Resistance: Pandora, Book 3

by Eric L. Harry

  “Dr. Miller?” Browner growled. She rose uncertainly. “There you are.” Isabel couldn’t imagine what observation in her reports could possibly have warranted discussion. “We got an interesting query. One of our patrols outside of Norfolk came across a billboard with a spray painted sign directing them to a message. It was from that Lance Corporal at the NIH hospital with your sister asking if we could share vaccine for their uninfected population. We’re wondering what you might make of that request?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have no earthly idea.”

  The president waited, seemingly impatiently on Browner, who said, “Her little kingdom is growing by leaps and bounds. Based on our overflights, it appears they’ve established order in southwestern Virginia east of the Appalachians, and they’re expanding into North Carolina down to the Winston-Salem, Greensboro, Durham, Raleigh line. They’re also sending out feelers to the northeast and northwest to solicit indications of interest to join their Community. And Asheville to the south has already applied to join by filling out some sort of franchising agreement even though they’re several uninfected towns distant. And she reduced her territory’s last major uninfected lodgment by using biological warfare—infiltrating some recently turned, highly contagious Infecteds—into Virginia Tech, which finally fell yesterday. There’s really nothing like her territory anywhere else in North America, although we’ve heard of some emergent self-organization by Infecteds in Pusan, South Korea, Johannesburg, South Africa, and Aberdeen, Scotland.”

  She still could think of nothing helpful to say, but she had to speak. “Well, sir, you remember she had all those notebooks full of ideas for communal survival.”

  “We’ve had a team analyzing them and acting as a clearing house for intel. She’s been remarkably faithful to her plans in organizing an effective Infected government.”

  “Are they giving you—the military—any trouble?”

  “No. No. They’re just mercilessly slaughtering whole towns who refuse to join, so most are joining these days. But they’ve carefully avoided any contact with our forces in the area. They even returned a captured Special Forces team unharmed even though that team had engaged your sister’s security forces when they started machine gunning rule breakers. But we understand she has discontinued the practice of mass murder, at least of uninfected citizens. She now apparently summarily executes only Infecteds.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, cringing and at a loss.

  “You’re not your sister’s keeper,” Browner said. “But you do understand her better than our study group. When you get back to Houston I want you to work with them. As you know, we have some strategic decisions to make.”

  In Browner-speak, that meant whether or not to vaporize her sister with nuclear weapons. “General Browner, I’m sure you must’ve learned from digests of her notebooks—”

  “I’ve read them all,” Browner interrupted. “Cover to cover. No digests.”

  “Then you must’ve seen she doesn’t have any grand scheme to take over the world. She just wants enough territory and resources for a rudimentary, self-sustaining economy.”

  “And to field a military,” Browner said, “that has sufficient depth of maneuver space for its defense.” All the man with the hammer saw was nails. He was looking for an enemy state, which he was trained to defeat.

  “I’d be glad, sir, to help any way I can. But I have to ask, is what’s going on in southwest Virginia any worse than what’s going on in the Northeast, or Upper Midwest, or west of the Rockies, for God’s sake? Vigilantes, militias, berserk mobs of Infecteds, rampant house by house murder, both ways? New York City?”

  “Perhaps,” President Anderson interrupted, “you missed the significance of General Browner’s summary. They’re expanding. Sending recruiting teams all the way up to the Canadian border. Organizing a military. They’re the only instance of anyone doing that at scale in North America. And now, they want vaccines for their uninfected citizens, and they’re attracting applications to join by uninfected towns.”

  She understood. They weren’t worried about Emma posing a military threat…for now. They were worried that she would succeed where they were failing. Emma might stop the violence and feed the hungry, inducing increasing numbers of people to accept her Faustian offer and choose order and security over rule of the jungle and starvation.

  “I’ll help any way I can,” Isabel mumbled just audibly enough for Browner to hear.

  Chapter 36

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  Infection Date 103, 2345 GMT (6:45 p.m. Local)

  Chloe’s mom had the brilliant idea of organizing a party to introduce themselves to their new neighbors. “Everyone loves a block party.”

  They had moved out of their sketchy apartment after being granted a permit to live in an abandoned house. It was owned, apparently, by some old couple who had made the fateful decision to flee the safety of Houston to be with children and grandchildren in Michigan. The Millers had agreed to relinquish the home upon the return of its owners, to care for and maintain the house, and to pack away any personal belongings, which they would have done regardless given how creepy it was to see strangers staring back from a multitude of framed photos. The hall closet was jam-packed with their shit.

  It was a crappy little one story house with grossly outdated décor smelling of cat litter and old people no matter how much they aired it out. But Chloe’s mom seemed proud of her efforts to upgrade their accommodations, which they probably merited only because of her dad and aunt’s important government jobs. Most refugees, Chloe had learned at school, were slumming it in roadside motel rooms reeking of cigarettes.

