Lian faced Chad. "You need to leave. I convinced the others to let you be for now—but if you value your life, you have to leave."
"I don't understand—"
She reached out and touched his arm. "They're hunting you because they think there's something special about you…”
"I…I don’t know."
Lian pulled back away from him and gently rocked back and forth as the infant in her arms squeaked and stirred. "I understand you're afraid. We all are—it's the new reality. When people find out who and what you are, they'll be very jealous."
"But you're not?"
She laughed bitterly. "Of course I'm jealous—angry too! I watched my husband die right in front of me. We were trying to have a baby, you know?” Lian turned her coal-dark eyes on the baby in her arms.
“My entire life vanished before my eyes when Bolin got sick. And yet here you stand—someone who’s seen just as much tragedy as me, but never even sneezed. Yes, I'm jealous and so are the others. But the longer you're here, that jealousy will turn to anger."
She ran a hand through her greasy hair and frowned at her fingernails. "I've made my peace with everything. And I found Jia," she said with a smile for the baby girl. Lian looked up and the smile faded. "Her parents died…"
Chad looked around at the not-so-deserted store and took in the flickering lights and ransacked aisles. Everything looked more dangerous now. He tried to imagine the rage and fear that drove people to panic and destroy the store in their struggle to survive.
He swallowed. "Okay—I'll go. Thank you."
Lian watched, her face impassive as Chad stepped around her. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry…”
Chadd nodded, then turned and walked away, though he wanted to run. On his way to the front of the store, he grabbed an open bag of pretzels and a six-pack of diet soda that only had two cans left in the strap. It wasn't much, but he tucked them in Jess' bag, anyway.
Chad stopped in his tracks when he reached checkout lane #3. The bike and his backpack had vanished.
"What the hell!" he called out.
In the distance, someone laughed, the sound maniacal as it echoed in the empty deli department. Chad spun in a circle as he looked for the thief.
"This isn't funny," he growled.
Angry shouts from the back of the store met his statement. I guess the others just found out Lian turned me loose…
Chad turned and ran for the entrance. He sprinted out into daylight and promised to mourn the loss of the bike and supplies later. For now, he had to escape before Sally turned him over to the authorities.
He didn't immediately spot any helicopters in the sky and there was no movement in the parking lot—all the cars sat where they'd been the day before, from what he could tell. He looked at the closest one, a Nissan with the keys still in the ignition. He was tempted to jump behind the wheel and take off, tires squealing, but decided against the idea. He was sure a helicopter would appear on the horizon and he'd be caught.
No, I have to do this on foot now.
Chad sprinted down the length of the building and weaved around trash and empty boxes. He didn't stop until he reached the far corner and threw his back against the wall. He rested there in the shade of a bay door in front of the automotive service department until he could catch his breath.
Chad risked a glance back around the corner and saw Joe with his pipe and the teenager. They both stood on the sidewalk in front of the caved-in main entrance. Joe looked around, then brought his arms up in frustration and went back into the building. The younger man turned and stared straight at Chad. He adjusted his glasses and nodded dramatically, then quietly followed Joe.
Hoping the kid wouldn't change his mind, Chad pushed off from the wall and ran toward the next neighborhood. He didn't stop until he crashed into the thin line of spindly pine trees that bordered the parking lot.
CHAPTER 22
New Mission
A GENTLE BUT MADDENINGLY persistent buzzing woke Daniels. He lifted his head off the desk and peeled back a piece of paper stuck to his cheek. Rubbing his eyes, he glared at the clock on the far wall. The red unblinking numbers 0443 glared back.
The buzzing continued unabated in his pocket. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, then ran a hand through his short, bristly hair.
The lab was quiet. A quick glance around revealed the others had fallen asleep at their workstations or disappeared to cots spread out in the hallways. Boatner snored softly on the other side of his desk. Face down on his papers, the virologist slept, an empty cup of coffee next to his hand.
Daniels retrieved the vibrating phone and glanced at the screen. The text message from “LM” read: Call.
He was fully awake now. Shit.
Daniels rose from his desk, pulled the sat-phone from his briefcase, and slipped outside as quietly as he could. He took one last look inside the lab to make sure no one stirred. It remained quiet except for the hum of computers running software diagnostics and simulated blood tests.
Daniels shut the door with a click and stared east into the predawn light. The Sun struggled to push back the curtain of night with the first faint wisps of dawn. Daniels rolled his neck, opened the satellite phone and selected the encrypted number for Lord Murata. Before the first ring had even completed its warble, the phone chirped.
"Speak."
"I received a message to call Lord Murata."
"One moment."
Daniels rubbed the remains of his brief sleep from his eyes and waited. His heart rate sped up. Shunsuke Murata—second on the Council only to the king himself—did not make idle phone calls. Whatever it was about, the call was important.
"Have you found the boy?" the Japanese tycoon growled.
Daniels closed his eyes. "No, my lord. There was a firefight—"
"What incompetence is this? Was he injured?"
"No, my lord. My men had him and were in the process of delivering—"
"They had him in their custody?"
