The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure

by Tom Calen

  “What!?”

  “Shower. There’s still power and water, if you wanted to shower, I can keep watch down here,” he explained with a quizzical look over her reaction.

  “Oh, no. No, I’m fine. I can just splash some water on my face,” she told him with overly forced casualness. Feeling her cheeks color and hoping to hide that visual, Michelle pushed her chair back and carried her dish to the sink. As she began to wash the plate, she realized how incredibly foolish the action must seem. All hell’s broken loose and I am washing a dish? Rinsing the soap from her hands, she cupped them under the hot flow and did indeed splash herself. The warmth was refreshing, and she was startled to see the blackness of the runoff. Scrubbing more vigorously, the skin on her face began to feel less stiff as the dried soot washed away.

  “Here,” Matt said at her side. Looking up through water logged eyes, she found the bath towel he had retrieved for her.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled, as she reached for the cloth and dried her face. She never failed to be amazed by the rejuvenating effects of a cleansing, even one as brief and superficial as one from a kitchen sink.

  Re-locking her thoughts of Matt, she turned to him. “Ready to head to Tumi’s?” Even amidst the destruction and chaos outside, she refused to believe that the little grocer and his stern wife had succumbed. She reminded herself of the couple’s survival of Fidel Castro’s turbulent rise to power, and equally impressive perseverance through the Tilian Virus outbreak. They have to be okay, her mind demanded.

  “Ready when you are,” Matt said. Retrieving her rifle, and Matt his shotgun, the two made their way to the front door. Peering out the decorative glass at the top, Matt reported an empty street. Easing the broken door open, the pair slipped back out into the street. Once again donning their makeshift air masks, freshly rinsed by Matt in the kitchen sink, they made a steady progression towards Tumelo’s neighborhood. It did not go beyond their notice that as they drew nearer to the center of Havana, there was less and less evidence of fires and tumult. While there was a decrease in visible destruction, signs of life were still absent from the surroundings. Several homes and shops stood with doors ajar, potentially indicating an abrupt departure.

  Pressing onward, they eventually reached the outskirts of Tumelo’s neighborhood. The homes here had retained the festive decoration and feel of native Cuban occupants. Houses of pink and mint green, most two stories, though a few stretched to three, lined the street. Each balcony held window boxes and planters filled with a variety of wild blooms in all the colors of the tropics. While most Cubans did not object to the influx of immigrants after the outbreak, almost all held furiously to their native beliefs and customs. Tumelo was a member of the minority that had fully embraced the new arrivals, though he and his wife had resettled in a strictly Cuban area.

  Thinking of the grandfatherly grocer, Michelle increased her pace as she recognized the man’s street. Moving to a light jog, the weight of the weapons and her weariness prevented faster movement, she soon found herself banging loudly on the front door of his home. When no response came, Michelle pressed her ear against the wood.

  “Anything?” Matt asked as he caught up to her.

  Raising a finger for quiet, she then resumed knocking. “I think I heard something.” With a furtive glance along the length of the block, Michelle called out. “Tumelo! Itza! It’s Michelle! Are you in there?”

  The scuffling of wood on wood sounded behind the door. “Michelle?” came Tumi’s voice, making her name sound prettier than she thought it with his lilting accent. Soon the door opened a crack and she could see the man’s wary eye in the crack of space. Once he realized it was in fact Michelle Lafkin, Tumelo swung the door open and wrapped his arms around her as he sobbed in Spanish.

  Seeing Matt behind her, Tumelo expanded his embrace, crying. “Mateo! Dios mio! Son seguras y han regresado!”

  Smiling, the younger man replied. “Yes, we’re safe and back, but I’m thinking we need to get in off the street now.” Michelle had been so caught up in the greeting that reality had momentarily slipped. Agreeing in fast words of broken English, Tumi ushered them inside the home. Performing what seemed to be a practiced ritual, the grocer placed a large metal bar across the door’s width before sliding a tall bookcase in front of it.

