“What about Eighty-Sixth Street? I know that would give us a lot of options.”
“It looks like that traffic jam extends past Eighty-Sixth,” said Jack. “It’ll take a while to get to Eighty-Sixth. And I’m seeing a lot of people sitting in cars in the parking lots around here. Like they’re waiting for something.”
“I don’t like this,” said Emma.
“Me either. I’m pulling a U-turn,” said Jack, easing the Jeep into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn on Michigan Road.
They passed two cars headed north before arriving at the Seventy-Ninth Street traffic light. With no cross traffic in sight, he rolled through the red light onto the westbound road, not exactly certain it would lead directly to the 465. Logically, it had to intersect the interstate loop at some point not very far from here, but he couldn’t guarantee Seventy-Ninth Street fed into an on-ramp. A few seconds later, the Jeep’s headlights unveiled a loose line of cars blocking the road. He slammed on the brakes and shifted the Jeep into reverse.
“What’s wrong!” said Emma, looking up from her phone.
“Roadblock,” he said before speeding backward and turning the wheel.
Jack had them headed back toward Michigan Road within moments. He’d caught a glimpse of people lurking off the side of the road near the barricade while he backed up, but the scene had gone dark when he turned. He had no real idea what that had been about. Neighborhood blockade? Trap? Now what?
“What about the other side of Michigan?” said Emma.
He needed to think about it, but he didn’t have much time, and there was no way he was slowing down until he got back to Michigan Road. It looked like some kind of setup to rob them. If it had been a neighborhood security checkpoint, the people would have been more visible.
“Uhhh…the numbered streets run in an east-west grid pattern. We’re bound to hit a north-south road. I guess we turn north on something we recognize, like Towne or Ditch. The Chases live off Towne,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Emma. “But Towne doesn’t connect with 465.”
“I know. I don’t think any of the north-south roads between here and Meridian connect with it,” said Jack. “I can’t imagine Meridian being any better than what we saw up ahead. Our best bet is to work our way to the other side of the 465 on smaller roads. Find Route 421 again. From what I remember, we can take that all the way up to northern Indiana.”
“I’d rather be on an interstate,” said Emma.
“I’m pretty sure we can get to the interstate from Route 421,” said Jack. “We can stop up in Carmel and buy a map. I was stupid thinking we could rely on our phones for navigation. Seemed like a sure thing.”
Jack drove through the green light at the intersection, checking his rearview mirror to make sure none of the cars at the roadblock had followed him.
“Jack!” screamed his wife.
A hard jolt immediately followed, knocking the steering wheel out of his hands and slamming his chest into a rigid seatbelt. The Jeep spun ninety degrees to the right and came to a stop at the far edge of the intersection. Jack sat there for a few seconds, his foot jammed against the brake, before the gravity of what happened finally sank in. He glanced around, making sure they were far enough out of the intersection to avoid another collision, before taking the transmission out of gear and setting the emergency brake.
“You okay?” he said.
Emma nodded, a dazed look on her face. “I think I’m fine. Holy shit, that was close. They were coming right at me.”
He opened his door to activate the roof light so he could look her over. “I’m so sorry, Emma, I didn’t see them coming.”
“They didn’t have their headlights on,” she said in a low voice.
She looked all right, which was what he expected. The vehicle that hit them had clipped the back of the Jeep, spinning them around violently without damaging the passenger compartment.
“You look all right,” he said. “I’m going to check on the other car really quick.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Jack!”
His car door flung open and a pair of hands tried to yank him out of the driver’s seat; his seatbelt held him in place. He instinctively reached for the glove box to grab the revolver, but the violent tugging continued, preventing him. His wife leaned over the center console and grabbed his arm, trying to keep him in the seat.
“The gun,” he hissed, feeling his body start to slip through the seatbelt.
Emma let go of him and opened the glove box, exposing the revolver’s wooden grip.
“They have a gun!” yelled his attacker before lunging across his chest to get at the pistol. “I need some help!”
