Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set

by Bridget E. Baker

  My eyes widen.

  “Of course not.” He shakes his head in disgust. “I’m sure it’s easier to believe that someone planned the apocalypse. But I injected myself with one of the doses I stole before dosing Chaz with Triptych, and kept the other to replicate and sell. When the virus spread as indicated, I dosed some prisoners with the accelerant, which Don developed to allow quicker lab testing on the progression of the virus. After all, if we had to wait years on each round of trials, we'd have died of old age before we could take it to market.”

  “And your buyer found the death toll satisfactory?” Uncle Dan shakes his head.

  “Yes, they did. They paid me a significant sum of money, which I used to pay off my debts with plenty left over. I knew I'd make even more on the back end with my cure. I meant to put some into a trust for little Ruby, actually.”

  “But you got so caught up twirling your mustache and counting your money that what? You forgot?”

  “Your dad lied to me. He didn't formulate a cure. I took the papers that accompanied the doses I stole to another virologist, a qualified one, Don's former boss. He told me that what I thought was a cure only worked on me because I was healthy when dosed. What I stole was some kind of reverse engineered antibodies that self-replicate. Not a cure at all. There was no way to ever spin what I stole into a cure, thanks to the makeup of the Triptych virus. It would only ever work as a preventative. Don's boastful lie killed the world, not me.”

  I can't speak, because I can't even think. We found the partner, but there's still no hacker virus? What was my dad writing about then? It doesn’t make sense. I slump where I'm sitting. Aunt Anne will die. All the Marked will die. Our hope was false all along. Why would my dad lie about something like that? Especially in his own journals?

  Unless his partner stole the wrong syringes? Surely John couldn't be that stupid, but I don't believe my dad would lie about having a cure when he didn't.

  “You may call him boastful, but my dad never wanted Triptych released,” I say. “He died because you insisted on selling it, literally over his dead body.”

  John leans toward me. “Your dad was such a pathetic guy, so laser focused on his work to the exclusion of all else that he lost your mother to an abusive sociopath. He went crazy after that and stole you from your rightful parents, which I didn’t discover until years later. He lied to me about the progress of the project I financed, which I discovered he was secretly planning to give away instead of sell if it ever actually worked. He robbed Josephine of her child, and he planned to rob me, and he deserved everything he got. He's the one who doomed the world, and he's the one who led us all where we are. It's his fault I'm forced to do another horrible thing in a long sequence of actions I never wanted to take.”

  “Then don't do it,” Uncle Dan says. “You're right that this wasn't your fault. We're dear friends, and we've been through a lot. You can still fix this, John. Do the best you can with the information we have, and let us go. We may not be able to save the Marked children, but we can ease their suffering.”

  John stands up. “Ease their suffering? They've got less than a week before it's permanently concluded.”

  I assumed David Solomon somehow developed the accelerant, and I never suspected my dad or his partner. But John said he had the accelerant, which means it might not have been a Port Head at all.

  My eyes widen. “You accelerated the Marked settlement. But why did you want them all dead?”

  “They're a threat to my people,” John says. “Same as they were to Solomon's. We've discussed it for years, going back and forth on whether they help us by creating fear that unites our people, or endanger us by their very presence. That kind of ongoing threat undermines our rule if it continues too long. Leadership is a balancing act, and they've been teetering between helpful and damaging for years. Ultimately, now that the suppressant's failing, they're a wild card. That shoves them over into the liability column.”

  “They're humans, not the bottom line on a financial statement,” Uncle Dan says.

  “Those humans keep the possibility of another outbreak alive, and we've feared the virus would mutate for years. If Tercera goes airborne.” John shudders. “They've already survived far longer than they should have.”

  Longer than they should have?

  “Wait, did you change out the suppressant?” I ask. “And set up my aunt to take the fall?”

  John stands back up. “If I'd changed out the suppressant, no one would've been able to tell the pills looked different. Using prenatal vitamins was sloppy. I don't know who botched that, but it certainly wasn't me.”

  “But the accelerant,” Sam says. “That really was you?”

