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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781452559353 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press |
| Publication date: | 10/15/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 340 |
| File size: | 769 KB |
Read an Excerpt
The Blue-
By P.L. Jones
Balboa Press
Copyright © 2012 P.L. JonesAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4525-5934-6
Chapter One
The Reaping"All great change is proceeded by chaos." -Deepak Chopra (1946 - 2012)
In a crushing blow, a timeless prophecy was satisfied. Nature reclaimed the world, reaping humanity as easily as wild fire could devastate dry kindling.
We as a species were ripe for a pandemic.
We thought we were gods over our domain.
Humanity in its quintessence had become complacent in its science based knowledge and the right to bear arms. The human race festered and corroded the very earth that sustained it.
Mother Nature was due for some retribution.
Deep from her bowels she delivered a microscopic entity of annihilation.
Ninety-nine point nine percent of the world's population ceased to be. Our religious scholars preached the seven days of creation.
Mother Nature proved to be more effective, obliterating homosapiens within three days.
If you left it to a woman—you definitely got efficiency!
Click—as easy as turning a light off.
The seven billion breathing, fighting, breeding homosapiens on planet earth became extinct; it was a sunny winter day in December 2012.
Chapter Two
The Chaos"Hell is Empty and All the Devils are Here." -William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
On the evening of Saturday December 22, 2012, case after case began to assault the world's health facilities.
Scientists were bewildered.
There was neither cadence nor reason to who survived and who perished. There were no biases toward race, gender, age, religion or wealth—the viral path showed no restrictions.
The closest the human species came to identifying the manner and rationality of the assailant was through the work of a geneticist. The geneticist claimed the invader was a retrovirus attacking our genes. This retrovirus had become enticed by our genes, compelling them to change into a mutation—as a puppet master would work a finger-puppet, the virus took over the human body.
It killed us, or established permanent altering residence within the body. Our DNA was its playground.
The virus transformed its newly claimed homosapiens terrain into a different version of its former self. Time was unfavorable for the many who tried to identify and combat the plague of our destruction.
The postulation of probabilities through vast technologies procured no results.
The scientific study of processing and delving into the irrationality of the worldwide pandemic was over before specialists could be convened and equipment warmed up.
We were caught, like a deer transfixed by oncoming headlights. Blinded with our pants down—humanity was road kill.
Chaos spread worldwide superseding all artificial borders. The incubation period, by guess, was less than three days. Time was on the germs' side. The infection process was obscure and rapid. It moved with the elusiveness of smoke whilst it delivered its lethal contagious cargo.
Resistance was futile.
We were trying to combat smoke an insubstantial, lethal ghost.
The entire world's vast weaponry sat impotent against a faceless, formless enemy of the people.
No trigger was pulled.
No button was pushed.
Not a single bullet was fired.
We didn't have time to designate neither the mode nor the means of transmission.
We were infected, but how? What was the vehicle of transmission?
The question of transmission weighed heavily on the world's mind.
Our thoughts were encumbered by our vulnerability and defenselessness. Death came quickly; an individual carried the disease symptom free for a couple of days. Then, with impudent abruptness, symptoms incapacitated the sufferer.
The infected human population collapsed into a state a dizzying and waning loss of motor function. The illness ravaged the human body in a matter of a few hours. The onset of symptoms was subtle until death tapped you on your shoulder. Death came quietly to all but the few the virus adapted—those screamed. Pain and terror resonated in their shrieks, a sound that would haunt and reverberate in the dreams of those still living.
Chapter Three
The Transformation"Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is truer than you." -Dr. Seuss (1904 - 1991)
Ten years as an emergency room nurse, and I was stuck working a night shift. What was I thinking picking up a graveyard shift? I never slept well the next day. Tonight I was no different than a hamster on a wheel. I was running fast, but going nowhere, or so it seemed. My educated hands could not thwart the advancing destruction of the pandemic. Humanity had no time or understanding to take any advanced standard precautions.
Washing your hands or wearing gloves and gowns were impotent endeavors—all of it was a pointless effort.
Everyone was dying.
The beleaguered victims of the virus could not be appeased. The delirious, semi-conscious patients began an endless inward flux into my trauma center. Surge upon surge of the helpless emptied ceaselessly through our doors. It was pandemonium. Uncontrollable bedlam pervaded the conduits of the hospital. Within the first hour of the viral ambush, the tidal wave hurtling down on humanity wordlessly declared a disaster mode.
The beaten staff could not gain their balance against the onslaught. Awash with the profuse numbers of the incapacitated, the hospital was overcome, helpless. Besieged by the unabridged masses of the city's despondent, the numbers crushed our fraught health facility and our moral.
Unbeknownst to our hospital, the virus's lapping flame had jumped borders and was now satiating its hunger globally. Our hospital's macabre scene was reproduced, in all its wretchedness, on the whole of humanity.
We as a species were quickly being annihilated into extinction.
