Dark Rhodes: Book 1 of the Ashleigh Rhodes Chronicles Read online

  Martin nods to Connor, and the big man turns a key in the elevator panel and presses 22. As the doors glide shut, I look over my shoulder at the nurses’ station to watch a small group of bloody individuals move slowly down the hall towards us.

  “There, they need our help, open the doors!” I exclaim as they shut before me.

  Martin lifts his visor and speaks in the hushed, comforting way only a father can and says, “My Dear, there is nothing we can do for them.” The sadness and remorse in his voice bring me to tears. “Let’s get you dressed, and we will explain as much as we know.”

  12

  James Oliver is a 19-year-old lab assistant for the 14th-floor research group in the loosest sense of the title. James lucked into this job because his father was one of the lead research biologists for Davron’s Boston office. Motivation and upward mobility were the least of James’ concerns. His objective every day was to do as little work as he could without getting fired.

  Because of his father’s status, the others tolerate James, but only barely. His job is to clean up for the scientists and analysts, those that let him near their equipment in the first place. James is rather excited with the chaos of the last 9 or so hours; it reminds him of a couple of his favorite video games. It also gave him more freedom than he usually enjoyed.

  As Martin and the others were rescuing Ashleigh from her nightmare on the 21st floor, James was waking up from a long nap in his favorite hiding spot in the corner of the 14th floor’s small service incinerator room.

  Standing up, James looks out the door window. He thought it was odd that Mr. Porter was not laying on the floor in the hall where he was earlier. That was after a couple of the other lab geeks had decided he looked tasty and chowed down on his ass.

  “Well, more of his stomach and left leg than his ass, but close enough.” thought a smiling James.

  The streaks of blood and gore marked the place where he laid, but Porter’s body was missing. He almost opened the door to go looking for him, but thought, “Eh, Porter was a dickhead. Always trying to get me fired, he got what he deserved,” in his typical, entitled 19-year-old way.

  Shivering, James turned away and said, “Damn, it’s frigging cold in here!” James knew the heat and A/C control box was in the hallway around the corner, but he sure as hell wasn’t leaving this room, after seeing what happened to Porter.

  “I’ll wait here for the PoPo or FD to come. Let them deal with the crazy fuckers running all over the floor,” he said to himself. His next thought was he’d have to figure out how to make himself into a hero as he studied the front of the incinerator.

  He’s watched the lab geeks use it to destroy their hazardous medical crap enough to know it could heat up the room in minutes. James had never been trained to use the incinerator, but since it only has two buttons, how hard could it be? He’s sure it would heat the room up faster if he left the door open, like a fireplace. “Looks like Dad’s gas grill on steroids.” thinks James as he ignores the huge warning label about firing the unit with the door open.

  Scoffing at the label, James says, “How the fuck could it use up the entire planet’s air, and why didn’t it happen already, dumbasses!?”

  Shaking his head James presses the gas button, then the ignitor, but nothing happens. Frowning at himself, he tries again, pressing both buttons. This time the incinerator roars to life but goes out with a loud pop. What James doesn’t know is the pop was the unit’s external fresh air damper slamming shut to deny the unit oxygen from his first bad start. James hits both buttons again and is rewarded with an instant inferno of high-pressure natural gas causing him to step back.

  Grimacing, James gives a mental middle finger to all the lab rat assholes that looked down at him over the last year. Warming his hands for a minute before moving to his corner, he pulls out his smartphone.

  A few minutes later James snorts and says loudly to no one, “See, the piece of shit didn’t use all the earth’s oxygen!”

  He stops talking as he gets a little light headed and drops his phone. Bending over to pick it up, James loses his balance. Catching himself on the wall, he realizes something might be wrong. Thinking, “It’s warm enough in here now” he walks to the incinerator control panel.

  That is the last thought James ever has as he passes out from lack of oxygen. Slipping into unconsciousness and death, James will never know the chain of events that are about to transpire.

  With the oxygen in the room, and James’ lungs, used up, the greedy flames go out. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a big deal, but since James is the only individual to fire the unit incorrectly since it was installed, no one knew the emergency gas shut off valve is defective. Instead of the valve cutting off the gas flow from James’ bad start, high-pressure natural gas continues to pour out of the open door of the now cooling incinerator.

  All the noise in the incinerator room has made the undead in the area curious. A lone Hunter looks through the small window at the fresh food on the floor, but can’t figure out how to get to it. In frustration the creature slams a fist against the window, causing it to shatter. The Hunter quickly backs away, shaking its head at the rotten egg odor that pours out the broken window. It wants the fresh food, but the fumes are too strong for the creature’s heightened sense of smell. The monster growls in frustration as it is must abandon the food it wants so badly.

  13

  The ride to the 22nd floor is quick. Martin has Connor use his key, keeping the doors shut while they listen for I don’t know what. Connor then uses a large screwdriver to pry the doors open just enough to look out. He turns and nods to Martin as the doors open completely.

  “We cleared this floor earlier, but one can never be too careful,” says Martin as he picked up a long metal baton and a small shield.

