Immune: Rise of the Inflicted

By Seth Voorhees

In Seth Voorhees' post-apocalyptic science fiction novel, Immune: Rise of the Inflicted, readers will be taken on an amazing ride in this dystopian thriller and see a new world develop after a deadly disease infects the population right before their eyes.

 

“Seth Voorhees navigates the intricate, contradictor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Written Dreams Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781951375140

Seth Voorhees

Seth Voorhees lives in the majestic Black Hills of South Dakota. He studied at Black Hills State University, with an emphasis in sociology and physiology. He's worked in the mental health field for ten years, specializing in adolescents with co-occurring disorders. He enjoys fishing, reading, and studying history. Learn more about Seth and his books on Facebook: @SethTV67.

Book preview

One

"The designs of Mother Nature continue to puzzle the minds of all humanity. The strong, and perhaps, prideful stubbornness in the idea of our separate existence from the animal kingdom is what keeps us faithfully blind to her strategies for balance on Earth. The world of delusion, the fabric that we have skillfully cloaked ourselves under, is now disintegrating, one fiber at a time. This virus is tearing apart the normal daily life we take for granted, shredding it.

"We have built our walls, causing us to believe we no longer require the attention of nature. But Mother Nature is just that, a parent that has raised us. Humanity has been an undisciplined child, pulling out of her hugs, demanding that the nourishment of our ego should come first before her interests.

"But Mother Nature is now outraged at her children’s behavior. The sway of her discipline has commenced. How long will her punishment last, and what will be the shape of its execution? That is our new mystery to solve. Let us pray that her children will not live long in her darkness."

—President Joshua Whiteman

---

Bang, oh yeah, rocking ‘em old school! Wyatt Tuck recalled the phrase, one of many his father had expressed when they were at the firing range together. Wyatt’s thoughts centered on his childhood bonding experiences, seeking escape from the here and now. They consumed and replayed him like a home movie in his mind—the beloved father and son excursion, shooting pop cans out in an old cow pasture, the mud always cold, even in June, biting at their toes while the sun roasted their shoulders.

Wyatt remembered the way the bullets had ripped through the cans, the contents exploding like a liquid peony, covering the pasture in carbonation. The haunting sound of the cans exploding lingering morbidly in his mind.

You’re doing good, son. Get me another one, his father yelled after he blew one to high heaven.

That awful sound brought back to his mind, and against his will, his thoughts returned to the reality of today.

The first one will fall soon and the rest will follow suit, like a demented game of dominoes.

The ceiling fan hummed as its blades generated a light breeze that knocked the sweat off his neck. Standing in his office, he gawked out his window at the Missouri River. The sight of its churning waves pounding off the rocks allowed another temporary escape. The vision of the waves and the torrent of his memories intertwined in a devilish tango, a brief dance of distraction that he clung to with a desperation that surprised him.

In spite of his best efforts, Wyatt’s thoughts returned again and again to his current unexpected, yet almost inevitable, circumstances.

His office, now a personal quarantine zone, had become a prison he could not leave, even to use the restroom. The three cups of coffee he’d had earlier made their eventual way into his ficus plant. Outside, dove-white and robin-red state vehicles surrounded the Gregory Facility for Youth, and state personnel flowed in and out, all equipped with masks, gloves, and infection control scrubs—the scrubs the color of the spruce trees. A year ago, this facility had been a place of social rehabilitation, developmental change, and family reconstruction. But now it was a home for sickness, aches, and burden. The virus named DH3 had struck.

It’s just our turn to the plate. It’s our turn to swing at a misery fastball.

The virus had originated in Australia. No one knew more than that. It had made landfall in the United States eleven months ago to the day. He recalled reading about the first cases. The ignorance of people had astonished him, as the doctors had initially diagnosed the patients as severe cases of tuberculosis. The major news outlets in Europe had deliberately hidden the truth for a time, attempting to keep the worldwide panic to a minimum.

That effort executed with the same effectiveness as a cow trying to lick its own butt.

Just for us, Wyatt, you hear them—them ol’ church bells ringing for us! his father had said.

