need to get out of here. Apparently some parts of the city have already lost power and water,” I respond. Yesterday, when I walked to the hospital, crowds of people in the streets described how parts of the city were deteriorating.”

  “Let’s start thinking of what to do.” She pauses, looks down, and then back up to me. “I know the news says we should be okay, but do you think one of us could get sick?”

  Her eyes go back to dad's bedroom. The thought of losing him has been thrown to the farthest recesses of my mind.

  “I hope not.”

  Chapter 2: Jonathon

  I shut the door and lock it with my sister around my left arm. Dad had passed away in the night and we just finished our goodbyes. We didn't know where to take him. 911 was busy every time we had tried to call in his last few hours. I never imagined feeling so alone in the middle of a city. Outside, the world seems to be getting louder and louder; it is the deafening sound of death striking home after home. When I look down from the sixteenth story of our apartment complex, I see crowds swarming the streets. Our neighbors on either side have remained silent. Either they are dead or have already left the city. I guide my sister to the dining room table, her unfinished cake still before her. As dad became worse and worse, she never left his side and her project remained unfinished. Inhaling, I barely make out the smell of the frosting, still waiting to be decorated.

  I walk to the window and press my forehead against the glass. The orange glow of morning lights up the streets and the masses of people below. Cars honk, people yell, and there seem to be a few dead bodies just lying alongside some buildings. No, they must be just resting. How could people just leave someone dead alongside a building? They can’t be dead and just lying there. My eyes twitch back and forth. My hand, unbidden, rises to my face to wipe away the tears that I anticipate. But none surface. As I force my hand slowly to my side, I consider why. Maybe I am in shock.

  I take my head off the window and turn to see my sister whose head has sagged, supported by her arm stretched across the table. Tears have not abandoned her. We knew this was coming, but it didn't make it any easier. Before my father died, he reached with a finger and beckoned for me to come nearer. I sat on the wooden stool next to his bed and Jocelyn stood at the foot of his bed. It took all his strength as he took a deep breath and began.

  “Both of you...” coughs rattled his sentences, “get out of the city. Things are going to get bad out there. Man vs. Man. Get into the country. Take care of each other. It will get better. Until...” he worked his jaw, trying to manage his breath. Dad had given a lot of thought into his final words. “Take the gun, all the essentials here, and the car. Don't stop anywhere. People will get desperate. They won't act like they normally will, even children will change. Humanity will disappear.” He seemed to have no life left. He was completely drained and sweat soaked his hair and pillow. Without warning, he reached up grabbed my shirt and pulled me inches from his mouth.

  “Don't let me down again.”

  That last exertion rendered him unconscious. That would be the last thing he ever said to me. For a few moments I hated him for leaving me with that. I have tried so hard to make up for my sins. It never was enough for him. By the time he took in his final breath, that hate turned into understanding. I promised him and myself at that moment, when I pulled the sheet over his face, that I would not mess up again. Not like last time...

  “We need to get started,” I say to Jo after a long silence, still leaning with my fist against the window. I quickly explain what dad suggested to me in the end. It sounded good enough for me. Better than our idea to try and run for the border. She looks up at me, nodding through the tears.

  Before I know it, Jo and I are running about the apartment packing book-bags and the single suitcase we owned. We load the black suitcase with all of the food from the kitchen that would last: canned soup, peanut butter, crackers, a few bottles of water, rice, and some other random assortments we could manage from the already meager cabinets. Our last shopping trip was a week ago and the grocery store was already bare. People were stocking up.

  We each gather some clothes. Fall had just begun so we also want to prepare for the winter ahead. We pack everything as tightly as we can and place it by the door. The piece of luggage is heavy but luckily it has some wheels and our backpacks pull tightly against our shoulders. As we stand there, we both glance back at the apartment. I think we both feel the same eerie feeling: we will never see our home again. This was not our first home, in fact we had moved around a lot, but it was our longest home in the past few years since mom died. Beside the television set was a photograph from three years ago, the last one with mom. It was at some picnic. We all look so happy. Dad smiles ear to ear with mom around his left arm and Jo and me under his right. Jo was starting to look a lot like mom. They had the same strawberry blonde hair and wore it nearly the same way. Dad and I didn't look too much alike, but we shared the same eyes. That was one of the last times we would be together as a family. We lost mom a few weeks later. Now, we just lost dad. I feel the tears from earlier creep up on me. I shake my head. Jo seems to have read my mind as she goes to the photograph, takes it out of the frame, and tucks it into her bag.

  I almost forgot. There is only one more thing to get.

  I finally step over to the closet and bring down my dad's safe box, or whatever you call it. The combination is simple: 888. I look in at its contents, and a small revolver with a half empty box of bullets peers back up. I don't really like guns. I stuff it in my jacket pocket and put the rest of the bullets in my book bag. My sister gives me a weary look.

  “You could never use that.” she says, worried. And she is right.


  “I know,” as I fumble with it in my pocket, trying to make it look less noticeable. “It may help with a bluff though. Hey, maybe I could shoot a deer with it when we get settled.” Jocelyn’s eyebrow rises. I don't know the first thing about deer hunting. I exhale with a mild grin. It was a poor joke.

  “We'll figure it out,” she returns with a half smile. A smile of uncertainty. “Let's get going. Dad would have wanted us to leave as soon as we could.”

  “What should we do with dad?” I ask. Leaving him there didn't seem like the best option. He should be buried. Jo looks at me and her eyes show a struggle with what to do.

  “If things get under control we will come back and take care of him. There's no time.” She responds. It’s not what she wants to do, but it's what we have to do.

  I pull the door to the hallway open and slowly step outside as a very reasonable fear settles in. I don't know what to expect out here, and I don’t know if I’ll be capable of making all the right decisions. This apartment was the last place we had control. Outside-things were completely out of our hands. Jo begins slowly down the hall toward the staircase that leads to the parking garage. There’s no time to obsess about the future now; we need to move. Instinctively, I turn and lock the door behind me. Habit, I guess.

  We begin our walk slowly down the hall. The hall feels like a passageway to hell. It’s quiet except for the muffled noises in the streets echoing through the wall. After going down one flight of stairs, it gets dark.

  The power goes out.

  It is pitch black aside from the emergency exit sign that leads to the parking garage. We fumble through the dark as I drag the luggage down the steps. I open the door to the garage and my eyes adjust to the light. My nose fills with an awful stench and I try to grab Jo's head to cover her eyes, but I am too late.