The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series

by Jacqueline Druga

  “What do you mean?” Frank grabbed her hand that held the picture. “Good thing you came back for this. Billy would have fit if he woke up and saw it still here.”

  “Frank? Why are you drinking? You have the kids.”

  “Oh.” Frank held up the empty glass. “Just a small one. My leg is really killing me.”

  “You should have said something. I would have gotten you something for the pain.”

  “Nah.” Frank waved his hand at her. “I’m fine. You’d better go.”

  “Yeah.” She reached up and ran her hand down his face. “Are you all right? Really?”

  “Yep, just sore. That’s it.”

  “O.K.” Apprehensively and feeling like she shouldn’t leave Ellen began to back up. “Frank are you . . .”

  “El, I’m fine. Go.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Go.” He winked and nodded his head.

  “If you need me for anything, you know where I’m at. Radio for me. I mean it.” Clutching her picture Ellen moved to the dining room. She started to leave but stopped and peeked her head back in. “No more drinking. Booze will only make that feel worse.” She pointed to his leg.

  “No more drinking.” Frank held up his hand forcing a smile. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Night Frank.” Ellen walked away.

  The sound of the front door shutting was a lever to him, a pull lever that released his tension. Hearing that, he let out the breath he held, and lost the smile from his face. Lowering his head, Frank rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, then dragged his hand slowly across his nose, down his goatee, and around to the back of his neck where he clutched the tension that formed there. Knowing it was time to call it a night, Frank faced the counter grabbing the cap to his whiskey bottle, readying to recap it. Pausing in his actions, Frank thought of Ellen. He closed his eyes and immediately thought of his embarrassing attempt at making a ‘move’ on her. Then Frank--figuring he was just going to bed anyway--hesitated before recapping the bottle and poured himself another drink.

  ^^^^

  Bowman, North Dakota

  “Dead. The world is dead, Elliott.” Without his uniform shirt, the Captain sat, legs propped up, facing the window. A bottle of whiskey was perched between his legs and, reaching down, with the use of his forefinger and thumb, he flicked the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Dead. Every winter I wonder if, when spring comes, will anyone be left.” He brought the bottle to his mouth and then showed Elliott.

  With a chuckle Elliott shook his head. His glass was still partially full. “Why do you drink and smoke so much?”

  “Why do you bitch like a wife?”

  “Again,” Ellen cleared his throat, “why do you drink and smoke so much?”

  “It’s a family thing.” The Captain took another sip. “We all drank and smoke. Sometimes, Elliott, I am convinced that alcohol and nicotine were nutritional requirements for my family. Blame my father. Besides it’s one of my few enjoyments. Sex certainly isn’t an option. Sex . . .” the Captain shook his head. “Do you remember it at all?”

  “The act, yes. The feelings, no.” Elliott shook his head. “Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me. I don’t think about it much anymore. When I do, it doesn’t drive me nuts. I just feel kind of numb about it.”

  “Funny.” The Captain lowered his legs and sat up. “I think we’ve conditioned ourselves well. When we realized that women were no longer an option, we were strong enough to put that in our mind set. Plus, it’s not like the old world, No television, magazines . . .” he looked at Elliott, “…internet.”

  “No, no. Don’t go there,” Elliott laughed. “You were as bad with that as I was.”

  With a chuckle, the Captain took another drink. “Now look at the women that remain of the world. So few. So very few. What did Steward Lange’s log book estimate? Less than ten percent of the surviving population are female. They must be taken care of. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t agree with making mommy zombies. But . . . The society has a point.”

  Elliott nodded. “Instead of allowing the women to get used up and die, they are using them to ensure there will be a tomorrow. The reasoning is good, the method is vulgar.”

  “And speaking of vulgar.” The Captain reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. He snickered at Elliott’s grumble. “Yes, the reason for my alcoholism tonight. How, Elliott, how do we tell these men they must face such a battle?”

