Prodromal World: when it ends...

Kate Rhoads

Book One of the Series

Prodromal World:

When it Ends...

Kate Rhoads

Copyright Page

Revised and re-titled version of Prodromal World

Revised Edition February 2015

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Kate Rhoads

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

ISBN: 9781310411137

Title: Prodromal World: When it Ends...

Author: Kate Rhoads

Cover by: Kate Rhoads and Holly Cutright

Edited by: Gina Fiserova

Publisher: Smashwords, Inc.

Smashwords Edition: License Note:

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

The people and places described in this book are based in reality but have been altered to suit the needs of the story and are based on my probably flawed memory. Those of you who recognize names of streets and businesses please allow my artistic license.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

License Page

Chapter 1: In the Beginning

Chapter 2: Confusion

Chapter 3: Uncertainty

Chapter 4: New Horrors

Chapter 5: Insanity

Chapter 6: Wednesday: Hospital

Chapter 7: Holding Vigil

Chapter 8: Second Wave

Chapter 9: Choices

Chapter 10: Lesson Learned

Chapter 11: Terms of Living

Chapter 12: Stumbling in the Dark

Chapter 13: Looking for Hope

Chapter 14: Reaching Out

Chapter 15: Raging Baby

Chapter 16: Sweeping Blind

Chapter 17: Stumbling Hero

Chapter 18: Magnet for Need

Chapter 19: Capturing Rage

Chapter 20: Finally a Plan

Chapter 21: Wait and See

Chapter 22: Game Over

Chapter 23: Prelude

Chapter 24: Windmill

Chapter 25: Returning Home

Chapter 26: Waking Up Wrong

Chapter 27: What’s in Store?

Chapter 28: A House Divided

Chapter 29: Learning and Helping

Chapter 30: Reasonable but Not

Chapter 31: Hesitant Invitations

Chapter 32: What Really Matters?

Chapter 33: Paradigms in Flux

Chapter 34: Rages, Wakers Learn

Chapter 35 Visitors and Visit

Chapter 36: Friday Treehouse

Chapter 37: Mobile Relief

Chapter 38: Return to the Scene

Chapter 39: Saturday: Awakening

Chapter 40: Shop till You Drop

Chapter 41: Recriminations

Chapter 42: Meanwhile

Chapter 43: Saturday: Windmill Refugees

Chapter 44: Saturday: New Immune Surface

Chapter 45: Saturday: Rage Explosion

Chapter 46: Saturday: More Immune

Chapter 47: Gatherings

Chapter 48: Saturday Call to the Hospital

Chapter 49: Sunday: Worshippers

Chapter 50: Sunday: Windmill Visit

Chapter 51: Windmill Surprises

Chapter 52: Home

Chapter 53: Sunday: Growing

Chapter 54: Sunday: Sunday Chores

Chapter 55: Bonding and Learning

Chapter 56: Sunday: Fire and Ashes

Chapter 57: Sunday: Rager De-raged

Chapter 58: Sunday: Father and Friend

Chapter 59: Endings

Chapter 60: Answers without End

About the Author

Dedication

To my husband who has supported me through it all.

A Special Thanks

A special thought to Gina Fiserova, my editor.

"Everything is energy and that’s all there is to it. Match the frequency of the reality you want and you cannot help but get that reality. It can be no other way. This is not philosophy. This is physics." Albert Einstein

Chapter 1: In the Beginning

The scream from his wife pierced his heart. It was rife with her frustration, anger, and pain, yet Al popped another cookie into his mouth and wiped away his tears with a big meaty hand. He was doing his best to ignore it, as he had so many other screams through the night and early morning hours. Al Sturgis once again wished for a beer, however cookies were all she had allowed in the house.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! he finally bellowed as he held his head and pulled at his close-cropped hair, no longer able to ignore the earsplitting yells. Can’t you shut the hell up!

He was tired; his nerves were fried, his hands were shaking. He had not slept beyond dozing, since Ruthie had started seeing cats attacking her bedroom window, and certainly not since she had begun that crazy, terrifying screeching. He renewed his furious pacing from his computer to the TV, dripping in sweat, still in the same clothes he had been in since Monday.

