My Lockdown: A Virus Outbreak Horror Thriller

By Andrew Mackay

Stay indoors, you risk infection.
Step outside and you could get killed.
Teenager Dolph Carter faces this dilemma. He's trapped at home. The virus has put Chrome Valley on lockdown.
Inside, Carter's infected father self-isolates in the bedroom. His grandmother and sister are at each other's throats with cabin fever.
Outside, the virus has brought out the worst in the valley: stores looted, homes invaded, and people robbed -- all for the bare necessities we used to take for granted.
Those in charge demanded social distancing--and now they've got it.
Armed with an oxygen mask and a crowbar, Carter braves the lawless streets of Chrome Valley to gather food and essentials for his family. It's a dangerous journey that will land him in the clutches of violent profiteers and criminal gangs, all with nothing to lose.
Carter may never see his family again -- but will they recognize the once-optimistic young man if he ever makes it back?
STAY ALERT > CONTROL THE VIRUS > DOWNLOAD YOUR COPY NOW.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chrome Valley Books
• Release date: Mar 23, 2020

Book preview

Acknowledgments

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Isolationist

The prequel to the Chrome Valley Thrillers series

Get it for FREE at the very end of this book.

And now, on with the show…

Chapter 1a: Containment

"To all those who have bought twenty-eight packages of pasta; two-dozen pallets of toilet paper;

one hundred bottles of hand sanitizer, and are planning to abscond your town with your family to someplace safer…

never again will you look down on those fleeing from fascism and famine."

— Anonymous.

Wednesday, January 8.

It’s easy to trace back to where it all started.

The virus originated in the Chuken province of China.

All you have to do is look at the CCTV footage of those disembarking flight X706 at Fairfax International Airport.

The plane landed thirty minutes early, at 2:06 pm.

Two-hundred-and-thirty-eight passengers were on board. One of the passengers, a man in his late thirties, wore a leather jacket, a red cap, and pair of shades.

We know who he is, now.

And we think we know why he was wearing shades on this especially bright, cold day. His eyes were bloodshot, and he clearly didn’t want anyone to know.

Passenger X made his way to the concourse that led him to passport control.

Several security cameras picked up his journey—from the connecting gantry, along the travelators, and past many opportunities for a bathroom break. During that thirteen-minute journey, he sneezed three times, but only covered his face for two of those instances, and held onto the travelator’s handrail.

If we speed the footage up, we can see just how many travelers held the same part of the rail Passenger X had touched.

He was visibly unwell by the time he arrived at the unmanned passport control.

Three years ago, passport control at Fairfax replaced human officials with automated machines that ask you to scan your passport, look into the camera, and verify you via face recognition, fingerprint identification, and the chip embedded in your shiny, new blue passport.

Passenger X looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Terminal C, the machine he’d used, took his photo and allowed him through to baggage claim, where he went on to mistake his green, hard-shell carry case for someone else’s.

The bag in question came from a leading retailer named The Brand. The bag he took looked similar, but was of much inferior quality.

He’d gone so far as to wrap his arms around the casing and lift it off the conveyor before the real owner approached him.

Passenger X struggled with the weight of the bag. His face made contact with the leather-bound strap at the top just as the owner of the bag talked to him.

The two events appear unrelated, but on closer inspection, it appeared that Passenger X had sneezed just as he dropped the case, and shook hands with its owner by way of apology.

The image of Passenger X captured by Terminal C had sufficient lighting. It caught a deadening of the pupils, presumably dilated due to fatigue from the nine-hour flight. The high resolution image also picked up perspiration on his face, from his brow to his cheeks.

The second-to-last recorded image is of Passenger X exiting customs, with nothing to declare—apart from the virus he had no idea he was carrying.

To make such a flippant remark is dispiriting, to be sure, but in this case it is scarily accurate. Trying his best to conceal his evident physical turmoil - namely shivering flu-like symptoms - he hailed a waiting cab at the rank, climbed in, and headed east on the main freeway.

Passenger X was admitted to Waddling Gate Hospital in Chrome Valley two hours later complaining of respiratory problems and a high fever.

This was exactly twelve hours before seventeen separate passengers from flight X706 did the same thing.

