When an American military cargo plane carrying top secret medical supplies hits a lightning storm off the coast of Nigeria, the chief pilot, Captain O’Riley, and his copilot decide to dump their cargo and save their lives. As cargo MH-XZ424G hurtles through the thunder ridden night towards the densely populated cities of Akwa-Ibom, the two pilots escape death at the merciless hands of the harsh weather. However, what they could never have conceived is that they had sentenced a whole nation to a fate so dreadful that painful death would have been a mercy…

PLAGUE

By KU

All rights reserved.

let me carry cushion chair siddon, op make sure it's worthy of my time o

mamawin:
let me carry cushion chair siddon, op make sure it's worthy of my time o

Lol! Okay, I'll try!

.

PLAGUE

Part 1

All rights reserved.

December 20
1925 hours
Over the Gulf of Guinea, West Africa

The twenty four megaton Lockheed Martin L-27 Super Hercules II rocked and bobbed silly, like a mere sleeve of paper in a hurricane.

“Sh*t!” Captain James “Bobby” O’Riley swore under his breath, pulling the stick with all his might, trying to steady the cargo plane. Like the crack of a whip, lightning streaked through the sky, spreading its tendrils before them and illuminating the dark clouds for a moment. Rain, as huge bomblets of icy water, hammered the flying vessel, its rhythmic intensity rising and falling like the mad compositions of a slightly deranged music master. The nose of the plane jerked up and fell, point down, like the ECG reading of a patient in cardiac arrest. And O’Riley held the stick, static, with stretched and strained muscles, like a stroke victim. However, he knew they were now in the hands of the weather. And, oh, how merciless those hands were.

“The electric storm is messing with our instruments, James,” Major Chris “Jay” Fredrick, his copilot, said. “The altimeter, the compass, the landing systems, even our clock. It’s all gone to sh*t.”

James shot his copilot a wicked glare which the lanky, black man did not notice, or noticed and chose to ignore, James could not tell. It wasn’t the bad news he had given that angered James; it was the way he had delivered the message: with as flat a voice as the surface of an LCD display screen. How could he be so calm when they were about to be torn to pieces? James retuned his gaze to the dark sky that sped past them and remembered the last few bleak words of his flight instructor on the first day of flight school. The grey bearded man, Jabowasky was his name, had picked up a plain sheet of paper and held it up for all to see. This is your plane, the man had said. Then he had crumpled it into a ball and said, that’s what happens when it gets into a storm. A man like Jabowasky didn’t grow to be as old and experienced as he was by flying through lightning storms. And for all their sophistications, the flight instruments were really to prevent flight through a thunder storm. Thunder storms were the dread of the sky. That dread, James thought, was upon them.

Captain James O’Riley wasn’t a spiritual man, and as such, he didn’t know what to make of Christ or Krishna. But if there was a God, he sure needed His help. Like all men everywhere, James feared death. What happened after? he thought, and as his heart beat as fast as the plane hurtled through the clouds, the near presence of death became palpable. He could die at any moment, he realized with a sudden streak of apprehension. Lightning could strike the fuselage and cause cabin decompression, sucking them out into the wild rain. Or it could strike the engines, plummeting them down to the ground. Or it could strike the fuel line, causing a flash of light, a sudden eviscerating pain, and the silence of death. Or it could crumple them just like Jabowasky had so vividly illustrated. To James, this was the worst way to die in the sky. He decided that if he were to die, he would prefer to die quickly and painlessly. But did life give you what you preferred? Or did it give you what you deserved? James had done so many shitty things in his secret government work. Maybe this was payback by the powers that be: Christ or Krishna.

“Sir, do you think we should radio base? Advise them of our current situation?” his flat voiced copilot said beside him.

“No,” James said immediately, mindlessly shaking his head. “We’ve got strict orders, Chris. No radio contact until we land. What we are doing is a breach of international laws. Though no West African country can pick our transmission, the Egyptians might.”
The huge plane rattled vigorously again, and lightning spread before them like fiery, white neural pathways. The thunder that followed drowned the constant beep beep of the flight instruments (the kind that told you you were screwed) and the pelt of the rain, and put the fear of God in Chris for a moment. But it was just a moment, James observed, as the man shook off fright as if it were a speck of dust on his shoulder. This served to vex James even more. Did Chris think he was God? Had he some delusion that he was invincible and therefore couldn’t die in the sky?

Another plane rattling thunder returned his focus to his flying.

James glanced at the flight dash board. Every spindle was askew, the light blinked erratically—their whole electrical system had been fried, he noticed for the first time. Somehow, they had been hit once by lightning—a minor hit, though. The plane jerked out of control for a while, shooting up like a car running a speed breaker. James fiercely fought the control stick to bring the plane back on course. Though what course they were on, he did not know. All he knew was they were headed for United States AFRICOM base in Djibouti when they had hit a shit storm off the gulf of guinea. The weather people had said there was no storm in these parts at this time; someone had screwed up. If there wasn’t anything James knew, at least he knew that in this line of work, when people screwed up, other people died. Just like he and his copilot were about to die.

“If we stay longer in this storm, James, we’re not going to make it,” Chris said with a twinge of frustration in his voice. “We have to land this plane or go higher.”

“Landing is out of it,” James replied, facing his copilot briefly. “And we can’t go higher. Our payload is too heavy. The engines won’t support any more altitude.”

“Then dump the cargo,” Chris said, more frustration in his voice.

James O’Riley frowned at the man. The ease with which Chris was willing to give up their cargo was not only troubling, it was also scary. James looked away from the man and kept silent, thinking this was the last he would hear or think about dumping their cargo.
But the idea had been planted, and an idea was like a seed. Once planted or conceived, it grew. And depending on variations in atmospheric and soil conditions, the speed of growth of a seed could be hastened or delayed. In James’s case, it only took two minutes for the idea to germinate and form part of his will; this was majorly because there was a third man in the dark cockpit. His name was death. He was really persuasive.

“We can’t whether this storm, James,” Chris pressed, “sooner or later, we’re going to run into a storm cloud and come out a sphere of tangled metal.”

James’s only hesitation was their cargo. He didn’t know exactly what it was. The manifest said “Medical Supplies,” but he had decided it was just a cover up. An approval to transfer supplies didn’t need to come from as high up as the office of the president of the United States. Though the package was as small as a briefcase, hand delivered by nondescript men from USAMRIID which was another cause for concern, it was sealed within a 400 ton, steel-reinforced concrete vault that could withstand a mortar shell. Why did medical supplies need to be so protected? Only WMDs were this protected. Still, James could not be sure. And he wasn’t going to risk his life on the off chance that he might be carrying a biological weapon.

“Use the map. Try to triangulate our current position,” James said. “I’m going to drop it in a forest or a lake so our boys can pick it up in the morning.”

Chris found the map and started working, using light from the lightning storm to draw lines and circles on a portion of the paper. They were flying over Nigeria now. That was good, since Nigeria was a developing country and still had miles and miles of forest areas—plenty of land to hide a container sized vault.

James began slowly dropping the plane, releasing the stick little at a time. He did that until he began to make out the minute lines of a city.

“We are currently above Akwa Ibom,” Chris said, peering at his map. “We should be coming up on a small uninhabited forest a little to the west.”

James looked in that direction and made out the tall trees; he angled the plane in that direction.

Thunder struck. This time, it hit the plane.

There was an explosion, then the plane capsized. James struck his head against the side of the plane. Intense pain lighted his senses. He growled and yanked the stick to the side. The plane spun again, right side up. It shook and made to fall out of the sky; somehow, it remained afloat. The number of beep beep in the cockpit quadruped.

“We’ve lost an engine,” Chris roared.

“We can’t dump the cargo from the cockpit,” James replied, his heart steadily striking the walls of his chest. “You have to use the emergency button in the cargo hold. Go now! We only have a one minute window!”

Chris struggled with his seatbelt, unhooked it, and scurried out of his chair.
James held the stick tighter, knowing that the life of his copilot now depended on the plane staying level.

There was a sharp hiss and a low, long rumble, as the cargo bay doors began to open. Few seconds after that, the nose of the plane pitched upwards slowly as the cargo slid toward the open door. Chris ran into the cockpit and secured himself in his chair. The moment James felt the cargo drop, he pulled hard on the stick. The plane sprung up responsively, shooting higher and higher into the clouds even by the power of one engine. In five minutes, they were beyond the clouds and flying steadily towards Djibouti. They had seen a dim flare of light, and they had felt a weak shockwave, and they had assumed it was lightning.

They had been wrong.

If they had known what the dim flare and weak shockwave meant, they would have chosen to die rather than land their plane on the wet tarmac of Camp Lemonnier, AFRICOM base in Djibouti, two hours later. Less than thirty six hours later, the two pilots would swear under oath before a military tribunal that they had never known they were flying over land, when they had dumped their cargo.

***

Cargo MH-XZ424G crashed through the sky, ridding the endless waves of the rain. It was twelve feet in all directions and had, when not in use, a hollow, briefcase sized core. Every other part was impenetrable, 400 ton, steel-reinforced concrete built by Vault Technologies™ (VT) to withstand any kind of assault. And as you can imagine, it fell through the sky at a frightening pace.

This particular unit was designed by Mr. Jon Von Neuman and built at a special processing facility in Frankfurt. It was built on the 25th of March, 2013. Its batch class was 2D74, and its processing number was 744/29Z/7XZ.

The truth is VT’s vaults were built to withstand almost anything. But there were two reasons for the failure of vault MH-XZ424G. First, the cohesion enhancing chemical, Bindichem®, was added in a quantity that was less than the threshold quantity. This led to the failure of the chemical and made the vault prone to fracture. The global economic meltdown had hit Germany. The production plant had had to cut the cost of production. This was the only way Mr. Jon Neuman knew how to cut cost. A way that would eventually lead to countless deaths.

Second was the condition that Captain James “Bobby” O’Riley had subjected the vault to, when he had dumped it into a lightning storm. The company’s test team had subjected their vaults to water, fire, wind, explosions, avalanches, and a host of other extreme situations. They had proven the toughness of their product. However, had they conceived that their vaults would be subject to a lightning storm under a whipping rain in the night?

And so, as cargo MH-XZ424G fell through the sky, a tiny fault line developed on its surface. The sky’s rebellion against such monstrosity barreling through its volume was a roar that carried far. The rain pelted the steel cube, giving a machine-gun like rat-a-tat-a-tat. Heat simmered on the vault’s smooth, metal surface due to air friction; the vault trailed a thin line of vapor as it fell. Numerous electrons gathered on the slippery surface just as the cargo cleared the final ceiling of clouds and approached the dark, sleeping city of Uyo. The assembled electrons, teeming on the surface of the metal, called lightning to the vault like the hammer of Thor, god of thunder. Strike after strike, the fault line deepened and spread like the roots of a germinating seed, until the shattered parts of the vault fell away from the exposed briefcase like expended fuel tanks from an ascending space rocket. The exposed briefcase flared up immediately on exposure releasing six pressurized canisters into the air. The briefcase flared up because of the intense heat that clung to the plummeting wreckage. This intense heat affected the canisters which contained U-235 WMD agents.

The canisters exploded with a fire, releasing its content as a fine spray. The wind spread the released content into a blanket that covered the city of Uyo and its outskirt villages. Though the canisters and the vault’s ruins would hit ground long before the thin film would, the descending film of death would reach the city of men as sure as the sun. And when it did, there would be no end to the pan, suffering, and devastation it would cause.

To Be continued...

PLAGUE

Part 2

All rights reserved.

December 20
2142 hours
Mmiri Village Forest, Uyo

Papa Akpan Uduak was a seventy year old man, and he had all the symptoms to go with it: a bent back that ached along his spine, weak bones and muscles that never ceased to rattle, a slow heart rate and a strangulating chest pain for which he took medications four times a day, a difficulty breathing that made it almost impossible for him to make a complete sentence without wheezing. As such, there was very little Pa Akpan was afraid of. He knew if the growth developing on top of his liver didn’t kill him soon, his heart failure would. And if that didn’t get him, old age would. And that’s not to mention his diabetes, cholestrolemia, and a whole litany of conditions that presently plagued his body—what people called old people’s disease.