Wyatt replayed the moment further. His father had enjoyed shooting on Sunday, delaying church attendance as he’d hated the sounds of the out-of-tune choir. He’d often said they sound like five cats getting skinned at the same time with a rubber blade, and it had turned out to be one of his father’s favorite expressions.

On this day, the church bells weren’t signaling tardiness; they were announcing another funeral. They rang across the town of Clark, around the country, and around the world.

Still observing through the window, Wyatt looked toward the Episcopal church a few blocks away. The third funeral of the day at just one church. The sight brought a dismal ache to his gut, combining with his anxiety. He scratched his head, his blond hair covering his fingers. The illness was non-curable.

He looked down. Sweat stains showed on his shirt. He struggled to stand still. His knees quivered as he worried.

Last night, two of the facility’s youths, the first victims out of the five staff and twenty-six other children in attendance, had begun the initial stage of infection with vile coughing. Wyatt had read enough articles and listened to news reports to understand their future prognosis. Remorse for their souls, coupled with guilt over his inability to keep them safe and more than a little terror for the others still under his care, weighed heavily on him. Soon those youths infected would develop pale skin, a progressive sweating, and red, itchy boils on their bodies. A fever would follow rapidly, and then their hacking coughs would turn to gasps and gurgles, until, all too fast, the victims would breathe their last, struggling to gulp for air.

Wyatt scanned his visitor’s sheets, several yellow pieces of paper on a clipboard. The forms were on his desk, near his mug, which read, A bad day fishing beats a good day at work.

He had notified the youths’ loved ones. He had no more duties, except to wait, like all the others who were currently symptom-free, quarantined in his office prison until his blood work came back.

He had been here too long, hours too long, with no hint of hope to give him strength. Please, God, let me be okay. Let me be able to go home again.

He felt a twinge of guilt that his prayer, desperate as it was, was only for himself.

Several hours later, stat was the word of the moment. Wyatt found himself able to sit at his desk, but unable to look away from the scenes displayed there. Several of the state personnel were running through the main entrance, sprinting into the unit like the prairie dogs in his yard attempting to make it back to their holes before a predator got them.

By now, several other youths and two staff had displayed the symptoms, and the air smelled of ill-sweat and worry.

Wyatt’s office monitors on his desk revealed the sight of the new drama. One of the kids was going into cardiac arrest.

"You knocked down another one, ol’ Wyatt, my boy, you shot another one down!" His father’s words played in his mind. A simpler time. A happier time. A safer time.

Another screen showed a young boy, gasping out his last breath much, much faster than expected. Was this grace that he would be spared hours or days of suffering, or was it cruel, snatching away time he should’ve had? Staff members in full protection gear were attempting CPR, heroic even in the face of despair.

Wyatt watched for a moment, then closed his eyes.

His thoughts turned inward again, seeking other simpler, happier times. Playing football with his brothers on Thanksgiving—Mark, Jim the oldest, and Chase the youngest. Contact with them had been minimal for the last few months. At night, Wyatt prayed for their safety. He also thanked God above that his parents were not alive to see the current state of the world.

An alert, a sound of two chiming bells, announced an email from his supervisor, and interrupted Wyatt’s thoughts. He opened the email, hope warring with fear as he read through it quickly.

He sagged into the chair as the message sunk in. Not the news he’d been waiting for, but not devastating news, either. Not the results of his blood work, just his boss telling him that the facility was shutting down.

Wyatt turned the cameras off. His gaze tracked back to the river in the distance, his thoughts going to visions of fishing.

This is not the vacation I wanted, but shit, maybe it’s the vacation I need.

As his father said, A man who has no hobbies, my boy, becomes a pest to others. On a different day, the memory would’ve brought a smile. Today, his lips merely twitched, and the memory slipped back into the deeper recesses of his thoughts.