He had come home for a late lunch and had found his wife having an anxiety attack. He had tried to calm her even though it took the remainder of the afternoon. When she finally calmed, he had called the main office of his employer to let them know he was not coming back, though no one had answered. He got a soda and a bag of cookies from the refrigerator and turned on the television. Astounded and disbelieving, he had watched as the local news bulletin took over the regularly scheduled programming. What the f...?

At first, they had reported mass hysteria clogging doctors’ offices and hospitals. Within hours, it had gone pandemic with billions cowering in the streets all over the world, lost in their confusion, outnumbering the unaffected millions to one.

Al had saw videos of confused and agitated hospital patients wrestled to the ground by staff and family members in hospital after hospital. People in waiting rooms and hospital halls had frantically battered and slapped themselves, in battle with things only they could see. An eighty year-old woman, well dressed with silvered, coiffed hair and exquisitely made-up face shrieked in terror and lifted her cane to send it crashing down on a child clinging desperately with skinny arms to her leg. A heavily pregnant woman had climbed up on a chair as though she had seen a mouse and danced in her terror, until she fell into the melee on the floor, while her husband, who was trying to stop her, had been tackled from the side by a rushing quarterback ‘wannabe’ wearing a That’s So Sick t-shirt.

As the evening had passed, Ruth’s anxiety attacks had increased in frequency and he had spent most of his time holding her, talking her down. He had tried to call the doctor’s office but he got a recording.

A human but mechanical voice came on the line.

"This is Internal Medicine Associate. If you are calling because someone has symptoms of anxiety or panic attacks, please be advised not to come to the offices, as we cannot take any more patients today. If the symptoms are severe, please hang up and call 911 for emergency assistance."

At his wit’s end, he had tried to call the hospital though again got a recording.

"This is the Fork Grove Hospital. Due to the nature of the emergency, we are unable to respond at this time. We are urging you to follow the advice of the Center for Disease Control. ‘Stay in your homes. Stay off the streets and away from others who may be infected.’ If you can, give sedatives, or anti-anxiety pills, and keep them in a dark quiet room to reduce any unnecessary stimulation."

He had nothing to give except over the counter pain pills and some antihistamines that Ruthie had claimed made her sleepy. The pills had seemed to work a little that first night along with the darkened room. He thought of going to the pharmacy to look for something stronger, in spite of the fact there were reports they were under siege with people demanding help; some people were looting and violent.

Al made do and held her in their darkened bedroom stroking her hair and shushing her tears. When she quieted enough to sleep, he could do nothing beyond sleep as well.

By early Tuesday morning, Ruth had hysterically sworn cats were crawling out of her skin; that they were going to take over the world. It had taken him an hour to talk her down enough to take a left over narcotic pill he had found from his oral surgery two years ago. He had to get his Glock 9 mm from the back of the closet and promise to sit beside her bed, before she felt safe enough to sleep.

He had paced and slammed the wall, all the while his own anxiety was building inside him, like air in an over inflated balloon pushing outward, stretching him to the point of bursting against the sharpness of reality. For the last thirty-six hours, he had tried to keep his mind focused on her needs, yet he knew he was losing it. What sane man would tie his wife to the bed so he could rest? Was he even rational anymore? ‘Yeah, like you ever were ass.’

He kept listening for more news, whenever he could, only there had nothing real time, everything was on repetitive loops. No cause. No cure. No treatment beyond keeping calm with medications to which most people did not have access.

‘Keep calm! Geez! Keep calm? Calm does not work you idiots! Tell that to those people running around, screaming, and carrying on like...like…’

Like Ruthie.

When she was quiet, like now, it was hard to credit all this insanity just by looking out the window to the peacefulness of his one-acre farm surrounded by empty fields.

Then she shrieked again.

Chapter 2: Confusion

Craziness, if you ask me, Dale Ricker grumbled as he watched Marty, Cowboy, and Nate drive away three hours into the day. What the hell got in to them? Already eccentric geniuses on a normal day, they were acting like a bunch of goats standing in a pond full of crocodiles. Shouting at them had only made it worse, so in a pique of disgust he clocked them all out and sent them all to go see a doctor. Bunch of clowns.

