The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift

by Abrahams, Tom

  “I was telling Dr. Treadgold about what comes next,” she said. “His work has led to some exciting opportunities. It’ll keep all of us busy for some time.”

  Morel crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands on his knee. He studied Treadgold and addressed Gwendolyn. “You mean Project Yellow Rose.”

  There was the hint of a suppressed smile on Morel’s face when he said this. Gwen was unaware the effort had a name. How did he know? And how did he know she didn’t know? The feel of the room changed. No longer was he the tardy supplicant asking forgiveness. Now he was in charge. Or trying to assert that role. It was as plain as the cartoon yellow jacket on his shirt.

  Morel was trying to alter the balance of power in their relationship and within the structure of the lab. Before they’d come home to Atlanta, he’d been her boss. He was the senior researcher, the one with the connections to the inner workings of disease control and prevention.

  In Ukraine, he’d run the show. He’d told her what to do. She obeyed.

  Then they got on a plane and came home. She’d decided then and there not to be his subordinate anymore. She sidled up to Colonel Whittenburg, played the game. And now she was the one in control in all the meetings, executing the missions designed at the highest levels. She’d usurped Morel. Or so she thought. Here he was not so subtly letting her know he had irons in the fire. And if push came to shove, he could burn her.

  Treadgold tossed up his hands and slapped them on his lap. “It has a name? We’re that far along? Project Yellow Rose?”

  Gwendolyn answered Treadgold but kept her eyes locked on Morel. “It’s clever, right?”

  “I don’t know,” said Treadgold. “Might as well call it Project Lone Star. Or Project Tejas. Or Project Ethics-Have-Nothing-To-Do-With-Survival.”

  “I like Yellow Rose myself,” said Morel. His gaze hadn’t moved from Gwendolyn, but he lifted an arm and rested it on the side of the chair. He raked his fingers along the faux leather. “You know the history of the Yellow Rose?”

  “I know the song,” said Gwendolyn. She hummed a few bars of the tune.

  Morel hummed with her until they finished humming the chorus. He conducted with one hand and smiled. Then he pointed at Gwendolyn. “The details of the story are disputed, of course, but the gist is the same in every version. The Yellow Rose was a woman named Emily West. She was a freed black woman during the time of the Texas war for independence from Mexico. It was her…charms…that helped the Texans win the battle of San Jacinto and defeat the Mexican General Santa Anna. That effectively won the war and Texas became an independent republic.”

  Treadgold squinted. “Charms?”

  “Her feminine wiles,” said Morel. “Let’s leave it at that. Anyhow, I think it’s the perfect name for the effort, given the historic context.”

  Gwendolyn feigned a smile. “As I said, clever. Did you come up with the name, Doctor Morel? I assume it wasn’t you, but out of courtesy…”

  She let the slight hang in the air.

  Morel’s hinted smile slunk into a suppressed frown. Disdain darkened his glare.

  “And what exactly are feminine wiles, Dr. Morel?” she pressed. “Care to elaborate for my benefit. I’m feminine and not sure I have any wiles.”

  Without missing a beat, Morel countered, “I assure you, you don’t.”

  Treadgold fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. The faux leather squeaked. “Am I missing something here? What’s with the two of you?”

  Gwendolyn pushed herself to her feet with the help of the club chair’s overstuffed arms. Her teeth ground together; her jaw muscles flexed. She didn’t like that Morel had drawn her into his game, dragged her down, forced the conversation to devolve.

  It was a weakness from her childhood. Gwendolyn had trouble letting others think they were right even when she knew they were wrong. She’d corrected them, schooled them with didactic condescension that made her feel good in the moment and lousy when it was over.

  Her ambition frequently got the best of her. Why couldn’t she be content with being in charge, with being right? Why did she have to drive her heel into people’s throats?

  Morel knew he was her subordinate in this new reality. They both knew it. Why did she have to create drama where none needed to exist?

