While doing so, Frank was surprised he was holding up as well as he was, especially considering how awful he felt. But he supposed that box of Ho-Hos he consumed gave him the energy he needed as a quick fix.
After removing the last of the three bodies, Frank closed all the doors, tossed in his knapsack and weapon then started the engine. He was determined and he would keep going until he had to stop. To Frank there were only two reasons to do so. One was if the car broke down or needed fuel. The second reason was if Frank, like the car, just ran out of gas. With the way he felt himself going, Frank was wagering the later.
June 1st - 12:55 p.m.
Fairfield University - Stamford Connecticut.
Dean’s computer ran a sequence on the contents of the vial. The numbers of the sequence ran rapidly while Dean stared down at the counter in the lab, the papers he got from Catherine spread out on the counter. But the paper wasn’t just every-day paper. Notes were on a page from a telephone book, duty rooster, post-its. And all of the notes were burned to an extent and blood covered.
He lifted the vial and peered at it. The vial was half full and the tiny cap was cracked. A huge blood smear stopped him from seeing any name on the label. Without a name Dean couldn’t tell what he was working with. He knew his computer would put out that information shortly, and when it did, Dean would get the opportunity to work on it. Work on what he needed to do, and that work was finding a way to beat the virus. He would use his knowledge and Catherine’s advice, and, in a superstitious way, keep his fingers crossed the entire time.
June 1st - 1:00 p.m.
County General Hospital - New York City, NY
She was the last one who remained, and Andrea felt like she was the first to arrive. But after forty-eight hours straight with a total of two hours sleep, Andrea’s work was finished. She feared going down alone into the streets, but she took comfort in the fact that it had been a while since she’d heard any gunshots. She supposed those who had gone mad and rioted were either sick or dead by that time. The safety factor increased in New York with each passing hour. But Andrea couldn’t hide out in that hospital forever. It was time to go home. Time to get to her husband.
Surprised that there was still power, Andrea, knowing it would be a long walk home, took the elevator down to the main floor. The doors slid open to a view Andrea did not expect to see. Instead of going down, Andrea felt as if she emerged up from some sort of bomb shelter into a war-ridden world. In reality, it was. All of the windows there were shattered. The door was still closed, but that too was missing the glass. Patients, for lack of rooms, were lined up in the lobby. Heath care workers, soldiers, and civilians lay dead everywhere.
Making it across, Andrea had to close her eyes and turn her head. Death by plague was something she had grown accustomed to and Andrea clearly saw that the plague wasn’t what killed most of the people in the lobby, especially those who were set up on the right side. Men, women, and children lay shot on their cots, some of them burned, caught in the crossfire when rioting civilians battled the military in a war in which they fought the same enemy.
The sun was peeking through the dark lobby. That helped give Andrea the courage to go out there, but protection would make her feel even braver. Stopping at the body of a soldier, Andrea retrieved his hand gun, grabbed more ammunition, and moved to the door. She wanted to use the revolver to clear away the broken glass on the door, but since noise would have alerted anyone dangerous still walking around, Andrea reached for the handle instead.
The world had changed a lot since Andrea last saw it. She knew that, but she was still ill-prepared for what her mind told her she would see. Taking one more breath for courage, Andrea opened the main door and stepped outside for the first time in two days.
June 1st - 1:05 p.m.
Interstate 25 - Four miles from Ashtonville, Connecticut
Six hundred and seventy-five people were just too many for three people to handle alone. That was why Joe headed to the highway. The ‘Aid Station ten miles’ sign was not a distance marker to Joe, but a people-finder instead. A military truck was off to the side of the road. The tarp was up as if that truck, on his way to the aid station, had stopped to help someone and everyone else had flocked to that spot like pigeons to bread.