Now he was behind schedule on this project and every project in the entire shop, since the other half his crew did not even show up.

He returned to his worktable, where the parts of an antique popcorn maker lay waiting for his torch. The project was finally near completion. It had been tough to find all the parts so he fabricated a few of the rusted out pieces. Still, with all the hassles, he could see in his mind’s eye what the finished project was going to look like and he was pleased.

He forgot about everything, as soon as his eyes refocused on the project. He pulled down his welding hood and went back to work; work that Marty was to have completed this morning, had he not turned all girly and gone home whimpering about something not even there.

He finished his weld, flipped his helmet back up, and killed the torch, admiring his work. As he did, he heard a blood curdling shout from the shop TV. Who the hell had turned it off the news station! Then he caught what looked like the local Super Center parking lot where people were rioting. His felt queasy as he turned up the sound.

"…Most of the people you see here are already infected; some showing the flu’s first stage of severe anxiety, some with the more advanced symptoms of hallucinations and abject hysteria. Authorities again request that you stay at home, stay off the streets and away from crowds as much as possible. However, it appears that the authorities are as affected as the crowds they are trying to control."

Flu, my ass! Ricker hit the off button, and ran for the door. The emergency sirens suddenly went off as he fumbled out his keys, nearly giving him a heart attack with its loud wail. He opened the truck door shaking and cursing with emotion at his stupidity. He should not have shrugged it off, should have listened to the news as he usually did.

He had sent his son, Austin, and stepson, Tyler, off to school this morning, without even a good morning to them. He had simply growled and told them not to forget to lock up before they left. He tried to remember if they had seemed extra nervous, edgy or sick but being so wrapped up in his own attitude they were a blur.

His second wife, Lisa, Austin’s stepmother, had been on another one of her high horses and had slammed out of the house before him, leaving everyone’s ears ringing. She was off to do some errands including picking up supplies for the shop at the Super Center before she came in to work. It was past noon. He should not have let his fight with Lisa this morning, stick his head up his butt.

He groaned.

That was over three hours ago. Please be back already. Please be safe. He tried Lisa’s cell, unfortunately it went to voice mail. His legs were turning to jelly and his belly felt hollow. Had this flu affected the schools as well? He tried his sons. No answers.

Ricker pushed the shop truck through the streets as fast as he could go to the high school. In the neighborhoods, people were hysterical, running through yards, darting out between cars and seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Some of them had that goat and crocodile thing going on, same as his crew had. Damn, he felt guilty now about yelling at them, sending them out into this mess.

Some people were frantically looking for help or standing, dazed at what they were seeing. As he turned the last corner to the school, the scope of the problem hit him hard.

Teens in cars had crashed into each other; simple fender benders from the looks of it, but the drivers sat cowering inside the cars with their hands covering their ears. Some cars kept moving, though erratically, as though the student had never attended Drivers Ed. Others drove up onto the sidewalks and roared over the grass, scattering students who had fled from the mayhem of the crowds nearer the buildings and lots. Fights were breaking out here and there but they were short lived. Individuals repelled each other like opposite ends of a magnet.

Ricker stopped his truck in someone’s yard and got out running, dodging through the crowd. He climbed on top of an abandoned and still running souped-up Ford scanning for the two boys. Austin! Tyler! His shouts were useless in the cacophony of yells and bellows. He hopped down and ran for the side parking lot hoping to find the boys in the truck or, better yet, that it was already gone. Surely, they would head directly home… if they were still thinking straight.

He climbed to the first vehicle’s hood in time to see Austin’s truck race over the football practice field. It turned onto the track and swerved out the stadium parking lot onto Graphic Arts Road. Relieved, Ricker raced back to his own truck. He peeled off sod as he popped the clutch then he floored the accelerator and raced the final mile north to his home.