  She clapped her hands in front of her, laced her fingers together and then pointed her index fingers at Morel. Her tone was even, hiding the strong urge to lash out. The more she worked with the man, the less respect she had for him. Why couldn’t men give women their due? It seemed to her the smarter the man, the more threatened he was by a smart woman.

  “You will never find out, dear Charles. But your interest is noted. Let’s move to the issue at hand. We have work to do and all of this ancillary gibberish doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  Gwendolyn stepped away from the chair, turning her back to the men. She didn’t give Morel a chance to respond. “John, you’re the expert here,” she said to Treadgold. “You’re the one who discovered the rate and method of change within the disease. How do you propose we begin? If we’re trying to predict and model the mutations, then use that knowledge to create the changes ourselves preemptively?”

  She spun around to emphasize her point. Her index fingers, mocking a church steeple, pointed at John Treadgold. He twisted his puckered lips to one side of his face and looked at his knees.

  “We’ll need more computing power. And more people.”

  Gwendolyn jabbed her fingers toward him. “Yes to the computers. No to the people. We have to keep this in a small circle. Very need to know.”

  Treadgold frowned. “How long do I have?”

  “To what?”

  “To provide an accurate predictive model capable of helping us modify the disease ourselves?”

  “I’ll find out,” she said. “Let’s work with the assumption that it’s sooner than later. They’re building a wall around Texas. I think I’m safe to share that.”

  “A wall?” echoed Treadgold.

  “Yes. Construction starts soon. I think they’re hoping to have it completed within a year or two. It’s a massive government effort to employ people, keep the peace here and cordon off Texas. They’re not happy with how the governor thumbed his nose at the president’s request for National Guard troops. The place is falling apart now. A lot of issues. I think it’s safe to say you have until the wall is complete. I’ll get that confirmed for you.”

  Treadgold rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure we can do that. No new people? Predictive software that’s specific to a new application? Essentially engineering a new deadly disease in which bacteria and virus interact? Two years? I’m not sure.”

  Gwendolyn folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t have to be sure to get to work. Put your head down; focus on the task. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Morel half raised a hand and waved it for attention. “And what do I do?”

  Gwendolyn considered a thousand different responses. She could placate him, make him feel important. She could be demure and ask him his thoughts. She could lie to him and suggest he’d have more of a role than he would. This was her project. The colonel had empowered her.

  “Whatever my wiles tell you to do, Charlie.”

  CHAPTER 18

  MARCH 13, 2033

  SCOURGE +163 DAYS

  MERRITT ISLAND, FLORIDA

  Trick McQuarry shook the notebook in his hand. It flopped back and forth, its cardboard binding having lost its strength. There was a new bounce in his step. Killing a man seemed to do that. Like an infusion of energy, of life force, from a dying man.

  He led the others in their march east on 520. An Olive Garden was to their right. The western edge of the abandoned Merritt Square Mall lay ahead to the south of the causeway.

  “This is it, guys,” he said. “We don’t need to hit any stores or shops or whatever. This little book holds the key.”

  Cooper motioned to the notebook. “You haven’t told us what you found. Wh
at’s so good?”

  McQuarry had taken the notebook from the body of one of the two guards they’d shot. The soldiers weren’t letting them pass, told them to turn around and head back. McQuarry didn’t like that, so he’d pretended to acquiesce. He’d turned around to head back west, then swung around with his handgun leveled. Two quick pops dropped both soldiers. Neither knew what hit him. One had a third eye and was dead before he hit the asphalt. The other, the one with the notebook, was gurgling and making a high-pitched keening sound that reminded McQuarry of a cat in heat.

  They’d searched the men, taken their weapons and ammo, rifled through their pockets. The only things of value were a box of orange Tic Tacs and the notebook.

  McQuarry knew what he had as soon as he’d leafed through it. Names and addresses of everybody who’d crossed the bridge heading east.

  Cooper scowled. “The key to what?”

  “The key to empty houses on this side of the bridge. I’ve got names and addresses. We don’t have to guess which places are empty. We know.”