Joe stepped from his car at the end of the long line of traffic. Tents were set up and people camped about. He moved forward stepping on the trunk of a car then jumping to the hood. “Hello!” Joe called out to those who hung around. “Is there anyone here who isn’t sick?” he asked loudly. Some people paid attention, some didn’t. “We have medical help in Ashtonville. But we need hands.” He waited for someone to say something, but no one did. “Anyone?” Joe tried again, giving up shortly afterward.
Joe, disgusted, jumped from the hood and readied to go back to his car when a bigger man, burly with long black hair, approached Joe.
“I can help,” he told Joe. “I’m not sick.”
“Me either.” A thin black man stood beside the man.
Joe looked at them both. “That’s great. Follow me.” He headed back to his car with the two men. He jumped in his car and turned it around to face the direction he need to go in order to return to Ashtonville. When he saw two cars pull out and join him, Joe started to go. But little did he know, not only did those two cars tag behind him, so did a long line of others as well.
June 1st - 1:40 p.m.
Fairfield University - Stamford, Connecticut
It was a quick combination based more on theory rather than knowledge, but time was short. It had reached the point where Dean was trying everything. His scattered notations were the only record of what he tried. Still unknown, the vial had benefits. It definitely slowed the virus but only in the very early stages. The mystery substance in that little bottle would forever go nameless and forgotten because, even if that substance combined with what Dean himself had on hand worked, there still wasn’t enough to save the world.
Dean kept looking from his watch to the computer. He paced back and forth, bit his nails, crossed his arms then uncrossed his arms. The scientist in him knew that, with how he was ‘throwing’ it together, his chances of hitting the mark right away were slim. But positive results had been bred in different experiments under stranger situations.
He was waiting for the analysis, the results. Would his newest combination work? If so, how? Making it three feet or so from the computer in another Dean-pacing-frenzy, the beep of the computer signaled the results were in. Dean spun, leaped back over to the computer slamming his hands on the counter as he did so. He peered at the screen and at the results. Dean’s mouth dropped open and he closed his eyes. Lowering his head, he clenched his fist and gave a single pound on the counter. “Yes.” The word rushed through his clenched teeth. Emotional and shivering with excitement, Dean raised his head to the ceiling, mouthed the words ‘thank you’ then bolted off into the other lab.
June 1st - 2:44 p.m.
New York City, NY
Andrea never thought about how long a walk it was from the hospital to her home. She never thought it was that far, but then of course she never walked home, nor did she ever walk through plague- and riot-ravaged streets. Numerous times she had to dart inside a building when she heard someone, usually the sound of breaking glass or rummaging. She could have spoken to them, tried to talk, but Andrea feared what was left. All she wanted to do was make it home.
She made it to her street, a street that was the epitome of urban life. But Andrea had always loved living there in her apartment with her husband, Jake. Neighbors she could hear arguing, children that played stick ball and jump rope on the street, the fire hydrant that the men of the neighborhood always turned on for the children, Mrs. Davis constantly sweeping her walk. That was Andrea’s life. When she looked upon her street, she knew her life was over.
No children, no screaming, no laughter. Sounds of life were gone. Even her little street wasn’t immune to the war zone the city had become. Barker’s Store
had been looted. The big window was busted, items spewed from the store trailing into the street. Bodies were everywhere, many of which were wrapped in sheets, plastic, curtains, whatever. They sprawled about on the curb and doorsteps as if they were put out with the trash. Besides not being immune to the virus, the victims were not immune to the rats. Multitudes, more than Andrea had ever seen in her lifetime combined, ran rampant about the streets, coming up when the scent of the dead rang to them like a dinner bell.
The rats had become bold, not darting away when they saw her but darting toward her. She kicked them away and kept moving. It wasn’t far to her home, a corner building that she always felt had historical charm. Andrea prayed that it was unscathed, that her husband Jake would still be there. She hoped he hadn’t left in an attempt to get to the hospital to find her, because the closer to the hospital, the worse things were.