His neighborhood was an older subdivision that boasted large lots and 2500 square foot homes, fenced in yards and double car garages. His home sat in the middle of a long curving block that ended in a cul-de-sac. He squeezed his eyes shut in relief to see the Austin’s ‘68 Ford F-100 parked in its usual spot. Ricker hit the garage opener and blew out the breath he had not realized he was holding. Relieved to the depths of his soul, he saw Lisa’s Jeep Cherokee in her space.

He took a moment to bow his head in thanks before he ran inside and grabbed her tight, spinning her around like a young stud, instead of a fifty-year-old man with a bad back. He let her go, laughing as he grabbed both his son and stepson, Tyler, around the shoulders, hugging them tight. They were both fifteen years old, only a month between them, and both nearly as tall as he was. Tyler favored his mother, though, and had a more slender physique than Austin whose shoulders were broad like Ricker’s own.

Damn! I don’t ever want to feel like that again! he proclaimed, his voice husky with emotion. Thank God you all made it.

They dismissed school, dad! It’s all over the internet. Pandemic, dude. Madness! Dude, you should have seen the kids at school. Practically everyone was nuts! Even the principal, cringing and flapping his hands as if he didn’t have a clue. Nobody recognized me, not even Chaz or Rochelle. I tried to find José but couldn’t. I barely found Tyler. Austin, stopped to take a breath, opened his mouth to start again, however Tyler beat him to it, words and emotions pouring out of his mouth.

Bro, you should’ve seen the parking lot and the streets. I thought the halls inside were crazy! Then that siren went off and everyone detonated!

Lisa had moved back into his arms as soon as he released the boys. She was tall, like him, with long highlighted brunette hair that fell past her shoulders. He could see she was badly shaken by her experience at the Super Center.

Dale, it was horrible. People went from nervous ninnies to lunatics in a in the short time I was inside. I couldn’t even get through the checkout, because all the checkers were going ape-shit, too. Those that were ‘sane’ people ran through the store looting. What are we going to do?

He could tell she was on the verge of tears, for all that she held it together. He picked up the remote control and turned their big screen television to national news.

"...it has reached epidemic proportions since the early hours of this morning, flooding hospitals and physicians’ offices beyond capacity. Reports are coming from all over the country with unconfirmed reports coming from beyond US borders."

He surfed through the menu for regional news and found similar situations going on.

"...The CDC released a statement that the new symptoms of what they are calling ‘faux rabies’ may be traced to a new strain of viral flu that attacks the nervous system…’

Lisa’s question echoed in his head. ‘What are we going to do?’

He rubbed his fingers up and down the end of his considerable nose then pulled on his soul patch while he thought. We’re okay; we going to be alright. We’re going to hunker down right here, like they keep saying and wait. He gave her an encouraging smile and squeezed her shoulders. Don’t worry, sweetheart. Ricker headed to the fridge for a beer, hoping like hell he had enough to get through the siege.

Chapter 3: Uncertainty

Ricker was not a survivalist by nature; however, last summer when the power had gone out for almost thirty-six hours, he had realized how dependent they were on electricity. He had taken to heart the warnings for preparedness and his basement had a few days of food and necessities stored, for which he would forever be grateful. He wondered how long the insanity would last. Would he or his family would come down with it? He pushed that thought away.

Keeping busy seemed to be a good idea. It would get their minds off the uncertainties for a while. He set Lisa to making an inventory of everything perishable they had in the house. We’ll start eating all the fresh stuff first and anything that needs to be refrigerated, in case the power goes off. No need to inventory what is in the freezer.

Lisa looked at him with her big doe eyes and smiled gratefully, understanding what he was doing. She leaned into him and kissed his lips, then set off to her domain.

Boys, go downstairs and pull out the extra flashlights, lanterns and batteries, and our camp stove. Check ‘em out to make sure they’re operational. Then check those jugs of water are still there and handy. Open up the bathroom window a crack while you’re down there, will you? I’m going to go out back and hook up the rain barrel with a hose. We’ll run it to flush the toilets in case we get short on water.

You think we’ll be here that long, dad? Austin frowned.

Austin ran his hands up his shaven temples onto the short, moussed Mohawk. His thick hair dyed an impossible red on the right side. Tyler nudged his stepbrother and grinned. Probably long enough for your hair to fade out to pink, bro. This is an apocalypse, don’t you know? Instead of zombies, we got crazy people. I hope you have enough mud to keep your ‘hawk standing tall, till we can raid the stores.