  He waved the notebook in the air like a lawyer would a key piece of evidence. McQuarry had seen lawyers do this at his trials. Those keys only ever led to him being locked up. The key he now held was liberating.

  “The last names in the book are the four people we just passed,” he said. “I recognize their street. I think I can get us there.”

  Dickie raised a hand. “Can I ask a question, Trick?”

  McQuarry tucked the notebook into his hip pocket. “What?”

  “I’m not saying that notebook there isn’t a gold mine or nothing. ’Cause if you say it is, I’m sure it’s valuable and all…”

  “But?”

  “But if people left their homes, couldn’t it be because they didn’t have nothing left there to begin with? Going to these houses means we’re going to find nothing too.”

  Cooper shook his finger at Dickie. “He’s got a point. Why waste our time on places people already left?”

  McQuarry silently adjusted his grip on his rifle and kept moving. He let the others keep pace with him.

  “You saw those people on the bridge. They were loaded down,” said Cooper. “They took what they could and bolted.”

  Both men had points. McQuarry had to acknowledge that. “True. I hear you. I happen to disagree. They didn’t have the look of people who were leaving and not returning. That older one checked his watch. It was an expensive watch too, the kind you wind by shaking your wrist. They were paying attention to the time. Nobody does that unless they’re on a schedule.”

  “I don’t know,” said Cooper. “That’s a pretty big leap. Could be habit. I keep wanting to check my phone and I ain’t had one for four months.”

  McQuarry pressed forward, walking with definitive purpose. “Could be. It’s worth finding out. There must be thirty or forty names on this list. You can’t tell me all of the addresses are empty houses with nothing of value inside.”

  Cooper relented. “I guess.”

  Dickie echoed, “I guess.”

  McQuarry recognized the name of the street next to the name Barry Miller. It was a Cocoa Beach address. The other names at the end of the list didn’t live close. They were Orlando and Lake Mary addresses.

  None of the people shared the same last name. McQuarry figured they were friends. Or they might all be newly acquainted and working together. Either way, he was sure the Cocoa house was plush by comparison to his place in Rockledge. And chances were there were boats too. Moored boats might have fuel or weapons. That reminded him of something.

  “You saw that one fella with the spear gun?” McQuarry asked. “The tall one who looked like he was training for American Ninja or something?”

  “I saw it,” said Dickie. “Thought it was weird.”

  Cooper didn’t appear intrigued. “What about it?”

  “It means they’ve got a boat. People who fish shore side or wade in the shallows don’t use spear guns. That’s for diving. Offshore stuff.”

  Cooper remained unimpressed. “So?”

  McQuarry sighed. “So it means there could be a lot of boats. Nice boats. Not skiffs or jon boats. But cabin cruisers, ski boats. Twenty-four footers and up.”

  Dickie coughed and cleared his throat. “How far?”

  It wasn’t too far. Wasn’t close either. Once they passed the mall, they’d cross the bridge and Kiwanis Island to the north. Then they’d wind their way south, through neighborhoods, until they found the street. It could take an hour or two. Or three.

  “Not far,” he lied. “Keep moving. We’ll be there before you know it.”

  “We’re not getting back to Rockledge before dark,” said Cooper. “There’s no way. Especially if somebody finds those bodies. The place will be swarming with people. It’ll be impossible to get back across. We should have tossed them into the river.”

  “I don’t think so, Cooper. Too hard to pick up the dead weight and heave them over the side of the bridge. No need for it. Even if somebody finds the bodies, who are they going to call? The police? The military? Nobody’s coming. And so what if we don’t make it back by dark? We’ll spend the night in Cocoa Beach. It’ll give us time to take inventory and plan our next steps.”

  “I just thought of something,” said Dickie.

  They were passing the mall now. McQuarry saw a big sign for Macy’s. “What?”

  “That guy with the watch. He also wore a wedding ring. But you said that lady wasn’t his wife. What if the wife is at the house?”

