Pandemic

All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive constructive feedback and frequent "fives".

Pan∙dem∙ic adj. [Greek

pan

, all +

demos

, people] epidemic over a large region.

On day 18 of the protoVirus plague I buried my wife and son in the back yard. Rumors were that the virus first bled out into the population ironically from the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia. An especially virulent strain of the H5N1 avian flu bug, it was genetically spliced with African ebola virus to see if it could be used in germ warfare. Lab techs at the CDC, working in conjunction with the U.S. military in a top secret joint venture, supposedly had "gengineered" it to die after two hours, but something went horribly wrong.

In that first week the government admonished people not to panic, and to go about their daily lives; however, it was advised that international travel should be cut to a minimum.

By the end of the second week citizens were advised to stay home and to not "socialize" with neighbors. Hospitals and walk-in clinics began overflowing with desperate patients.

By the end of the third week nearly half the population of the United States was dead, and mass hysteria had set in. A CNN report from Glaxo-Smith Pharmaceuticals showed a huge mob of thousands of people storming the Washington, D.C. headquarters after an internet hoax reported that the company had discovered a vaccine, but was withholding it for release until it could be dispensed to the Washington elite first.

Some of us remained entirely untouched by the ravages of the plague. I know I am resistant because I did everything possible to

become

infected. When my eight year old son started vomiting blood and lesions began to appear on his little body my wife did what any mother would have done -- she nursed him. She held him while he cried and she lovingly kissed his hot, sweaty forehead. Knowing that she was soon to be gone also, I joined them. I held their hot, fever-stricken bodies close to mine as the virus spread through their systems and took them from me.

Digging graves is much harder than it looks. Luckily it was early October and the ground was still soft.

****

October 6 2014 --

I spent several days in a grief stricken haze. I tore through my personal liquor cabinet and the second day broke into my neighbor's house and stole his stash. I didn't think he'd mind since from the putrid smell emanating from the bedroom he was probably very dead.

After three days of railing at the heavens, demanding that I join my family and guiltily agonizing over why I was spared, I began to return to reality. Society was still operating, albeit sluggishly. The power was still on and the internet worked fine; but somehow I knew this would change soon. At some point during this dark and miserable despondent period I subconsciously made the decision to go on living. Not only that, but I wanted to excel, to be a survivor in this horrible parody that life had become.

I hopped into my ancient Ford Explorer and headed into town -- my destination: Hunter's Supply. One would think that after a pandemic like the protoVirus, cars would be littering the streets and bodies would be laying everywhere -- but this was not the case. Instead, the world seemed surreally neat. There were no cars on the road, either stopped or being driven. No pedestrians or joggers waved as I drove by. Apparently people tend to head for home when everyone around them is dying.

Inside an abandoned, halfway ransacked Hunter's, I loaded up with survival gear. My shopping list included the following: three Great Plains Black Hawk recurve bows (I felt that solid recurve longbows would last longer than complicated mechanical compound bows); two dozen replacement bowstrings; a case of carbon and aluminum arrows with woodsmen broadhead points; a box of leather armguards and three leather quivers. In addition, I acquired a sleek black 12 gauge Mossberg 500 pump shotgun with a pistol grip and shorty barrel for "home defense", as well as a Winchester Model 70 Extreme Weather 30-06 rifle mounted with a Zeiss Victory 5.5 scope.

All in all, with the cases of ammunition and other sundry supplies I felt I could survive fairly well depending on the circumstances.

I swung by the local Wal Mart Supercenter, which surprisingly had cars in the parking lot. Sparsely populated, the Wal Mart was a virtual ghost town compared with the usual crowd.

A lone employee, surgical mask covering his face, nervously stood at his register eyeing the few customers in the store. The shoppers were eerily silent, most of them rushing through the store, wanting to escape as soon as possible. One woman coughed, and half a dozen heads turned -- people scuttled away like cockroaches.

I purchased two gas powered Honda home generators -- a 3800 watt and a 5000 watt, and as much canned food as I could fit into my car. The store shelves were mostly bare, but I wasn't choosy. For the first time in my life I smiled at the thought of maxing out my credit card.

