Emma elbowed Jack. She wasn’t sure what they were talking about.
“What’s up?” said her husband.
“We’re going to do you one better,” said Fred. “How would you like a ride across the 465?”
“Is that a good idea?” said Emma.
“What about the center median?” said Jack. “I’m pretty sure that’s a concrete barrier.”
“There’s a gap in the median for state troopers or local cops to make U-turns,” said Jay. “It’s almost a straight shot across from one of the apartment building parking lots. No problem for an SUV.”
“It’ll be a test run,” said Fred. “Over and back just long enough to drop you off. Even if they spot us from one of the overpasses, there’s no way they can respond quickly enough to catch us.”
“I don’t know,” said Jack. “Bullets travel a lot faster than cars. Just saying.”
“I hear you,” said Fred. “That’s why I want to leave sooner than later. Before they reach the point where they’re no longer kindly apprehending and relocating city refugees.”
Emma couldn’t imagine the situation deteriorating to a point where the National Guard was shooting at people. Then again, she still didn’t know what Jack had seen in their neighbor’s yard. Why Rudy disappeared. She might feel differently if she possessed that knowledge.
Jay drove them around the pond, the road continuing its lazy arc around the water. She didn’t see how they would get out of the neighborhood. The road looked like it winded back to the gate. Jack noticed the same thing, shifting in his seat to free up access to the pistol.
“Hang on,” said Jay. “We’re going to do a little off-roading.”
They grabbed the roof handles as Jay turned into a driveway and maneuvered the SUV around the house, slowing to squeeze through the headlight-illuminated trees.
“This is my house, in case you’re curious,” said Fred.
“I was hoping it was one of your houses,” said Emma.
“My backyard abuts some common property along a street in the neighborhood behind us,” said Fred. “That street connects with the back roads leading to the interstate.”
The SUV emerged from the bushes onto Pickerel Drive before taking them on a short, twisty ride on the local roads to an apartment community backlit by the interstate. Jay turned off the headlights as they approached the first of three buildings that lined the 465. He turned the vehicle into the second building’s front parking lot, creeping between the buildings to the back. They narrowly fit between a concrete dumpster corral and an open-sided, covered parking structure, stopping on a short stretch of flat grass with scattered bushes. The gap in the median sat directly in front of them, separated from the SUV by a low wire fence.
“See,” said Fred. “It’s almost a straight shot.”
“What about the fence?” said Jack. “I don’t think you want to crash through that. Looks flimsy enough, but you never know.”
“I checked it out,” said Jay. “Little more than a half-gone cattle fence put up years ago to keep toddlers from running onto the interstate. Two minutes with a bolt cutter and a hacksaw.”
“I hear something coming,” said Fred. “Back up.”
Jay eased the SUV back into the parking area behind the building, and they all got out to peek around the brick dumpster corral. Several seconds later, a Humvee rolled slowly by on the eastbound side. Fred returned to the SUV and handed Jack a bolt cutter. He held a hacksaw in the other hand.
“It’ll turn around at Meridian, so this is the short part of its back and forth run,” said Fred. “We’ll get the fence down and wait for it to pass again.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” said Jack. “I’d hate to ruin this route for you, or even worse—get you caught.”
“If we’re going to get caught, I’d rather get caught without my family in the car,” said Fred. “Plus my wife isn’t convinced we need to leave, yet.”
“Neither is mine,” said Jay. “It’ll be a while before we leave, and there are other places to cross.”
“If you change your mind,” said Jack, “we can do this on foot.”
“We’ll be fine,” said Fred.
A few minutes later, they had cleared a section of fence wide enough to fit two vehicles, in case Jay and Fred needed to make a less than precise, high-speed return to the parking lot. With the work finished, Emma and Jack waited in the idling SUV with Jay for Fred to give the signal, which came shortly after they got situated. Fred sprinted to the vehicle, jumping into the front passenger seat and slamming the door shut.
“They just passed, heading west,” said Fred.
