The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Read online

  Contents

  Title Page/Copyright

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  Dedication

  The Source

  Chapter 1 - Bus Ride

  Chapter 2 - Watching the World Die

  Chapter 3 - Arrival

  Chapter 4 - Mole

  Chapter 5 - Trust

  Chapter 6 - Fugitive

  Chapter 7 - On Campaign

  Chapter 8 - News

  Chapter 9 - Man's Best Friend

  Chapter 10 - Cry

  Chapter 11 - The Council

  Chapter 12 - Plans

  Chapter 13 - Signal

  Chapter 14 - Roadblock

  Chapter 15 - Release the Hounds

  Chapter 16 - Captive

  Chapter 17 - Long Night

  Chapter 18 - Doublecross

  Chapter 19 - The Journal

  Chapter 20 - Saying Goodbye

  Chapter 21 - Survivors

  Chapter 22 - New Mission

  Chapter 23 - Starvation

  Chapter 24 - Meeting

  Chapter 25 - The Talk

  Chapter 26 - Protector

  Chapter 27 - Roulade

  Chapter 28 - The Note

  Chapter 29 - VX

  Chapter 30 - Extraction

  Chapter 31 - Rescue

  Chapter 32 - Report

  Chapter 33 - Decision Time

  Chapter 34 - Departure

  Chapter 35 - Call me Jayne

  Chapter 36 - Glacier National Park

  Please Review This Book

  Click Here to Get the Next Book

  Author Contact Info

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  The Source

  MARCUS RICHARDSON

  © 2016 Marcus Richardson.

  All Rights Reserved.

  1st Printing, October 2016.

  This is a work of fiction. The people and events in this book have been written for entertainment purposes only. Any similarity to living and/or deceased people is purely coincidental and not intentional.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written consent by the author.

  Books by Marcus Richardson

  THE WILDFIRE SAGA

  The Source (Prequel)

  Book I: Apache Dawn

  Book II: The Shift

  Book III: Firestorm

  False Prey (Novella)

  The Wildfire Saga Bundle

  For my complete catalog listing, please see:

  marcusrichardsonauthor.com

  For the Survivors.

  CHAPTER 1

  Bus Ride

  CHAD HUNTLEY STARED AS an alien landscape rolled by his window. Nothing looked the same as it had just a month earlier. In another life, he came this way home from school every day and passed houses with kids running in yards and driveways, shooting hoops, or playing street hockey. After the H5N1 virus burned through this suburban neighborhood, the only thing moving were National Guard Humvees as they lumbered through deserted streets.

  And his bus—the bus from hell.

  Chad took a quick glance around and tried to ignore the empty stares of the other passengers. They blinked but didn't see. Shell shock—that's what Mr. Masters called it. Chad looked over his shoulder. Two rows back, Stu Masters held his wife as she cried the names of their dead children. Again. She'd been like that for the past two days.

  He turned his attention back to the window, trying to focus on anything other than the abject grief that surrounded him like a fog. After two days of creeping through the wasteland he used to call home, the constant mask-muffled crying grated on his nerves. Every little community they stopped at on the way to Fort Worth offered more of the same: black X’s on front doors, deserted streets, and maybe a survivor or two. Haslet, Rhome, Newark…they were all the same; the dead far outnumbered the living.

  At least looking out the window kept him from seeing the other passengers stare at him behind their masks. The only way anyone was allowed on the bus was after Dr. Raythie confirmed they were clear of active infection. Even though no one was sick, the other passengers still glared at Chad like he was a plague carrier. Dr. Raythie made it clear from the get-go that Chad was special and before long, the other passengers resented his presence.

  He adjusted his own mask, irritated with the cheap elastic straps that held the thick, paper-like material over his nose and mouth. It's not my fault I never get sick…

  Chad tore his eyes away from the bodies near the road, the burned houses, and the piles of trash to look down at his lap. Mom’s crinkled, worn picture smiled at him. He ran a finger over her sun-kissed hair and smiled back. She looked so happy, so alive, in stark contrast to the last time he'd seen her, choking on phlegm and blood.

  Once he allowed that first memory to seep out, the dam burst, threatening to drown him: Dad stumbling down the hallway, pink froth at his lips. Helen and Gracie—his sisters, one older and one younger—had choked and wheezed as the flu destroyed their lungs until they couldn't breathe at all.

  A gust of cold wind slammed into the side of the bus, creating little eddies of drifting snow on the road. That same snow probably covered his mother’s grave by now, along with the rest of his family. He'd buried them all out in the back yard with the help of his neighbor, Mr. Miller. Then a few days later, Chad buried him too.

  Chad stared at the picture again. Mom's been in the ground less than a week and I'm already having a hard time remembering her voice.

  "Looks pretty grim out there, huh?" Dr. Raythie asked, leaning over from the seat beside him.

  Chad didn't answer. There was no point. She'd just start asking him if he was sure he'd never been sick, like she had yesterday.

  "Hard to believe it all fell apart so quickly…" Raythie said, her voice muffled by the bulbous helmet atop her biohazard suit.