She arrived at her building, tired, sore and relieved. She walked up the eight steps; a rat sat before the oak doors, and Andrea kicked her foot to clear it from her way; nothing mattered to Andrea but getting inside. She walked in. It was a different world. Had time stopped? There were no sounds of children crying, no sounds of arguing neighbors, just silence.
As she made her way up the stairs to her third floor apartment, she heard a moan coming from the second floor. Listening carefully to pinpoint it, Andrea located its origin and walked into the apartment. It was Mrs. Graham.
“Mrs. Graham.” Andrea called from the doorway. There was no sign of her in the living room. “Mrs. Graham?”
Mrs. Graham’s moans were weak.
Andrea turned the corner to her bedroom and screamed. Mrs. Graham lay on her bed. Three rats sat on top of her nibbling on her hands and face.
“Get off!” Andrea screamed at them swinging her knapsack; two of the rats darted away. One arrogantly sat up staring at Andrea as if to say, ‘this is my dinner’. Andrea swung her knapsack at the rat, sending it flying across the room and smashing into the wall. Mrs. Graham moaned once more, and then she died.
Andrea, fearful of what she would find in her own home, headed to her apartment hoping her husband had not met the same fate as Mrs. Graham. She bolted through the door of her apartment, ready to take on anything. She ran to her bedroom, where Jake, her husband, lay on the bed.
“Jake.” Andrea touched him; he was hot. “You’re still alive.”
“Andrea.” Jake opened his eyes.
Andrea lifted his head and placed it on her lap. She held on to him tightly, grateful she had made it in time.
June 1st - 3:22 p.m.
Ashtonville, Connecticut
A sweat broke out profusely across Miguel Sanchez’s forehead. He cleared it using the back of his hand, stopping it from dripping in his eyes. He had erected another tent to help shade those who had waded through their illness into the street. He lost count of how many cots he’d set up since Joe brought him and another man named Jonas to their little aid station to help. Of course not long after Miguel and the other new helper, Jonas, arrived, the aid station on a street in the quaint little town could no longer be described as little. More people had come out of their homes for help; some returned to their homes, some stayed. But the numbers nearly doubled when so many cars followed that Jonas had the job of moving the vehicles that the people abandoned. Miguel didn’t mind helping, it was a lot of work, but it kept his mind off of everything. Off the loss of his mother who died in the car on the way to Ashtonville. He just did whatever Joe Slagel told him and when he was finished he went back and asked what was next. There still were too many people for the number of workers they had, and he heard Joe saying that there were many more still in their homes. A problem—when the plague was all said and done with—if they all decided to stay in Ashtonville.
Miguel’s English wasn’t the best at times so he nodded more than he spoke, just like he nodded when Joe asked if he could help move bodies out. Miguel agreed. Everyone that was well helped. Maggie, an older woman Miguel met, kept up her part even though her husband was failing by the second. Jenny, the teenage girl, helped a lot too and her parents were there. But the biggest surprise helper was the little boy, Joe’s grandson, whom Joe tried diligently to get to stay away. But Johnny didn’t. Coming back from taking another body to where they piled them two streets over, Miguel watched Johnny going from patient to patient. He held a bucket of water; Johnny wiped their faces, their lips. Johnny would speak to the patients. But it was clear to Miguel that Johnny just was so young, because Johnny didn’t know. And that fact broke Miguel’s heart.
Making his way closer to the boy, Miguel watched Johnny swat away flies then wipe a woman down. Miguel exhaled harshly; the smell in that particular section was strong. He moved closer to Johnny. “Hey,” he spoke.
Johnny dropped the rag into the bucket. “Hey.”
“Johnny. Right?” Miguel asked.
“Yes.”
“Johnny, I know you’re helping.”
“I want to help.”
“Would you do another job?”
“Like what?” Johnny wrung out the cloth and brought it to the woman’s face.
Miguel shifted his eyes to the woman. “We need someone to help us, so we can help the sick. Do you feel like getting water and maybe make sandwiches for the workers?”