Passenger X passed away on a hospital cart on the seventh floor of the hospital three days later.

Pneumonia was the recorded cause of death.

It was a full three hours before anyone in the hospital realized he had passed away…

LOCK DOWN — DAY SEVEN

Monday, February 18th

Shh. Keep your head down.

I am, I am.

Bad enough having to break this glass, man.

Do it quietly, though.

Yeah, no shit.

Undeterred by his friend’s patent sarcasm, Randolph Carter pressed his right shoulder to the bricks and lifted his arms.

He caught his reflection in the window pane—a hulking oxygen respirator hid his face, stripping him of his identity.

The street lamps turned off in the middle of the night which afforded him an unobstructed view of his featureless face.

Only his bright, brown eyes were visible through the breathing apparatus. The quickening of his heart contradicted his breathing, like that of Darth Vader’s.

His friend, Dean Brayker, nudged him on the shoulder and whispered through his breathing mask. Yo, Dolph?

What, Brayker? Can’t you see I’mma bout to smash this glass, man?

Check it out.

Brayker pointed at a piercing white light shifting through the dull, grey clouds.

Chopper, man.

Shit.

Dolph clutched his backpack moved back, nearly tripping over the lone step that lay before the porch at the front of the house.

Whoa.

Whudda-whudda-whudda.

The metal behemoth roared through the clouds, appearing to break them apart. Dolph and Brayker sidled together under the porch shelter and let the search light roll through the freshly-cut front lawn.

Shit, shit—

—Shut up, man, Dolph said.

The helicopter meant business, searching the trees that lined the far end of the yard. The vehicle’s final twist in the air threw a blast of Godly light over the wooden shed, before moving on to the next dwelling.

That was close, man, Brayker said. I wanna get home. Let’s get this thing done.

Amen to that.

Dolph reached into his backpack, pulled out a crowbar with his right hand, and crossed his chest with his arm, ready to strike.

Get down.

Brayker did as instructed and crouched to his knees.

Remember, if they give us any shit, knock ‘em out.

I got it.

Smash.

The window pane exploded the moment the cold iron crashed through it. A series of spiderweb cracks rocketed in all directions from the impact, pushing dozens of shards of glass to fall into the front room.

Dolph lowered his arm, surprised that an alarm hadn’t sounded off. We’re in. Let’s go.

Crunch—creak.

Dolph trod across the fine bullets of spent glass. He hadn’t meant to tread them into the carpet, but his mind was focused on the front room.

Brayker followed behind and took in the view. A giant plasma TV screen loomed in the corner of the antiquated chamber. Don’t look like much, does it?

Dolph reached into his pocket and took out his flashlight. Man, shut the hell up and get searching.

Brayker copied his friend and slammed the butt of his palm against his flashlight. Okay, okay.

Two bright, powerful beams swung from left to right, up and down, throwing light onto various sections of the front room.

There ain’t gonna be nothing worth having, here, man, Dolph said. Get in the kitchen. Let’s see what they got.

Brayker pushed through the far wall and opened the interior door.

The hallway, he said. The front door up ahead.

Brayker sprinted through the hall, his body briefly illuminated by Dolph’s flashlight from behind.

The rug. Be careful.

What rug?

Brayker lost his footing as the heel of his right foot dug into the straggly ends of the rug and threw him against the wall.

Shit.

Dolph grabbed his friend by the shoulder and pushed him through to the kitchen. Shh. I said be careful.

The first thing the pair saw when they entered the kitchen was the moon in the sky through the window.

Just your ordinary, everyday kitchenette with an oven, refrigerator, and cupboards.

Lots of cupboards, lining each wall, as far as the eye could see.

Brayker looked around for something. Where’s the light switch?

Snap.

Dolph removed his fingers from the plastic button on the wall. The two energy saving strips flipped in and out of consciousness, providing an eerie strobe effect in the cold, dank room.

The boy’s breaths filtered out against the plastic casing covering their eyes. Their exhalations came from the dual-mounted filter cartridges in front of their mouths.

Check the cupboards, Dolph said.

Got it.

Dolph pulled his backpack off his shoulder and pulled the zipper. He looked up to find Brayker yanking each of the twelve cupboard doors open a little too loudly for his liking.