As Jay brought the SUV to the edge of the highway, Jack handed his binoculars to Fred.
“These might help,” said Jack.
“Perfect,” said Fred, scanning each direction for several seconds. “Looks clear in both directions. I can see the Ditch Road and Ninety-Sixth Street overpasses, but I can’t tell if anyone is watching.”
“Only one way to find out,” said Jay.
The Pathfinder sped across the eastbound lanes and cruised through the gap in the median. Emma stared out of her window, praying that Jay was right about the Humvee’s patrol pattern. When they crossed the westbound lanes, she saw a pair of red brake lights in the distance, beyond the Ditch Road overpass. The SUV rolled over the concrete shoulder and came to a rest at a shallow angle to another cattle fence. She looked past Jack, through the passenger window, still able to see some of the Ninety-Sixth Street overpass.
“Damn. I thought we’d be out of sight,” said Fred, opening his car door and illuminating the cabin with the interior lights. “Shit! Kill the lights.”
Jay cursed profusely, fumbling with the dashboard controls until the cabin went dark. Emma and Jack hopped out of the SUV immediately after it went dark, making their way to the fence. Fred followed, carrying the same tools they’d used to cut the other fence.
“I don’t know how much time we’ll have, or if it’s even a good idea to cut a hole here,” said Fred. “If they saw us, they’ll investigate. I screwed up with the interior lights.”
“I didn’t think of it earlier, but what about the brake lights?” said Jack. “If they didn’t see the inside lights, they had to see those.”
“That’s why we parked at an angle,” said Fred. “They might see the reflection off the ground, but that’s the best we could do. I guess it doesn’t matter. Help me cut a hole, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Emma, do you mind keeping an eye on the interstate?”
“I can do that,” she said, taking the binoculars from Jack.
Emma passed Jay, who waited in the driver’s seat for a quick getaway, and took up a position at the back of the Pathfinder. The brake lights were gone, and she didn’t see anything that resembled a squat, dark shape heading in their direction. The overpass in that direction didn’t show any activity from what she could tell. The National Guard roadblock had probably been assembled in front of the overpass. Her assessment of the eastern approach was the same. It didn’t look like they’d attracted any attention.
“Emma!” said Jack. “Time to go.”
She paused in front of Jay’s window. “Overpasses look clear. The roads, too. I think you have a viable escape route.”
“Thanks,” said Jay. “Safe travels.”
“Thank you for getting us here,” she said before joining Jack and Fred at the fence.
“Ditch and Ninety-Sixth intersect at a roundabout just past these buildings. Watch yourself there. I can’t imagine you’ll have any problems beyond that.”
“We’ll stick to quiet neighborhoods,” said Jack. “Less chance of running into the authorities.”
“Probably best,” said Fred. “Take care, guys.”
“You too. Don’t wait long to leave,” said Jack.
They shook hands and Jack and Emma took off, hiking toward the perceived safety of the city’s northern suburbs—situated behind the federal quarantine boundary.
Automatic gunfire rattled in the distance behind them.
“I hope so,” said Emma, picking up the pace on her own.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dr. Chang took a last look at the jam-packed rear cargo area of his 4Runner and ran his mental checklist. The bulk of his cargo consisted of food, enough to last two weeks. He’d added two prefilled heavy-duty plastic jerry cans, giving him a total of ten gallons of potable water before he had to use one of his portable filtration units. He was tempted to leave one behind, since each can weighed forty pounds and his Cessna’s maximum payload was around seven hundred pounds—fully fueled.
Two water cans plus his bodyweight represented more than a third of the aircraft’s current payload. Chang guessed that the rest of his gear weighed around three hundred pounds. He wouldn’t know for sure until he got to the hangar. Montgomery Aviation kept a scale in each hangar to help with payload calculations. If his total payload exceeded six hundred pounds, he’d consider leaving one of the cans behind. Pushing the maximum weight made for a protracted and sluggish takeoff, a problem he didn’t want this morning.