This was why when Akpan saw the flare high up the sky through his window and felt the near imperceptible earth tremor that followed briefly after, he decided to go into the rain and take a look. Though his young wife (fifty four next year June) had vehemently refused him going, he had insisted. What was she afraid of? he wondered as he had argued with the plump, short haired woman. They lived far out in the forest, far from the highway and anybody that would seek to do them harm. The nearest person was Mr. Johnson who lived alone in a hut. It was perfectly safe to go out.

But no, she wouldn’t see reason.

Of course, when he had insisted, she had stormed off into the back room. She wouldn’t be part of this madness she had said.
Now standing before the front door, wearing a yellow, hooded raincoat over his green sweater and worn brown pair of trousers, and hefting a boxy lantern in his hands, he began to entertain second thoughts. Maybe it really was madness. Only madness drove a diseased, old man into a thunderstorm in the night. He turned away from the door and made for the dining table when he stopped again to consider another thought. What if someone was out there and needed help? The only madness would be not to render help.

With renewed zeal, Pa Akpan pushed open the door.

Papa Akpan Uduak didn’t believe in omens, much less a bad one. But when heavy lightning and thunder attended his entrance into the rain, showing clearly for the space of a second his small compound and the forest that followed, he took it as a bad omen.
Well he was going to die someday wasn’t he? Pa Akpan shrugged off the morbid feeling and trudged into the rain in the direction of the crash site.

The journey to the crash site should have been only for a few minutes. But naturally it took him more than a few minutes, especially because of his severely shaking bones and because he had to stop often to cough and catch his breath. The clouds cracked and thundered, washing him now and then in a sharp, white light. Tiny streams ran the grooves and crevices of his overcoat, falling down the hem to the puddles and marshy ground. Despite his thick clothing, which he wore to ward of the cold, he could feel the hammering rain like pinpricks all over his body. It weighed him down.

Pa Akpan heaved a deep breath, tightened his grip on the lantern, pushed away from the tree he had been resting on a moment ago, and made his way deeper into the dark forest—slowly.

The first thing Akpan saw of the crash site was the felled trees. They lay neatly in a radial pattern. Huge pieces of steel were arraigned in the center, though, less neatly as the felled trees, and at the center still were six expended canisters. Akpan stood at the edge of the site and observed quietly, straining in the poor light from his lantern and cursing the bad whether every time lightning struck—it only served to blind him. He didn’t live this old by rushing into situations without thinking, or at least understanding what he was rushing into.

Pa Akpan rounded the edge of the crash site, observing carefully what he saw. The huge fractures of metal, hot even from a distance, had razor sharp and jagged edges. Their thickness and complementary edges and shapes suggested to Akpan that they had once been part of a single unit and had somehow broken apart. Pa Akpan closed in on the crash site and studied more closely the edges of the metal pieces; slowly, he realized that not only had they once been part of a single unit, but that this single unit had been designed to contain something in its core. Something so important, Akpan surmised from the thickness of the metal.

Pa Akpan turned and raised his lantern over the center, throwing, there, more light. The caps of the canisters had been blown off, judging from their torn heads.

Akpan hunkered down and turned one of the canisters, face up. What he saw made his skin crawl.

Papa Akpan reared, tripped over a branch, and fell into the unearthed roots of a felled tree, the fresh smell of wet leaves assaulting his nose. He scrambled to his feet and backpedaled until he struck a tree. The lantern slipped out of his weak hands and struck the earth; it shattered and the light went out, plunging him into darkness.

The first symptom hit him: a massive wave of nausea.

Had he been younger—say thirty years old—he could have resisted the powerful wave of nausea. However, Akpan fell to his knees and let the whole content of his stomach flow out through his mouth onto the ground. He spat out the final taste of Edikaiko soup he had eaten that afternoon and stood up. He rubbed off the mud on his palm with his raincoat and flicked his legs to get them off his wet trousers. He felt better already, but his heart still pounded in his chest. The number he had seen on the canister—U-235—still haunted his mind. He had to get back to his wife. She was a nurse. She would know what to do.

Akpan made his way back to his house, letting his fretful hands lead the way through the dark forest. When his heart became heavier and a headache began to develop in his head, he began to call on his wife. He groped through the darkness, moving as fast as his weak legs could take him.

“Mary!” Akpan called for the umpteenth time. His voice was nothing less than a harsh shrill. The roar of the rain seemed to intensify, foreboding the horrible death that awaited him. His heart hammered. His breathing raced erratically. He was amazed at how one thought about death, when it was merely a concept and not an immediate possible experience.

If you have never been in the shadows of death, then you cannot possible imagine how it feels.

Akpan knew what he had seen. The symbols, the signs, the canisters, even the huge chunks of steel; it all fit perfectly. There was no other explanation.

“Mary!” Akpan wheezed severely and struck barbed wire. The sharp spikes dug into his flesh. Akpan shrieked from the pain, then ignored it—even the thick liquid that flowed down his hands—and trudged along the fence towards the gate. The door to his house swung open. Mary stood in the doorway, holding up a lantern. The light cast on her face revealed stern features. She was clearly not happy. “Akpan, is that you?”

Akpan plodded through the murky compound into the light so his wife could see him. “It’s me, Mary. There’s something out there. Something very bad.” This was all he could get out before pain shot through his body. He hollered and collapsed on the mud, a coolness descending upon his frail body. He shivered, coiling into a fetal position, even as his wife ran, screaming his name repeatedly, to him.

“Akpan!” she screamed again. “What is it?” Her weathered hands caressed his face. “You are burning up. Come, let’s get you inside.”

Akpan’s mind whirred. His eyes felt heavy as if he hadn’t slept in days. His wife had said he was burning, but he felt so cold. He wanted to tell her this, but he had no strength—not even to speak. Mary hefted him onto her shoulder and half pulled, half dragged him into the house, shutting the door with a kick from her leg. First, she propped him up on the couch and removed his raincoat, his sweater, and his boots. He tried to tell her to keep them all on, that he felt so cold, but his body seemed to be under the control of another. All he could get out was an incoherent babble which she disregarded. She laid him gently on the couch.

When she looked at his face, shock flickered through her eyes. “My God, Akpan,” she gasped, “what happened to you out there?” Before he could think to reply, she marched off into the back room. They had only two rooms in their small, thatched house: a front room where their dining table was, and a back room where their bed was. It was all they did day after day, eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep some more.

Akpan tried to respond still, but he was just too damn weak. He was so weak, he felt his organs would fall off his body, that his stomach would roll off the intestines on which it stood. With great effort, Akpan pulled his hands closer to warm his body. His eyes hurt fire. A sudden urge to vomit washed over him again, and he obliged happily—anything to get the infection out of his body. The peristaltic wave was enough to nudge him to the edge of the couch; he threw up on the wooden floor board: green, warm substance. The taste stung his tongue. He fell back into the couch. What troubled Akpan most was his weakening state.

Mary came around, saw the vomit, and hissed. She stepped over it and sat on the table in front of the couch. She set the small plate and the aluminum basin beside her. The plate had in it a makeshift pestle and a number of differently sized, differently colored tablets, while the basin had in it water and a white cloth.

“I don’t know what you’ve ingested,” Mary said, not the least bit happy, pounding the tablets. “I told you not to go out there, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Akpan took in deep breaths and let them out. He needed to tell Mary what he had seen. She needed to know. He tried to speak and almost fainted. Pain assaulted his head as if he had had his head bludgeoned by a huge, iron mace. He cried out.

“Oh, will you shut up!” Mary responded harshly. She added a little water and stirred her concoction.

Akpan repeated his cycle again. This time he almost fainted from hyperventilation. “U … 2 …”

“U what?” Mary dropped the plate, picked up the soaked cloth, and started dabbing her husband’s forehead. She hadn’t told him, but his face was red and dry to the point of almost flaking off. She knew he was experiencing massive systemic necrosis. She dabbed faster at his forehead more out of fear than an actual need. He cringed with each contact, but she relented not.

Though she was putting up a face of anger and nonchalance, she was scared to her bones. In all her years as a nurse, she had never seen anything like this. What was causing it? If it had been an infection he had caught when he left the house, why was it manifesting so soon? Mary returned to her concoction and started stirring the milky paste. No infection—if this was in fact an infection—that had such a short incubation period ever let their host live.

“U … 2 … 3 … 5.” Her husband coughed terribly, spilling green vomit all over himself.

Mary froze for a while, unable to think. Ever since he had come into the house, he had tried to tell her something. U-235. Mary had not heard that in over thirty years. It was not something she hoped to retrieve from the lips of a dying man. Suddenly the urge came over her to scrub her body and run as far away from Akpan as possible.

In a moment of clarity, the wheezing and shivering and moaning of Akpan ceased, and he croaked, “Go Mary. It’s okay. Go.” He coughed afterwards, and this time, blood and tissue splattered all over the couch.

Fear struck Mary’s heart.

Strangely, the thought going through her mind was how did a biological weapon end up in their backyard? It didn’t make any sense. In fact it seemed so nonsensical that Mary began to sob. Then she cried. She turned to her husband of thirty years. He had grown silent and still, though he still breathed and lived. How had he come in contact with a bio weapon? She smirked and then let loose a laugh of sarcasm. She wiped her eyes with the back of her free hand and returned to dabbing his face. Even if she wasn’t already infected, she wouldn’t leave her husband. For better or for worse, she had sworn. For better or for worse, she would stay. However, she suspected she was already infected. If what Akpan had seen was a WMD (Weapon of Mass Destruction), then it would be transmissible by touch. There was no way out.

She looked at the thick, milky liquid in the plate. Not even the medicine she had prepared could save her husband. How could a mixture of antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and pain killers even dent a weaponized virus? Akpan was a dead man when he set eyes on whatever he had seen in the forest. And she had become a dead woman when she had set eyes on Akpan thereafter.

Mary sighed. She set the plate on Akpan’s lips. Though it wouldn’t cure him, it could mitigate his suffering. She parted his lips with two fingers and let the liquid slide neatly down his throat. Mary could tell that he was in so much pain from the tightness of his face. Hopefully, the drugs would offer some relief. Hopefully.

For a moment, Mary desisted from picking up the wet cloth. She bent her head. They had lived a full and rich life. She may have dreamt of a better death, but she couldn’t be more grateful for the time she had spent with her husband. She was even more grateful that they had no children or grandchildren; they had no souls to live behind—to leave languishing in great sorrow when they died. Mary picked up the wet cloth once more. Faithfully—everly—she dabbed at her husband’s cheek, forehead, neck, and chest. This she did to bring down his fever.

Less than an hour later, she would experience symptoms of the infection, and slowly, the nurse would become the patient. Exactly three hours after seeing the canisters, Akpan would pass on. Later that night, millions across the city of Uyo and other cities in Akwa-Ibom would experience symptoms of the infection. Some would go on to pass it to their families and friends. Some would go on to transport the virus into other states. But as sure as the clouds are, before a new sun rises, before a new day dawns, everyone with the virus would be dead.

To Be Continued...

PLAGUE

Part 3

All rights reserved.

December 21, 2015
0842 hours
World Bank Estate, Umuahia, Abia State

Have you ever drank so much alcohol that before you put to bed, you feared for yourself the next morning? That was how Kennedy Nwosu felt when he drank and laughed at his bachelor’s party the night before. He feared for the severity of the hangover he would have to live through at dawn. And true to physiology, he stirred on his king sized bed with a hangover. It was neither the kind that could be ignored, nor the kind that could be treated with levity. It was the kind that hammered his head so hard that he not only thought it was possible his head would explode, but also feared it. It was the kind that carried with it a sour, nauseous feeling, a low fever. It was the kind that left him wondering what it actually felt like not to have a headache.

