N87 Virus | Prequel |Outbreak Kadin, Karri (best english novels for beginners txt) 📖

“You’re sick, Mi Vida.”

“Sí, sí. They sent me home early because of this damn cough. Everyone is worried about this stupid virus. I just have a little cold.” He looked at the alarm clock by the bed. “You are home early.”

“There was a crazy patient at work. He attacked me.” She held up her bandaged hand. “He had the virus. I’m sure of it. He just went crazy like a wild animal or something.” Tears sprung to her eyes. Alejandro sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m so sorry, Mi Amada.”

“He killed Jones. He’s gone. I could have died too.” She buried her face in his chest as the tears flowed.

The next morning Veronica stood at the kitchen counter cleaning and redressing her wounded hand. It looked a little red today but wasn’t warm. There was some blood on the old dressing, but no drainage. The pain shot through her body as she tightly re-wrapped her hand in fresh gauze. She had not heard of anyone getting N87 from a bite, but it would make sense. The bite was probably her death sentence. Her chest tightened, and she imagined black veins traveling up her arm. She checked the skin on both her arms and a weight lifted from her chest when she didn’t see any. She popped her morning dose of antibiotic into her mouth and drank the last gulp of orange juice straight from the jug.

Alejandro was still asleep. His cough had kept him up all night. N87 always started as a cough. She shook her head to clear away the thought. It’s just a cold, all he has is a cold. She thought she felt a tickle in her throat but pushed the thought away.

Veronica scrambled up the last of the eggs and piled them on a plate. She really regretted not going grocery shopping on her last day off. A trip to the store was a must today. Her hand throbbed in pace with her heart. The idea of grabbing items from shelves and pushing a basket through a crowded supercenter sounded like torture. She took the eggs to the master bedroom and set them on the bedside table. Alejandro had beads of sweat across his forehead. She pulled a thermometer from the drawer and pressed it to his head. It was high, too high for this to be a simple cold. She rushed back to the kitchen and filled a plastic baggy with ice before wrapping it with a small towel. She tucked a couple of bottles of water under her arm before heading back to her husband.

“Wake up, Alejandro.” He didn’t move. “¡Mi Vida, wake up!” Alejandro moaned and opened his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Almost ten in the morning. I made you some eggs. Eat.”

“I can’t even look at food right now.”

“You must eat. You have a fever, Mi Vida. You are not well.”

“I can’t.”

“At least drink some water. Your fever is high.” She helped him sit up in bed and handed him a bottle of water. Sweat dripped down his face. Veronica held the bag of ice to his head as he brought the bottle of water to his lips. A few large gulps later, another coughing fit consumed him. Veronica could hear the rattle in his lungs without her stethoscope.

“We need to get you to the doctor.”

“Why? If I have it, I have it. Nothing they can do. But I’m telling you, it’s just a cold.” He took another drink of water. “Turn on the news.”

Veronica turned on the TV that set on their dresser and used the app on her cell to put their favorite news station on the screen. A middle-aged male anchor with gray temples appeared behind an enormous desk. She could never remember his name. Michael Kent? Mitchell Kent? The anchor’s normally upbeat voice was replaced with a somber tone. His co-anchor’s absence completely ignored but painfully obvious by the empty chair.

“In recent days there have been multiple reports from around the globe of individuals surviving the infection. This should be a cause for celebration, however it is not. All the survivors have become insatiably violent, attacking anyone who gets in their path. They lack rational thought and lose the ability to talk.”

Veronica looked at Alejandro. He sat wide-eyed, staring at the screen, the color drained from his face. Veronica flipped to another station. Scenes of people attacking others in the streets, in hospitals, stores, everywhere flashed across the screen. Each clip labeled with the location and date of where the carnage took place. Madrid yesterday. London two days ago. Lagos today. New York City today. Veronica’s stomach knotted and threatened to expel the bile from her empty pit. She scooted across the bed and slipped under the covers next to Alejandro. She cuddled against his chest. The crackling in his lungs echoed in her ears. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. He grabbed the remote and flipped to another channel.

“… seven days. No one has made it that far into the illness without dying or becoming a danger to others. The people who become ill and live past seven days will become violent. They will be dangerous. Sick individuals must be avoided at all costs. With the incubation period of exposure to onset of symptoms being mere hours, containment is nearly impossible. The President is in the Oval Office with his advisors as I speak. The discussion of martial law has been all around the capital. Experts say it’s only a matter of time. They advise everyone to stay in their homes. Do not leave for any reason. Do not let anyone inside your home.”

“You’re the one who is sick. You need it more than me.”

“In seven days, I may not need it at all. Mi Amada, eat it.” He rubbed his hand across her cheek. His face glistened with sweat. Veronica nodded and took the plate. “You should wear one of