"Sadly, yes. My lord, I—"
A string of vehement Japanese assaulted his ears. Daniel didn't need to know the language to understand Murata had just cursed a blue streak.
Daniels waited. There was nothing for him to say. Murata knew the facts now: his men had had control of the boy, there was a firefight, and Huntley was lost but not believed to be injured.
"Tell me your fools at least have an idea where he is?" demanded Murata in a tired voice.
He stood straighter. "Yes, my lord."
Murata grunted. "Assuming your incompetence can be overcome and the boy retrieved, how long will it take to craft a reproducible vaccine?"
Daniels grimaced. "My lord, we have so little source material to work with at the moment—I couldn't offer an estimate just yet."
"Once you have retrieved an adequate supply of the boy's blood to further your research, the Council will take direct custody of him. I have a strike team assembled and waiting to extract the boy."
Daniels choked off a laugh. "A strike team? Lord Murata, I've heard my partner talking—he has a Presidential Order to take the boy to Fort Sam Houston as soon as he's found. I know the Council has incredible resources at its command, but you won't get some paramilitary strike team on a base like that.” Daniels glanced around, noting a pair of tanks blocking the nearest runway.
“We're already under lockdown here. I’ve never seen this much hardware rolling around stateside before."
"Do not presume to know our capabilities. My strike team will enter the base—wherever the army takes him—and they will retrieve the boy. Make sure your men know to stay out of their way."
Daniels stood straighter. "Lord Murata, let me accompany him. Get me out of here and bring me to one of your facilities. I can be of greater use—"
"Your zeal is appreciated—as is your talent and intellect. I have watched you for some time now, Lieutenant Daniels. However, the king believes, and I agree, that your talents are best put to use by staying with Dr. Boatner.
"
"But—"
"Are you arguing with me?” Murata asked quietly.
Daniels suppressed a shudder as a drop of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. "I live to serve."
"Good. Stay and work with Dr. Boatner—I am confident the two of you will find a cure soon. Then ensure the boy’s retrieval."
"Lord Murata, I'm a virologist. I don't know the first thing about a tactical extraction—”
“Start with shutting down local security.”
“Shutting down base security is not something I can just—there's so many levels of—"
"I am confident you will figure something out. You are a scientist—use your intelligence."
"It will be done, my lord," Daniels said with more conviction than he felt.
"King Charles watches you closely now, lieutenant. Do not incur his displeasure."
Daniels swallowed, his mouth was suddenly dry as sandpaper. No pressure. He stood at attention. "My men will return with the boy or not at all."
"So shall you."
Daniels stared at the phone. The small orange screen on the face of the phone displayed the words signal lost.
He closed the phone and powered it down. "Holy crap."
His mind raced through scenarios and eventualities—everything hinged on getting Huntley back. He closed his fist until the fingernails left crescents in this palm.
Damn you, Meigs.
The man was overconfident—he couldn't handle a simple roadblock. And now there was an investigation launched by Area Commander General Warner over what he called the 'Grapevine blue on blue incident'.
Thank God none of those Oakrock men were captured. Daniels didn't need that level of complication thrown into the mix. As it was, he had to figure out a way to breach Fort Sam Houston's security and let a Council rendition team on-base. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
Now I've got to go call Atkins and have another Oakrock team sent up. Maybe I should have Brent handle this personally?
Daniels stared into the glow from Fort Worth's fires as they lit the western sky. I'm a virologist, not a special forces commando. I can't just barge into Sam Houston's security command post guns blazing. There's probably twenty or thirty people in the command center alone.
Daniels looked at the ground at his feet. Twenty or thirty people packed in a small room…and I'm a virologist.
When he looked up, he knew what had to be done once the boy was found.
I live to serve.
CHAPTER 23
Starvation
IT HAD BEEN A mistake for him to run; Chad knew that now. Only two days since he’d left the supercenter, Chad saw his own breaking point quickly approaching. He wrapped the coat he'd stolen from another plague house tighter around his shoulders and tried to stop shivering.
The neighborhood he'd stumbled into that morning had been without power for some time. Most of the food and everything in the fridge—in three different houses he checked—had been rotting for awhile. The little food he'd salvaged from his supercenter adventure had run out the same day he'd left. As he’d moved north and west of Fort Worth, the pickings grew slimmer.
The houses north of the city had suffered more damage than those in Euless. It seemed this side of Fort Worth saw more rioting, looting, and destruction in the first days of the chaos than the neighborhoods closer to the airport.
Chad shivered as he watched his breath evaporate before his eyes. He didn't know what the temperature was outside, but this time of year it could easily be in the low 30's. Inside the house it wasn't much warmer, but at least there was no wind.
He was pretty sure he could keep going—he'd always found enough food in the houses he burglarized to sustain him for just a little longer. But lately the only things he found were crackers, cookies, and dried cereal. He'd been through three houses today already and there wasn't a single scrap of canned food left.
Chad was far from starving but he was also far from comfortable. That's why he'd stared at the package in the middle of the road for so long. He couldn't convince himself to go get it, but he couldn't convince himself to ignore it and keep moving either. So he sat on the couch and watched.