Ken rolled on his belly and let his eyelids up slowly. Brilliant sunlight from the window glass reflected off the white sheets and blinded his eyes momentarily. He rolled over, eyes closed and backing the windows, until his bare feet touched the cool floor. He reached for the bottle of aspirin on the table and left the room, headed for the kitchen. The narrow hallway was empty and silent, though Kennedy could hear a news reporter on the TV. Something about a viral epidemic. Ken wondered what poor country was in trouble this time. Trouble never ceased to end in this world. He turned away from the sound and entered the kitchen. He fetched a glass of water from the sink and took two tablets of aspirin. Then, he relaxed his weight on the counter, waiting for the drug to take effect.

His phone rang in his pocket. It was then he realized he was still clothed in the blue jeans and red long sleeves he had worn to his bachelor’s party the day before.

“Hello?”

“Oh, Ken. You’re alive!” His mother’s voice was fettered with emotions. Which emotion, his fuzzy mind could not yet discern.

“Of course, I’m alive,” Ken replied. “What’s going on? Why would you think I wasn’t alive?”

A gasp of terror came through the phone. “You haven’t heard?”

Ken became troubled. “Heard what?”

“That means you haven’t done it!”

“Done what? Mum, what is it?” Ken was angry now. What was the matter with his mother? He knew she didn’t like his choice of a bride (he was getting married in two days). Nevertheless, what would she gain from provoking him to anger?

“Oya, quickly my son,” replied his mother, “you must drink and bathe with salt water.”

“What rubbish is that? Why?”

His mother’s response was rushed and projected great fear. “Because. There’s a deadly virus spreading through the south and eastern states. Millions have died, and the government has not said anything. But some say that water and salt can cure a person and even prevent the person from getting infected.”

“Mum, that’s nonsense!” Ken retorted, stifling the urge to laugh out loud. “Isn’t that what happened earlier this year when we battled the Ebola Viral Disease? This is the perpetration of never do wells who want to cause many heartache.”

“Not so my son.” His mother sounded more panicked. “You must believe me. And you must leave Umuahia at once! I heard people have started dying in Abia state.”

“So that’s what this is all about?” Ken said with realization. “You have sunk so low just to stop my wedding to Emma?”

“No Ken!” His mother sounded hurt and frustrated. “Leave Umuahia at once! It is no longer safe anywhere south of Abuja. Return to Abuja at once!”

Ken’s frown deepened. He was about to reply when a sharp scream pierced through the house. It came from the street. His mother had already worked up tension in his body. The little girl’s scream tipped him over. The Samsung Galaxy S5 fell out of his hand as he rushed out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and into the sitting room. He was surprised to find five of his closest friends crowded around the plasma TV on the wall. Hadn’t they heard—

Another high pitch scream.

A car screeched and this was followed by a thunderous explosion that shook the house. Ken fell to the floor instinctively, his heart pounding in his chest. He raised his head and saw that his friends had also gone down. They were now rising to their feet still transfixed on the TV screen.
There were more car screeches and explosions, but these were distant, probably on Ikot Ekpene road. A road he hoped to take to Uyo next tomorrow when his wedding was scheduled to hold. A scream, followed by several others, came to his ears. This time, they persisted. People were either in pain or dying out there. Ken rushed to the door, but Tom blocked his path, grabbing a hold of his shoulders. His big eyes were bigger and rounder and filled with terror. His mouth twitched like he was about to cry.

“Don’t go out, Ken,” he whispered, and then he swallowed hard.

Ken couldn’t understand why his best friend was acting strange. The huge, muscular man wore a fitted blue T-shirt, and a pair of brown chinos trousers. Yet his usual chauvinistic demeanor was gone. Ken began to worry. He had never seen Tom this terrified before. And the fact that not much frightened the big man didn’t help.

Another explosion rocked the house; this time, it was closer. Both Ken and Tom crouched automatically.

“What’s going on out there?” Ken asked his best friend.

“Look,” someone said.

Ken turned to face Gerald. His afro was disheveled and his specs hung, misaligned, on his nose. He pointed at the TV screen. Ken followed his gaze and for the first time that morning, he actually saw the TV. As he watched the scene roll by, incomprehensible dread fell on him. His legs gave out, and he would have collapsed and struck his head on the center table had Tom not caught him and set him on the couch. Joseph and Temitope cleared the way so he could see the TV screen from the couch. The caption read: Terror and Death sweeps across Nigeria. Below it was a number in the color of blood: 47,429,200. It was a death count.

“My God…,” Ken gasped. “Is that number correct?”

Tom nodded grimly. “The reporter mentioned that the number is conservative. The actual death count could be much more than that.”
“But that means almost half our population is … gone?” Ken still couldn’t believe it. It had to be some practical joke by his friends.
“Twenty five percent actually,” Ronald said. He was the only other person seated; he looked like he was about to throw up.

Ken shook his head. “This can’t be real,” he muttered to himself. He shook his head again, and closed his eyes, willing himself to wake. But he remained seated with a pounding heart, a heaving chest, and a head that throbbed earthquakes. He opened his eyes and the horrid scenes played out before him. He had only seen this kind of devastation in science fiction movies and maybe in Iraq or Iran during a war. It was an aerial view, so there were much details Ken could not make out. However, there was no mistaking that those were human bodies strewn about on the streets like ragged dolls. There must have been thousands if not hundreds of thousands of dead bodies everywhere, twisted in impossible ways as if they had suffered a deathly seizure. Most of the bodies were on major roads and streets, in heaps and in layers of two or three. Some were in gutters, verandas, fenced yards. But all were feast for flies and crows. All were rotting and almost unrecognizable. How could human flesh deteriorate so fast? Columns of smoke stroked the clouds. Buildings, cars, and everything combustible burned furiously. The skies were filled with ash and black birds. Not a thing moved except the birds. Whatever city this was, its entire populace had been wiped out by the virus.

Ken tried to talk, but his tongue had dried up. He closed his mouth and his eyes for a moment. Tears formed behind them.

“What happened,” Ken said in a low tone. The explosions and screams continued outside, but Ken dared not go.

“Some sort of disease—” Ronald started.

“Nonsense!” Ken said. “If it were a disease, I’d have received a call from Abuja. Don’t forget I’m…” He stopped when he remembered.

Tom raised an eyebrow knowingly, then turned back to the TV. So did everyone else.

Ken was the assistant director of NEMA, as well as head pharmacist. Once there was a national emergency, his phone number was among the first five numbers that would be dialed. This list included the president’s personal number. But the week he had taken leave for his marriage, he had instructed that all calls be directed to his assistant. He had left his official phone in the office, in fact. He could be in a remote area of Kaduna and Nigeria would burn to the ground, and he wouldn’t know about it. Ken had to get back to Abuja. The wedding was postponed.
There was another big explosion that shook the ground severely. Ken cringed, pushing deeper into the sofa. His heart hammered away in his rib cage. Ken set his hands on the couch and tried to push himself to his feet. His trembling hands could not support his weight, so he fell back on the couch. He hated himself. After all he was the one who was supposed to be fearless in these kinds of situations. He was the one who was supposed to calm the public and manage the disaster. But here he was, utterly struck by fear and unable to do anything. Even his friends who knew nothing about disaster management were holding themselves better than he was—except of course Ronald, who looked constipated and almost white.

Ken took deep breaths and tried to calm himself. “Tell me everything,” he said with a start.

Tom faced him. “All I know is what I’ve heard from the news. There is a viral epidemic sweeping through the south and south eastern states. It’s very deadly, and it kills in hours. From what is happening, we’ve not been able to contain its spread. As at now, ten states are affected, over forty two million people are dead. The infection shows no sign of stopping.”

“When did it start?”

“Yesterday,” Temitope replied. He turned and looked at Ken; he wore a green jacket. Fear flickered through his eyes and he spoke in a hushed tone: “I received a call from my aunt. She told me to turn on the TV. This was by four this morning. That was when we found out. It started in Uyo and then spread to other cities. Now the whole state is a ghost town.”

“What?!” Ken shot to his feet with renewed fear. It was as if the reality of their situation had just dawned on him.

“The disease emanated from somewhere in Uyo,” Temitope said. “According to the reporter, there were screams of horror across the state and its surroundings as people woke with strange illnesses and dead spouses, children, or friends. By the time the news station was able to dispatch a helicopter to the state, it was already dead.”

“That’s why we didn’t alert you, Ken,” Tom added quickly, tears welling up in his eyes. “There was nothing that could have been done. She’s gone.”

Ken’s mind was blank.

There was another distant explosion followed by a series of explosions that seem to get closer and louder.
Ronald looked at the widow and said, “It’s getting worse out there. I reckon the virus has hit Umuahia”—he sighed—“these are truly the end times.”

“Ken,” Tom said, coming to stand in his front.

Ken’s eyelids fluttered as his eyes regained focus; tears rolled down his cheeks. “She can’t be dead,” he stuttered, “we are supposed to get married on Saturday…”

Tom nodded as if he understood. “I’m sorry, Ken.”

Ken shook his head. “SHE CANNOT BE DEAD!”

There was a silence.

Everyone turned to look at him: Ronald, Temitope, Joseph, and Gerald.

Ken’s eyes watered and lost focus again. He let his gaze wonder from Temitope’s grim look and settle on the TV screen. The helicopter had swooped in closer to the ground and currently traversed a highway. Pillars of smoke emanated from the burning vehicles. Lifeless bodies lay strewn about in odd, impossible positions. Ken saw the body of a child that couldn’t have been more than seven years old; his hands were mangled and his bloody face contorted into a shriek. There was a lady’s body beside the boy who could have been his mother; her head was face down on the red crusty granite, two feet away from her body. Ken turned away from the desolation of the virus.

“I’m going after her,” Ken announced.

“Are you mad?” Ronald said. “The moment you step out there, you will get infected. Perhaps, she’s dead.”

“There’s an army blockade on all the major entry points into Uyo,” Gerald said. “You won’t get past the soldiers.”

“If this news is true,” Ken said, “then those soldiers are either long gone or long dead.” Ken spun on his heels, effectively ending the conversation, and marched off into his room.

Tom followed him. “You can’t seriously be considering this,” he said.

Ken threw away his clothes and entered the bathroom. “She might still be alive,” he shouted over the hot shower.

When he came out of the bathroom, Tom said, “You’re smarter than this, Ken. You saw those pictures on the TV. Uyo is gone. So is she.”
Ken wiped his wet body with a towel and immediately grabbed a pair of grey trousers, a white, collared long sleeve, and a grey jacket. “I have to try,” he said in response.

“Try what?” yelled Tom. “Try and get yourself infected? What’s the matter with you? Not a single soul lives in Uyo. Over forty million people are dead. What makes her different?”

Ken ignored his best friend's rant and retrieved his wallet from the wardrobe. He grabbed his car keys and turned to face Tom. “I’m leaving for Uyo. If I die, then so be it. Life is nothing without her. That’s why she’s different.” He walked out. In the parlor, his friends stared at him with looks of hopelessness, but none spoke.

“I’ve got to do this, guys,” Ken said to them. “Stay here and don’t go out. There’s enough food and water to last for a week. Hopefully before then, we’d have contained this virus.”

“Does such hope really exist?” Gerald, the oldest of the bunch, asked. “So many people have died in one day. New cases have been reported in several other states. Can we recover from this?”

Frankly, Ken didn’t know. All he wanted was to find Emma. He hoped to God she was alive.

“I’m coming with you,” Tom said behind him.

Ken turned. “I can’t—”

Tom’s sharp hiss silenced him. “If you think I’m letting you go alone, then you’re dumber than I thought.”

Ken allowed a smile. “Put on something with a long sleeve.

Tom nodded and left the room. He returned after a while with a brown, white-striped long-sleeves. They said their final goodbyes and left the house.

The Prado SUV stood, imposing, in the driveway, a black beauty. They hopped in while Gerald opened the gate. Ken reversed into the street; Gerald shut the gates the moment his tailgate cleared the compound. The street seemed unchanged except that Mr. Anyawu’s house was burning. Two cars that had collided with each other stood as one in their path. Behind them, another car was on fire. And another had crashed into a gate. There were no bodies on the ground. Good, Ken thought.

