“Hydrate,” he reminded. So like Rick. She smiled as she drew water from the tube attached to the shoulder strap of her body armor.
“Ahhh,” she said, pretending to savor the hours old, body warmed water hinting at overtones of plastic, and got a knowing smile in reply.
After pupil and temperature checks—“We’ve been vaccinated!” but they didn’t believe her, or care—they entered a small door past a dozen airmen behind sandbags with one-two-three-four, she counted, machine guns. She held up and waggled four fingers.
“Good girl,” Rick said, bumping into her pack when she turned and smiled.
“That’s sexist.” Inside, before their eyes adjusted in the dark corridor, Isabel tilted her head back and to the side so their helmets didn’t clunk and kissed Rick, more fully and longer than usual. “Always kiss,” had been her rule. “Just in case.” He hadn’t argued.
They emerged onto a depressing scene in the huge hangar. Cannibalistic helicopter mechanics stripped skeletons for parts. Teams with glowing tablets, hand tools, and bright lights extracted avionics from organ donors. No overnight Amazon Prime deliveries up here. Helicopter remains seemed held together only by bundles of exposed wiring. And as best as she could tell, only one aircraft was being repaired. One. Men and women lowered a huge engine into its housing. Excessive attention was being lavished on that single transplant as harvested relics were shunted into the darker but growing equipment graveyard along the walls.
“In here,” came a mumble from behind a gas mask.
Isabel and Rick left the postindustrial charnel house and entered well-lit offices turned barracks. After a half dozen confusing turns through a makeshift, canvas walled maze, they were ushered into a crowded conference room.
“Isabel,” Hank Rosenbaum said. His full beard was gone so his mask would fit. He rose slowly, and not to full height—stooped like a man who’d aged a decade in a month after losing his entire family to infection.
A tear sprung to Isabel’s eye despite what she had thought of the man, which was instantly forgotten. “Hank, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Your sister caught it first. I wasn’t sympathetic enough. I apologize for that. Isabel, I want you to know that, initially, you were just some relative of the lab’s first subject. When it turned out you were a twin, an identical twin, and a neuroscientist…how could I not study the two of you?”
He was deflecting. “Could I, maybe, have a moment with Dr. Rosenbaum? Alone?” She glanced apologetically at Rick and the half dozen other people in the conference room, who departed and closed the door. “Hank. What happened? With your family?”
He looked away. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because…it happened. How are you doing?”
“How am I doing?” She regretted having asked. Hank drew a deep breath and avoided her gaze as he sank, leaden, into his chair. Isabel had to restrain herself from reaching for his hand as she sat and leaned forward. “The Air Force flew me back from Raven Rock on…what? Infection Date 64? The roads were still open, so I hopped in my SUV and drove home. The gate was locked. Everything looked normal. I thought about raising my mask to protect them. I was the one who’d ventured out of isolation. But I didn’t want to scare them. I pulled up. I could see my wife washing dishes at the sink.”
He faltered. “But then I saw the graves. Five of them. Two were…small. No markers. And I knew. No one came out to greet me. No grandchildren came running up. I pulled my mask up and called my wife to the door. Black eyes. No makeup. Randomly dressed. I asked what happened, and when I clarified, she explained. Our youngest, Rachel, met a local boy out hunting, or fishing, or whatever. They rendezvoused a few times. The last time he was sweating a little and in a hurry to get home.”
Hank suddenly lowered his mask. The act was no casual relaxation of good hygiene. Barrier discipline was deadly serious business. Hank drew a deep breath of fresh, unfiltered air. A calculated risk, or a death wish? “I considered killing them, you know. I really did. They’re gonna starve. I seriously thought about shooting my wife and whichever daughters, sons-in-law, and grandchildren had survived.”
“You don’t know which ones turned?” Quit asking questions!
“Does it matter? If I went around to do a headcount, I’d probably have to shoot someone who got agitated and violent, which could trigger all of them. Or, I could just not shoot. Not mask up. Stay there, with them, come what may.” He swiped his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes, half turning away. Isabel leaned as far over the table as possible, just out of reach of his hand, which she wanted to hold. Another barrier breach, but at least one that might contribute the small comfort of human contact.
