Bishop shook his head. “There’s no way anyone would live in there, at least not alone.” He remembered how buttoned up the kid had been and how well he wore his protective clothing.
Trevor shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”
Bishop studied the screens. The images were high definition, but they couldn’t tell the whole story. They couldn’t show him everything. His son was right.
“I’ll check it out,” Bishop agreed.
He didn’t hear any protest from his wife, so he returned to the driver’s seat and pulled the armored vehicle alongside the building. He parked it but left the engine idling.
He grabbed his rifle and stood by the back door. “Let me know if you see something on the cameras.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Go ahead.”
The back door lowered, and Bishop hopped out before it touched the ground. His knee still had a twinge of pain from his dead sprint yesterday, but it held his weight fine. Rifle pointed down, he carefully approached the bike. He kicked the back tire with his boot.
“It’s definitely the kid’s bike, but I don’t see him.”
He altered direction, creeping to the open side door. He removed his flashlight from his jacket, flipped it on, and shined it into an old office. There was a single desk with a scattering of papers across its surface. An empty key rack hung on the wall behind a metal chair.
Shining the light at the floor, he spotted a sleeping bag, pillow, and electric lantern, but no kid.
Backing out of the room, he returned to the bike. From Bishop’s vantage point, he could see a campfire behind the repair shop. Stones encircled the blackened remains of the fire, charred pieces of wood and what appeared to be scraps of wrappers and glass bottles.
A small cooler sat next to the fire, the perfect size for a little boy to sit on.
“Looks like he was cooking back here.” Bishop walked over and stood above the charred remains. He kicked his boot at the center and turned up some smoldering coals. “It’s fresh, like he might have had it going overnight and let it burn out.”
He stepped back and looked around at the neighboring yards. The fungus-laden tree branches swayed softly in the growing storm winds. The mottled gray grass stood as high as his knees.
Chain-link and wooden fences surrounded the local yards. The main street stretched toward town where hints of taller buildings sprung up. He spotted an abandoned Dairy Whip ice cream shop a few hundred yards down the road.
Aside from the Stryker’s low growl, all was quiet.
“I’m going to check all the way around.”
Bishop stepped past the fire to the back corner of the building and continued on to the other side.
“It reminds me of a guard post,” he said. “But what’s he guarding?” He glanced toward the armored vehicle but couldn’t see it from where he stood. “Trevor? Son?”
Bishop strode into the street until he could see the Stryker, though an uneasy feeling settled on his shoulders. He noticed the external cameras placed on the vehicle’s hard shell no longer moved. They sat motionless beneath their clear covers with no one controlling them.
“Trevor?”
“Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”
Relief flooded through him. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
“Sorry. I found something... You better get over here.”
“Where?”
“The other side of the Stryker. You won’t believe it.”
Bishop ran toward the line of trucks and sedans blocking the road, leapt onto the hood of a car, and slid across. He landed on both feet and staggered to the armored vehicle, throwing his shoulder against the side.
With a deep breath, he raised his rifle and whipped around the Stryker’s rear, tromping over the lowered back door. He leapt down, ready to blow the threat way.
Bishop froze and blinked. Then he removed his finger from the trigger.
A line of children sat on their dirt bikes facing him. Their ages ranged from about ten to fourteen, and all wore taped-up jeans, jackets, and air filtration masks.
The tallest kid sat on a mountain bike. He turned to the one next to them. They exchanged a few words before nodding at Bishop.
He stood in shocked disbelief when someone moved past him on his right. He twisted and raised his rifle barrel to fire but forced himself to relax once more.
It was only the boy he’d tried to catch the day prior. The one who’d gotten away. The kid had picked up his bike and was pushing it past Bishop to join the others. He stopped and gazed back with wide, innocent eyes.
“They’re moving in on her, mister,” the boy said in a tiny voice he barely heard through his mask. “You better hurry.”
“What?” Bishop stepped closer, leaning down. “Who are you talking about?”
