Resurrection: Arize

By Scott Nicholson

"One of the most thrilling writers working today. Miss him at your peril." - Blake Crouch, Wayward Pines

RESURRECTION (ARIZE #1)

It begins with a long-dormant virus released from an archaeological dig in Northern Alaska.

A researcher studying the virus suffers a fever and launches into a bloody killing spree that ends with two police officers dead. A second researcher, Dr. Meg Perriman, has just flown home for the Easter holiday with her family in North Carolina, unknowingly carrying the virus. Within days, the infection spreads across the planet, sparking martial law, chaos, and widespread slaughter as many of the infected turn into flesh-eating zombies.

Meg and a few others appear to be immune, however, and the survivors gather in a megachurch called Promiseland that the U.S. government has established as an emergency shelter. The Rev. Cameron Ingram, a charismatic televangelist the president has appointed as the "zombie czar," believes the catastrophe is a sign of the Biblical apocalypse. When a rash of natural disasters accompany the outbreak and civilization breaks down, people turn to Ingram for salvation in the face of fear and despair.

But Meg and her group of friends soon discover Ingram is not what he appears, and they are caught between the devil and the living dead.

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Scott Nicholson is the international bestselling author of more than 30 thrillers, including the AFTER and NEXT post-apocalyptic series, the SOLOM supernatural series, and the Arize zombie series. Look for Arize #2: REVELATION.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haunted Computer Books
• Release date: Jan 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223631095

Book preview

RESURRECTION

Arize #1

By Scott Nicholson

And in those days men will seek death and will not find it; they will long to die, and death flees from them. – Revelation 9:6

CHAPTER ONE

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The end was in the beginning.

Put three paleovirologists in a room and they’d argue about the human genome, protein folding structures, and molecular clocks. Give them an audience and they’d generally agree that viruses may not have been the origin of life but hijacked it as soon as possible. Get them drunk and none of their knowledge would protect them from the behaviors that helped viruses thrive.

Get Dr. Meg Perriman drunk and she’d tell you the human race was already dead and just didn’t know it yet.

Peering at the sample in her electron microscope, she’d tell you the same thing sober.

Any news? Werner Lang asked, leaning over her shoulder, his breath smelling of sauerkraut and old coffee.

She jumped, nearly bonking him in the nose with the back of her head. She spun away from the workstation to face him. You jerk. Have you ever heard of ‘personal space’?

He smirked, arrogant in his Teutonic good looks and genius. At Toolik, we all learn to work in tight quarters, Dr. Perriman.

His use of her professional title was just another affectation designed to annoy her. True, Toolik Field Station was a small settlement of research facilities 370 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, and their lab barely afforded room for three people. But she was mostly annoyed that she hadn’t noticed him enter. She’d been too consumed by her discovery.

Meg responded by referring to him by last name only, maintaining aloofness. I can adapt to any environment, Lang. But conditions are most favorable when I’m not invaded by foreign bodies.

She stepped aside to put some distance between them, which was apparently his goal. He bent toward the microscope to see her sample. She darted to block his path, nearly bumping into him again.

Dr. Perriman, he said. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like me in your personal space.

I’m married, and you’re... She waved a dismissive hand. ...whatever you are. There’s nothing personal about this.

Except your need to win.

I read your preliminary report, of course, Meg said. But this isn’t a plant virus. This discovery doesn’t support your theory.

You’re looking for the most complex answer when simplicity is staring you in the face.

The truth doesn’t care who wins or loses.

"The animal died of natural causes, as the evidence clearly demonstrates. That only confirms my wider theory regarding the Pleistocene extinctions. Besides, my theory also benefits from contemporary political beliefs and the current zeitgeist of human self-loathing."

Either your imaging was wrong, or the sample has mutated since last night.

Impossible, Lang said, defiance and anger creeping into his voice. You just hate being wrong, don’t you?

She studied his cold blue eyes, which were bloodshot and watery from lack of sleep. Did he read her ambition that easily? But it wasn’t exactly a secret. She’d compiled a number of publications in her brief career and received several prominent grants. The field was small enough that all the scientists were able to keep tabs on one another.

And they all raced for answers to the same questions.

When humans crossed the Bering Land Bridge more than sixteen centuries ago, the Pleistocene Epoch was drawing to an end. Their arrival coincided with the extinction of large mammals. Lang backed the conventional theory that hunting and climate change caused the wave of extinctions. Meg accepted those factors but also believed migrating humans carried deadly infections that spread among the vulnerable fauna of what later became North America. Both doctors now focused on a pristine specimen that might provide the final clue to the mystery.

