Chapter 4: Virginia

The nurse at Virginia Mercy had purple fingernails.

That was all Killy Denton remembered of her whole first night in Virginia. The nurse was a tall black woman who could have passed for Audrey's mom, and she had purple fingernails. Her dark eyes were wide with concern, but Killy did not care. The blood loss had begun to take its toll, and she could barely answer the questions the purple finger nailed nurse asked. The doctors stitched her up, asking even more questions all the while, but only Audrey was sensible enough to answer them. About Killy's family history she could not say, but Killy herself knew, and sluggishly thought her answers as the doctors worked.

"What is your name?"

Katherine Bite-Me Denton.

"How old are you?"

Old enough.

"Do you have a history in your family of heart problems?"

Nope, just alcoholism and drug abuse.

"Are you under the influence of alcohol?"

Not currently. You might find a bit of weed in my blood though. Lots of it, actually. It's pretty good stuff.

"How did this happen?"

I got attacked by a hoodie-wearing monster that's probably been following me since I left home. Now shut up, Doc, I'm tryna sleep.

Mumbles. Audrey's voice, slipping in and out of coherence. What sounded like a prayer. The doctors mumbling more, and then Audrey crying. What's she crying about? I'm gonna live, after all, it's not . . . It's not like this is the worst I've ever had.

And then an internal voice spoke up, one that sounded like the cute and tired doctor she had met in Callings. Your ribs might have been broken, they were already injured. You kept thinking they were broken in the days before you met Audrey, but now I think they're really broken.

Shut up, Doc.

Katherine. Start being sensible. Did that encounter with the Tank not clear your mind? You need to start trusting Audrey.

Killy had begun to refer to the monster that killed her friends as a Tank. Not just because it was the size of one, but also because she privately believed that it would take something like a Mark V to take that bastard down. But the voice was not real, and it pissed her off that she was reduced to speaking to her subconscious. You are a combination of hysteria, blood loss, and morphine. Shut the hell up.

The voice faded. She slept.

Some time later, she awoke suddenly, in a brightly-lit white room with a tile floor and long blue cloth curtains around the bed she slept in. "The hell?" she croaked.

A blurry form stood over her. "You're awake," said Audrey's worried voice. "I'm so glad. I think they gave you too many drugs. I told the nurse we couldn't pay and she said we didn't have to, just have to get our parents."

"Did she call . . . My dad?"

"I don't know." Audrey sounded sad. "She asked me for my home number, and tried to call my mom and dad but . . . ."

"They're both dead, aren't they?"

Audrey nodded, though tears were blooming in her eyes. "Mama died first, and Daddy three days later. He was a doctor, you know, at Mercy. He told me he saw Patient Zero. But he refused to tell me any more. He said the military wouldn't allow it. But I think he brought it home. Before either of them died, my baby sister did. Angela. She died in a few days. Never even became a zombie. Mama cried and cried and cried, and the last time I saw her she was sick with it. We're black, you obviously figured out, but when I saw Mama . . ." Audrey closed her eyes and managed to choke out, "her skin was ash gray. She was turning white. A sick off-white. Her hair was so lovely before, and I used to tell everyone, when I was small, that I had the prettiest Mama in the whole world. Her hair was turning white too. And her eyes were constantly red from crying, and it looked like they almost glowed red sometimes. I was scared of her. If you bothered her or came close to her she'd start screaming and getting really angry. She chased me out of the house one time, and I ran away from her, and then I met you . . . ." She buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

Killy winced. "Aud, don't cry . . . ." She reached out to the girl.

"I miss Mama," Audrey wept. "I miss Daddy, I miss Angela. She was only four months old, Kat! Four months! Why did God take a baby only four months old?"

"It's not God," said Killy solemnly. "It's humanity. Whatever this Green Flu is, it's not the product of Nature. Someone in government fucked up, and now we're all suffering. Don't blame God, Audrey."

"Don't you sound religious," sniffed Audrey.

Briefly Killy considered showing Audrey the crucifix hidden in her bra, then discarded the idea. She didn't want to remember how religious her mother had been. She hated the superstitious idea that God was always watching her, because her life of sin was not something she wanted to share. But she kept the cross anyway, because it was her last link to her dead family.

With care for her wounds, Audrey hugged her friend briefly. Killy awkwardly returned the hug. "We should sneak outta here," said Audrey.

