“Mom, I don’t understand what this has to do with anything.”
“Thirty-six hours. That’s all it took. Thirty-six hours to kill eighty-million people.”
I’m trying so hard to see where she’s going with this. What is she trying to tell me? Why is she talking about something that happened when I was a baby?
“There are people who believe it was not an accident. That all of the world’s leaders allowed this to happen. They think the virus was created in a lab, on purpose, to kill off part of the world population.”
“Okay… So? People have always come up with crazy conspiracy theories.”
“It wasn’t a conspiracy. They were right. It was a man-made flu virus that they wanted and did release to the public. We were lucky here. We may have had a rough year getting back on our feet again. The economy took a major hit, but we turned to our leaders, we listened to everything they told us. They wanted to make us rely on them.”
“The smaller countries of the world weren’t so lucky. They lost millions of more people from the aftereffects of the virus. Famines and wars happened in the majority of smaller countries. The U.S. was back on top again. We were the heroes of the world, helping the other countries as much as we could.”
I’m still confused. Now, more than ever. I don’t understand any of it. Why Mom is telling me this? Why the leaders would release such a deadly virus in the first place.
“Emma, I think they’re doing it again. I can’t be sure, but it’s awfully familiar. We’ve been on the verge of war for years now. What if this is just another way to control us all. To round us up. Get rid of the weak and take in the strong.”
“No. That can’t be it. Why would they have Dad working to create a cure?”
“Even if his team managed to create one, who’s to say if they would be allowed to share it with the rest of us.”
My heart thuds in painful triads against my ribs. Everything is shrinking in on me, compounding into a tight cage around my chest.
“What do we do?” I ask, gripping the underside of my seat, my nerves frying in my brain.
“What we need to do is find your father."
"Do you think he’s still alive?" I ask.
"I think so. I’m not sure, but I can't imagine they would harm him, regardless of if they are still trying to make a cure or not. I mean, they recruited him.” Mom shifts her weight, looking back to the computer, pressing her finger into the power button below her monitor. “It is out of character for him to not keep in touch with me, though. He would still be writing to me if he could. I was thinking... what if they are intercepting his letters? What if he couldn't say what he wanted to, so he tried a different method?"
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I was thinking if they are seizing and reading letters, how else could he communicate with us.” I can hear an edge of excitement rising in her voice. Hope. For the first time since this mess started, she’s hopeful. She waits for the computer to boot and then keys in her password bringing up an image of our family’s Christmas photo from last year on her desktop background.
“Well, then, I thought maybe your dad did send messages. But through our work emails." She selects her email and scrolls through her inbox in warp speed before slumping back into her seat.
"Nothing, then," I mumble, lowering my head in obvious disappointment.
"It’s fine; I really wasn’t expecting much. I haven’t noticed any messages from him before now, but I thought I’d double-check. Plus, if he sent the e-mail, there would be another chance of them seeing it."
She jumps up from her desk with a newfound wind, “Come on, we need to go to his office.”
She ushers me back into the hall, through the double doors to the stairs. Behind the thick glass-paneled windows of the emergency exit doors, the sky billows in colors of pinks, orange, and purple, signifying that the afternoon is turning into evening.
We climb the dark stairs to the building's top floor, using the flashlight to guide our steps. I can sense Mom’s excitement; her energy is contagious. It pushes me into my field and fills me with a nervous thrill.
It's eerie quiet as we walk down the hall. Dad's office is about halfway down, requiring one of the building's largest lab spaces. Once to his door, Mom lifts her ID up, revealing Dad's underneath as she scans it to give us access to his office.
Mom flips the light switch next to the door; his office is a replica of Mom's but much greater in size. She rushes to his computer, turning it on with fever as I amble around, searching for pieces of him in the room.
Dad has a signed Atlanta Braves baseball on his bookshelf, closed away in a glass box. He has a picture of my mom, looking young and beautiful, on one shelf and another photo of us all on the next shelf down.
I laugh to myself as I open up the first drawer of his center filing cabinet and find his Metallica t-shirt folded neatly in the corner. He hated that he had to be all buttoned up and formal at work. Dad used to tell me that when he knew he would be alone for a while, he would change into one of his t-shirts. He'd keep his lab jacket close by so he could throw it over his clothes quick if someone wanted to talk to him.
"Yes!" I hear Mom say, triumph saturating through her vocal cords. As I turn around, I see her flipping through Dad's "Draft" section of his email.
"Look!" she says, selecting the first one, "I didn't see anything in his actual email, but then I noticed that he had a few drafts. He must have been writing under the pretext of work."
I lean over Mom’s thin shoulder, looking into the bright screen of the monitor. The first one is the most recent, dated one week old.
I'm sorry. It's my fault.
They are watching everyone so carefully. William,
he hated what they are doing. I tried to help him.
I couldn't. Officers caught him and another soldier.
He told me his friend accidentally killed one
of the guards as they were trying to escape.
They held a trial, but it was all a sham. They knew
what they were going to do. They executed him.
I wish I had done more for our son. I'm so sorry.