I drove home, pondering my next move.

****

That weekend the lights went out. I guess it's hard to keep the power grid operational when all the employees are at home taking a dirt nap. Radio news reports before the power failure listed the surviving population at about 2% for North America, with Europe at about 5%. Asia, Africa and South America were almost completely wiped out, with less than 1% of their populations surviving.

Standing on my back deck I looked out over the neighboring golf course. The sky was a beautiful cobalt blue, with a slight northeasterly breeze stirring the remaining leaves. It seemed like an idyllic early autumn afternoon until I spotted a group of turkey vultures circling several of the stately golf course homes. The sight of the carrion birds brought me back to reality.

In the distance I saw movement at the back of one of the large, majestic golf course estates. A few seconds later I heard the muffled report of what sounded like a gunshot. Quickly stepping into my kitchen I reached into a utility cabinet and ran back outside with a pair of binoculars to my eyes.

It was difficult to see too much detail from the distance, but it looked like two men wearing dark sweatshirts, hoods pulled up over their heads, were dragging a person across the patio into the back door of the faraway house.

I turned to my "survival" stash and grabbed up the loaded Mossberg, slung it over my shoulder by its carrying strap and then on impulse picked up one of the recurve bows and a quiver of arrows.

It took me about ten minutes to sprint across the golf course and up the slightly sloped back yard of the house. Lightly vaulting the chest high black metal fence surrounding their pool and garden area, I quickly, but hoped silently, crept up to the open french doors.

Inside was a large family room with high, vaulted ceilings, dark, rich hardwood floors, a beautiful stone fireplace, and a plush leather couch and loveseat. In the middle of the room was a large, round leather ottoman. The two men had a young girl spread eagled over the ottoman on her stomach. One of the thugs held her tightly by her struggling arms while the other knelt behind her with his pants around his ankles, his broad leather belt in one hand, folded in half.

The man holding her arms had his back to me, and next to him on the couch I could see a large black handgun. The men looked as if they hadn't bathed in a week; their clothes were worn and tattered, their long hair dirty and unkempt, hands black with grease and grime.

The girl cried out and the man behind her smacked her pert, creamy white bare bottom with a cross handed slap of his belt and began thrusting in and out, a look of terrifying ecstasy on his grease-stained face.

"Come on, fuck me back, bitch! I like it when you struggle...that's it, push back against me!" Smack! Smack! The leather strap left long, angry red welts across her upturned cheeks, making her gasp and quiver in startled pain.

The man in front of her had his penis out of his pants and grabbed the girl by her hair and rubbed his hard cock over her face.

"Suck it, bitch! Gimme some of what Wayne's getting, or I fuck you up the ass!"

I ducked down behind a large barbecue grill and nocked an arrow. If I used the shotgun now I would probably shoot the girl too. Instead of acting, something dark and nasty took over, and I decided to watch the scene play out.

Wailing and then emitting a muffled cry, the girl took the second thug's penis into her mouth. With one hand he roughly pulled her by her thick, curly reddish brown hair, with his other he guided his hard cock in and out.

"Good girlie! Wayne, she's suckin' it! And she's suckin' it real good, too!"

"Great Billy -- grunt -- we gonna have fun with this bitch -- grunt -- let's keep her as our fuck toy!" SMACK! SMACK! The thick belt unrelentingly came down again and again.

Wayne was speeding up his thrusts and stinging blows, leaving the girl's pert, upturned ass red and splotchy on both cheeks. Every time the belt came down on her enflamed backside she would scream around a mouthful of cock, and try to pull away. Billy reached down with one hand and pulled her shirt up, exposing pale white mounds of soft, firm flesh tipped with pink, quarter sized nipples. He pinched one, hard, and thrust his cock deep into the girl's throat.

She moaned over his manhood, and tears streaked down her face and dripped off her chin. My palms grew sweaty and my heart beat wildly in my chest, yet in spite of the barbarity of what I was witnessing I felt a stirring in my groin.

