Mass Hysteria Read online

  Contents

  Praise for...

  Also by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Stay Updated

  About Mass Hysteria

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Epilogue

  A Note To Readers

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Bonus Story - CONSUMPTION

  About Consumption

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  More High Fever Books

  Revolver

  Let Go

  Black Site

  Praise for Michael Patrick Hicks

  MASS HYSTERIA

  “Fun, horrible fun, from start to finish.”

  - Horror Novel Reviews

  “It's fast paced, action-packed, and bloody. Really, almost everything a horror gore-hound could want. ... Undeniably talented, Michael Patrick Hicks shows evidence of a rather deliciously depraved mind...”

  - SciFi & Scary

  CONSUMPTION

  “Consumption is one of the most horrifically intriguing novellas that I've read for quite some time....a quite different tale of horror that resonates feelings of dread and shock, very well written, some great ideas and some darkness around the invention of various culinary delights.”

  - Paul Nelson, SCREAM Magazine

  “Your stomach will turn, your throat will restrict, and jaw will clench tighter than a bull’s arsehole in fly season.”

  - S. Elliot Brandis, author of Young Slasher

  “…wonderfully macabre! Cleverly thought out, I was both disgusted and excited by this tale. This a MUST read for horror fans.”

  - Great Book Escapes

  LET GO

  “Let Go is a poignant zombie story. ...an excellent addition to the zombie genre, a study not in bloodthirsty hordes but the internal struggles of one lonely, old man.”

  - Hunter Shea, author of We Are Always Watching and Just Add Water

  “Emotionally charged, suspenseful and wonderfully written.”

  - David Spell, The Scary Reviews

  “A visceral roller coaster ride [and an] excellent literary contribution to the zombie apocalypse genre.”

  - Daniel Arthur Smith, author of Tales From The Canyons Of The Damned

  REVOLVER

  “Revolver by Michael Patrick Hicks, however, takes the ‘shocking’ gold medal. A classic example of social science fiction … most gripping.”

  - David Wailing, author of Auto

  “Revolver is a brave, powerful piece of writing... It's unapologetic, visceral, and the kind of story that would probably have sent the Clean Reader app into cyber meltdown. Give it a read if you like your stories to take you to the edge of your seat.”

  - Tommy Muncie, author of Shadow’s Talent

  “Revolver is one of those stories that, once I got over the initial shock of the subject matter and the sheer vulgarity of the content, I immediately had to listen to it a second time. ... with all the political turmoil, particularly the attitudes against women, that the world is being exposed to right now. I think this makes Revolver all the more terrifyingly plausible.”

  - Audiobook Reviewer

  “A lot of what happens in this story resonates with what we see and what we read in our very lives today. Revolver is a great story, bristling with tension, unflinching with its descriptions and thoughtful. I get the feeling that people who misunderstand this may need to perhaps take a long hard look at themselves in the mirror.”

  - Adrian Shotbolt, The Grim Reader

  “Revolver is a perfect short story/novella to read right now. The political extremists are gaining more and more power and they aren’t easily ignored anymore. Revolver tells the story of what would happen if we let this extremism go too far. And wow was it good. ... Revolver is a big “what if” book that will leave you feeling raw and full of emotion.”

  - Brian's Book Blog

  “[A] truly gut twisting, heart wrenching, sphincter squeezing tale of loss and abandonment that stuck with me long after the last page.”

  - Anthony Vicino, author of Time Heist

  Also by Michael Patrick Hicks

  DRMR Series

  Convergence (Book One)

  Emergence (Book Two)

  Preservation (A DRMR Short Story)

  Extinction Cycle: From The Ashes (Kindle Worlds Novella)

  Mass Hysteria

  Short Stories

  Consumption

  Revolver

  Let Go

  Black Site

  To stay up to date on Michael’s latest releases, and receive advanced reader copies of his work, join his newsletter, memFeed: http://bit.ly/1H8slIg

  Website: http://michaelpatrickhicks.com

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authormichaelpatrickhicks

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/MikeH5856

  Patreon: http://http://www.patreon.com/michaelpatrickhicks

  About Mass Hysteria

  It came from space…

  Something virulent. Something evil. Something new. And it is infecting the town of Falls Breath.

  Carried to Earth in a freak meteor shower, an alien virus has infected the animals. Pets and wildlife have turned rabid, attacking without warning. Dogs and cats terrorize their owners, while deer and wolves from the neighboring woods hunt in packs, stalking and killing their human prey without mercy.

