Pandemic 'Year 5'

By W.Wm. Mee

In his new book, ‘PANDEMIC: Year Five’, W.Wm.Mee has turned his apocalyptic eye on the real global pandemic that is presently gripping the planet and offered us a dire Post-Covid-tale where vaccines did not save the day. Come walk, ride and sail the beautiful but now depopulated Thousand Island tourist area of the majestic St. Lawrence River and see how the good people of the little village of Mohawk, Ontario deal with hoards of starving survivors, vengeful drug lords and would-be dictators attempting to overrun their thriving, peaceful little hamlet.

It began in January, 2020. A new virus called Covid-19 that was air born, highly contagious and very, very deadly. By February it was serious, with thousands around the world dying daily. By March that number was in the millions and by June well over half of the humans on the planet were dead. Modern civilization had ceased to exist; electricity, running water and any form of government were long gone and the people that remain now have to scramble to survive a second Dark Age. Come along if you dare and ‘scramble’ with them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: W.Wm. Mee
• Release date: Aug 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005249533

W.Wm. Mee

Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at [e-mail]'ll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

Book preview

PROLOGUE

2007, Kandahar, Afghanistan

(13 years before the Global Pandemic)

Canadian Special Operation Regiment

Thirty-nine year old Master-Sergeant Samuel Burnham led his six man team into the remains of the supposedly abandoned village. The day before Sam’s squad and several others from Joint Task Force 2 had assaulted the village and either killed or captured a fair number of Taliban fighters. This morning Sam’s group had been tasked with checking all the houses for any fanatical ‘die hards’.

Sam had been ‘in country’ for three years running and the blazing hot winter Afghani sun now seemed more normal to him than his fading memories of the gentle warmth of the brief Canadian summers he grew up with. Now, closing in on forty, Sam was the ‘old man’ of his squad, with the other five ‘Kanucks’ all being somewhere in their early or late twenties. Sam didn’t pay much attention to ‘personal details’ like a trooper’s age, marital status, or place of birth. He liked to keep his distance --- that way it hurt less when they were shipped home in a body bag.

Sam himself had only one more year to go till he reached the magical ‘20 in’ and could retire from soldering with a full pension and return to being a wooden boatbuilder in the beautiful Thousand Islands area of the St. Lawrence River.

Hey Sarj! A young voice called out. Why ta fawk do we always get ta shit jobs?!

‘O’Riley from the strong Newfy accent,’ Sam thought. He answered without taking his eyes off the bullet ridden buildings up ahead. "Because, O’Riley, they know that we’re the toughest, meanest, steel-eyed bastards they’ve got--- and that we get the job done no matter what!"

Damn straight, Sarj! someone yelled out.

Fuckin’ A, man! another added.

Just then machinegun fire opened up on them from several of the so called ‘deserted’ buildings. Five of the six man squad quickly took cover behind an ancient brick wall. The sixth lay dead in a rapidly growing puddle of his own blood.

Simms is down, Sarj! a young voice called out.

Sam glanced back, saw the spreading puddle and sighed. ‘Head shot. Fast way to go.’

‘Hey Sarj! You want us to get the body?"

Later, Sam said. First we deal with these bastards! You last two, fire grenades at those windows. You two, up here with me!

As a half dozen grenades were launched at the houses, Sam led O’Riley and another grunt along the stone wall and then rushed in from the side. He fired a long burst through a window, then O’Riley tossed in a flash-bang. The three others were now doing the same with the second house.

Sam then kicked in the door and went right. O’Riley followed, going left. They both shot the dazed looking bearded fellow holding an AK-47.

Told ya, Sarj, O’Riley grinned. Only ta best get ta shit jobs!

Sam ignored him and put in a fresh clip.

Hey Sarj, one of the three outside called. We got ourselves a little problem here.

What is it?! Sam yelled back.

Some fucker’s using a woman as a shield. What do we do?

Watch him. I’m coming.

***

One of Sam’s squad doubled as a translator --- sort of. There were so many different Afghani dialects that most times he was close to useless. This time however he wasn’t.

He says he’ll kill her if we try anything, but if we just turn and go she’ll live.

Bullshit! one of the young solders yelled. Let me shoot the fucker, Sarj! He killed Simms!

‘Donaldson,’ Sam thought. ‘From out west somewhere. One of the ‘cowboy’ provinces.’

The jihadist holding the woman was getting excited; waving his AK around and jabbering something at the translator.