Both thugs quickened their thrusting, and the girl squealed under them, her body apparently finally responding to their sexual treatment. Wayne grabbed her by both splotchy crimson ass cheeks and roughly pulled her on and off his stabbing erection, harshly pinching first one cheek, then the other. Billy began stroking his shaft, yelling at the girl to keep sucking or he'd break her jaw. With a loud groan and one final deep thrust, Wayne came in her teen pussy, his back arched, his head thrown back, eyes closed. His hands tightly gripped her by her cheeks and he spasmodically jerked her on and off his cock. The girl threw her head back as well, and let out a long low moan, her body tightening up as she came violently, her raw, red ass cheeks quivering and shaking around his pumping manhood. Wayne pulled out and stroked his shaft a few times and fountained thick ropes of cum down the crack between her tender cheeks, then grinned maniacally and thrust himself into her again, all the way to the hilt.

At the sight of Wayne coming and the girl's apparent orgasm, Billy's cock spurted its seed into the air to land on the girl's upturned chin. He pulled her face down by her tightly held hair and thrust his still spewing cock back into her mouth.

"Swallow it bitch! Swallow it all!" he roared as he thrust in and out of her mouth. She gobbled his cock and I could see her adam's apple bobbing as she tried to drink down what looked like a quart of sperm.

I realized this was my chance. Slowly, so as not to draw attention, I pulled the bowstring back to my ear and sighted down the shaft, pointing the broadhead arrow straight towards the middle of Wayne's chest. Remembering what little I learned from a high school archery class I had been in as a youth, I exhaled slowly and simply loosened my grip.

The arrow hissed through the air for a split second and smacked into Wayne. I apparently aimed a bit high, as the arrow went in just above the sternum at the base of the throat. From a distance of about twenty feet the shaft punched right through him and sprouted out the back of his neck in a spattering shower of blood and gore. Wayne's eyes locked onto mine for a split second, and then he pitched over sideways, deader than Kelsey's nuts, arrow shaft clacking on the hardwood floor.

With a loud "What the f—!" Billy jumped up to see what had happened. He paused for a moment in shock as he took in the spreading pool of blood on the floor and Wayne's open, sightless eyes, then spun and dived for his handgun.

Seeing an opening, the girl rolled off the ottoman and ran screaming out of the room and down a hallway. I dropped the bow and brought the Mossberg up and racked a round into the chamber. Billy's eyes grew wide when he saw me and from the hip fired a wild shot in my direction as he dove over the couch.

I went down on one knee and held the shotgun perpendicular to the floor about six inches off the ground. BOOM! Snick-snick, BOOM! I fired two rounds under the couch and heard a satisfying wail of pain as the steel buckshot fired from a distance of fifteen feet tore into Billy's feet and ankles. I ratcheted another round into the chamber.

Moving quickly in a low crouch I moved through the french doors and around the rear of the plush leather, buckshot shredded couch. Billy lay on his back, holding his knees to his chest, moaning in pain as blood seeped out and stained the floor.

He held a grease stained hand out towards me and pleaded, "Don't shoot me, please! Oh God, it hurts! It hurts."

As I lowered the barrel, his other hand came from behind his head, .45 caliber pistol pointed at my face. I heard the deafening roar, and then actually felt the breeze as the slug flew past my right ear and shot a hole in the large picture window behind me.

BOOM! Billy's face dissolved in a red mist as he flew backwards across the floor. His body twitched a few times and he gurgled obscenely, then lay still.

With shaking hands I reached down and picked up the .45 and tucked it into my belt. Nudging his body with my foot I checked one last time to be sure he was dead, and walked down the hall to look for the girl. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear myself think, so I stopped momentarily to catch my breath and calm myself. After a minute or so of leaning one-armed against the wall, I continued my search.

Through the third door on the right I could hear muffled sounds of her crying. Cupping my hands, I called through the door, "Hey? You can come out now -- they're both dead. I won't hurt you, I promise."

The continued sound of muffled sobs was her response. I leaned in again and called through the door, "Come on, let me in -- you need medical attention."

After a few moments the lock clicked, and the door opened slightly. I stepped through and saw her wrapped in a blanket curled up in a ball on a huge, plush king-sized four poster canopy bed.

I set the shotgun and pistol down on the floor and moved over to sit on the edge of the bed. She shrank away from me in fear, and buried her face into a large throw pillow.

