Dwayne said nothing. He wasn’t as high functioning as the twelve-year-old. Maybe no Infected was except Emma, and possibly not even her.
The eight eighteen wheelers made beeping sounds as they backed up to the breaches quietly cut into the fence surrounding the college. “Maybe you could shut off the beeping? That sounds really loud. Someone might hear it in those dorms.” Samantha hyperactively rocked from tiptoes to heels and back. Men stood at the rear of the trailers ready to throw open the doors and hide behind them. The campus was dark and quiet—asleep. Dwayne’s best fighters had killed the three college students and one faculty member they encountered—two on a foot patrol; two in a listening post—silently, with knives. The overcrowded, overconfident Uninfecteds lay undefended before them.
“It’s oh-six-hundred,” Dwayne said. He turned to the trucks, raised his arm, and dropped it like the starter with a flag at an auto race.
They heard loud, grating sounds as the rear doors of the trailers were unlatched, and groaning noises as the doors swung open. Nothing happened. No crazed Infecteds streamed out to storm the dorms filled with sleeping students and displaced townsfolk.
“I thought you said these were totally out of control Infecteds,” Emma remarked.
Dwayne said, “We haven’t fed them in days. They should be starving.”
“Or maybe they all killed each other during the drive over here,” Samantha suggested. “Or maybe they suffocated, or got overheated? Did you check?”
“How many of them are in there?” Emma asked.
“About sixty per truck. We may have lost some, but surely not all.”
“They’re packed too tight,” Emma said. “They’re in a trance. Go trigger them.”
Dwayne headed down the hill. As Emma was thinking how terrible Dwayne was at taking initiative, Samantha said, “Dwayne is great at following orders. He’s a really good choice for heading up the security people. I wonder if the Marines taught him that, or if he was good at following orders first and that’s why he became a Marine?”
“However much coffee you had this morning,” Emma said, “was too much.”
Dwayne was unable to anticipate problems, or take ownership of his job, or think for himself. And Dwayne was one of the best performing Infecteds she had. Walcott was a cretin by comparison, sometimes standing like a statue for hours until racing off to urinate.
A pistol shot rang out. Dwayne had climbed up onto the front of a trailer and fired into a vent. His men did the same on the others. “They’re making a lot of noise,” Samantha muttered as she clasped both hands behind her back and swiveled from side to side. “What are those thingies—cattle prods—they would be quieter.”
Alarms began sounding and lights came on all across Radford U. “They’re awake now,” Samantha said, “but look. The crazies are leaving the trailers.” Dozens, then hundreds of Infecteds leaped out and landed on top of each other, dragging themselves to their feet and charging into the open on the campus’s wooded grounds. “I hope they don’t disperse too much. They’re gonna get slaughtered, and if they lose their mob mentality they may come running back this way.”
Dwayne rejoined them. Good job, Emma considered saying. But Dwayne was infected and cared not a whit for praise. “Next time use cattle prods. They’re quieter.”
“We may need more crazies,” Samantha said. “Look. They’ve made it to all four of those dormitories, but it looks like they’re getting shot up pretty fast.”
“You said most are newly turned, right?” Emma asked Dwayne.
“Very fresh. Some are hurt, though. It was the only way we could grab ’em.”
Samantha remained skeptical, so Emma said, “They’re extremely contagious. By nightfall, people will be turning and they’ll finish whatever’s left of the Uninfecteds here. Dwayne, keep an eye on things. We’ve got to go parlay with the mayor of Blacksburg out on Highway 460 at sunup.”
On the walk to Sheriff Walcott’s truck, Samantha said, “Virginia Tech probably still has a lot of smart scientists and engineers. It’d be nice if we didn’t have to kill half and trash the brains of the rest by infecting them all, like here.”
Emma agreed. “We’re still experimenting. Trial and error.” Walcott stared out the front windshield, motionless. He didn’t even start the engine. “Sheriff Walcott?” Emma said. “We’ve got a little drive ahead of us. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yes!” he said as he opened the door, ran toward the edge of the woods, and fumbled frantically to unzip his fly.