Ken slowly guided the car around the wreck and gunned it down the street. The sun was strong in the sky. They were headed for Uyo.

To Be Continued...

PLAGUE

Part 4

All rights reserved

December 21
Same time
The White House, Washington DC

“Please tell me we have nothing to do with this,” the president of the United States said.

“Actually sir,” Dan Mills, director of central intelligence, said, “we caused the incident in Nigeria.”

“You call this an incident?” POTUS bellowed. “This is a massacre! A genocide!”

None of the other twelve members of the president’s Security Council spoke. When their commander-in-chief got one of his rage fits, it was better not to be recognized. One could easily become the object of the president’s wrath.

“We’ve survived many scandals,” POTUS said in a low tone. “But this one we will not survive. It will destroy our nation. It will destroy our soul.”
Thomas Fletcher put forth his stubby fingers on the polished surface of the long table around which they all sat and said, “actually sir, we can avoid a scandal.”

The others looked at him with curious expressions, but the president had his eyes on the large view screens that paneled the round walls. The situation room was quite chilly though no one caught stray drafts of machine conditioned air. Three uniformed technicians operated the bank of computers that provided the only sound in the room, except of course for the silent whirr of the air conditioner.

“A well composed speech and a promise of aid cannot solve this problem, Tom,” the president replied, swiveling on his chair to face the assembly.

“I was actually thinking of a more proactive step, sir,” said Tom cautiously.

A glimmer of interest appeared in the president’s eye. “Go on,” he said.

“Our intelligence shows that much of the southern part of the country is devoid of life,” the chief of army staff said. “Nigeria is an underdeveloped nation. They will not be able to enter the infected zone without foreign aid in terms of equipment and biohazard suits. I propose a small expeditionary team. They go in, retrieve every evidence of our involvement in this crisis. That way, when things calm down, we’ll be in the clear.”

The president nodded once and mauled over the chief of army staff’s proposition. The fact that he hadn’t responded immediately was a sign that he would agree or at least give it a thought.

“Sir,” Donald Romero, director of the CDC, chirped in. “If we are sending soldiers to Nigeria, they’ll need Level 4 Hazmat suits.

“Why that high?” asked the president.

“Sir I’m only just going through some of the information we have on the virus that was released in Nigeria,” Donald replied. “It appears that it’s a weaponized strain of a hybrid of Small Pox, Virtusella, and Rickettsia. It was specifically engineered to mutate every twenty four hours to a more virulent strain. Each form of mutation is transmissible in an additional number of ways and it adds to itself some non-human characteristics.”

“What do you mean by non-human?”

“I am not certain, Mr. President. However, it appears that one of its mutant form can affect animals.”

The president became even more confused. “What kind of effects are we looking at?”

Donald Romero sighed grimly. “In short sir, it turns them into flesh eaters. It gives them an unbearable desire for human blood. Research data is inconclusive on this matter, but it seems that either the second or third mutation confers this character on the virus. Sir, the virus was designed to be utterly ruthless, to employ all kinds of devices to slaughter. Tested strains were so successful that the virus came to be called The Slaughterer by the researchers, in effect conferring upon it a personality. A mind.”

“Who the hell sanctioned this project?” the president exploded. Everyone cowered at the deep rumble.

“Well?” barked the president.

“The military, sir,” replied the director of the CDC.

The president swung his head and fixed his eyes on the chief of army staff. “Why was the military developing something like this?”
“It was an initiative for our MAD doctrine,” the burly man said. “Mutually assured destruction, sir?”

“I know what MAD is,” said the president. “Why was it sanctioned in the first place?”

“The project was sanctioned in the previous administration, sir,” the chief of army staff said.

POTUS slammed his hands on the table. “Damn it!”

General Thomas Fletcher continued. “The virus was designed as a response in the case of a nuclear strike from the Russians or the Chinese. One viral particle released in Moscow Metro, and Russia would be brought to its knees within two weeks. It wouldn’t matter if they had foreknowledge or not.”

“Nigeria is nowhere as developed as Russia,” the DCI continued seamlessly. “Their health care system does not have the capacity to contain this virus. For Moscow maybe it would take two weeks, but for Nigeria, that figure has been revised, taking into consideration what has been happening in the country and what is currently happening in the country.”

“Well?” The president faced away and stared into space.

The DCI spoke in a whisper as if his words were part of a sacred chant that needed only be heard by a select few. “Five days sir—that is four days from now—and Nigeria would be nothing more than a portion of land on the African continent.”

Whispers and soft gasps went round the table like a slow, deliberate wind.

“Which is the reason why we need to send in a team and distance ourselves from this crisis before the UN becomes involved,” said the chief of army staff.

“Is there a cure?” the president asked, slowly turning to face the assembly. He looked specifically at the director of the center for disease control.

“No sir,” Donald replied. “Not yet at least. But I have people working around the clock to develop a cure or a vaccine.”

The president straightened his back on the chair. Everyone knew he had made a decision. They expected their orders now.
“I want you to personally oversee the development process,” he said to Donald. Then he glanced at Col. Maddison, and said, “I trust you’ll be assisting him?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the commander of USAMRIID, Col. Joseph Maddison MD.

“Tom,” the president said. “You have my approval to send in a team.”

The chief of army staff nodded.

“Sally?”

The secretary of state raised her head a notch and glanced at the president.

“Contact the UN,” he said. “We want to spearhead the relief efforts.”

She nodded and took notes with a pencil and a legal pad.

“All right people,” the president said, “get to work.”

To Be Continued...

#ThisIsALongOne

PLAGUE

Part 5A

All Rights Reserved.

December 21, 2015
1824 hours
Somewhere near Uyo, Akwa-Ibom State

“Try it again,” Ken said, hands on the wheels.

“I’ve tried over a hundred times,” Tom grumbled, though he dialed Emma’s number and put the phone to his ear. The now infuriating female voice of the call operator reported that the number he was trying to call was currently switched off—please try again later, thank you. Out of frustration, Tom threw the phone on the dashboard. “Not reachable,” he told Ken and looked out the window.

Ken nodded slightly and tried not to think too much on what the problem was with Emma’s phone. He found that it was easier not to think too much about anything related with this viral epidemic. Especially when he was in an infected area trying to rescue a girl that might have been dead and rotten for over a day. Things had gotten worse. Few minutes after they had left Umuahia, Gerald had called and told them that the electricity had gone out in the whole street. Ken and Tom had driven for miles and had not seen a single light bulb on. Something had gone wrong with power generation in the country.

Ken’s hands tightened on the wheels as they approached another web of car wrecks. They had survived countless of these car wrecks along the way; it slowed their progress. A journey that should have lasted for maybe three hours, had stretched to over nine hours. Ken slowed the vehicle and came to a halt three meters before the first charred car; it had the structure of an SUV. It could have been a 1992 Toyota Sequoia or a 2014 Cadillac Escalade; all Ken saw was the metal outline of an SUV. Ken looked out beyond the car. He had seen it several times since he set out from Umuahia, however, that didn’t stop the pain and grief from rising in his heart. The web of car wrecks spread before them, endless, until it met the horizon, and even then, it continued. It covered the two opposite lanes, and even the wide lane divide wasn’t spared the carnage. There was no fire, there was no smoke, still, the sight of ripped and scorched flesh, exposed organs, disfigured bodies spreading across the landscape repulsed and overwhelmed. No doubt, the virus was still active in the dead bodies, hastening the decaying process. Ken realized that they couldn’t maneuver through the wreck this time; it was just too dense. And the forest that bordered the lane didn’t give much space, though they could probably squeeze through.

“Can we leave?” Tom said, a hint of fear in his voice. “I don’t want this virus getting into this vehicle.”

Ken took a sudden look at the car’s AC setting and then relaxed. It was set to prevent external air from getting into the car unfiltered by a system of powerful particulate filters. Though he believed the virus was only transmissible by touch, he wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t hurt to take precautions, he thought.

Ken guided the car into the small space between the line of trees and the road. They squeezed along at a slow pace often flinching at the sharp sound of metal on metal whenever their vehicle scratched one of the numerous pointy metal remains of a car. Ken constantly searched the ground ahead for stray, sharp objects. It wouldn’t bode well if they had a flat tire here.

“My God,” Tom whispered, looking out his window. Ken followed his gaze for a moment. It was like a horror movie in slow motion. But alas, it was reality—those people rolling by them had suffered a horrible death. It was like a perfectly rehearsed play: the grotesque combination of metal and flesh, the reviling sight of internal organs spilled on the rough asphalt, the surreal crimson color of blood that coated everything, and most frightening, the expression of total terror splattered on the faces of every dead body that still had a head. They watched in silence, and grieved deeply.

Ken clenched his teeth to keep from vomiting. There was little he could do to keep from crying. Silently, the two occupants of the only moving vehicle in southeast Nigeria sobbed. Once they cleared the kaleidoscopic display of blood, bone, and metal, Ken gunned the vehicle down the highway with renewed resolution. He would find Emma even if it was the last thing he did.

“What if she’s dead like all these people?” Tom asked. His voice was distorted by tears. “What if all this had been for nothing?”

Ken ignored him for the umpteenth time and concentrated on driving. The sun was setting somewhere behind them, in the west, plunging the world around them into darkness. Few minutes before nightfall, they came to a fortified military road block.

Ken stomped the brakes, sending the car into a screechy rebellion as it painfully came to a halt. It was a barricade. There were military trucks of all shapes and sizes scattered in a loose formation across the roads, even the lane divide. A wall of sand bags had been set up to connect the cars on the road with the forest that had retreated a few meters away from the road. There was no place to squeeze through; they were effectively locked out of Uyo. The military men had suffered a similar fate as the rest of the populace, however, they had performed an impressive job, setting up a blockade.

Ken switched off the engine and sighed.

“I told you there was a blockade,” Tom said.

“How far away are we?” asked Ken. “We’ll have to walk the rest of the way or maybe steal a car.”

Tom looked at Ken, dubious. He brought out his map and studied it. Ken retrieved a self-contained breathing apparatus (SCBA) from the back seat and set it tightly on his head. As an operations member of NEMA, he had his gear in his trunk, ready to move at a moment’s notice. “Stay here,” he said, and opened the door. He jumped out of the car and slammed it shut immediately. He stretched his body to work out the kinks before walking towards the road block.

The road block was six layers thick and consisted of an assortment of vehicles: tanks, armored personnel carriers, Hilux vans, supply trucks, sedans, and the likes. Some vehicles were open, some were shut, but all uniformed men lay dead. This time Ken couldn’t help it; he vomited. He secured the SCBA on his head immediately afterwards. Just then, he heard a stifled whine. He jerked his head to the right where a green tent had been raised in the center of the wide lane divide. His heart leapt. There was someone alive in there.

Ken ran to the tent. He slowed down at the doorway and slipped in. At first he couldn’t see anything because of the low illumination, but his eyes adjusted. A large rust splattered table stood in the center of the space; there were sheets of paper and maps on it. Strewn around the table, on the earth, were people; people who had died in a horrible way. In the corner of the tent, Ken noticed a soldier propped up against the tent with his knees pulled up to his chin. His face was strangely covered in blood. Ken approached the man. He found it strange that on his face were huge claw marks, even on his chest; he clutched his bloody hands and whimpered softly. He didn’t seem to have noticed Ken’s presence.

“Sir?”

The man flinched and looked at him, silent. On his face was a bewildered look, like he found a human presence odd. Ken didn’t blame the man.
“Are you alright?” Ken raised his hands in that I-mean-you-no-harm sort of way. The man cringed back, causing Ken to take a step back. “My name is Kennedy, sir,” he said, “I’m with NEMA. I want to help you.” Ken thought for another second and added, “do you understand what I’m saying? Do you speak English sir?” It wasn’t news that an unhealthy number of military personnel didn’t communicate well in the English language.

The man nodded. He then bent his head and continued to whimper. Ken knelt before the man. “What happened to you sir?” Ken said, observing the deep claw marks. They were deeper than he had first thought, like they had been gouged in, leaking blood and colorless liquid. The SCBA Ken wore cleansed the air he breathed, so he couldn’t perceive the air; he doubted he would have been able to stay level had he gotten a whiff of the air around the man.

