The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift

by Abrahams, Tom

  The Lone Star State’s governor had refused to comply with the president’s requested National Guard deployment in the days after the Scourge took hold in North America.

  “Also be aware that lawlessness exists within the rough boundaries of these rogue territories. Neither the United States government, its military, nor any representatives will provide assistance to those who venture beyond the secured borders of our nation.”

  There were already stories of gangs taking control, of wandering bands of miscreants creating havoc. Without a deployed National Guard and with local law enforcement essentially disbanding in the wake of the expanding crisis, Texans were left to defend themselves.

  “The Centers for Disease Control continues to work toward a vaccine and curative measures to diminish the spread of disease popularly known as the Scourge. Their efforts are nonstop. Expect updates on this channel as developments occur.”

  Mike thought that was laughable. How could anyone diminish the spread of a disease that had already killed two-thirds of the world’s population?

  “Mobile field clinics are operational throughout the United States at military checkpoints. These clinics are for the immediate and emergency treatment of injured and sick residents. They are not for minor injuries or for nonemergency medical scenarios. Do not visit a mobile field clinic unless loss of life or limb is imminent. You will be turned away.”

  Nothing new. All of this information was weeks old.

  “Government-sponsored food-distribution centers are temporarily suspended.”

  That was new.

  “Violence at several of the distribution centers in Florida, Georgia, Maryland and Illinois necessitates this decision. Until the United States government, in cooperation with local authorities, is better able to provide a safe environment for those seeking assistance, we urge self-reliance. This decision does not impact the privately run food pantries in a multitude of communities throughout the territorial United States. Check with your local authorities for locations and availability of charitable services.”

  “It’s a little late to start thinking about self-reliance,” Mike muttered.

  Then he chastised himself. He’d never thought about preparing for the apocalypse. Not until it was too late. If he hadn’t fortuitously run into Miriam and followed her lead to the Miller’s house, he and Brice would have been screwed. They might have lasted a few weeks, or two months; then they’d be starving and wandering the streets.

  He apologized to nobody in particular for judging the unprepared masses struggling to survive. It was those people whom he both pitied and feared. Desperation bred irrational behavior. Irrational behavior meant violence.

  “A sundown to sunup curfew remains in effect for all jurisdictions. If you are—”

  “What are you doing?” Someone behind Mike, his features shadowed in the dark.

  Startled, Mike swung around and jumped from the chair, his fists balled at his sides. His body tensed, muscles strained. The defensive posture was instinctive now. He recognized the man and relaxed.

  “Sheesh, Barry. You scared the living daylights out of me.”

  Barry’s hands were on his hips. “I asked you what you’re doing here. Why are you on my boat without my permission?”

  “Permission?” Mike said without thinking. He wished he could suck the word back into his mouth.

  Barry stepped forward and jabbed his finger in the air. “Rising Star is my boat, Mike. Last I checked, I didn’t sign it over to you. I didn’t give you carte blanche to come out here and take her for a spin.”

  Mike raised his hands. “Barry, I didn’t—”

  Barry stepped closer. Close enough Mike smelled the whiskey on his warm breath, felt the heat from his body. Barry jabbed a finger at Mike’s chest. “You are here because I allow it. This is my boat. That is my house. Do you understand?”

  Mike nodded, lips pursed. He was stronger than Barry. Taller. And, at the moment, more sober. He could take the man down if it came down to it, but Mike didn’t want it to come to that. It was far better to apologize and deescalate the situation. Until he, Miriam and Brice could plan, staying here was their best and only option.

  Mike swallowed and answered in a calm, measured voice. “Barry, I apologize. You’re right. I’m wrong to come onto your boat without your permission. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me. I should do a better job of showing you that appreciation.”

  Barry lowered his hand and took a step back. The luminescent sweeping second hand on his watch glowed green.

  Nodding, he licked his lips. “Okay then. Don’t do it again. You’re starting to piss me off, Mike. You and your…” He waved his hand as if trying to pluck the words from the air using magic. He frowned and licked his lips again, swayed and leaned against the wall.

  Mike turned off the radio. He powered down the boat and offered the key to Barry.

  Barry said, “You got it out. You put it back.”

  “You okay?” Mike asked. “Anything I can do?”

  Barry laughed. Spit leaked onto his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “Not sure you can,” he said. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  Mike folded the key into his palm. Barry blocked the exit to the deck. This confrontation wasn’t over.

  “My kids think you’re a hero.” Barry mimicked the whiny voice of a child. “Mike does this. Mike does that. He’s so strong. He’s not afraid of anything. Mike. Mike. Mike.”

  Barry sucked in a deep breath and exhaled. Saying nothing more, he backed away and moved to the rear deck.

  Mike followed him off the boat and onto the dock. The percussive staccato of semiautomatic gunfire cracked in the distance. When Barry reached the side door of the house, he swung it open, stopped and faced Mike. His silhouette was hunched at the shoulders and if Mike didn’t know better, he would have thought its owner was a much older man.

  Barry stood there, his fingers wrapped around the door’s corner, until Mike was close enough to see his face. He jutted a chin at Mike and spoke evenly, absent the hints of inebriation. “You and I need to make a run.”

