Hatcher nearly jumped when the pilot came across his headphones. “Mister Hatcher, command states we’re to drop you off at your desired location prior to returning to the fleet.”
Hatcher smiled to himself. He assumed his message to Colonel Vickers was received. “Captain Hollis wanted me to personally return the sample to the labs.”
“That’s understood, sir, but unless you want to make the fleet your new home, my orders are to drop you off first. They said something about wasting fuel, sir.”
Hatcher had to admit it made little sense to backtrack that far just so he could hand-deliver the case. “Understood. You have the coordinates for my compound?”
“Affirmative, sir. We’ve charted the quickest route. We can have you home in a few hours.”
“Thank you.” Hatcher leaned back, his hand brushing the aluminum case. He lifted it to his lap and turned to LaRue who was watching him like a hawk. “I guess this is yours now.” He handed the case over and she behaved as though it were the Holy Grail.
“Thank you, Mr. Hatcher.” Her smile slowly spread as she ran her hands along the surface. “This will definitely go a long way towards a cure.”
Hatcher eyed her cautiously. “Just don’t forget where we are. Once you have that cure, my people would like to get inoculated.”
She glanced up at him, her smile fading. “Oh, we have an inoculation.” She shrugged slightly, “I mean, it hasn’t been vetted yet. Not completely, but it looks promising.”
“From Bren?”
Dr. LaRue cocked her head to the side while she tried to piece together his meaning. Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh! You mean the girl? No.” She returned her attention to the case and gingerly set it between her feet.
“So Bren wasn’t actually immune or was her blood not good to use—”
“No, we were able to extract what was needed from her blood, but it wasn’t to create a vaccine. We used it in a makeshift treatment for those already infected.”
Hatcher’s eyes grew wide. “So, you already have a treatment for the Zulus?”
She shook her head. “If we could capture each one and place them in an isolation ward and spend hundreds of man hours for one on one treatment plans, then yes. But we have to find a treatment that can be blanketed across a wide area. We need a one and done approach that can cure the most people with the least amount of risk.”
“You need a silver bullet.” Hatcher’s voice was deadpan and nearly hopeless.
She considered his words and nodded slightly. “That’s one way of putting it.” She scooted forward on her seat, her eyes probing his. “We need a vector, whether biological or environmental that can affect the biggest portion of the infected. We’re looking at reverse engineering the virus itself and changing its DNA so that it will basically undo what the original virus did.” She gave him a soft smile. “While that sounds doable, it really isn’t. That’s why we are experimenting with other delivery systems. We’re considering airborne, but even that is less likely to reach all of the infected. Perhaps water…” She seemed to lose herself in thought as other possibilities entered her mind.
Hatcher sighed heavily and leaned back in the seat. He turned to Buck. “Doesn’t sound promising, does it?”
Buck shrugged, his eyes staring out the window. “I suppose it beats no hope at all.”
Savage pulled his boots on while Stella watched him. “Are you sure it was them?”
He looked up at her as he tugged at the leather laces. “Who else could it have been?” He hooked his chin toward the window. “If it had been ragers, they would have left nothing but a few bones.”
She sat back and stared into space. “I thought they were supposed to be the good guys?” She turned red-rimmed eyes at him. “Remember the whole settle down thing?”
He nodded, his mouth drawn into a tight line as he finished lacing the boots. “I know what I said.” He stood suddenly and took a deep breath. “I just can’t believe I was fool enough to have believed that bullshit Roger spewed.”
“Who’s Roger?”
Savage waved her off as he reached for the black t-shirt and pulled it over his head. “I fell for it all, hook, line, and sinker.”
She stood and reached for his hand. He paused, his eyes scanning her still nude form. “What if it wasn’t them?” She pointed out the window. “This is a pretty big town. There could be other survivors camped out here.”
He sighed heavily and pulled her to him. “I’d like to think it was. But he told me about a grocery store that hadn’t been plucked clean yet. If there were other survivors in this area, they’d have hit it.”
She shook her head and pulled from him. “Not if they’re in a different neighborhood.” She searched his eyes, praying that her chance to settle down hadn’t been taken away before it ever started. “We can’t know who is where or…or…”
He pulled her close again and hugged her. “Alright. I’ll wait to flatten them all until I know for sure.” He looked down at the top of her head. “Better?”
She nodded sadly and pulled him down for a kiss. “Better.”
As much as it pained him to leave her, he stepped around her and marched to the door. He paused and looked back at her. “Stay just like that. I plan to finish what we started.” The sly grin he shot her made her smile. She looked back and he was shutting the door.
She heard the Harley fire up before he pulled away from the trailer they called home. She watched as he drove off the curb and pulled away from the park.
Savage relished the wind in his face again, but his anger didn’t allow him to enjoy it. He knew who was to blame for the sentry’s death. He could feel it in his gut. He just couldn’t figure out why Roger would come back only to kill one of their guys and then vanish again.
He drove quickly until he came to the block with the trap. He approached slowly, his engine revving, the loud exhaust echoing off the surrounding buildings. This is how he was supposed to let Roger know they needed to meet.