A giant ground sloth carcass had been discovered in a glacial crevasse in the Brooks Range, and though much of its upper body had been exposed, thawed, and decomposed, field researchers had recovered several mounds of its dung still preserved in ice.

Lang had first crack at the analysis because he was in the lab when the researchers brought in the samples. Instead of summoning Meg, he’d compiled profiles of the organic matter and estimated the dung was ten centuries old. He’d filed a draft report of his findings, pulling an all-nighter while Meg slept through the initial discovery.

He’d left some prepped material for her along with a note saying he didn’t want to wake her. Worst of all, he’d signed off with a smiley-face drawing.

This isn’t a virus, Meg said. It’s a bacteriophage. But there’s something strange about it.

Did he pick up on her subtext of doubt? Like a wolf sniffing weakness in prey?

Nonsense. Just because dung is loaded with bacterium doesn’t mean the virus infected it and reproduced inside the bacterial cells.

This DNA sample, she said. It’s double-stranded and has circular genomes. It’s definitely a bacteriophage, but there’s something peculiar about the morphology.

She motioned for him to look, and he studied the sample for a full minute without speaking. Still glued to the scope, he said, This isn’t what I saw earlier. This looks like two tails and a third strand. Must be a flaw in the optics, because this can’t exist.

Can’t exist, or just hasn’t been discovered yet?

Lang looked up from the scope. There is no genesis virus that sparked all life on Earth. If anything, viruses co-evolved with other forms of cellular life. The finest research facilities in the world haven’t been able to confirm what you think you’ve found in the scientific equivalent of a broom closet.

That’s why I’m having samples shipped to RTP, she said, employing the acronym for Research Triangle Park in North Carolina.

The Alaska lab lacked some of the more sophisticated equipment Perriman would need for a full analysis. She worked as an adjunct professor at North Carolina State while conducting private research with several local firms. She could work close to home for a few days to confirm her discovery. And hope Lang didn’t revise his report in the meantime.

And it’s Easter Break at grade school, Lang said. How convenient.

Some of us have families and can’t devote all our energy to work. She was more defensive than she wanted to be and wondered if she resented his freedom. But after six weeks at the remote station, she missed her husband and two children.

The images are recorded, Lang said. My data stands. Maybe you’ll get lucky, find something on the nucleic-acid profile, and get a virus named after you. In the meantime, I’ll just keep testing more samples and building a case study to support my theory.

Plenty of sloth crap to go around. Knock yourself out.

She removed the sample from the microscope, made sure the vial was properly marked, and returned the collection of vials to cold storage. She didn’t think Lang would stoop so low as to contaminate or switch her sample. Because DNA didn’t fossilize, finds like the Brooks Range sloth were rare opportunities to trace the virology of a different era. Lang would respect that, even if he didn’t respect her.

But he had a stake in this, too.

Your genesis theory has a certain philosophical appeal, but it’s far too complex, Lang said. Life is simple.

Giant sloths were around for ten million years, and they just happened to die out shortly after encountering humans for the first time. Seems pretty simple to me.

Hunting, climate change, migration disruptions, food shortages, a plethora of other apex predators like the saber-toothed cat—

—which also died out after human contact.

Lang arranged his own samples across the workstation bench. A theory is just a theory until it’s proven as fact. I’ll admit this is a bit unusual, but I see nothing here that changes my mind.

Meg peeled off her latex gloves and safety goggles. If you prove your theory, I’ll be the first to offer congratulations. It’s not like either of us will run out of things to argue about. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a shuttle to catch.

I’ll make sure your sample goes out on the truck. It’ll probably beat you to North Carolina since it will route through Anchorage. Enjoy your vacation, he added, already dismissing her and submerging himself in his work.

Meg entered the decontamination booth, underwent the protocols, and then quickly showered. She dried her hair as best she could, donned another layer over her flannel underwear, and slipped on a parka. Even though it was spring in the Northern Hemisphere, the outdoor temperature at the field station was in the teens. The sun was setting early, and she wanted a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s eight-hour truck ride back to Fairbanks. From there, she’d catch a flight to Seattle with a layover in Chicago and be home for Good Friday.

She smiled to herself as she crunched through the snow. She pictured the faces of Jacob and Ramona as they decorated their Easter baskets and Ian’s half-lidded gaze of desire. She wiped at the slick drop of mucus that collected on the tip of her nose.