“Hi don’t know,” the man replied in a thick Yoruba accent.

Ken studied the soldier’s epaulette and discovered he was just a sergeant.

“When we set hup the blockade,” the man continued, “hour men got hinfected.”

“Infected with what?”

“Hi don’t know,” replied the man with a pained expression. “We were supposed to contain the hinfection hin hUyo, but by the time we mobilized, the hinfection had already gotten through. Once we set hup, we started dying.”

Ken tried to touch the man, as if his touch would ease his pains, but retracted his hands on second thought. “Why is it that you aren’t dead like the rest?”

The man shrugged. It must have caused pain to shoot through him because he wailed and his face contorted.

“Sorry,” Ken said, wincing. When the man had calmed down, Ken said, “what gave you these injuries?” Before the man could reply, Tom rushed into the tent, his chest heaving and a fog developing on the view screen of his breathing apparatus. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Ken nodded and returned his attention to the man.

“Dogs.”

“Dogs did this to you?” Ken asked incredulously, taking one more look at the claw marks across the man’s face and chest. They were too deep to have been caused by dogs. Maybe they had caused brain damage. The man could be delirious.

“Not hordinary dogs,” the man replied in a whisper. “Monsters!” he cried. “Hits the virus. Hit has changed them hinto monsters.”

There was a distant howl.

The man stiffened and grabbed Ken’s cloths at the chest. “They are coming!”

Ken recoiled from the man’s grab and fell on his butt. He glanced at his chest where the man had touched him and saw red stains. His heart jumped at the sight of the possibly infected blood. There was another howl; this time it was closer and numerous. Tom dashed out the tent. The man began to whine like a dog in submission. Ken picked himself from the ground.

“Ken!” Tom roared his name even before he entered the tent again. He was panting again with renewed terror in his face. “There’s a pack of dogs headed this way.”

“Since when did dogs travel in packs?”

“They are not ordinary dogs, Ken,” Tom replied, trying to deepen is breathing. “They are … changed. Could it have been caused by the virus?”

Ken thought about it for a moment. If the virus could accelerate human flesh mortification, why couldn’t it affect animals? But on some level, Ken just still couldn’t believe all this was happening. He believed he would soon wake up from this terrible dream. He took one more look at the injured man. Dogs that had claws as sharp and deadly as to cut out chunks of flesh with a swipe?

“Ken?”

“Yes,” Ken said. “Maybe.”

There was another howl—this one caused the hairs at the back of his neck to stand on end. The sinusoidal sound died down to a throaty growl somewhere behind the tent. A huge, dog-shaped shadow played across the tent. Ken tried not to panic, after all it was just a dog. One look at the man, and Ken lost control.

“Ken!” Tom whispered, waving his hands for him to come. “We have to get into the car now!”

“We can’t leave him here,” Ken replied, gesturing to the wounded soldier.

“Go,” the soldier said. “Save yourself.”

The creature behind the tent howled again. Ken’s eyes widened, his senses gripped by fear. The distant herd responded, letting out heart racking hoots into the evening sky. Worst of all, darkness was falling quickly. Dogs saw better at night.

The creature sniffed twice as if it had caught a scent. It approached the tent. Ken knew this because its shadow grew on the tent to the size of an imposing grizzly bear. Ken placed his index finger on his lips and mouthed, keep still. The man’s eyes widened as the creature sniffed more and drew closer. It had definitely caught their scent. Ken swiveled to face Tom. Grab a weapon, he mouthed, we are going to make a run for the car.

What weapon? Tom asked waving his hand around to show him that there was no weapon in the barren enclosure. Ken shrugged and silently approached the man. “I’m going to lift you onto my arm. We’re making a run for my car. Do not make a sound.” The man’s face was twisted in pain; tears fell off his eyes. He shook his head. Ken couldn’t tell if he was resisting his help or pleading for death. It tore Ken’s heart.

“Shhh,” Ken said before helping the man to his feet. A pistol Ken hadn’t seen dropped out of his lap. “Tom,” Ken called. “Gun.” He gestured at the ground where the gun lay. Tom came and picked the gun. The creature had reached the tent. It was now poking at the stretched material with its nose, sniffing furiously. Ken helped the man to the doorway and into the night. Tom followed them from behind and silently, they edged toward the main road. They moved as fast as a caterpillar not because the man was brutally injured, but because there weren’t a whole lot of places Ken could hold on the man’s body.

Ken stole a glance behind him. A chill ran down his spine. A little bit in the distance, a herd of about ten, no twelve, dogs made their way through a web of car wrecks towards the road block. They were huge—way huger than normal dogs—and black just like the night. Their fur had on it a thick, slushy liquid; their eyes glowed bright yellow and glowered with a carnal desire for flesh; their incisors were thick, long, and razor sharp. Their claws … God, their claws were long, black spikes that stretched the length of a grown man’s foot, sharp enough to rip the head off the neck of a toddler, effortlessly.

“Where did these creatures come from?” Ken muttered in disbelief, watching as they ripped flesh off dead bodies with rabid intensity. Ken got to the edge of the road and tripped over the embankment. Together, he and the man he carried stumbled to the asphalt. A short wail escaped the soldier’s lips. Sudden silence flooded the night. Ken, for a desperate moment, hoped that the creatures hadn’t heard.

“Run!”

Ken heard Tom’s warning before he heard the howls of the creatures. He scrambled to his feet, and throwing caution to the wind, he jerked the man to his feet and dragged him to the car. The man screamed—a high-pitch sound. Barks and howls filled the night, mingled with the scratch of metal against metal as the creatures thumped from car roof to car bonnet, in their direction.

At the car, Ken turned to see how much time they had before the first creature attacked. The creature lunged for him, and he knew he was dead. Its dagger sharp claws glinted in the rising moon’s light. It’s dripping canines were poised to rip and rend his throat, mere seconds away. Ken eyes closed of their own accord. The powerful blast of a gun assaulted his ears. It was quickly followed by a muffled sound. Something heavy slammed the side of the vehicle jeering it a bit.

PLAGUE

Part 5B

All Rights Reserved.

“Get inside,” Tom yelled, grabbing the injured man from Ken’s hands. Ken couldn’t move nor could he think. He opened his eyes to see the creature dead on the floor. A large chunk of its abdomen had been blown away. Where it had hit his car, there was a deep dent. Ken looked up and saw the vicious creatures bounding towards them; they were less than a minute away. A hand grabbed him, pulled him around the car, and opened the door. Tom shoved him into the vehicle and slammed it shut after. He ran around the car once more, aiming his gun at the creatures. Several ear splitting blasts rocked the vehicle. Two creatures fell. Tom entered the car and locked the door immediately just as the first creature threw itself at the car. It rebounded against the door. The rest of the herd threw themselves at the car in turn, jeering it with each impact; the car remained intact.

Tom grabbed his right shoulder, shaking him vigorously. Ken shook his head as though he had just woken from a dream. “What?” he stuttered. “What happened?” he glanced at Tom, then turned to glance at the injured man in the backseat. “How did we get here?” Ken asked. “What happened?”

Tom eyed him for a while. “You froze,” he said. “You went into shock.”

“I froze?” Ken said, turning away from Tom to look at his bloody hands. He removed his head gear and took in a deep breath. Then he looked out the window. He saw flashes of canines, slick black claws, and bright yellow eyes that glowered with hatred. They pelted the body of his car with strength and intensity.

“The car isn’t going to take much of this,” Ken observed.

“My thoughts exactly!” Tom said. “Turn around and drive back to Umuahia. From there we’ll get the guys and move to Abuja.”

Ken shook his head. “No. We’ve come too far.”

Tom’s face twisted into a frown. “What’s wrong with you? Must you—”

The rear wind shield cracked and shattered. The next wolfish creature came through the opening. Tom pointed his gun. Ken’s fingers came to his ears, still the powerful blast almost knocked him unconscious. The bullet went right through the creature’s mouth, splattering gore and tissue all over the trunk. The slamming continued. The creatures didn’t seem to know that there was already an opening in the vehicle.

“Quickly. Take the gun,” Tom said, handing him the weapon. “I’ll lead them away. Take the soldier and head out into the forest. Head north, I saw smoke rising from that direction.”

“A house?” Ken muttered. “A living, breathing person…”

Tom nodded, gesturing for him to take the gun. Ken took the gun, surprised by its weight. “Are you sure about this?

Tom nodded. “I’ll find you after I’ve led them away. These creatures might be strong and dangerous, but they don’t have much in the way of sense. Immediately they chase after me, leave the car.”

Tom got ready at the door. When the next creature threw itself at the car, he pushed the door open and smacked the black form. Then he jumped out, slammed the door in, and ran off in the opposite direction of the car. The creatures ceased their movements for a second and stared at Tom’s running figure. Then they hooted at the moon and took off after him. Seconds later, the party had entered the forest and silence returned. Ken opened the door and dropped out of the car. He moved to the passenger’s door, and helped the man out. They limped into the forest.

They had not gotten two meters into the dark forest that they heard howls. Ken gripped the gun tighter and walked faster towards the column of smoke in the north. His eyes darted left and right at the slightest rustle of leaves. The wind blew softly, playing tricks on his mind. His heart hammered in his chest. The howls multiplied across the forest, a reminder of the ever present threat. Ken glanced at his cargo. The man’s condition had deteriorated since they had met in the tent. He was now shuffling between consciousness and unconsciousness—most times unconsciousness. He had lost a lot of blood. Ken concluded that if they didn’t get help now, the man would die in his hands. And Ken didn’t even know the man’s name. However, Ken was intrigued by the man—why wasn’t he dead like the rest? Had he managed to develop immunity against the virus or had he taken a herb that worked against the virus? Ken knew that right there in his arms was the key to containing the virus.

They got to the house without incidence. It was a small wooden house with a thatched roof, surrounded by a high fence of barbed wire. The wood was black and old as was every other aspect of its architecture. In the middle of the compound, a woman sat on a stool and stared into a small pot that sat on a fire. The light cast a shadow of the woman on the house; the shadow danced to the soft wind.

“Hello?” Ken shouted, ambling to the makeshift gate. The woman jerked her head towards him, startled at first. But then her eyes fell to the unconscious soldier dying in his arms. She shot to her feet and ran to the gate.

“Quick, she said when she had let them in. “Let’s get him into the house. He has already lost a lot of blood.” She strode into the house with Ken on her tail, dragging the man along. At the woman’s instruction, he laid the man down on the couch. The woman came back into the front room from the back room with a first aid kit and gestured for him to step aside. He obeyed; he stepped aside and watched the woman work. She cut open his clothes using a sharp pair of scissors until nothing was left except a bloody boxers. She cut that too, exposing the man’s bare body. Then she retrieved a clean, white napkin, soaked it in alcohol, and began to clean the man’s wounds. After that, she went into the back room and returned with a bucket of water and another napkin. She cleaned the body until there was no trace of blood on the man. Then she set up a drip into the man’s veins and injected a fleet of drugs that Ken didn’t bother knowing.

When she was through tending to the nameless soldier, she glanced at him, then looked down at his hand. “You want to drop that and clean up?”

Ken looked down at what she referred to. He saw the gun and blood and remembered Tom. “Shit!” He swiveled and barreled out the house. He stopped short at the gate, worked the lock, and headed out into the dark.

“Where are you going?” the woman called from the open doorway of the house.

“My friend is still out there,” he shouted his reply without slowing down. When he had raced a good way towards the highway, he yelled. “Tom!” He ran faster, panted harder. The wind rushed against his face, filling his nostrils with the smell of fresh leaves. “Tom!” he yelled and received a distant howl for a reply. He slowed down, raised his weapon, his heart pounding his chest. The blurry barrel of the weapon, illuminated by the light from the overhead moon, led him towards the highway.

The creatures howled again, closer.

“Tom!” Ken risked another yell and was rewarded by a soft morn somewhere to his right. Ken headed in that direction.