Actually, it was supposed to be his way of letting Roger know that Simon was dead, but considering the circumstances, it was the only way he had to contact him.
He pulled to a stop just short of where the ragers had appeared before. If they were anywhere close, they’d know he was a sitting duck. He could almost feel their eyes on him as he shut off the engine and pulled his sunglasses from his face.
“Where are you, you squirrely son of a bitch?”
Carol checked the IV drip attached to Charles’ arm and scribbled in his chart. She glanced up at the man who glared at her, his jaw tight and quivering. She laid the chart down and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I take it that the aggressive impulses are still high?”
“I know better than to tell you what I think. You’ll just sedate me again you little—” He caught himself before he could utter the curse. His eyes never stopped boring a hole in her head as she stepped around him and noted his vitals.
“Your blood pressure is still elevated and your heart rate is…high.” She scribbled the numbers in his chart and marked the time.
“Yeah. I have eyes. I can see what they are.”
She paused and clicked her pen closed. She turned and studied him as she tucked it into her lab coat pocket. “So, you have the cognizance to realize your vitals are all off, but do you have the ability to discern proper behavior from improper?” She glanced at the mess he had made previously and shook her head. “I’m thinking no.”
“Fuck you and your proper behavior!” He tugged at the straps holding him and winced, his eyes squeezing shut as he seemed to force himself to calm down.
“Headaches?”
He nodded slowly. “They spike with each burst of anger and…it just keeps feeding into a continuous loop. The pain just makes me more angry, and the anger causes more pain.” He opened his eyes and pleaded with her. “Make it stop. Please.”
She hesitated for a moment, then reached into a cabinet. “I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to make you a
cocktail of topiramate, amitriptyline, and propranolol. If it’s anything like a classic migraine, this should knock it right out.”
He relaxed and watched as she drew small amounts from each vial. “Thank you.”
“My mother suffered from migraines. If this is what I’m thinking, then I can understand how it could feed the aggression.”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I’d say that it feeds the aggression, more like the aggression feeds it.” He sighed and rolled his head back on the pillow. “I can’t put it into words.”
She injected the cocktail into his IV and stepped back. “I’ll check on you in a bit. You can let me know if it helps.”
He nodded, and his eyes pinched shut as he tried to keep himself calm. She quickly charted his doses and slipped out of the room, turning off the lights as she exited.
She looked up and saw the CDO standing beside her workstation. “I just thought I’d check on Dr. Carpenter.”
Carol sighed and lowered her voice as she approached him. “His angry outbursts are increasing despite the treatment. I’m trying something different this time.”
He looked at her questioningly. “What are you trying?”
“I’m treating the symptoms, not the disease.” She turned him to face the acrylic wall that separated them from the Zed specimens. “You see how docile they are? That’s because of the sonic generator. If we turn it off, they go into a rage and, well, it isn’t pretty.”
The CDO nodded. “I’ve heard. I’ve not seen it personally, but I’ve read the reports.”
She gave him a confused look. “You haven’t seen how enraged the infected are?”
He shook his head. “I was at sea when all of this went down. Luckily, we avoided the fallout areas.”
“Understood.” She pulled him closer to the glass. “Without the generator, they would attack and probably eat anything or anybody that entered that holding cell.”
“But not each other?”
She shrugged. “I can’t say about in the wild, but here? No.”
“So, you’re treating Dr. Carpenter with the sonic generator?”
She shook her head. “His outbursts aren’t as extreme as these subjects. I want to save the generator for when nothing else could possibly work.”
“So what? Tylenol?”
She shook her head. “Migraine medications. I just gave him a cocktail of three different drugs. An antidepressant, a beta-blocker, and an anticonvulsant. They’re all three commonly used to help with migraines.”
The CDO nodded, pretending to understand. “Well, let me know if it helps him. I’ll report it up the chain.” He turned to leave and she walked with him to the door. “They’re pretty worried about him. They specifically asked me to keep them up on his condition.”
“That’s sweet of them.” She patted his arm.
He wanted to correct her and explain that it was more about self-preservation, but he simply gave her a smile and left.
He pulled his pocket notebook and jotted down what she had told him. He wanted to make sure he had it right when he informed Vickers.
Roger darted from house to house, yard to yard, using anything he could find as cover. The few cars that he found with keys in them had dead batteries. He considered trying to break into a few houses to see if he could find the keys to whatever was parked out front, but decided the risk outweighed the probability of success.
He stopped near another stucco house with red tiles on the roof. He took a moment and actually looked at the house. It could have been an impressive home, if it didn’t look like every other house on the block. He stood at the porch and enjoyed the shade. He was actually thankful it was fall and not summer. The temperatures would have been unbearable if it had been July or August.
He glanced around the neighborhood and actually felt his heart skip a beat when he saw a Harley Davidson sign in a lower floor window. He slowly came to his knees and stared at the sign.
“What are the odds?” He stepped out from cover and crossed the street. As he reached for the front doorknob he had a sudden realization that caused his heart to sink. How many kids have posters and signs of Harleys, Mustangs, Ferrari’s, etc? That doesn’t mean they actually OWN one.
