Page 1 of Outbreak

Prologue

GHOST

“–nationwide viral outbreak. We’re now getting reports from nearly every state. We encourage citizens to stay home and quarantine. Do not go out. The military is being dispatched as we speak to help control the spread of this deadly illness. Stay safe out?—”

The static on the TV above the bar cuts off the news reporter, but the patrons slumped around the booths and tables are too drunk to pay attention to the latest update. The world is going to shit, but I’ve still got a job to do.

My target stands from his barstool, stumbling past me and heading for the dark hallway in the back. He passes the bathroom and heads for the service entrance at the end of the hall. The last swallow of whiskey I’ve been sipping slides down my throat with ease before I slip a twenty-dollar bill under the empty glass and follow him out.

A steaming wave of hot garbage and rotten, stank cooter hits me in the face as the door swings open. New Orleans is known for many awesome things, but they never tell you about the smell. It’s something that has to be experienced firsthand to fullyunderstand. This God-forsaken city smells like straight-up ass—it’s just a part of its charm.

Tourists flood the street outside the old bar. I scan the crowd of drunks and degenerates for my target, but I’ve lost him in the chaos, and it takes me a minute to realize something isn’t right. The noise isn’t what it should be. It’s always loud here on a good night, but this is different. Stumbling drunks are normal, but people are running and screaming in the streets like the world is on fire.

What the fuck is going on?

“Help! Somebody help him.” A woman’s shrill voice registers above the rest. “Somebody, please! He’s not breathing.”

Rushing over, a barely dressed blonde is kneeling in the street, holding a man’s limp body on the ground. Blood streams down his face from his eyes.

Pressing my fingers to the side of his neck, I try to feel for a pulse but find none. “Help me lay him down on the sidewalk,” I instruct. When we’re out of the street, she cradles his face in her hands, sobs wracking her body as she presses her cheek to his face, and I attempt to resuscitate him.

“Open his mouth and breathe into it,” I yell over the screams surrounding us. People trip over us, falling to their knees and scrambling to get up as the mayhem amps up.

The woman blows air into the man's mouth as I pump hard on his chest; the compressions are enough to break a few ribs, but if he lives, I’m sure he won’t fucking mind. And if he does mind, well… I don’t really give a fuck. I’ll be long gone soon.

“Nothing’s happening,” the drunk woman wails. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

My hands slide off his chest as I sit back on my heels and shake my head. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

I push up to my feet, turning in circles as the distressed screams of the woman blend in with the rest, trying to figure outwhat the fuck is going on and how to get the hell out of here. For a moment, everything blurs around me. More people are down in the street, blood streaming from their eyes—dead.

I’ve got to get out of here.My truck is parked a couple of blocks away, but the crowd is so thick, I have to take the long way around to get there. In a sort of daze, I push through the crowd, stepping over the bodies left behind to be trampled on like disposable garbage.

Rounding the corner of the car, I hear it before I see it. Machine guns rapidly fired into the crowd. I slam to a stop and flatten my back to the brick wall behind a dumpster as a military convoy slowly rolls through the streets. Soldiers march in front of it, spraying bullets into the mass of people in the streets.

They’re killing everyone. What the fuck is happening?

My breath stalls in my lungs when I remember the news reporter on the old TV at the bar. She said the military was coming to aid in slowing the spread of a deadly illness. These people aren’t sick. They’re just drunks out for a night of New Orleans fuckery, and they’re being slaughtered in the streets like it’s nothing.

Shit.My phone vibrates in my pocket, and Reaper's name pops up on the screen when I pull it out.

“Hey– I'm kind of in a bind. I’ll call you?—”

“No,” He cuts me off, and the panic in his voice sets me on edge. “Where are you?”

“New Orleans, why?”

“Fuck! Get out of there now. Shit’s going down.” Reaper isn’t one to fuck around. He knows something.

“Yeah, man. I’m in the middle of said ‘shit’ right now. What the fuck is happening?” I peek around the corner as the explosion of gunfire continues.

“Not sure. I’ll figure out more on the way. Meet me at the cabin.”

“I gotta make a stop first.”

“Ghost…” he sighs, and I know he’s running his hand over his face; I’ve seen him do it a million times. “She might not even be there anymore. Louisiana is falling fast.”

“She’s there.” I don’t tell him how I know. He knows me enough to know how I am. “We’ll meet you in a few days.”

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