“They’re burning bodies,” Rick reported from behind binoculars.
Isabel borrowed them as Rick continued his observation through his M4’s scope. A man and a woman tossed a corpse onto a flaming stack of the dead. “They’re not wearing protective gear.”
“I noticed,” Rick replied, squinting slightly.
Isabel scanned the bodies awaiting cremation and the pile of gear obviously salvaged from them. Rick said, “Your brother’s stuff was all camo, right?”
“Yeah. It’s not them. Whatta we do? Those Infecteds are right by the road.”
“I don’t see any weapons.” Rick lowered his carbine. “Let’s just head on past.”
To Rick’s aid in donning her pack, Isabel contributed several grunts of exertion and hisses of pain before they proceeded up the road past the funeral pyre. When the man and woman, who neglected even to wear a scarf or bandana against the overpowering stench, turned toward them, Rick raised his right hand as before. But his left, Isabel noticed, gripped his carbine’s forward grip, ready to raise it into firing position.
The couple returned his wave awkwardly and tossed a fresh body—a naked child—into the crackling blaze. Rick and Isabel passed, cringing but without incident.
A half mile farther they came upon a crazed Infected teenager, who was pulping a body in a front yard with a shovel, alternately pounding it with the shovel’s flat head and jabbing its blade edgewise into the corpse, fully committed to its complete dismemberment. Other, calmer Infecteds kept a wary eye on and steered a wide path around the grunting boy as they systematically looted their murdered neighbors’ home and carried out sacks of food and jugs of water. Spray painted across the front door, which dangled from its hinges, was the warning, “Infecteds Will Be Shot on Sight!” And true to its word, the front porch was littered with bodies.
Rick stopped and listened, Isabel imagined, for a scream coming from that overrun house. She was greatly relieved not to have heard one. “Nothing we can do here,” he said.
There were random gunshots, however, in the distance. Isabel looked Rick’s way at each one. Sometimes they rose to a crackle of fire from multiple weapons, but mostly they were just the pop of a single shot. They grew louder with each hill crested.
Finally, Rick left the road, and they climbed a hill and found a vantage point among the trees. “Someone is attacking that house up ahead. The one with the white camper parked beside it with the electric cables running into the house.”
Isabel took the binoculars from him and found the house he described. A loud report of a rifle or shotgun fired at attackers in a ditch was accompanied by a flash from the windows of the house. “I can’t tell who’s infected and who’s not,” she said.
“Does it matter?” Isabel eyed Rick in surprise after that fatalistic remark. “I mean they could all be Infecteds, or all Uninfecteds, or even mixed. We can’t stop and intervene in every fight we come across, Isabel. We’ll never catch up with your brother.”
What followed was the worst moral crisis of Isabel’s life to date. It lasted far longer than the ten minutes it took to circumnavigate the firefight. She couldn’t even see the house from the streambed through which they waded, but she could hear its defenders. “Go away! Leave us alone!” a woman shouted. Her only reply was a few gunshots, which she returned. Isabel thought they had escaped with her conscience only bruised until, as they climbed back up onto the road, they heard, at the very limit the sound could travel, a crescendo of shouts from the woman and high-pitched shrieks from a number of children.
We could have killed those attackers, Isabel tormented herself in condemnation, or tried. Racked with guilt, she couldn’t bring herself to look up at Rick, and he said nothing as his sunglasses scanned the road ahead. “They’re evil,” she said softly for fear her voice would break and tears would flow.
“Who? Infecteds? I thought you, you know…?”
“Was on their side? I was…I guess. ’Cause of my sister. But not anymore. The things they do. The outrages they commit without any compunction whatsoever. Murder comes as easily to them as saying hello is to an Uninfected. How can you not conclude, like some of those people on TV I used to think were nutcases, that the only good Infected is a dead Infected? Even Emma. What atrocities will she commit before things settle down, if they ever do?”