I love you and Emma, please, always know that.
Mom and I both push the tears out of our eyes as she selects the next draft, written a month ago.
It's been about two months since I've typed a message,
Five since I've written an actual letter. They won't mass
produce the cure to stop the virus. No one is telling me
why. I'll keep digging, but I'll have to be careful; I don't
want to have anyone watching me too much.
Will is struggling. I am trying to keep him on track, but
every time he starts to get better, he does something
new to land himself in hot water. He misses you both,
as do I.
I love you.
Mom selects the next draft, dated three months ago.
It's been three months since I've written a letter. I've got
to keep this short. We've found a cure! It kills me
that we are experimenting on real people, soldiers at that, but at least
now we can save them. With the mutation,
we have to give them the cure within the first 10 minutes,
or it won't work. We will keep working to see if we can
strengthen it.
Will and I miss and love you both.
Only one more draft is left. Mom selects it, and as we read through it, feeling our momentum recede.
I am not going to be writing letters anymore. The last
letter you wrote was opened before I got it. Others
have complained about their letters being opened too. I
know you'll figure it out and be reading this soon enough.
Will is doing okay right now. Getting out with his unit
seems to be lightening his mood, for the most part.
We love you and miss you both.
&nb
sp; "He was right. You did figure it out," I say with a small smile as I push a tear out of my eye.
"Yes, later than he expected, I'm sure.”
“What now? Do we write back to him?” I ask, heat pulsating through my fingertips. They tingle from my palms, down each knuckle, and into my finger pads. Itching to message Dad back. To let him know we figured it out.
“No, I don’t want any chance of them knowing that we’ll be heading there. If they wanted us there, they wouldn’t have tried to destroy the whole town.”
“I don’t understand any of this. What are we going to do?”
“I know he said the government isn't releasing the cure to anyone, but we can change that. Or we can figure out how to make it ourselves and then come back here to produce it."
"Come back here? Are you joking?” I look at her incredulously. “How would we get back off of the base? Will was killed because he tried to leave. What? You think we should sacrifice our lives in some vain attempt to save the world?" Heat flashes through my head as my eyes narrow at her.
It would be one thing for us to get there and be with Dad and Lauren. But she said it herself, governments do strange things to protect their secrets. What does she expect them to do if they find out that we are planning on stealing the cure from them? We’ll die. And for what?
"We'll figure it out. Come on, we need to get going." She bounces out of her seat, relief written in every feature of her face.
How can she be so optimistic? Does she not care what happens to us? I stuff my anger down, fanning my face as I try to regulate myself again. Mom would never let anything happen to me. She’ll come up with some way to keep us all protected.
Mom turns the flashlight back on, guiding us back towards the stairs as we enter the hall again. A low humming noise is issuing from one of the rooms to our right, making us stop for a moment to listen for movement. A dragging noise can be heard as a light blinks on and off through the door's window.
"Must be one of the machines still running. They probably forgot to turn it off in the shuffle to get out of here." Mom sighs, shrugging her shoulders.
"Wait! Listen," I say, leaning into the door. It sounds like a small thudding noise, something knocking into a wall. Mom leans in with me, listening for the noise.
THUMP!
We both jump back as a hand pounds into the door.
"What in the?" Mom trails off. She walks back to the door and shines her light in the window. As we look in, we see an infected man, his dark eyes bearing into ours. Spotting us is making him crazy. He keeps pounding his purple and red bruised hands on the door before using his head instead.
"Jennifer?" We both jump at the quiet deep voice coming from the other end of the hallway.
"Mr. Buckley?" She asks in surprise, pushing me behind her as she turns to face him, "It's my boss," she whispers to me.
"I'm so glad to see you are okay," he says, advancing on us.
"Yes. I’m glad you’re okay as well. What happened to him?" Still, on guard, she points to the man behind the door.
"He somehow found his way in, so I lured him into a room and locked it shut." The simple answer rolls of his tongue in one fluid stream.
"How did he find his way in? I had to scan my ID at the door. And why are you here?"
“Someone accidentally left one of the emergency exit doors open when they left. I closed it, of course. Stayed behind so I could protect the lab.”
The infected man is still beating the door with his hand while Mom and her boss talk. Something catches my eye through the window—a glint of something silver, a watch, maybe. I gulp in the air, suddenly feeling dizzy and short of breath. My heartbeat quickens as the blood thrashes through my veins.
"Mom!" I let out shrilly, grabbing hold of her arm. "They're... they're all dead." My voice quakes as I point through the window to the bodies lying on the floor.
"What?" Mom gasps, shining the flashlight in; we see the lab jackets and ID's thrown about. Bodies are piled on top of one another. Some are lying motionless in corners, others gathered around doors. Blood is pooled on the floor, and splatters crawl across machines, walls, and files.
Mr. Buckley comes flying at us, something taut in his plump fists. His hand comes hurtling into Mom's neck, and he pushes the syringe down, injecting a white substance into her bloodstream. She screams with pain as it goes in but reacts quickly, drawing the gun out of her back pocket and firing a shot into Mr. Buckley's shoulder.