  Chloe’s life now consisted of school, and foraging for supplies with government ration vouchers. When they eventually got home each day, the leafy suburban streets were empty. The parks abandoned. No one biked, or jogged, or hung out. No skateboarders or kids playing catch or anyone washing a car in the drive. Television consisted of news about the continuing collapse of civilization, like the first outbreak in Darwin, Australia, alternating with hopeful announcements like the recapture of Tulsa. “I didn’t know Tulsa had even fallen,” her mom had commented. Judging by the smoke rising from the skyline, it looked more like the total destruction of the city formerly known as Tulsa.

  It was in the context of that period of malaise that Chloe’s mom threw her party.

  “When’s Dad coming home?” Chloe had asked.

  “Dunno. But when he does, it would be nice if we had made some friends.”

  Her idea proved even more lame than it initially sounded. They had gotten cleaned up—her mom directing Chloe to put on a little eyeliner, her shorthand for trying to look good—and out they had gone with a stack of invitations, printed presumably illegally in the school nurse’s office, with a border of party hats, horns, and confetti. “Meet Your Neighbors! 7:30 pm! Friday! Finger Food and Soft Drinks Provided! (BYOB If You Want!)”

  “That’s too many exclamation marks, Mom. It looks desperate.”

  “They’re already printed. And cheer up. Maybe there’ll be some cute boys.”

  Chloe had rolled her eyes, but her mother ignored her as the three of them gamely hit the sidewalk and approached the first house. Chloe’s mom knocked and rang the doorbell before they stepped back a safe distance. Nothing happened. “Must be out,” she said, folding one of the invitations and tucking it into the mailbox.

  At the second house, they heard hushed voices behind the door. “We’re your neighbors!” her mother had called out in a raised tone. “From a couple of doors down! We wanted to invite you to a party!” Nothing happened. Everyone had fallen silent. Her mom opened the clear glass outer door to slip an invitation into it, and Chloe thought she heard the kerchunk of a shotgun being pumped from inside.

  “Mom,” Jake said as they headed to the sidewalk, “this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “Nonsense.
Someone has to keep society going. We can’t just hide behind our doors.” But Chloe could tell from the looks on her mother’s face and her furtive glances at the front windows of the next house that she was no longer quite so certain of her plan.

  Knock-knock-knock. “Hello?” Ring-ring-ring. Nothing. This time, her mother declined to open the glass outer door or the metal mailbox lid and quietly slipped the invitation under a corner of the doormat, on which was printed an out-of-date, “Welcome.”

  By the time they reached the fifth house, Chloe was feeling exposed without a weapon. What if someone had turned, hidden indoors, and came springing out when they rang the doorbell? They had left the kitchen knives and fireplace poker, previously set aside for last-ditch home defense, behind in their attempt to foster neighborliness.

  “Git off our property!” came a shout from the upstairs bay window of the story-and-a-half mansion compared to the less impressive tract homes common to their block.

  “We’re….” Chloe’s mom hesitated when a rifle muzzle appeared in the window. “We’re having a block party. I’ll just…. We’ll leave the invitation—”

  “Clear off! Yer trespassin’!”

  Chloe’s mom in fact declined to leave an invitation. That would show him. And though they dutifully and in silence traipsed up one side of the block to the first cross street, and back down the other to the next intersection, thankfully returning to their home without being shot or attacked by crazies, Chloe’s mother never again knocked on a door or rang a doorbell. They just left invitations and scurried away.

  At the appointed time Friday evening, they swung open their front door. Paper plates and plastic cups—a necessary accommodation to the apocalypse—lay at the ready. Gross refreshments like an orange drink made from packets of powder and ham and sometimes cheese sandwiches—cut into four pieces but stacked by Chloe’s mom in artistic mounds to appear festive and bountiful—filled incongruous ornate silver serving dishes. The peanut butter filled crackers in a crystal bowl were too dry to eat, forcing Chloe to consume the orange drink and then spit it all into the toilet in the hallway powder room. “Don’t make a mess!” her mom called out.

  The front walk was empty, and remained that way. “Turn the music up louder,” their mom instructed Jake—his one contribution to the festivities. “Let’s go stand in front of the windows.” Chloe sighed as she trudged back and forth like a sentry on guard duty. Nothing moved on the street or sidewalk.

  Hours seemed to pass, though in truth they were still on the first song on Jake’s playlist. Chloe and Jake shared private looks in between glances at their mother, who stared out the front windows and door lest some would-be reveler escape. By the time the next song came on the small speaker Jake had paired with his iPhone, their mother’s obsessive checks for approaching crowds of partygoers began to feel unbalanced and finally maniacal.

  Chloe exaggerated her strutting past the front windows in hopes her mom would give up. She raised her knees and pumped her arms like a drum major. Every time Chloe passed Jake, he pretended to bob his head to the music and dance like an inflatable man at a used car dealership. Both found their own respective antics hilarious.

  Their mom sat on an old-fashioned, upholstered sofa arm, pretty bare shoulders in a halter top fetched from a Salvation Army bin, slumped over, staring, and—Chloe and Jake finally realized—sobbing.

  “Mom?” she called out.

  “Turn off the music,” she said in a thick voice as she dabbed at her eyes and nose without turning as if they wouldn’t notice. “Close the door. Lock it.”

  Chloe did as instructed, then with nods and pointing supervised her brother in preserving the sandwich quarters and peanut butter crackers in sealed plastic containers and zip lock bags. The noxious orange drink went into the fridge.