“I thought you said we shouldn’t hold their crimes against them because they’re incapable of moral judgment, and it’s not their fault that they got sick and brain damaged.”
“I said that? Well, that doesn’t make as much sense as it did back at the NIH lab.”
With every step, they drew closer to Noah. He, his family, and the other Uninfecteds, as imperfect as they had proved to be throughout human history, were nonetheless on a higher evolutionary rung than Infecteds. They, and only they, were worth defending.
Chapter 7
THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY
Infection Date 68, 2225 GMT (6:25 p.m. Local)
Emma and Samantha waited just outside the glare of the studio lights as the anchorman and woman at the local television station completed their news broadcast.
“With the outbreak in Kanyakamari in the far south,” the blank faced woman read, “authorities in New Delhi report that Pandoravirus has now reached every region of India. An overloaded ferry filled with refugees attempting to escape the pandemic capsized during the night in the Gulf of Mannar, with the apparent loss of all aboard, estimated to be twelve hundred people. The government in Colombo has denied any responsibility although it has closed all ports and ordered their navy to fire on any craft attempting to enter Sri Lankan waters.”
The camera cut to the woman’s male partner, whose eyes were black like the female broadcaster’s. “Closer to home, Rawley Springs, Lacey Spring, New Market, and Newport have all joined a new and growing community formed in the wake of SED’s passage through the Shenandoah Valley.”
A woman with bright green darting eyes, wearing a mask and gloves with a face shiny with perspiration, directed Emma to a chair just outside the camera’s shot. With hands shaking in what Emma presumed was fear, she attached to the collar of Emma’s simple white blouse a microphone, and ran the wire over her shoulder and out of view.
“The fighting in Rawley Springs was intense but brief, with heavy casualties on both sides,” the announcer continued. “The casualties were lighter in Lacey Spring, but New Market agreed to join The Community without a fight. WHSV-TV is pleased to have the leader of The Community, Dr. Emma Miller, in our studio. Dr. Miller? Welcome.”
Emma said, out of habit, “Thank you for having me,” even though there had been no invitation. A few hours earlier, the few defenders of Harrisonburg’s outlying TV station had been overwhelmed by Dwayne’s quickly growing army.
“Tell us about your new community,” asked the man interviewing her.
“We are organized around three principles: voluntary agreement to an evolving social contract, work in exchange for satisfaction of basic needs, and punishment for violations of the social contract. Every morning at eight o’clock, we publish any amendments to the Rules proposed for the coming day. All citizens then either head off to their assigned jobs or have a reasonable amount of time—currently two hours—to depart the area governed by The Community if they do not agree to abide by the amended contract.”
“And what sort of terms does this contract provide?”
“Well, the core sets out the basic Rules,” Emma explained, turning to the camera and her audience in the wider region beyond it. “All Community members age fourteen and up must accept work at one of the posted jobs. No one may commit any violence not sanctioned by The Community. No gatherings larger than six people per ten square meters are allowed other than as called for by work commitments. Things like that. Then, as events dictate, we provide special Rules, sometimes on a temporary basis. For instance, one special Rule placed on each t
own’s bulletin board this morning and posted on The Community’s Facebook page is that no Community members are to approach the city limits of Harrisonburg.”
“And why that rule?”
“We would like to offer to the residents of Harrisonburg membership in The Community, and we would like to avoid violence preceding that offer, if at all possible. And your list of towns that have joined is incomplete. Already this afternoon, Grove Hill joined us, Shenandoah fell after about an hour-long fight, and fighting continues in McGaheysville even though Penn Laird to their west has already agreed in principle to join once a corridor along Highway 33 is opened to them.”
“Quite impressive gains,” said the newsman, which even to Emma’s ear sounded odd due to his total lack of inflection or emphasis. His off camera partner sat inert at the news desk and staring blankly into space, presumably not even listening. “And I presume, given that the remaining uninfected employees of our studio have been asked to remain in their jobs, that your Community includes both Infected and Uninfected members?”