He says we either move or he starts shooting! That he’s ready to meet Allah as long as he takes us with him!

Let me do him, Sarj! Donaldson said again. I’ll blow the fucker away!

Donaldson’s voice drew the man’s attention --- and his weapon. The AK rose and pointed at the young soldier. Sam suddenly pictured Donaldson on the ground dying. Just like Simms --- like all the others over the years. Young men that he’d led to their deaths.

NNNOOOOOO!! Sam yelled as he raised his own rifle and fired. Suddenly tired of all the blood and dying; the constant wind, blowing sand and endless death, he was hungry for a greener, cooler, more peaceful place. Sam pulled the trigger and held it down, emptying his entire clip into the cowardly fanatic.

When the ear splitting noise finally stopped, all of his men but Simms were still alive and the jihadist was not.

Neither however was the woman that he had been hiding behind.

Sam put in his resignation the next morning.

It was some time however before he made it back to his peaceful river, but make it back he eventually did, and there he stayed in a state of quiet self-exile building beautiful wooden boats just like his father had and his father before him.

And then, thirteen years later, a terrible new kind of war found both Sam and the rest of the world --- a war that changed life on the planet forever.

***

Chapter 1: ‘The Boatbuilder’

Early Spring, (Covid Year 5 or CY5)

Mohawk, Ontario, 1000 Islands, Canada

Fifty-seven year old Sam Burnham was working in the family boatshed when he heard the crunching sound of truck wheels in his gravel parkinglot. Swearing and rough laughter followed, causing Sam put down the wood plane he’d been using and reach for his great grandfather’s shotgun that hung over the workbench.

The ancient weapon, like just about everything else in Burnham’s Boatyard, had once belonged to Sam’s great grandfather, Hyrum Alexander Burnham. Over the years Sam’s father, George, had added some power tools, better lighting, modern glues and resins, but all the work had still been slowly and lovingly done by hand --- and now that the electricity was a thing of the past, Hyrum Burnham’s great grandson Sam was once again doing everything ‘the old fashioned way’ ---- slowly and quietly.

Back in early 2021, when Boston and New York City were taken out by a pre-emptive nuclear strike, the entire New England Power Grid had collapsed, taking the Canadian provinces of Ontario and Quebec’s power with it. They never did find out who had made that ‘first strike’. Russia or China got the most votes. Some thought North Korea. But now, four years down a rough, dark, road, it really didn’t seem to matter much.

Back then a desperate America had ‘retaliated’ against all of them and pretty soon the lights had gone out and stayed out everywhere on the globe! Yet heartless, mindless ‘Covid’ didn’t care if the lights were on or not --- it just kept on killing friend and foe alike. Now, four years later, it seemed that the virus and its variants had finally burnt themselves out, but what was left of civilization had been knocked back into another ‘Dark Age’ A grey, gloomy, sunless place even on a sunny day; a place where hopes and dreams seldom stretched beyond tomorrow and a place where fear, tragedy and death waited round every corner. For most survivors the world had once again become a very cruel place where ‘might made right’ and in most cases it seemed like it was ‘every man for himself’!

That’s why Sam had chosen to live alone in the ‘family boatyard’; a large, wooden barn-like building nestled in a quiet cove of the Thousand Islands, a rugged, natural, picturesque playground located where the eastern end of Lake Ontario emptied into the majestic St. Lawrence River.

Two hundred miles ‘downriver’ to the east lies the once beautiful city of Montreal --- the historical, shining example of ‘French’ Canada --- now a burnt out ruin; inhabited, like most large cities, by the frightened, the crazy and the cruel. Surprisingly Ottawa, Canada’s capital located a hundred miles up the Ottawa River, had fared far better than Montreal, Quebec City and Toronto, the far off, sprawling, multi-cultured megalopolis at the north-western end of Lake Ontario.

Only out in the sparsely populated ‘countryside’ were the survivors of the plague and it’s radioactive fallout relatively safe from the half starved, insane ‘denizens’ of the ‘big cities’.

And now, by the sound of it, some of those ‘denizens’ had reached Sam’s boatyard.

Along with the WWI shotgun, Sam opened a desk covered with wood shavings and took out his grandfather’s vintage 1911 Colt .45. He checked that the clip was loaded, wracked the slide and now, with the safety on, he shoved it into the front of his belt and went outside to welcome his uninvited guests.

