“I would, and I did.” She slid farther into the mattress and cracked an eye open to look at him. “They’re infected. If they find a cure and it helps them, then yay. If they test on them and it kills them, there are literally millions more back on shore that they can keep testing on…until they’re all gone. I really don’t care.”
He fell back into his chair and stared at her. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I did.” She rolled away from him and pulled the wool blanket up farther across her shoulders. “I’m tired, Jason. I just want to sleep now.”
“Bren, they’re using those people as guinea pigs!”
She sat up suddenly and glared at him. “They aren’t people, Jason. They’re monsters. Given the opportunity, they would run you down and eat you for breakfast. They don’t care. They don’t think. They don’t even feel…not the way you or I do. So, if they want to use them as guinea pigs, I say to go for it.” She jerked the blanket up and glared at him once more. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m tired.”
He watched her roll back over and snap the blanket around herself. He tried to argue with her, but he couldn’t.
“Fine. I’ll just go and…and…find some coffee or something.”
He waited a moment and she refused to respond. He jerked the door open and marched outside. He tried to slam the door behind him, but the hydraulic catch at the top prevented him from making a dramatic exit.
He stomped to the cafeteria and sat alone in the corner with his cup of coffee. He sat and stewed while it cooled, and he couldn’t understand why he was so mad.
Of course, they’d have to test any potential cures, and who better to test them on than somebody who was already infected. You couldn’t very well inoculate a healthy person and then expose them to the rage virus…that could be catastrophic if the vaccine didn’t work. Besides, who in their right mind would volunteer for such a thing?
He sipped the coffee and tried to get his feelings under control. Why was he so angry? Because they didn’t tell him every little thing they would do? Because he felt like he and Bren should have some kind of say over their actions? It was her blood.
He continued to sip at the coffee and try to think his way through the mix of emotions. They weren’t exactly people any longer.
Or were they?
Was that why he was so mad?
He turned and stared at the personnel who came through the cafeteria and tried to imagine which of them would be used to test potential cures. He tried to imagine each of them at their jobs…fixing engines or tying knots or…whatever the hell it was they did on these floating cities. How would they do their jobs if the cure failed?
He drank down the last of the coffee and stared at the exit. Maybe Dr. LaRue would be more forthcoming with information if he simply asked her what was going on? Would that make him feel any better?
He stood and placed his cup on the line where they all placed their dirty dishes and made his way out the door.
What could it hurt to ask her? The worst she could do is tell him it was none of his damned business, right?
Henry backed to the doors again and Wally jumped from the cab. He pulled the loading ramp down and stared at the glass doors. When Henry came up alongside him, he nodded toward the glass and aluminum store front. “Should we clear it again?”
Henry nodded. “At least a cursory inspection.”
Both men pulled their weapons and walked toward the doors. Wally pulled the doors open and Henry stepped into the gloom with his torch in one hand, pistol in the other.
They went down the ends of the aisles and ensured that nothing was lurking in the shadows to attack them. Once they were relatively satisfied they were alone, each man grabbed a remaining buggy and began filling it with whatever they could find.
Wally couldn’t help but feel they were wasting their time, but he knew his friend was right. The more they left, the more others could use. Others who might not have humanity’s best intentions in mind.
He wheeled the cart to the front of the store and pulled another buggy from the remaining carts. He went back to the canned meat aisle and was surprised at how much potential protein the others had left. He scooped armloads off the shelf and into the shopping cart.
“You can skip the Spam, if you don’t mind.” Henry shot him a goofy smile. “If I never eat that crap again, it will be too soon.”
Wally reached into the cart and lifted one of the tins. “But this one is BBQ flavored.” He smiled back. “Beggars can’t be choosy.” He dropped the tin back into the cart and continued down the aisle. He shuddered at the idea of some of the products he scraped into the cart. Whole canned chicken? That can’t be good for you.
He lifted the can and was surprised by the weight. “Must have been one big bird.”
“That crap is good for dog food and chicken and dumplings. That’s it. Nothing else.” Henry informed him. “My wife, god bless her soul, brought one of those home once and the smell almost ran us both out of the kitchen.” He chuckled as he scraped goods from the other side of the aisle into another cart.
“Good to know.” Wally dropped it into the cart. “I hate chicken and dumplings.” He pushed the cart farther down the aisle and paused. “I wish I had my dog, though.”
“You and me both.” Henry stopped and gave him a sad look. “I had a mutt named Freeway, cuz that’s where we found him. Just a pup when we first got him.” He made a tsk sound and shook his head. “Best dog I ever owned.”
Wally nodded. “We had a Dachshund. Meanest little bastard you’d ever meet, but he loved us.” He shot Henry a smile. “Probably because we fed his fat little ass.”
Henry returned the smile and continued shopping. “I miss ice cream. The real stuff, bud, not this soft serve crap.”
“Real steak.” Wally moaned. With a baked potato and sour cream.”
“Ooh, momma’s fried chicken. With mashed taters and gravy.”
