The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 1: Books 1 - 3 (Sick, Exit 9, & Pale Horse)

by Brett Battles

  …mucus. Hector’s snot.

  Instantly he thought about the moist spot he’d touched when he fell.

  Eyes wide in panic, he dropped to the ground and wiped his hand against the asphalt, but he knew it was already too late. He’d rubbed his hand across his face. It could have gotten in his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Hell, chances were he’d been infected the moment he stepped into the room.

  “Unofficial sources have told me that, so far, no one who has caught this flu has survived.”

  I’m a dead man.

  Karl’s mother had been a saint, at least to him. She’d been the nicest, kindest person he’d ever known. “Just doing what’s right,” she’d say. “Don’t know how to live any other way.” Karl had learned from her example and tried to live that way, too. He was a good son, then later a good husband, and a good friend, as was evident by his trip to check on Hector.

  Kneeling there beside his truck, he knew there was only one right thing he could do now.

  He made three phone calls as he drove away. The first was to 911, reporting Hector’s death and warning them that it appeared to be related to the Sage Springs flu. The second was to work, telling them that Hector was sick and would be staying home, in case they were thinking about sending someone else out to check on him. He didn’t mention his own plans, that he wouldn’t be finishing his route, or, in fact, wouldn’t even be starting it.

  The third call was to his wife’s cell phone. At that time of night, she would have turned it off, knowing if he were going to call, he’d use their landline. But he didn’t want to talk to her. He just wanted to tell her he loved her one last time, so he said it to her voice mail, then turned off his phone and shoved it under his seat.

  After that, he drove into the desert, away from the highway, and down a side road he was pretty sure no one would be on for several days. After he parked, he found a couple scraps of paper in the glove compartment and wrote two identical notes:

  DEATH FLU VICTIM INSIDE

  DO NOT OPEN DOORS

  CALL CDC

  He then put them on the windows of both doors, and settled in.

  If he were still feeling okay by noon the next day, he’d drive back into town and take whatever punishment the company decided to give him.

  But punishment was unnecessary. Karl Trainer never did drive back into town.

  UNLIKE KARL, THE three guys who’d had breakfast with Hector—Luis Chavez, Diego Ortega, and Al Rangel—were not blessed with the foreknowledge of what happened to them. So the virus that was believed to be contained in the small town of Sage Springs gained more and more of a foothold in Victorville with every person the three men came into contact with. This included, but was not limited to: the waitress and hostess at Kerry’s Diner where they’d eaten, the customers at Ralph’s supermarket between 11:41 a.m. and 12:03 p.m., Al Rangel’s neighbor Charlie Fisher, and their respective spouses.

  The disease then spread further through the eastern part of the city, clinging onto new hosts wherever it could. It was only by pure chance that none of those touched were heading over the hill into San Bernardino or Riverside or Orange County or Los Angeles. If that had happened, things could have gotten a whole lot worse.

  Once again, Karl proved to be a hero. His call to 911 about Hector led to the entire town being shut down before sunrise, and the quarantine zone being expanded to a roughly triangular area that went from Victorville in the West, to China Lake in the North, to Barstow in the East.

  When the calls of more sick and dead started coming in, at least it didn’t catch anyone by surprise. And by luck and the quick work of the National Guard, the Victorville branch of the outbreak ran its course without spreading further.

  Unfortunately, health officials in Victorville weren’t the only ones who started receiving calls.

  Twenty-Three

  WHEN ASH WOKE the morning after his surgery, the pain in his head had become more of a throb—a huge, pounding throb. Pax was asleep in a chair in the corner. Apparently he’d been given the late shift.

  Carefully, Ash swung his legs off the bed, then walked, painful step after painful step, to the bathroom. When he finally came back out, Pax was awake.

  “I’d have helped you if you needed it,” Pax said, getting out of his chair.

  “I didn’t need it. Where are my clothes?”

  “You should lie down. Take it easy.”

  “Where…are they?”

  Pax frowned and shook his head. “I’ll get ‘em.” He opened the closet next to the bathroom, pulled out a set of clean clothes, and laid them on the bed. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  It took Ash fifteen minutes to get dressed. When he walked out of the room, he found Pax leaning against the wall in the hallway. “Looks like you’ll live,” Pax said, giving Ash the once-over. “Come on. Everyone’s in the cafeteria.”

  Ash knew he wasn’t a pretty sight. He’d taken a look at himself in the mirror, not because he was curious, but because he wanted to remember what the people who’d done this to his family had forced him to do. He wanted to remember the bandages, and the swollen face, and the bruises. He wanted to remember it all.

  The cafeteria was more like a wide spot in the corridor than a room to itself. There were four long tables and, at the back, a counter that opened into a kitchen.

  Matt, Rachel, and Billy were sitting together at one of the tables, while a woman Ash hadn’t met before was sitting at the next one over, alone. She had coffee-colored skin and long, black hair. After a moment, he realized she might very well be the woman he’d seen doing shoulder exercises outside the day before.

  In front of the tables was a TV on a cart. As soon as Ash and Pax walked up, Matt muted the volume, and the others got up and walked over to greet them. Everyone, that was, except the unknown woman.

