The Chaos Virus

By Travis Barr

Paul and Virg are state detectives who are searching for a missing boy while experiencing increasingly bizarre events! Roddy and Celia are Venezuelan children who have just witnessed the wholesale decimation of their hometown! Martha, Mary, and Mandy are sisters enjoying a reunion in London when a Jetliner mysteriously crashes right in front their horrified eyes! And Avery Chen is a senatorial hopeful who is being targeted by a strange and deadly powerful boy! But that's just the tip of the jagged knife of anarchy that awaits them and the entire human race--as the chaos virus is unleashed!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Travis Barr
• Release date: Feb 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311644961

Travis Barr

Travis Barr grew up in Southern California and went to CalState University of Long Beach. He graduated with a BA in film then furthered his education with a teaching credential. Travis has always held a fascination with the fantastical and suspenseful in storytelling. With his second novel and first part of The Chosen Trilogy, "The Spider Agenda," he has taken that wonderment to new levels of gripping tension and spellbinding adventure. "Agenda" sets the scene for what is to come in the second installment, "The Wasp Initiative" and is the seeds for which will come to full climactic fruition in the third tale, "The Hornet Operative." Travis still lives in the California area with his family and good friends, and enjoys the beaches of his youth. His favorite TV programs include "The Walking Dead," "Falling Skies," and "The Strain." His most cherished novels of all time include Peter Straub's classic tale, "Ghost Story," Bill Blatty's "The Exorcist," and Stephen King's "'Salem's Lot." His favorite film will always be George Lucas' "Star Wars."

Book preview

Chapter 1

Please, God, let me be there for him! Let me make it in time! Paul pleaded in his frenzied mind as he raced his squad car across the busied town.

Detective Paul Danford knew the Landry family well having investigated their case and followed the court trial. Terrance Landry and his faithful wife, Sarah, were members of First Final Witnesses Church, a faith preaching the simplicity and natural order of things—no modern inventions allowed. No one drove cars, no one rode bikes, everyone in the congregation lived in tents and off the land. No radio, no TV, no phones, no computers.

And certainly no modern medicines created by modern technologies in modern facilities for sickening profit.

It was this last rule that concerned the state of New York’s lawmakers the most—particularly in the case of Terry and Sarah, and their severe asthma afflicted son, Joseph.

Fifteen year old Joey had been ill for the past seven months, and becoming more so. His Aunt Nancy grew terrified that her dear, sweet, intelligent Joey-Boy might die soon if something wasn’t done about it. Not subscribing to her sister, Sarah’s unique spiritual point of view, Nancy wasted no time in contacting both a lawyer and the proper authorities to alert them of Joey’s condition.

When Terry discovered what Nancy had done, he was absolutely livid—not only with Nancy but with Sarah, who clearly contacted her sister concerning his son’s affliction. And true to his beliefs he punished his wife not with a knife, a hammer, or any other modern device, but with his good old natural but effective fists.

But even his fists couldn’t stop the court order and the police from enforcing it. The state had now mandated that Joey be properly treated for his condition. And that the boy be monitored by court appointed social workers to ensure that the medications weren’t appropriated by any persons at First Final.

Joseph was improving, responding favorably to the QVAR drug administered to him daily. But this mattered not to Terry, his anger and outrage were quickly becoming inconsolable…and uncontrollable.

Terry went off alone for hours in the forest one day. And fashioned himself a weapon. Taking a fairly sharpened and cragged piece of rock, he broke off a tree branch of small length and girth and began whittling it down. He shaved and carved one end into a finely pointed spike.

When he was finished creating his natural weapon, he hid it in his jacket’s inner pocket and went back into camp.

When the social workers came around the next afternoon to check on Joey’s progress and administer his next round of meds, Terry politely, smilingly approached the man and woman.

And with speed and furiosity decked the man across the cheek, knocking him out cold.

The woman protested greatly, loudly. But Terrance hit her with powerful and cracking force. She, too, fell down to her loss of consciousness.

Then Terry produced the spike, kneeled down between the two catatonic souls, and brought the spike up over his head with both curled hands. And proceeded to stab both social workers in the chest over their hearts.

Terry then rose quickly, collected his family, and, yes, actually piled them into the social workers’ car. The keys were in the ignition—neither worker deemed locking up and taking the keys necessary with this group. And Terry had only been in with First Final for a total of ten years—before that he was a regular society drone who worked a day job and drove to it in a car. He certainly knew how to drive.

And he did so now, contradicting his edict but not caring for he knew that he had to escape quickly with his family. Find some place else to begin again, start a new congregation, live truly off the grid this time.