Health institutions were seeing people transition from a state of unconsciousness to critically ill in a matter of hours. These people died quickly, almost peacefully. They just never woke up.
A peaceful demise wasn't always the case. Some, albeit rare cases—appeared to journey through unimaginable torment. They had their own personal view of the gates of hell.
Their screams echoed in the halls of the world's health facilities.
Their cacophony of cries reverberated with varying degrees of wretchedness. Caregivers were helpless to soothe the orchestra of indecent and woeful suffering.
Transmission came like a thief in the night, stealing humanity's heartbeat. An anonymous vector, open to a virus of unknown pedigree, it vied with nothing.
The world's health experts, just didn't know what the virus was and how it was transmitted. Humanity had no resistance, and no clue as to how or what was conquering them. It was a disproportionate war waged on the homosapiens.
A microscopic murderer—a mere virus—laid claim to human existence.
The world had no defense—I had no defense as it turned out. A faceless formless assailant embraced me.
I did not die. Instead, the virus took my hand and dragged me through the doors of an abyss.
My two dogs howled as the assault pervaded within my body.
Echoes of their whines continued to resound throughout my tortured anguish. It was their humble protest to my screams of agony.
A fire and ice storm raged through every cell, simultaneously. I fought poorly against the amassed horror brewing within my being. The virus's attack left no reprieve and no escape. I was circling within Dante's Inferno.
Chapter Four
Inventory"Behind every beautiful thing there is some kind of pain." -Bob Dylan (1941 - 2012)
I could hear everything and discern nothing. My mind couldn't hold a thought. I twisted in my nightmare. I was unable to process or bring order to Lucifer's divine locker. It was every person's gross under exaggeration of hell.
My screams of terror gave me no reprieve from my plague of pain.
Fear saturated my every breath. I shuddered uncontrollably.
A world of agony enveloped me; my soul adhered to the fire and storm brewing and erupting within me.
When I thought I couldn't stand any more, a fresh cascade of white-hot fire rained down on me. Blessedly, it washed me of consciousness.
I sighed as oblivion stole my existence.
As abruptly as turning a faucet off, the horror faded. I awoke from blankness.
Stillness blossomed around me.
Ensnared in my sheets and blankets, I had mummified myself. The shroud of death and silence pressed with density on my soul while it encased my body.
Sweat layered my skin.
Smells exploded in my sensitive nose. I was overwhelmed with odors.
I stopped breathing through my nose; I couldn't take the sensory overload. I opened my mouth cautiously. The molecules in the air swathed my tongue. I tasted blood, salt and dust.
I was afraid to open my eyes, afraid of what might be waiting for me.
Reaching out tentatively, I felt the fibrous sheets of my bed linen. Pressure was around my neck—the grim reaper had me!
Panic rose from my stomach.
I reached up cautiously to touch my captor. The sheets had encircled my neck as tight as a noose.
I exhaled a shaky breath.
My eyes remained clenched in a shaky vise grip of restraint. Behind my sealed lids, I could see shocks of lightening shooting across my field of vision.
I inhaled gently.
What seemed like an eternity of hell ... had just ended? My mind wanted so badly to tilt, to escape the moment, to restart. Where was my control-alt-delete button? I needed to reboot.
"Tick." The hand of the clock struck the hour.
I breathed cautiously.
Although the action felt unnecessary, it gave me relief to perform an involuntary habit. Old habits died-hard. Who knew comfort in the act of breathing could be so soothing.
Was I dead? Where was I?
I must be in hell, purgatory, or heaven—the insane, usually deferred to religious symbolism. Great, I've snapped, cracked and popped.
All right, let's just stop for a moment and take this one step at a time.
I am perfectly capable of handling anything ... right?
Right ...
I swallowed hard ... Getting a grip, getting a grip ... I wrestled with my mind.
Hell and purgatory revelations suddenly overwhelmed my thoughts.
In my flabbergasted mind, imaginings of dancing demons, righteous angels and a bearded white haired guy pointing a finger at me replayed. Oh, I am so fuc ...!
Get a grip, geesh!
I was not a religious person. Spiritual? Sure. Religious? Definitely not.
Damn, I had to get a grip. Shut the front door.
I took a deep breath. I must have gone a little insane; a little insane is okay, right?
Right?
Michael the Archangel, please come and save me. I vaguely remembered bible studies. Michael was a real tough angel, he could help me.
Great, just great! I've somehow survived a pandemic, only to slip over the edge of sanity. One padded cell and straightjacket needed, stat!
Clean up in aisle two.
Oh and bring some Haldol—lots of Haldol. A good antipsychotic will do nicely right about now.
It finally happened, I was a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. None of my bee bees were slipping into their holes; the train had finally left the station and gone off its rails. Oh my God, the excursion through horrendous agony has made me insane.
The surreal insanity of the moment was not lost on me. An abrupt, involuntarily cackle escaped my dry lips—it was the sound of an insane person. I'd heard that involuntary sound in the psych ward—it was a way too familiar sound.