  Chad refused to take the bait. He stared out the window and watched as they passed another group of half-frozen bodies in yet another dead neighborhood. In the opening days of the pandemic, there had been enough able-bodied volunteers to drag the dead out for collection. Yet soon enough, the volunteers got sick and most of them died too.

  His eyes lit on a dog, its face buried in the bloated gut of a corpse about fifty feet away. It didn't even look up as the convoy rumbled by.

  "I feel bad for all the pets," he said.

  "What?" she asked. "The pets? But…what—what about the people?"

  Chad shrugged. "All the dogs and cats out there…they were just left to starve to death, you know? There's nothing wrong with them, right?" He faced the doctor. "They never had a chance."

  She blinked her wide brown eyes behind the plastic face-shield of her suit. "But…"

  Chad almost smiled. Maybe now she'll go away. He turned back to the gruesome scene outside his window. His fingers tightened on the picture again. Nothing mattered anymore.

  I miss you Mom; I miss you guys so much…

  "Well, I guess that's true—it is kind of sad…" the doctor said. "But at the end of the day, you're still talking about cats and dogs. I feel worse for the people. All those families torn apart…so much death…"

  At least you’re all together now.

  Chad leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool glass. He closed his eyes and sighed. He'd long since given up imagining that he could've done something to prevent his family from getting sick. The people on the news had said as much—even the government couldn't stop it. The H5N1 virus had mutated into something no one could cont
rol or predict. It swept across the globe like an unstoppable wildfire. And now it burned its way through America.

  "Survivors up ahead," announced the radio at the front of the bus. "Two and Three, take the flanks. Usual spread—keep it tight. Let's do this and get moving boys. Only a couple hours to sundown—I don't know about you, but I'd like some hot chow today."

  The big charter bus came to a slow, squealing stop as Chad listened to the radio chatter from the soldiers tasked with protecting the convoy. He sank back in his seat to avoid eye contact with the cluster of bedraggled people who rushed toward the bus. They carried what meager possessions they could and waved frantically as they clamored for help, hope etched on every drawn face.

  Chad’s eyes swept over the little cluster of survivors and he noticed two skeletal figures at the back of the group. In the dim afternoon light their gaunt faces shone with sweat. Those two have a fever.

  Raythie saw them too. "I don't like the way those two look," she muttered.

  Chad listened to rustling plastic as she fumbled with her radio. "Please keep an eye on the two people at the back of the group. Check them with the heat gun—they look like they might have fevers."

  "Roger that," crackled over her radio.

  Chad watched as one of the soldiers stepped forward, shouting indistinct commands at the civilians through his gas mask. As he approached the huddled pair, his rifle snapped up to keep them from moving forward. A second soldier approached and held out a square device on a long cord. He waved it in front of the couple then stepped back. The second soldier shook his head and offered the box to the first.

  The young couple hugged each other as they desperately tried reasoning with the soldier. He shook his helmeted head again and motioned them back.

  "The man’s at 102, the woman’s reading 104. They claim they’re improving and begging for help—what do you want me to do, ma'am?"

  Raythie sighed. Chad felt bad for her, despite the constant badgering about his medical history. As a doctor, she probably only wanted to help people. During the tragic drive toward Fort Worth, they’d discovered there were precious few people left to help. And here Dr. Raythie had come across two more people who somehow survived the death that swirled around them like a fog. He knew before she spoke they'd be turned away for the safety of those already on the bus.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. "Give them rations and tell them where we're going, but don't let them get any closer.” Her voice was clear, hard, and decisive. Chad admired her resolve if nothing else. Her compassion for the few had to be ruthlessly squelched for the good of the many.

  "Are you sure?" The soldier looked at the two scarecrows. "They don't look any worse than that guy we saw yesterday—"

  "I said we can't take them."

  "Ma'am…we can't just leave them…"

  "You heard me. If they are getting better, they'll have enough food now to survive and get to our base. If they're lying, it won't matter in the end." She took a deep breath. "Either way, we can't afford to put all the other passengers at risk if these two get on. This group is all symptom-free and I'd like to keep it that way."

  After a long pause, the soldier replied. "Copy that, ma'am."

  Chad watched, fascinated, as the drama replayed itself one more time. The soldiers issued orders to back up. He watched the emotions ripple across the sick man's face. First was surprise, then shock, and finally anger. It was the same every time. The woman started to cry—she buried her head in her companion’s shoulder as he glared at the soldiers. He shouted something, then stepped forward.

  The soldier with the rifle pointed it at the man's face and shouted another command. Probably something like stay back. Chad had never been in the military but the jargon and rhythms of speech were becoming familiar over the last two days. It was surreal—like he was trapped in a video game.

  I wish this was a video game.

  Just like all the others, the man refused to give in. He shouted again and lurched forward, dragging the reluctant woman with him. Was she his sister? Girlfriend? Maybe his wife? She struggled to pull him back in the face of the long, black rifle pointed their way. He broke free and waved his arms in the soldier's face.