  “And it isn’t even a situation that you and I, as leaders, can step in for.”

  “Nor would we want,” the Captain sighed. “There must be some sort of reward for the bravery they have to show.”

  “Credit toward promotion. A day off of training or work.”

  “And we must present the reward as incentive for them to strive forth, take hold of the challenge, and return to their homes, normal.” The Captain let out a heavy breath and stared at the paper. “It will tough tomorrow, but it has to be done. I have vowed to meet every request they gave. But how Elliott?” The Captain looked at him. “How do I tell these, innocent, eight young men that tomorrow they are to service our women.”

  “Carefully, very carefully.” Elliott reached for the bottle, topped off his drink, and handed it back to the Captain. “However, you must, the whole entire time that you had out this task, keep gratefulness in your heart . . .” Elliott lifted his glass to the Captain. “…that we weren’t picked.”

  With a grin and a ‘cheers’, the Captain clinked his bottle to Elliott’s glass and they toasted their good fortune.

  ^^^^

  Quantico Marine Headquarters

  As leader of a growing and large society, there were things that George liked to be, punctual, ready, neat in appearance, and never awakened from a deep sleep. Especially for a low level scientist who was nearly ten hours late.

  “Oh” George chuckled as he came down the stairs, “this better be so worth the loss of sleep. It’s three in the morning.”

  Dr. Burke hurried and looked at his watch. “My goodness, it is three in the morning. No wonder the soldier looked at me weird when I asked for a lift. I’ll come back.” He darted for the door.

  “Hold it!” George yelled out. “I’m up. I’m mad. Tell me what you need to tell me then get the hell out of my house.”

  “I have good news.”

  “It better be.”

  “I examined the evidence that was given to me, specimens, samples, and such. The stuff from Beginnings.”

  “I know that,” Georg said perturbed.

  “Well, I have good news.” Burke stood his lanky body tall. “The antiserum was in the things given to me. I’ll be able to match it up, perfect it, and then begin testing it. After everything matches up and, as you requested, after tests show our using it will be safe, I should have the virus and inoculations prepared by early summer, beating your January deadline by months.”

  “Excellent. That is good news. And I want anyone, anyone even remotely near the virus to be inoculated. Because an inoculation against it is all we have, correct?”

  “Correct. However there is more good news. Better news.”

  “Better.” George smiled. “What?”

  “Beginnings has cured the virus.”

  “What!” It was like a dance George did, a twitching of his body in frustration to hold back the scream. “That is not good news.”

  “Yes it is. They cured it but they don’t know.”

  George cringed again. “But they will!”

  “No, they won’t,” Burke said.

  “How . . . how in God’s name can they have a cure to the virus, and never know.”

  “Because their cure only works on the host strain of the virus. Once it mutates, the cure will not work. That is why they aren’t getting any success. Nor will they on the path they are taking. And . . .from the data copied and samples I have, Beginnings not only doesn’t have a sample of the host, they haven’t a clue of its existence.”

/>   Calm. Immediately calm hit George and his body swung in a stare to Burke. His attention was grabbed.

  Burke continued. “If you want to win a silent war with Beginnings, view it as a game of chess. Think ahead in your strategy. You both want the king. But if you keep their focus on the ‘big’ picture, or the current cure they are working on, they’ll never see the pawn slip right in there. In other words, avoid using the host virus, hit them with the mutated strain and . . .”

  George smiled at the man who wasn’t so dumb after all. “Check mate.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  February 5

  Beginnings, Montana

  The continuous bang-bang-bang of the baby bottle against the high chair tray, mixed intermittently with giggles, was the backdrop noise for the morning mayhem. A wet rag in hand, Dean ferociously wiped Joey’s face to remove what seemed like year old jam from his cheek.

  “Joey, hold still,” Dean instructed then lifted his eye to see Brian being creative about making the noise. Nipple of the bottle in his mouth, Brian thrashed his head. “Quit that.” Reaching up, Dean pulled the bottle from his mouth with a suctioning ‘pop’. Upon the horrendous scream that entailed from the baby, Dean replaced the bottle. “El.”