  “You should still be lying down,” Billy reprimanded Ash.

  “I think he looks fine,” Rachel said. “How do you feel?”

  “Sore,” Ash told them. “But I’m not going to spend the day in bed.”

  Billy moved in close, examining the bandages and touching Ash’s face. Twice, Ash winced.

  “I can give you something for the pain,” Billy offered.

  “No.”

  Matt smiled. “You look fine to me. Well, except for your face. Come. Sit down.”

  As Ash took a seat, he glanced at the TV. They’d been watching the news.

  “What happened while I was out?”

  Rachel said, “Daniel Ash is officially a suspected terrorist.”

  He took a breath, trying to keep his anger in check, then nodded. “Just like you said.”

  On the screen, there was a shot of the desert. It was flat and brown and looked very much like the desert he’d seen on TV the previous day, and the desert he’d lived in for a month or so before…it happened.

  The only difference today, though, was that instead of a steady shot, the picture was wildly jumping around. In the upper corner was a small graphic that read Earlier Today.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, nodding at the screen.

  Matt grabbed the remote and deactivated the mute.

  Out of the speaker came the sounds of pounding feet, cloth rubbing against cloth, heavy breathing, and wind whipping across a microphone. Whoever was carrying the camera was running.

  “Watch out! Bobby, Bobby. Watch out!” a female voice said.

  The camera tilted quickly to the ground, revealing an offset crack in the asphalt. The cameraman seemed to take a hop step, then the image moved back up.

  “This way,” the woman said.

  As the lens turned to the left, the back of a young woman came into view. She glanced over her shoulder at the camera. It was the reporter Ash had watched on TV the day before.

  “Just carry it, Bobby. You’re going to fall otherwise.”

  The picture swung wildly for a few seconds, catching sky, then ground, then feet, before stabilizing at a lower angle. The girl was still in the
picture, running just a few feet ahead. Visible now beyond her was a military helicopter. As the image moved a bit to the right, Ash realized there wasn’t just one helicopter, but several.

  The woman looked back again, this time her gaze moving well beyond the camera. “Joe! Hurry up!”

  There were uniformed soldiers standing outside the open doors of the helicopter. As soon as the reporter got there, one of the soldiers grabbed her arm and helped her up.

  “All the way in, ma’am. All the way in,” he ordered.

  When the cameraman got there, the procedure was repeated. Once more the image became chaotic, then settled back down and angled out the door the cameraman had just come through.

  There were several dozen people running through the desert toward the helicopters. In the distance, Ash could see cars and media vans parked along the highway, and the same large military trucks that had been blocking the road since the previous day.

  Seven people seemed to be heading for the cameraman’s helicopter. One of the soldiers took a few steps toward them.

  “Only room for four more! Only four!” he yelled, holding up four fingers. He then pointed at the three people farthest away. “You, you, and you! Over there!” He directed them to a neighboring helicopter, but none of the three changed course. “No more room here! You’re over there!”

  The four who were okayed to get on reached the helicopter and climbed aboard.

  “Glad you could join us,” the reporter said to one of the men. Ash guessed he was probably the Joe she’d been yelling to earlier.

  The other three were still coming, so the soldier who had been trying to redirect them got between them and the helicopter, then moved the rifle that had been slung over his shoulder into his hands. He wasn’t exactly pointing it at them, but he was making it clear he could.

  “No. Room. Here. That one!” He tilted his head at the other aircraft.

  This time the three stragglers got the message.

  The soldier and his buddy who’d been outside with him jumped through the door, then yelled up front, “We’re good to go.”

  Almost immediately the helicopter lifted off. There was a final bird’s-eye shot of the desert, with Sage Springs laid out in the distance, then the image on the screen switched to the anchor in the studio.

  “Those startling images were taken by cameraman Bobby Lion. With him was PCN reporter Tamara Costello and their producer Joe Canavo. The video was shot earlier this morning as they were evacuated out of the expanded quarantine zone that now stretches over a large portion of the Mojave Desert in Eastern California. As a reminder, if you are watching us from within the quarantine zone, you are asked to stay in your homes until further advised and avoid contact with anyone other than those who are already in your home with you.”

  “It’s spread?” Ash asked.

  “Several cases reported in Victorville this morning,” Billy said. “That’s just northeast of L.A. They’re also calling it the Sage Flu now.”

  “My God.”

  “You’ll want to watch this,” Rachel said, still looking at the TV.

  “…alert for this man.” The anchor had been replaced by the same picture of Ash the networks had already been showing. “Daniel Ash, a captain in the U.S. Army, is now thought to be behind this terrorist attack. His motives are unknown at this time, but sources do tell us he’d been showing signs of instability since returning from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. As we learned earlier this morning, this tragedy was made worse by the discovery that Ash apparently killed his own family prior to releasing the lethal virus.”

  The image changed to a picture of Ash with Ellen, Josie and Brandon.

  All Ash could do was stare at the screen. Any doubts he may have had about what Matt and the others had told him—gone. Completely.