Austin shoved Tyler back and laughed looking at the boy’s head of black hair pulled back in a topknot. Look who’s talking, bro.

They pushed and nudged each other toward the basement and disappeared down the stairs, still giving each other slam for slam.

Ricker watched them go, answering the question for his own benefit. God knows how long we’ll be here… but it’ll give us something to do while we wait.

Out the back door, he peered over the fence to his neighbor, and best friend Roberto’s yard. None of the Sanchez family was in view, still Ricker knew Juanita and little Maria should be there in the house. He decided to check on them however before he finished the thought, Roberto’s youngest son, José’s green pickup whipped into his driveway. He rushed into his house with a quick wave. Ricker could tell he was panicky.

Roberto himself slammed into the driveway; threw a wave to Ricker, speeding into the house. Ricker waved and went back inside his own home grateful they were all home and safe. He wanted to talk with Roberto; on the other hand, he knew the family would need time to sort themselves. Which was what he was trying to do.

He kept them busy filling more containers with water. Lisa served them a crazy but filling lunch of left overs and fresh fruit. Once everyone had finished their tasks, there was nothing to do but wait. They tried calling family and friends but everything went to voicemail. They listened to the news, despite the fact it was not encouraging as some stations began looping old news repeatedly. Did they go crazy with the virus? The boys started a video game; Lisa started cooking and baking bread. Ricker stared out the window, drinking a beer. He pulled his cell out and called Roberto.

"Hey, amigo, my friend, Roberto’s still mildly accented voice responded. He sounded harried and in the background; Ricker could hear Juanita sobbing. Everything okay there, buddy?"

Ricker was relieved to hear his friend’s voice though he could tell something was not right. Yeah, buddy, everything’s okay here. How are you guys?

"Not so good, Ricker. I think Juanita and little Maria have this virus. They are… loco, crazy. They are like those people they show on TV. I don’t know what to do for them. They say don’t go to the hospital. They can’t help. Stay home. I don’t know what to do, amigo."

Ricker was silent a moment, then Man, I wish I could help. You fixed okay for food and supplies, batteries. You know, in case the power goes out?

Aw, you know Juanita. We got plenty of food for now. I got flashlights and stuff. I got José filling bottles with water and stuff. I let you know if I need anything. Humph. I guess I’m not laughin’ so loud now, about you buying up all that surplus stuff last year.

Yeah, well, got plenty so send José over if you need anything. I’ll load him up. Oh, and hey. They said to keep the sick as quiet as possible so, umm... Lisa has these pills, you know, for anxiety and stuff. You think you can get Juanita and Maria to take some? Maybe it’ll help.

Yeah, maybe so. Thanks. I got to go. I’ll call you again, later. You know, to talk.

Yeah, hombre, I know. We’ll get through this. I’ll send one of the boys over with those pills. It says one every six or eight hours but TV says every four for severe symptoms.

Ricker folded his cell closed. Damn. He took a long swig of beer and closed his eyes for a minute. What was happening to the world?

Suddenly he could not sit still any longer. He got up, went to his workroom in the garage, and started puttering around with half his attention on the only radio station still broadcasting. The sirens were still blaring, testifying to the lack of functioning authority in the community.

Chapter 4: New Horrors

The news had gone downhill from Monday.

The same or similar footage repeated ad nauseam through Tuesday as live coverage became non-existent. The CDC and all military broadcasts were equally as silent. Could the authorities be as crazy as the rest of the people now?

In the early hours of Wednesday morning, only one station in the 500-channel network was still broadcasting live. It had a crew of one. The commentator barely held it together at the station. He was unshaven; eyes bleary with lack of sleep and dark with worry and fear. He showed videos from his camera of the scene outside his window. He shared his thoughts, fears, and general lack of any new information. Mostly, he read from the disaster plan manual he had found in an executive’s file cabinet. He added comments, helpful advice, and sometimes he laughed at the stupidity of what was in the book.