Tom’s body was sprawled on the floor. “Don’t touch me,” Tom whispered, clutching his hand and mourning. “I’ve been bitten. It’s over for me, Ken.”

“Nonsense,” Ken replied. He grabbed the huge man and helped him to his feet. He half dragged, half carried Tom back to the house. The woman met them at the gate. “Don’t touch him,” Ken said, “He’s infected.”

The woman ignored his warning, pulled Tom off him, and carried him into the house. She laid him on the couch, where the army man had been.
“Where is—”

“He’s asleep in the back room,” she replied as she started on Tom the same process she had gone through with the army man. Ken sat in the arm chair, placed the gun on the table, and stared at the lantern on the dining table near the door. He felt feverish and tired. His breathing was shallow. He felt depressed. Because of him, his best friend was going to die.

When the woman was through setting up the drip, she glanced at him with sad eyes. “I’m afraid he’s already infected. He’ll die in under three hours.”

“Why three hours?”

“My husband,” replied the woman. “He died of the infection. Three hours was what it took.”

“How are you still alive?”

The woman sat in the other arm chair opposite his. She wore a short sleeved Ankara cloth. “I got infected too. For a while I was sick. But then I got better.”

Like a bulb, a glimmer of hope lit up in his head. “Immunity,” he whispered.

“What?”

Ken glanced at the woman. “When did you fall sick?”

“Yesterday,” she replied. “Just when my husband went to see the crash site. I reckon he contacted the infection from the crash site.”
“Ma, I’m going to ask you for one favor.”

“What is it?”

“I need a sample of your blood,” Ken said excitedly. “You have somehow developed immunity to the virus. If I inject my friend with a purified sample of you blood, it might save him.”

“There are several things wrong with that idea,” the woman said. “We might have incompatible blood types. I don’t have the means to extract a blood sample and purify it. And the antibodies that were developed may no longer be in circulation.”

“You were once a doctor or a nurse?” Ken asked with a smile. She merely nodded. “Then you must know that by now, the virus is already working its way through your blood and you are producing antibodies to combat it.” Ken shot to his feet and picked up the gun. “As for the equipment,” he said. “Leave that to me. I’ve got everything we need and more in my boot.”

Ken’s journey back to the main road was short and uneventful. The creatures had long moved on. All the light he needed came from the moon. He quickly retrieved a large, silver box from the boot. He marveled for a little while at the great damage the wolfish creatures had inflicted on his vehicle, for it bore no resemblance to what he had driven out of his house in Umuahia. The surface was a web of deep indentations and claw marks. As he stared at the government issued vehicle, he believed that this would be the last time he would set eyes on the vehicle. Ken turned away and ran into the forest, leaving behind the vehicle, the ghostly military blockade, and the morbid desolation of a weaponized virus.

Halfway to the house, he was hit by a massive wave of nausea. He’s knees buckled. And propelled by a strong anti-peristalsis, he vomited. He spat out the remaining taste of Russian vodka and struggled to his feet. He was incredibly weak now and a hammering headache was developing in his head. Ken picked up the large box and hurried on his way. By the time he got to the door, his body burned with fever.

“I’ve got it,” he said the moment the woman opened the door. He strode into the house and set the container on the table. He opened it, pulled a small, battery powered centrifuge, and placed it on the table. The woman closed the door and stood beside him, watching, silent. Ken retrieved four test tubes, a test tube rack, two pieces of 5ml syringes, and one 10ml syringe.

Before he could ask, the woman stretched her hand, exposing her vein.

Ken tore the wrapper of the 10ml syringe and attached the needle to the barrel. Then he found the vein and slid the needle through the skin. The woman flinched slightly. Ken drew blood. He withdrew the syringe and transferred 5ml each into two test tubes. Then, he placed the tubes into the centrifuge and started the machine.

He collapsed into the chair to rest as he waited for the machine. But he doubted if he’d be able to stand again. His body felt like it weighed a ton—he was sluggish, and his eyes were heavy as if they hadn’t closed for weeks.

A chime indicated that the machine had finished centrifuging.

He tried to stand up, but he was just too weak even to lift his hands. The room blurred until all he saw was darkness. He felt his head fall until it rested on the arm of the chair. The woman was whispering in his ears; how she got there, he couldn’t tell. But he tried to make out what she said. He wondered why she spoke so incoherently. Did she have something wrong with her tongue? If he could just rest a little bit…

A vigorous shake brought him back. “What next after centrifuging the blood sample?” the woman bellowed directly into his ear.
“2ml. From the bottom of the tube,” he managed a reply.

The woman dropped him. Things grew quieter and darker until all he could see was darkness and all he could hear was silence. He slipped deeper and deeper into darkness until he felt a sharp sting in his arm, like a needle piercing his skin. Then he lost consciousness.

To Be Continued...

Wow!!! I love this! This is utterly mesmerizing! You command words as though the moon does the night. Your metaphors are world-class! Mehn, I kowtow for you.

OluwabuqqyYOLO:
Wow!!! I love this! This is utterly mesmerizing! You command words as though the moon does the night. Your metaphors are world-class! Mehn, I kowtow for you.

Thank you o!! Na wa... This your high high praise... God dey o!

I'm glad you love this!

Hi!

Next update tomorrow.

Here's a way to bide the time: https://kachiugo.com/2016/04/30/attack-of-the-sea-monster-1-the-mewraters-series-an-introductory-post/

Coming Soon...

PLAGUE

Part 6

All Rights Reserved.

December 22
1402 hours
Mmiri Village Forest, Uyo

Ken never expected to wake again. He thought the last time he dropped his eyelids, he would never lift them again; after all, he had been infected. But when he stirred on the clammy foam of the couch, he instantly knew there was hope. His irrational and dangerous treatment had worked. They could stop this virus from spreading. Hopefully, not too many Nigerians had died since yesterday. The 42 million death toll he had seen on the TV yesterday still caused a chill in him. It was so staggering a number that Ken did not yet fully recognize its impact. Although he would have his fill of recognition in a while.

Ken coughed a little to expel from his airway the putrid smell from the couch and struggled to sit up. He still felt weak and a little feverish, but besides that he was okay. A drip was attached to his left wrist with the IV bag resting on top of the head rest. The hideous, brown curtains of the two adjacent walls were drawn, revealing large windows that allowed sunlight into the room. The air was dry and crisp, and Ken took deep breaths, feeling relaxed.

“Welcome back,” Tom said with a smile. He sat in the arm chair to his right with a drip of his own connected to his wrist. “Mary told me you saved my life.”

“Only because you risked it to save us, Tom,” replied Ken. “Glad to see you are well.”

“You ha hay good man, Kennedy,” a voice said from behind.

Ken craned his neck to see the man he had saved yesterday sitting at the dining, picking at the remains of what must have been a mountain of beans and plantain with a spoon.

“You save hay man hiven when he was not your responsibility to save,” he said. “For this, hi say thank you.”

Ken noticed the claw marks on his face had started healing. He looked clean, wearing a grey polo, and bore not even the slightest resemblance to the man he had saved yesterday. Ken gave him a wan smile. “Maybe you could tell me your name, sir?”

The soldier appeared embarrassed for moment. He left his food and joined them in the sitting space. “My name is Ajayi Oluwatoyin Rafayat.”

“Hi Ajayi,” Ken said in reply. “My name is Kennedy Nwosu and this is my best friend, Thomas Mustapha.”

Mr. Ajayi cocked his eyebrow at Tom in surprise. “You a Muslim?”

“No,” Tom said. “I’m Christian. I’m also Hausa, hence the name.”

Mary came into the house, carrying a steaming plate of beans and plantain. She handed it to him. Ken took the plate and set it on his laps. The hot plate burned through his clothes, so…

“Careful,” Mary said with a warm smile.

Ken placed the plate on the table, then turned to look up at the woman. “Ma, I cannot begin to thank you for the kindness you have shown us.”

“There’s no problem, my son,” she replied. She sat down beside him on the couch. “With what is happening in our country, we have to look out for one another if we are to survive.” Ken nodded in agreement and then looked out the window. He could see the clear sky and the treetops. Everything seemed so normal out there, but he knew it was anything but normal. A deadly virus was killing helpless Nigerians out there and turning animals into beastly creatures. Ken smiled sarcastically. That sounded like a tagline for one of those Stephen King’s horror novels. But this was no story; this wasn’t a figment of man’s imagination. People were really dying. Living, breathing people were actually dying.

“I have to go,” Ken said finally, though still staring out the windows. Ken tried to stand to his feet. “I have to go and save her.” He fell back to the couch. Mary helped cushion his impact.

“My son,” Mary said. “You are still too weak to move. The virus is still in your system. You won’t be much help to anybody like this.”

“She’s right, Ken,” Tom said. “We’ll just be getting ourselves in trouble, what with all these creatures roaming the streets.”

For once, Ken agreed with him. He relaxed back on the couch and started eating. Mary rose and went outside. When she returned, she was carrying a mug of water which she set on the table for him. Ken thanked her and concentrated on eating. Each bite he took revealed to him just how hungry he was.

“Perhaps,” Tom continued. “A lot of things have changed since we left Umuahia.”

Ken stopped eating and stared at Tom. The way he had spoken caused an uncontrollable feeling of dread to settle on him. He said nothing and continued eating, expecting that whatever had changed would be communicated to him in time.

“Heverything we’ve learned thus far,” Ajayi said, “we’ve learned from the radio. Has hit turns hout, Mary’s husband had hay very powerful Hay M radio that has han himpressively powerful receiver.” Mr. Ajayi stopped and struggled with the next words to say. He dropped his head and kept silent.

“It’s bad,” Tom said softly. “Major cities have been claimed by the virus: Lagos, PH, Abeokuta, Benin, Asaba, even the FCT is gone. The only safe haven is the northern part of the country. In fact, the radio station that reported this is situated in Kaduna. According to them, the estimated death toll…” His voice trailed off. Even he struggled with the words to say.

Ken swallowed hard, his appetite gone. “What’s the death toll, Tom?” Ken said quietly, the feeling of dread strengthening over him.

“Over a hundred million,” came the whispered reply.

The plate fell off his hand and splattered its content on the brown rug. Ken didn’t bother to respond to that. All he thought was that this couldn’t be true. It was an absurd figure. One hundred million? Who was that reporter? Where had she gotten her information from? Whoever they are, they should get their facts right and not spread false news around. Ken wondered why some people were just too foolish to reason. He had always thought Nigerian reporters were simpletons and this was justification for his thoughts.

Ken refused to accept that number as truth. He shook his head absentmindedly, thinking that the harder he shook his head, the easier it would be for him to expel the thought from his mind. But even as he did so, even as he tried to refuse the claim and blame it on media incompetence, his scientific mind had returned to him with a logical conclusion. He slowly realized that not only was this number a possibility, but giving everything he had seen and experienced, the number could be conservative. The death toll could exceed that number.

“Has the government said anything?”

Mary gave a short laugh.

“Government?” Ajayi gave him a bewildered look. “Har you still hexpecting hay presidential speech?” Ken shrugged. “My dear,” Ajayi said, “hif we’ve not heard hanything by now, we must hassume that the virus has claimed the government.”

“The last we heard of the government was a coup d’état,” said Tom. “Just when the virus broke out two days ago, the army mobilized and marched on Aso Rock. It was as if they had planned it before then.”

Ken frowned. “Was it successful?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “But the virus reached Abuja almost immediately after. They didn’t rule for too long.”

“What bothers me most,” Mary said, “is why there has been no response from other countries. Nigeria has experienced a massive breakdown in basic social amenities. Power is gone. Water is gone. Even the cellular network is gone. News stations are gone too. No Cool FM, Ray Power FM, or Wazobia FM—they’ve all gone off air. For all intents and purposes, Nigeria has ceased to exist.”

A chilly silence followed.

“Has for me, hi want to know how hit hall started. Where did the virus come from? Hit must have been himported hinto the country somehow.”

“I don’t know how it came,” Mary said. “But I think my husband was among the first to get the virus because he died two days ago and there was no reported case of the infection before then.” Mary choked on her words and began to sob.