Wally laughed. “The best fried chicken I had was from KFC.” He turned and gave his friend a cockeyed smile. “My wife burned the shit out of anything she tried to fry.” He shook his head. “Sad, really.”
Henry paused at the end of the aisle and leaned on the cart. “I used to dream of running into a farm in the middle of nowhere. No Zulus, no other people, but lots of critters. You know, chickens and hogs and cows and…,” he sighed. “Chickens would lay fresh eggs. The cows would give us fresh milk and cream.”
“Let me guess, the hogs would lay fresh bacon for you every morning?” He gave his buddy a shitty grin.
“Sure. Why not?” Henry chuckled as he pushed the cart to the front. “Maybe one day, man.”
Wally fell into step behind him. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. If the Zulus haven’t sniffed out every farm critter in the world and made a snack of them, they would probably have starved to death before you could find them.”
“You’re such an optimist.” Henry pushed the cart toward the door and reached for another. Something outside the front door caught his attention and he reached for Wally. “We got company!”
He pushed through the doorway and pulled his pistol. He crept along the back of the truck and ducked low at the rear bumper as a car came careening around a corner and jumped the curb to the parking lot of the grocery store.
“They know we’re here.” Even though the operator of the vehicle couldn’t possibly hear them, he found himself whispering. “Cover that side.”
Wally duck walked to the other corner of the truck and stole a peek around the corner. He groaned as he came to his feet and lowered his weapon. “We’re screwed.”
Henry bristled. “How many?”
Wally dropped his head and shook it. “Just two.” He holstered his weapon and turned to his friend. “But one of them is Candy.”
Henry groaned as his feet went out from under him and he fell hard onto his butt. “Dammit.”
Chapter 13
Hatcher checked the tank on the four-wheeled ATV, then pulle
d the dipstick. Satisfied that it was safe to try to start the machine, he turned the key and hit the START button. The engine revved and he goosed the thumb throttle. Once the engine caught and fired, he kicked it into gear and pulled it out of the maintenance building and around to the front of the Visitor’s Center.
He stepped off, letting the engine idle and grabbed a few items from the ransacked office. A length of rope, flashlight, extra batteries, and two bottles of water. Hollis caught him as he was heading out the door. “You really think you’re going to need that stuff? Aren’t you just checking the trails to make sure they’re passable?”
“That’s the idea, but like the Boy Scouts motto, be prepared.” He dumped the items into the rear storage bin and locked the lid.
“If you think there’s a real chance you’ll be out past dark, I want some of my men to go with you. I’m really not comfortable with you doing this run alone.”
Hatcher stood and stretched his back. He glanced up toward the mountain, then back to Hollis. “I’m not expecting trouble, but your men would just slow me down. I know those trails like the back of my hand.”
“That was before the top of the mountain was blown off and scattered down the sides.” Hollis shook his head. “I’d just feel better if you had an escort.”
Hatcher groaned and reached for the rifle he had carried off the helicopter. “This is all I need.”
Hollis groaned and reached to his thigh holster. He pulled the Beretta 9mm and handed it to Hatcher. “Just in case.”
Hatcher slipped it into the back of his waistband and gave the man a curt nod. “The sooner I hit the trails, the sooner I’m back. As soon as I find a trail clear enough to drive through, I’ll be back.”
“And if they’re all blocked?” Hollis walked beside him as he exited the building and mounted the ATV.
“Then we’ll have to figure out something else.” Hatcher pulled his sunglasses on and revved the engine. “Either way, I’ll be back by dark. If something happens and I don’t make it back…don’t send your people out to find me. There’s no sense in losing more for a lost cause.”
Hollis stepped in front of the ATV, blocking him. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“We’ve got little choice at this point, captain.” Hatcher glanced to the woods again. “It’s been long enough that the Zulus have either moved on or starved to death. I doubt I’ll run into anything out there that isn’t on four legs.”
Hollis raised a brow at the comment, but stepped aside. “Be safe, Ranger.”
Hatcher gave him a mock salute then kicked the ATV into gear. He tried not to throw dirt as he accelerated and disappeared into the thick woods.
Hollis watched him for a moment then glanced to the sky. “What I wouldn’t give for a drone right about now.”
Squirrel lifted the lid on the tank of the toilet and dipped the rag into the cool water. He squeezed out the excess and dragged the rag across his forehead, trying to wash away the grit, grime, and memories of Slug.
It didn’t work.
He pulled the sliding glass door open to his third-floor balcony and closed his eyes as the desert breezes blew fresh air into the stale room. He could still see Slug’s eyes wash over with blood and hear him scream just prior to the bullet making mush of his brains.
With a heavy sigh, he kicked off his boots and fell back onto the king-sized bed. He stared at the ceiling as the twilight grew dim. He could almost see designs form and dance across the ceiling as the wispy curtain liner bounced in the open doorway of the balcony. He stared at the dancing figures as the light slowly faded.
In the distance, he could hear the crazies warming up. Like coyotes in the distance, they barked and sang to other groups, letting them know they were there, standing vigil in the darkness. Warning others not to encroach on their territory, or perhaps calling to other crazies in some weird, ancient mating call.