He glanced at his phone. The message light blinked incessantly, a reminder of all the concerned voicemails and texts he’d gotten from family and friends. All morning long, the various newscasts, and even the radio DJs, had talked about the virus and about the situation at the facility. He knew his family and friends were terrified for him. So far, though, he’d held off answering any of them, knowing that, although silence would be hard for them, responding to them before he had the results of his blood tests would be even harder for him.

He pushed his phone aside, turning it over so he could no longer see the blinking indicator. He’d answer them later. He’d answer them all later, once he had good news to share.

If he got good news to share.

Hours passed. The stack of patient folders Wyatt had been reviewing no longer called to him. Whatever happened, they were no longer in his care.

Exhausted from worry, nervous energy pulled him from his chair. He paced, returning again and again to the window. Outside, a wasp buzzed, knocking against his window as though it wanted to get in as desperately as he wanted to get out.

Behind him, his door whooshed open, startling him. He turned as a man entered, dressed in a full Hazmat suit.

Holy fuck, can’t you knock? Sudden sweat started under Wyatt’s arms, along his back, and down his sides.

Your test results are negative. You are cleared to leave the facility, he said.

No nod, no wave, no word of congratulations; the man turned and walked out of the office just as quickly as he had entered it. Wyatt thought it rude that he did not even shut the door.

It may be the end of the world, but we can still have manners while we make love to the devil.

Too exhausted for elation, Wyatt savored the sense of relief that washed over him. He had not yet packed his office. He’d been afraid of jinxing the results. Removing his patients’ files from their box, he stacked them neatly on his chair and then used the box to quickly pack up his personal belongings. It didn’t take long.

When everything was sorted, he picked up the box and took a last look around. He realized he hadn’t allowed himself to think past the moment.

What now?

Two

Mitch Burkly swayed forward and back in his snug, burnt-amber oak rocking chair. He was happy to be out of the facility, happy to still be free of infection, but serenity eluded him. Chipper birds gathered around the feeders he had hung from his maple trees, the feeders in the shape of a cylinder, a small farmhouse, and a wire square brick. He watched the grackles, robins, and doves as they flitted between the different kinds of feed.

Mitch wished he had some hobbies, even something as simple as fishing like his coworker, Wyatt. He needed something to break his routine, something to pull him out of bed each morning, but he’d never found anything that called to him.

His biggest problem was that email from his supervisor. He was no longer needed at the facility. Well, okay, the facility didn’t need him right now, but maybe he needed the facility.

Lorna, his wife of five years, had left for work earlier that morning. She, at least, was still needed at her job. Before leaving, she had encouraged him to be active and open-minded, reminding him of the many times he had complained about needing a break from the facility.

On his windowsill, the sad state of the world blared on his mid-size radio. His mind kept returning to the events of the day before, remembering the long, terror-filled hours not knowing whether or not he was infected, then replaying his various conversations with the parents of his young patients. Had his words brought them any comfort?

Mitch shook his head at the question. The news he had shared could not be received well or positively by anyone. It was dismaying.

From his deck, he examined the neighborhood. The reports from the radio were unsettling, yet his community did not represent the horror depicted by the DJ. The bulk of his neighbors still retained their health, the streets were still clean, and the yards portrayed that of freshly-watered lushness. A few of his neighbors took their morning walks, waving hello as they passed by his porch.

On the sidewalk, Miss Garnet strolled by. A white sun hat covered her short curls. Ted, her German shepherd, obediently kept up with her pace.

Morning, Jane. He waved her down in hopes that a conversation might relieve his obsession with dwelling on yesterday’s muck.

Mitch! How have you been? Not working today, I see. I heard about the facility. What a shame, she said.

Moving out of the chair, he strolled off his deck. He admired Jane’s orange sundress. It is a pity, all those kids looking for help. They’re getting something else instead.

Removing her dark shades, she gave Ted a silent command to sit. So, what are you doing with your time?

Mitch liked how the sun shone on her tan skin. He leaned over and gave Ted a rub on the ears; the soft fur gliding between his fingertips. Honestly, I don’t have a clue. My wife suggested a hobby. I think I am one of those…what are they called? Workaholics. I can’t seem to relax.

Jane giggled. Sounds like you need your wife to come over and help with that.

