H7N9 Penitence Read online

  H7N9

  PENITENCE

  Mark Campbell

  Darkest Hour Publishing

  Houston, Texas

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Mark D. Campbell

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Finest Piece, Inc. © 2018

  Author: Mark D. Campbell

  Edited by: Rubenka Bandyopadhyay, Ph.D.

  Published by: Darkest Hour Publishing ™

  ISBN: 1722848073

  ISBN-13: 978-1722848071

  For Rubenka, my beloved wife. Carol, my mother. Jason, Gary, and all of my friends and co-workers who helped me along the way.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  OCTOBER 1ST

  Delaney, Georgia was an isolated one stoplight town surrounded by ragtag motels, old farm houses, and an ocean of wheat. The town’s center consisted of a Dairy Queen, a BP gas station, and multiple abandoned buildings. Ever since the deadly fire at the now-abandoned tire factory, the poultry farm was the only thing keeping the sleepy little town afloat.

  The poultry farm was situated at the edge of town, nearly ten miles away from the interstate. All of the buildings inside the farm’s sprawling complex were olfactory horrors and harrowing testaments to animal cruelty. The windows that ran along the top of the stuffy warehouses masquerading as barns were murky from lime deposits. The wooden beams that supported the rusty corrugated roof were rotten, and the harsh industrial bulbs which were hung haphazardly from the roof were practically falling out of their fixtures. The row of ceiling fans that ran along the center of the ceiling didn’t do anything except circulate the putrid, humid, polluted air. Thousands of malnourished chickens were cramped inside the dismal warehouses. They meandered along the feces-covered muddy floor: how many were actually alive was anyone’s guess. The warehouses were so packed that those who couldn’t make it to a trough fast enough to eat eventually died, and their carcasses were unceremoniously trampled into the mud by their starving brethren.

  Edwin Martinez, a Mexican national who worked at the poultry, was a short, middle-aged man with skinny limbs and a large belly who went by the nickname Chaparro. His day had started off like every other day before it. Well before noon, his white disposable nylon jumpsuit was covered with blood, dirt, and chicken feces. The unrelenting Georgia heat added to his discomfort, despite the fact that it was October.

  Autumn didn’t have much meaning in the south.

  Thankfully he would soon escape Southern Georgia’s heat when he attended his oldest daughter’s wedding in New York City. Since he couldn’t afford a plane ticket, getting there would involve a long ride on a Greyhound bus. It was a trip he was eagerly anticipating, despite the duration of the ride. After all, out of all four of his daughters, Mariah was the first to come to the United States and it didn’t take her very long to find joy. Once he could afford to get the rest of his family out of Mexico, he prayed that they would find the same happiness that Mariah had attained in the land of opportunity.

  The thought of a brighter future for his wife and three daughters brought a smile to his face.

  Still smiling, Edwin wiped off his sweaty brow with his hairy forearm and pushed the wheelbarrow deeper inside one of the massive warehouses, kicking his way through the squawking hens. His job was simple; all he had to do was make rounds through each of the farm’s massive warehouses and cart away any dead birds. On most days, he ended up with a barrow full of carcasses, every time he completed a round. There were many days when he had to make multiple trips inside the same building. As long as Americans wanted their one-dollar fast food chicken sandwiches and liked their grocer’s poultry section to be well-stocked with questionably affordable meat, he knew that he had job security. People cared more about how the chef cooked the chicken, than how the meat got into the kitchen. Being surrounded by death didn’t bother him since it was just part of the industry; the farm looked far better than the old slaughterhouses back in Mexico.

  Edwin noticed something on the ground as he cleared a path and stopped.

  He bent down, picked up a shriveled hen carcass by the wing, and plopped it in the wheelbarrow.

  He walked a few more feet and found another bird that was barely recognizable. It had been picked to shreds and lay in a pool of dirty blood and feathers. Given the overcrowding and lack of resources, cannibalism was quite common.

  He picked up what remained of the bird and tossed it inside his barrow.

  After only thirty minutes of walking, his wheelbarrow was full and he was more than ready to go outside.

  Edwin wheeled the heap of feathers and rotting flesh through the warehouse’s double-doors and took a deep breath of the fresh humid air outside. He carted the dead birds off to the blue refrigerated bin just outside the warehouse and threw them inside one at a time with his bare hands. He wasn’t sure exactly what the company did with the dead birds, and he didn’t care enough to ask. Given his questionable immigration documentation, he found it best not to ask too many questions.

  It took him about twenty minutes to empty the cart and rinse it out with the garden hose before he headed off to the next barn. It was the last one on his list before he had to turn around and start the whole process all over again.

  He stepped inside and froze at the sight before his eyes.

  Hundreds of chicken carcasses covered the floor. Their bodies were bloated, their beaks hung open, and their feathers were matted with old blood and regurgitated grains. The few that weren’t already dead were gathered at the back, weak and timid. The automated feeding troughs that ran through the building were full of grain, and appeared to be untouched.