He twisted the knob and pushed the door open slightly. No stench of death wafted out to greet him. He pushed the door open and gingerly stepped inside. He sniffed the air and caught no odors that would cause him to immediately wonder if somebody lived here. He ran his finger across the end table in the living room and pulled back a nice layer of dust.
“At least a month’s worth.” He glanced into the dining room. “At least, if I had to guess.”
He walked slowly across the tiled floor and welcomed the darkened coolness of the house. He stopped in the kitchen and wasn’t surprised that the cabinets all stood open, boxes and cans scattered about. “Looks like the kitchen is closed.” He pushed past the debris and opened the door to the garage. A wall of warmth hit him as well as the welcome smell of gasoline, potting soil, and fertilizer.
His line of sight was blocked by a large black SUV, but he quickly worked around it. He stood in silence and stared at the magnificent machine parked on the other side.
A burnt silver Harley Davidson Fatboy with leather saddle bags and a clear windscreen. He threw a leg over the bike and sat on the seat. “Ooh…that’s nice.” He stepped from the bike and saw the Saddleman logo on the seat. “Nothing like comfort gel.” He smiled to himself, then realized he had to find the key.
He rummaged through the garage and came up empty. He worked his way back through the kitchen and into the bedrooms. Rifling through all of the drawers, he, again, came up with nothing. The entire time he destroyed the place looking for a key, the same thought ran through his mind, They’re probably in some asshole’s pants pocket and he’s out there right now, a rager, chasing cats and eating anything that looks like a manwich.
He pulled the drawers out on a small jewelry box and threw the thing across the room when it didn’t give up the prize. Roger plopped down on the bed and stared at the mess he’d made. “It’s got to be around here, somewhere.” He slowly stood and paced the master bedroom. “Where would I stash a spare key?”
His eyes fell on the closet door. He pulled it open and saw row after row of suits, sports coats, slacks, fine linen shirts, ties…the other side held the equivalent in women’s wear. “What the fuck? Was this guy an accountant?” He held the suit at arm’s length, then dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Okay, fine. Where would an accountant hide a spare key?” He pulled boxes of Italian loafers from the top shelves and dumped them. For the most part, he ignored the hers side of the closet. No self-respecting man would hide a spare key in his wife’s things. He paused and tried to imagine his life as a doctor, accountant, or lawyer…no. He still wouldn’t hide a spare key there.
He stepped out of the closet feeling more than just dejected. He wanted to break something. He inhaled deeply to scream, then thought better of it. It was even more frustrating that he couldn’t vent his anger.
He marched out of the room, intent on figuring out a way to hotwire the damned thing when something caught his eye. He stopped and backed up.
Hanging on the wall between the living room and the dining room was a small wooden placard with the word KEYS across the top. He stepped toward it, his eyes focusing on the single ring with a short, stubby key on it.
He smiled to himself as he reached out and pulled it gently from the little brass hook. “Bingo.”
Roger rummaged through the rest of the house. He found a small camouflaged backpack and shoved what he thought he could use inside of it. Underwear, socks, food stuff, and a cheap survival knife. Too bad Mr. Accountant wasn’t a gun nut. He’d feel a lot better if he had something that went bang tucked into his waistband.
Roger dropped the backpack into the saddle bag and disconnected the garage door from the opener. He lifted the door and stared out into the New Mexico
afternoon.
“California, here I come.”
Chapter 17
Hatcher was deep in thought when Buck’s voice came across the static-filled headphones. “So, Skeeter is okay?”
Hatcher saw a glimpse of something painted across the young man’s face he couldn’t quite place just before Buck’s features returned to silent stoicism. He gave him a brief nod. “Yeah. She’s ornery as ever.”
Buck sat back, a satisfied smile forming. “I figured she’d be a handful.”
Hatcher snorted. “She stowed away on our mission to find the CDC.” He shook his head as he remembered how angry she had made him. “I was ready to wring her neck.”
Buck gave him a confused look. “The CDC?”
“We had a young couple show up at the warehouse that we’ve converted into a home of sorts. The girl had a healed scratch on her shoulder that came from a Zulu.”
Buck’s eyes widened. “Healed?”
Hatcher nodded. “We assumed she was somehow immune. We went in search of the closest CDC that we knew of. That would be where we just left. Obviously, they weren’t open for business.”
“Skeeter stowed away all the way to Colorado?”
“No, no…we didn’t get very far before we were set upon by this band of motorcycle-riding marauders. Nasty bunch that tried to force us off the road.”
Buck seemed more than concerned. He leaned toward Hatcher, his eyes probing the man. “So what happened? She wasn’t hurt, was she?”
Hatcher gave him a reassuring smile. “No. She’s fine.” He pointed to the front of the craft. “A chopper very much like this one appeared out of nowhere and pulled our fat from the fire.”
“What about the marauders?”
Hatcher pointed forward. “These things carry big guns, kid. No hillbilly on a Harley wants to face down a gunship.” Hatcher’s face twisted and he turned to LaRue. “Hey, doc? What about Jason and Bren? Will they be sent back to us or will you be keeping them for a while?”
Caldera Book 4: Countdown To Oblivion Page 15