The cramped common areas of the field station meant that the various researchers—from climatologists to geologists—were often in close contact with one another. Meg knew better than most what a ripe environment they provided for disease. She hoped she wasn’t catching a cold. That would definitely make the long journey home even harder than it already was.

CHAPTER TWO

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Jeremiah Drew was feeling pretty good for a Wednesday night in April, even in dead-as-hell Anchorage, Alaska.

He passed the bottle of Old Crow to Freddie Stiller, who was two drinks behind and took the business of shuffling suitcases far too seriously. Take it easy, man, Jeremiah said. Those cubes ain’t going nowhere, and we don’t even need ‘em on the apron for another half hour.

Freddie took only a small sip, more to be sociable than to catch a buzz. He was already on probation for missing a shift without notice, but that was Denita’s fault. She’d threatened to move out and had even gone so far as to clean out the closet and throw all her clothes on the bed. Freddie was lucky they were both broke, or she would’ve been on the next flight out of what she called The Rape Capital of the World.

Freddie was sure other places had more rapes, especially where they let immigrants swarm the country, but he didn’t know shit for statistics. All he knew was that half of Denita’s girlfriends had been assaulted at one time or another, and most of them ended up leaving for the mainland.

The warehouse was cavernous and cold, with a brisk breeze blowing through the open bay doors at each end. The piles of packages were already sorted by country, and the next task was to get each country’s shipments together so they could be loaded onto cargo planes.

As their shift boss, Morton, liked to tell them in his nasally whine, We’re an equidistant hub to Frankfurt, Tokyo, and New York City. While Freddie didn’t know shit for statistics, Morton could pop them off like farts at a chili-eating contest. Maybe that’s why Morton was the boss and Freddie was stuck sharing whiskey with an ex-con.

You alright, Jeremiah said, sitting on a palette of packages bound together by clear plastic wrap. He extended the bottle again. Not many white folks would swap slobber with a brother.

I’m not your brother, Freddie said, waving the bottle away.

Bet you’d drink with an Eskimo.

It’s not cool to call them ‘Eskimos,’ Freddie said. That’s like calling you the N-word.

Well, there’s more Eskimos than brothers around here, Jeremiah said, taking another swig. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and reached into his shirt pocket for a smoke.

Freddie read the manifest on a clipboard hanging from a metal shelf. He checked the lot number of the packet Jeremiah was sitting on. That’s bound for New York, he said.

Got another one back there on the same shipment, Jeremiah said, casually flipping his thumb over one shoulder. It’s a doozie.

Stack, pack, and stay on track, Freddie said, quoting a Morton-ism. We’d better get this lot together before Morton shows up.

Morton can do it his own damn self.

Apparently Jeremiah didn’t care if the pallets got to the right place or not. He sucked on his cigarette and released billows of gray smoke in long, leisurely draws. Freddie hoped there was nothing flammable in any of the shipments. Such material was technically prohibited from regular ground shipping but Freddie had seen all kinds of weird stuff in broken packages. To get most banned materials through the system, basically all you had to do was lie.

A howling gust blew through the warehouse door at the far end that led to the tarmac. A commercial airliner taxied down the runway in the distance, its engines revving for takeoff. Beyond it swam the lights of Anchorage, twinkling in the watery darkness. Freddie pulled his jacket collar high around his neck.

He walked down the open aisle between the rows of pallets until he found the lot with the New York destination. Jeremiah was right; this one was stacked twelve feet high and bulged with lots of odd-sized parcels. It was too cumbersome to slide a dolly underneath. He’d have to use the fork-lift.

It was just as well that Jeremiah had left the job to Freddie. As drunk as Jeremiah was, he’d probably drive the fork-lift into a wall. That would really send Morton into a fit. If he lost this job, Denita would dump him faster than he could say You betcha.

Freddie climbed into the fork-lift’s cage and triggered the electric engine. He accelerated and approached the pallet like a crab moving in on a shark carcass. He eased the forks under the pallet and slowly lifted. The cargo wobbled as he backed up and turned toward the area where the rest of the Louisville shipment waited.

He strained to see over the towering stack of cargo, which consisted of cardboard boxes, a few metal lockers, and one larger wooden crate.

Watch it, man! Jeremiah shouted.

Freddie slammed on the hydraulic brake and the cargo tipped forward, the machine’s rear wheels lifting in the air. The tips of the forks grated against the concrete floor, the metallic squeal setting Freddie’s teeth on edge.