  "Three and Four, back me up over here!"

  Two more soldiers appeared from the other side of the bus and pushed through the crowd with rifles at their shoulders.

  Chad closed his eyes—he knew what came next. The shouts intensified and this time he distinctly heard one of the soldiers yell 'stop' right before the first rifle shot cracked like thunder. One woman on the bus screamed and quickly covered her mouth but no one could look away. It was over in less than five seconds. Some people in the crowd cried out, the soldiers yelled, and another two people died. Chad opened his eyes and watched as one of the soldiers nudged the bodies with his boot then looked up, shaking his head.

  They're both dead. The soldier in command lowered his rifle and unclipped a can of disinfectant from his belt, then sprayed his partner's boot were he'd touched the bodies. They stepped back and stared at the bodies while the other soldiers regained control of the crowd.

  "Doc, what do you want to do with the bodies?"

  When she didn't answer immediately, Chad opened his eyes and watched Dr. Raythie’s reflection in the window. Her shoulders trembled as she nestled her bulbous helmet between gloved hands. She may have been crying and for the first time in days, Chad felt sorry for someone besides himself.

  "Just…" She cleared her throat, then pressed the transmit button on her radio again. "Just leave them."

  Chad focused on the soldier who'd fired. He looked up and turned to face the bus. The soldiers were in the same boat as the doctor: they hated the job, but somebody had to do it. The soldier's facemask was clogged with condensation. Eventually, he turned and shook his head before flashing hand signals at the others.

  "And the rest of them," Raythie said quietly.

  Chad turned in his seat to face her. She had yet to lift her head.

  "Say again, please?" crackled the soldier's voice.

  The doctor shook her head inside her bubble helmet. For the first time, Chad noticed how her fine, dirty blond hair looked like corn-silk. "Those two could have infected the whole group. Anyone presenting with a fever is highly contagious. We need to keep moving."

  "Ma'am?" called out the driver as he turned around in his seat. "You don't want me to open the doors?" he asked, his face pinched in a frown.

  Dr. Raythie stood. She braced her hands against the seats on either side of the aisle and walked forward. "No."

  "You can't just leave them!" called out Mr. Masters from the back of the bus.

  She turned, her biohazard suit crinkling with the movement. "Listen to me, I'm going to say this for everyone on this bus one more time." She pointed out the window at the crowd of angry people now pressing on the soldiers.

  Chad watched as anger visibly moved through the agitated crowd. I guess they know we’re not letting them on the bus.

  "The people out there are likely infected with the virus. Those two people that had to be…that…"

  "That you killed," said someone from the front.

  Raythie closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin. "Those people represent a threat to your safety. If we let them on this bus—"

  "Yeah, we know—if they were sick, they would've gotten us all sick—we've heard it before. That doesn't mean everybody else out there…" argued Mr. Masters.

  "She's right," said Chad quietly. The murmuring died around him and resentment-tinged silence radiated out from him like heat from the sun. He stood from his seat and locked eyes with the doctor.

  "The sick people out there have probably already infected the others. If we let those people on, you'll all get sick too." Chad looked around and met the eyes of a teen-aged boy, a young woman, and a girl and her mother—he implored them to see the light of reason. "I've seen it happen."

  "You don't know that for sure, you're not a doctor
," argued the woman across the aisle. “You’re just a kid.”

  Dr. Raythie held up her gloved hands. "It doesn't matter. I'm the one in charge of this bus and I say those people don't get on board." She raised the radio to her lips. "Just give them food and get them to clear of the bus—we need to keep moving."

  "Easy for you to say, ma'am," said the soldier over the angry buzz of the crowd.

  Something shattered against the windshield, spraying blue liquid over the glass and completely obscuring the view through the front windows. The people in the first couple of rows gasped.

  "Everyone fall back…" said the soldier.

  A few people ran down the side of the bus, slapping the sides with their hands. A man about his father's age spotted Chad looking out the window and yelled through the glass.

  “Let us in—we're not sick! We don't have any food—"

  Another man elbowed him in the side and pushed him out of the way. This one was older, with thick shoulders and graying hair. "Open up or I'll tear this Goddamn bus apart!"

  One of the women inside the bus shrieked and hid her face while her little girl cried.

  The people outside hurled more angry shouts toward the bus. Someone used a suitcase as a battering ram and smashed the door over and over again.

  "Stand back or we will open fire!" called a voice through a loudspeaker mounted on the lead Humvee.

  The crowd paused, but only for a second. "Let us on that bus!" somebody screamed. He threw a bag at the side of the armored truck.

  "There's no need for that," Raythie said quickly into her radio. "Just get inside your vehicles and let's—"

  The first gunshot cut through the commotion like thunder. After the third and fourth shots, the surprised screaming stopped inside the bus. Chad blinked. The tenth shot silenced the last screams outside.

  Chad shrunk down slowly in his seat, pulled his knees up to his chest, and pressed himself against the window. He closed his eyes tight as the bus rolled forward and didn't open them again until hours later when the bus reached its destination.