***

Billy-Ray Gleason had not been a nice guy before he got Covid, but after he miraculously ‘recovered’ from a long, fever-wracked illness he had most definitely ‘changed’ for the worse. The doctors his rich and powerful father paid for blamed this change on the high fevers Billy-Ray had endured.

The virus is an insidious creature, Mr. Gleason, one learned physician had explained. Though mindless, it is none-the-less seems both cunning and sinister. In different people it attacks different organs. One person’s lungs, another person’s heart and in another their brain. I’m afraid in the case of your son, Mr. Gleason, it has chosen the latter.

Ralph Gleason, a self-made millionaire, was many things; ambitious, driven, casually cruel and a very crafty businessman, but well educated he was not and his lack of vocabulary showed it.

Speak plainly, doctor! the real-estate-mogul had commanded. I’m a simple man so give it to me straight! Are you saying that this goddamned disease has turned my boy feeble minded?!

"Not exactly, sir, though I do believe that the virus and the terribly high fever’s that came with it have somewhat altered your son’s synaptic nerves."

Gleason’s impatient frown caused the doctor to quickly ‘translate’."The way he ‘thinks’ has been changed. His memories, emotions, even his beliefs seem to have all been knocked somewhat askew --- er, ‘out of whack’ as it were."

Like after a hard smack on the head? Gleason had asked.

Exactly, the doctor had replied, though personally he thought it was much more serious than that. He’d seen it before in several of his patients, especially if they had experienced high fevers. A sudden change in ‘personality’ --- often quite drastic and seldom for the better. He intended to write a medical paper on the subject and submit it for publication --- IF such a civilized thing still existed in a world suddenly gone mad. He even had title for it, though he was concerned that it might seem a tad too flippant. ‘The Jekyll & Hyde Syndrome.’

***

Before Billy-Ray Gleason ‘caught the Covid’ he wasn’t exactly ‘crazy’, but then he wasn’t exactly ‘all there’ either. He was prone to ‘mood swings’ --- what Sam’s long gone, feisty mother would have called a ‘toilet seat’ mentality --- going up and down all day long! Add to that a hair trigger in the ‘temper department’ and a penchant to beat the shit out of anyone smaller than him that pissed him off and you can see why Billy-Ray was not the most well liked kid on the playground. But now, after he had ‘survived the Covid’, he made his former self look like a choirboy!

So why then did a fair number of the surviving young men and women from in and around Alexandria Bay in upstate New York still hang around him and treat him like some kind of demi-a god? For the same reason they had before Covid-19 knocked the shit out of modern civilization. For decades the ‘Gleason’ name had meant power and money in the ‘North Country’, especially among the ‘river communities’ in and around the 1000 Islands. Billy Ray was the most spoilt of his three older siblings ---- his brother Wade and two sisters, Janet and Alison. Billy-Ray always had the fanciest car, the fastest boat, the biggest truck, the hottest girls --- and the most drugs of any other kid in Alexandria High, NY.

After the virus struck and both he and the world ‘changed’, Billy-Ray had become even more of a self indulgent, narcisstic, malicious, psychopathic, unpredictable little shit than he was before. A six foot wanna-be, Billy Ray usually wore hand tooled snakeskin cowboy boots with three inch heels to augment his someway diminutive five foot four stature. But what Billy Ray lacked in height, he made up for in moxy, mendacity and panache. Though he would probably only know the meaning of one, if any, of those three adjectives, our boy Billy-Ray lived by the motto.

‘Bigoosta, Bigoosta mano!

Esay wanno eta una Bigoosta Mano!’

Translation into ‘Red Neck’ would be:

‘Mocho, Mocho Man. I wanna be a Mocho Man!

His snakeskin boots, his tough-guy attitude and the big, shiny chrome revolver he now openly carried in a fancy shoulder holster were all part of his ‘bad-ass look’ --- but no matter how hard Billy-Ray tried, the poor little rich kid somehow always seemed to come up a day late and a dollar short. Such was once again the case when he and his ‘homies’ drove into the Burnham Boatyard, established in 1919 by Hyrum Burnham, newly back from the WWI, ‘The War To End All Wars’ --- and met Hyrum’s great grandson Sam.

***

The dented, scratched and muddy 2021 once-upon-a-time midnight black Dodge RAM 350 Limited Edition roared into the gravelled parkinglot and sat rumbling like some great, black, mud-spattered beast. The four red neck country boys inside however were somewhat less impressive ---all save one.

