Infected Chaos

  DEDICATION

  “Keep your eyes on the stars and your feet on the ground.”

  - Franklin D. Roosevelt

  I’d like to thank my family for standing by me and giving me support. I’d also like to thank

  Kristy

  Parker

  Jennifer

  Amber

  Nevena

  Michelle

  Hannah

  Jason

  Darcie

  Christina

  Amber Stone

  Sarah Bailey

  and

  Alexa

  for giving me guidance and encouragement.

  Don’t give up on your dreams.

  Infected Chaos

  Copyright © 2016 All rights reserved.

  Loren Edwards

  Kindle Edition, License

  Title ID: 6118245

  ISBN-13: 978-1530389148

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are pure coincidental; any references to actual people, places, or evens are fictitious. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Edited by Happy Editorial Services

  http://www.moniquehappy.com

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Cliff spied his boss, James, yelling at him over the noise in the machine shop and raised the visor of his safety shield. He could see Jerry’s face was full of concern.

  Cliff’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “You asked to take off early today to pick up your kids, right?” Jame huffed.

  “Yea”

  “Well, there’s an issue at school. I don’t know what it is, but I think you need to go, now. There’s been some kind of accident,” James explained, a clipboard in his hand.

  As soon as the word accident left James’ mouth, his helmet and gloves were off. “I’m going!” Cliff stated, handing John his safety hat and gloves.

  Cliff darted to the parking lot and climbed into his Ford truck; he was more curious than worried. What type of accident? He backed out of the parking lot without looking for other cars. He shifted into drive and sped to the school. What could it be? he wondered. An active shooter? Gas leak? Or a non-issue like a waterline break?

  Jennifer’s words that morning were still clear in his thoughts. “Don’t forget the kids this afternoon,” she had snapped at him on the phone.

  Cliff sighed. I’m not a child, he thought. “Of course not, Jennifer,” he had returned the aggravated tone. He missed her, but hated the new attitude she paraded when she spoke to him. He knew he had made mistakes during their marriage, but he still loved her. It had been six months since their divorce; Cliff had felt lost ever since. His entire world was turned upside down.

  “Good. I have a hair appointment with my girlfriend, Beth, at three,” she said. “Take em’ to my house and they’ll be fine. I will be home shortly after that.”

  Nine months before, when she asked for a divorce, he had stopped drinking. He hated himself for finding relief in the bottle. Every time he saw one, it disgusted him.

  When he returned home, Jennifer waved his drinking off as a symptom of his post-traumatic stress disorder, a souvenir from his 15 years in the military. Deep down, he knew he used PTSD as an excuse, but he did suffer from it.

  He had sought help once, after he sobered up from a week-long bender—but it had been at Jennifer’s prompting. That was three years ago. Cliff never thought the Department of Veterans Affair helped. He returned to drinking shortly after, and it had been the downfall of his marriage.

  The hardest part, he soon realized, was living in a new home without his two children: Cassidy and Jonathan.

  Surely, the school would have called him or Jennifer if the event was serious? As he was driving along Welsh Street, his ears perked. He forgot he left the radio on the AM station while driving that morning.

  “It can’t be!” Cliff exclaimed to himself as he reached for the volume knob.

  The DJ interrupted the music. “Breaking news,” he announced, Cliff could hear the gravity in his voice. He reached for the knob and turned up the volume. A reporter took over, explaining that a highly contagious virus was spreading throughout the Oklahoma City area. Another outbreak? Cliff remembered hearing the morning news describe an outbreak in Dallas, but that had been controlled.

  “Is it contained?” the studio reporter asked.

  “Hold on, Chuck,” the on-scene reporter announced, his voice uneasy. “There’s an infected patient across then street from me, lying on the ground, convulsing. He’s bleeding from the neck. There’s a large section of his skin missing exposing his trachea! Oh, God,” the broadcaster cried.

  There was a period of silence.

  “Oh, dear God. Chuck, I hate to say this and cause more panic, but it’s a doctor. He’s infected,” he described between heavy breaths.

