The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift

by Abrahams, Tom

  Sure, he had to watch his back, because there was always someone who wanted something. But he handled it. Prison was easy to navigate. Surviving was a matter of playing by the rules. It didn’t matter if the rules belonged to the guards or the prisoners. If you figured them out, it was cake.

  The apocalypse was altogether different. It was about survival, just like prison, but without walls, without structure. No meals, nothing guaranteed to occupy his time. McQuarry had to do everything for himself.

  Yet prison’s order and dystopia’s chaos were somehow environments in which he found himself thriving. In both cases fear drove him to his decisions, to his actions. In both he was forced to understand his place: stronger than most, weaker than others. Projected strength was as good as the real thing. Perception bred reality.

  It was why, as they reached the intersection and turned east to the bridge, McQuarry decided he’d made the right call with Cooper. He didn’t admit to himself that also like prison, the apocalypse gave a man too much time to think. Too much thinking always led to rationalization. A man could convince himself bad decisions were good ones if it meant he could push the fear a little farther from the surface. It wasn’t until the bad decision shivved him in the gut that a man was honest with himself about the mistakes he’d made.

  CHAPTER 13

  MARCH 13, 2033

  SCOURGE +163 DAYS

  COCOA BEACH, FLORIDA

  The rising column of smoke was gray now. The thick black plumes no longer twisted toward the blue sky. Whatever was burning in the near distance had lost its fight against the flames and heat.

  Miriam stood next to Mike, watching the dissipating smoke drift with the wind away from the shore. It moved inland on a breeze they couldn’t feel on the ground. Behind them, the rhythmic churn of the ocean was little comfort.

  Miriam reached for his hand. “I don’t like this, Mike. Barry’s lost it. He’s not the same person. He not coping. We should leave. You and me.”

  “First of all, he’s your cousin,” Mike said. “He’s family and—”

  “Distant cousin.”

  “Okay,” Mike conceded, “but he saved us. He let us into his house when we had nowhere else to go. Then he welcomed us aboard his boat. With his children. I’m not even family. Neither is Brice.”

  Miriam dropped her chin. She let go of his hand and ran her fingers through her hair.

  Mike kept his voice low. “And we can’t leave Brice. He’s my friend. That would be crappy if we abandoned him.”

  She exhaled. “You’re right. On both counts. I worry about him. He’s going to get us killed. Or worse.”

  Mike laughed. “Or worse? What’s worse than death?”

  She shot him a look like he should know. The side door opened and Brice emerged. He swiped at his bangs, which hung over his eyes now. Shoulders hunched forward, he loped toward them.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Mike. “We were just talking about you.”

  Miriam jabbed an elbow into his ribs and played it off as an accident as she raised her arm and ran her fingers through her hair again. Mike grimaced.

  “Oh yeah?” Brice said, then asked, “What about?”

  Behind him, others spilled out from behind the open door. Kandy led Phil toward the trio, walking with her arms folded across her chest.

  Mike feigned a smile at Brice. “What a stud you are.”

  Brice smirked. “That’s a given. You wouldn’t need to discuss that. What were you—”

  Phil, apparently unaware Brice was talking, shook his head. “No luck. Both of us tried. Barry wouldn’t talk to me at all. He’s intractable. There’s no reasoning with him. He’s like a different person.”

  Miriam elbowed Mike again. He winced.

  Kandy shrugged. “Betsy’s shut down. She’s not present at all. I don’t know if it’s the liquor or Barry or the weight of everything. She just cries and mumbles.”

  “What about the kids?” asked Miriam. “How are they holding up?”

  “They’re hanging in there,” said Kandy. “Jimmy is keeping Sally occupied. He’s making sure she gets food and he’s sleeping in her room with her.”

  “Kids are resilient,” said Phil. “They’ll hold up.”

  Brice put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “What were you guys saying? About me? Before Phil and Kandy got here?”