He planned to load up the aircraft and sleep in the hangar, setting his wristwatch alarm for 5:30 AM. That would give him thirty minutes to freshen up and roll the aircraft out of the hangar for a 6:00 AM takeoff. Sunrise wasn’t until 6:18 AM, but he should have more than enough light on the horizon by that point to guide him down the runway.
Satisfied that he hadn’t forgotten anything critical, he shut the rear hatch and got in the driver’s seat, ready to flee. Chang could barely believe he was leaving. He’d designed this house with exactly this type of disaster in mind, and one phone call had taken all of that away—turning him into a fugitive. At least he had the plane.
With the plane, he could fly anonymously over the border pretty much anywhere and land at any local airport, dealing with Canadian customs officials later—if they even bothered to show up. More than likely, he’d have to seek them out. His biggest challenge was deciding where to fly. The easiest and most direct route to Canada took him below Detroit, over Lake Erie. He could be over the border and on the ground in less than two hours. Of course, that would also be the most obvious route. Thinking about what Stan Greenberg had said, he was strongly considering a more northerly route, toward Minnesota and the long U.S.-Canada border.
He’d identified several airfields in Minnesota that were well within range. Bemidji Regional Airport stood out as a top-notch facility, where he could take some time to refuel and narrow his choice of Canadian airports. Chang probably wouldn’t make a flight plan decision until morning, after giving Greenberg a quick call to see if anything had changed.
Chang opened the garage door and backed into the driveway, stopping to activate his home’s sophisticated security system using his cell phone. He’d hooked his satellite phone to a magnetic, roof-mounted antenna, turning his hotspot satellite rig into a mobile Wi-Fi hotspot. The more he thought of it, in light of Greenberg’s revelation, the less he thought he should use the cell phone, even with the location services disabled. He was certain it could be tracked regardless. When he got to the airport, he’d take the battery out of the phone, if possible, or destroy it if not. He had a noncellular data-equipped tablet and a laptop he could use to access the Internet.
He drove carefully through the forest, the tight gravel road scary enough during broad daylight. He slowed when his headlights disclosed two red reflectors flanking the road, inching forward until the motion detector activated the gate. When he reached the main road, he turned north and sped toward the airport, his mind on the outside chance that Jeff hadn’t put the wing back together.
Chang knew that was highly unlikely, especially given Jeff’s exceptional work history, but he couldn’t get the bug out of his head. If the plane wasn’t flyable, he had a decision to make. Wait around for Jeff to show up in the morning and finish the job, or drive out of town. As much as he didn’t want to leave the plane behind, he was leaning toward the road-trip option.
Endless rows of soybean plants and cornfields flanked the road. The dark outline of a warehouse appeared above the corn, which meant he was approaching Route 32. The airport lay in the darkness beyond the sea of soybeans. During the day, the white hangar that held his plane peeked above the green plants. He passed a yellow “stop ahead” sign and started to slow. The four-way stop was just ahead.
He sensed something was wrong before his headlights fell on a makeshift wood barrier blocking the intersection. The stop sign that normally sat atop a tall metal pole on the right side of the road had been removed, now attached to the center of the hastily made obstruction. Several heavily armed figures clad in helmets and body armor stood on each side of the road, one of them walking forward with a hand held out, signaling for him to stop. Chang complied, bringing the SUV to a stop well in front of the soldier—or whatever he was.
Three soldiers jogged up to his vehicle, triggering their rifle lights when they drew even with the front doors. Chang instinctively raised a hand to block the light, immediately placing it back on the steering wheel. No sudden movements. Bad things happened when you made sudden movements. He closed his eyes, the lights searing through his eyelids.
Everything went dark, and he heard a hard knock on the driver’s side window. He opened his eyes to see a soldier holding a gloved hand to the glass, his rifle lowered. The soldier signaled for him to lower the window, which he did immediately, breathing in the humid central Indiana air.
“How are you doing tonight, sir?” said the soldier in a thick Boston accent.