Samantha shook her head and made a face in Emma’s direction. “Just to be clear,” Emma said, “that expression you just made was intended to convey…?”
“Disbelief,” the girl explained. “I may not have done it right. But surely he knew that his bladder was full. Right?”
“Based on my sister’s research, he probably didn’t feel enough discomfort to motivate him to address his bladder. And thinking ahead to the drive to Blacksburg when the urge to urinate would become overpowering, is the kind of planning he’s shown himself to be incapable of in enforcing the Rules. He and Dwayne both. You’ve got to follow up on every task they’re given or everything will come to a complete stop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Samantha said.
Emma felt a frisson of anxiety, but why? What had triggered it? Emma clenched her fists and her jaw, and turned to the girl. Sam’s face was reflected in her window as she stared into the darkness…lost in thought? Why is she thinking? asked the voice in Emma’s head. And when Samantha had said, “I’ll keep that in mind,” what did that mean?
“I’ll do a history of the pandemic,” Samantha said. For reasons unclear, she drew a smiley face in the patch of window fogged by her breath. “I’ll need to define its phases. The Outbreak. The Killing. I’ll record everything that’s happened since The Outbreak, and how and why The Killing is happening. I’ll need to interview everyone to document their perspectives before something happens to them and their data is lost. I’ll start with the Uninfecteds. They’re a whole bunch more talkative. I’ll need a lot more people to do the interviewing. Teachers, librarians, accountants—whatever they are. There are bound to be plenty of them, and they’re probably not good for much else.”
Walcott slammed the door, affixed both hands to the wheel, and stared out over the hood into space. “Blacksburg?” Emma prodded. He started the engine and drove off.
Emma was practically quivering with tension as Samantha rattled off more of her plans. Emma’s breathing grew ragged. Her shoulders and thighs felt tense. And she now realized the reason for it all. Samantha had cavalierly committed to memory Emma’s pointer about how best to command the two chiefs of security forces. And Emma hadn’t paid much attention to the girl’s writing of an official history until she switched from saying we to saying I everywhere. She’s writing an official history?
It was the voice that formalized the threat, bombarding Emma from within. She’s preparing for your job. That’s the surest way for her to survive. And the best way to take your job is to kill you. Therefore, the best way for you to stay alive may be to kill her.
“Sound good?” Samantha said.
“Hmm? What?”
“When the kids go back to school we can teach them the history of The Community and how to be good citizens.”
“Members. It’s a contract, not a country.” Emma sat on her vibrating hands.
“But one day it’ll be a country. The country. Right?” Emma couldn’t safely answer without betraying her anxiety. “Well, that’s what I think, anyway.”
Chapter 17
BRISTOL, TENNESSEE
Infection Date 79, 1430 GMT (10:30 a.m. Local)
“What did they say?” Noah asked as Rick Townsend returned to the high school’s utility closet—their quarters.
The Marine looked up from the satellite phone and sho
ok his head. “When it broke out at the community college and spread to Bristol’s airport, we lost the fuel there and the chance to get a fixed wing in. And the helicopters diverted, or took off headed west, or were destroyed on the ground. That leaves us depending on the army or Marine Corps cobbling a long-range mission together. They’ll need a big-assed helicopter from up at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, or a tilt-rotor Osprey from Virginia Beach, midair refueling along the way to Texas, and combat search and rescue at points in between.”
“Wait a minute,” Natalie said. “That airport is behind us. West of here. Right?”
Rick nodded. “Yeah. Looks like we’re cut off.”
“You mean surrounded,” Natalie said. “Besieged. You notice no one has offered us any hot meals or anything. No food at all. We’re still eating that crap in baggies we lugged in here. So, they’re running out of food, and now they’re surrounded?”
“At least we’ve got showers with hot water,” Chloe said in a faux chipper tone.