  The door slammed open, banging against the exterior wall. It slapped back and Barry pushed it open again. He marched with purpose.

  He pointed at them. “Am I missing something? Was there an executive committee meeting I wasn’t told about?”

  His nose and cheeks were red. Thick swells of skin framed his eyes. The stubble along his jaw was in the awkward space between a five o’clock shadow and the scraggly beginnings of a beard.

  Mike took the question. “You didn’t miss anything, Barry. I was telling everybody about our excursion. You and I are heading out to look for more supplies. You ready?”

  Barry stopped close to Mike, reeking of liquor. His bloodshot eyes swept with suspicion across the group, pausing on each of the five standing on the dock.

  Mike was suddenly aware of the generator’s rumbling hum on the far side of the house. There was something about Barry’s presence that brought it to his attention.

  “I’m ready,” Barry said. “You?”

  “I’d like to go.” Brice spoke up.

  Barry and Mike both turned to Brice at the same time. “What?”

  “I want to go. I want to see what’s out there, if it’s as bad as it seems. If it isn’t, that’s good to know. If it is, you’ll need another body.”

  Barry waved his hands in front of him. “No. You’re not going.”

  “Why not?” Brice counted off his reasons on his fingers. “I’m willing to help. I’m in good shape. I can carry extra ammo and supplies. What’s the downside? Plus if I want to go, how are you going to stop me? It’s a free country.”

  Kandy laughed. “We don’t know that it’s a free country.”

  Brice frowned. “You know what I mean.”

  “He’s right,” said Mike. “It couldn’t hurt to have a third person with us.”

  “Then I want to go,” said Kandy.

  Barry cursed. “Are you kidding me?”

  Phil’s face stretched with surprise. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m a reporter,” Kandy stated. “I need to know the truth of what’s out there. I’ve been in tight spots before, shot at, threatened. What’s the difference? I can handle myself.”

  Phil laughed, although there was no humor in it. “What’s the difference?” His voice went up an octave and he repeated his question. “What’s the difference? This is the end of the freaking world, Kandy. That’s the difference. We should not randomly decide to go on some fact-finding mission.”

  Kandy put a hand on Phil’s chest. “Look, don’t feel obligated to go with me. I know you’re being chivalrous and all and I love you for it. But I didn’t ask you to go. I don’t want you to go. If the other men are heading out, then you need to stay here and keep an eye on things. There’s gear that needs fixing. You’re so good at it.”

  Miriam cleared her throat and glared at Kandy.

  “No offense, Miriam. I know you can take care of yourself.”

  Phil said, “I don’t want you going.”

  “Neither do I,” said Barry.

  “Neither of you have a choice,” said Kandy. “I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.”

  Mike raised his hands, trying to make peace. “Look, we can all make our choices. But this trip is Barry’s deal. Let him decide who comes and who stays.”

  Barry pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose and then waved at the rest of them. It was a dismissive wave. The kind of wave a fed-up parent gives a relentless child who incessantly begs to stay up late. “I don’t care, but we’re losing daylight. We should go.”

  Kandy moved close to Phil, softening the tension in his body. He put his arms around her, lacing h
is fingers together at the small of her back.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

  Phil sucked in a deep breath and held it for a long moment. “I can’t stop you,” he said when he breathed out. “It doesn’t mean I agree with this. I’m just not the kind of guy to tell you what to do and expect you to do it.”

  Kandy giggled. “I’m not sure whether that says more about you or me.”

  He kissed her forehead. “Me.”

  She kissed him back and ran the backs of her fingers along his cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. I’ll keep myself busy with boat stuff. But I’ll be counting down the seconds until you’re back in my arms.”

  Kandy giggled again. “You’re stupid. You sound like a Hallmark card.”

  “That’s a new career when the world needs greeting cards again. I could create a whole line of ‘Greetings From The Apocalypse’ cards.”

  “I’d buy one.”

  His smile faded. “Please be careful. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Barry cut short the farewells. “Seriously, if we’re going to go, we need to go. Now.”