The first was tall, lanky and cadaverish; the second was short, red-faced and plump; the third was bucked-toothed with big ears --- but the fourth, Billy-Ray Gleason, was like a puffed-up Bantam rooster on speed.

Lanky and Plump were riding in the back seat and each came out of their own door with something in their hand. Plump on the left had a can of beer in one pudgy paw and a large slice of cold pizza in the other. Lanky came out on the right side smooth and fast with what looked like some space age kind of machine pistol. His face, like his body, was long and lean, scarecrow-like --- though his eyes made Sam think of a snake.

‘Snake-Eyes is the first one to take out,’ the ‘soldier’ part of Sam’s brain reasoned as he stood in the shadows. ‘But maybe it won’t come to that, ’the ‘civilian’ part of him whispered. ‘Ya sure,’ the soldier part snorted sarcastically. ‘Good luck with that.’

The kid with the bucked-teeth and big ears was the driver. He was grinning like a fool and looked nervous. His head kept going back and forth between Sam and the person beside him.

‘No real threat there,’ Sam thought, placing Big Ears in the same category as Pizza Boy. ‘Just a pair of hangers-on.’ However Snake-Eyes and his ‘space pistol’ seemed like a real threat --- then there was Billy-Ray.

The little shit got out of the front passenger seat and strutted up to Snake Eyes standing behind the Ford 350’s massive right fender. Hey, old man, Billy shouted. Glimpsing Sam’s greying hair and beard in the shadows, Billy-Ray made the mistake of equating ‘grey’ with ‘slow, old and easily frightened’.

He was about to find out the magnitude of that mistake.

Hey, old man! Billy-Ray repeated."Are you fucking deaf?! We’re looking to rent a speedboat. Something fast! Real fast!"

Sorry boys, can’t help you. Sam said, stepping out of the shadows.

"Can’t help us, old man? Billy-Ray asked, his tone scornful. Or ‘won’t’?"

Everything suddenly went silent and each of the four intruders reacted differently: Behind the wheel Big Ears let out a nervous giggle; Pizza Boy’s chubby jaw stopped chewing and Snake-Eyes’ long head rose like a hound sniffing the wind. As for Billy-Ray, he actually smiled and let out a little laugh.

Another stretch of silence followed, during which Sam stepped further out into the spring sunlight, the WWI shotgun cradled in his left arm. All four young men were surprised to see that the grey hair and beard they had glimpsed in the shadows did indeed belong to an older man, but far from an ‘old, frail one.’

In his sawdust covered flannel shirt, worn jeans and big boots, Sam looked like a pissed off lumberjack come to deal with some noisy trespassers.

It’s a bit of both, sonny, Sam said in his deep, throaty voice. "I can’t help you because I build sailboats, not speed boats. I ‘won’t’ help you because by the looks of that truck, you lad’s are a little reckless with your transportation."

"Reckless?! Billy-Ray repeated, his narrow eyes taking on a manic look. Hell, old man, we’re downright dangerous!"

Sam actually smiled at that. Well, you’re hard on trucks, I’ll give you that. Now, if you boys don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.

Billy-Ray took a step closer. Hold on there, old timer. I aint finished with you yet.

The look Sam gave Billy-Ray would have warned a smarter man, but the lad already had three strikes against him --- he was young, arrogant and ‘the Covid’ had scrambled what little brains he once had.

Well son, Sam rumbled as he shifted his granddaddy’s shotgun to the ‘port’ position. That’s too bad, because I’m finished with you.

Such a disrespectful comment to his ‘lord and master’ made Snake-Eyes step out from behind the front fender and raise his machine pistol in a rather threatening manner.

Sam’s response was to immediate shoot Snake-Eyes in his lower legs. Sam was using a light load of bird-shot, something a hunter would use for quail or partridge. The tiny led pellets quickly spread out and after seventy-five feet begin to lose their force. Snake-Eyes however was a lot closer than that. His thick, high topped biker boots saved his feet and ankles, but over a dozen small pellets hit his shins and knees, knocking him down like a bowling pin.

Sam pumped the shotgun again and aimed it directly at Billy-Ray who had his big Colt Python about half out his fancy shoulder holster.

"Not a good idea, sonny! Sam said forcefully. Not if you want to keep that pretty face!"

Billy-Ray, seeing Snake-Eyes rolling around cursing on the gravel, looked back at Sam staring at him down the barrel of the ancient weapon. "You’ll pay for this you old fucker! You can’t treat me like this! Do you know who I am?!"