  “Here.” Ellen came into the dining room and smiled at her family at the table. “Billy, you don’t match.” She moved to the kitchen. “We’d better move. God, I’m not fitting into any of my pants.”

  “El, this is stupid.” Dean stood up. “This is my first day back, first day without pain, and I have to do this?”

  “Yes.” Ellen emerged from the kitchen with coffee. “It’s important and will take a moment. Besides, he waited. It’s your bet. Do you have it?”

  “Yes,” Dean said with no enthusiasm, “and watch your caffeine intake.” He walked to her and took the coffee cup.

  “Right.” Ellen took it back. “Alex.” Ellen saw her daughter wiggling in the chair. “Go to the bathroom.”

  “I don’t have to.” Alexandra ate her toast. “It’s my tarantism again.”

  Ellen gigged. “She’s cute.”

  “No she’s not.” Dean tried to gather items from the table. “And you aren’t eating. Why? You have to eat.”

  “No time. Later.” Ellen sipped from her cup. “Alex, Billy, Joey, coats. Now.”

  “Eat, El,” Dean said moving out of the way for his twins.

  “No. I’m fine. Joey,” Ellen raised her voice some, “now! Move it. Go.” She watched him sloppily and like a tank hurry from his seat. “And watch out for the . . . Dean, the high chair.

  As if he had done it before, Dean extended his entire body to the right and grabbed a hold of the high chair mid tip. His balance was lost, but he caught himself before careening knee first to the floor. A little hunched down, Dean let out a breath, and he gazed up to Brian, only to be greeted by the hollowing ‘clunk’ of the empty bottle to his head. “Thanks.” He smiled at the giggling baby.

  “Ba.” Brian pointed to the floor and to his bottle.

  “Ba,” Dean repeated, and reached down. With a piercing pain that shot through his temple the entire focus before him went black and Dean buckled and fell to the floor.

  “Dean?” Ellen rushed over. “What is it? Are you all right?’

  He blinked, long and many times, grasping the return of his focus with each opening of his eyes.

  “Dean?” Ellen helped him to his feet.

  “I’m fine. I . . .” He handed the bottle to Brian. “…lost my balance. I’m fine. We should get going.”

  Ellen stared at him for a moment taking in the lost look on his face. “If you’re not feeling up to work.”

  “I’m fine.” Dean shooed her away. “Go get them ready. I’ll get Brian,” Turning away from Ellen, Dean rubbed his eyes and took a second to try to figure out what had happened.

  ^^^^

  “Help yourself to refreshments. Coffee’s fresh,” Frank instructed as he hosted a small group in the library that included, Joe, Andrea, Jenny, Robbie, and Henry. “As soon as they get here...”

  Joe, walking with Robbie, grabbed a cup of coffee. “This better be good.”

  Frank winked. “You’ll be amazed. Have a seat.” He noticed Ellen and Dean walk in. “Oh, just in time. Do you have it?”

  Dean handed Frank a box. “Here. Now where do you want us?”

  “Get some coffee,” Frank said pleasantly. “Have a seat at one of the tables. “Henry!” Frank yelled causing Dean to cringe. “Hook, El, up!” He saw the glance Dean gave him. “Dean! I meant to the fuckin fetal communicator, pervert. I want my baby to hear.”

  “My baby.” Dean walked off.

  Ellen planted a kiss to Frank’s cheek. “I’m proud of you. And nervous.”

  So was Frank. But it was time to prove not only to Dean, but to the community, that he was indeed what he had been preaching, the literary guy.

  Frank held a stack of papers. “This . . .This is a big day,” he said, with everyone seated behind the library tables. “And you’re here, Jenny, because I need you to give the OK to have our young read this. You’re the teacher. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  Dean leaned into Ellen. “What did I tell you? A children’s book.”