He screams out, dropping the syringe as he falls to the ground, clutching his shoulder.
"Did you just inject me with the virus?" My mother shrieks, slamming her foot into her boss's bleeding shoulder.
He cries in agony, trying unsuccessfully to push her foot off of him. She digs deeper, waiting for an answer.
"Yes!" he squeals, visible tears leaking out of his bulging red eyes.
"Why? What’s the point of this?" She says in a cold, exacting voice. Mr. Buckley opens his mouth to answer but instead coughs up a mouthful of blood. "Answer me!" She screams as his body goes limp beneath her.
"No, NO!" I scream, backing away from my mother.
"Here, take this," she steps towards me, shoving their work badges into my hand, "The code is 039996. Your birth year, Will's, and then your dad and I's wedding year. Remember it. You’re going to have to run, get away from me. You have to do this on your own now. I’m sorry.” She looks at me with sadness in every inch of her beautiful, tangled face, “Please. Go!”
"But... How? How am I supposed to do this without you? Please, don't leave me." Tears are pouring out of my eyes; I can't control them. Why is this happening to me? Every single thing that I have ever loved, ever held dear is being stripped away from me one by one.
"You can do this, Ems. I know you can. You are brave. You are brilliant, and you are so strong. I know this is almost unbearable, but you can bear it, you can! I don’t want to leave you, but you can’t stay with me. You have to go. Find your dad, find the cure.”
I can’t move. Everything is shrinking around me. Tightening around my lungs, caging me in. I just stare at Mom as my throat closes in.
“Emma, please. I am going to start changing soon. Come on, I'll get you as far as I can, but we have to go fast." She grabs my hand, and we run together to the stairs, back down the dark hall into the main entry room. She pulls out the car keys as we get to the door.
They won't open. The damned doors aren't moving.
Mom runs over to the side of the door and slams her hand into the bright red emergency open button. The alarm starts sounding in the buildings, shrilling down the halls, shaking the floor and walls in its vibrations. The doors finally open and stay put.
Rushing through the doors, we see Infected coming our way from every direction; their sickly, heavy breathing fills the air. The alarm draws them into us, closing in on our escape route.
"Run," Mom hisses.
Chapter 8
While we drive, the clouds are rolling in with us. The increasing wind strength whips roughly at the car, trying to push us all over the road. The sky is darkening by the second, threatening to open at any moment and release a downpour of rain.
We drive towards the bridge leading to downtown and the interstate out of here. Mom has both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead, maneuvering through groups of Infected, cars on the sides of the road, and anything else left behind.
My brain is racing. Panic rising in my throat like bile waiting to spew out everywhere. The countdown is on. In less than ten minutes, my mom will be one of them. How did we get to this? I've lost my mom, my brother, my best friend, and her mom, all on the same day. This is too much. What if Mom changes while I'm still here? What if I have to kill her? I... I couldn't.
"Dammit!" It slips out without me having a moment to stop it. I fidget with one of the straps on my backpack, afraid to even look at her.
Mom peers sideways at me, and sensing my anxiety, she scoots forward in the seat, bringing herself closer to
the steering wheel.
"Reach underneath my jacket and grab the gun."
I grab it out of her belt, and my hand immediately droops in a weight I hadn't expected. I wrap it in both hands, pulling it closer to me. My fingers meander across the hard metal, feeling its steel body in mine. They graze the black rubber grips, rising and falling in over each long rib.
"Here," Mom says, pulling out a small rectangle box from her jacket pocket. "These are the last of the bullets. I need you to make me a promise, okay?”
“What?” I ask, scared to hear her say what I already think she wants.
“Promise me that if it comes to it, if I change too fast, promise you will stop me."
"Mom," I say in protest.
"Emma, I mean it. You cannot let me hurt you. I won't ask you to do it if it isn't necessary. You have been through enough. But that's just it; you will get through this. You will continue on. So, if my change starts to prevent you from going on, you have to put an end to it."
We sit in silence as we draw closer to the river. My mind can't help focusing on the hidden meaning in her sentence. If we hadn't lost so much already today, my mom would want me to kill her when she changes. She wouldn't want to go on like that, not in control of herself. Even though I know this is what she wants, I'm thankful she doesn't fully say it. I don't want that burden on me.
Finally, I speak up, "I don't even know how to load a gun with bullets, let alone shoot it."
"Well, first of all, do you see this little switch above the trigger," Mom starts, pointing to the spot, one hand still on the wheel, "That is the safety. While it's down, it's locked. You can't shoot."
Something bright catches my eye as we talk, and I look up to see us heading straight towards the closed gate at the bridge. Cones are lined up on the ground in front of it, and in the middle is a large reflective road work sign.
"Mom!" I yelp, pointing.
Mom twitches her head up, seeing the construction ahead. Mom yanks the steering wheel towards the left. It's too much; her overcorrection sends our car spinning across the road.
A Whisper in the Flame (The Ragers Series Book 1) Page 5