“Am I allowed?” Johnny asked as he wiped off the woman.
“We all would like very much.” Miguel smiled then ran his hand across his own face again.
“Ok.” Johnny handed Miguel the bucket. “I’ll wash my hands first.” He held them up.
“You do that.” Miguel watched Johnny dart off, and when the boy was out of his sight, Miguel lifted the woman Johnny had been cleaning, tossed her limp body over his shoulder and carried her off.
William had just finished examining Taylor. He ran his hand over the little girl’s face as Ellen held her on the bed. He was compassionate and used that manner of speaking. No matter how many years a person is a doctor, a child dying is not something a person gets used to seeing. “Joe has found more help,” William told Ellen. “You ... you stay here now.”
Ellen sniffed and nodded, holding a sleeping Taylor even closer.
William let out a slow breath while keeping his eyes on Ellen. He reached into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a syringe. It was filled and capped. He held it up briefly as he saw the curious look on Ellen’s face, then William gently set the syringe on the night stand. “When ... When it comes to our children, our pain is secondary to theirs. Out of our love, a choice that spares them is never wrong.” He laid a hand on Ellen and slid it off as he turned and walked to the door.
Even though she didn’t want to, Ellen kept looking at that syringe. Her eyes would close in pain after seeing it. She raised her head when she heard William leave, and when she looked up, she saw Joe walking in.
Joe didn’t say anything; there was nothing he could say. He walked to the bed, kissed Ellen then Taylor. As soon as he sat on the edge of the bed, Ellen fell in to him and began to cry.
June 1st - 3:30 p.m.
Fairfield University - Stamford, Connecticut
Dean hadn’t slept in days. He may have looked it, but he didn’t move like it. He trailed behind Henry, upbeat, speaking rapidly, arms going in all directions. Henry carried a body from the tent and went back in for another. Dean followed. “And Henry, I still haven’t a clue what it is. Carl doesn’t either. It’s illegible on the paper and the analysis is coming up nil. But ...” He grabbed the end of the body, lifted it and aided Henry in carrying it out. “But ... combined with what I’ve been working on, whatever it is, it may be the missing link. It weakens the virus, slowing it. During the earliest recorded stage of the virus, the combination is phenomenal.”
“So if we would have had it in the beginning we would have beaten this plague?”
“Sad to say, probably, yes.”
“What about with the later stages?” Henry asked as he dropped the body, dusted off his hands and moved back to
the tent.
“The earlier the better.” Dean moved behind him. “What I’m hoping for is to hit the earliest stages we can. Make the virus dormant. Slow. Give the patient time to regain their strength while giving me the time to beat it.” He watched Henry pick up another body, and Dean grabbed the feet.
Henry turned to Dean as he moved from the tent, struggling with the heavy dead man. “Look around, Dean, this is a dead camp. Everyone here is in the last stages. This is a dead camp.”
“But Ashtonville may not be. They’re a small town. Chances are they’re stages behind us. I can’t leave yet. I want you to take it there. The batch is mixing now. I’ll have thirty initial doses and thirty second ...”
“Thirty?” Henry nearly laughed in ridicule. “Only thirty doses? What’s the use?”
Dean, stunned dropped his end of the body. “I can’t believe this is you talking. Is this Mr. Upbeat in front of me? Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m tired of seeing death.”
“Well, so am I Henry.” Dean spoke with an edge and passion. “And thirty people may not have to see it either. I don’t know, maybe it’s selfish. Probably it is. But, Henry, if I can save one ... just one person, then everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve done, will not be in vain. Tell me ... tell me you’ll take the serum.”
Quietly, Henry only looked at Dean.
June 1st – 3:33 p.m.
New York City, NY
Andrea tucked the sheets beneath her husband, Jake, to make him more comfortable. She had moved the bed closer to the window so that his last few hours could be spent enjoying the beautiful day that was just outside the pane of glass.
The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series Page 17