  “David!” Chuck blurted over the broadcast. “Don’t get any closer. I think …” Chuck paused. “Yes! Yes, David! They are signaling to me from the control room that you need to get out of there!”

  “Wait a minute, Chuck. The doctor is getting up! He’s standing now. Oh, Man! He’s still bleeding from the neck. I can’t believe this! There’s a large portion of his neck missing! Oh, my gosh! The doctor stood up, he’s on his feet and looking around. I don’t know how he’s standing by the look at the wound. I think … I think he’s coming towards me!” A growl erupted from the broadcast followed by the reporter screaming, “No! No!”

  “David? David?” Chuck repeated, but only distant screams and growls returned his call.

  Cliff’s heart drop to his feet. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and swallowed. The news report petrified him in a way he had only experienced once in his life—the first time he had walked onto a battlefield. He prayed he wouldn’t meet the same terrifying scene at the school.

  Cliff turned the steering wheel of the truck into the parking lot of the middle school. He spotted a firetruck and one police car parked at the entrance with their emergency lights on.

  It can’t be that bad, he thought. Only one cop car?

  Cliff parked in front of the playground and jogged to the front entrance. One driver came within inches of hitting him. The frantic driver, a mother, parked her blue Chrysler in the middle of the parking lot, leaving her door open as she ran into the school.

  “Jesus, woman!” Cliff stated but the lady never looked back.

  A group of parents with their children in tow exited the building, knocking into Cliff as he entered. One mother was on her cell phone, saying she had her son and was heading home. Mrs. Sharp, the school principal, was standing at the side of the entrance.

  “Mrs. Sharp?” Cliff called.

  She turned to face him. It seemed as though every line in her face was deeper than it had been the last time he had seen her.

  “Mrs. Sharp?” he called again. She was overwhelmed; it was an expression from his past, one he had seen after an explosion on an Iraqi street. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her shoulders. “Mrs. Sharp?”

  A little flicker in her eye and she came to. She looked up and mumbled something incoherent. He asked her to repeat herself. She tried, but her words trailed off into silence and hesitation. She was of no use. Cliff rushed through the doors, his heart pounding.

  Inside, Cliff found a group of schoolchildren being guided into the gymnasium by a young teacher with long, blonde hair. He rushed to her side as she was instructing the children to stay close, doing her best to distract the children from the chaos around them.

  “I’m looking fo
r Cassidy Daniels, eighth grade,” Cliff called.

  The young teacher didn’t say anything put pointed to the gymnasium.

  “Thanks.” Cliff smiled.

  Cliff shuffled through the flow of children entering the arena. The bleachers were almost at capacity. He stepped onto the gym floor and paced in front of the bleachers, looking for Cassidy. The air was thick with hushed tones of worry and fear.

  “Cassidy!” Cliff called above the din of the students. “Cassidy!”

  A small hand toward the top of the bleachers caught Cliff’s eye; it was Cassidy. He felt the tightness in his shoulders relax. She rose from her seat and rushed down the bleachers. She stepped through the railing at the bottom of the seats and onto the gym floor, then ran into her father’s arms. Cassidy looked back at her friends and waved.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “She asked me to pick you guys up. Ready?”

  “We need to tell my teacher we’re leaving.”

  “Where is she?”

  Cassidy pointed and tugged on his arm. She led him to the foot of the bleachers near the entrance and introduced him to a woman with large frame eyeglasses and brown curly hair.

  “My father is here, Mrs. Chapman,” Cassidy greeted.

  Cliff smiled, “I’m here to take Cassidy home.”

  “I’m so glad. Please get home safely.” Mrs. Chapman forced a smile.

  Cliff saw fright in the teacher’s eyes, though she was doing her best to hide it.

  He led Cassidy from the gym. Frantic parents rushed in, causing Cliff and Cassidy to hug the wall. Cliff felt his blood pressure rise; the manners of people seemed to matter little when survival instinct always overrode social niceties.

