Evacuation (19 page)

“Masters says he has identified the mushrooms as an unknown species of the genus Orpicordyceps unilateralis, known as the ‘zombie
fungus’ because of its bizarre effect on some ants. It produces cyclosporine, an immunosuppressant. Perhaps that is why we feel ill. The jungle is awash with insect-borne diseases. In our weakened condition, our bodies cannot fight them off. I am gravely concerned.”

June 12 –

“My mind reels with insane thoughts. It burns as if on fire. Seals has escaped and I cannot rouse Ellis to help me search for him. I believe this fungus we have discovered is to blame. I found tiny strands of mycelia in my sputum. We are all infected. The native workers are frightened and threaten to abandon us.

“I have been wondering if the presence of this strange fungus is the cause of the sudden disappearance of the ancient Maya from the nearby ruins of Lubaantun and Cahal Pech. Their abandonment was rapid and mysterious. Perhaps, I’m wrong, but the coincidence is frightening. We must leave this place.”

June 13 –

“Now Masters is missing. I feel I am going insane. I can feel this fungus coursing through my body, devouring it bit by bit. It’s in my head. My thoughts are wandering, boiling into bouts of barely controlled rage. It is difficult to concentrate on this journal. I am very ill and I anger easily. I lashed out at McNeil for no reason. We almost came to blows. The damned natives are in the jungle singing some screeching gibberish that is grating on my nerves. I must stop them.”

The journal ended at that point. The last few entries were almost illegible, hastily scribbled in a trembling hand. Roger closed the book with a sickening feeling. An intense sense of dread swept over him. If the fungus had escaped the cavern system, it could even now be flowing in the waters of the Chiquibul River into Guatemala, or riding on the winds into Belize. He wondered if he was infected. He tried hard to convince himself that his aches and pains were due to the hardship of the journey and not the first signs of infection. Sleep did not easily come to him. Instead, dire visions of the end of the world and quivering mushroom men stalking the streets of Nashville played like a horror movie through his head. He awoke exhausted an hour before dawn. Hutapec and Saldo were already breaking camp. Their haste fed his trepidation.

“Leave the equipment,” he snapped at them, “I want to reach Punta Corda as soon as possible.”

Neither man argued. Hutapec dropped the supplies and plunged into the jungle with his machete breaking a trail. Saldo left his pack but cradled his rifle in his arms as he followed Hutapec. With a final glance back toward the Chiquibul Caverns, Roger followed them.

* * *

June 29, Miami, FL –

Roger knew he was infected. Each spasm of coughing racked his chest. His skin itched and burned. He was surprised the TSA people had allowed him through the airport in his obviously ailing condition. The bright lights blinded him through his shades, and the hordes of noisy people punished his eardrums. He couldn’t spend another hour in the confines of a jet or in a crowd. He was weak and feverish. He needed to rest before continuing his journey to Nashville where he would see his doctor.

The desk clerk at the Miami Hilton Airport smiled congenially at him as he staggered through the door, but he knew that her smile was a lie. He could hear her heart beating out blood to each forced muscle around her mouth. She resented his intrusion into her busy day. He stumbled into the red velvet rope separating the desk from the lobby and cursed loudly.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“I need a room,” he replied gruffly.

“We have …”

He cut her off and thrust his credit card at her like a weapon. His hand shook uncontrollably. “Here! Just give me a damn room.”

She dropped her smile but complied with his request. It seemed an interminable amount of time passed as she entered his information in the computer. He ignored the curious stares of the other people in the lobby, suppressing his desire to lash out at them. Finally, she handed him a keycard in a small paper cardholder.

“Room 517, Mr. Curry. I hope you enjoy …”

He snatched the key from her hand before she could finish her statement, stumbled with his bag to the elevator, and stepped inside. The bright overhead light of the elevator drilled into his brain like a laser. His eyes barely focused long enough to see the numbers as he punched the twelfth floor button. Leaning against the rear wall, swiping at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead, he pressed his hand to his aching stomach. It had been hours since he had eaten, but he feared its rumblings were not from hunger. He watched an obese woman, matronly and stern in a high-collared, pale blue dress, approach the elevator. She entered the car, moving to the opposite wall as far away as possible in the small space, and stared at him. He tried to ignore her, but her mere presence annoyed him. He suddenly doubled over in pain, as the convulsions in his belly sought an outlet. He farted loudly. The woman wrinkled her nose at the cloying stench and shot a reproachful glare at him as the doors began to close. She stopped the door with her hand and stepped out saying, “How rude.” He resisted the urge to wring her fat neck.