  Exiting the elevator first, Martin scans the area as he moves towards my room. Satisfied we are still alone, Martin relaxes and motions for us all to enter my room quickly. I move as fast as I can through the front door and into my bedroom.

  Getting dressed quickly, I feel my mind shift back to the cold presence. Confused and pissed, ask demandingly, “Can someone please explain what the fuck is going on? What time is it?” through the open bedroom door.

  Joining the others in the living room, I fall onto the couch to put my boots on.

  Martin replies, “It’s just after 5:00 pm,” as he motions for the thin black man from the elevator to turn on the large flat screen TV in the living room.

  Martin said, “Ashleigh, this is Marcus, he works.. ..worked with Conner in our Facilities department. Marcus nods to me as he switches to one of the all-day cable news stations. I try to comprehend what the slightly disheveled and obviously scared anchorman is saying through all my anger, fear, and confusion.

  “…..are coming out from almost every major city in the United States, as well as most large urban areas worldwide. Reports of mass riots and civil unrest are increasing exponentially.

  The President has declared Martial Law and has ordered the military to help quell this unrest.

  We have a few new reports of individuals attacking, and biting their victims. Internet sources here and abroad are making the outrageous claim that the dead are coming back to life, to attack and consume the living. Of course, this is unsubstantiated, and should not deemed factual.”

  Taking the remote from Marcus, Martin mutes the TV but leaves it on.

  He points to the laptop sitting on the coffee table, “Marcus, If you would, please play the video you showed us earlier for Ms. Ashleigh.” eliciting another nod from the young man.

  While Marcus was tapping away on the laptop’s keyboard, Martin explained “Before we went looking for you, Ms. Nikki and I strapped one of these unfortunate individuals to a gurney and did a preliminary examination.

  Connor broke its neck during an altercation, yet it still looked at us and kept opening and closing its mouth. They have no detectable heartbeat, no pulse; it seems that they breathe only
to engage their vocal cords, though there is the thought that the brain, even in its infected state may still need some oxygen.

  They appear to be very mildly endothermic; their body temperature appears to be only marginally above the ambient temperature of their surroundings. Even though the news media does not wish to say it outright, if it looks like a dead duck, and quacks like a dead duck…..” leaving the rest unspoken.

  Marcus pipes in and says, “Got the video, Mr. S.,”

  He spins the laptop on the table for us all to see and hits play.

  The shaky video, obviously taken on a cell phone shows a man with heavy damage to his left shoulder, plodding towards a police officer while people are yelling and screaming in the background.

  After ordering the infected man to the ground more than once, the officer fires two rounds in the individual’s chest. The infected man completely ignores the two bullets and continues his pursuit of the officer. The officer fires another two rounds into the individual’s chest with the same effect.

  An off camera male voice screams, “You gotta shoot ‘em in the head!”

  The infected person is less than ten feet from the cop when he fires two more rounds into the infected man’s skull.

  The effect is instantaneous; the individual crumples to the ground like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. The video ends as the officer kneels down to examine the man he just shot six times. Marcus shut the laptop off and closes the top.

  The dead have come back to life. I heard it from a man that my mother trusts implicitly, I’ve heard it from the news media, and watched it on an internet video, but my brain was still having a hard time wrapping itself around it as fact.

  I stood up and walked over to the window. I would have thought the late afternoon winter sun, and being 22 floors up would make it difficult to see any details at ground level, but I can see everything perfectly.

  Watching the street below, I see a guy on a motorcycle weaving in and around the almost gridlock of abandoned vehicles while being approached on all sides the undead. I watch him until he turns a corner and I lose sight of him. I silently wish he makes it to wherever he’s going safely.

  Looking across the city, I can see plumes of dark smoke issuing from various buildings as well as a nearby street corner. I suddenly felt dizzy, confused, and overwhelmed. I turn from the window and close my eyes.

  My mind swims with images of flesh being torn from a body; I can taste the blood in my mouth and I want more. One moment it’s 2008 and I know I’m in Afghanistan. Then, it’s 1944 and I’m in France. Then I’m back on the 22nd floor of a Boston high rise.

  “Am I going crazy from the stress?” I wonder. I jump and shake in terror as I wonder if I might be infected.

  Nikki comes over, wrapping her arms around me, mistaking my shaking as just stress and fear from a very scared and confused young lady.

  “It’s okay Baby; this is a lot to take in. Maybe you should go lay down for a while. You’re safe here, and we’re not going anywhere for a few days at the earliest.” she says soothingly.

  Nodding, I headed back to my room to lay down. I need to get away from everyone while I sort this all out. As confused and scared as I am, I would have thought sleep was out of the question. I’m amazed at how tired I am and quickly fall asleep.

  14

  After leaving Ashleigh’s room, Nikki returns to Martin and says, “We need to talk.”

  He motions her to join him in the small medical room.

  Shutting the door, she whispers loudly, “Something is different with her Martin! I shaved a 5x5 area over her left ear, and you cut her scalp and drilled a freaking hole in her skull! Now it looks like none of it ever happened! And when she hugged me she almost broke my damn ribs! I know she’s fit, but she’s strong as Connor, or more.