  The Macy’s was set back from the causeway, an ocean of parking spaces between the two. Closer to the causeway was a Chick-fil-A and a Bonefish Grill. The glass fronts to both freestanding buildings were gone. Shards of window stuck to the frames like clear stalagmites.

  McQuarry ignored the question. He was fixated on the restaurants. “I hated Sundays.”

  Neither of his partners questioned the non sequitur. They exchanged confused glances.

  “Not because of church or because it was twenty-four hours from Monday,” he said. “It was because Chick-fil-A was closed. For some damned reason the only time I ever craved that sandwich was on Sundays. Must say something about my personality that I want something I can’t have.”

  He chuckled and imagined tasting the dill pickle on the buttered bun, the lightly breaded juicy meat. He loved the sauce too. And the waffle fries. Things he’d never have again.

  He sighed and leaned into his next step. “I wouldn’t worry about a wife. She probably died in the Scourge. If she didn’t, she’s gone.”

  His mind drifted again, this time to Winter. His woman. Or was he her man? Who kept who? It was a little bit of both. She was as tough as nails. Drove him to be better, or worse, depending on one’s perspective.

  He missed her. Should have brought her along. Strategically, he understood why Winter needed to stay behind, but it would have been nice to have her with him. She had more common sense in her pinkie finger than he had in his entire body.

  Winter wasn’t her given name. He didn’t know what that was. She’d never told him. Winter was a nickname her friends had given her in middle school. She was ice cold. Didn’t play games or mince words, shot straight. Somebody once said she was like the dead of winter and it stuck.

  McQuarry wondered if he was too soft sometimes, if his heart lacked the fortitude to persevere in a dystopian world. He’d overcompensated in prison. Violence masked his fear, his own sense of inadequacy. His father saw it and told him as much.

  In the current post-Scourge anarchy, McQuarry thought about the two men he’d laid waste to minutes earlier. Were they victims of his overcompensation?

  He cursed himself for overthinking. None of the extraneous stuff mattered. Survival was key. Whatever it took, whomever he had to kill, however he had to do it. The rest was immaterial. Immaterial. He’d heard his public defender use that word once and he’d asked him what it meant.

  The lawyer had tugged at the loose knot on his tie and replied, “Irre
levant.”

  Everything other than his survival was irrelevant.

  CHAPTER 19

  MARCH 13, 2033

  SCOURGE +163 DAYS

  MERRITT ISLAND, FLORIDA

  Mike saw the blood before he saw the bodies. It puddled on the asphalt. Dark and bright at the same time, it was unmistakable. It both swallowed and reflected the sunlight.

  A trio of gulls swept across the checkpoint, diving low as if to get a closer look at the carnage. Two bodies lay at awkward angles. Despite their lack of movement, they didn’t look dead. Not at first.

  The four of them picked up their pace. None of them spoke about it, it happened organically, all of them sensing the need to hurry. Somewhere between a jog and a run, they got close enough to the barricades to see what had happened to the two young soldiers.

  One of them was slumped against a concrete barrier, akin to a drunk man sleeping one off. The other was flat on his back, sunbathing with his legs splayed to make sure his thighs got an even tone. Absent the blood, the men appeared peaceful.

  “Hey, you guys hear me?” Mike called out. “You okay?”

  They weren’t okay. The conclusion was foregone. He didn’t know what else to do other than call out to them. It made it seem like they might be alive.

  Like Schrödinger’s cat. If he didn’t know for sure the soldiers were dead, then they must be alive. That was the theory.

  “Guys,” he called, this time a strain in his voice he didn’t recognize as his own, “are you okay? Do you need help? We can help.”

  He slowed to weave his way through the serpentine barricade. One hand gripped his weapon, the other slid along the tops of the rough concrete, guiding him and providing some sort of balance. He stopped when he saw the bullet wounds, the source of so much blood. The others were right behind him and they stopped as well. All of them were breathing hard. Mike’s pulse pounded in his chest, in his neck. He was suddenly exhausted. His foot hurt and his phantom toe throbbed.