  He felt a jolt of adrenaline as he took in the chaos in the parking lot. The entire lot was abandoned cars, half with their doors open, some driven up onto the sidewalks, most of them carelessly blocking other vehicles in—including his own. He told himself, one step at a time; compartmentalize the situation. He would worry about fleeing the traffic jam after he found his son, Jonathan. He grabbed Cassidy’s hand and jogged across the lawn to the elementary building.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The elementary school was more chaotic than the middle school. Cliff, holding Cassidy’s hand, met a crowd of young children in the hallway. Most of the children were crying.

  “Mrs. Brown? Mrs. Brown?” Cliff called when he saw a teacher with long, raven black hair. He remembered her at a parent-teacher conference at the beginning of the school year. He couldn’t forget. Jennifer had refused to attend; it was the same month she had asked for a divorce. Since then, Cliff had found the willpower to be a better man. His love for her woke him up. Her leaving was what he needed to bring him back to reality; deep down he thanked her for that.

  Mrs. Brown turned when she heard Cliff call.

  “Jonathan Daniels’ father,” he explained, touching his hand to his chest. “Where’s Jonathan?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. She studied Cliff’s blue eyes, deciding if she should break from protocol. “He’s in Mrs. Allen’s classroom. Her class is across the hall from Jonathan’s room. Hurry,” she responded, her voice cracking.

  They didn’t train teachers for what they were facing. It wasn’t a fire or an active shooter. It wasn’t a tornado drill. Assembling all students in the gym was the only logical thing to do.

  Cliff swallowed. “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked over a line of children filing between him and Mrs. Brown.

  She shook her head.

  “You sure?” Cliff pressed. “Please!”

  Mrs. Brown focused her attention back to the line of children. The look on her face reminded him of his mother’s the day she told him his dog died. He was twelve.

  “What’s the accident, Mrs. Brown?” he pressed.

  She hesitated, dodging his eyes. After a solid two seconds, she looked back at him. “It’s the virus; it’s here. Don’t worry. I saw Jonathan and he’s safe. He’s in Mrs. Allen’s room across the hall; he has been there since the attack. Please hurry, and take him home with you.”

  “What happened?”

  Mrs. Brown hesitated again.

  “Please?“ Cliff pushed. “What happened?”

  “All I know is Ms. Griffin was bitten by a student. We thought it was just a kid being unruly,” she paused looking away. “It was Brandon who bit her, and he’s not the nicest little young boy. Mrs. Allen heard the commotion and found Mrs. Griffin on the floor convulsing. Brandon had already bitten three other children. She ushered the other kids into her room and locked Mrs. Griffin’s door. She left Mrs. Griffin, Brandon, and the other children who were bit inside the classroom.”

  “Thank you.”

  Cliff grabbed Cassidy’s hand and led her down the main hallway. They turned down the hallway on the right and spotted a group of firefighters huddled at the end of the hallway. Cliff’s stomach knotted as he neared. He stopped one door short of them when he spotted Mrs. Allen’s classroom.

  “Go stand by Mrs. Allen’s door while I talk to the firemen and see about Jonathan. You be strong, okay?” Cliff told her looking into her green eyes. Once the words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure if his soft tone was to help calm Cassidy worries or his.

  He walked across the hallway to the group of firefighters huddled around the door. He overheard them debate in hushed tones if they should enter the room.

  “We need to get them medical help. I say open the door,” one of the firemen said.

  “Are you nuts!?” Cliff exclaimed, startling the men.

  “Who are you?” one huffed.

  Cliff studied the man. He spied the rank of captain on his lapel and nodded.

  “I don’t recommend opening this door until the police arrive.” Cliff paused. “Where is the officer, by the way? I saw his car out front.”

  The firefighters looked at each other, then turned to look through the glass window in the door. The captain pointed at the door. Cliff leaned forward and peered through the window. He saw Mrs. Griffin walking between desks. She had a large wound on her neck; her bottom lip was missing, exposing her teeth. She looked to be lost and confused. Three of the infected children stood by the windows, clawing at the glass.