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “A run? What kind of run?”

  “There’s a Home Depot on Merritt Island.”

  “Home Depot? What for?”

  “Whatever we can find. The Walmart north of 520 on this side of the bridge is empty.”

  “I know, we checked it out two days ago. There was nothing there. I think I found car fresheners. That was it.”

  Barry adjusted his fingers on the door and pulled back his shoulders. “That’s why we need to check out Home Depot. Cleaning supplies, hand tools, plywood, whatever. We need it long term.”

  Mike did his best to avoid condescension. “Barry, we are more than five months into this. There is no way anything is left at the Home Depot. It’ll be stripped bare. Plus there are checkpoints. It’s a dangerous trip to get there and—”

  “We’re going. If it’s empty, there’s a Harbor Freight store south of it, an Ace Hardware north on Courtenay Parkway and a Dollar Tree in between. Even if we find nothing, it’s good recon. Gives us a sense of what’s happening on the other side of the bridge.”

  Mike talked with his hands, hoping the emphasis might not be lost on Barry. He stepped closer and lowered his voice through a clenched jaw. “Barry, listen. None of these places will have any supplies. And what do we need? You were smart enough to stockpile canned goods. We can fish. Your electricity works. The plumbing is iffy but functional. It’s a useless—”

  “You don’t get a say here, Mike.” Barry said his name like it hurt to speak it. He let go of the door and let it close, jabbing the air with his index finger again. “We’re going. You and me. If you don’t like it, you can pack up and head out. It’s not an option. Your cost for staying in my house is to do as I say and I say we go to Merritt Island at first light.”

  Barry didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled open the door and disappeared inside. The door shut behind him and M
ike was alone again.

  He stood there at the side of the house, trying to get inside Barry’s head. What was the purpose? Was it a goods run that doubled as a fact-finding mission? Was it machismo? Was it a chance to talk away from the others?

  Whatever it was, Mike had work to do. He’d need to ready a pack, clean a gun and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow would be a long day.

  CHAPTER 10

  MARCH 13, 2033

  SCOURGE +163 DAYS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  For the third time in what seemed like five miles, Rufus Buck was stopped at a checkpoint. He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel and rubbed it, exorcising his frustration on the molded plastic.

  It wasn’t that much of a surprise that security tightened the closer he got to his destination. His contact warned him he’d need to show his papers to get anywhere close.

  Buck didn’t like that. Not much for authority in his post-service life, he preferred subtle defiance. He was exhausted from his trip, though and willing to play the game if it meant getting out of the Humvee, into a climate-controlled space, eating a hot meal and sleeping on a soft mattress.

  As he waited he took stock of his surroundings. None of it was familiar. The city of Atlanta didn’t resemble itself. Debris littered the streets, ground-level windows were either shattered or boarded up with large plywood sheets and spray-painted graffiti decorated most surfaces with messages that marked territory or the numbers of dead at a given address.

  Stray dogs wandered aimlessly or gnawed at the decaying corpses of smaller animals. Smoke lingered in the air, a distant reminder of the season and burning leaves. This smoke had a different flavor, though. The stench, even with his windows up and the ventilation closed, was nauseatingly familiar. It was worse than anything he’d smelled in Texas and was as close to Aleppo as anything he’d sensed since the war. He could taste it in the back of his throat.

  A banging on his driver’s door uncharacteristically startled him. He jumped in his seat and turned to see a young woman in an oversized cotton hoodie staring up at him. She made a motion toward her open mouth with pinched fingers.

  Tendrils of curly auburn hair peeked out from the edges of the hoodie. Heavy bangs covered her forehead, drawing attention to her bright green eyes and freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. She blinked.

  Buck considered what he’d told the men he’d killed at his campsite outside Columbus, that he was the kind to share if asked. He scratched his chin.

  The girl stayed there, repeating the motion like an animatronic character in that slow boat ride in Orlando and Anaheim with the earworm of a tune repeating ad nauseam. She blinked again.

  He puffed his cheeks and blew out a hot breath. “Fine.”

  From the center console, he fished an energy bar. It was dense and tasted like sawdust, but it was something. Beggars could be choosers, but he suspected the girl would take the bar without complaint.

  Reaching through the open window, she snatched it from his hand and drew it to her nose. She sniffed it and frowned. Then studied it. Flipped it over in her hands.

  Was she slow? Or was she so disoriented by what resembled civilization that she’d forgotten how wrappers worked?

  Buck made a ripping motion with his fingers, then mimed peeling open the wrapper and taking a bite from an imaginary bar. The girl blinked again but mimicked him and sniffed the bar again. Her face twisted and she tested the texture with the tip of her tongue.

  Then, like an animal, she chomped half of the exposed bar and tore at it with her teeth. Squirreling it into the corner of her mouth, she chewed. Without remark, she turned and wandered away toward a group of adults squatting on a street corner a half block away.

  The adults were huddled around something. Squatting and anxious, the group appeared feral. Wide-eyed, the largest of them tracked the girl. As she approached, he snatched the bar from her mitts and shoveled the remainder of it into his maw.

