Virulent: The Release by Shelbi Wescott Read Free Book Online Page A

.”
    Attacks.
    “ There is no...clear indication...of how the...vi—vi—virus ,” she stopped and sighed. Then she glanced off camera, her eyes pleading.
    “ I can’t do this, I’m sorry .” She started to tear at the microphone hooked on her sweatshirt. From the left, a man with a headset appeared, shaking his head and trying to get her to stay in her seat. But the young woman pushed herself past him and left him alone on the set. He turned toward the camera, his eyes wide. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Someone shouted something indecipherable; the man inched his way behind the desk and sat down, fumbled with the abandoned microphone, and pinned it on his own shirt. He then smiled a non-smile; his lips pulled upward, but his eyes were frantic.
    “ Sorry ladies and gentleman about that. We’re experiencing some difficulties in studio. That was our sound design intern Jennifer. I am Tim…managing editor of KPSV news. Forgive our scattered delivery. We are trying to get everything to you as fast as we know it, but our communication is spotty. If you are just joining us, we can tell you, that many regions of our world today are experiencing great loss of life at the hands of a deadly, fast-acting, virus .”
    Lucy took a giant step away from the television. She lifted herself upon a desk, her legs swinging over the edge, and watched as the screen bathed her in a blue and green tint.
    “ We are posting your updates and pictures now...if you can, keep sending them in. Our audience is our...are our...men and women in the field today .” Tim gulped, the microphone picking up on the sound of his swallow.
    Then the screen went blank for a long, agonizing, second, and an electronic hum replaced the frenetic voice of the newscaster. The silence was jarring, but Lucy didn’t move; she remained planted on the desk, sitting on her hands, her legs twitching.
    An image popped up. A familiar man. A nightly news anchor from some East Coast station—he was in his seventies with two hamsteresque eyebrows and a bad comb-over. Studio lights cast a yellow pallor over his face, and he wiped his brow while the sweat beads dripped down the side of his face. He addressed the camera, his voice strong and steady, and the familiar tone of it put Lucy at ease. In a world falling apart, here was something she knew and something recognizable she could cling to.
    “Good morning,” he said. “It is with a heavy heart that I address our nation today. The news is grave beyond these walls.”
    From outside the school, Lucy heard the unmistakable blast of a shotgun. She jumped, her heart pushing out painfully against her ribcage. She reminded herself to breathe and sucked in a shaky breath. She checked her phone. No new texts. She pushed her call log and tried to dial, but her phone would not relent to her request.
    The anchorman continued.
    “It appears our nation is under attack. Details, at this time, are few and far between. And we do not present this information to you to frighten you and your loved ones, but to express the importance of binding ourselves together to fight this unknown enemy.”
    A scream. A siren wail. From the street outside, a crash of glass breaking, tires squealing. Then nothing. An eerie disquiet followed. Lucy glued her eyes to the man talking to her, just her, from the box on the wall. A country away, he sat and addressed her fear. His authority comforted her and she was happy that he had answers. She felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.
    “It appears that over twenty-four hours ago, our water systems and the very air we breathe was contaminated. By what, we don’t know. By whom is only conjecture. While the sickness claimed its victims, nations began to place blame. It appears that some of the loss of life today is based on retaliation from our political enemies as well as the initial biological threat. But to be honest, viewers...” The man dipped his head. Lucy saw his grief in the wrinkles