Jeremiah appeared at the side of the cab, cigarette in his mouth as he waved his hands. Back it up.

Freddie geared it into reverse, but the rear wheels spun uselessly, still suspended in the air. The load exceeded the machine’s weight limit. Morton was just going to love this.

Climb on the back, Freddie shouted. Another crew worked at the far end of the warehouse, and they might come investigate if the commotion grew too noticeable.

Jeremiah jumped into the cab and crawled behind the seat, giving Freddie an inadvertent kick in the head. Jeremiah was tall and scrawny, but his weight was just enough to tilt the fork lift back to level. The only problem was that the load of cargo had slid so far off the forks that the sudden shift pitched it to the concrete floor and onto its side.

Now you done it, Jeremiah said, hopping off the back of the fork-lift and strolling around to inspect the damage.

Freddie put the fork-lift in neutral and joined him. The load of cargo was so tightly bound that most of it was still intact, strapped to the pallet. However, a few smaller boxes had squirted out the top and bounced across the floor. Freddie didn’t want to think about how much of the merchandise had been damaged. He only hoped he could get the stack upright again and loaded onto a plane without anyone catching on.

S’alright, Jeremiah said, slapping one of the packages. I’ll just scoop it up and push it straight up again.

What’s going on down there? came a booming voice from somewhere deep in the warehouse.

Oh, shit, Freddie hissed in a hoarse whisper. "Morton."

Jeremiah slung himself into the cab and backed up the fork-lift, the warning beeps piercing the air. He swerved and lurched forward, scraping the tines across the concrete and gouging the bottom layer of packages. A snow of Styrofoam flew out. He lifted until the bundle was nearly upright, and Freddie gave it a shove to finish the job. Another couple of cardboard boxes tumbled off in the process.

Jeremiah parked the fork-lift and killed the engine as Freddie scooped up the loose parcels. He tossed them on top of the bundle. Jeremiah joined him, gathering an oily-looking box that had been punctured by a fork. Fog drifted from it, which Freddie recognized as dry ice like they used in rock concerts for a stage effect.

What’s this shit? Jeremiah said.

Who cares? Morton will be here any second.

It’s got the hazard label. I got it all over my hands. Probably catch AIDS or something.

They can’t ship AIDS. Freddie checked the label. Category B. It’s safe.

He doubted Jeremiah would remember the training videos all employers had to watch. Freddie was pretty sure Category B meant biological samples that weren’t infectious but still had to be triple-packed. They’d pounded it pretty hard to break through all the extra protection. He glanced at the shipping address. Headed for the Research Triangle Park in North Carolina.

Morton’s footsteps echoed down a row of pallets, headed their way. Jeremiah tried to hand off the busted package to Freddie, but Freddie didn’t want anything to do with it. The liquid was brownish and saturated the corrugated cardboard.

Get rid of it, Freddie whispered.

Jeremiah chucked it onto a cluster of bundles thirty feet away, drops of liquid flying out. A pool of it had collected on the floor, flecked with grains of Styrofoam, and Freddie tried to mop it up with the sole of his shoe.

Morton appeared around the corner. What’s going on here?

Getting the Louisville shipment together, Freddie said before Jeremiah had a chance to say something stupid.

Morton peered at the bundle and the fork-lift parked beside it. He tried to adjust the parcels bulging against the plastic wrap. Looks like you boys shook it up a little.

It’s tighter than a moose cooze, Jeremiah said. No problem, Boss.

Morton looked at Freddie’s feet. What’s that wet spot?

Leaked out of the fork-lift, Freddie said. Might need a tune-up.

Morton stooped and wiped his finger in it, then sniffed. Doesn’t smell like hydraulic fluid. Smells like...

Freddie thought it smelled like dookie, but he wasn’t about to volunteer an opinion.

I don’t know what it smells like. Morton wiped the mess onto the thigh of his jeans. He sported salt-and-pepper hair and wore a dress jacket over his brown uniform to set him apart from his subordinates. Quit screwing around. The Louisville outbound is already taxiing. And we’ve got Dallas right on its heels. We’re three minutes behind schedule. You’re lucky they’re rerouting some flights because of tornadoes in Oklahoma.

We’ll get it done, Boss, Jeremiah said in what Freddie thought of as his plantation massah voice.

Morton didn’t answer. He was studying the trail of brown drops that led to the cluster of pallets bound for multiple points across the United States.