Ken’s interest was piqued. A lot could be understood about an epidemic by locating patient zero; the first person to be infected. It seems that it would be Mary’s deceased husband.

When she regained her composure, she said, “we saw something fall out of the sky and crash not too far from here. I told him not to go look, but he wouldn’t listen. When he returned, he had a high fever and systemic necrosis. He died less than three hours later.” Mary broke out in tears and left for the back room.

“That makes sense now,” Ken said aloud. Then he looked from Tom to Ajayi and said, “what we are dealing with is a weaponized virus. I want to take a look at that crash site.”

Tom nodded, but he said, “yeah, about that. There’s a little problem.”

***

A little problem? Ken wondered how what he saw was a little problem.

“They’ve been there since morning,” Thomas Mustapha said beside him. “We don’t know why they’ve not attacked.”

Surrounding the house, beyond the fence, were black creatures—the ones they had escaped from yesterday evening. Some idled on their claws, while others patrolled. But all had bright yellow eyes that glowered with hatred. Even in the distance, Ken could hear the scary, deep, throaty growl.

“We’re trapped,” Ken announced. He couldn’t know how many there were because even beyond in the trees, he saw black figures and movements.

“They know they can’t get in,” Tom said. “They also know we can’t stay in for too long. We’re going to have to come out sometime.”

“They’ve developed intelligence,” Ken whispered, baffled by his words. “How is that even possible?” They had barely escaped with their lives yesterday, when the ferocious monsters were dumb as a nail. Now they were smart—smart enough to mentally deduce that they couldn’t stay indoors forever. “Was there anything on the news about the creatures?” Ken kept his eyes on one particularly big creature that paced—yes paced!—at the gate.

“No,” Ajayi said. “Not hiven hay reference. No one has seen them. Hor rather no one who has hever seen them has lived to tell the tale, hi suppose.”

Ken felt despair. If Emma had survived the virus, could she have survived these creatures? Now that they were intelligent? Ken had to swallow to work out the knot in his throat.

“Come, Ken,” Tom said, guiding him back to the door. “It might help for them to think we have left and leave as well, if they didn’t see us too often.” Ken let Tom lead him inside, wishing he didn’t feel so helpless.

Throughout the day, Ken suffered from anxiety, fear, and despair. He became despondent and withdrawn, even when they discussed their plans for tomorrow. He eat supper in silence. At the end of the day, he retired to his couch and tried to sleep. His thoughts weren’t so merciful, for they tortured him with pictures of Emma, clawed to death, until he was able to find relief in the hands of a short, uneasy sleep.

To Be Continued...

Wiz0isaac:
guy weldone dy du am... I jus dy look u since may1 shey u no go come finish d tin u don start ba, c diz guy oh wetin b Im name sef NA wen I dy enjoy kindle's very best u kon cut update ma no curse oh oya come back nanana come update, I dy wait u... Ah no dy smile...

LOL!!

Okay, I will update this.

Thanks for reminding me!

mehn nice writing here frnt sit with my suya pot nd hollandia 7d cinema resident evil plus walking dead

@kachiugo when i saw kindle bestselling author i thought its an hype but reading this far has changed my perception. No doubt this is great i pray this type of thing will not happen in this country

oppsyij:
mehn nice writing here
frnt sit with my suya pot nd hollandia
7d cinema resident evil plus walking dead

Thanks, and welcome to the show!

ashatoda:
@kachiugo when i saw kindle bestselling author i thought its an hype but reading this far has changed my perception. No doubt this is great i pray this type of thing will not happen in this country

LOL! Amen o!

Thanks.

PLAGUE

Part 7

All Rights Reserved.

December 23
0532 hours
Mmiri Village Forest, Uyo

A hand troubled his body.

“Ken,” a voice whispered, “it’s time to go.”

Ken grumbled and turned away, hoping that whoever it was would have the courtesy to go away.

They didn’t go. “Ken!”

Ken bolted to his feet. The curtains were still drawn, but the room was dark. Tom stood beside him, his features concealed by the dark. At the door, Mary stood holding a lantern. Beside her, Mr. Ajayi had the door slightly ajar; he was peering outward. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a black jacket. Tom picked something from the arm chair and handed it to him. Ken took it, held it to his face and saw it was a pile of old clothes. He glanced at Tom, irritated.

Tom shrugged. “It’s all she has.” Though, he himself wore a fitted polo shirt, a white long sleeve shirt which he left unbuttoned, and a pair of jeans. Ken quickly stripped and put on the change of clothes. He had expected them to smell of old people, but they were fresh. Ken zipped the baggy jeans and put the belt through the belt hoops as fast as he could. The sweater’s long sleeves barely touched his wrist, but at least it would keep his body safe from the murderously cold weather. Harmatan in the south south was a b*tch!

Mr. Ajayi closed the door and came to them. “They har hasleep. We’re going to quietly sneak by.”

“What?” Ken whispered back. “Those things can smell you from a mile away.”

“We have no hother hoption. Do you want to look for Emma hor not? Look, we’ve studied these creatures for two nights now. They honly sleep between four hand six hin the morning. You’ll never catch them as vulnerable hat any hother time.”

Ken nodded, pressure building in his chest.

“Now,” Mr. Ajayi continued, obviously in charge of the operation. “We go hin a single file. The moment we pass the black creatures, we break hinto a jog hand then we make hay run for hit. Hopefully, hour escape will go hunnoticed.”

If there was something Ken had come to understand, it was that no plan ever went perfectly well. There were always kinks. Unforeseen circumstances. In this case, they could be ripped to shreds by these black, doggish creatures.

“His that clear?”

Tom and Ken nodded.

“I wish I could go with you,” Mary said, “but I am old. I’ll only slow you down. Good luck and I hope you find her.”

“Thank you ma,” Ken said, thankful that she hadn’t said the stark, obvious truth; Emma was probably, already dead. A truth he had been so blinded by love, he couldn’t see. Ajayi made a sign to Mary and she snuffed out the light, plunging the room into an absolute dark.

Ken heard a soft creaking sound, saw the soft glimmers of the moon, and felt the icy wind. He shivered despite his heavy clothing and shuffled out of the house. They approached the gate in a single file; Ajayi first, who held his gun; Ken second, then Tom last. The wind blew, a tad bit boisterous, causing a constant tune of rustle to come forth from the trees. Scattered outside the compound, the black creatures—what must have once been innocent dogs—lay on the ground, their ferocious, bright yellow eyes missing from the hairy mass. If Ken hadn’t known better, he would have thought they were mere heaps of ash, dotting the landscape. Aside from the whistle of the wind, the rustle of the leaves, there was a frightening throaty growl that emanated from the sleeping creatures.

Ken tightened the cloth around his body not from the deathly wind, but from the chill of dread that started at the base of his neck and wind down his spine. At the gate, there was a particularly huge black creature—the one that had been pacing last evening.

Fearlessly and without hesitation, yet with the cold, compassionless barrel of his gun aimed squarely at the creature before the gate, Ajayi gently unlocked the gate and slid out the compound. Ken followed through next, side stepping the beast. He almost gagged at the putrid odor that wafted up his nose from the creature. Tom took a few second to follow because he had to lock the gate behind.

They tiptoed to the forest where they had hoped the creatures would cease to be. They were wrong. They continued silently and slowly through the forest. Tom crept closer to him and whispered into his ear, “why do you think so many of these creatures are surrounding the house?”

That was one question Ken had asked himself since he had seen the phenomenon yesterday. What was so interesting about them? Surely there were bodies everywhere for them to feed on. Ken turned to give a response, when Mr. Ajayi whispered his name. He turned to see what Mr. Ajayi was calling his attention to. He was too late. His leg plowed into the side of a huge pile of black—the one that Mr. Ajayi had avoided; the one that Mr. Ajayi had called his attention to.

Ken recoiled, terrified. Tom held him from falling. To their collective dread, bright yellow eyes appeared on the body. The creature reared at first, startled at their unannounced presence. Then it bared its teeth and prepared to pounce, growling aloud. Ken froze. A powerful blast split the air. The creature crumpled to the ground like a spineless worm. Ajayi still held the gun forward; at its business end, white smoke wriggled up. All around them, the black creatures stirred.

“Run!” Ajayi bellowed.

They all barreled, leaping over piles of black when necessary. It didn’t take long for the creatures to realize what had happened. Soon, they had the whole herd in hot pursuit. Ken’s lungs were aflame. His cheeks felt puffed, and his heart banged against his chest, threatening to explode if he didn’t slow down. But he couldn’t; as they crisscrossed the forestry terrain, any misstep meant a painful death.

The trio burst into a main road and followed it into town. They slowed as they navigated the carnage. Ken glanced over his shoulder. The creatures bounded out of the trees and raced after them. Day had dawned, the sun was already rising in the far east. They got to Itam in minutes.

“We’ll meet hat the girl’s house hin two hours,” Ajayi yelled from the front. He broke left down another road that seemed to be littered with more dead bodies and wrecked cars. Ken and Tom broke right, jumping over rotting bodies, wading through flocks and flocks of flies, along Itam Road which was supposed to take them to the residential areas. In a little time, they were dodging behind houses, slowly making their way to Eket Street. There, a white house stood, housing Emma’s body, living or dead.

The creatures pursuing them had thinned, so had the piles of dead bodies. Ken decided he couldn’t take any more of it. The sun was high up in the sky when Tom and Ken stood before Emma parent’s house, and they were drenched in their perspiration. It was a white bungalow with a wide compound and a fence that allowed viewing from halfway up. There was no sign of life. The door were shut. The windows were closed. Three cars were parked parallel beside the manicured lawn. The distant howls of their pursuers were getting closer. Tom tugged at his cloth, shooting fretful glances up and down the silent street. “Let’s go inside before they find us again.”

Ken took one last look down the street before entering the compound. There was the usual dead, rotting bodies strewn around in the road and gutter; there were car wrecks all along the street’s length. They ceased burning a long time ago. The front door was unlocked. Once they opened it, they were hit by a revolting smell of decayed flesh. Ken’s heart jumped in his chest. He swung the door open and dashed into the parlor. He needed to know if she was still alive. A squat glass table stood in the center of the room and around it lay Mr. and Mrs. Bassey, dead as dung. Flies hummed around the dead bodies.

Ken held his mouth, yet a shriek of terror escaped his lips. He looked away and ran out of the siting room shouting Emma’s name. They found two more dead bodies. One was rotting in the bathroom. The other lay on Emma’s bed; it had rotted beyond recognition. Ken fell on the edge of the bed. And in despair, he wailed. He grabbed the putrid flesh in the white sheets of the bed and wept over it. Tom stood in the doorway, in his periphery, and kept calm. “I’m sorry, Ken,” Tom said. “She didn’t stand a chance against this. None of us did.”

Soon, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes. His will and resolve to go on was decimated. And the howls and growls of the black creatures were at the door.

“We need to leave now,” Tom said.

“Go,” Ken said, clutching the putrid body as though his life depended on it. “I’m not leaving her again.”

“Don’t be silly!” Tom roared and dragged him from the bed. The body rolled out of his hand and hit the floor with a bump. It’s stink remained on him, though. Tom dragged Ken into the narrow hallway even as he weakly thrashed and stretched for the immobile body on the polished floor. They exited through the backdoor, scaled the fence, and made a run for it. It didn’t take long; the creatures were howling after them. As they turned a sharp corner, Ken glanced over his shoulder. Their pursuers had been joined by horned creatures that resembled goats.

They stopped on Oron Road to rest, death all around them. “Ajayi will never be able to find us,” Ken said between hurried breaths. Down the street, a pack of black creatures caught sight of them, howled to telegraph their position to others, and bounded.

“Quick. In there.” Tom pointed at a large Shoprite store ahead. They raced into the compound. Through the large display window, Ken saw a cavernous space with neatly lined racks and shelves of various colorful products. They entered through a side door that was open and shut it. They waited, hearts pounding, counting the seconds as it trickled by, but nothing happened.

Ken stole a look through the display window. Bright yellow eyes looked straight at him. He tore his head back and closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. “They’re in the main road. Siting.”