  “What the …” Cliff whispered to himself. A man’s face popped in front of him on the other side of the glass. Cliff jumped two feet from the door. The man’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s out of water.

  The captain pointed. “That’s him,” he said in a calm voice.

  Cliff studied the officer. His skin was pale. His face was sunken, the skin hugging the bone structure. The color of his pupils was absent; solid white eyes stared back.

  Cliff’s eyebrows narrowed. “What the…is he dead or alive?” he asked.

  The firefighter grinned, “Bizarre, ain’t it?”

  “Um, gentleman,” Cliff cleared his throat. “I think y’all need to get the hell out of here. Don’t do anything with this door. Get everyone home, including yourselves.”

  The captain nodded.

  “If you go in there or open this door,” Cliff leaned forward, “I’m afraid the virus or whatever these people have will spread like a grassfire. I assure you. Please save the children. I’m grabbing my kids and getting the hell out of Dodge, and I suggest you do the same,” he pleaded, then turned toward Mrs. Allen’s classroom.

  He walked across the hall where Cassidy stood waiting. He squeezed her shoulder and peeked into Mrs. Allen’s window. She was doing her best to calm the children, singing nursery rhyme songs. He rapped his knuckle lightly on the glass window.

  Mrs. Allen saw Cliff and told the children the firefighters were there to help. She walked over to the door. She opened the door a few inches. “Yes?” she asked through the opening.

  “Hi. I’m Jonathan Daniels’ father,” Cliff answered.

  She closed the door and called for Jonathan.

  Cliff understood not letting him in the classroom. He was thankful Mrs
. Allen was cautious.

  He saw Jonathan emerge from the back of the classroom. Mrs. Allen leaned down and pointed at Cliff then spoke in his ear. Jonathan smiled and nodded.

  Mrs. Allen walked Jonathan to the door and opened it. “I had to be cautious.”

  “No need, ma’am. I totally understand and glad someone is,” Cliff smiled, rubbing the top of Jonathan’s head.

  “Jonathan is safe, and he doesn’t appear to be injured. I hope you get him home safely.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Allen. You’re a blessing.”

  Mrs. Brown was standing in the hallway next to the entrance of the gym when Cliff and his children returned to the main entrance. A group of angry parents surrounded her, asking for their children. She was visibly upset and shaking.

  “Where’s my son?” demanded a man wearing a black overcoat.

  Cliff thought he looked like the bank president. The wire-frame glasses on the edge of his nose added humor to his angry face.

  “What’s going on here?” a blonde-haired woman asked.

  Cliff felt he had to help. He didn’t think that hounding the teacher was improving the dire situation.

  “Folks!” he announced, holding his hands in the air.

  They all looked at Cliff.

  “Who are you?” the man barked.

  “Please be patient with the teachers. One at a time, please. You all will be home with your kids soon.”

  “Who gives you the authority to tell us what to do? I want my son now!” the banker demanded, turning his attention to Mrs. Brown.

  Cliff walked to Mrs. Brown and whispered in her ear, “Let these folks in and get their kids. That’s the safest place right now. We don’t need an unruly crowd to compound the issue,” Cliff pleaded. “Get yourself home. It’s only going to get worse.”

  Mrs. Brown swallowed and searched for her voice. “Okay.” Her voice shaken.

  She stepped to the side of the entrance to the gymnasium and motioned the parents through.

  “Thank you!” the banker sarcastically blurted.

  Cliff emerged from the building to the sound of crashing metal. He saw a car drive into an opened car door, pushing it forward to its front tire. A woman twenty yards away was yelling at another woman for taking her parking spot. This is going to get bad. He felt his throat tightened. They had no regard for anyone but themselves. The worst of humanity was showing itself in small town Whittaker. He felt his hip and tapped the clip of his Spider Co knife; it wasn’t much, but it was all he had in case one parent decided to get out of hand.