  John rolls his shoulders. “This is tedious now. Of course that was me. The Marked were getting restless, rebellious even. It was time to knock their numbers back. We only hit Baton Rouge where most of them had gathered thanks to the bungled leak of Solomon's plan to Cleanse them. They ran to Baton Rouge like rats huddling together. Safety in numbers isn’t a bad idea, except you're also an easier target.”

  “Dad,” Sam says, “the leader who consolidated the Marked, the one who made them dangerous.” Sam closes his eyes. “It's Raphael.”

  John shakes his head. “That's impossible.”

  Sam turns away. “You abandoned him once, and now you've killed him outright.”

  John swallows once and his eyebrows draw together. “Your little brother died with his mother. I couldn't locate them.”

  Sam says, “Which means nothing. He survived, which I know because I saw him. I hugged him, and punched him in the face a time or two when he did something stupid. The Marked call him Rafe, but it's my brother, without a doubt.”

  John glances at me, and then turns to Uncle Dan. “You would've said so earlier. You're lying.”

  “You’re the only one here who lies,” I say.

  John kicks me, his boot connecting with my hip. Pain shoots up my side.

  Sam's jaw muscles tighten and he strains against his restraints. “Don’t touch her again.”

  John tilts his head. “Or what, Samuel? You’ll make up more ridiculous stories I won’t believe?”

  “You’ll believe what you want Dad, but I didn't tell you earlier because you were too busy yelling and threatening me. I assume the others didn't tell you because they didn't want to intrude on our family news as a courtesy. I was trying to decide whether I should tell you, if we couldn't find a way to save him. Ironically, I didn't want false hope to cause you any pain.”

  “I already dealt with that pain.” John Roth swallows and I see uncertainty in his eyes.

  “It isn't a story. Real life is more unbelievable in this case. Your brilliant son, the born leader, the one who was exactly like you?” Sam leans forward, spitting out each word. “He is alive. You still sure you don't have that cure? Because it would really come in handy right now to clean up your mess.”

  “I've been cleaning up messes my entire life. Speaking of.” John holds out his hand to one of his guards. “Firearms, please.”

  The tallest guard, the one to the right of him, hands him a large black gun. I'm sure Sam would know what kind it is, and how loud, and how powerful.

  “The thing about cleaning up messes. If you aren't careful, they leave a stain.” John turns to the other men. “You three, step back.”

  They step back.

  “Put the safeties on your guns and toss them to the ground.”

  The three of them look at one another, and then glance at the tall guard. He shrugs.

  “Don't listen to him,” I say. “You're the stain he's about to clean.”

  John sighs. “Yes, listen to the captive instead of your leader.” He rolls his yes. “It's a demonstration, boys. And Jeremy, come back here by us. You can help me with this part.”

  Jeremy walks back to where they're standing, and the other three toss their guns to the ground. Because they're well trained.

  Well-trained morons.

 
; I exhale heavily and close my eyes, because I don't want to see this.

  Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Four shots. Four bodies. John drags them over and pushes them off the lake side of the dam one by one. I can't even hear their bodies hit the water, it's so far down.

  “If you train your men well, messes are easy to clean up. I can't risk them telling anyone what happened here, or what they heard. Unfortunately,” John says, “I trust you lot to keep quiet even less than I trusted them. You’re not as well trained and you have scruples. Far too many scruples.”

  Uncle Dan whistles, and I can barely make it out over the water cascading behind us. “You've gone over the edge like those boys you just shot. What's the plan for us? Six more bullets? Six more deaths on your head? I suppose once you've killed billions, ten more seems insignificant.”

  John says, “Nothing so inelegant as bullets, my melodramatic friend. I don't really want to do this, you know. I wish there was some other way.”

  “Let us go,” Uncle Dan says. “If there's no cure, there's nothing we can do. You haven't done anything wrong, other than shooting those guards, and Rhonda, Wesley and Job didn't even see that.”

  John kicks Wesley's still form where he lies next to me. “Poor little Ruby, couldn't choose between this pathetic wretch and my son?” He shakes his head. “Embarrassing, really.”