  “That’s enough,” he finally said, then stood up. “I want to get to work.”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “But why don’t we get you some breakfast first?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going to need to eat something,” Billy said.

  “I said I’m not hungry. So what’s next?”

  Matt shared a look with Rachel, then glanced at Pax. “Weapons?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Pax said. He rose to his feet and smiled at Ash. “How about a little target practice?”

  “Lead the way.”

  THE DOOR PAX stopped in front of not only had two deadbolts, but also a thumbprint-recognition screen that released steel rods holding the door in place from above and below. Inside was the armory. Weapons hung on all the walls, while more were stored on shelves.

  “Most of these never get used,” Pax explained. “They’re here more for education, so we’re familiar with anything we might come up against.”

  “Are you guys like some sort of militia? Is that what this is?”

  Pax was silent for a moment. “That’s really a hard question to answer. I guess in some people’s minds we might be called that. But our purpose isn’t to create our own little country, or take on the government, per se. But you should really talk to Matt about that. He’s the explainer. Me, I’d just mess it up.” He flashed a quick smile. “When was the last time you fired a handgun?”

  “I don’t know. Four or five months ago.”

  “How good are you?”

  “Good enough. Better with a rifle.”

  “Probably gonna want to avoid rifles for a while,” Pax said. “If that butt’s in your shoulder and it kicks off and hits you in the face, you will not be happy. Of course, you could have the same problem with a pistol if you can’t control the recoil.” He smiled again. “Break your nose all over again. That’s not my idea of fun.”

  “Don’t worry. I can control the recoil.”

  “Thought you could.” Pax smiled. “How about a little pistol refresher? Sound good to you?”

  “Sure.”

  Hanging on one wall were at least a hundred different handguns.

  “The Army issue you an M9?” Pax asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I could pull down one of those, if you like, but I prefer one of these three here.” Pax removed three pistols from the wall.

  “I’m not married to the M9, so if you’ve got something better, great.”

  Near the door were two floor-to-ceiling cabinets.

  “Here,” Pax said, handing the guns to Ash.

  With his hands free, Pax pulled a couple boxes of ammunition out of one of the cabinets. He then motioned Ash back into the hallway, and led him to the door on the opposite wall.

  “Right in here,” he said as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Ash could sense the depth of the room even before Pax flipped on the lights and revealed a space that moved out from the door for at least fifty yards. Not too far in was a row of narrow dividers, and tracks along the ceiling that ran the length of the room. A classic indoor firing range.

  Pax set the boxes of bullets on the shelf of the middle divider, then took the guns back. “As you might have noticed, we’ve got three compacts here, all nine millimeter like your old M9.” He set two of the guns down, then held up the third. “This one’s a Smith & Wesson M&P Compact. Twelve rounds plus one in the chamber. Trigger pull at six and a half pounds.” He put it down, and picked up the next one. “Glock 19. Fifteen rounds standard. Five and a half pounds on the trigger pull.” He replaced it with the last. “And this one’s the SIG SAUER P229. It holds thirteen rounds. Single-action trigger pull at four-point-four pounds. So, which would you like to try first?”

  Ash decided to take them in order, starting with the Smith & Wesson. Although he had no problem controlling the kick, he could feel the first few shots all the way up his arms and into his head. Once he got going, though, the pain became more background noise than anything else.

  Next he went to the Glock, then the SIG. After he took the last shot, Pax said, “So?”

  Ash looked at the gun in his hand. “I like the feel of this one
.”

  “Good choice. One of my favorites. Of course, I’m partial to all three of them, so you couldn’t go wrong whichever way you went. You want to shoot some more?”

  “Yes.” Ash popped the mag out and handed it to Pax. “I’d like to tighten up my groupings.”

  With Pax’s help, by the time Ash had polished off the last round in the second box of ammo, his groupings at fifty feet could be covered by a dollar bill.

  “It’s a good start,” Pax said.

  “Get another box.”

  Pax looked at him, surprised. “Don’t want to take a break?”

  Ash released the mag into his hand. “No.”

  As he plowed through the third box of bullets, he pictured the face of Dr. Karp on the target.

  This time, his groupings were much better.

  Twenty-Four

  THE MEMBERS OF the media who’d been covering the roadblock at Sage Springs were flown to Fort Irwin Army base outside Barstow, California. Technically, they were still in the quarantine zone, but so far there had been no known cases in Barstow or on the base.

  There, Tamara was able to learn that contingents of soldiers had been sent east on I-40 and northeast on I-15 to turn back motorists coming in from Arizona and Las Vegas. She’d also had an interesting, off-the-record conversation with one soldier who’d said the roadblocks had already dealt with several irate drivers insisting that they didn’t have time to drive all the way to the I-10 to get to L.A. so they should be let through. Many promised to “keep their windows rolled up” and “not make any stops,” while a couple of people had even gotten out of their cars and tried to physically intimidate the highway patrol officers who were handling most of the problems. Needless to say, those individuals had been arrested and taken east to a jail just on the other side of the Nevada border.

  Even having learned all that, Tamara was frustrated. The Army was not allowing them to go anywhere. It was like the media were prisoners on the base, stuck with whatever news the Army decided to give them.