  “When do you think Dad is coming home?” Jake asked.

  Chloe’s fierce face of rebuke was his only reply. Their mother excused herself and went to her room.

  Chapter 37

  CAMP PENDLETON, CALIFORNIA

  Infection Date 104, 1400 GMT (7:00 a.m. Local)

  “Jesus Christ.” Noah stooped to gaze at the line that wound its way out of sight down the street. “How many people are out there?”

  The Marine major beside him said, “3,679.”

  Noah arched his aching back. He’d slept on a sofa in the office’s waiting room. “Do they understand I’ve only got 114 passes to hand out?”

  The officer in full combat gear shrugged. “They don’t know, but they know.” A couple of dozen armed Marines slowly patrolled the line, generally ignoring questions shouted their way. Most people awaiting Noah’s life changing interview were white or Asian men. About half looked to be in their twenties. There were no children.

  Noah drew his 9mm from its holster and pulled the slide back until he saw a brass cartridge nestled snugly in the chamber. “Alright. They’ll be on their best behavior as long as there’s a chance they’ll get a pass. Any trouble is gonna come when they get the no. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” He handed the major a stack of 114 numbered boarding passes for the lone 737 at Noah’s disposal. “If they’re getting asylum, I’ll send them into the corridor through that door on the left. You set up a table, hand them a boarding pass, tie the pass’s number to their name in a log, and send them straight onto the busses.”

  “And the rest?” asked the major.

  “I’ll send them outside, through that door on the right. What you do with them…that’s your business. And I’d like a couple of armed Marines in here with me.”

  Noah bumped elbows with the arriving sergeant and PFC, who took up positions behind and to either side of Noah’s desk. Noah hit the intercom button. “Send the first one in.” He and the Marines raised their surgical masks.

  A smiling Asian doctor in his mid-forties with his mask hanging beneath his chin handed Noah his CV. He specialized in infectious diseases at the UCSD Medical Center and began a recitation of obscure papers published when Noah interrupted. “That’s fine, thanks.” He directed the man toward the door on the left. The doctor hesitated. “You’re good. You got a pass.”

  “Wha…what about my family?”

  “Sorry. Only you. But once you get to Texas, you can apply for them to join you.”

  “How will they get there?”

  Noah shrugged. Before the door closed behind the man, Noah saw him stop at the folding table with the two, masked Marines and a stack of boarding passes. Noah rested his finger atop the intercom button, but instead of pressing its button went to that door. The two Marines at the table looked his way.

  “Did that guy take a boarding pass and get on a bus?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied a woman Marine.

  Noah proceeded with the second, brief interview of a cheerful civil engineer perched on the front edge of his seat, eager to discuss the tensile strength of concrete beams. “Just head on out through the door on the right,” Noah said.

  “Does that mean I…?” Noah shook his head. “Motherfucker! Goddammit!” He took one step at Noah and both Marines’ carbines rose to the audible sound of clicks, freezing the man but not shutting him up. “How does it feel to play God? To decide whether somebody lives or dies based on, what? Thirty seconds? I got my place at the front of the line two days ago! They’ve given me half a sandwich and a bottle of water. That’s it.”

  “Please exit the building, sir,” the Marine sergeant said through his mask.

  The man’s hand fell away from the knob. “You know what? Maybe I won’t. Maybe you’re gonna have to shoot me, right here. Get it over with. ’Cause I’m dead either way. Why the fuck should I follow your fucking rules, huh? Just march back to the gate on the 5 and good luck?”

  “This is your last chance,” the sergeant said, “to do this your way.”

  “Fffuuuck you!” The door opened onto brilliant sunlight.
“Yeah, yeah! Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

  Again, Noah followed the departing man to the door he’d exited. The major and a whole squad of armed Marines were instantly alert. “Change of plans,” Noah announced. “I’m gonna lie. I’m gonna tell people I send out this door that they’re going to Texas. That means you’re gonna have to deal with their…disappointment.” The major checked to ensure a round was chambered in his carbine, and nodded.

  Each lie took its toll on Noah and, apparently, on the sergeant and PFC behind him. They were replaced every half an hour by a new team who got the painful “I’m-gonna-lie” orientation until Noah grew numb to the admission of his moral failings.

  “So I’m in? I’m good?” asked the blonde nurse, grinning, taking a small hop as she pumped her first. “Yes! Thank you. Thank you! You won’t be sorry! I’m gonna work my tail off.” She exited through the door on the right. “Hey! Wait a minute. Wait! Talk to the guy back in there. He said I—” The door closed.

  Noah checked his watch. An hour and fifty minutes had passed. The little stick figures on his notepad added up to fourteen left doors, eighty-two right doors. He did the math. If the first ninety-six people in line were representative of the rest, he should only have given boarding passes to three of them, not fourteen. He stretched his back and looked out the window. He hadn’t made a noticeable dent in the line outside, whose end he still couldn’t see. He needed to speed the process up, and he needed to reject a far higher percentage of the asylum applicants.

  Or not. What he really needed to do was get the hell out of there before someone in that line started a fight, or began coughing.