In his room, he dropped his bag on the floor and yanked the curtains shut to hide the offending setting sun. The room was stifling. He spun the thermostat from 72 degrees to its lowest setting. His tongue was too thick for his mouth and his throat ached. He gazed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he poured water from the tap into a glass. It was like looking through a veil. He removed his sunglasses. A fuzzy growth protruding from the corner of his left eye had sent tendrils across the pupil. He tried to extract it with his finger but only succeeded in mashing the tendrils and making a mess. He ignored the pain. His skin was sallow and clammy.

Disturbed by his stark image, he backed away, crashed into the door, and, in a fit of rage, threw the glass he was holding at the mirror. Tiny shattered images of him cascaded into the sink from the broken mirror. The sound of breaking glass thundered in his ears, echoing as if in a cavern. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the sound didn’t diminish. He raced around the room clawing frantically at the floral-print wallpaper, tearing it off in thin strips with his fingernails. He jerked a picture of an ocean scene from the wall above the bed and smashed it to the floor, grinding his heel into the broken glass. Exhausted, but not satiated by his orgy of destruction, he collapsed on the bed, panting. His brain was on fire, threatening to spill out through his ears. He pressed his hands to each side of his head and screamed.

He didn’t know if he slept or if his mind had simply stopped functioning for a while. When he opened his eyes, it was full dark outside. The room, though spacious, closed in on him, smothering him. He needed air, open space, some place high above the din and the light. He threw open the door to his room and raced down the corridor, banging on doors and yanking pictures from the walls. At the elevator, he overturned a marble table, smashing a large flower-filled oriental vase on the tiled floor. A rage rose in his gullet like bile. He bit back on it but could not stop the scream that ripped from his throat, a wail of anguish and anger that echoed down the corridors.

The elevator door opened. Two men dressed in business suits stepped out. Engaged in conversation, they paid him no heed, brushing by him as if he did not exist. One glanced at the overturned table and the pool of water from the shattered vase, but quickly turned his attention back to his companion. Roger growled at him. A blind fury born of dark images moved him to action. He leapt upon the man and beat him savagely with his fists. When the man’s companion tried to help, Roger bit his arm, grinding his teeth in the man’s flesh until blood sprayed them both. The man screamed and fell. Roger kicked him in the head until he no longer moved. He then chased after the first man who had used Roger’s attack on his friend to try to escape.

He caught the man outside the room containing the ice machine. The man’s high-pitched screams drilled into Roger’s befuddled mind like burning augers, searing flesh and burning away who he was, what he had been.  He was no longer human, but an animal. He clamped his hands to his head and moaned, but something inside drove him back to the creature in front of him. The man pleaded, but the words held no meaning to Roger, just more noise pounding in his head. His hands throttled the man’s neck and twisted. He continued to twist long after the man’s face had turned blue and his jaw had fallen open. His lust for blood still not satisfied, he pounded the man’s head against the ice machine until blood, pieces of bone, and bits of brain dripped down his arms. Ice, summoned by the pounding, filled the recess for ice buckets and spilled onto the floor around his feet, joining the blood staining the tile.   

Curious heads drawn by the screams thrust through opened doors. He ran from their stares. His body burned from within. He felt as if he were going to spontaneously combust; become a human torch. He shed his clothes as he stumbled down the corridor. He opened the door to the stairwell and ran upwards, yearning for some place high above the clamoring din. He kicked open the roof door and walked to the edge of the roof. Standing there, staring down fourteen floors to the swimming pool, he wanted to jump, to end the pain, but found he couldn’t; not from fear of dying, but because his mind, no longer his own, wouldn’t allow it. A tear trickled down his cheek, followed by a tiny tendril of mycelium fiber licking at the moisture. Frozen to the spot, unable to force his muscles to move, he wept. Tears ran unfelt down his cheeks, their moisture feeding the tiny growths pushing through his pores. He knew he was dying. He would soon become food, a host for the monster growing inside him. Remembering the horribly grotesque bodies of his colleagues in Belize, he wanted to shudder, but his mind denied him even that small release.

Cordyceps Rising is available from Amazon
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About the Author

Phillip Tomasso is the award winning author of numerous novels, and short stories. He works full time as a Fire/EMS Dispatcher at 911. He lives in Rochester, NY with his three children, dog, Fettuccine and cat, Luca. He is always at work on his next tale.

www.philliptomasso.com /
[email protected]

@P_Tomasso

Other Titles by Tomasso

Vaccination
Sounds of Silence

Pulse of Evil

Pigeon Drop

Convicted

The Molech Prophecy (as Thomas Phillips)

Adverse Impact

Johnny Blade

Third Ring

Tenth House

Mind Play