People in the midst of psychotic episodes made that sound. The psychiatric patients made that noise as they pulled their hair out and scanned the room for imaginary foes and aliens.
This single solitary noise quickly scared me straight. My mouth snapped shut with the force of a gale wind.
I bit my tongue and tasted blood.
Ouch, all right ... Ok! A deep breath was definitely called for here! I inhaled slowly and felt rationality and logic surface from the depth of my toes.
I exhaled hesitantly. I didn't want to lose this tenuous moment of clarity. I was still a conscious, sentient being—I was alive. How anyone could survive a trip into the nether regions of hell and live to tell the tale—was beyond me.
Moreover, how, after all that agony, can I be having a rational thought? Much less notice the wet dog smell—coming from the corner of my room.
Ok, so I could still feel my bed linen, and I could smell my dogs—they needed a bath. I was not on some celestial plane, and I had my wits about me.
Breathe in.
I decided this was an excellent foundation to open my eyes. I allowed my eyelids to peel back from my eyes cautiously. A shimmering spectacle of dancing stars exploded in my field of vision—pretty.
No ... ah, not stars. My eyes focused on the beige, white and grey starbursts—dust particles?
Geez!
Really!
Movement out the corner of my eye caught my attention. Two shadows lurked— my dogs. Their heads hanging down, they stared at my mummified form.
I heard a whine, a steady thrumming sound and nervous pants. They were cowered in the far corner shaking. A mixture of sweaty paws, musk, urine and hyper-salivating drenched their corner. Is this what fear smelled like?
"Oh girls," I whispered.
I tried to sit up and unravel myself as I continued to talk to them. "Did I scare you? Oh pups! You and me both." I breathed out in a smooth whisper. Hairy confusion overtook their tightly knotted brows. The sound of my voice caused the two mutts to twitch abruptly in unison.
Apprehension seeped into their taunt muscles as hope and fear played out across their furry faces. It was almost comical if the reason for it wasn't so sad.
Perhaps my voice was not as smooth as I thought.
"Come here girls." The soft invitation slipped from my lips.
They did not move. I could hear their thrumming hearts increase in tempo with the invitation.
"It's okay girls, I'm all right. I think?" They cowered, tighter together. I winced at their response.
Safety in numbers—ah yes. Wild kingdom 101. They didn't move, nor did they look any more convinced then I felt—I wasn't fooling anyone.
I laid my head back onto my sweat-soaked pillow.
Ever vigil, my dogs curled by my bed, their loyalty triumphing over their fear of the unknown.
It was time to unwrap myself from my mummified state. I found a corner and started to untangle my limbs from the sheet. Wow, I did a number on myself.
As I continued to unwrap my self-inflicted bonds, I thought over the circumstances of recent events. I wasn't really ready for personal reflection, so I broadened my ruminating to universal circumstances. Would we as a species survive this pandemic? Would I?
Nope, don't go there yet. What's happening out there? I gazed outside my window. Darkness shrouded my old window. No street lamps glowed.
It was then I realized a soft blue light illuminated the room.
Did I leave my light on?
The light swayed with my turning head. What the hel..? Hello.
I instantly became distracted with my own movement. My physical health felt perfect. As a nurse, I was always sore. My whole body presently felt fantastic. My usual aches and pains were gone and my head was clear. In fact, it felt crystal clear. The band, which had plagued my head earlier, was silent.
I flexed my arms. I felt splendid.
I realized when I focused on my hearing the city's usual hum of cars was gone. I concentrated harder on my hearing, hoping to hear some form of human activity. I could hear everything, but differentiate nothing. A strange hum of static penetrated my ears.
I concentrated mentally to focus. My hands inadvertently reached up and clasped my ears.
I had always been excellent at compartmentalizing and multitasking. I was an emergency room nurse, pure and simple.
I focused harder, refusing to be overwhelmed.
My mom always said I was a stubborn child—who knew stubbornness could be such a useful tool?
The noise and smells slowly ebbed—I really needed to give those dogs a bath.
I chuckled. Life and death was playing out in a macabre scene and here I was worrying about the dogs needing a bath. Priceless.
My hairy family was watching me. They blinked with quizzical, cautious eyes.
Released from my cocoon of sheets, I stretched my legs and wiggled my toes. I eased my legs over the edge of the bed.
That bizarre blue light continued to glow around the room with each turn of my head.
Weird!
One thing at a time. If I let too much in my sanity would crumble.
Okay, breathe again.
Excellent, I had no dizziness. I went to push myself up and sprung out of bed. The simple act of standing had caused me to spring five feet from the bed. I hit my plaster and lathe wall face first. I pushed myself away from the wall that had stopped my ungraceful hurtle—it was dented in a perfect mold of my head and chest.
Bedlam erupted behind me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Blue- by P.L. Jones Copyright © 2012 by P.L. Jones. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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