He slammed the man’s head against the steering wheel, the horn blaring. The sweaty attacker clawed at Emma, pulling one of her hands away from the glove box before she grabbed the pistol. Jack pushed forward on the guy’s head even harder before punching down on his flailing arms. The desperate move gave Emma enough time to grasp the pistol, which she pressed flat against the passenger door, out of the man’s grasp.
Before he could tell her what to do, the passenger-door window shattered, the face of a hammer coming through. Jack squeezed a hand free to take the pistol from her, but the man pinned against the steering wheel started thrashing ferociously. In his peripheral vision, he saw the passenger door open.
“Stop! Just stop!” screamed Jack. “You can take—”
A deafening gunshot stopped everything. The guy between the steering wheel and Jack’s shoulder reversed direction, tumbling backward out of the Jeep. Emma stopped screaming. The horn stopped blaring. He turned his head slowly, expecting to find his wife dead and a gun pointed in his face.
Instead, Emma sat flat against the passenger seat, staring forward; her hand extended straight out of the open car door—holding the pistol. A tendril of smoke rose from the weapon’s shaking barrel. A figure lay flat on its back beyond the door, one of its feet twitching. Jack reached over her and pulled her arm inside the Jeep, gently taking the pistol out of her hand. She started to look toward the body, but he tilted her face back.
“You don’t need to look,” said Jack, then leaned across her lap and pulled her door shut.
A loud bellow erupted outside the Jeep, followed by screaming. “What have you done! What have you done to my boy!”
Jack glanced over his shoulder to see a shadow cross behind the Jeep.
“We need to go, Emma,” he said, putting the pistol back in the glove box, but leaving it open.
He released the emergency brake and shifted into first gear, easing his foot off the clutch while pressing the accelerator. The Jeep barely moved, feeling anchored to the street. The damage done by the crash had been far worse than he’d initially thought. Shit. Now they had a massive problem. Jack scanned the intersection, seeing a number of people approaching the accident scene. He tried to drive the Jeep again, getting little response. The rear tire must be totaled, along with the rear axle. The Wrangler was a rear-wheel-drive vehicle—unless he put it in four-wheel drive!
Jack gripped the smaller drive stick next to the manual transmission and shifted it from two-wheel drive (2WD) to four-wheel low (4WL). He was rewarded with more forward motion when he hit the accelerator, but it was clear that he was just dragging the rear tires at this point.
“Fuck!” he yelled, hitting the steering wheel. “We have to leave the Jeep behind.”
He engaged the emergency brake and yanked the stick out of gear.
“What?” said Emma.
“Get your pack, and let’s go. Right now,” he said, grabbing her before she opened the door. “Wait.”
He took the pistol out of the glove box and opened his door, stepping onto the street. The crowd wandering toward them from the Marathon station on the corner stopped when he rushed around the front of the Jeep—presumably having noticed the pistol. Jack swiftly moved up the passenger side, opening the door for Emma. The man that had moments ago tried to pull him from
the Jeep and beat him to death was on his knees next to the figure lying on the street—crying.
“Don’t look,” he whispered to Emma through the broken window. “Get your pack and stand in front of the Jeep.”
She nodded and got out of the Jeep, opening the back passenger door while he put himself between Emma and the remaining attacker.
“What about the rest of the stuff? The water. Food,” she said.
“We have everything we need for now in the packs,” he said over his shoulder.
The man looked up at him. “You killed my son. And my wife.”
“Your son tried to kill my wife with a hammer. You tried to pull me from the Jeep,” said Jack. “You ran a red light and hit me.”
“I never saw you.”
“You didn’t have your lights on,” said Jack.
“No. You burned through a red light and killed my wife.”
“What are you talking about?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed north, past the Jeep. Jack walked to the back of the vehicle, instantly seeing what had happened. The sedan that had hit them sat facing the Marathon station, forty-five degrees off from its original direction. A dark lump lay several feet in front of it, bent at an unnatural angle. Jack looked back at the man, who hadn’t moved.
