Page 1 of A Wilderness Within

Prologue

@CDC: We have been made aware of a small outbreak in Beijing created by an unknown disease. The situation is being contained and monitored.

—Centers for Disease Control Twitter Feed

November 3, 2019

February 2020

Omaha, Nebraska, undisclosed location

The underground bunker had been compromised, and death now stalked the halls, moving invisibly beneath the flashing fluorescent lamps. Lincoln Atwood leaned back against the concrete wall inside the tunnel that would lead to freedom…and likely more death. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs strained for air, but with each panicked gasping inhalation, he smelled the sickly-sweet cloying scent of decayed and mummified flesh.

Much farther down the hall, he could see the shadowy outlines of bodies. It had been seven weeks since those men had collapsed and died where they lay. Seven weeks and the virus that had ravaged their bodies had mummified them. Another two months and there would be nothing left but stark white bones. Before he’d been assigned to the bunker, he’d seen the disease destroy the world, the final tsunami of a pandemic storm that had started four months ago.

He and the other survivors below ground hadn’t wanted to touch the bodies at first, but over the last three weeks as the sickness spread, he’d realized to his horror that he was immune. He could walk among the remains, touch them, inhale the infected air. There was nowhere to lay these last few men and women to rest. So they’d remained where they’d fallen, leaving him almost completely alone with the virus.

The CDC had named the virus Hydra-1. Much like the mythological creature of many heads, this virus was an unstoppable killing machine. Victims bled out and then dried up, but rather than be preserved, the mummified remains quickly turned to dust or washed away in the rain, leaving behind only bones.

“Lincoln…” His name came through the small walkie-talkie clipped to his hip, the sound scratchy and tinny as the signal struggled against the concrete barriers. Lincoln raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth, holding the button down, his hand shaking.

“Yeah?”

“It’s time.”

Those two words hung in the air, sizzling with dread like a live wire in a raging storm.

He stood. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

For a second, a wave of dizziness swamped him. Was it Hydra, or was it the low-protein diet and tiny rations from the food in the bunker? It didn’t really matter. He wouldn’t survive long once he ran out of food and water. He had been in the company of the shadow of death far too long not to fall prey to it. The men in his unit used to joke about death being an old friend, one who would greet them and walk them into the black sands of eternity.

How wrong they’d all been. Death was an uncaring assassin, a complete bastard who stole everything and gave nothing in return, not even comfort.

Lincoln started down the hall, toward the bodies. He paused in front of the first door on the right and entered. It had been his room for the last few months, not that it had ever been home. The peeling white paint on the walls exposed the concrete, and the metal-framed cot was worse than most prisons.

Lincoln began to pluck the photos he had taped to the wall, one by one. He slid them into a plastic bag and put them in his sand-colored army-issued backpack. He had everything he needed to survive in that bag, or so he told himself. A compass, space blanket, knives, metal wire, rope, two guns, as much spare ammo as he could carry, bottled water, a filtration straw, a medical kit, and a dozen other items.

He picked up a paperback copy ofThe Great Gatsbyand his solar charging battery pack and added them to his bag.

“Time to go,” he whispered to the empty room. He had been living in the cramped space for months. He was the last person alive down here…except for Adam Caine.

It was Adam who needed him now.

Lincoln paused by the door, startled for a moment by his own reflection. His instincts were razor-sharp now, and every movement had him tensing. The bearded stranger, hand resting on the doorjamb, didn’t look like Lincoln anymore. The young, happy face of his thirty-five-year-old self was gone. Hard-edged, cold, hollowed out, his brown eyes were dark with ancient sorrow. He looked like a man lost, who’d stepped into the deep woods of his own soul and had never been seen again, not once the wilderness within had swallowed him whole.

“Lincoln…please hurry.” Adam’s voice echoed in the small room from the walkie-talkie.

Lincoln’s shoulders dropped as he walked the rest of the way down the hall. He didn’t even see the bodies as he passed anymore. Over the last seven weeks, they had ceased to be there in his mind and were almost now as invisible as the concrete walls. To survive, he’d learned to tune out the horrors of the dying world around him.

Look away…The ghostly whisper in his head made him shudder as he reached Adam’s room.

Adam was lying on his cot, dressed in his best navy-blue suit, his bright red and white striped tie in a neat Windsor knot. Lincoln lifted his gaze up to his friend’s face, forcing himself to see the man and not the dying body. Adam managed a weak smile. His eyes were hollow and ringed with purple bruises, and sweat glistened on his skin, which had turned a sallow yellow.

“Thought maybe you wouldn’t come.” Adam’s sigh carried a hint of a death rattle.

Lincoln wanted to smile, wanted to give his friend some kind of final reassurance. But he couldn’t. Pain tore at him, and it took every ounce of strength to fight back the sting of tears in his eyes. He swallowed hard, and it felt like glass shards were tearing up his throat.

“Here…” Adam patted a stack of photos sealed in a bag on his chest. Lincoln picked them up. Familiar faces, old places… All of it only made this worse.

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