The followers of First Final could only stand there in utter shock while Terry drove his family away. Never mind that he just mortally assaulted two individuals, but he drove a car—an unnatural modern device!

And it was now this car that twelve year veteran officer and detective, Paul Danford was tracking. And hoping. Praying that he could get to the boy in time to administer the meds. And he had a good track on it too, because one of the social workers—the woman’s—cell phone was still in the car, in her purse. And its GPS was giving off a strong signal. Now if only the call to the phone service provider was done fast enough to block all calls to the phone. Because if it wasn’t and the thing rang…well, that would likely be it—Terry would have the phone thrown out the window. And tracking them would be more problematic.

So far so good—the tracking dot on his car’s digital display was still on the move, traversing street routes and making turns here and there. Paul knew the city, and knew he was only a few miles away from meeting up with the car and the family within it.

Make it on time, Paul, save this kid, his brain pressed with force.

He raced on.

The car was running low on fuel. Terry had been driving his car around for the past three hours, attempting to head up north from the starting out point of National Springs. He’d hoped to make it farther but he had no money at all for gas let alone anything else. They had brought food along but that wouldn’t last forever—nor would the gas.

In fact, it was on the E as he drove around downtown Brighton hoping to at least make it to the coastal beaches. Perhaps that could be his new stomping ground, as it were.

This flashed through his frantic mind as his wife gingerly said, Terry…this…this is wrong—

I know, Terrance responded immediately, emphatically, "I know, look at all this…it’s sick, it’s unclean! The city…it’s not what was intended."

I mean the car— she moused out.

But again he cut in with tension, "I know, the car too, it sickens me that I have to resort to it. But I promise you, after this-this one time, we are never setting foot in one of these things ever again. He stared at her for a brief whip of his head, then said, I love you, Sarah Jean. We’re gonna be okay. Then he threw a glance at the rearview mirror and his son in the backseat. I love you too, boy."

I don’t feel so good, dad. It’s hard to breath, Joey almost whispered as he lay in the backseat. His color was pale, listless.

Don’t you worry, the beach air will do you good, you’ll see. God will provide if he is willing.

A moment later, the car died and slowed to a stop. Terry managed to steer the thing over to the curb, then he tried starting her up again. Nothing. Another attempt. Still nothing. A third. Nothing.

And so Terry simply lost it, repeatedly slamming his hands down on the now locked-in-place steering wheel. He squealed out a long bellow of frustration from his teeth-clenched mouth. His wife and child said nothing, they were too afraid to. After his frustration tirade ended he sat there breathing heavily, contemplating his next move.

It was at this point and from his sideview mirror that he caught the sight of a familiar sedan approaching. It was roughly a hundred and fifty feet away. He knew that car…and its driver.

Joltingly, he whipped his head about, locked his eyes on the purse on the backseat flooring. He reached back and dove his hand into the bag to yank out the cell phone.

"No!" He threw the thing down and ordered his family out of the car. Joey could barely walk so both parents had to aid him in staying mobile and on his feet.

Their best chance was to escape down an alley up ahead, and to where, they didn’t know….

Yeeaah, you see me, don’t you… Paul said pretty much to himself as he was coming closer to the stolen car. …And you now see that cell phone, don’t you…Not too happy about that, I’m guessing… Then he witnessed the family exiting the car in a harried manner. Don’t flee, Youuuu idiot…

And Paul sped up, watching his right so he could get over and rapidly park the car in back of the stolen one. As he did so, he noticed the family disappearing down an alleyway, he turned off the ignition, got out and briskly yet cautiously followed after them. He didn’t pull out his .45 piece until he rounded the corner of the alley—he didn’t want added attention to this situation. Upon making the alley entrance, Paul hoped to find the family plodding down it. But instead he caught the snip-end of their forms as they made another corner on the left. It was about forty feet down, and Paul glided the careful trot once more toward the gap. This time he hunched himself up on the corner’s edging before making the turn. He dipped out his head to look for a split second, making sure he wasn’t going to be ambushed. He wasn’t, but his look afforded him the glimpse of the family making another turn—this time rightward.

Damn it, stop turning, you nutcase! Paul barked in his mind at Terry. You’re just making this harder for me!

With his piece cupped in both hands and pointed out in front of him, he shot forth after them.

Terrance kept his family turning, rounding corner after available corner, lefts, rights, lefts, whatever direction came about.

But this was rapidly becoming too much for Joseph to handle, and his knees began to give out. Now it was a question of how far his parents could drag him by his feet until they could not go on any longer.

Up ahead was a tenement structure that was wholly abandoned and hollowed out.