Killy wiped her eyes surreptitiously, suddenly businesslike. "Are my clothes and my bag somewhere?"

"Yeah, here." Audrey handed Killy a plastic hospital bag. "They said we could go, once you were checked out. The nurse said she'd check in at least every hour, but she last checked in at three and it's seven now."

"Whatever, let's go."

"I think the building's being quarantined."

Killy halted in the act of pulling on her jeans. "What?"

"I went to the cafeteria earlier to grab some stuff to eat and . . . Two of the nurses were talking. I think the Flu's traveling faster than we are. They said they've had like seven zombies taken away in CEDA vans in the last four days. They were scared you had it too because, well, they thought your cuts look like the result of one of the mutations of the disease."

"Hold on." Killy pulled up her jeans and buttoned them deftly. "Mutations?"

"Yeah. They call the one that claws at you a Hunter. That's the one you got attacked by. There have been two more reports of them attacking people who aren't infected yet."

The Tank's a mutation too, Killy thought. Aloud she said "Come on, Audrey, let's get the hell outta here."

Audrey rifled through the cabinet in the corner, producing some rolls of gauze pad and medical tapes. Killy finished dressing and put her hood over her head. There were some small bloodstains on it, but nothing that would raise suspicion. They slipped out of the hospital room, Killy limping along behind Audrey, who walked confidently. They avoided all the nurses in their scrubs, the harried doctors with tired and haggard faces. They reached the elevators without much trouble, but when the doors opened on the ground floor, they found it crowded with people. The central desk in the middle of the large square room was obscured by dozens upon dozens of terrified men and women who coughed, sneezed, and hacked up phlegm into tissues. "It's been like this all day," muttered Audrey. "Half of them don't even have the Green Flu. They all just think their allergy, or cold, or regular flu, are the deadly disease."

Killy's forbidding eyes stared around the room. "This is madness. God-damn government. What the hell do they have to screw with everything for?"

"They're making a vaccine," said a passing nurse confidently, wheeling a young man with a cast on his leg into an exam room.

"Like hell they are," grumbled Killy. "Come on, Aud, we're not sick, let's get outta here."

There was no difficulty trying to leave the hospital. Only one security guard even noticed them, and his eyes were bright and glassy with fever. He never spoke a word, not when Killy limped past, reeking of sweat and dirt and blood, and not when Audrey nearly tripped him. He frowned and drifted off, stumbling a little. "Zombie," muttered Killy. "Damn zombie in the making and nobody's noticed yet."

Audrey shivered. "Let's hurry."

They snuck past a stern-faced nurse and dashed out the door of the ER into the general part of the hospital. Bewildered, Audrey glanced around. "I think we took a wrong turn," she said, laughing nervously. "Killy?"

Silence.

"Killy?"

"Right here, Aud."

She turned. Killy was standing before a television, frozen, oblivious to the people pushing past her. "What's up?" Audrey asked hesitantly, coming to look at the television. It was a news report. On screen, a lovely blonde woman in a smart blue suit was talking about something. Audrey listened close, trying to hear over the bustling crowd.

"We have determined that CEDA has taken the entirety of Talville into quarantine. No one is allowed to enter or leave. Meanwhile a train bearing 'live specimens' has been seen, armed to the teeth with military personnel, leaving the Talville train station. The apartment building on South 133rd street has been cordoned off. The cause of the apparent gas explosion has not been identified. As you may well remember, three bodies were found on the lower floor, crushed to death by the fallen wall. They were identified as Roy Chambers, 21; Steven Harper, 20; and Marinda Stewart, 19. A fourth was found a hundred feet away with a broken skull massive internal injuries, probably thrown from the wreckage of the building. The identity of this person was revealed to be John Casten. A fifth was also found dead, but unidentified. We now go to Livvy Williams with the continuing report. Livvy . . . . ?"

Killy stalked off, and when she passed, Audrey swore later than she actually heard that heartless bitch sob, just once.

~(!)~

Five hundred miles from Paul Flannigan's body, the Midnight Riders sat in their bus, watching the sky. It was Georgia, Georgia at last, but the Peach Pit was being used as an evac station rather than a concert hall. Huge crowds, some wearing Midnight Riders t-shirts, waited in anxious lines for the evac to finally reach them.

"This sucks," said Ox glumly.

"Big time," agreed Jake.

"I'm hungry," complained Smitty.