Tom’s eyes were widened. “Why do they keep doing that? Why don’t they just attack?” He had a tone of exasperation in his voice.

Ken shrugged. “I’d be damned if I knew.”

“Ken?”

Both Ken and Tom swirled around.

“Ken is that you?”

Ken shot to his feet and stared struck dumb at the figure that emerged from the shadows of the tall shelves and approached them. “Emma…” Ken whispered, tears filling his eyes. She was as curvaceous as he remembered. She wore a pair of jeans that revealed her bulbous waist. And though she wore a baggy blouse that seemed to cling to her, they could never have diminished her ample bust. However, her crowning beauty—what had endeared her to him—was her divine face, her naturally long hair, and her dazzling smile.

In a moment, she was in his arms, sobbing and trembling. The feel of her warm body on his was electric. “You came for me,” she cried to his shoulders. “Despite all that is happening, you came for me.” It sounded like a question.

Ken stroked her hair slowly. “It’s alright baby. It’s fine.”

Emma broke their embrace and hugged Tom too.

“I thought you were dead,” Ken said to Emma when they faced each other again. “We went to your house. There was a dead body in your bed—”

“Debby,” Emma said with tears. “She brought the virus into our house. It killed my sister and my parents.” Then she broke into tears and clung to Ken. Ken consoled her. “She came to our house in the night,” Emma said. “She said she had a fever and needed help. My dad, being a doctor, took her into my room and tried to treat her. But she died in three hours. That was when we found out on the news that it was an epidemic. Dad did all he could to disinfect us, but sis became symptomatic, then mum, then dad.” She cried again.

“It’s okay,” Ken whispered.

“They died one after the other,” she continued. “And there was nothing I could do. I watched my family die in one day. Do you know what that’s like?”

For lack of what to say, he said the first thing that came to his mind, “I love you, Emma.”

Emma stood on her own, sniffed, and nodded. “At first, I decided to lock myself up and wait for help to arrive. But then I ran out of food and came here. Actually, I was chased here by hideous creatures.”

“Why didn’t I die like them?” she asked.

“We discovered that some people are immune to the virus,” Ken replied, picking each word. “You are immune to the virus. That’s why you survived.”

The unmistakable rat-a-tat of a machine gun and the rev of an engine filtered into the mall. Howls and cries dotted the man-made noise and for a moment, it was all they heard—a battle raged.

“Tom,” Ken called, “quickly get some supplies. We’re leaving.” Tom nodded and dashed down an aisle.

“Who’s that?” asked Emma, holding his right hand.

“A friend of ours.” Ken smiled.

The sound of machine gun died down. “Kennedy! Thomas! We honly have hay few minutes to spare!” The man’s yell came muffled.

Ken led his girl out the mall into the sunlight.

Mr. Ajayi stood on the running board of an army green pickup truck. He waved for them to come quickly. He held in his other hand a big gun.
Emma followed behind Ken.

“Hello, Miss hemma,” Mr. Ajayi said with a cunning smile. Obviously, his accent didn’t exclude names. “Hi ham glad you har halive.”

Emma smiled back and entered the vehicle without a word. Ken was about to go back for Tom when the man hurried out of the mall and dashed across the granite parking lot, hefting two large sacks. He dumped them in the trunk and entered the vehicle. Ajayi locked the doors and gunned the vehicle down the street.

By the time they got to the area they had exited the forest from earlier, the sun was already lost beyond the horizon. Ken had had to comfort Emma for all the time they spent meandering through the city in a bid to lose the black creatures because of all the death that lay around. They parked the car and trudged into the dark forest. Mr. Ajayi hefted a green bag supposedly jammed with weapons (he had gone to a military barracks) and led. Tom followed from behind. All the while, Emma cried as he led her through the forest.

They reached the house without incidence. Soon, they were within the comfort of a home. It might not have been the largest of homes, or the finest of houses. It might have been a Stone Age construction of rotten plywood. But it was home.

No one had the strength to talk when they were all settled in. Madam Mary served a cold dinner which they eat in silence. Mary whispered to him that he and his fiancée could stay in the back room while she and the boys would manage whatever comfort the parlor provided. Ken obliged and led Emma into the tiny room.

They cuddled in the bed for a while, each one savoring the other’s presence. Sleep came later; it was long and deep this time.

To Be Continued...

KachiUgo:


LOL!!

Okay, I will update this.

Thanks for reminding me!

ehnehn naw u r talking.... Hehehehe lemmi na sit down nd enjoy corect tori. Oya na whr bin d update na

KachiUgo:

Thanks, and welcome to the show!

i will only beg u nt make dis 1 be like THe UPRISING KU i so much love dat dat story but u just killed d joy

Wiz0isaac:

ehnehn naw u r talking.... Hehehehe lemmi na sit down nd enjoy corect tori. Oya na whr bin d update na

I already updated!

oppsyij:

i will only beg u nt make dis 1 be like THe UPRISING KU
i so much love dat dat story but u just killed d joy

Awww... Don't worry, I'll finish this one.

KachiUgo:


I already updated!

thanks man but at least try to dy update lyk twice a day since itz nt a curent work. U hav writen it b4.

HBD KACHIUGO BUT U NO DEY UPDATE NA WHY I DEY VEX WITH O

rawswag:
HBD KACHIUGO BUT U NO DEY UPDATE NA WHY I DEY VEX WITH O

Lol. Sorry, it took this long to reply. Updating right away!!!

PLAGUE

Part 8

December 24
0800 hours
Mmiri Village Forest, Uyo

For the first time in days, Ken woke feeling refreshed.

When he didn’t see Emma at his side, he panicked. But he relaxed when her chirpy voice came to him from the front room. Ken picked himself from the bed and walked into the parlor. Tom, Ajayi, and Emma were seated at the dining as Madam Mary served breakfast. The aroma of the food dragged him to the table, causing him to salivate.

Mary frowned at him and blocked his path. “No one shall sit at this table unless they are bathed and freshly clothed.”

Ken noticed they were freshly clothed. Tom, who wore a clean white polo, shrugged and faced his meal. Emma beamed at him, looking divine and attractive in her beautiful, light pink spaghetti gown.

“Do has she says, Kennedy,” Mr. Ajayi said unnecessarily. He too wore a clean white polo.

Ken started to complain. “I don’t have a—”

“You’ll find everything you need in the bathroom behind the house.” Mary cut him off. She led him to the door and handed him a hip of fresh clothes that she had arranged on the head of the couch. “Dustbin the clothes you have on now, when you’re done.”

Ken took the clothes from the woman and exited the house. He was relieved to find out that they weren’t surrounded by those black creatures from hell. He rounded the house and found the bathroom. He quickly dumped his clothes on a heap of clothes beside the bathroom and took a long thorough bath. He found a new tooth brush on the window ledge. He used it to give his teeth the same treatment he had given his body. He left the bathroom freshly clothed and feeling close to God. Back at the house, he was allowed to sit at the table. Mary served him his yam and fish sauce. He started on it instantly.

“Hi,” Emma whispered into his ear. Her perfect set of white teeth brilliantly reflected the light from the windows.

Ken smiled back at her. He swallowed and said, “how are you doing?”

Emma replied looking at her half finished dish, “fine, giving everything that’s happening.”

Madam Mary joined them at the table with a plate of her own and began eating. They all eat in silence until every plate was devoid of food. Mary cleared the table and sat with them.

“We have hay decision to make,” Mr. Ajayi said, visibly getting ready to launch into a lecture.

“Kaduna is down,” Tom interrupted him. “The radio station we got our news from before is down. We believe the virus has covered the nation. Our parents, Ken. Our parents may be dead.”

“You’re the expert, Ken,” Ajayi said, shooting Tom a wicked glare for interrupting him. “How many people do you think could have survived the virus?”

Ken had done the calculations. But he was too afraid to say it because Emma was beside him. She had almost had a break down seeing all those dead people lying in the streets.

“Go hon,” Mr. Ajayi said. “She already knows the last count.”

Ken glanced at his fiancée who nodded for him to speak. “Not more than two million people are left in the country,” said Ken. Then he quickly added, “except those that fled the country and those that may have somehow developed immunity.”

Tom whistled—a low, airy whistle. “Only two million people left in the country?”

Mr. Ajayi’s face hardened, anger evident in his eyes. “We need to get to Abuja immediately. Find hout what government his left hand heradicate the virus from hour borders.”

“I agree,” Ken said. “Since we can cure the virus, we need to establish an immunization program to cure all those that are currently sick or immunize those that have somehow evaded the virus.”

“Can’t you start here? Why go to Abuja?” Tom asked.

Ken nodded. “The equipment I need is in my lab in Abuja.”

“Abuja it is then.” Tom agreed.

“Do you think your cure can heal the dogs?” Mr. Ajayi said.

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s too early to say,” replied Ken. Ken felt Emma’s delicate fingers on his hand and so he turned to her. Before she spoke, he said, “baby, you don’t have to come with us. You’re safe here with Madam Mary.”

“That’s not it, Ken,” Emma replied in a whisper. “I don’t want to ever leave you again. I just wanted to say that we should spend Christmas together in a home, not running for our lives. It’s Christmas Eve today. Tomorrow is Christmas. We can leave on the next day.”

Ken glanced at Mr. Ajayi and Tom. They both nodded.

“Okay,” he said to Emma, thus ending the meeting.

The rest of the day was uneventful. Ken spent most of the time with Emma, chatting, snuggling, and idling around the house. The darkest piece of news they received that day came in the evening when Ken’s prediction was confirmed by VOA—Voice of America.

In the night, Ken withdrew from his friends and went outside to gaze at the stars. As he lay alone on the dusty ground, staring at a sea of stars and a bright, burning moon, he remembered his childhood. He and his father would lay out on their backs in the night stargazing and telling stories. Now, his father was probably somewhere in Abuja dead and rotting, along with his mother and siblings.

Ken wiped his tears when he heard the door open behind.

“May I join you?” Emma said, standing at his side.

“Sure,” Ken said, giving her some space.

Emma settled down beside him, came close enough so her skin pressed his, and then gazed at the twinkling stars.

No one spoke for a while. No one wanted to spoil the mood.

The wind blew over them softly. The trees rustled lightly. Emma turned on her side, and looking at him, she said, “merry Christmas, Ken.”

Ken turned and looked into her eyes. Her fair face shone in the moon light. Though it was a dark Christmas, he decided then and there that he was going to enjoy it as much as he could. “Merry Christmas, Emma,” he said with a smile.

“I love you.” The soft wind brought Emma’s whisper.

Before he could reply, her lips were on his. He felt happy.

December 25
0002 hours
Mmiri Village Forest, Uyo


Less than hundred meters from where the couple kissed, two pairs of eyes watched. They wore Level X4 biohazard suits.

“Do you think they know we caused it, sir?” said one to the other.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the other. “They are alive and close to the crash site. They have to be eliminated.”

After a short while, the junior officer said, “should I call in a strike team from AFRICOM, sir?”

“Yes,” the senior officer replied.

“What are their orders, sir?”

“Kill them all.” His voice carried no trace of emotion.

###

THE END

There's a sequel, and it's already a book! Get it here: https://kachiugo.com/books-2/biohazard-a-trial-by-fire/

Blurb for the sequel:

Most of Nigeria has become a wasteland. Scores of men, women, and children have been slain by the five day sweep of a deadly viral plague. Anarchy reigns. The society has failed. Law and order and basic human amenities have become a distant utopian concept to the remnants of the scourging. But it has only been one week, and things are about to get worse because the virus is still mutating.

Kennedy Nwosu has found a cure for the virus. He can save the remnants of the viral plague from falling to the virus. However, what he does not yet know is that he and his friends have come under the crosshairs of an assassin’s gun. The fate of Nigeria, and her heritage, rests on the shoulders of Kennedy and his cure. But before he can save the nation, he must first save himself. A trial has beset him: A trial by fire.

It's on Okadabooks: http://okadabooks.com/book/about/biohazard_a_trial_by_fire/10010

First time I'm writing THE END on nairaland. Nice!