“Your lady.” The boy held up a two-way radio as if that explained everything. “Scout says the Ugly Eight are coming.” He shrugged.
It took Bishop a moment to get the boy’s meaning. He was talking about Kim. Someone was moving in on her. A group or something. He turned toward the Stryker and placed his fingers on his earpiece.
“Kim, are you there, honey? Kim?” His voice rode a wave of panic, breath coming in gasps as his chest tightened. “Kim. Can you hear me, baby? Kim!”
The radio silence sounded like a death knell in his ears.
*
Not long after Bishop and Trevor left to search Salina for the bike boy, Kim stepped out of the bus and stood beneath the deep gray sky. She stretched her arms over her head and took a lungful of air. It smelled fresh, with the strong scent of rain filling her nose.
How long had it been since she’d stood in the rain?
She walked twenty yards along the eastbound lane of I-70, stretching her bruised legs and rolling her shoulders. She stopped and bent at the waist, touching her fingertips to the ground. She exhaled slowly, leaning into the hamstring stretch.
Kim straightened, put her right foot in front of her, and flexed forward to stretch her quadriceps muscles. She held it for sixty seconds before switching to do her other leg.
When she was done, she stood tall and angled her chin downward to lengthen her spine. Then she put her hands on her hips and paused. Sprinkles fell from the sky, and she turned her face up to received cold, wet kisses on her cheeks. She smiled as her skin tingled, hope renewed after weeks of desperation.
The outside spore counts had decreased since they first sprayed Harvest Guard several weeks ago. Either the fungus was weakening or Mother Nature was balancing the toxin. Probably both. The spores might vanish completely over time. It was nature’s comeback, the ultimate victory against humankind’s gross negligence.
She looked eastward where black smudges of clouds painted the sky like the watercolors of a mad artist’s piece. The road reached ahead of her, a world of madness between her and her friends in Yellow Springs. But it didn’t worry Kim because she was with her family, and they’d go east together.
The work she’d done using the Novel In-Vitro technique was paying off. She’d taken blood from herself and Bishop to launch the process. Her husband was their golden ticket. His blood type was O negative. He was a universal donor. That meant she could boost a wider variety of people from his contribution.
Things were looking up. If she could reach Paul, they could put their heads together and nail down a cure. Kim couldn’t wait to introduce the gang in Yellow Springs to her family.
That reminded her. She’d stuffed her earpiece into her pocket before washing her face in the sink earlier and forgot to put it back in.
She dug the device out, hooked it over her ear, and put the bud in place. Chatter bombarded her link, AMI and Bishop calling her simultaneously.
She put her finger to the earpiece and pressed it tighter. “I’m here. This is Kim. Sorry, I--”
AMI’s polite yet insistent voice cut through. “I’m detecting movement all around you. Six people. Please be wary.”
Kim’s eyes darted to the edge of the road b
efore shifting to a pair of wrecked cars a way off. She saw no one there, so she turned to the center median, eyes scanning the concrete barrier.
“I don’t see anyone,” she murmured. “There’s no one here at all. AMI, are you sure--”
Bishop’s deep tone barked through the line. His voice sounded panicked beneath the rumble of the Stryker’s engine. “Honey? Oh, thank God. Where are you? Are you inside the bus?”
“No. I’m outside. I was stretching my legs--”
“Get inside. Now! I’ll explain later.”
“But--”
“Do it please, honey.”
“Okay.” Kim turned and marched toward the bus.
She looked over her right shoulder and then twisted to her left. She heard a scuffle of movement and glimpsed someone’s boots beneath the bus’s rear section. She caught a scrape of shoes approaching her from behind.
She cursed herself for not bringing a weapon.
“Open the--”
A diminutive form rose from beneath the bus, blocking her way to the door. It was a woman, wearing a T-shirt with a scarf wrapped around her face. She couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds. Kim could have run right through her if not for the shotgun she held.