“So I drove away.” He sounded exhausted. His gaze was downcast. “They weren’t tending the vegetables. The growing season is short at elevation. They’ll have canned food through the winter, unless someone takes it from them. Then what? They’re not going to plant next spring.”
“Hank…Jesus. I am so sorry. You have my deepest and most sincere sympathies. But you’ve also got to know, don’t you, that this is happening everywhere. In no way could this possibly be considered your fault.”
“I outlawed family dinners. We isolated by household in three houses. Everyone hated me for it, especially my wife. And in retrospect—” He choked. “In retrospect, I wish we’d had those last times together. On the first night I was away—the day Rachel’s boyfriend wasn’t feeling well—they all got together and made spaghetti. Drank a bottle or three of wine. Had a great time until Rachel vomited.” He fixed his gaze on Isabel, demanding that she visualize it. Attending that dinner in her mind the way he must have countless times. “That wouldn’t have happened, obviously, if I’d been there. Maybe our house—my wife and I and Rachel—would’ve been infected, but not the others. They’d have had a chance.”
Before she could respond, Hank rose, rounded the table, opened the door, and invited everyone back in, ending her heartfelt torment of him.
The buzz of conversation in the hallway quieted as soldiers and officials retook their seats. Rick flashed Isabel a raised eyebrow. Whatever look she gave him in reply elicited a sympathetic expression and a gentle squeeze of her thigh under the table. Hank noticed, managed a smile through pinched lips, and nodded. She had someone. He didn’t raise his mask.
“Alright,” Hank said to the gathering mostly clad in camouflage, masks, and gloves. “You all know me. I’m acting Regional Director, FEMA Region Ten. This is Dr. Isabel Miller, a distinguished neuroscientist and aide to the National Security Council and the President. She is here to survey our situation. Let’s get her up to speed. The latest count I got was that there are 167 isolated uninfected communities in Idaho, eastern Oregon, and southeastern Washington.”
“Today it’s 162,” amended a man with short, graying hair, probably a soldier.
“Okay. One sixty two. Anchorage has turned, but the outlying areas are protected by distance and low population density. Let’s talk instead about how many uninfected people are isolated in the Lower 48? Where are they? Who are they? And how long have they got? We want to be at the front of the line when the government starts distributing vaccines next week. Our military and emergency personnel are critical. They should get it before inoculating office workers in Houston.”
“Hear! Hear!” said a civilian, rapping his knuckles on the wood in applause.
“Before we go through all that,” said the probable soldier who’d spoken earlier, “I would like to hear where Houston is on special weapons release.”
Isabel had no idea what he meant. “You’re authorized,” Rick replied, “to deploy fuel air explosives, napalm, cluster munitions, and air and artillery dispersed landmines.”
That sounded utterly gruesome to Isabel.
“And that’s it?” the officer asked, sounding displeased.
“For now, yes, sir. But I presume
you’re executing the repositioning order.”
“Of course. It’s using ninety percent of my air transport. I could be relocating some of those isolated populations to safer places. But that still leaves me with a sufficient number of operational weapons to reduce several dire strategic threats.”
“Transport is stressed everywhere. As for special weapons release, you know the channels. I’ll write up whatever you show me. You match yields to targets, I’ll send that.”
Thus began Isabel and Rick’s grand tour of hell.
Chapter 30
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Infection Date 94, 1300 GMT (8:00 a.m. Local)
Chloe’s mom parked the piece of crap car, which had been issued to their dad by the air force and had a decal and a parking permit on the windshield, in the teacher’s lot on their first day at Chloe’s, and Jake’s, new school. The main drive through the drop-off lane was filled with Mercedes, Beamers, and Bentleys.
“This looks nice,” her mom said as they emerged onto the wooded campus of the private school. “Aren’t you glad that I made a fuss? And that your dad got a big job? Houston is a huge city, and the public school you’re zoned for seemed sketchy.”