“You hit me,” said Jack, wondering if that was true.
He’d been so panicked after fleeing the roadblock—maybe he’d made a mistake. No. The light was green. He was sure of it. Or was he?
“You killed everything I had in the world,” the man said, lifting his head. “I should kill you.”
Jack didn’t know how to respond. Regardless of who was to blame, the guy had lost his wife and son—within the span of minutes. Arguing blame was pointless.
“Does your car still work?” said Jack.
“What does that matter?”
“Saint Vincent Hospital is a few blocks away,” said Jack, pointing down Seventy-Ninth Street. “You take this road and make your first left. The hospital is on the right. They have a level-one trauma center. Get them over there. You never know.”
“My son has a bullet hole in his forehead,” said the man. “My wife’s neck is bent at a ninety-degree angle. No hospital is going to fix them.”
Jack started backing up, watching him closely. When the man put his hands on the street and pushed himself off his knees, into a crouch—he knew what would happen next. He cocked the pistol’s hammer, keeping the weapon by his side, and stood next to the open rear passenger door. He didn’t have to wait long. The man charged him, head down, moving way faster than he had anticipated.
He brought the weapon up, one hand instinctively wrapping around the other on the wooden pistol grip. The pistol bucked forcefully in his hands. In the dim red glow cast by the traffic light, he didn’t wait to see if the first bullet connected. He brought the pistol back on target and pressed the trigger again, better prepared for the recoil this time. Jack fired the weapon two more times in rapid succession until the man careened into the rear corner of the Jeep and slumped to the street—groaning.
“What did I do?” muttered Jack, the pistol still pointing at the motionless heap.
“Jack, we need to go,” said Emma. “People are closing in on us.”
Jack slipped his free hand through the shoulder strap of the backpack waiting for him on the backseat and hiked the overloaded pack onto his shoulder. He tucked the pistol into his front pants pocket before sliding his other arm through the remaining strap and tightening the pack’s retention system. With the pistol back in his hand, he joined Emma in front of the Jeep’s hood. A quick glance around confirmed his wife’s concern. Several groups of people edged closer, some yelling out to them.
“Did you get the bullets?” she said.
“Shit. They’re still in the glove box,” he said, returning to the front passenger door.
He grabbed the small box of .38 Special ammunition and dumped the rounds on the front seat, quickly stuffing them in his pocket.
“Start walking,” said Jack.
They didn’t make it far before the yelling turned overtly hostile.
“You can’t just shoot people like that and leave!” said someone in the group approaching from the Marathon station.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” yelled another.
“They got some serious supplies!” he heard behind them, looking back to see a small cluster of people peering into the back of the Jeep.
“What did they take with them!”
Jack urged Emma forward, keeping a close eye on the Marathon station group. They were the closest and could easily take him down. He had two bullets left in the gun and didn’t dare try to reload in front of them. At least he thought he had two bullets left. He really had no idea how many he had fired.
“How many bullets did I fire?” he whispered.
“I think three,” she said.
“Let’s pick up the pace,” he said. “Can you jog with that on? Just for a little bit?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. We need to get as far away as possible from this intersection.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, gripping his arm. “That guy is getting a little close.”
Jack pointed the pistol at a twentysomething, short-haired guy that had broken out of the Marathon station pack.
“Don’t point that thing at me,” said the guy.
“Then step the fuck back,” said Jack. “And stay the fuck back.”
His words had an immediate effect.
“Ready?” he whispered in Emma’s ear.
She nodded, and they picked up the pace, though it hardly qualified as jogging. The packs weighed them down significantly. They’d rushed out of the house so quickly, he hadn’t taken the time to sort through any of their gear, and they’d stuffed some of the food cans into the exterior pockets. Not the best idea, but it was easy food they didn’t have to cook. They had some dehydrated camping food in each pack, but he hadn’t inventoried the packs since their last backcountry hiking trip—last fall.