She stopped as more marauders crept up. A glance around showed they dressed similarly to the woman, with plain clothes, facial scarves, and weapons.
Kim balled her hands into fists, ready to strike. She wasn’t going to be taken. Wasn’t going to be abused again like Richtman had done to her. She’d fight and die before she let that happen.
“Get out of my way,” she growled.
The woman lowered her shotgun and stepped forward, poking the end toward Kim’s stomach. Kim retreated, eyes dropping to the weapon. One pull of the trigger and she’d be spread all over the highway.
Still, she stopped, unwilling to move away from the bus’s safety. It was her home, and her daughter was inside. She levelled her gaze and refused to withdraw any farther.
Their eyes met, and Kim wondered what was behind the scarf. As if in answer, the woman lowered her shotgun and reached up. She lifted the facial covering aside, revealing a thin nose and lips and an angular jaw. Her reddish hair was close-cropped, choppy like a five-year-old had cut it. She wore no lung protection at all. No air filtration mask or even a dust mask.
As Kim would have expected, spots of mold peppered her upper lip and clung to the insides of her nostrils. Her eyes swam with black dots. Kim’s analytical mind immediately worked to determine how she could have such symptoms but not have labored breathing.
Kim looked around at the others. They wore scarves hanging from their faces, revealing similar spore growth. Three men and two women, all suffering from some degree of infection.
Like with Jessie, it must be a weaker form of the fungus.
The woman stepped forward, head tilted and eyes curious about something. She raised her fingers toward Kim’s face. Her fingertips traced Kim’s upper lip and moved to the tip of her nose, caressing the area before drawing away.
A tear streaked down the woman’s face. “How?” Her voice was a croak, a possessed sound that should not have come from her thin frame.
“You don’t understand why I’m not infected,” Kim replied with a knowing nod. “I can tell you all that, but first you have to lower your weapons. You have to let me back inside the bus.”
The woman started to reply, but lightning licked across the sky, and thunder rippled behind it like an ill omen. Rain poured, hitting the hot concrete and splashing up in a violent downpour.
The ground sizzled. Kim whipped around and stared eastward. A hot mist rose from the pavement, the gray and crimson fungus shining and glistening where it had captured parts of the road.
Tendrils of black formed within the clouds. Spores coagulated and searched for life. They rolled forward on the mist, carried by the wind.
“It’s Asphyxia,” Kim said, gape-jawed as she stared at the nightmare she’d hoped never to witness again. “The rain. The moisture. It must be--”
Someone screamed, and she tore her eyes to the road’s center where a man stood on the other side of the median. The mist had reached him, covered him in tendrils. He clutched at his throat, twisting as the thick spore clouds clogged his airways. He whipped around, wide eyes staring in terror.
Then he fell, disappearing behind the concrete barrier.
“I might not be immune,” Kim whispered. She turned back to the woman with a warning in her voice. “We’re not safe. We have to--”
Someone else screamed and the woman’s head jerked at the sound. She shot Kim a terrified expression of primal fear before bolting west along the expressway, followed by the rest of her people.
“Wait!” Kim called after them with a half-wave. “You can come inside. You can--”
“Mom!” Riley stood at the open bus door with her air filtration mask on. “Come on. Get inside.”
Kim nodded and rushed over, climbing past her daughter and into the decontamination chamber. Riley followed her up, and AMI closed the door, putting a barrier between them and the toxic cloud.
Chapter 11
Randy, Indianapolis, Indiana
Randy carried the two dinner bags through the plastic tunnel with Tricia hobbling along on her crutches behind him. The cafeteria was closed, forcing them to eat in the new section of the school they’d opened.
He kept to the right, trying not to brush the passage sides. Earlier, a crowd of people had accidentally wrecked part of it. Luckily, the thick walls hadn’t torn, and no spores broke through.
After that, a crew had installed support rails, covered the passageway in black tarps, and limited the amount of people inside at one time.