Mitch smiled, blushing as he turned his attention back to Ted. She’s at work. I guess I’ll have to wait. He recognized Jane’s attractiveness. In hindsight, he suspected she thought him handsome as well.

Bummer. Well, the way this virus is hitting everyone, she may be unemployed before you know it. Jane tapped her finger on her hip, the command he suspected for Ted to stand. Suppose we’d better get going. You have a good day, Mitch.

You do the same.

Mitch wiped the sweat off the back of his neck, and watched her curves as she moved on down the sidewalk.

Three

It had been forty-seven agonizing, tedious days since Wyatt’s departure from the Gregory Facility. At first, he had clung to his phone and email account, hoping to receive a message summoning him back to the facility. But that pond full of luster had evaporated, and he hadn’t checked either device in several days. Now only a puddle of possibility for his return remained.

Wyatt consumed his time with hobbies, self-reflection, and AA meetings. At times, they provided the needed diversion from the world’s horror, lessening his periods of anxiety.

In the mornings, he focused on shows on the television, where the reports continued to echo the cries of worldwide panic. Listening to the anchor’s voice while chugging strong coffee, Wyatt could bear the alarming facts for only a short period. As the stimulant beverage warmed his toes, he listened as they listed the countries’ rising number of dead in the broadcast. The anchorman, middle-aged with a silver tie, reported funeral parlors struggling to keep up with the demand. Wyatt believed they were the only successful businesses still operating in the world.

The construction of model ships and planes had only gotten Wyatt so far. Time was no longer an enemy he engaged with in combat.

After listening to the reports, he finished the morning with fishing on the Missouri river. The river’s current brought him a strange comfort. The Missouri had always been a spiritual tool laid in front of him. The river was always moving forward; to Wyatt that meant the river never focused on the past. It was a practical tool for him to let go of his childish fears, resentments of coworkers, and the dismal worry of the town.

Today, the river, like the rest of his hobbies, struggled to fulfill this inner healing. On day one of his sabbatical, he had counted twenty groups fishing on the river shores, along with fifteen boats on the open water. With each passing day, he had observed the numbers as they dwindled. Now on this gleaming morning, only six boats were in the water, and his presence was the only one on the shore. Wyatt shook his head. Things were getting grim everywhere.

With no fish and half a tank of gas, Wyatt began his drive back to his country home. It had once been a former dairy farm that had sat on the west edge of Clark, South Dakota. Fellow AA members used to visit it frequently. When having visitors, they had drunk coffee on the porch, swapping stories that were both tragic and comical. Sharing personal experiences was a great release for him, a chance to review other people’s faults, ideas, and questions of life as they unfolded. But it had been many weeks since his porch had entertained any company. At his weekly meetings, an average of twenty to thirty people had participated. Now that number ranged from eight to ten.

Wyatt spent less time listening to the radio. The few remaining DJs continued to discuss the bitter state of the nation. Businesses all over the country were shutting down. Cemeteries could no longer keep up with the dead, so mass graves were built as the only option. Once full, with dirt covering the top, a single tombstone was placed on top with all the names etched on the stone.

Two days ago, Clark’s first mass grave had been dug. The National Guard unit in Clark had been activated to assist with the graves and to help out health care facilities. They had joined other units across the country already performing these services for weeks. The United States was finally getting up to speed with the rest of the world. Europe had been building mass graves for almost a year. Congress at this stage of the game was unrecognizable, with more than a quarter of the congressmen buried in the dirt. The president even looked ill, but the press had yet to report on his condition. Schools in Clark, just like most areas across the country, were shut down, and few stores remained open for those able to venture out. When going out, the use of a mask was required.

Driving up to the farm, Wyatt debated the pointlessness of watching TV. All professional and college sporting events had canceled their games. Hollywood studios had stopped production of movies and new TV shows. Only local and national news remained operational, and 103.1 was the only Clark radio station that still broadcasted.