  Wesley moans and sits up. He glances at me, blinking repeatedly, blood running down the right side of his face.

  I put my fingers to my mouth.

  John tucks his gun in his waistband like Sam does when he has no holster handy. “You've noticed it's cold, I'm sure. I've kept you all bundled up, so 35 degrees doesn't feel too deadly yet. You're shivering, sure, but you can stop the physical reaction if you want. The shaking hasn't become involuntary.”

  I'm shivering like he says, but when I try, I can still my body, which means hypothermia hasn't set in. I'm not mumbling, and my thoughts still track. I stretch upward as far as I can and look over the edge. There’s nothing but inky blackness outside of the pool of white from the floodlight.

  “That water's barely above 32 degrees. Warm enough it's not frozen, but cold enough to kill you quickly. You won't last more than ten minutes in there, fifteen if you're really lucky, and you'll be too numb to move, much less swim effectively. When you add to that the bindings on your hands, well. You get the point. Zero percent chance of survival, but it's not a bad way to go.”

  “Wait, are you saying we’ll die from drowning or hypothermia? I need to know which one to prepare for,” Wesley says.

  I snort, and somehow his joke makes me sadder this time. I'm so sorry I let him come. I turn my head his direction. “I’m so sorry Wes. I should've made you stay with your mom.”

  “Oh come on,” John says. “With his mom?”

  I turn toward John Roth. “You are the worst person I know, and I killed David Solomon, so that's saying something.”

  John shakes his head. “That reminds me. With you and Solomon both tragically killed in such close proximity, I imagine your mother will be dreadfully depressed. She might need some consoling. I've heard she's still a lovely woman, and accustomed to doing as she's told. A visit to WPN to take your regent the news of your death might be in order.”

  I struggle to my feet. “You will not touch my mother. Not ever.”

  “Little Ruby struggles to her feet, making her our first volunteer,” John says. “Maybe you can let us know which option’s better. Wesley's apparently dying to find out.”

  “You disgust me,” I say.

  “You bore me,” John says simply.

  Sam jumps up behind me, wobbling slightly from the tight bindings on his ankles. “You will not kill her, father.”

  “Why not?” John pulls his gun out and trains it on his son. “I don't want to shoot any of you, but if you force my hand, I will.”

  Sam steps around me. “Shooting, drowning, hypothermia. No matter how you do it, it's still murder.”

  John sighs. “I have to kill them. We've been through this.”

  “Them? What about me? You'll really kill your own son in cold blood?”

  “Actually,” John says, “you're the one person I'd risk keeping alive. Promise me that you'll keep your mouth shut, promise me you'll do as I say when we return home, and I’ll spare you.”

  “What about Ruby?” Sam shakes his head. “I won't let her die.”

  He couldn't possibly be willing to go along with his dad in exchange for sparing my life.

  John sighs. “So noble and so stupidly in love. Ruby can't survive. She's too uncompromising. She won't lie for me. I'm not even sure she believes most of what I told her tonight, and I have no reason to lie. Besides, she's technically queen of WPN, and my contact tells me the people love her more than they loved her lunatic father.”

  “Think of the possibilities, with her and I ruling together in Galveston.”

  John frowns. “You've gotten cleverer. I'd have loved that yesterday, but now I can't allow it. In fact, the only way I can trust you is if you push her off. Shove her over the edge, and you come back home with me. We'll never speak of any of this again.”

  Sam's hands fly forward to strike his father. If it were anyone else, I'd bet on Sam. But John won two Olympic Gold Medals in boxing. He may not be genetically enhanced, but he's fast, well trained and accurate. Sam's hands are triple cuffed and his feet are hogtied.

  John ducks and Sam sprawls forward, barely raising his hands in time to avoid face planting into the icy concrete. The momentum of his fall carries him across the slippery ground quickly, until he rams into the safety rail on the edge of the dam.