Squirrel didn’t know, and he didn’t really care. He just wished they’d shut up.
He curled onto his side and closed his eyes, forcing the memorized photo of his wife to appear. He could see the outline of her jaw, the shape of her lips. He could almost see her hair blowing in the soft breeze before the photo was snapped. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost remember her voice.
Almost.
With a groan, he rolled from the bed and walked out to the balcony. He stared out into the darkness, wondering how far out the crazies were as he unzipped his leather biker pants and relieved himself through the wrought iron railing.
For the briefest of moments, he could almost imagine one of his crew, or even a few of the crazies below, dancing in the yellow rain. He almost cracked a smile at the thought.
Once finished, he leaned against the railing and stared toward the horizon. There had to be more than just this. There had to be. Of all of the creations in the universe, allowing humankind to die out because of an ancient bug? He shook his head in disbelief. What kind of God would allow the extinction of His greatest works because of a virus?
He pushed off the rail and fell back onto the bed. As he closed his eyes, he suddenly wondered, Who says we’re God’s greatest creation?
Maybe this damned bug that is killing us all off was His perfect creation. He recalled the panicked news reports when people first began getting infected. The hurried voices trying to explain each new discovery, hoping beyond hope that a cure could be found. He remembered the excited news casters explaining how the CDC and World Health Organization were working diligently to find a treatment, a cure, or a vaccine against the virus.
He also remembered his wife begging him to come home and stay. Or better yet, come home, pack their gear, and head for the mountains. Any place where people were scarce and they might could ride out the worst of it.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered telling her it couldn’t be as bad as the news stations reported. They always make things seem worse than they really are. That’s why the weather men invented a heat index to make it hotter outside. Or the chill index because cold just isn’t cold enough without the chill index. Or the numerous cases of flu outbreaks or rioters or any other bad thing that happened in the world, it had to be inflated to seem so much worse than it was.
He rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He felt a tear run down his cheek and he squeezed his eyes shut again. He could see her bloody body laying across the dining room floor, her leg missing and most of her face chewed off. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t her, but her tattoo was visible. The torn heart just above her left breast with Roger in the middle. The perfect half to his matching tattoo with Cecile inked in it.
His hand absently rubbed the area and he stifled a sob. Why hadn’t he listened? Why couldn’t he have rushed to her side, even if to placate her?
He sat on the edge of the bed and clenched his jaw, his body wanting to scream, to hit something, to kick something, to punch something. He held his head in his hands and choked down the pain. He tuned out the ragers screaming outside and forced himself to breathe normally.
He hated when reality came back to kick him in the nuts, and tonight’s reality check was especially vivid. He blew his breath out again and walked back out to the balcony.
The cool night air brought the smell of rain and he stared above the horizon to see if he could spot the approaching storm. Nothing but stars were visible for as far as the eye could see.
He glanced down to the concrete patio below. For the briefest of moments, he could imagine allowing himself to simply slip over the edge. As long as he landed head first, odds were strong he’d be with Cecile. But he knew his luck. He’d end up broken or damaged, fully awake when the ragers began chewing on his parts.
He sat down on the balcony and stared through the wrought iron railings. It was going to be another one of those nights where the ghosts of the past wouldn’t let him sleep.
Dr. LaRue went from subject to subject, recording vitals and charting any changes she could find. She paused by a
white male subject and gently raised his sleeping eyelid. She couldn’t be certain, but it almost appeared as though the redness of the eyes was beginning to dissipate. She marked her thoughts in the chart, then went to the next subject. A darker-skinned female breathed rapidly as her body tried to burn off the sedative they were filling her with, via the IV tubes.
Vivian checked her vitals and shook her head as she noted her condition. “The gene therapy isn’t taking.” She pulled her gloves off and tossed them into the waste bin.
“I would think it prudent to give it more time.” Her colleagues were always hoping for the best, but she was more of a pragmatist.
She sighed as she pulled the outer lab coat off.
“We used the same viral vectors as the virus itself. You’ve seen how rapidly it infects. I would expect similar results if it were going to work.”
He laid down his own clipboard and approached her. He instinctively checked before lowering his voice, “The subjects we used the gene therapy and secondary treatments on seem to show very promising results. Perhaps if we consider that the vaccines are weakening the virus’ ability to propagate through—”
She held a hand up, stopping him. “The subjects who just got the vaccine variants have the same promising results.” She shook her head. “I think we can scratch the reverse vector gene therapy from the list of possible curatives.”
He crossed his arms and gave her a tight-lipped stare. “I’m not ready to give up on the gene therapy just yet.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Charles, I realize you were the one who replaced the viral DNA in the therapeutic strain, but let’s face it, they aren’t taking. They aren’t overwriting the viral DNA in the host cells. Either something in the DNA that was removed somehow changed the capsid on the cell wall, or the DNA itself has a built-in biological firewall that prevents the replaced DNA from having its desired effect.”
He shook his head. “You know that gene therapy takes time.”
“And you’ve seen how quickly this virus replicates and infects the subjects. We’re talking seconds…not days.”
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