"You're always hungry," snapped Dusty. He wiped his face on his sleeve. "So, if we can't do our show here, and all our stuff's already set up for us, what happens now?"

"We take it all back and go down to the next stop," was Smitty's logical reply. "That little town with the shitty venue."

"Rayford?" Ox wrinkled his nose. "I hate that place."

"You hate everywhere," retorted Jake.

"Will both of you be quiet?" demanded Dusty. "What the hell are we gonna do?"

"Well, we have our guitars still. Our own personal ones. Mics and cables and shit too."

"But none of the recorded stuff," argued Ox. "We'll sound like shit live!"

"So what?" asked Smitty sharply. "We gotta continue this tour, to pay off that sweet little waitress in Tampa . . . And all the other women we may go for during the tour. And the booze and everything. We can't live the way we do without serious cash."

"I need a new gun," agreed Dusty.

"Screw the tour, people are sick and dying . . . ."

"We need to do this!" snapped Smitty. "Shut it, Ox!"

Suddenly there was a rap at the window. An official-looking agent stood impatiently on their doorstep. Smitty flung the door open, nearly knocking the man over. "WHAT?" he roared. "We're having a goddamn argument here! Can't you wait till we finish fighting?"

"I'll come back when you've beaten the shit out of each other," snapped the agent. Taken by surprise, Smitty stared. "Now listen, biker, because what I have to say is important. We're evacuating all non-essentials from this area via helicopter. You count as non-essentials. You have to go to the Peach Pit Arena and sign in with the head agents there to receive medical attention, and you will be shipped to Outpost DC."

"We can't leave our bus!" exclaimed Smitty. "What the hell is your problem?"

"You have to. It is the order of the United States Government, and CEDA."

Dusty stood up and ambled forward, thick combat boots making loud thuds against the floor of the bus. He stepped down next to the agent and Smitty. "It seems you don't know anything about the Riders," he said slowly. "We don't give a damn about the United States Government." Then he punched the agent right in the face. Smitty heard the dull crack as the poor man's nose broke. Blood exploded outward and the man fell backward, stone unconscious.

There was a shocked silence. Ox and Jake peered over at the open door. "Damn, Dusty," said Ox mildly. "I finally respect you. You proved yourself to be a real brawler."

"For the first time in ten years," added Jake, who smirked.

"Shut up," responded Dusty. "There are bound to be more agents everywhere. They'll know we haven't checked in with the assholes in the Pit."

"We can't leave our bus," Ox repeated. "We can't."

"We won't," assured Dusty. "They can't keep us forever. Once we get to the Outpost or whatever, we'll bribe them to let us go back to Rayford."

"But the bus . . . ."

"Ox, shut up."

"Dammit what about our bus?"

"Leave that to me, Ox. Leave that to me."

~(!)~

CEDA Agent Aaron Miles strode across the Whispering Oaks parking lot, sweat gleaming on his forehead. It was turning out to be a cool day, but he was hot and feverish nonetheless. He knew he was sick, but he was trying to hide it from the world, scared to infect his friends and family.

He crossed the pavement to the giant black tour bus, garishly colored in bright orange. He knocked on the door, trying to be authoritative. But he was sweating and trembling, and not just from nervousness over facing the prominent rock stars. He was terrified that CEDA would not develop a vaccine, and he would become a zombie, and then die. Frowning, he knocked on the door again. A man opened it, a fat man with long black hair and a mustache, wearing a vest over his white t-shirt. He frowned. "Yeah?"

"Good afternoon, sir," said Miles nervously, sneezing lightly. "Ah, pardon me, that was my allergies." It was stunning how easily he lied now. "You are the Midnight Riders, yes? I'm sorry I don't really listen to your type of music . . . ."

"What's wrong with our music?" demanded the big man. He raised his fist, and Miles flinched. But a second man came up behind him and set a hand on his shoulder before he could get violent.

"Easy, Ox," this second man cautioned. "What can we do for you, son?"

"My superior, Agent Myers, was supposed to inform you, you see, we-"

The man cut him off. "Oh yeah we know, Myers already left. We're coming."

"Excellent, Mr. . . . .?"

"Dusty." He looked over his shoulder. "Smitty's coming now."

There were a series of thuds, and then a third man came into view, bearing a huge suitcase. His arms were taunt with the strain of holding the bulging case. "Let's go, fellas." He scowled at Miles. "Come on, Agent Screwup. I packed the clothes, the least you can do is be a tour guide. Show us to the check-in."