Perfect, thought Terry frantically, perhaps we can lose the detective in a closet space. Particularly if we’re quiet…oh, but the boy is wheezing now…keep going, keep going—the Lord will provide…

They entered into the ghosted structure and traveled themselves deeper in, trying for a darkened, closet-like space…maybe one with a door still attached….

Smart bugger, Paul ruminated as he coasted his pursuit, he keeps rounding the corners and I keep having to be extra cautious as a result. Crazy didn’t necessarily mean stupid. But I promise you now, Mr. Clever Wackjob, I will find you. And this dose of meds will find its way into your boy’s body!

I think I hear them inside that old apartment structure….

It was there, as he hoped it would be—a closet compartment in one of the abandoned complexes. But the family now faced a new potential obstacle.

There were three vagrants, dirtily clothed and looking haggard, squatting in the room. One woman, two men—one elderly.

Terrance eyed them and whisperingly pleaded, "Hey! Can you help us out?! My psycho brother is trying to kill us, he’s coming for us! Please don’t tell him we’re in here, please!"

The woman said nothing, but the younger of the two men listlessly replied, All right.

Thank you, Terrance said with feeling and crouched himself and his family inside the cramped closet space.

But another problem popped up—the door wouldn’t close all the way.

And Joseph was wheezing loudly.

Paul entered the tenement and found a general display of dilapidation and neglect. He began briskly checking each room, using the main hallway as a branching point. The first three barren rooms he searched produced nothing but more empty spaces, left alone for too long.

But the fourth turned up the vagrants.

Any of you see three people go through here? Paul raptly asked the squatters.

The woman pointed to the roof, though there was no second floor.

Damn nutjob, thought Paul with frustration.

The younger man uttered, We saw them…a couple hours ago. But we ain’t seen ‘em since.

Thanks for the hot tip, Paul sarcastically replied in his mind. Old man? he asked the elder vagrant, who had a hood shading his cragged and gaunted face.

The aged one remained silent, staring off into nothing, eyes darkened under the hood.

Terrific, a full house. Move along, Paul, quickly, he told his racing mind.

And he did—but then heard something that made him freeze in his tracks.

He heard a boy’s violent cough. A bit muffled but distinct enough.

It was coming from inside the room.

Paul whipped about and tracked his eyes to the partially closed door that was warped no doubt from weather exposure. And pointed his .45 straight at it. He very slowly approached the off-kilter door and swung it open.

To find that Terrance snappingly brought up his makeshift spike to his son’s throat; his other arm held Joseph close and tight.

His wife clipped an abrupt scream as she fast raced her hands to hide her stretched open mouth.

Paul kept his piece pointed as he tensely tried, "Terrance…think hard about what you’re doing. This is your son—your son, your only child—"

That’s right, Terry firmly declared, and squeezed his son tighter as he echoed, "My son! You have no say in his governing!"

"The state of New York says otherwise, now come on, Terrance, look at him, look at Joseph. He’s in really bad shape here. I have his meds right here with me—and look at your wife, you’re scaring the crap out of her."

"She is with me, she supports my—our beliefs, our faith, our decisions."

Whaddya say there, Sarah? You support his decision to hold a wooden spike up to your loving son’s throat?

Sarah seemed mentally stuck in a desperate quagmire of conflicting desires; between her inherent maternal instinct and her core spiritual beliefs. Her eyes speedily zigzagged.

But she never got a chance to reply as Terry barked loudly, Don’t talk to her! You talk to me! This is man to man, you talk straight to me!

All right, let’s just stay calm, Terrance, let’s just keep talking here, okay? Now-now you can’t possibly want to hurt your boy.

What choice do you leave me? You people won’t leave us alone to live as we believe.

Terry… Sarah feebly tried.

Not now, Sarah, he clipped, still eyeing Paul.

But Paul insisted on now, Sounds to me like she has something important to say.

"I will speak for my family. I am the man."

"What in anyone’s sick imagination would a man ever allow his son to die when he could save him?"

"Oh, we’re sick, is that it? Look at you with your devices, your technology—and everyone is plugged in…"

While Terry sermoned for his cause, Joey’s wheezing became more prominent, strained; his eyes began to bulge.

"…everyone feels from a video transmission! But it’s not real, it’s not—it’s a manufacture, it’s a fabrication! It’s a mass degeneration of our spirituality…And you think of me as a murderer, some sick psycho—but God…He is real…and what He creates and what He proposes…that is our truth…And if He proposes that it is my boy’s time to go then we are prepared to accept that. He glanced briefly at his wife and said, Right?"

But Sarah’s face was shaking, twitching with conflict. Her eyes were red and glazed with tears. Something was ready to burst within her.

"Right?"