  Terrified, Edwin left his wheelbarrow behind and hurried to his supervisor’s trailer to report the incident.

  Several minutes later, Scott Parrow, a heavyset southern boy in his thirties, followed Edwin towards the warehouse: his new black jeans and blue button-up looking ridiculously out of place in the squalid surroundings. He sighed and shuffled along in his mint condition work boots that hadn’t seen even one day of real hard work: he would much rather be sitting with his feet kicked up and his eyes shut in the air conditioning than walking around in the blazing heat smelling chicken shit and staring at a bunch of goddamn illegals.

  Both men stepped into the warehouse and stopped.

  Scott’s aggravated expression changed to one of concern instantly. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and covered his nose as he stepped further inside. He kicked one of the bloated carcasses
with the pointy tip of his snakeskin boots and then stepped back in revulsion.

  “Son of a black dog…” Scott muttered, shaking his head. “Did you check the other coops?”

  “Yes, this was my last one,” Edwin said with his heavy accent. “The rest looked fine.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Scott said with a sigh. He turned towards Edwin and pointed towards one of the rusty old scythes that hung next to the other tools on the wall near the entrance. “Cull what’s left in here, collect all of the carcasses, and burn them in the open field behind the building. Burn them. Don’t throw them in the blue bin, do you understand? Uh…. la que-mad-ura el pollo. You comprendes?”

  Edwin nodded. It would be a lot of work and it would be messy work, but work never frightened him.

  Scott looked at the full feeding troughs and frowned.

  “The way the whole barn fell sick overnight, it must be bad grain. It’s probably botulism. Make sure you dump out the grain and rinse the feeding troughs thoroughly,” Scott added. “While you’re at it, destroy what’s left of the food we used for this building. I don’t want any of the sacks we used in here to mix with the others.” He paused and stared at him. “Quemar el grain-o. Comprendes?”

  “Si. Where do I dump it?”

  Scott mulled over the question a bit, scratching his stubbly chin.

  “Dump it in the clearing behind the barns and burn it,” he finally said. “Burn the pallets, tarp, sacks, and everything. Burn it all with the chickens. Quemar todo.”

  “Should I still make my work?” Edwin asked in choppy English as he gestured towards the other buildings. “Should I clean the la basura?”

  Scott shook his head and waved a hand in the air, dismissing the question as idiotic.

  “No, no, no. Lord, you won’t have the time!” Scott quickly replied. “This here takes priority, boy. Just worry about the situation in here. I’ll have Hernandez or one of those other little bastards take over your regular duties. Once you’ve done everything I’ve told you to do, you’re free to go for the day, okay?” He paused. “I’ll, uh, even make sure you get a little something extra on your check.” He rubbed his index finger against his thumb, emphasizing his words. “Extra dinero.”

  Despite the labor involved, the thought of extra money brought a smile to Edwin’s face.

  “Si! Gracias Señor Parrow!”

  Scott nodded and walked out of the building in slow steps forcing himself to appear calm. As soon as he was outside, he quickened his pace and made a beeline towards his trailer, and stepped inside. His trailer was a doublewide, but it was richly appointed. If there was one thing Scott was good at, it was wasting the company’s money. The trailer had a ceramic tile floor, multiple air conditioners along the roof, and a massive oak desk in the center. Pictures of his family, a phone, and a sleek computer sat on the desk while two potted plants sat of each side. The company logo was proudly displayed on the wall behind his plush leather chair.

  His hand hovered over the phone while he hashed things out in his mind.

  Scott knew that he was supposed to notify the state health department under such circumstances, but why risk shutting down the whole operation over something that could be contained? Calling the officials would cause the entire farm to be shut down for weeks while the health department ran tests and spun miles of bureaucratic red tape. It was just bad grain. It had to be. He had barely graduated high school, but no other scientific explanation made sense. A shutdown wasn’t something he or the company could afford, especially so close to the busy holiday season.

  Scott slowly withdrew his hand from the phone and sat at his desk, thinking.

  “It’s just the grain,” he assured himself.

  Confident in his decision, he kicked his feet up on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  OCTOBER 2nd

  At 6:21 AM Edwin Martinez drove his rusty old pickup truck to the Atlanta Greyhound station and parked underneath a shady tree somewhere in the long-term parking lot. He was feeling a little under the weather. He had a slight cough and the lymph nodes in his neck were swollen. Despite his symptoms, he purchased his ticket and sat in the crowded lobby. Nobody paid attention to his coughing and sneezing, especially since they were far too busy watching a rambunctious group of young children play hide and seek in the vending area.

  Edwin sat slouched in the plastic chair and stared blankly ahead at the clock on the wall.

  He didn’t board the bus until 8:08 AM.