  As the town comes under siege, Lauren searches for her boyfriend, while her policeman father fights to restore some semblance of order against a threat unlike anything he has seen before. The Natural Order has been upended completely, and nowhere is safe.

  …and it is spreading.

  Soon, the city will find itself in the grips of mass hysteria.

  To survive, humanity will have to fight tooth and nail.

  MASS HYSTERIA

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Patrick Hicks

  [email protected]

  http://www.michaelpatrickhicks.com

  High Fever Books

  First Edition: August 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947570-00-9 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1-947570-00-5 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1-947570-01-3 (ebook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947570-01-6 (ebook)

  Edited by Shay VanZwoll

  EV Proofreading

  http://www.evproofreading.com

  Cover artwork by Kealan Patrick Burke

  http://www.elderlemondesign.com

  CONSUMPTION

  Copyright © 2014 by Michael Patrick Hicks

  Edited by Carol Davis

  A Better Look

  http://caroldavisauthor.com/a-better-look-editing-services/

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Michael Patrick Hicks

  For Maureen and Ben.

  And I will cause them to eat the flesh of their sons and the flesh of their daughters, and everyone shall eat the flesh of his friend in the siege and in the desperation with which their enemies and those who seek their lives shall drive them to despair.

  (Jeremiah 19:9)

  1

  BUCKLEY SCRATCHED AT THE door, a shrill and nervous whine stuttering from his probing muzzle. His nose was flared as he sniffed at the thin gap between door and doorjamb, his nails scrabbling against the wooden trim.

  “Jesus, Buck!” Melisa Delacourt said. “Calm down.”

  She had raised the volume on the television three times, but the damn dog just kept getting louder and louder, determined to outmatch the flat screen’s audio. The news was reporting on last night’s meteor shower and she wanted to hear about the rock that splashed down in the lake.

  “Sky watchers have been in for a real treat these last three or four nights,” the weatherman was saying. “A rare celestial event has been lighting up the skies in various parts of the world, but if you happened to be up late last night, you might have caught sight of a few shooting stars right in our own backyard. If you were asleep, though, no worries. A few of our night owls sent us these stunning videos, so let’s have a look!”

  The weatherman, a stocky fella who barely looked out of his teens, was replaced with shaky cellphone footage. The first couple of seconds were dark and blurry, but after a moment, the nighttime sky lit up with a brilliant streak cutting diagonally across the screen. The meteor was a little bitty one, but still—a meteor strike! Damn near in her own backyard, too!

  “Another viewer caught site of this much larger meteor,” the weatherman said, “and we’ve confirmed that it did indeed land out by the old McClellan farm.” He continued to prattle on as another motion-sickness-inducing cellphone video showed a bright speck in the sky, one that rapidly grew bigger and brighter until it exploded in a flash of blindingly white light.

  The video was intense, but Melissa paid the broadcaster no mind as he talked over the looped footage. Besides which, the fucking dog was barking so goddamn loudly she could hardly even hear the report. She knew the story wouldn’t be very juicy, though – the farm, if one could even call the small caved-in house and toppled barn a farm, had been abandoned for ages. And since Melisa hardly ever went out onto the peninsula, she could care less what went on there. The lake, though, now that was exciting. Maybe one of the reporters would come by to interview her! She hoped it was that Carmichael fellow. He was tall, with a cast iron jaw and silver hair, handsome as the devil with icy blue eyes that sent a pleasant chill through her every time the camera zoomed in on him during one of his nightly reports. Melissa thought about doing her hair and make-up, just in case. If Carmichael did come out this way, she wanted to look her best.

  Buckley though, he had other ideas and sounded to be in one hell of a tizzy.

  Goddamnit, dog!

  Slamming a rocks glass filled with tequila, she shoved off the couch and walked to the golden Lab. The dog looked at her, to the door, back at her. As she drew nearer, he began barking more urgently.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Dog’s really gotta go, she thought. She’d never seen Buckley this agitated before, but brushed it off as an achingly full bladder. Poor thing waited too long, that’s all.

  As she drew nearer, Buckley let out a louder bark, the fur along his spine standing on end. A low, tremulous growl shook loose from deep inside his throat, and he took a step forward, baring his teeth.

  “What’s gotten into you, boy?”

  This was weird behavior, but then again, Buckley was a bit of a weird dog. He’d take himself for walks. Put a leash on him and let him take hold of the loop in his teeth, and he was good to go. He’d wander all over the neighborhood, head held high and tail wagging, happy as can be. He’d also eaten an entire bag of mothballs. Only the once, and years ago at that, but she was convinced the chemicals had messed with his mind, making him even weirder. He was probably getting doggy dementia from it.