DJ Charlie had announced earlier that President Whiteman would address the nation in two days. What news could he bring? What solace could he offer? An ominous calm was covering the world. Would he announce this infection was Mother Nature’s revenge? God’s wrath? Bad luck? Man’s extinction? Perhaps, there was glimmering hope for the future? What words could the president say that would help the survivors of this country?

Wyatt heaved a sigh. Nothing could help anyone anymore.

The day of the president’s address, the sparkling afternoon sun shone over the farmhouse, with its white and blue trim around the windows. Wyatt felt disappointed over once again catching no fish earlier; now, he sat on the porch alone.

The roar of his central air overwhelmed the hammering of a woodpecker. The outdoor unit’s fan blades spun at their peak, discharging hot air as he watched the woodpecker search for bugs on the towering pines in his yard. The world’s hell had yet to penetrate his secluded, tranquil hideaway, but the summer day broiled, the warm breeze offering little relief.

A visitor, long unheard from, came up the driveway.

Well, I’ll be damned, look what’s coming over, Wyatt said to himself. He observed as a cloud of dust rose from the ground, covering the vehicle that spun down his gravel driveway. He watched as the now-identifiable truck accelerated, rocks kicking up and slapping the wood posts of his fence. A squalid, thin rabbit bolted across the road, just in time, before it became tire fodder.

The red truck pulled up and parked near the house. The back of the flatbed had boxes stacked high and neat, and trash bags and suitcases could be seen on the passenger seat. The windows were open, and the pounding rhythm of Def Leppard pulsed through the air.

The driver turned off the ignition. For a moment, silence reigned as the dust cleared away from the truck and moved along with the breeze.

Wyatt’s younger brother, Chase, jumped from the truck. He showed no visible signs of illness as he approached the porch.

Hey there, brother, Chase said, climbing up the steps.

About time! Wyatt bellowed.

The two met and shook hands, then gave one another a typical, macho half-ass hug. About five-foot-eight, Chase stood at the same height as Wyatt. Having a thick build, Chase wore his black hair loose and had a mechanic’s gruff voice. In comparison, Wyatt had the frame of a used car salesmen, with short blond hair and a tad more flab.

What’s with all the boxes? Wyatt asked. It seemed Chase had brought all the pieces of his life that could fit in a box or sack.

Chase went to the rear of the truck, Wyatt following.

Food, guns, supplies, man, he replied, opening the tailgate. The thud of the dropped gate echoed in the silence.

Are you not paying attention to what’s going on? Chase pressed his hands on the tailgate, then reached over to give a bag of rice to Wyatt. The world is going to hell, and we need to get prepared for whatever is going to happen next.

Wyatt rolled his eyes when Chase turned his back. Chase had always been the paranoid, trained survivalist, and the conspiracy nut of the family. No doubt times were rough, but wasn’t this overkill? Wyatt realized that the answer to the question didn’t matter. There was no reason to debate or argue. Besides, Chase would be welcome noise in the house. A man with no one else to talk to but his shadow starts to become a strange bedfellow for the imagination.

Wyatt helped his brother unload the truck, listening to Chase as he unpacked the suitcases in the living room. Chase’s chatter glommed up the afternoon as he told Wyatt tales of more misery.

Chase was a maintenance man for the lumber house in Bluffington, Nebraska. It had shut down two weeks ago, due to no one reporting to work. His supervisor had committed suicide in his office two days before the factory had closed its doors. Chase had hated the work, but the absence of it kept him sitting high on the branch of his towering, self-created anxiety tree. The gathering of supplies had started once his downtime from unemployment had begun.

The police of Bluffington refused to work. Out of a roster of twenty officers, only three were still healthy enough for active duty. Residents were beginning to loot and rob at night.

I thought it best to get out of there. Besides, someone’s got to keep you company, Chase said, and placed his pistols and shotguns in the closet. The shells for the guns went on the top shelf. I’ll help you keep this place going. Besides, I need some quiet.

Wyatt listened as his brother explained more about what he’d seen in the past few months. It wasn’t good.