  The bus was packed and the ride was grueling.

  Edwin’s persistent coughing, loud wheezing, and frequent bouts of sneezing drowned out the noisy children. The ruckus kept the other passengers from catching any real sleep or enjoying the movie playing on the tiny monitors mounted on the back of the seats. Given the sudden onset and the way his entire body ached, he was positive that he had the flu, but he didn’t let it deter him from reaching his final destination. His fever continued to rise and fall on its own accord although he tried to keep it under control with cold medicine.

  The route he was riding on had two station transfers; one in Richmond, Virginia and one in Baltimore, Maryland. He stepped off the bus at both stops and took his time at each station’s small kiosks, searching the medicine section for something that worked, touching everything with his sweaty bare hands, leaving behind a trail of microbial mementos.

  In Baltimore, he ended up spending his last few dollars on some off-brand flu pills that did nothing, apart from make him quite drowsy.

  The cashier, a young white woman no older than twenty-three, took his sweat-soaked crinkled dollar bills and mindlessly handed him his change. As she watched him walk away, she rubbed her face with her hands, yawned, and thought about the long day ahead, oblivious to the infection that had just started to take root inside her.

  OCTOBER 3rd

  It was 12:54 AM by the time Edwin reached New York City’s Greyhound terminal and there was no telling how many lives he had inadvertently touched during his arduous journey, given all the station stops and numerous passenger changes. He lugged his suitcase to the edge of the platform and searched the crowded station for a familiar face, as other sleepy passengers brushed past him. He was drenched in sweat and could barely stand on his own.

  His daughter Mariah was waiting near the edge of the platform with her fiancé and her two young children. Her elated expression vanished as soon as she saw how sick he looked.

  Edwin’s complexion was pale, his eyes were cloudy, and his clothes were soaked. His neck was swollen and had purple blotches that looked like bruises around it. He wheezed and shuffled aimlessly ahead, bumping into other passengers. He was so spaced out that he didn’t even recognize his own daughter.

  Mariah and her fiancé took Edwin to their small apartment located in a tenement near the edge of the city. They let him sleep on the sofa and gave him lots of fluids and flu medicine. Their efforts didn’t do any good; at 3:00 AM Edwin had his first seizure as his fever spiked to a temperature that the store-bought oral thermometer couldn’t register. Paramedics were called and he was rushed to the hospital.

  OCTOBER 4th

  At 3:16 PM Edwin finally met his maker in a public city hospital a few miles east of Harlem. He died clutching his chest as he gasped for breath. Mucus rattled in his lungs and the swelling around his neck closed his throat. Towards the end, the fever drove him into delirium. As he became a victim of his body’s aggressive immune response, he couldn’t even remember his name much less recognize the faces of his loved ones gathered around his bedside-watching him die.

  Mariah, her fiancé, and her two children were all starting to show flu-like symptoms but their understandable grief compounded matters and made them ignore the signs that their bodies were trying to give them.

  The doctor, far too busy dealing with an overcrowded and underfunded emergency room to worry about an undocumented immigrant with no insurance, labeled Edwin Martinez’s cause of death as complications arising from
the seasonal flu. He gave Mariah and her symptomatic family some quick condolences, a prescription for Tamiflu that they couldn’t afford, and sent them on their way without much thought on the matter. ‘Bedrest and lots of fluids’ were the simple discharge instructions he gave them.

  Mariah and her family left the hospital heartbroken, and significantly poorer than when they had entered it. Edwin’s corpse was wheeled downstairs to the morgue’s freezer to await his final destination at the city crematorium.

  After they returned home at 7:41 PM, their symptoms became progressively worse. Like Edwin, their lymph nodes were starting to swell to monstrous proportions. Unable to afford yet another hospital bill, they decided to stay home, let the medicine do its job, and allow their bodies to fight it off naturally.

  Mariah put some canned soup on the stove. Not a word was said as the family shared a meal at the small table. The only sound aside from the slurping of soup was their persistent coughing and sneezing.

  OCTOBER 5th

  5:15 PM: Mariah’s fiancé, doped up on cold medicine, died on the sofa wrapped in a blanket watching the evening news when his throat finally swelled shut. On the screen, the anchorman was talking about the season’s first flu clusters popping up in Georgia and parts of Virginia.

  8:07 PM: Mariah, who had been far too sick to get up to check on her fiancé earlier in the day, finally managed to force herself out of bed and crawl to the restroom a few hours later. She died next to the toilet - lying in a puddle of her own vomit and feces.

  Their two young children, Abel and Roberta, were lying on a thin mattress on the dirty floor in the second bedroom, right next to the restroom where their mother’s corpse lay, and across from the living room where their dead father stared at the television with unseeing eyes. They cried out for their mom and dad, begging for some medicine to make the pain go away. They didn’t have to wait long for relief: they ended up joining their parents less than two hours later.