Still, the corridor was packed with workers heading to the cafeteria for food. Randy did his best to keep a clear path for Tricia, using his shoulders and backside to make room if someone came too close. After many apologies and sour looks, they entered the gymnasium and cut straight through the middle.
They’d raised the male-female divider for the day, allowing camp citizens to gather and socialize. Eyes shifted to them as they walked by, followed by snickers and whispers behind their backs. Word had gotten out about the attack on Randy, and a few questioned his story’s veracity.
But he had the bruises to show for it, and he scowled at anyone he caught giving him grief. That’s all he could do. Calling someone out would only get him into more trouble with John.
“It’s so damn noisy in here,” Randy complained, wishing he could bust out and sprint through a field with the warm sun on his face.
“Hey, wait up!”
Randy turned and saw that he’d left Tricia behind. His angry strides had carried him to the other side of the gymnasium before he’d noticed.
When she caught up, he shook his head in apology. “Sorry, I hate it in here.”
Tricia gazed at him sympathetically, but a fraction of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “We’ll find a nice quiet spot to eat.”
They made their way past the weight room where lifters grunted, and dumbbells clanked. Randy longed to get a workout in, but the place was constantly packed with people.
They moved to a pair of glass double doors and took a hard left, continuing down a hall that connected to the classrooms. John had just opened the new section after sterilizing it and achieving a zero-spore count. Camp residents could use the classrooms to read books, eat their meals, or enjoy some quiet time.
Randy still had his closet space, though he was wary of working there alone. And he couldn’t doze off for fear of someone coming in and clobbering him.
They took another right and searched for a spot to eat. He peeked inside the fifth classroom down, found it empty, and stood back to allow Tricia to enter. She hobbled in, and Randy followed her, looking around at the old bookshelves and blackened windows.
He imagined the old school smells like books, chalkboard dust, and art paint. But disinfectant lingered strong
in the air, ruining the thought. Randy found two desks in the center of the room and placed their dinner bags on top. Then he pushed the desks together and gestured for Tricia to sit.
She laid her crutches on a side desk and slid into her chair. Randy joined her, plopping down hard and snatching his bag.
“Aren’t you glad you don’t have to push me around anymore?”
He shrugged. “I know you hated being in the chair, and you hated me pushing you when you got tired.”
“Not all the time.” She removed a chicken salad sandwich from its wrapper and bit into it. After chewing and swallowing, she gave a contemplative frown. “It was kind of nice. No one ever gave me the royal treatment before.”
He scoffed. “That was the royal treatment? Maybe I should have asked for more money.”
Tricia tossed a bite-sized piece of chicken at him. It struck his chest and bounced off, but he caught it before it tumbled to the floor. He popped it in his mouth with a grin.
They ate in silence for five minutes. Randy finished his ham and cheese sandwich and beef barley soup in record time. Then he sat back and sipped on his cola.
“I heard they’re going to begin moving people into these rooms soon. You know, to actually sleep.”
Randy shook his head. “Good. I’m starting to feel like a sardine packed into a can.”
“You tend to get antsy.”
“It’s not that,” he said. Then he backpedaled and nodded in agreement. “Well, it is that. And the people. But it’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“I feel like we’re sitting here waiting for the hammer to fall. Odom has to know where we are. He must be preparing to hit us.”
Tricia leveled her hazel eyes at him. “Hey, I’ve got that same sense of impending doom. It’s like we’re sitting ducks.”
“Being set up is more like it.”
“You’re feeling paranoid, and I don’t blame you. Odom is a tricky bastard. The way they set those traps for people...” Tricia shook her head.
“Yeah, well. John won’t listen to me about Kirk.” Randy made a disgusted sound. “Someone tried to kill me, and I’ve got the bruises to prove it.” He held up his arm to show Tricia the deepening mark where he’d caught the crowbar. The medic had concluded no bones were broken, but it was a painful reminder of the event.
Spore Series | Book 4 | Exist Page 11