“That’s right. The Community is open to all who agree to abide by the Rules.”
“And what if someone does not comply with them?”
“They’ll be punished.” The anchorman nodded at the plan’s reasonableness and didn’t ask follow-ups like, Punished how? But Emma caught sight of the small huddle of Uninfected studio workers, just outside the glare of the lights, who locked arms or held hands.
“You mentioned,” said the newsman, referring to a paper he held, “that you are hoping to incorporate Harrisonburg into your Community without violence. But the population of Harrisonburg has swollen to nearly a hundred thousand people with the arrival of refugees from Northern Virginia and beyond, many of whom are housed in empty dormitories and academic facilities at James Madison University. Reports that we have aired here on Channel 49 are that militias were being organized to quell the violence that is running rampant in the overcrowded and under resourced town. Would they not represent a significant security, or military challenge for you?”
“Yes, but not an overwhelming one,” Emma replied honestly to what she guessed was a question scripted by an uninfected producer. “Our intelligence indicates that Harrisonburg is down to only a few days of food left. The Mennonites who live in and around Harrisonburg have already sought our protection as they are some of the principal victims of looters’ violence, and we have agreed to a side contract with them to provide security assistance until the situation in the area is resolved. We expect that, if no overarching agreement is reached with the remaining local government, there will be ample opportunities for similar side deals as conditions deteriorate. Our Community is rebuilding, working the farms and fields, distributing food, water, and medicine, and maintaining law and order. Those things should be appealing to the citizens of Harrisonburg and to the refugees who’ve found shelter there, and we should be able to avoid a direct assault on the town. If not, every day we grow stronger and Harrisonburg more desperate.”
“Do you not fear the military forces of the United States?” the man read.
“Yes, we do. Of course we have taken note of the substantial firepower still deployed by the U.S. armed forces, and of the tremendous destruction they wrought before evacuation of the government from the District of Columbia. But that withdrawal left the Norfolk naval base and its associated facilities as the nearest large concentration of military forces. And it’s worth noting they lie over 200 miles from here, and would have to fight their way through Richmond, which is in total chaos, and negotiate or force their way through the Neutral Zone declared in and around Charlottesville, at least until that fails.”
“But you need only look up at the sky,” the newsman said—his own observation?—“to see, from the numerous jet contrails, that the airpower in Norfolk is still strong. Were they to come to the defense of Harrisonburg, do you think you could prevail in a fight?” That question was far too complex. He was definitely reading an uninfected person’s script.
“Yes. Eventually. But we don’t believe the military will be able to aid Harrisonburg given the other demands they’re facing. Norfolk is still facilitating the withdrawal of forces and government personnel not just from the District of Columbia, but from the Acela corridor and all across New England. Those evacuees are transiting through Norfolk to bases in southern Florida and Cuba. Given all those demands, Norfolk hasn’t even been able to forestall the collapse of civil government in Newport News and Hampton, which are just across the James River, and are barely maintaining order in Virginia Beach now that Pandoravirus has broken out there. They had to complete the withdrawal of Marines and FBI from their facilities in Quantico by air and sea, not overland, so Harrisonburg way down here is a little outside their area of operations.”
The anchorman nodded sagely, although the gesture was empty, not indicative of too much active cognition. “Is there anything else you would like to inform our viewers?”
“Yes. Beginning tomorrow morning at eight a.m., we will broadcast the full list of Rules that constitute our social contract. Every member of our Community will be charged with viewing those Rules at one of our growing number of bulletin boards, online, or on-air broadcasts by this and other stations, or assuming the risk of an unknowing violation. And secondly…perhaps we should get your station manager over here.”
