The South Forsaken

PrologueJustin was hunched alone at his desk, swamped in his oversized HAZMAT suit. He had spent the better part of the public holiday running tests for the science bigwigs and just wanted to go home to a cold beer. His wife and son would be back that afternoon from visiting his in-laws for Christmas, something that he wasn’t too broken up over missing if he was going to be honest with himself. He smiled as he imagined Angela’s expression when she saw what he had ready for her, though he knew she would be upset when she realised his medication had been ignored in favour of his work. He twitched minutely as a familiar, unwelcome voice pushed its intrusive self into his skull, breaching his mind and stealing his thoughts from his head. He had pressed himself harder than usual, wanting to finish this stage of the experiment early. Half an hour longer and he could leave. Half an hour and he would take the meds he had stored in his workspace. Fighting to pull back control, he twitched violently and looked around quickly. He wasn’t sure if he was looking for the other he could feel watching him, or for his co-workers, who still didn’t know about the schizophrenia he had fought to hide for most of his life. He picked up the syringe with the current test substance and readied the rat firmly in his other hand. This would be the last, and then he could close everything up and go home. Another jerk had his hand spasming and he looked down in horror, feeling a cold prickle along the back of his neck. The syringe swayed slightly where it had imbedded itself into the thick fabric of his HAZMAT suit. He hadn’t felt anything on his skin though. Maybe the fabric had stopped it? He was sure he hadn’t depressed the plunger; this was nothing to worry about. With shaking hands, he inserted the syringe into the rat and pushed, injecting Substance F into the squealing creature before replacing it in the cage. He quickly signed off on the paperwork and cleaned up thoroughly, not wanting to raise any suspicions from the scientists around him. He ducked into the airtight room leading off from the lab, waiting for the decontamination procedures to finish before he ripped the air hose from his back and tore off his helmet. He panted slightly as the first hints of panic sent icy fingers down his spine. He knew his work was risky, just as he knew that if they found out that he had been exposed to the untested trial drug his freedom would be little more than a beloved memory. He would be separated from his family, denied his basic rights; he knew that his history was one of the reasons behind his assignment to this team. He had seen it happen before: the government-funded research team he worked for was given liberties no moral person would entertain. The CSIRO had recently started work on a synthesised hormone thought to reduce the symptoms of schizophrenia. Justin’s team was responsible for the first phase, which introduced a lab-mutated Bornavirus spliced with a variant of toxoplasmosis into a host to simulate the symptoms of schizophrenia. He glanced down at his gloved hand, desperately hoping that the toxic mix had been kept from his skin. ‘Everything okay, J?’ The intercom clicked and he nodded his head, trying to portray the calmness he didn’t feel. ‘Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine, mate. Just a long day behind the glass.’ He jabbed a finger toward the Plexiglass helmet he had dropped to the floor. A rough chuckle rang through the enclosed room and echoed mockingly through his brain. He fought not to react, as disjointed paranoid thoughts clawed at his mind. He glanced down at his arm, frowning at the line of red scratched across the surface of his skin. Frantically he ducked into the men’s room, sparing only a moment to make sure he was alone before scrubbing at his arm. The near scalding water turned his skin an angry red as he soaped and rinsed, repeating until he couldn’t take the heat. He moved to the bench, took out his pills and, throwing three of the little green triangles onto his palm, swallowed them dry. He barely remembered his walk to the car, the trip home twisting into a haze of moving cars and lights. He stumbled in through his front door, guided only by a distant sense that told him he was home. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, throwing back the first mouthful before he walked blankly to the living room, tossing his coat onto the back of the sofa. He sank into the worn recliner and closed his eyes in exhaustion. It was growing dark when he woke, the click of the door announcing the arrival of his wife and son. ‘Dad?’ He could hear his son Chris making his way through the house. Justin scratched his arm absently and stood to greet him. Angela came in and smiled, holding up a thawed, uncooked box of pizza. ‘Did you go through all this trouble for me? I feel so special.’ She reached up to kiss him but he shied away, the scratch on his arm still fresh in his mind. She frowned. ‘I think I picked something up at work,’ he muttered, trying to brush it off. ‘Is it serious?’ she asked, concerned. ‘Nah.’ He winced as his voice listed high and he coughed to clear his throat. ‘Just need to wait a bit, minimise fluid transfers, the usual precaution. To be sure.’ He turned just in time to see Chris place his beer back on the table sheepishly, lips still shiny where he had drunk from his dad’s bottle. ‘Oops.’ He wiped his mouth. Justin paled and his wife’s worried frown deepened at his distress. ‘What was it? What are you working with?’ She knelt beside her son, resting a hand on his brow but he waved her off. Her worried eyes turned to her husband. Justin held his hands up in what was meant to be a calming gesture. ‘Look, I’m sure it’s nothing, I barely got scratched. And this happened earlier today. Nothing’s happened to me yet, and if I did pick something up I would have been showing something by now.’ He pushed all of the confidence he didn’t feel into his words, and whether it spoke of his skills as an actor or her unwillingness to accept the worst as a possibility, she let it go. It was not mentioned again that night, although her worried gaze darted between her two boys as they moved around the house. Sleep kept its distance as Justin lay in bed. He looked over Angela where she slept peacefully, and climbed out carefully from between the sheets, stepping softly over the squeaky floorboard and creeping down the familiar stairs. Reaching the fridge, he liberated another beer and slunk over to the recliner, turning on the TV and flipping through the channels, too wired to rest. A thump pulled his attention to the ceiling; he smiled as he followed muffled footsteps as they dragged sleepily from his son’s room to his own. Even as a teenager, Chris liked to know that his parents were nearby. Justin turned back to the TV, just as an audible scream split the silence. He spun to the stairs, taking them two at a time as he ran to his room. The door was open as he approached and the sight that met him threatened to bring him to his knees: Chris held Angela tightly to him, face buried in her throat, the sheets were dyed a deep red beneath him. ‘Oh God,’ Justin choked out. His son looked up at the noise and growled at him; his eyes were coated with a milky film, his mouth dripped with blood and spit as his lips peeled back in a growl. Chris dropped the body and lunged toward Justin, who stumbled backward out of the room, slamming the door as he fled. He ran back downstairs to where the light of the TV still illuminated the house and pulled his mobile phone from his jacket, mashing at the buttons. ‘Emergency services, how may I direct your call?’ ‘He attacked Ange! He’s eating her!’ His words garbled together in his haste to get them out, and then he dropped the phone in fright as a heavy thump rattled the door above him. The wood splintered under the heavy body throwing itself against it. A terrified scream filled the house and for a moment Justin didn’t recognise it as his own. He fled past the heavy front door and slammed it shut to wait for the help he desperately hoped was on its way.