You’re the little shit that’s on my land and you threatened me with a firearm, Sam said. That’s all I need to know.

"My father will have your ass for this! He’s Ralph Gleason! Billy-Ray shouted. He’s the ‘Big Man’ around these parts --- and if you harm me, he’ll land on you like a fucking mountain!"

Sam’s smile now had a dangerous side to it. Not if none of you leave here alive he won’t. I could blow you all away right now, dump your bodies in the river and no one would know a damn thing. The quiet coldness of Sam’s delivery made his words all the more terrifying.

Fear washed over Billy-Ray’s like an icy dip in a winter stream, as it suddenly dawned on him that this was one situation where his daddy’s name didn’t mean a damn thing!

If I don’t show up he’ll look for me! He won’t give up either! He’ll have a hundred men searching everywhere! They’ll find out we ate at the diner just down the road --- that we talked about renting a speedboat and asked around. The old fart that ran the place suggested that we come here!

As he spoke, the anger in him was once again rising, pushing back the fear. Then Billy-Ray suddenly stopped and grinned. "And my brother Wade will be looking too! And he’s one mean motherfucker! You harm me and Wade will skin you alive!"

Sam, like everyone else in and around the Thousand Islands, had heard of Ralph Gleason and his family. A brash, Alpha male type, Ralph had started out a used car salesman who, through rumoured illegal wheeling and dealing, had made a fortune in land speculation, concentrating in high end ‘gentleman farms’ and fancy ‘summer cottages’ all up and down the river. Since the Covid Crisis ‘Gleason Enterprises’ was rumoured to have switched to more ‘darker dealings’ concerning guns, drugs and human trafficking --- especially in young girls.

From what I’ve heard of your family, Sam replied coldly; ‘taking you out would only improve the world."

Billy-Ray was weighing the chances of diving behind the truck, when the back side door opened and a young woman jumped out and started running towards Sam. Her hands were tied in front of her, she was wild eyed, barefoot and clad in a skimpy dress.

Her sudden appearance gave Billy-Ray the chance he needed. He jumped behind the truck, yanked out his heavy pistol and begin firing. Pizza Boy dropped his snack and dove through the open door where he lay like a beached walrus, the crack of his ass showing above his baggy jeans. Sam crouched down and fired twice in Billy-Ray’s direction, the shotgun punching a cluster of tiny dents in the left fender and hood.

Then the girl fell at his feet. Tied hands out in front, she looked up at Sam with pleading, terrified eyes. Help me! Please!

Billy-Ray popped back up, fired twice, missed twice, then tried again. CLICK. Empty!

Sam could have shot him there and then and probably should have --- but he’d heard the gun run dry, so he turned to the girl instead. You hit? he asked, holding out his left hand.

N-no! I don’t think so!

Sam took hold of her tied hands and pulled her into the shadows of his shop. Sunlight streaming in from the many windows turned the large space into a magical hall of wood shavings, half built boat skeletons and brilliant bands of mote filled light and dream-filled dark.

Silently Sam cut her free and, placing a finger on his lips, gave her the knife and motioned for her to move further back into the shadows. Stay low --- and don’t come out unless I call you.

She clung to him as he turned away. Please don’t leave me! Please!

I’m just going to see what they’re up to.

Rape, torture and --- other things! she hissed; then, clutching Sam tighter, she whispered in his ear: Kill them! Kill them all!

Sam attempted a smile to reassure her, but it seemed her mind had turned to something else ---something more far worse than a mere shoot-out in a boatyard.

Then the truck’s big engine roared and the overlarge tires dug into the parking lot gravel. Over the noise came Billy-Ray’s shouted promise. "I’ll be back, old man! Real soon! And then I’ll skin you alive and nail you up for the gulls! Both you and the bitch!"

His words soon died off, as did the sound of the truck racing down the road, but the threat lingered. Sam knew that most threats were empty --- just so much hot air coming from an angry, probably embarrassed person. When tempers cooled, the threat usually vanished. Yet he also knew that with Billy-Ray Gleason, that would most definitely not be the case. He was the kind to nurse his hatred like a slow fire, building it up more and more in his mind till the heat was constant and the flames all consuming. His kind would seek out revenge at all costs --- and seek it out soon!

Come on girl, Sam said gently. Let’s get you cleaned up.

She glared back at him. You let them get away!

This time Sam barked out a laugh. Don’t worry, they’ll be back. And when they do, we’ll be ready for them.

She was