Miles coughed again, lightly. "Let's go. Someone will be along to take care of your bus. It will be waiting for you when the Green Flu passes. You can pick it up in Outpost DC." There was another lie for the list. Subtly he tried to prevent the men from seeing the huge roll of orange tape, stamped with CEDA Quarantine, that hung from a hook on his belt.

The three men exited the bus and stood in a line, staring coldly at Miles, who suddenly felt very small. All three of the rock stars were wearing leather jackets, gauntlets, and heavy boots. Even the fat one, Ox, looked frightening. His expression was nothing short of murderous. If there had been a rock nearby, Miles had a feeling that the big fat man would bash in his face. "Is this all of you?" asked Miles, nervous again.

"Yep." The three men answered in perfect harmony, Miles noticed. That was creepy. Uneasily he smiled and led them away from the bus. They trailed in a line, Ox first, Dusty last. Ox strode confidently just behind Agent Miles, who was distracted by the nagging feeling of having lost something.

When his pocket vibrated, Ox could only grimace. How he hated this damn thing. He pulled out the cellphone in his pocket to read a text from Dusty. All of us are painted on the bus lol it said.

Ox surreptitiously typed back this guy is such a dumbass only ceda agent Ive liked so far.

Two seconds later, Dusty snorted aloud with mirth, and Ox smirked. This was going to be fun.

~(!)~

Jake watched the four men leave through a gap in the curtain. As soon as the door to the bus had closed, he had crawled out from under his bed and watched the men cross the parking lot toward the Peach Pit. He briefly thought out a prayer to whatever God he still halfway believed in, and slipped out of the bunkroom. Jesus Christ, we're never gonna get out this, he thought, glancing around the main part of the bus. Now where did Ox leave the keys?

Trying not to panic was his first priority. He took a deep breath to steady himself and calmly glanced around the bus's interior. There was the table, covered in magazines but with no keys. There was the couch, snug up against the division between the driver's seat and the living space, bolted to the floor. There was the table in front of the couch, also bolted down, covered in wires and cables and a broken guitar. He stepped up on top of the table and peered into the luggage compartments. Beer bottles, a pair of jeans, half a dozen drumsticks, more magazines, and a DVD player. Awesome. He checked the other side of the luggage compartment. Even more magazines. Jesus Christ, Ox sure loved Home and Garden. Why, Jake was not sure. He snorted. The sound was very loud in the empty stillness of the bus. Unnerved, he checked on the floor. No keys. Then he stepped down to the driver's seat. Nothing on the dashboard. Nothing under the seat. He swore. The silence was seriously beginning to nag at him. It was too quiet. No drunken shouting, no snoring, no bitching. A powerful wave of sadness washed over him. The possibility that he would never see Ox, Smitty, and Dusty again was just too traumatizing to embrace.

Jake sat in the driver's seat, glum. His buddies were gone, he could not find the keys, and for some reason, his ass hurt. He scowled and stood back up. There were the keys, glinting in the afternoon light. "How did I not check on top of the seat?" he muttered to himself, and then glanced around. Ten minutes without the guys and he was already talking to himself like a mad man. Dear God, he needed a drink.

Carefully he picked up the keys. They felt warm in his hand, warm from the sun and from his well-padded ass. He inserted the bus key into the ignition and sat down. "Now," he grunted. "Let's see what this old monster can do."

~(!)~

Agent Miles dropped the three men off at the VIP check-in. They seemed cheerful enough, talking and joking and elbowing each other. Only after they were boarded onto their own private helicopter with three armed government workers, a pilot, and a CEDA agent (A passing acquaintance of Miles', a man named Nicholas Sweet, very nice man, three young children) did Miles finally retire to the CEDA tent to check in with his superior, Agent Torrance.

"Agent Miles, are the Midnight Riders gone?" asked Torrance, opening his notebook the second Miles ducked into the tent. His folding card table, propped up with boxes of files, was covered with medical records and memos from the government and department head. He pulled out a pen from his coffee mug and held it poised over the names of what had to be Dusty, Smitty, and Ox.

"Yep, Mr. Dusty, Mr. Smitty, and Mr. Ox are on their plane to DC," he said cheerfully, sitting down at the chair and stifling another cough. God, this flu was getting frightening. If he coughed in front of Torrance, it was all over.