“Great,” her mother replied. “In a month, we’ll all be freshly bathed skeletons. Noah, is the plan to wait here? See which gets here first—a-a helicopter from Kentucky, or an outbreak, or a horde of Infecteds overrunning their defenses, or-or starvation? We should’ve stayed with Emma. I know family doesn’t mean anything to her anymore, but it’s not like she’s killing uninfected people just for the hell of it.”
“You wanta go back?” Noah asked. It wasn’t a question, but it ended Natalie’s unproductive recriminations. “Whatta you think, Rick? Should we make a run for it while the situation out there is still fluid? How would we best do that?”
Rick wore a scowl and rubbed his chin. “There are two ways. Exfiltration—sneaking out of here undetected—which means we should split up into smaller groups; say pairs. Or a breakout—fighting our way out—which means we should all go together, and maybe bulk up by recruiting other guns. But what we really should do is stay. Things are bad here, and will keep getting worse until this town falls, just like all the rest. But, for now, we can sleep through the night, rest, and recharge. As long as we have any prospect of an airborne evacuation, we should stay…at least until the end gets very near.”
“This sucks.” To Noah’s surprise, it wasn’t Chloe, it was Natalie. His well-rested, freshly showered, recently fed warrior wife, who on the road had been steely, had somehow, illogically, grown disgruntled on rescue. “I don’t like this one fucking bit. This room smells like…like detergent, and vomit, and pardon me, men, but body odor. Plus Chloe and I passed a half a dozen leering would-be rapists between the showers and here. And everyone we’ve met have all had this look, you know, like sizing us up before slitting our throats to take our crappy food. And after that’s gone, what’s next? Cannibalism? And they’re on our side, not some clawing mob of Infecteds! How long? How long, Noah, can we keep beating the fucking odds?”
“Mooom?” Chloe whined.
Natalie caught herself, sighed, and deflated visibly. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie.” She cradled Chloe’s head. “Mommy’s just tired. Just…blowing off steam. We’ll be…. We’ll be fine. Shh. Shh. Shh.”
Rick’s troubled visage contrasted with his reassuring tone. “They’re evacuating the air assault school at Fort Campbell, about 350 miles west of here, to Texas. I’ve just gotten them to ask for volunteers. For a crew that’d be willing to fly 350 miles, the wrong way, to come pick us up, then try to make it all the way to Texas with no refueling or CSAR. No rescue team ready to come pick us up if we sustain damage, or run outta gas, or have engine trouble. That means we, and that all volunteer crew, could end up putting down…wherever.”
“Yeah,” Natalie said. “But it wouldn’t be here. And it’d be closer to Texas. Do you think anyone will? Volunteer, I mean?”
“Yeah. Probably.” Rick’s reply seemed to depress him further. He was putting more lives at extreme risk and must feel the full weight of that responsibility. Isabel saw it too, rubbed Rick’s arm, and lay her head on his shoulder. Rick seemed to relax as he inhaled Isabel’s hair. It was so intimate that everyone found a reason to look away. But not before Noah and Natalie both noticed Rick dry the tears that welled in his eyes.
Chapter 18
NEW ROANOKE, VIRGINIA
Infection Date 80, 1700 GMT (1:00 p.m. Local)
Emma’s meeting of The Community council gathered around a conference table in Roanoke’s city hall. No one said a word except the three Uninfecteds, who huddled tightly together along a wall of glass and whispered through masks.
“Are these their new representatives?” Emma asked. Samantha nodded. “Where’s the old one?”
“Dwayne said they found his body at Radford University. He must’ve…what’s the word for when you switch sides to the enemy?”
“Defected. But they weren’t the enemy.”
“What were they then?”
Emma didn’t exactly know how to answer that question. “An…obstacle. Let’s take our seats.” Emma sat at the head of the table next to Sam.
The Uninfecteds found the most distant and isolated spots.
“The first order of business,” Emma said, “is garbage collection.” One of the Uninfecteds glanced quickly at her two seatmates and tentatively raised her hand. “Yes?”