"Hey, look at this! They even have a plan in case of Zombie attack! Wow. Oh, even one for a scenario for the defense against magic zombies! Bite that!"

Finally, the correspondent broke down and gave up the watch. "I don’t know if anyone is still out there to hear me, but if you are...Good luck!" He reached for the control to set the equipment to loop videos. As Al watched, the broadcaster shouted and turned his camera toward a blurred moving figure. Al heard a shout as the camera dropped, the view of the wall unilluminating. The sounds told the story with a cacophony of pounding, growls, and snarls no one would associate them as coming from a human throat. It bombarded his ears until the signal finally went dark.

By that time, Al was on his feet in horror, when the silence hit him, he demanded, Come back you son a...! Get back here! Al roared his torment at the dying man. In his anger he did not care that the man was probably dying. Bottom line was he was alone, cut off with no sane connection to the outside world. Al spat every obscenity he knew at the TV, then made up more until he was purple in the face.

He punched the remote changing the channels as fast as he could, overwhelmed by a sense of abandonment and finality. The Sirius channels broadcast music on a continuous pre-recorded loop; other channels looped reruns of Andy Griffith in Mayberry and old movies, but no live broadcasting. Furious, he threw the remote at the forty inch screen still shouting invectives then crossover-kicked his foot into it, shattering the screen and knocking it from the mount on the wall.

It did nothing to ease his anger and helplessness.

Ruth screamed from the bedroom, upset by the noise he was making. Al froze. Something was different about the sound, something more menacing, angrier, and more primal. She howled, pounding her fists on the door, evidently having broken loose from her restraints from the bed. Oh, hell. Al closed his eyes against the pain in his heart; took calming breaths, in, out while he counted to ten as she had taught him. He got his breathing back under control, even as the pounding from her room continued. Her screeches were becoming hoarse, turning to growls.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the room’s bay window in a blur. He did not see the sunrise brightening, or the fog that hung low outside blurring the trees to ghosts. He saw his memories instead: he saw her, them, as they had been before. All else faded away in a moment of temporary respite born of desperate need.

Al’s mind snapped back to the brightening scene outside when he became aware of movement breaking through the fog. Two figures emerged; one ahead of the other, arms pumping for speed making for Al’s front door, the other reaching out trying to grab hold. Al could see their faces plainly as the morning light sharpened the lines on their faces. He could read the drama unfolding in their features grossly contorted with emotion. He tensed with fear, wanting them off his property, away from his home. Go away!

They were on the gravel road drive, thirty feet from his front door. Rage distorted the female chaser’s face, her bare feet disregarding the rough sharpness of the gravel, her legs flashing as her bathrobe flapped around them. The beard on the male runner’s face did nothing to hide the sad, desperate terror on his face as his arms pumped for speed.

Turn around and face her, idiot! he roared. Man-up and turn around! Al was heading toward the door to help as the woman caught her prey. They went tumbling to the ground amid growls, screams, and groans. Punches sounded wet and fleshy, and her teeth snapped as the woman tried then succeeded to use her teeth to tear out a mouthful of the man’s defending arm. The poor fool screamed the most unmanly scream Al had ever heard and renewed his frenzy to buck the woman off his chest.

He grabbed up his Glock, slipped the safety off reaching for the doorknob. His eyes were still on the horror of the woman’s bloody mouth.

Damn!

Zombies?

Al had visions of old horror movies that slowed his rush to help. He saw the raging woman raise the man’s shoulders above the sidewalk and smash his head hard to the cement surface. Al saw blood fly, heard the contact like a rifle shot, and knew the man was dead even before the man himself did. She must have super strength or the man was weaker than he had looked. She continued to pound and hit, then got up and kicked repeatedly until she stumbled into the trellis.

Al still held the gun; all the same, he retreated away from the window, deeper into the house. He could hear the woman continue to vent her rage on the trellis. She banged, whacked, and pounded until suddenly the morning went quiet as a cemetery.

He was hyperventilating. His ragged breathing sounded loud and harsh. Again, he tried to calm himself, breathe in, and breathe out, in, out. His heart continued to pound. His