“They wear uniforms here?” Jake said, eyeing the students headed inside.
“I’m sure everything will be taken care of,” their mom reassured them.
The boys, wearing khaki pants and shirts or sweaters with the school’s coat of arms on their chests, checked out Chloe the way boys do. The girls wore polo shirts with the same emblem, plaid skirts, and bitchy looks as they checked out Chloe the way girls do. She reached up to straighten her slow growing hair.
The waiting room in the administrative offices was packed with new students and the occasional bedraggled parent. Chloe’s mom strode up to the busy receptionist. “We’re here to enroll my two children—Chloe Miller, in tenth, and Jake Miller, in eighth grade.”
“In line over there,” the woman said without looking up.
Undeterred, Chloe’s mom said, “And I’ve been assigned a job here.”
The woman peered up through cat’s eye glasses on a lanyard. “Doing what?”
“I don’t know. They said to just show up, so here I am.”
“Staff got here an hour ago. Do you have your teacher’s license?”
Chloe cringed when her mother laughed at the fair question. Chloe and Jake got in line behind a fat girl, who waited in vain for Chloe to acknowledge her.
“I was a college cheerleader.” Oh-my-God! “Something with the cheer team—”
“PhysEd’s full. Go see Mr. Edwards in the custodian’s department.”
“Custodian? I wouldn’t think kids brought too many valuables to school.”
“Janitorial services. Next!”
Chloe had trouble wiping off her face the grin she’d exchanged with Jake. “There’s been some mistake,” her mother said. “Are you two okay in line here if I just—”
“Go, Mom,” Chloe said. Please! The other kids watched while pretending not to. Her mother kissed Chloe’s cheek, but Jake—forewarned—was too quick.
The receptionist called the next kid in line.
“Where you from?” asked the overweight girl, who seemed stereotypically cheerful.
“D.C.,” Chloe replied.
“Wow.” Chloe didn’t get it. Others looked over. “How’d you get to Houston?”
Now, she understood. They’d all watched the capital’s violent fall on TV. She knew how to play it. “We fought our way out.” She debated saying more, but less was badass.
“Jeez. What was it like?”
Chloe shrugged. Ain’t nothin’ but a thang. A tall boy in line, cute enough, leaned against the wall. “Hey.” He extended his elbow. She bumped it with her own, as did Jake, who gave the boy a wuz-up bob of his head. “Name’s Turner. Turner Ash.”
“Chloe. Miller. This is Jake.”
“S’up?” Jake said, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t break.
Chloe had decided to get in with whatever cliques of locals existed. This boy, like everyone else there, was a rootless transfer. He gave up his place in line and silenced the tubby girl by his mere presence as he leaned against the wall next to Chloe. If these were ordinary times, she’d ask where he was from? How had he gotten there? But these weren’t ordinary times. Another student was called in to be photographed for a school ID.
Chloe looked at her dim reflection in the glass office wall. Her hair was still short, but at least it was clean. She tried placing a few unruly strands into place.
“Need this?” Her new acquaintance offered a compact with a smile.
“Thanks.” Chloe took it and did a more professional inspection.
“I can tell you’ve been outdoors,” the pudgy girl said. “I just mean you’re…tanned. It looks good on you! My folks won’t let me go outside. I’m as pale as an Infected.”
Chloe’s face looked wind burned even though she had gotten up early to put on makeup, which she and her mother had scrounged from a bin of half used toiletries before being driven to a crappy apartment next to an adult novelties store and tattoo parlor.
“You kill anybody?” Turner asked. “Out on the road?”
Everyone awaited Chloe’s answer, even the receptionist. “Yeah.”
“Infecteds?” asked the girl. Chloe returned her compact. “Or Uninfecteds?”
“Both.”
Jake snorted. “Killed a whole lotta Infecteds that last night.” He held out his fist for a bump. Chloe would normally have just rolled her eyes, but Jake was getting the hang of popularity so she returned the gesture. For Chloe to be badass, Jake had to be too. “And then Chloe had to….” Jake said before halting and looking away.