  An hour later the four of them were marching inland toward the 520 bridge that stretched west toward the mainland. All of them were armed. Brice carried the shotgun; Barry had the rifle in both hands, holding it diagonally across his body with the muzzle aimed skyward; Kandy had the 9mm tucked in the small of her back; and Mike carried a spare pneumatic spear gun. It wasn’t his choice, but he was the most skilled with it and it was a better option than a baseball bat or a tennis racquet.

  Also, the spear gun was light in his hands. His pack was heavy enough that he didn’t mind the lack of a burdensome weapon. Carrying a nine millimeter in the small of his back wasn’t his idea of a good time.

  Mike thought they were an interesting bunch. Kandy wore an undersized Star Wars backpack slung over one shoulder. Brice’s pack was worn khaki canvas that almost had a military look to it. That combined with the shotgun might have projected an imposing appearance, but Brice’s orange vinyl slides and calf-high socks mitigated any threatening appearance.

  Barry didn’t carry a pack. He had cheap serrated filet knives tucked into his belt on both hips of his tightly cinched blue Dockers. Barry had lost more weight than any of them since the Scourge. It made him look older, adding to his wiry, wild-eyed appearance.

  He reminded Mike of the homeless veterans he’d sometimes offer spare change or his leftovers from Havana’s Cafe near Orlando’s Rock Lake neighborhood. It was a favorite weekend hangout. The diversity of cultures and foods in that part of Central Florida was a draw. It gave Mike perspective on the advantages he’d had and the hard work he had ahead of him. He tried to use his visits there as both respite and motivation.

  He wondered what had become of the people who lived in and around the neighborhood. The restaurants, the clubs, the homeless.

  The homeless, if they survived the illness, were the most likely to adapt to the new order of things. They were accustomed to subsistence. It was their norm. The only difference was the swell in competition for limited resources.

  It was incredible how many things were different now. The constant acrid tinge of smoke in the air, the tension that hung with it, the abandoned cars and houses and buildings. If six months left the world with such a grotesque patina, what would six years do? Sixty years? How long would it be before the world stopped its regression and advanced toward something akin to what they’d taken for granted less than two hundred days earlier?

  “Oh my—”

  Kandy’s hand was over her mouth, her eyes wide and glossy with the sudden onset of tears. She stood in front of them. Stopped. In the middle of the street.

  Her gasp drew Mike’s attention, but he didn’t see at first what sucked away her breath. Scanning their surroundings, it took two passes before he saw it. When he did, it amazed him he’d missed it the first two times. Seeing it now, he walked toward it.

  To their left, in the postage-stamp front yard of a house elevated on stilts, was a large mound. It resembled the swollen henge of a buried septic tank, but it was wider and the slope not as extreme. On either side of the mound were rows of stakes. They weren’t as large as stakes though. The closer Mike moved toward them to examine them, he realized they were wooden paint stir sticks. On each one, written vertically in neat print with black marker, were names. Mike read the names aloud, giving life to whomever the names belonged to.

  “Alyssa. Mary. Brittany. George. Colton. Gibson. Ryan.”

  That was one side. Seven names. And that was one row.

  With reverence and solemnity, he moved to the other side. Mike sensed the others were at the edge of the road now, standing on the weed-pocked sand. There were seven more names here.

  Mike read aloud. “Bobby. Blair. Tony. Alice. Darren. Jeff. Katherine.”

  The four stood there. A breeze lifted sand from atop the burial mound and the grains twirled into the air, scattering like ashes. An arc of pain sparked in Mike’s foot, a phantom ache from a part of him no longer attached.

  Mike moved toward the house. There was an old Chevy in the carport underneath the main floor and between the stilts on which the house stood.

  He pointed at the car with the spear gun. “Check it out. See if there’s anything useful.”

  “Where are you going?” Barry called after him.