"Mr. Thorne?" A small wrinkle creased Torrance's wide, smooth forehead.

"What?"

"Jake Thorne, the bassist?"

"There was Dusty, Ox, and Smitty."

"Yes, Mr. Duston Sloan, Mr. Allan 'Ox' Sanchez, and Mr. Gregory Smith, or Smitty. But you did not see Jake Thorne?"

Miles' eyes widened with horror. "They said there were only three . . . ."

"Idiot!" cried Torrance, leaping to his feet. Papers spilled everywhere and lapped around his ankles. "They're all painted on the bus!"

"The bus?" Sweat stood out clearly on Miles' forehead now. "I didn't notice."

"WHERE is the bus?" demanded Torrance in a hoarse roar. When he drew himself up, he towered over Miles. "WHERE IS IT?"

"In the parking lot! Outside the Screaming Oak entrance! Section B2!" Miles wailed, terrified. "Don't kill me!" Torrance sneered in disgust at seeing the man cower and stomped over to the opening of the tent. There was half a second of silence, and then Torrance exploded into the most colorful series of curses Miles had ever heard before. Miles scurried over to Torrance's side. "What's wrong, sir?" he started to say, but the words died in his throat before he had the chance. Dark gray eyes took in the view on the other side of the tent flap, and as he watched, even Torrance's increasingly-nasty curses seemed to fade away. The scene outside had captured his full attention. Fear and horror began to flood his veins with ice.

Oh, God, this was bad. Bad bad bad. Worse than the flu currently ruining his health, worse than the affair he was secretly having, worse than the coming apocalypse. This was the worst screw-up he had ever been a part of.

"Agent Miles?"

Miles turned to Torrance. He was remarkably calm. The brick-color had faded from his face, but a vein still twitched in his strong jaw. Miles relaxed a tiny bit. At least he wasn't cursing anymore.

"Yes, Agent Torrance?" he asked hopefully.

Torrance smiled, but his green eyes still threw off sparks of rage. "If we get out of this, I'm going to fucking kill you."

~(!)~

The Midnight Riders tour bus roared past three CEDA agents in airtight suits. Their shocked yells and demands to halt fell on deaf ears. The bus picked up speed. Jake winced as he yanked the wheel to the right. This bus was not built for delicate maneuvers.

It had been slow going at first, trying to get the damn thing out of the lot. He had to navigate around a few barriers. More than one had ended up under the bus. But finally he had gotten free of the maze and out into open concrete, a free path all the way to the highway. Then the CEDA agents finally noticed he was going in the wrong direction, and that he certainly wasn't wearing one of their official polo shirts. First they had stepped in front of the bus, which was still tooling around at walking speed. One of them raised his arm and hailed Jake from a safe distance. Hey, brother, the gesture seemed to say. Come on back, man. That ain't the way. Come on back, it's safe here.

Jake had responded with the most easily-recognizable sign in the world, and the arm dropped. Grinning like a loon, he gradually began to pick up speed, and the agents scattered before he turned them into road kill. They were shouting now, but it was not audible to him. This bus was damn-well soundproof. The expressions on their faces told the story. There was no more easygoing "hey man" body language. Now the agents were pissed off. In a few minutes, they would probably shoot him.

He pressed down on the accelerator. A bright orange cone succumbed to the crushing weight of the tour bus's wheel. There was a golf-cart following him, a green one with the CEDA stamp on it. As if that thing could chase him. He slammed his fist against the horn, and the golf cart screeched to a halt, colliding with another barrier. Jake laughed like a crazy man and whooped, "Take that CEDA!"

Dear God, this was crazy. Totally insane. He couldn't expect to make it out. He expected these bastards to pop the tires, or plant explosives in front of him. But they didn't. They seemed even less organized than they pretended to be. He floored the accelerator with one booted foot. The bus roared, smashing aside two barricades, and crashed through the main gate in a spray of wood and plastic quarantine tape. Free, free, Jake Thorne was finally free, and with this vehicle to safety in his command, he could drive forever on the open road. Provided CEDA didn't blow his ass up.

"Dear God, help me," he muttered. His mind was scrambling. Free, free, free. For the love of God, he was going to get out of CEDA control! He had to get to Rayford. First, some practical thinking. He took a deep, calming breath. Then he glanced at the gas gauge. ¾ of a tank left. Perfect. Time to put some distance between himself and the defunct Whispering Oaks park.


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