  There’s some weird shit going on. She’s Barbara’s daughter, so I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, but we need to watch her. What if she’s one of them? What if she’s just slower in turning into one of these freaks?”

  Martin shook his head, “I noticed her hair also. No, I don’t think she will become a… …one of them. You’ve seen how quick the infection rate is. If that were going to happen, it already would have. Let her sleep; I will try to find out what’s going on after she wakes up. Let’s keep this to ourselves until we know more. Head over to 2201 and tell me when the boys return from their supply run. I’ll stay here.”

  Martin follows Nikki out of the medical room, watching her leave the suite before he heads over to his large leather doctor’s satchel. He removes a Glock 9mm handgun, two loaded magazines, and holster. After loading the weapon, he adds a holster to his belt and seats the Glock into it. The weight of the gun relieves some of the stress from today’s activities.

  “Oh Ashleigh, please don’t make me use this on you.” is his silent prayer as he looks out the large window at the city he’s grown to love, devolving into chaos.

  It's all inside of me

  It's coming over me

  It's all inside of me

  It's all inside my head, yeah!

  Click, click boom

  Saliva – Click, Click, Boom!

  15

  I awoke to the bedroom door opening. I sit upright, ready to fight or flee.

  “It’s just me, I’m sorry I frightened you.” apologizes Martin. “I needed to speak to you alone for a few moments.”

  I groaned in an affirmative manner as I get out of bed and head for the bathroom. “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes after 6:00 am,” replies Martin through the bathroom door.

  I’m shocked out of my contemplation of sleeping for over 12 hours by how terrible my urine smells. I stifle a scream as I look down at the dark reddish-pink liquid in the bowl. Flushing it away quickly, I wash my hands and face before I rejoin Martin.

  Exiting the bathroom, I see Martin standing by the window. A large leather medical bag is sitting on the recliner next to him. I also notice a Glock handgun in a holster on his right hip. A look of deep concern and apprehension is etched plainly on his face. Moving slowly, I sit at the foot of the bed, facing him. He continues to stare at me like he was searching for something.

  He speaks slowly, almost hesitantly, “How are you feeling Ashleigh?”

  I sigh, and reply, “Tired, confused, scared, angry; you pick, it changes about as fast as I can blink right now.”

  Martin nods as he reaches into the medical bag. The cold presence within me asserts itself, causing me to tense up. Seeing my apprehension, Martin raises his left hand in a non-threatening manner as his right hand comes out of the bag with a stethoscope, a digital forehead thermometer, a reflex hammer, and a pen light, then goes back for a small note pad.

  He asks, “I’d like to give you a quick check-up if that’s okay with you?”

  Relaxing, I nod and say, “Of course Doc, no problem.”

  Coming to me, Martin runs the thermometer across my forehead and behind my right ear causing the instrument to beep three times. Frowning, he does it again, with the same results.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  After checking one more time, he turns the thermometer towards me. The LCD screen reads 80.1 degrees. Even I know that is too low to be considered normal.

  Martin said, “Let’s finish the exam and then we’ll talk. I won’t hide anything from you. Would you mind if I drew some blood also? I cannot run any tests right now, but I would like to have a look at it.”

  Even though I nod yes, I’m more apprehensive than I was before.

  Martin places the stethoscope on my chest, frowning, he asks me to remove my shirt. Replacing the stethoscope, he moves it around my chest and back, asking for deep breaths at each location. Letting the stethoscope swing, he takes my wrist while looking at his watch. Finished, he hands me my shirt off the bed, as he returns the stethoscope and thermometer to his bag.

  He removes a battery operated blood pressure unit from his bag. Slipping the c
uff on my right arm, he hits the start button. As the cuff finishes, it beeps four times. He runs the test again, with the same auditory results from the machine. After checking my eyes, ears, throat, and reflexes, he finishes with some minor strength tests. His noncommittal, professional doctor routine finally falters when he asks me to squeeze his hand. Seeing him wince in pain, I let go immediately.

  Putting all his equipment away, he looks at me with the genuine care I saw in his eyes when we first met, causing me to tear up again.

  With the same reassuring voice, he said, “Your results are odd, to say the least, my Dear. You are beyond the picture of perfect health, by many hurdles. Your heart rate was around 24 beats per minute. Your blood pressure is 99 over 58. I would bet both would be even lower if you were to completely relax. Your body temperature is 80.1, which is well beyond what would be considered severely hypothermic. Your reflexes and strength are off the charts. Your eyes, throat, and ears are perfect.” rubbing his injured hand as he finished.

  Producing a small syringe, he motions for my arm. With what appears to be much more than a normal amount of pressure, he inserts the needle into my arm. He withdraws the plunger, and we both gasp as the vial begins to fill with deep indigo-colored blood. Removing the needle quickly, Martin hugs me as I start to cry.

  I whisper, “Oh Martin, I’m going to become one of them.” sobbing into his chest.

  With a fatherly chuckle, he said, “No, No, my dear. You would have already changed if that were the case. The incubation period for this... virus, or whatever it is, is measured in minutes or less, not hours, which is why we have the chaos we have across the city and dare I say the world by now.” He heads to the bathroom quickly, pouring the contents down the drain and puts it in a red sharps bin.