  Mike reached the stairs to the right of the carport. They ascended along the right edge of the house and ended at a landing at the home’s side-facing front door. He put a hand on the pine railing and motioned up the steps with his chin. “Somebody had to bury them. I’m checking to see if that somebody is alive.”

  Barry hurried after him. “Wait. Why? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Mike’s gut told him it was risky. But there was also a chance of finding supplies in the house. More weapons perhaps. If someone lived long enough to bury fourteen people, they likely had supplies. If nothing else, they had a shovel.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Barry. “Wait up.”

  Mike stood on the third step and waited. It was better to have two people investigate. That same person who’d survived long enough to bury fourteen people might not be benevolent and might not take kindly to strangers.

  Barry lowered his voice when he reached Mike. “We don’t know how those people died. Whoever is in there, if there’s someone there, could be dangerous.”

  Mike nodded his agreement. His hand glided along the smooth, weathered pine. The warps and cracks rubbed along the underside of his fingers and palm as he climbed.

  They reached the top of the steps. Both stood on the landing.

  There was a screen door. Its aluminum frame didn’t fit snugly against the wood molding that encased the opening. The screen peeled away from the top right corner and exposed the sun-bleached red wood door behind it.

  Mike put his hand on the cheap metal handle and pushed the latch button with his thumb. He pulled and the door swung open more easily than he expected. Its pneumatic hinge was broken.

  Barry reached up behind Mike and held open the screen door. Mike balled his right hand into a fist and rapped on the door twice. The door creaked inward on the second knock.

  The men exchanged wary glances. Mike leveled the spear gun and elbowed the door all the way open.

  Mike took a step into the dim light of the room. “Hello?”

  No response. Mike took another step and rounded the door into the house. Soft pile carpet cushioned his movement. It surprised him. Most of these homes had tile or engineered wood floors. Very few were carpeted. Had it been six months earlier, he’d have removed his boots.

  His eyes adjusted to the diffused light that filtered through the gaps in the louvered blinds covering the glass windows. The air was stuffy, the weight of dust giving it the thick sensation of a long-neglected space.

  The aluminum screen door creaked behind him on its rusting hinges as Bar
ry followed him inside.

  Mike called again in the instant before the door slapped shut with a rattle.

  “Hello? Anyone here?”

  The floor groaned under the weight of another step and Mike was standing in the middle of what he now saw was the living room. A sectional sofa wrapped the room in a U shape. Opposite it, on the wall facing away from the street, was a large flat-panel television. It was sixty-five inches at least.

  Wall-mounted speakers framed the television on both sides and underneath it. Above the television was a transom window that ran the length of the wall. It was high enough that Mike couldn’t see the glass window, but rays of dust danced in the shafts of light, indicating where the light shone through.

  A round glass table was at the center of the U-shaped sectional, a fan of gossip magazines neatly arrayed at its center. A container holding drink coasters was angled to one side of the magazines and two television remotes were positioned opposite.

  He looked down through the glass and noticed the telltale parallel lines from a vacuum. There were no footprints as far as he could see.

  He surveyed the room and saw a glass dining table, which matched the design of the coffee table. It was large for the space, crowded almost. Eight side chairs surrounded the table. On the glass were eight place settings. Mats. Dishes. Flatware. Empty glasses for wine and water.

  At the table’s center was a large clay pot wrapped in a yellow ribbon. Rising from the pot was what was left of an orchid. Its dead stalk and branches reached toward the ceiling and the edges of the table with empty arms. Beneath them, curled and shriveled petals decorated the glass.

  Barry must have read his mind. “This place is immaculate,” he whispered. “There’s no sign anyone is living here. Or lived here. Or whatever.”

  Mike padded to the kitchen. It was off the living room and beyond the dining table. Barry followed. Both of them kept their weapons raised.

  The kitchen floor was tile. Large rectangular slate gray planks set alternately like bricks on a wall. White stone countertops sat atop gray cabinets. The modern lines and hard edges gave the small galley an austere, clean appearance.