The Virus
Damien Lee
Copyright © 2021 by Damien Lee
The right of Damien Lee to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Epilogue
Prologue
The floorboards creaked as Ronald Carter made his way upstairs. The worn carpet of the farmhouse did little to diminish the sound of his faltering steps. His hands trembled as he held a laden breakfast tray in front of him. He glanced out of the window, enjoying the sun’s warmth. The mouth-watering scent of sausages and bacon rose from the plate, mixing with the aroma of freshly made coffee. A lone, spotted orchid stood proudly in a thin, transparent vase next to the breakfast.
Ronald smiled as he reached the top of the staircase. Although the contents of the tray caused his arms to ache, he knew it would be worth the toil if it made his dear wife feel better. In over fifty years of marriage, he could not recall the last time she was ill. Alice was the healthy one in the family. Their daughter and grandchildren often remarked that she would outlive them. Yet, for the past couple of days, she had been bedridden with the flu. Casting a final, appraising eye over the contents of the tray, Ronald nudged open the bedroom door.
The room felt clammy with an air of sickness. Crimson matter covered everything around his shuddering wife. He stared at her with wide eyes as she cradled her head in her hands, rocking backward and forward on the soiled bedding.
“Alice?”
The breakfast tray shook violently in his hands. Coffee spilled over the rim of the mug; the vase tilted. Fell. Shattered. Ronald didn’t seem to notice, his eyes were transfixed on his wife. Her nightdress hung loose from her skeletal body. Her silver hair, normally thick and glossy, had fallen out in clumps, exposing her raw scalp.
Her eyes suddenly bulged as blood gushed from her mouth. The crimson geyser formed a pool on the sodden mattress. Ronald stood motionless, watching as Alice retched. Gobbets of meat spattered amongst the gory procession, bringing with it a rotten stench.
The flow of blood ceased, and Alice slumped back onto her pillow. Ronald hesitated before cautiously approaching, his gaze fixed on his motionless wife. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were closed tight. A squelching sound came from the carpet. He looked down past the tray at his soiled slipper. A spurt of vomit came up his throat. He swallowed and took a deep breath, composing himself as he neared the bed.
His wife looked close to death. Her pallid skin was drawn tight over her tiny, shuddering frame. Her hair littered the pillow beneath her. Deep lesions criss-crossed her skin. With a jerk, Alice swung a hand to her neck as she began scratching ferociously. The tray clattered to the floor as Ronald watched strands of flesh peel away under her probing fingernails.
“Alice!”
The sound of his voice made him flinch. His wife lurched upright, her eyelids snapping open. She scanned the room, instantly finding her terrified husband. Her mouth stretched into a grin. She let out a growl, springing onto her hands and knees. Ronald looked on as she darted towards him. Her arms reached out, but her lunge was short and she landed in a heap. She growled, swiping at him as she got to her feet.
Ronald turned and ran, slamming the door behind him. An almighty crash followed, and he heard Alice scream in anger before banging against the door. The handle started to turn, but he kept hold from the other side, thwarting her escape. Minutes passed as the whimpering man fought hard to retain control of the door. Finally, Alice’s efforts subsided. Ronald placed an ear against the wooden pane, listening as she moved back to the sodden bed. Maintaining his grip on the handle, he pressed his head against the door and wept.
1
The sound of laughter and jeering inundated the halls of HMP Harrodale. The coppery aroma of blood was ripe in the prison, mixing with the scent of stale sweat. The two prisoners in the centre of the crowd faced each other once more after being separated from their clinch on the ground.
Frank Lee stared at his opponent through one eye. A gigantic swelling above his brow covered the other. Blood flowed from his broken nose and ran into his mouth. The metallic taste only spurred him into fighting harder. He spat the crimson fluid toward his rival before advancing; raining two blows to his midriff before the man could respond. The crowd booed and hissed as his opponent doubled over, only to be kicked in the face by one of Frank’s worn trainers.
“Get up, Hardy!” One prisoner shouted as the man slowly began to rise.
“C’mon, Hardy, shake it off!”
The man made it onto his knees, swaying slightly, his eyes dazed. Frank could tell the fight was over. If his opponent managed to get to his feet, a well-aimed punch would send him straight back down. Flickers of relief coursed through his body. The money he would earn from the fight would pay off a good portion of his debt.