It wasn't there when he'd arrived just after dawn. A plain brown box with “MRE” stamped on the side in big, bold stenciled letters.
It's obviously a trap.
He figured if he stayed low and hid in place for a while whoever dropped it off would figure they had the wrong neighborhood and move on. The question was how long would he have to wait? A matter of hours? Days? And what if he waited and then they took it back with them when they left?
Chad worried at his cracked nails and frowned again at the package in the street. He'd already been through the pantry here three times and gathered all the food he could find on the dining room table. It wasn't much: a few boxes of cereal, some stale crackers, a can of condensed mushroom soup, and a few half-eaten bags of chips. He found plenty of dried pasta but with an electric stove in this house, the only way to get boiling water was to light a fire.
He shook his head. Smoke is not what I want right now. They’ll come running, just like with Jess.
So Chad sat and waited on the living room couch, watching the box while wrapped in as many blankets as he could find without going upstairs.
The only question left in Chad's mind was how long he'd last before he gave in. Every few minutes, his stomach rumbled and he'd take a look at the table of dwindling supplies. He didn't find any bottled water in this house, only a few cans of diet soda and beer.
Chad closed his eyes and cursed the loss of his gear again. The food stolen from him at the supercenter would've lasted for days. He glanced at the table again.
What I've got left over there might get me through tomorrow.
He shivered again and pulled the blanket down over his head. The box glared at him like a beacon in the night. On a whim, Chad pulled out his binoculars. He lowered them slowly and felt the saliva gather in his mouth—”MRE” stood for “MEALS, READY TO EAT”.
His stomach rumbled again—it was a trap, it had to be.
What if I've got everything backwards? What if they’re really trying to help everyone and there's something about me that could save other people? Don't I have a duty to turn myself in?
Chad shook his head as he thought of Lian and the little baby she’d rescued. It wasn't the first time he’d considered turning himself in, but every time he did so, he remembered Dr. Raythie.
She had seemed so desperate over the radio, he had to think the people she worked for weren't the kind he wanted to meet in person. She had tried to be nice about it at first, but Raythie had clearly been afraid of what would happen if she didn't deliver him.
He gave a sudden jerk of understanding. Just like Meigs.
It didn't help she'd been so rough with the needles as she drew blood samples on the bus. At first he hadn't thought about it because the bus bounced along the road and weaved around debris as they headed for the airport. He was just happy she hadn't put a needle right through his arm. The more he thought about it though, the more he realized it wasn't so much that she was incompetent or the bus was moving too much, as she was in a hurry.
Why was she rushing? Doctors are supposed to be cool as ice under pressure.
Even giving her the benefit of the doubt, Chad still couldn't wrap his mind around why she wanted to quarantine him when they arrived at DFW. They treated him like an escaped convict.
Chad sighed. How long can I stay out here by myself?
He'd run into only a few others survivors, but since he left the supercenter, most of them recognized who he was right away. One woman chased after him with a butcher knife. She'd already occupied the house he broke into yesterday morning.
He remembered he'd stumbled into the kitchen, desperate to find something to drink, when she'd stood up in the living room, a large kitchen knife in her hand. Before Chad could even speak, she’d recognized him and charged.
Chad only escaped by flinging himself over the fence in the backyard. It took her too long to climb over and by the time she was on the ground, he was gone.
They're spreading the word about me faster than I can move. It's only a matter of time before somebody finds me and cuts my throat or turns me in.
Chad stared at the box out in the road, listening to his stomach growl. He stood, letting the blankets fall from his shoulders as he moved to the dining room. His hand stopped before he grabbed the second to last pack of crackers.
He stared at the salty, crumbly snack in his dirty fingers. I can't eat any more of these fucking things.
Chad picked up Jess' purple-strapped satchel and placed it over his shoulder. He opened the front door, straightened his shoulders, and strolled out into the bright winter daylight.
What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
He stood in the middle of the road and looked both ways. Somewhere off in the distance, a crow cawed, the sound harsh and sad in his ears, but otherwise there was nothing alive out there.
Chad walked over to the box and picked it up. It was a lot heavier than he'd expected. He stood there for a second, looking around and waiting for an assault team to appear out of nowhere.
"Okay! I got your stupid box!" The sound of his own voice echoed back to him off the nearby houses. A dog barked from the next block over.
When nothing happened, he suddenly felt foolish. Chad turned and rushed back into his house and slammed the door. He threw the deadbolt and slid down to the floor, cradling his treasure, then laughed as he tore into the box and pulled out a little foil package labeled 'beef stew'.
He was about to rip open the meal pack when he noticed a green glow inside the box. Shuffling through the pile of individual meals, Chad found a black radio with a blinking green light. He stared at it for a long moment, the beef stew forgotten in his hand.
The radio chirped. "Chad Huntley? Chad, can you hear my voice? The time is 10:32 am. This message is for Chad Huntley. If you can hear my voice, please press the transmit button. You don't need to speak, just press the button. Chad Huntley? Can you…" the voice repeated itself over and over.
The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Page 14