Freddie could hardly wait for midnight and the end of his shift. He wanted to be well away from work when the graveyard shift discovered the busted packages. With any luck, Denita would be awake and maybe even in the mood. It was about time something went his way.

By sunrise, the contaminated packages were making their way to six different airports on three continents.

CHAPTER THREE

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Meg Perriman felt the first stirrings of physical unease just after debarking in Seattle to catch her three a.m. connecting flight to Raleigh.

After reaching the departure gate early, she went to the restroom where she relieved herself. The bowel discomfort had crept up on her in mid-flight, but she didn’t like those cramped airliner toilets. The loose, watery stool was a disturbing shade of black. As she washed her hands, the reflection looking back at her bore flushed cheeks against pallid skin. She didn’t have a fever, but her skin was clammy even after she patted her face with a wet paper towel.

She wadded up the paper towel and tossed it at the trash can on her way out. She didn’t notice that it missed and dropped to the floor. She nearly bumped into the janitor on her way out. She issued a whispered apology that was lost in the noise of the SeaTac P.A. system summoning boarders for flight 391 to Los Angeles.

The janitor, Valeria Melendez, was used to distracted travelers on the red-eyes. She could’ve considered the well-dressed woman rude, but everyone was in a hurry with the holiday approaching. Besides, her job required her to be invisible. Given the current political mood of the United States, she preferred invisibility.

Valeria entered the restroom to give it a quick visual inspection. Despite the common belief that men were pigs, Valeria found that women left far messier public bathrooms. Perhaps they ruled their own homes with an iron fist and a bottle of spray cleanser like in the commercials, but they showed less interest outside their own territory. It was common to find tiny shreds of toilet paper on the floor of the stalls, as if rats had sought to make nests.

She was pleased that the unoccupied stalls were relatively clean. One toilet featured an unfortunate streak of spattered fecal waste, but it would hold until she made a full sweep in an hour. That would necessitate the yellow sign warning travelers of a wet floor, which always drew annoyed glares from people who flew five hundred miles an hour yet couldn’t be inconvenienced for a few seconds on land.

A toilet flushed inside one of the stalls, and Valeria politely turned toward the sink, wiping at water spots on the mirror. A woman emerged, struggling with a comically oversize purse. She was in her forties, younger than Valeria by a decade, yet the exhaustion around her eyes aged her with wrinkles. She washed her hands and pulled eyeliner from the depths of her purse.

It’s the miles, not the years, the woman said without looking at Valeria.

Valeria turned to see if the woman had a companion with her, but the restroom’s other occupant silently attended to business.

You have traveled far? Valeria asked, practicing the elimination of Spanish accent.

On my way to Hawaii after three weeks in Ontario, the woman said without enthusiasm.

Business or pleasure? Valeria wasn’t in the habit of chatting, since it made her visible. She absently scooped up the rumpled wet paper towel from the floor. Ordinarily she would’ve donned rubber gloves, but she wasn’t going to do any serious cleaning yet.

Always business, the woman said, dabbing at one eye and squinting at the mirror. She issued an exasperated gasp and blinked rapidly. But you take pleasure where you find it, right?

Valeria didn’t know much about pleasure. She’d endured the love of a man, and the temporary affection of several others, but those experiences fell far short of the romantic myths in movie and song. These days, pleasure was a weekend free and forty extra dollars after the bills were paid. Surely this woman in the pants suit and styled blond hair fully tasted the myths.

The woman, eyes closed, reached out past Valeria toward the towel dispenser. Valeria peeled one off for her and stuck it in her hand. As their fingers brushed, Valeria noticed a diamond ring on the pinkie finger. She might not be engaged, but since she already had a diamond, perhaps there was no need for it.

Thanks, the woman said, wiping the corners of her eye.

You are welcome. Valeria moved away so the woman wouldn’t hand her the paper towel. Have a safe trip.

The woman gave a weary smile, glancing past Valeria as if not seeing her. Even blocking the doorway, Valeria was still invisible. This was another type of pleasure. She tucked the spray bottle in her apron pouch and left the restroom as a mother and her young daughter entered.

Valeria returned in an hour to conduct a thorough cleaning as scheduled, complete with a rolling mop bucket. Foot traffic had slowed considerably. The restroom was in its typical state: a snow of shredded paper, unsightly splotches of yellow and brown, and a vague scent of elimination, illicit cigarette smoke, sweat, and perfume.

She stood up her folding sign, turning the Spanish-language