A small window on the far wall inside the walk-in closet illuminated the cluttered space. Next to the girl he found two buckets of filth, empty boxes of tissues, and the remains of the used tissues scattered all over—mostly bloody. Empty food packages and bottles of water littered the far corner near a large collection of high-heeled shoes. Blood and vomit spotted the clothes hanging around the girl—he now saw that she'd yanked several dresses and shirts down on top of herself to keep warm.
Intense green eyes watched him behind a frame of greasy red-orange hair. The skin on her face, which must have once been porcelain white, had faded to a gray-tinged blue. Her lips were parched and bloodless from the rigors of her sickness.
"Please help me," she repeated, her voice nothing but a whisper.
Chad used his foot to move some bundled clothes out of the way and knelt down next to her. "My name's Chad," he said. He reached out and touched her forehead. She was warm, but not feverish. He looked around the mini-shelter she'd made in the closet. At one point she'd been pretty well stocked with food and water. His hand found hers and he gently squeezed the bony fingers. She closed her eyes and sighed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
"Jess…" she whispered, her eyes opening again.
"I'll help you—just give me a second. I'll be right back with some water, okay?"
She gave a small nod and blinked, more tears appearing on her cheeks, but she wouldn't let go of his hand. "All dead," she wheezed. It wasn't a statement. Her eyes pleaded for him to give an honest answer.
Chad swallowed. The truth. She deserves the truth, no matter how hard it is. Besides, she probably already knows.
"Yes," he whispered. "I'm sorry…"
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand tighter than he'd have imagined possible under the circumstances. She clenched her teeth as her lips pulled back in a mask of grief. The tiniest of whimpers escaped her mouth. Chad didn't know what else to do, so he leaned over her and planted a soft kiss on her forehead, smoothing away a few strands of sweat-soaked hair.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
Jess opened her red-rimmed eyes and stared at him. "Don't leave me…"
Chad looked down at their hands, his strong and healthy, hers shriveled and weak, both covered in about the same level of grime. "You need water. I have some downstairs. I'll bring it up—it'll make you feel better, you'll see."
She hesitated to let go and met his eyes. What she saw there must have reassured her, because she slowly released his hand and closed her eyes in exhaustion at the effort.
"Come back?" she wheezed.
Chad nodded. "I promise."
A few minutes later, he returned with warm bottled water and a box of unopened crackers from the pantry downstairs. He also wet a kitchen towel in the sink and brought that to help her clean up. He must have been gone longer than he thought because Jess waited for him with wide, fearful eyes. The girl looked so relieved when he returned, he thought she would cry again.
Over the course of the next hour, Chad helped her sip a bottle of water. He crumbled up half a pack of crackers and dropped the pieces into the bottle so she could drink the sludgy glop without chewing. By the time he'd used the kitchen towel to clean her face and hands, she'd regained her voice.
Her family—Jess, her parents and her younger brother, Sebastian—had watched with growing apprehension as the reports came in about the pandemic reaching New York and Chicago. When the news got out that people fleeing the infected cities to the east and north had been found in Dallas, panic had spread like wildfire.
Jess' mom worked at a law firm in downtown Fort Worth across from a hospital and she’d seen first hand the increasing numbers of people arriving for help. At first they drove, or the ambulances brought them. Then when the roads became clogged with abandoned vehicles, the sick walked to the hospital for help. When things got even worse a few days later, they had shambled like zombies, barely able to stand on their own.
Jess' dad worked from home so he had the news on all the time. She slowly told Chad around mouthfuls of soggy crackers about staying home from school. She and her brother Seb retreated to their rooms to hide from the world through video games, music, and cell phones.
The third day after the virus reached Fort Worth, her mom and dad had a big fight—she wanted to go to the store and see if they could find anything else to top off their supplies. Her dad wouldn't allow it—he'd been watching the news almost non-stop and knew that people in New York were dying. News from China had simply stopped and places like London and Berlin reported staggering numbers of deaths—so high American officials thought the reports couldn’t possibly be correct. It was only a matter of time before it spread further west, her dad had argued.