  She reached the door, forcing Buckley to step back, and the growl grew deeper, louder. He barked once more, and—now growing annoyed with him—she told him to shush. He backed up, blocking the door, a rope of drool leaking from the side of his mouth.

  “C’mon, you wanted out,” she said. “Move.”

  Christ, he really was getting demented, she thought.

  She had to lean across the dog to turn the deadbolt, but as soon as her arm was stretched out he moved fast. His jaw clamped down around her forearm, his guttural growls sending an odd vibration through her skin as he shook his head back and forth.

  The teeth tore through her, bone deep, but the attack was so sudden and unexpected that the pain hadn’t even set in. Shock flooded her immediately, and she screamed, “Buckley!”

  Delacourt went to take a step back, her heel slipping on the entryway throw rug, and she fell hard on her ass, her arm twisting painfully, still gripped tightly in her dog’s mouth.

  Once she was down, he let go. And then, eighty-five pounds of hard muscle and golden fur dropped atop her chest, his face in hers, jaws snapping.

  Her pain receptors were firing with maddening frequency as her cheek was torn away, and she smacked at the dog’s flanks, like punching a slab of beef and just as useless.

  Her ears were filled with the noises of her own pain, of Buckley’s grunting and growling and snapping. She smacked at his head, hard as a brick and twice as heavy. He nipped at her face again, her nose cutting open against his teeth.

  Delacourt went to deliver another smack, but Buckley was fast. His jaws took off three of her fingers before her open palm could land again.

  “Get off,” she screamed, losing herself to the panic. Her feet fought for purchase beneath her, trying to push herself backward, but she was stuck under the weight of the dog, trapped between his four legs and snapping mouth.

  The second she moved, his face lunged down into the meat of her throat. Teeth drove through flesh, crunching through the thick, rubbery vein and splashing crimson against his golden face. His snout burrowed deeper and when it came up, it was with a mouthful of throaty sinew.

  Her fighting legs went limp, one bare foot collapsing to the floor, lifeless.

  Buckley stood over her for a moment, watchful, waiting. Finally, a single, unenthusiastic wag of his tail and a small whine broke the stillness. He turned and went back to the door, clawing at the jamb and sticking his gory snout into the gap between the floor, whining again. Fighting with the door, his paws and face smeared his dead owner’s blood across the white metal finish. His nails dug grooves into the trim, peeling away paint and wood.

  Hector was a twelve-year-old, black and red-haired tortoiseshell cat with the most gorgeous green eyes. Despite the masculine name, Hector, who had been named such by a previous owner, was very much female.

  For the last seven weeks, Declan and his wife, Kirsti, had done everything they could to keep Hector out of their newborn’s crib. The stairs were gated at both the top and bottom, and the door to Sarah’s room was closed each night when she was put to bed. Even the furniture had been arranged in such a way to make it impossible for Hector to get into the crib.

  Somehow, the little terror always found a way into the room, where she snuggled up beside Sarah for warmth.

  They were lucky the cat hadn’t suffocated their baby girl, and Kirsti was in a state of near-constant paranoia, particularly at night. Declan, who had rescued Hector nearly a decade ago, was worried that he’d have to cave in to his wife’s demands to get rid of the cat. He was torn, and hated that he had to choose at all.

  The house was quiet and content for the moment, though. Kirsti had gone to the gym, once Declan had been able to convince her that it was okay for her to leave and have some
time to herself.

  “I got this,” he had promised. “I need some daddy-daughter time.”

  With her out of the way for a little while, he’d brought Sarah onto the main floor and set her up on a bacterial-resistant, spongy play mat with some soft blocks and rattles that she could bat around during tummy time. His little girl could go nuts while, hopefully, his big girl took some time to prevent herself from going any more nuts than she already was.

  Running hot water to warm her bottle, Declan caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye as Hector peered around the corner.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said, using the same baby-voice he found himself talking to Sarah with.

  Hector scratched her face against the corner of the wall, then slowly padded forward across the kitchen linoleum. Usually, the cat would veer toward him and rub up against his legs, but not today. She went straight through and into the dining room.

  He watched her squat low, a few feet away from the living room and Sarah’s play mat. “That’s a good girl,” he said.

  At least the cat finally seemed to be adjusting to the newborn’s presence. It’d only taken a month, he thought, somewhat ruefully.

  Turning back to the sink, he tested the water and filled a small pot. Sarah’s scream shook him and the pot flew from his hands, crashing to the floor and sending water everywhere. He bolted into the living room, unsure of what he was seeing.