Beside the glare of the studio lights, the uninfected woman who had ushered Emma to her chair touched her chest, and Emma nodded. Reluctantly, she departed her small clutch of Uninfecteds and tentatively joined Emma and the two anchors behind the desk. The station manager was standing, so Emma rose. “As you can see, she is uninfected and unharmed. We harbor no ill will toward anyone and wish only to provide for the safety, health, and needs of the members of our Community. We welcome all who wish to join us to work together for the common good.”
Emma held her hand out to the station manager, who stared down at it for a moment before awkwardly taking it in her own, gloved hand for a ceremonial shake.
The red light atop another studio camera lit, and the female anchorwoman seated at the desk stirred from her reverie. “Thank you, Dr. Miller. Moving on to the weather, we are sad to announce the death an hour ago of Butch Figgens, WHSV’s long-time meteorologist, and extend our sympathies to his wife and three children.” Neither sadness nor sympathy were evident in the woman’s voice. “But it looks like we are in for a cold snap this weekend. The chance of rain rises to 90 percent tomorrow night, and temperatures the following day are expected to fall into the forties. Brrrr,” she read tonelessly.
Chapter 8
OUTSIDE ROANOKE, VIRGINIA
Infection Date 69, 0800 GMT (4:00 a.m. Local)
Noah’s Apple Watch vibrated. Although he was deep in an almost narcotic sleep, he woke—confused—to a shot of adrenaline. Where am I? He removed his watch and placed it on its charger, which was plugged into an active wall outlet.
The dark shapes of his wife and daughter lay still as death in their sleeping bags. But on closer inspection, they breathed steadily.
There was a fluttering sound. A flag flapped in the steady, cold breeze. It was the pin in a golf green a few dozen yards away. The smell oriented him. His family slept on the hard concrete slab of a semi-enclosed and filthy bathroom. But at least the roof’s overhang provided them shelter from the rain that had pelted the area throughout the night.
He grabbed his AR-15 and went to relieve his son, who was on watch.
Jake was sound asleep.
“Jake!”
His teenage son started and raised his head. “What? I was awake.”
“No, you weren’t!”
“What is it?” Natalie whispered from the darkness.
“Dad?” Jake pled softly.
Noah hesitated before saying, “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Noah grabbed his son’s skinny arm and dragged him out ac
ross the sodden ground toward the copse of trees they used as a latrine. “Jake, Jesus! You know what’s at stake! You can’t do that! We’re all counting on you!”
“I know, I know.” His words were catching in his chest. His son was crying. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. It got cold, so I got in my sleeping bag, and—”
“How can I trust you to take a watch, Jake?”
“You can! I promise! I’m sorry, Dad. It’ll never happen again!”
Noah was too exhausted to do anything more than sigh. “Go get some sleep.” Jake wrapped both arms around Noah, hugged him against his still heaving chest, and apologized again. He, too, was bone weary—his nerves frayed and emotions raw. In four days of walking, from dawn to dusk, they had traveled 115 miles. Only 1,145 miles to go.
His sniffling almost fourteen-year-old wiped away his tears and trudged toward the reeking bathroom. His back was lit by dim flashes originating over the treetops.
“Hey Jake. What’s that?” Noah pointed in the direction of the flashes to the south.
“I dunno. Lightning?”
Noah decided to clear the cobwebs by patrolling their position. His rifle—magazine full, round chambered, safety on, always—was gripped firmly in both hands. Most of the ground outside the overgrown fairways, which offered good sight lines from the bathroom, was soggy from the rains, which if the lightning was any indication might not be letting up. Noah kept his family in sight as he circumnavigated the perimeter. He remained just inside the tree line, ready in an instant to shoot anyone he might surprise there.
When he reached a utility road that ran to the equipment barn housing the golf carts, he saw, in the distance, that the flashes weren’t lightning. They were explosions coming from the direction of Roanoke. What he had hoped might be a momentary sanctuary—a respite from the travails of the road—had now turned into an obstacle to be bypassed. A few extra hours of walking before they got back on course.
Resistance: Pandora, Book 3 Page 5