Jess closed her eyes and squeezed Chad's hand. "Then I saw Mr. White—across the street. He…he used to work at my school—the guidance counselor, you know? He came outside, staggering around like he didn't know where he was. I saw him from the front room. We were bored and playing Monopoly. He had blood all down the front of his shirt." She shook her head, fighting the memory but unable to forget.
"What happened?" Chad asked, though he already knew.
"We all went to the window to watch—they said to stay away from people who were bleeding or throwing up…so Daddy wouldn't let anyone go help. Mr. White cried out and walked in a circle—I don't think he saw us—then just fell over, right there in his driveway."
Chad wiped the tears away from her cheeks with the back of his hand. "He collapsed?" He hadn't seen any bodies across the street—Mr. White was probably in the pit back at DFW.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "He face-planted," she said, moving her hand to emphasize her words. "He never even flinched. It was like he was dead before he hit the ground. Mom screamed."
Jess closed her eyes. "Dad didn't let anyone leave the house after that, but it was too late. Seb started coughing the next day." She broke down in sobs. Chad didn't know what else to do, so he held his breath, leaned over the pile of filthy clothes and held her until she stopped.
"I'm sorry about your brother," he whispered. "I lost my family too. I had two sisters, Gracie and Helen."
When she'd collected herself enough, Jess asked him to help her sit up. He pulled down some of her parents' clothes and made a pillow of sorts for her under the small window.
Ensconced against the wall, she closed her eyes, exhausted. Chad told her what had happened in his little town. He told her about burying his family, about Mr. Miller and Miss Emma, about the Masters family and all the others. It felt good to say it out loud, to express how sad he was.
Before he knew it, he was telling her how guilty he felt that he'd survived without getting sick when his family had all perished. He told her about not being able to cry, the doctor on the bus, the military base at the airport, the pit, the escape—he told her everything.
Jess put down the water she'd been sipping as she watched him tell his story and took his hands in hers. "You can't get sick?" she asked.
Chad shook his head. Here it comes.
"I'm sorry," Jess whispered. "God, I'm so sorry."
Chad blinked. "What? You're not jealous?"
She smiled. "Of course I'm jealous—you think I want my family…" she swallowed. "Dead?" Her eyes looked wet. "But what you've been through makes all this," she said, looking around the closet-shelter, "that much worse." Tears trickled down her cheeks. "I feel so sorry for you."
"I…" he muttered, at a loss for words. "I don't know what to say."
"I miss my mom" Jess whimpered, her eyes screwed shut.
Chad opened his mouth to agree but choked on his reply. His cheeks grew hot and his vision blurred. He leaned over and hugged Jess, despite the filth and vomit and blood and stench. Her bony arms went around his shoulders and she buried her head in his chest. They held each other and cried—two strangers, two orphans, two survivors.
CHAPTER 11
The Council
SHUN
SUKE MURATA BOWED BEFORE Charles Stuart-Monmouth—exiled heir to the British crown—then stood, ignoring the protest of his lower back. Murata could not lose face in front of His Majesty by showing weakness. Murata's position on the Council would prove crucial to restoring the Imperial Family to real power in Japan. It mattered little to him that King Charles was not his master—Shunsuke Murata kept his eyes on the future.
"Murata-san, there was no need for you to come all this way in person," chided the king as he stood. He moved around the ornate Baroque desk to shake hands with his most trusted ally.
Murata's eye caught a gleam of light from the king's extended hand. The ring of Charles II, last legitimate Stuart King of England and direct ancestor of the man before him, glittered as it reflected the fire light. One day, he would restore the Imperial Family’s historical power and King Charles would prove a useful ally.
"I believe the information I have in my possession to be of great interest to Your Majesty."