  Tumelo immediately called out to his wife whom he explained was resting upstairs. “We must take turns watching the house,” he told them as they waited for his wife to descend. “These new demons are smarter, they work together. They know to be quiet when they need to be!”

  A moment later, Senora Sardina entered the living room. If she had been asleep, Michelle assumed the woman slept like a statue. The tight bun at the back of her head was perfectly formed with not a stray hair out of place. Her house dress looked as if it had just been ironed flat. The only crack in the woman’s stoic appearance was the twitching smile and gentle tear that ran down her face once she saw the two guests on her couch. Less accustomed to English than her husband, Itza all but gushed with indecipherable speed as she clutched Matt and Michelle to her chest. Closing her eyes, Michelle’s body slackened as she accepted the first mothering embrace she had had since… since Andrew’s mother was alive, she realized.

  In that moment, the strength provided by the weapons on her body smashed as glass upon a stone. Sobbing without care or control, she told Itza about Andrew. Holding her tight, the Cuban woman sat and listened and smoothed her hand along Michelle’s hair.

  She was not sure how long her tears had lasted, but eventually no more came. Her heart still ached, its wound never to be fully healed, but she knew in that moment, her crying had ceased. Gathering herself, wiping away the wet remnants on her cheeks with a handkerchief of Itza’s, Michelle realized that both Matt and Tumelo had exited the room at some point and were now conversing in the kitchen. With a smile of gratitude, Michelle held Senora Sardina’s hand as she stood and walked to join the men.

  Tumelo’s tanned face showed his offerings of condolence as he slid back a chair for her. As Itza moved about the kitchen preparing a meal, Michelle was surprised to feel hungry again so soon. Matt finished explaining the past several weeks since leaving New Cuba.

  “So, this ARC, it can stop them?” he asked.

  “It did at the base,” Matt nodded. “Once we get them out of Gitmo, we can try to hook one up to a tower in Havana.”

  “That will be dangerous, Mateo! The demons are everywhere. And the military shoots anything on sight now. The only people spared are the ones already inside the compound.”

  “What compound?” Michelle asked him. “Tumi, what’s been going on here?”

  Taking a steadying breath, Tumelo began his telling of the events on New Cuba since they had left. If not for the nagging hunger, and the powerful scents of the food, Michelle’s anger would have ruined her appetite as she listened to husband and wife share their story.

  Chapter Twelve

  After Dan Seldis and the other four representatives from the refugees departed, Derrick ducked his tall form into the tent. Paul relayed the information to him, and from his expression, he was just as shocked. The possibility of confronting several thousand Tils had seemed daunting at the very least. But, if Seldis’ numbers were accurate and Paul’s impression was that they were, then the entire camp was in dire jeopardy, no matter how large its arsenal.

  “I’m assuming this changes your plans?” Derrick asked.

  With his chin resting atop interlaced fingers, Paul stared off into a shadowed corner of the command tent. “There’s no way we can meet the Tils directly. And we have to start thinking of them as more than just infected and crazed. From what you and I have seen, and based on the attack of the refugees’ town, the Tils have managed to learn and adapt. Maybe even think, but at the least problem solve.”

  “But still, so many in one place? It just seems hard to believe,” Derrick responded. In truth, Paul’s first reaction had been the same. But his time as a park ranger, and a youth nea
rly consumed with the study of nature, soon took him through a series of rationales and explanations.

  “Is it though?” he began to walk Derrick through the same elucidations. “Most animals’ initial instinct is self-preservation. If the Tils have evolved to something just short of full human thought, then likely they developed that preservation instinct. Power in numbers, for both defense and offense. Like a pack of wolves, or a flock of birds, or a school of fish.”

  “Okay, so they’ve learned that by sticking together they are more protected. I’ll give you that. But, hundreds of thousands of them in one spot? For starters, wouldn’t food be scarce to feed an army of Tils that size?”