From behind Paul, he could hear someone exhaling quite audibly—and prolongingly…

Right?!

And suddenly Sarah fearfully, shudderingly did explode: Oh Terrance, give him the MEDS!!!

And then Terry’s eyes suddenly went slack, as if something primal and instinctively cold took over.

Without hesitation or further delay, Terry fast shifted the spike from his son’s throat to violently stab his wife in hers. She immediately began gushing precious blood from the circular wound. Her face turned taut with shock and agony.

Almost instantly, the spike returned back to Joey’s throat, the reddened and pointed tip now dimpling his son’s skin yet again.

Paul was mentally flummoxed—and horrified. Easily he should have reacted by shooting Terrance in the shoulder, thus disarming him, as he was transitioning the spike from Joey to Sarah. Paul should have been able to save her and the boy.

Yet something had clouded him at that crucial moment, something disorienting and paralyzing. As if the air became confusion itself.

If that made any sense.

But Paul was jolted back to clear and immediately critical thinking, reacting. The mother was sliding down to the floor, choking with spasms and bleeding out despite her hands gripping the spouting wound. And the boy was still in danger, not doing so hot either in the physical health department.

Look what you made me do, detective, Terry blamed Paul in some cockeyed rationalization for his murderous act. "Look what you brought out—the weakness in my wife…you piece of garbage, you soulless robot of established order…"

We-we can still save both of them, Terrance! Paul still tried pleadingly. "We still can…just put down the spike, I won’t shoot, I swear…"

…You made me do it, this is on you… But then an odd look of dissention hit Terry’s face, and he began to babble, …On me—? No…wh… And in that brief moment of doubt and confusion, he wavered away the spike a few inches from his son’s throat.

And Paul took the shot he should have taken seconds before, piercing Terry instantly in the right shoulder. The wounded man was jolted backward and his spike arm swung out wild, dropping the homemade weapon in the process. He hit the back of the wall of the closet and slid down to a folded heap. He grunted painfully as he descended.

Joey fell forth, snipping breaths of desperate and struggled air. Paul holstered his piece and raced to grab the boy before he completely hit the dingy floor. Once in his grasp, he whipped out a syringe full of the liquid form of Joey’s med, flicked off the plastic needle guard, and shot the boy up. He plunged in the full dose. Yet Joey, in the next instant, began to shake violently, his eyes rolling up white. Paul could only hope and pray the med would hit the boy’s system in time to stabilize him. The tremors continued…and grew more violent…

Paul flashed a look at his watch, it was way past the time that he should’ve given the shot. Way, way past time.

And suddenly the boy seized up with massive tension, arching himself in a backward bend—as if something vile had holds on his head and legs, and was ready to snap the young man in two.

His breathing ended, he went slack and listless, and sagged wholly in Paul’s arms.

"No, no, no, no! the frenzied detective railed, and laid the limp boy down to instantly begin rapid CPR. He furiously pumped on Joey’s chest, trying to shove and bully the boy’s heart back to life. The blasts of air Paul administered to the young one’s mouth were equally fueled with desperate coercion. For minutes on end the detective manically alternated between the potentially lifesaving activities, grunting, Come on, come on!" at intermittent points of the attempts.

After seven minutes of trying, Paul still felt no pulse. "Come on, work, dammit!" he urged of his ongoing efforts—and of the medication filtering through the boy’s body. Thirteen more minutes and the boy would be braindead, deprived of too much needed oxygen.

Eight minutes. Nothing.

Nine minutes. Nothing.

Ten minutes. Nothing.

Eleven minutes, twelve, thirteen…

Come OOOOOON!!!

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—

Wait…

Something stirred within the boy, a weak and wanting breath…yet slowly and surely the breaths became stronger, more audible. The boy’s chest now began to rise and fall with the pallid but certain inhalations and exhalations of air.

Thank God! Paul relieved in his electrified thoughts. I did it, he’s breathing, he’s actually breathing, after almost twenty minutes gone.

Paul took a deep breath himself and let it flow out—but it fluttered for he was worked up from all the frenzied activity he just performed. He had done it…but the boy did not wake, his eyes remained closed and unconsciousness kept him. Good enough for now, Paul accepted in his mind, at least he’s breathing.

Now Paul ventured a look at Joey’s parents, a couple of ragdolls of gore and paleness. Sarah had expired already, too much of her blood had drained from her neck and soaked her blouse and pants. A mess of it was now pooled beside her, joining in with the puddle of blood from Terrance. He was somehow still conscious—though his flaccid and almost ghost-white face proved that he wouldn’t be for much longer.

Weakly, he uttered in almost a whisper, So…lowly Lucifer…wins…ag… And Terrance became still. Lifeless.