The king gestured to a pair of high-backed chairs by the fire. "Come—sit with me."
"I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, Sire," Murata said as he lowered himself into the plush chair.
The king regarded him curiously. "It is most unusual to be taking visitors at this time of night, but I could hardly refuse your request, my friend." He glanced at a servant just entering the small ornate room from a hidden door to the left.
"Shall we take refreshment?"
"Water if you please, Majesty," Murata said with a polite nod of his head. "I am old and the voyage was tiring. Food holds little temptation for me at this hour."
The king waved the servant away. Once they were alone, he leaned forward. "Tell me then, why have you come? You must have pulled many strings to get clearance in trying times such as these."
"We all do what we must," Murata replied as he pulled his Italian leather briefcase into his lap and opened the golden clasps. "I believe I have discovered a way to regain your throne."
King Charles relaxed. "Do tell." The curiosity was still there, but his expression had shifted to cynical indulgence.
Murata grunted. "Your Majesty, this differs from anything the Council has previously suggested. It will take time—"
"How much time?"
"I estimate eight years—if we start now."
The king stared at Murata, his hands idly spinning the signet on his manicured finger. "Eight years is a long time to wait…"
"How many hundreds of years have we waited?"
The exiled monarch nodded. "True enough. Tell me, what does this plan of yours entail?"
"I believe the Americans will soon have a cure for the Pandemic."
"A cure?" The royal eyebrows rose. "Is that possible? I thought the flu mutated each season. Is that not why there is no cure already?"
Murata nodded. "True enough, Majesty. But there is someone they've found whose DNA is…different. A boy. He is immune to the influenza virus—to all viruses."
"That's not possible," scoffed Charles as the servant returned and held a silver tray with two crystal glasses between them. The king selected one and waved the man to Murata.
Murata took the remaining chalice and bowed his head briefly in thanks. The servant vanished as quietly as he'd appeared. Murata took a sip of the cool, pure water.
"From my Canadian glacier preserves," Charles said, watching his guest. "Amazing purity."
Murata let a rare smile form on his lip as he savored the eons-old water. It must have cost a fortune. "It is sublime." What a waste of resources.
"So. This man you speak of—do you have proof of his immunity?"
"I do." Murata handed over his report, filled with the truth of his extensive analysis but written in layman's terms for the king's eyes only. "I have put considerable effort into confirming the preliminary reports from my asset in Dallas. He is not wrong—I employ some of the world’s best geneticists in my corporations and they all agree the data is sound." He closed his briefcase with a faint click and sat back.
"It will work."
"You are convinced of this? Personally?" Charles asked, scanning the pages in his lap without looking up.
"I am, Majesty."
He closed the report. "Then I take you at your word, Murata-san. Explain please, how we may use this to reclaim our throne? Do you suggest we offer the world a cure?"
"Yes. My asset has already shared the information with America’s chief virologist, Dr. Maurice Boatner."
"What?" The regal eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Why ever would he do that?"
"Sire, my asset is a research scientist with the army. If the Americans devote their considerable resources to the task, they will accomplish the goal far faster than I could. They will do half the work for us in crafting a cure—at no charge."
"Half the work? I assumed we would offer the cure to the world in exchange for the Crown?"
Do not be so simple. Murata nodded. "You will, Majesty. But not now—this Pandemic is on its last legs—the first wave is nearly gone from Japan. I believe it has already burned out in China. The rest of the world will soon follow. The key is finding the cure before the second wave arrives, which, if history is any guide, will be in a few months. Influenza is cyclical and predictive to a degree."
Charles narrowed his eyes. "When the Americans find the cure, they'll surely give it to the world. Why should we bother to have our own?"
Murata opened his briefcase again and removed a second report—this one in a blue sleeve—and handed it to the king. "Because we will use our cure to stop a virus which we will unleash upon the world. Only those you wish to save, Majesty, will receive the cure."