  “Depends on what you assume they eat,” Paul continued the dialogue. “Most of our interactions with them have been when they are frenzied and coming after us. However, we know that wildlife, domestic animals and the like, have also been a target. But biologically, Tils are still human. Omnivorous humans.”

  “Plants? The Tils are making salads?” Derrick asked with an amiable grin.

  “Probably not having sit-down dinners, but self-preservation, why wouldn’t they eat grass, flowers, anything that keeps their body going.”

  The two sat silently for several moments. For so long, those that had escaped the outbreak unscathed had created an idea of what the infected had become. It was a necessary coping mechanism, Paul understood, assigning a different status, a “less than,” in order to ease a troubled soul and mind when one was forced to kill a Til. Even the name, Tils, served that purpose. After so many years of that perspective, to suddenly be faced with the idea that the enemy had grown beyond its “less than” status, evolved to a level perhaps second only to healthy humans in terms of dominant species, he knew exactly the conflicting emotions through which Derrick was now sorting.

  Finally breaking the stretching silence, Derrick spoke. “So the bad guys got more bad ass. Now what?”

  “Well, on the positive side, it’s likely that that gathering of Tils, if in fact there are several hundred thousand of them, is most of the remaining Tils in the country, maybe even the continent.”

  “It’s amazing what we take for positives these days.” Shaking his head in humor, Derrick continued. “But, I see your point. After seven plus years fighting them, others dying off from starvation, injuries, or whatever, how many could possibly be left? So, this will be like our Alamo?”

  “Hopefully with a better outcome,” Paul replied. “I don’t plan on engaging, though, until we can get to safety as many of the refugees that can’t fight as we can. Which means our timetable for heading to the rendezvous needs to speed up.”

  “How soon do you want to leave?”

  Paul knew this would be the point of contention. “I’m not leaving. Now that we have more fighters, we can spare a security detail to escort refugees to the Mohawk. Being ten or twenty men short won’t matter too much when we’re up against a force of hundreds of thousands.”

  “Agreed. Plus it gives us time to fortify our position and plan.”

  “Thing is, Derrick,” he danced softly with his words. “You’re going to lead the group to the ship.”

  “What? I’m not running from this fight, Paul!” Derrick’s voice increased in both volume and intensity.

  Raising his hands in an attempt to soothe the situation, he explained. “You’re not running anything. I need you there to not only lead the security detail, but when you get to that ship I need someone I can trust to make sure we get reinforcements. It has nothing to do with running away! You’re the only one I know here now, and the only one I fully trust.” He did not add, however, that the battle with the Tils was likely going to be a losing one. If he could spare the life of one of Mike’s old students, well, he owed him at least that much.

  His words had clearly taken effect. He could see Derrick’s resolve weaken slightly before the younger man responded. “Fine, but I am coming back with the reinforcements!”

  Nodding his assent, Paul thought to himself, By then the battle will long be over, my friend.

  The pair spent the next two hours discussing the best means of splitting resources so that both parties had enough for their respective tasks. The hasty departure was less affected by the readiness of the Horde, Paul knew the work was nearing an end, but rather the health of the new arrivals. After a month of traveling, and severe malnutrition, he worried that Dan Seldis’ refugees would be unable to embark on another trek so soon. He could spare a handful of vehicles, but certainly not enough to accommodate the four to five hundred people he estimated would be heading south.

  The final decisions regarding the exodus were left to the morning when Paul could speak again with Dan and get an updated status on the condition of his people. Ideally he wanted them on the road the morning after next, any later and the opportunity of escape might be lost. The Tils were out there and he knew their attack was imminent.

  * * *

  Pushing his hands deeper into the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, Derrick crossed the distance between the command tent and the one he called his own. While he had been in the fiery warmth of Paul’s headquarters, the late hour had chilled the night air more than he realized. His thoughts, however, only registered the temperature change as one did a blade of grass; it was there but had no impact. No, his mind clashed with the logic of Paul’s decisions and his own reluctance to run from the fight. The Horde leader had said it was a matter of trust, and he did not doubt that, but he also knew there was an unstated purpose to assigning him to the southern exodus.