The smell of roast chicken filled the house. Wyatt checked on the pot of boiling potatoes and got a face full of steam for his trouble. While preparing dinner, Wyatt told Chase what had happened to the facility, adding that he had received no updates since being released. Wyatt snagged two plates out of his top cabinets.

Chase was at the dining table. Leaning his chair on its back legs, he cleaned his nails with a butter knife. They’re all dead, I bet, Chase murmured.

Wyatt placed a plate on the table and pretended he had not heard the words. He knew it was probably true. Next, he brought out the bear-shaped salt and pepper shakers and silverware.

Well, perhaps it will start back up, Chase said. Just got to stay confident, brother.

The words were meant only to brighten Wyatt’s mood. Chase clearly felt the annoyance his earlier comment had created.

He continued picking at his nails, observing his brother as Wyatt finished preparing the meal.

After supper, the two sat in the living room, both drinking water while Chase lit up a cigar. The smoke danced its way out the open window. Both were waiting for the presidential address on TV. Wyatt was more hopeful for the address than Chase, who had commented earlier that it was just a trick to keep the country from sinking into anarchy. While they waited, Chase told another strange tale of what he’d seen happen in Bluffington when the illness first started to spread through the community.

Above them, on the wall, a clock mounted in the center of a white bass ticked closer to the appointed time. Chase puffed his cigar, his feet up on the soft leather recliner, the TV already on the right channel. Muted for now, it stood on top of a two-shelf dresser doubling as an entertainment center. A small piece of the left leg had cracked off as the result of a past temper tantrum.

Wyatt sat on his coal gray sofa, his left foot’s toes poking into a small hole in the arm’s inside fabric.

At six forty-five, President Whiteman came into view of the camera. Though the press had never released the information, it was clear that the president was infected. Whiteman was sweating profusely over his pale skin, his suit visibly moist with perspiration.

Wyatt rolled his eyes as Whiteman spoke of the cliché of courage, the bravery of the people, and the resilience of the country that all past presidents talked about in times of crisis. The president recognized the current dark times. Under the virus’ shadow was the filling of mass graves, the elimination of all things that resembled the normal country’s routine.

Chase pointed out that the president had steered away from the topic of a hopeful future.

Wyatt felt an urge to shut the TV off. The president’s words had not rejuvenated his spirit. They only drove him deeper into despair.

Chase stood up and stared out the window at the clear night. The pine trees swayed; they could hear the zipping sounds of pine beetles.

The president ended his address by reporting that a week ago, all the world’s health organizations had met in Demark. They had spoken of the virus and its mass destruction. Whiteman indicated that it was during that meeting a bizarre discovery had surfaced.

Wyatt and Chase began to listen more intently now. Finally, something positive had been discovered.

Of all those infected, currently alive or dead, none are blood type A+. They now know, through exhaustive research and experimentation, that those with type A+ blood are immune. The reason for this is yet unknown, the president said.

He went on to explain that those of type A+ had a civic duty now. They needed to help their country during this dark time in history. Type A+s needed to show their blood donor cards to any businesses, facility, or organization. They would not need to have background checks, training, or need to be interviewed. They could freely move about the country without limits in order to help others. Whiteman ended the address with a prayer for God to watch over the United States.

The summer heat still lingered. While newscasters and pundits began their standard summation and critique of the president’s address, Chase took the cigar out of his mouth. Aren’t you type A+, brother?

Wyatt turned off the TV and gazed at his younger brother. Yes, I am.

The news should have brought relief, but instead, as Wyatt gazed out the open window, an unknown dread appeared. It was like when he was a child going into a dark basement, waiting for something to snatch him up. Wyatt’s fingernails scratched the loose paint off the seal of the window. He thought of Chase and the rest of his family, who he suspected, did not share in his fortune.

Four

Gabriel Barns occupied the living room owned by George Mark. At his feet stood a leather suitcase, its weight pressing into the faded carpet, along with a duffle bag full of rations from George’s kitchen.

The virus had placed George and his wife, Fern, into the cemetery a month prior. Before their deaths, the three had been close friends. They had routinely played poker and watched baseball on Saturdays.