  With a loud ‘shh’, Jenny gave a teacher’s scold to Dean. “Go on, Frank. We need new materials.”

  Frank ignored his father’s moans, his brother’s giggles, and focused more on the attentiveness of Ellen and Henry. “Henry, are you sure my baby can hear me?”

  “My baby,” Dean corrected.

  “Frank’s baby,” Henry insisted. “And yes, he can hear. Speak clearly Frank.”

  “Always.” Frank cleared his throat. “My novel . . . it’s a kid action thriller book called, Frank’s Day Out.” He gave a scoffing face to Robbie who laughed. “I’m dedicating this story to little man Dean for bringing out the literary guy in me,.”

  Despite the applause and ‘ahs’, Dean rolled his eyes.

  Frank began to read. He read slowly and dramatically like a teacher reading a child’s book to her class. “My Day out. I woke up. I was cold. I got dressed. I got warm. It was time to get a SUT.” Frank looked at Jenny. “See, I’m keeping simple words, building the suspense.” He nodded and continued, “I went out. I saw Dean. Dean said, ‘Hi, Frank. ‘Hi, Dean.’ I said. ‘Frank you are cool,’ Dean said. ‘Thanks’ I said. ‘But I have to go. It is time to get a SUT.’ And off I went. Dean was in awe.” Frank lowered the pages. “Jenny, do you think the word ‘awe’ is too big?”

  Robbie snorted a laugh and stopped when his father nudged him.

  “Um.” Jenny shook her head. “No. A new word is always good to teach. Broadens the vocabulary.”

  Frank moved on. “I went to my office. I got my gear. I went to my desk. I gasped. Greg did not do his reports again. It is OK. No time to get mad. Just time to get a SUT.” Frank stopped. “OK, now see here is where I show the importance of controlling your ...”

  “Frank!” Joe yelled. “Read the goddamn story!”

  “All right!” Frank yelled back. “This is the good part anyhow.” He gave a twitch to his head. “I went to the back gate. SUTs lurk there. I stopped. I heard a shot. A bullet flies by my head. ‘Fuck!’ I said . . .” A crash, rattle, bang, splash, and scream caused Frank to stop reading. “What?”

  Joe looked sharply at Ellen. “Why are you screaming?”

  Ellen held her stomach. “Henry ripped the suction things from me.”

  “He shouldn’t hear that, Joe,” Henry defended.

  “Frank.” Joe slapped his hand on the table. “You can’t say ‘fuck’ in a kid’s book.”

  “Why?” Frank asked. “It’s a word.”

  Joe winced at the laughter. “Robert. Knock it off. Frank, you can’t say fuck. It’s too strong.”

  “Shit then?”

  “No!” Joe yelled.

  “Joe, if I may?” Jenny raised her hand and stood up. She walked to Frank. “I think the story concept is good. The
children need to know about this. And…with some editing, this will be a fine addition to our school’s collection.”

  Amongst the moans, Frank grinned with a clenched fist. “Oh, yeah. I’m an author. And you, little man Dean. are typing...” Frank stopped talking. The chair where Dean sat was empty. “Where did he go.” Frank waved his hand. “Jealous.”

  ^^^^

  Work. That was the main focus on Dean’s mind. Getting back to work. The mobile lab was back in order and samples needed reviewed again. He had to see how much progress they lost on through the attack on the lab. At the very least it would help him forget all that was happening with his body. He wanted to believe it was stress, but he knew better.

  From the stack that needed to go to the mobile lab, Dean flipped open the first folder. He adjusted his glasses and began to read. Taking the pencil he had in his tee shirt pocket he began to lower it to make a notation. As the tip of the lead touched down, a burning throb hit Dean’s left eye, an instant headache which spread like a fire across the bridge of his nose to the other eye. Immediately his words went out of focus and the pencil dropped for his hand. Lifting his glasses up with his hand he rubbed his eyes fiercely wishing he could rub away the pain.