  “Pathetic attempt. You can't even see straight with her around. Perhaps she's not a good test of your loyalty.” John leans over and grabs the back of my coat, bunching up the fabric behind my neck in his hand. When he lifts me into the air, I flail around, hands swinging, legs kicking. Sam slips and slides, trying vainly to get to his feet, but John's angry and Sam's winded, numb with cold, and bound. John strides purposefully to the edge of the bridge and shoves my shoulders out past the guardrail, my feet hooking on it. I don’t dare thrash anymore, unsure whether I’d free myself only to fall to my death.

  Sam scrabbles over to John's feet, and grabs my ankle.

  “Let her go, son. I'm doing you a favor. She's an anvil around your neck. You can't see it like I can, because you're too close.”

  Sam's hands encircle my leg above my shoe, but John lifts up his booted foot to kick them away. I claw at the zipper of my coat, trying to take it off so I can slip out, but my fingers are so numb they won't comply.

  As John’s boot comes down on Sam, a figure flies past me in a blur, slamming into John and knocking John and the blurry person both into the guardrail. In his shock, John releases me and I collapse in a heap on the ground. Without my weight to keep him balanced, John loses his footing and he and his attacker topple over the railing. The floodlight points the other direction, and my eyes strain to see through the metal mesh of the guardrail. Someone dangles from the icy concrete, holding on by the fingertips of two closely placed hands.

  Who is it? Is it John? Do we even consider saving him? I try to slide my fingers under the space on the railing, but with the rope binding my wrists, my hands won't fit through.

  When I stand up to look over the edge, my heart leaps into my throat. The hands belong to Wesley.

  “Wes!” I swing my left leg over the rail, determined to get to him. Sam's hands circle my right ankle before I can cross over. I shake and shake my leg, but he holds on just as tightly as he did a moment ago.

  “Sam!” I shriek. “Let me go.”

  Wesley's eyes widen. “Don't, it's too icy. You'll fall. Ruby, I love you, remember that.”

  “Stop it, Wes. You’re not dying.” I kick at Sam's hands until he loses his grip and I swing my right leg over, balancing on the icy edge of the bridge.

  Wesley says, “You idiot. You can't help me without falling yourself. Don't feel g
uilty. This was my choice. You’ve always been my choice.”

  He lets go and falls into the darkness.

  15

  My feet slip and I almost follow Wesley over the edge. My fingertips on the rail are the only things keeping me on the bridge, and I consider letting go. Maybe if I fall, I can help Wesley swim to the edge. Sam's hands yank me back over to the top of the bridge, and I land hard on the unforgiving cement.

  I bite at the rope on my hands. “Maybe we can drop a line to Wesley. We've got loads of rope between all of us, and your feet, too.”

  Sam hops to his feet and leans over the rail. “That's more than a hundred feet down.”

  “So?” I tug on the rope with my teeth, working it loose as quickly as I can.

  “You probably have ten feet of rope there. If I have ten on my feet, and your uncle has twenty, and Job and Rhonda each have ten, by the time we tie them together, we're only looking at fifty some-odd feet.” He shakes his head. “It's not enough, Ruby.”

  Fear, anger and frustration flood my body and carve their way out through my throat as I scream at the top of my lungs. “No! There must be something we can do.” I jog down the road into the darkness. The sleet stopped, but wind whips at my jacket and freezes my face. Maybe if I reach the shore, and if Wesley survived the fall, and somehow swims to the edge of the lake, maybe then. How far is it? I close my eyes and force my brain to work.

  A long way.

  We lived on the bend near the Cedar Point ATV trail. It's at least a mile from the bridge to the trail, and at least twice as far to cross the bridge. The bridge follows the line Wesley would have to swim to reach the shore, and he'd be swimming against the current flowing from the dam gates to reach it. After surviving a hundred foot fall into thirty-two degree water with his hands tied. And he doesn't know the area at all.

  My boot strikes a pile of rubble and I stumble forward. My hands, still bound and numb with cold, come up to break my fall, but not fast enough. My wrist wrenches sideways and the right side of my face, the side where John knocked me out, the side that already hurt, collides with the ground. I skid along the icy rubble of the path face first. I lie on the ground for a moment, dazed. When I push upward, my injured wrist howls at me in agony, but my face doesn't even sting, which isn't a great sign. I may be colder than I thought.