Gently gathering her into my arms, I soothingly calmed her. "There, there, you're gonna be okay. They're gone now, you're safe with me."

I stroked her unruly mop of matted, sweaty curly hair and rocked her tiny frame gently. After a while her sobs began to lessen and she sighed into my chest.

I studied the girl in my arms. She was petite, yet solid muscle, with long, slender legs and a taut belly devoid of any fat or flab. If I had to guess, before the virus she was probably a star track athlete or soccer player at the local high school. Sure enough, on one wall I spotted several soccer trophies and behind it, on proud display, her high school diploma.

Crooking a finger under her chin I tilted her face up and gently wiped the tears off her cheeks. Her eyes were a startling blue, her skin creamy white with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A mouth full of shiny braces glittered in the light from the window, and made her look years younger than she was. Over her forehead was a nasty scrape, and dirt smudged her chin and one cheek. Her fingers had dirt caked under the nails, and her palms were stained brown from digging in the earth. The dirt-stained hands brought back recent painful memories of my wife and son.

"Did you bury your parents by yourself?"

Sniff, "Y-y-yes," she sobbed.

"I'm so sorry, I buried my family about a week ago. I know how you feel."

She tucked her face into my chest and began sobbing and crying uncontrollably, clutching me like a tiny child. I patted and stroked her head again and held her against me, whispering soothing words. Eventually she stopped crying and with a loud sob, looked up at me. Her eyes took me in, and widened slightly.

At six foot five, I'm a pretty tall drink of water, with slender hips and a wide muscular chest. My thick wavy hair is black, with a slight salting of grey at the temples. Most people incorrectly judge me to be in my 50's, about ten years older than my actual age. My eyes are a bold green, unusual for someone with black hair, and my face is lined and craggy with a prominent, aquiline, crooked nose, thanks to an errant elbow thrown during a long ago schoolyard pick up basketball game. I've been told I'm handsome, in a rugged, rough sort of way.

"My name's Jackson -- Carter Jackson. People call me -- err, called me -- Jack," my face clouded over as I thought of all my friends and neighbors, now dead.

"What's your name," I said softly.

"M-m-mandy," she snuffled through her tears.

"Well Mandy, why don't you come with me to my house across the golf course, and I'll cook us up a hot meal and you can take a long, hot bath."

She pondered for a moment, her eyes warily studying my craggy face.

"Oh-oh-Okay," she replied.

As she stood, the blanket slipped down and my hand inadvertently brushed her tight, hard ass cheek. She winced and I pointed to her and said, "I have some cream we can put on that. He beat you real good, didn't he?"

Realizing she was still naked from the waist down, she blushed and fled into an attached bathroom. I heard some rustling and thumping and a few minutes later she returned wearing Levis and a dark blue sweatshirt. The thick cotton material was unable to hide the swell of her full, perky teenage breasts. Seeing her cleaned up and slightly presentable I realized what a beautiful girl she really was. Her hair was a wild mop of russet, shoulder length curls. Her pretty cherubic face was oval, with a cute dimpled chin, and matching dimples on her rosy cheeks. Her eyes were even more startling when paired with the blue in her shirt, and glinted with intelligence. In spite of the horrible ordeal she had just gone through, her chin was up and her shoulders were back. She was long-legged, almost to the point of being coltish, yet moved with a feline grace indicative of a lifetime of athletics.

Side by side we walked across the fairway, my longbow and Mossberg slung over my shoulders. She didn't say much, just sniffled every now and then as we walked along in companionable silence.

At the house, I started the tub, turning up the hot water to its maximum. So far, gas was still running, although it would probably be shut off in a few days, I thought dejectedly.

While the girl soaked in the steaming hot tub, I heated a pot of canned beef vegetable stew over the fire, and toasted some French bread on a makeshift grill. After about a half hour Mandy slipped back downstairs and curled up on the couch and watched me with wide, intent eyes. Following her were the scents of lilacs and strawberries, and for a moment my eyes welled up as I realized she had used my dead wife's bath soap. I breathed in the heady fragrance and studied my young orphan. She looked fresh and clean, even the dirt was gone from her fingernails.