“Well enough,” said Chang, glancing over his shoulder.
The other two soldiers slowly walked down the side of the SUV, directing their rifle lights into the backseat and cargo compartment.
“Unfortunately, I can’t let you pass through this intersection right now. We have orders to turn all traffic back. Really sorry, sir.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
The soldier glanced over his shoulder, nodding quickly. “We’re enforcing the outer quarantine boundary. Route 32 straight across into Noblesville. Michigan Road is our western boundary, so just in case you’re thinking of heading that way—you’ll run into the same thing.”
“Wait. When did this go into effect?” said Chang.
“About an hour ago,” said the soldier.
“Can’t you let me by? I mean, seriously, how many cars have even come up this road in the last hour?”
“You’re the first,” said the soldier, starting to look like he was thinking about making an exception.
“I just want to head north. Away from Indianapolis, as you can imagine,” said Chang.
At this point, he would skip the airport if they let him through, and avoid any more patrols along Route 32. He studied the soldier’s uniform, looking for any indication of his unit or rank. Three chevrons and something under it—a rocker. One rank above sergeant. It was all coming back.
“Staff Sergeant, right?” said Chang.
“Staff Sergeant Andrews, 10th Mountain Division,” he replied.
“Regular army?” said Chang. “How bad is this?”
“I honestly don’t know, sir. But it has to be bad. I’ve never seen anything like this,” said the staff sergeant.
“Please, Staff Sergeant,” said Chang, sighing. “Let me through. I won’t say a word. I’ll just disappear. I don’t want to go back.”
The soldier thought about it hard, but eventually started shaking his head.
“I’m really sorry, sir. My orders are crystal clear. I can’t let you pass. We’re dealing with a quarantine situation.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing a respirator? Or a biohazard suit?” said Chang.
“We’re part of the rapid deployment battalion,” said Andrews. “We don’t even have vehicles.”
“Don’t you find that odd?” he yelled, immediately regretting the outburst.
>
“I think it’s time for you to head back the way you came, sir,” said the soldier.
“It probably is,” said Chang. “Sorry for yelling at you. It’s just all very frustrating.”
“I understand, sir,” he said. “The best I can offer you right now is to tune in to one of the local emergency broadcast frequencies or local news broadcasts. FEMA and DHS are coordinating some kind of medical response, which will hopefully be implemented as soon as possible.”
“Sounds good,” said Chang, wanting to scream at him.
“All right. We’ll get out of your way and let you turn around.”
How nice of you. Chang feigned a smile before raising the window, waiting for the soldiers to stand clear before turning the SUV around. Things were far worse than he thought. There was absolutely no way that a regular military unit could get here that fast, even rapid response elements, unless the federal government knew days ago that there was a problem. Not a chance.
Significant resources had been dedicated over the past several years to improving early response protocols for pandemic outbreaks and bioweapons attacks, but nothing on the kind of scale that would put regular military units on roadblocks this quickly—and without proper biohazard gear. That was the other thing. There was quarantine for medical purposes, and there was geographical containment. These soldiers were equipped for the latter.
Time for plan B. The problem was that he didn’t have a plan B. He hadn’t anticipated a containment boundary this far out of Indianapolis. There was no reason for one as far as he was concerned, unless the government suspected or knew the virus was contagious. He really hoped that wasn’t the case. The outbreak would go from a worst-case scenario to something unimaginably catastrophic.
He had to get out of here. As he sped back to his house, the rough outline of a very risky plan materialized. A nearly hopeless plan in light of what he’d just seen. Then again, what other choice did he have?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dr. Lauren Hale stood inside the emergency room’s ambulance delivery doors, waiting for the inbound ambulance. Gunshot wound to the pelvis and a chest stabbing, both picked up in the same neighborhood—all one block over from her apartment. Indianapolis had descended into pure chaos from all reports, the city’s emergency services on the verge of a complete collapse.
HOT ZONE: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Thriller (The Zulu Virus Chronicles Book 1) Page 19