Charles stared at the folder without opening it. "I could get rid of the Royals then save the rest of Britain."
"You would retake your rightful throne without firing a shot and earn the unflinching loyalty of the entire nation—they would owe their lives to you, Majesty," Murata suggested.
Charles stared into the fire. "But which virus?"
"The one now ravishing the world—a form of it, at least. My scientists believe we can weaponize it, perhaps even tailor it to a specific person's DNA. It will take time," Murata added quickly. "Years in fact, to perfect the technique and remove our fingerprints from it. But once the virus has been changed, it will be unstoppable without our cure."
The king opened the report and flipped through its pages, glancing at highlighted paragraphs. "And how would we deliver this weapon?"
"That is the other part of the equation which will take time. We must cultivate an organization or state willing to launch such an attack…and face the wrath of the entire world."
"I shouldn't think there would be a drought of groups queuing up to attack people—especially the Americans. Goodness knows they've made enough enemies in recent history."
Murata nodded.
Charles read the executive summary and closed the report. "I am intrigued by this, Lord Murata. Truly. I understand now why you felt the need to deliver this personally," he said, holding up the red folder. "This document is enough to start a world war."
He held the papers in his royal hands like he'd caught a snake. "Take whatever resources you need—I want this operational immediately."
Murata bowed. "It will be done, Your Majesty."
"I wish you to lead this project personally, Murata-san."
Murata bowed again. "You honor me, Sire."
The king placed the reports in his lap and folded his hands across them. "We have this boy, the one with the immunity?" He opened the folder and briefly glanced at the name. "Chad Huntley. He is in our control?"
Murata hesitated. "No, Your Highness."
Charles was silent for a moment as he stared at the fire. "And why not?"
Murata chose his words carefully. "He escaped the Americans. My people are hunting him as we speak."
"If what I've read is correct, everything hinges on him, does it not?"
"It does, Your Majesty. Without samples
of his blood—many more samples than we have already—no one can design a cure. The replication process is crude," Murata said, frowning. “Until the process is refined, we must have a reliable supply of the boy’s blood.”
The king stared at Murata, the soft glow of the fire casting half of his face into stark shadows.
"Find him."
CHAPTER 12
Plans
CHAD WOKE BEFORE DAWN the next day. It was the first time he'd been warm since the power had gone out at his own house. He sat up and Jess murmured something in her sleep next to him as the cold air hit her. Chad looked down and scratched his head before yawning. The two of them had held each other and cried for some time before dropping off into an exhausted sleep during the afternoon.
He'd heard helicopters buzzing in the distance, but had stopped caring. Exhaustion, hunger, and emotional release had taken its toll on both of them and they slept in the closet. Just before sunset, Chad decided they had to move somewhere warmer in the house. Chad frowned. It was his fault—he'd smashed the patio door to get in the day before, and now the house felt like a freezer.
He remembered the media room downstairs had a door that could be closed; maybe that would keep it a little warmer for Jess. Most importantly, it was on the first floor and away from her family's bodies. It would do just fine.
He quickly dragged blankets from the linen closet in the hallway down to the media room. On the far side of the room, opposite the TV, he stacked cushions from the couches in the living room. Layering up pillows and blankets, Chad had made a rather comfortable nest tucked into the corner.
Then he returned to the closet and ever so gently, he had lifted Jess' frail, emaciated body. "Close your eyes," he'd told her and wouldn't move until she did so. He didn't want her seeing her mom and dad in their bed. He couldn't save her from the memories of what had happened, but he could save her the memory of seeing that.
Chad carried her downstairs to the media room and went in search of a clean bucket and sponge so she could clean up while he took a shower. Chad had done his best to scrub the stink of death off his skin. Emerging fresh and somewhat clean for the first time in days, Chad realized he’d have to wear his dirty clothes again if he couldn't wash them. He found an old robe in Jess’ closet refuge and dumped his clothes into the washing machine.
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