Chloe felt her new persona slip away to reveal the person who’d put a rifle to Margus’s head and pulled the trigger when he closed his eyes. She, too, had shut her eyes, but not quickly enough. She’d had to make sure her aim was true. She owed him that.
“Had to what?” Turner asked, alert to the change that had come over Chloe.
The sympathetic girl, whose name Chloe didn’t even know, said, “We should talk about something else.” Chloe’s new best friend lent her a tissue.
“Yeah, never mind,” Jake mumbled, not looking at his sister.
After another student was called and the line inched forward, Turner asked, “Was it just you two and your mom?”
“Nah. We had our dad, our aunt, her boyfriend who’s a Marine, and…. Yep. So….”
“Is it true that Infecteds growl or whatever when they attack you?”
Chloe thought back. They made noises, but it sounded more like from exertion—like the football team’s tackling drills that used to so disturb their cheer practices. Plus, she hadn’t paid it too much attention amid all the shooting and reloading. “Sorta. But it’s kinda hard to make out ’cause there’s so much other noise. Shooting, artillery, tanks, helicopters, shit like that.”
Turner nodded sagely. “Next!” barked the receptionist.
A cute younger girl was pushed in the back by a friend. She made a fierce face, but nonetheless approached Jake. “Did your mother say you were in Eighth Grade? Me too.” A thousand watt smile lit and never left her face.
“S’up?” Jake said. This time his voice broke midway through his coolness.
Smiling, the girl confirmed that her friend was still watching. Jake began talking too much and asking stupid questions that jeopardized his aloofness. “I’m from Lafayette,” the girl replied. “In Louisiana. Have you heard of it?”
“Nope.” Good boy, Jake.
“This school’s supposed to be one of the best in Houston. But I heard they’ve already taken in a bunch of transfer kids and they’re annoyed at being forced to take more.”
“Next!”
“What kinda guns did yo
u have?” Turner asked Chloe.
“AR-15s and 9 mils.”
He nodded. “My dad has an AR too. Took me shooting the other day.” He was as nonchalant as he could be and still show off. “I shot up one whole magazine—pow-pow-pow,” he demonstrated, complete with closing one eye and aiming with the other, “then as quickly as I could I practiced slapping a new mag in to keep shooting.”
“You went to bolt lock?” Chloe asked. He clearly didn’t know what that meant. “You fired every last round in your magazine and your bolt locked back?” Turner nodded. Mandy looked on in either awe, or horror, smile forgotten until Jake glanced her way. “Bad policy. Better, when get down to your last few rounds, move to cover, drop the old mag into your dump pouch, and reload a full mag. Never fire your last round if you can help it.”
“Okay,” Turner said. “Good to know. Anything else come in handy?”
“Cough drops,” Jake said. “Lots and lots of cough drops.”
After Chloe’s new friend and Turner Ash got processed, Chloe’s turn came. The line behind Jake and the Louisiana girl—“My dad’s a lawyer too!”—was just as long as when they’d arrived. Name, date of birth, sign a paper agreeing to follow the school’s rules, and the all-important photo. Chloe flashed her selfie smile, then pleaded for a retake. After a big huff, the photographer agreed. Bad asses don’t smile after the shit they’d been through.
“I guess I’m next,” said the petite Louisiana girl just as their mom returned.
“If you need me,” Chloe’s mom said, “don’t go looking around that janitorial room. Gross. Just like Tennessee. I wrangled a job in the nurse’s office. It just goes to show—again—that you shouldn’t take the first thing they offer. There’s almost always something better if you just push.”
“Mom!” Chloe said. “The nurse’s office?”
“They had an opening. I don’t wanta mop up vomit, or clean toilets. Ewww!”
“Of course they had an opening, Mom. The nurse’s office? If some kid gets sick—with who knows what—where’s he gonna go?”
Resistance: Pandora, Book 3 Page 20