Man, be quiet.

Brayker turned over his shoulder. You want the goods or not?

Yeah, I do, but be fucking quiet about it, yeah?

The sixth cupboard door flung open. Brayker’s raised his eyes and clapped his gloved hands together which, thankfully, prevented the sound of applause to ring out through the house.

"Gotcha."

Dolph gripped the crowbar in his right hand and rose to his feet. What is it?

Look.

Stacks upon stacks of toilet paper lined the cupboard, all unopened, ready for the stealing.

Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Brayker stepped back and opened the remaining cupboard doors. I wanna see if they got any sanitizer—

—No, wait, Dolph said. I wasn’t expecting this much. How are we gonna fit this all in our bags?

Dolph stared at the contents of the final cupboard. Several rectangular boxes of Insignia inhaler cartridges lined the bottom shelf.

Huh?

Hey, Brayker, Dolph whispered.

What?

How are we gonna get all this in our bags, man?

I dunno. Open them up?

No, you idiot, Dolph said. They gotta remain sealed if we’re gonna sell ‘em—

Creak—creak.

The strange sound came from the top of the stairs. Brayker made the mistake of shining his flashlight up the length of the landing, and potentially announcing their whereabouts.

Dolph knocked Brayker’s arm down. Shit. Don’t shine that there.

A gruff, angry voice called from the top of the stairs. Who’s there?

Shit, shit, shit.

Rumble-rumble.

The man who’d called appeared to be descending the stairs in haste.

Brayker turned to Dolph. What do we do?

Dolph rolled his shoulders and both ends of the crowbar in his hands. Fuck it. Let’s show whoever this prick is what’s good.

No, man, Brayker said. We agreed we wouldn’t—

—Yeah, that was before we broke in, man. I’mma fuck this dude up.

The final three steps seemed to be the slowest ever taken for both Dolph and Brayker. The former got ready to strike whoever was about to approach him.

The owner of the house looked to be in his late sixties. Dressed in his pale, green nightgown, he laid eyes on the two masked silhouettes in his kitchen and froze on the spot, ready to attack.

Jesus Christ.

Neither Dolph nor Brayker made a sound. Both were ready to lash out if the man came any closer.

Brayker moved forward and threatened the man with his flashlight. Don’t move old man.

Terrified, the owner of the house chanced a question. Wh-what do you want?

We just want your shit and then we’re outta here.

Look, we found what we came for, Dolph added. Now, you got two choices. You can turn around and go back upstairs, or you can stay down here and get your ass beat, old man. Which is it?

The standoff lasted an age, and before anyone dared make the first move, another voice came from the top of the stairs.

Babe?

The owner of the house looked up the steps and put on a brave face. It’s okay, honey. I, uh, just needed to a glass of water.

It’s late. Come back to bed.

Whomever had spoken clearly couldn’t see the owner of the house. If she had, she’d have seen the baseball bat in his hand. A wave of relief fell across the owner’s face as he scanned the two intruders. He stared them in the eyes as carefully as he could before reassuring his partner.

Okay.

Just then, the sound of a crying baby pummeled the walls. It came from somewhere upstairs, just before the creaking of the floorboards.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, the female voice said, as the upper landing lights blasted to life. Sam’s awake, now. All this commotion.

Okay, honey, the man said. Go see Sam. I’ll be up in a second.

Dolph lowered his crowbar and pressed his index finger to the respirator on his oxygen mask. Shhhh.

The man lifted his baseball bat and sneered. You motherfuckers, he mouthed. "You think you can break into my house and rob my family?"

Dolph nodded, slowly, and squeezed the crowbar. Yeah. Come on, you old fuck.

The man walked forward with purpose, determined to smash both his assailants in the face with the fat end of wood.

Dolph and Brayker, crowbar and flashlight, moved forward, ready to strike over the cacophonous sound of the crying infant on the floor above.

Just before war broke out, a mere ten or so inches from battle, the man dropped the baseball bat.

Clang.

His knees hit the floor, next.

He clutched his chest and heaved, hanging the top half of his body over his knees.

Dolph and Brayker lowered their respective makeshift weapons and simply watched the men gasp for air.

P-Please, the man said. "I