  This was a war zone. Or the aftermath of war. Or a place teetering on the edge of war. All three looked the same. The suffering, the fear, the panic. The instinctive and selfish struggle for survival. This was what his world had become. He rolled up his window and gripped the steering wheel. The cars ahead weren’t moving. Soldiers aggressively questioned the woman at the front of the line. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  As it often did, his mind drifted a world away and thirteen years in the past. Aleppo, Syria. January 2020.

  No fewer than twenty factions controlled Aleppo, the most dangerous city in Syria, if not the Middle East.

  Buck and the other one hundred and fifty thousand American soldiers, Marines and sailors fighting the war were never sure who was on their side. It changed from week to week.

  One of the factions, the Asala wa al-Tanmiya Front, was reportedly in control of western Aleppo near the university and the hospital. It was one of the largest territories controlled by a singular group. They called for help patrolling the zone between their checkpoint and one controlled by the hardline Syrian Islamic Front, a coalition of smaller factions that kept assimilating like-minded groups to increase its reach and power.

  Buck and the other men were the last of three teams tasked with a daylong, triple-shift effort to check weaknesses along the sector’s boundaries. They’d unwittingly found one when an IED exploded under their feet.

  Buck was the lone survivor and his lower leg was shredded. At least it felt shredded. Waves of pain alternated with the distinct urge to vomit. It was tough staying conscious. He was at once cold and sweating. A shiver ran through his body. His thoughts fogged.

  His captain saved him. Dumped him into a wheelbarrow and rolled him from the active gunfire. The wheelbarrow broke minutes later. They were miles from the closest friendly checkpoint.

  His captain carried him over his shoulders like a fireman. Buck was across his captain’s shoulders like a rag doll. He was helpless, at the mercy of his captain, an officer named Marcus Battle, who thought he was better than everyone.

  Now wasn’t the time for pettiness. Buck couldn’t help himself. His own inadequacies led him to search for the same in others. The thought of this tea sipper saving his life was beyond palatable. It was marginally better than the alternative, which was to bleed out or face capture in enemy-controlled territory.

  The slog was slow and Battle took a break every ten minutes, resting in the relative protection of abandoned cars or behind the remnants of decimated structures.

  “We’re exposed,” Buck said in between sips of water from Battle’s canteen. “We run into any opposition, we’re both dead. Every time I see a burka or a kid carrying a backpack, I freak.”

  Battle adjusted the splint on Buck’s leg. “How’s the pain?”

  “Bad. I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

  “I can’t give you more morphine. I’ve got Phenergan. It might help the nausea and amplify the morphine.”

  Buck took the circular orange pill. “Where’d you get it? The medic kit was obliterated.”

  “I have my own stash,” Battle said. “I like to stay ahead of the game.”

  Buck laughed and then coughed. “It’s a game, is it?”

  Battle stood and scanned the area. “Everything is a game one way or the other, Sergeant. You stay here for a minute. I’m gonna check the path forward.”

  Battle picked up his HK and stepped over a rusting wheel frame, walking north. It was late afternoon, he was drenched in sweat and they were halfway to the checkpoint. He pulled out a handheld GPS and tried to orient himself. The sun set early in Aleppo; he had forty minutes of sunlight.

  An odd, unfamiliar feeling flooded Buck’s gut and he wondered if the medicine was already taking hold. He didn’t want Battle to leave him. He didn’t want to be alone. Not here, not helpless like this. He cursed himself for wanting the company, for needing someone. Especially Marcus Battle.

  They were near the intersection of Handaseh Street and Kher Eddin Al Asadi. Behind them was what was
left of the university’s civil engineering faculty building. A block north was a bank building and the Alrazi Hospital.

  The hospital was on the edge of Asala wa al-Tanmiya Front control. The latest intelligence was a month old. It could have flipped hands.

  The checkpoint was between the old Aleppo railway station and Aziziya Square on the eastern side of the narrow Queiq River near an amusement park. It was about two and a half kilometers. Battle turned back south toward Buck when the familiar zip of a semiautomatic rifle cracked through the air, coming from the east near the railroad track.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  A pair of shots whizzed past Battle’s head and he dove behind the corner of a building for cover. He was fifty yards away. Buck couldn’t see him. His heart beat hard against his chest and his breaths shortened.

  For an instant he thought Battle was hit.

  Buck’s mouth went dry. He started to call out, but Battle beat him to it.

  “Buck! I’ve got incoming. Are you good?”

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Buck exhaled. “I’m good!”

  Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

  A moment later, Battle reappeared. He’d come from the other side of the alley. The gunfire stopped.

  Buck swallowed. “We’re pinned?”

  Battle nodded. “Yeah. And we’re about to lose daylight. I’ve got to find another way out of here.”

  A horn honked behind the Humvee and brought Buck back to the present. There was a car-length gap in front of him. He took his foot off the brake and eased the truck forward. The woman at the front of the line was in custody now. Plastic zip ties bound her wrists behind her back. She was seated cross-legged on the curb next to another bound prisoner.

  Buck wondered what they’d done. Then he didn’t. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t concern himself with others. He had a meeting.