The woman’s eyes, which were visible above her mask, darted about as everyone turned her way. “I…I just thought…. Since this is our first meeting, maybe we should discuss preliminaries before we dive right into the issues.”
“What preliminaries?” Emma asked.
“Well, like…what is this meeting? What are we doing here?”
“This is the organizational meeting of The Community council,” Samantha replied. “We manage The Community.”
The woman unsuccessfully sought the support of her two mute male colleagues. “Is…is that what we’re calling this…whatever we are? The Community?”
“Do you want to propose a different name?” Emma asked.
The confused woman’s companions supplied no clarity. “It just sounds…generic.”
Emma didn’t understand. “There’s our Community, and other communities. It seems like a pretty clear distinction.”
That apparently settled the matter. “Okay,” replied the uninfected woman. “And we are here…why?”
“To give advice. Consider new Rules. Interpret old ones. Hand down punishments. Allocate resources. Establish security strategy. Whatever The Community needs.”
“But we thought you made all the decisions.”
“I do. But I value opinions. So…garbage collection.”
“Does that include collection of the dead?” asked Sheriff Walcott. “’Cause they’re startin’ to get perty smelly down by the old train station.”
“Sure,” Emma replied. “Garbage and body collection.”
* * * *
They spent the next half an hour making productive decisions. There would be twice daily body collection and once weekly trash pickup. Food distribution to infected and uninfected areas to be either directly to dormitories or employers, in some cases, or to designated stores for people to visit. Numbered cards to be printed up each month with thirty-one boxes into which holes would be punched to indicate collection of that day’s rations. Master lists with the names of all Infecteds and Uninfecteds in The Community and their associated ration card numbers. And mandatory reporting of deaths.
The uninfected woman representative again interrupted. “Aren’t we kind of overlooking some pretty major foundational questions?”
“Like what?” Emma asked.
“Like…. First off, my name is Jane Finch. Hi, everybody.”
None of the Infecteds made any move to respond until Samantha said, in an uncertain tone, “Hi,” and waved, but only just her fingers.
“And this is Miles Jordan.” The middle aged white man to her right nodded. “And this is Kwame
Walsh.” The youngish black man to her left stared back at the silent Infecteds without making any move.
“Hi,” Sam repeated, waving her entire hand this time while watching it, presumably to confirm that this gesture appeared more appropriate. Is she training herself to pass as an Uninfected? asked the companion voice in Emma’s head. That would be tricky.
The Infecteds’ spokeswoman, Jane Something—Emma looked over at Samantha’s notes and read, “Jane Finch”—looked around the table waiting for something to happen.
“All right then,” Emma said, continuing the meeting, “we probably ought to use the master rolls of members to ensure that everyone is productively employed.”
“Excuse me,” Jane Finch said. “Sorry. Sorry. I…. It’s just…. I understand we’re called The Community. But before we decide on all these details…are we a democracy? We had a poll, of sorts, yesterday, and the three of us were elected representatives of the Uninfecteds. It wasn’t a perfect process. I mean, there are probably tens of thousands of Uninfecteds in these southwestern Virginia counties—”
“Hundreds of thousands,” Samantha interrupted. “Counting refugees.”
“Right. But we put up flyers in a bunch of the uninfected neighborhoods announcing our meeting, and it was well attended, and we had a vote. I was just wondering, how did you decide who all would be here from, you know, your side?”
“We didn’t,” Emma said. “I told people what time the meeting was.”
“Well, not to be critical or anything, but that’s not very democratic.”
“This isn’t a democracy.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s a community, like we established. You belong, or you don’t. Your choice.”
“And you’ll just…decide, for us all, what the Rules are? You alone?”
“Yes.”
Emma scanned the faces of the Infecteds lining both sides of the table. They could not have been less interested in the conversation…except Samantha. She screwed up her mouth, knit her brow, and cast that expression toward Emma, who was perplexed by it. “Quizzical,” Samantha whispered, and Emma nodded.
Resistance: Pandora, Book 3 Page 11