  He certainly appreciated the older man’s concern for his safety. Yet, in the year he had spent on his own while the others started new lives in Cuba, Derrick had grown used to making his own decisions, and suffering any resulting consequences. Death was not a thing he wished for, or raced towards, but he could not help but chafe under the well-intentioned protectionism of first Hicks, and now Paul.

  In truth, the process had begun years earlier when Mike Allard had waited to inform him of his parents’ death. They had been in the home’s garage, he had told Derrick days later, in what he believed was an attempt to escape a Til. Mike had spared him the lasting image of their mangled corpses. As he had spared him the pain of losing Jenni in the mountains, and again when he spared him the agony of finally ending her torment. And then Hicks sacrificing himself yesterday.

  There was a warmth that came from having a life filled with people willing to take on burdens that should have fallen to him. Likewise, the assignment to lead the party of refugees south was a clear indication of Paul’s renewed confidence in him. Derrick was aware that the park ranger had repeatedly, and with some insistence, urged Mike to remove him from his post in the mountain camp when it was clear his myopic goal of caring for Jenni was impacting the community.

  In the short time before he reached his tent Derrick vowed to lead the others to safety and return as rapidly as circumstances allowed. The battle Paul planned, perhaps the final strike against the Tils, was not going to be a burden that would rest on the shoulders of other men.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “MIKE!” The scream was drowned out by the cacophonous gunfire and primal vocalizations of the Tils. Pressed back to back as they had been, at first Lisa thought Mike had been brought down when she felt his body slide lower against her own. In panic, she turned just in time to see his figure launch outward before disappearing down the hillside.

  Erik, using the ammunition-less shotgun as a club, swung wildly, and the weapon’s stock connected with Tilian skulls in a bone-crunching thud. “What is he doing?” he shouted over the chaos. “How can they have the Humvee?”

  Closing the gap Mike’s unannounced departure had left in their defenses, Lisa pivoted several degrees on her heel. With three, keeping the Tils at bay had been a failing task, now with just her and Erik remaining, she knew it would be only seconds before they were overwhelmed. Using her new vantage point to peer down the hillside, her eyes widened when she spied Mike.<
br />
  “Get down!” Lisa called over her shoulder as she tried to pull Erik with her to the ground.

  * * *

  For the briefest of flashes, as his feet cleared the heads and outstretched arms of the Tils beneath him, Mike felt a rush of grace and freedom. That sensation was quickly replaced however, as gravity worked to correct the anomaly of a free-flying human. Aiming the twin Glocks at the infected he was rushing towards, Mike brought down several before being forced to twist himself so that his shoulder barreled into two other Tils. Specks of white light flashed in his vision as bodies met earth and his shoulder wrenched from its socket. Contracting his limbs to roll through the momentum, the effort resulted in a skidding finish a stride from the Humvee. Exploiting the Til’s confusion and his own adrenaline, Mike sprang to his feet and fired into the thinning mass of infected surrounding and atop the armored truck. This really better work, his rational mind warned.

  Felling the final two Tils standing at the rear of truck, he used his good arm to swing himself up to the pedestal-mounted M2 Browning machine gun. Turning and angling the weapon up towards the hill, Mike unleashed a deafeningly devastating barrage at the Tils converging on Erik and Lisa. Seeing that she understood his intention, Mike watched as she pulled Erik out of sight, freeing him from friendly-fire worries. Movement in his periphery caught his attention, and he turned from his attack on the hillside, bringing the .50 to his left and ripping through the bodies of Tils attempting to reach him. Soon more infected lay strewn on the ground, many with limbs shorn off from the heavy artillery, while a smaller number remained standing.

  One of the Tils sounded a part howl/part shout into the air. In response, the infected still able to flee slipped into the tree line, disappearing into the shadows. Mike sent rounds after them; not trusting in the unbelievable, he continued to swerve the machine gun around the pedestal for several minutes before Lisa and Erik finally made their way down the slope.