“This sucks,” she said.
“I know. We’ll have to rearrange the packs and ditch some of this crap after we get the hell out of here,” he said, and guided her to the left. “Let’s walk on the shoulder so we can get off the road quickly if we need to.”
“Looks like nobody is following us,” she said, slowing down a little.
He looked over his shoulder and saw a large crowd gathered around the Jeep, but no figures headed west. The stretch of road under the Harpers’ feet was dark, but he still wanted to put a lot more distance between them and the intersection before stopping.
“We have to keep going,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
They fast-walked silently, breathing heavily and grunting, for about ten minutes before Jack decided it was safe for them to take a break to reorganize their gear. The traffic light behind them was no longer visible, and he could see a blinking red light in the distance ahead of them, which might be one of the roads they could take into Carmel.
“I think we can stop now,” he said, dropping his pack onto the side of the road.
“This shouldn’t be that hard,” said Emma, doing the same. “We’ve hiked from sunup to sundown before, up and down hills.”
“It’s not the packs or the jogging,” said Jack. “It’s what happened back there. Like a giant shot of adrenaline. Let’s get back from the road.”
Jack grabbed both of their packs and guided them across a shallow sloping, empty drainage ditch to a thick constellation of bushes a third of the way up the yard from a dark house. He didn’t see any signs of life in the one-story home, but he picked a spot between the bushes that gave them cover in every direction. He set the packs on the ground and lay down next to Emma, who had already flattened herself on the prickly, pine needle dirt.
“I just want to lie here for a few minutes and not think about any of this,” she said.
“So do I,” he said, taking her hand in his.
Jack lay there with her, staring up at patches of the night sky visible between the dense tree canopies—unable to shake any of the terrifying images he’d seen over the past hour.
Chapter 23
Dr. Chang sat at a stone table on the patio with his laptop open, making annotations on a paper map with a pencil. Facing the back of his house so the patio lights wouldn’t cast a shadow over his work, he added San Diego to the growing list of outbreak cities. When cellular service and his home’s Internet connection had failed earlier in the evening, he’d retrieved his satellite phone and mobile hotspot rig from the basement survival station and set up a satellite Wi-Fi connection. He was back to work in no time, connecting the insidious dots as they appeared.
He’d uncovered a second wave of outbreaks, using a concentrated string of keyword searches on dozens of search engines. Finding the news had been tedious work, since the top search engine sites had been systematically scrubbed of reports related to the outbreaks. He caught a few digital sniffs on some of the more obscure search engines, piecing together a disturbing trend.
More than a dozen major cities had reported flu outbreaks over the past twenty-four hours, mostly confined to high-crime areas like the Southside of Chicago, southern Atlanta or East Los Angeles. The affected geographic zones around San Diego conformed to this analysis. National City and Chula Vista, two cities bordering San Diego to the south, had been the epicenter of reports coming out of the area.
He examined the map, which he’d torn out of an unused road atlas and taped back together. Beyond the previously identified Midwest cluster, he strongly suspected similar outbreaks in parts of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Los Angeles, Boston, Atlanta, Denver, Philadelphia, Hartford and Seattle based on available local reports. From a big-picture, geographic perspective, no obvious pattern like the Midwest cluster jumped out at him. If only he could get in touch with Stan or Christine to discuss this. One thing was certain—they were staring down the barrel at a bioweapons attack. The conclusion was inescapable.
Chang surfed back to Stan Greenberg’s Facebook page more out of habit than hope. He had Christine’s page open in a tab as well. He didn’t know why. Neither of them could be classified as prolific Facebook users. Most of their activity consisted of garden-variety family posts. He took a quick look at Stan’s page, seeing the post about the Greenberg family’s annual Outer Banks gathering for the thirtieth time. He was about to shut the tab, when he noticed something different. A misspelling in the first sentence.
The Zulu Virus Chronicles Boxset (Books 1-3) Page 16