Paul sat back and expelled another long breath—this time in less of relief and more of regret. Remorse for not having brought everyone into custody safe and sound. Though with this lot of folks, soundness of mind was iffy at best, he had to admit.

He swung about and eyed the vagrants…weren’t there three of them? Where’s the old man with the hood? he asked the two remaining squatters.

Who? replied the younger man next to the apparently mute woman. Both looked like they hadn’t seen a proper shower in months. Hey, you just shot that guy in cold blood, man, I saw it.

The older gentlemen who was sitting beside you, Paul went on, ignoring the accusation, "Where did he go?"

"I don’t know, man, who knows what and who—I do know that you just killed somebody, I saw it light as day. He was lowering his wooden thing and you just shot him."

I had no choice and you know it.

"Surrrre, boss man, surrrre…"

Terrific, thought Paul, here’s hoping these two are either stoned or drunk or both. Dammit, Virg, he secretly cursed his partner of eight years, why did you have to be off on this particular day? I know it’s the damned anniversary of your wife and daughter’s death, but why today of all days did this have to happen?

He took out his cellphone and called it in. Afterwards, he told the two behind him to stay put.

The man said in defiance, Oh, you got it, man, I surely don’t wanna get shot.

Paul turned back to the boy. He stared at him with exhausted and tried eyes. But a bit of hope snuck into his gaze—at least this went right. At least I saved one.

Chapter 2

Today was the last day of the summer vacation for Cecelia and Rodrigo Marquez. Knowing this, the two siblings decided to go on one last blowout excursion to the outskirts of their town.

Rodrigo, or Roddy as most people knew him, being a thirteen-year-old boy wanted to play War. Whereby he would battle his younger sister of ten—who had to agree to the game, she had pick of play yesterday. That day it was Tag but today it was War. And that was okay; Celia didn’t necessarily hate to play the more macho activity, but at times felt a little uncomfortable knowing that real wars were being fought, real people were killing and dying just five to ten miles away. Sometimes closer.

But again it was Roddy’s pick day, so War it would be. And the object of the game, as it normally stood, was to take the hill. Said hill being a small rise and ridge mound of crusted rock and dirt that swelled from the barren ground. Although it was only a ten foot rise, to the children it was the great hill, the mountain of victory. Those who took the hill would plant their flag and stare down on the defeated to rag on them repeatedly. Suck my infected toes, you filthy maggot, or Eat my sulfur farts, Major Monkey Butt! the victor would taunt the loser with, among other insults.

And Roddy definitely planned to win because he was itching to try out some new verbal jabs on his dear sweet sister.

Now Roddy, watch for the snakes, Celia chided in her typical sense of paranoia.

I will, Roddy said with annoyance. I always do, you know.

Just saying.

So since I got to pick the game today, you can pick which spot to start out on.

I’ll take the south tree.

"Okay, I take the north, of course. And remember, the throws go to our legs only."

"I know. It was just an accident last time. I didn’t mean to throw toward your—"

"Just be extra careful, all right?"

"All right, all right, already—let’s get to it."

Okay, head to your tree, and on three we start.

Nooo, really?

Go, stinky shorts, get to your tree. And I’m going to win the hill and tear you up, girl.

Thought up some new pathetic insults, did you? she said derisively as she began running to her tree base a good hundred feet from the hill.

Equally far away—yet branched off in a different direction—stood the other tree base which Roddy ran toward to hide behind.

The object of the game as Roddy and Celia played it was to start off from the trees—both players armed with little rubber balls would attempt to beam the other three times before they reached the hill. But they must keep running while they’re aiming and throwing their balls. If, however, one player reaches the hill first while avoiding the three-times hit, the other can try to knock the player off the hill. If you do, you take the hill and win—unless you were already hit three times as mentioned. Then you’ve lost, the other assumes victory and may insult you for three minutes straight.

One, both kids said in unison, rubber balls packed in their hands and ready for the throw… "Two…Three!"

And they were off, sprinting toward the hill while attempting to aim their first volleys at each other.

Celia threw first—and her aim was deftly true: she banged the ball into his ankle, even though he tried to sidestep. He threw at her trying to target her thigh—but his aim was a centimeter off.

The mad dash continued…and they sized up their next rounds for beaming each other. The throws were made—neither hit. Now they were fifty feet from the hill; it was looking like it might be a race to the top rather than the three-times-out!

One more opportunity for one more hit. Roddy caught her in the foot; but she threw—and nearly got him the second time! Yet he performed an acrobatic leap to strategically miss the hit. Unfortunately, in the process he tripped up his feet and couldn’t properly land back down to continue the