SIck

by Brett Battles

  “You should still be lying down,” Billy reprimanded Ash.

  “I think he looks fine,” Rachel said. “How do you feel?”

  “Sore,” Ash told them. “But I’m not going to spend the day in bed.”

  Billy moved in close, examining the bandages and touching Ash’s face. Twice, Ash winced.

  “I can give you something for the pain,” Billy offered.

  “No.”

  Matt smiled. “You look fine to me. Well, except for your face. Come. Sit down.”

  As Ash took a seat, he glanced at the TV. They’d been watching the news.

  “What happened while I was out?”

  Rachel said, “Daniel Ash is officially a suspected terrorist.”

  He took a breath, trying to keep his anger in check, then nodded. “Just like you said.”

  On the screen, there was a shot of the desert. It was flat and brown and looked very much like the desert he’d seen on TV the previous day, and the desert he’d lived in for a month or so before…it happened.

  The only difference today, though, was that instead of a steady shot, the picture was wildly jumping around. In the upper corner was a small graphic that read Earlier Today.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, nodding at the screen.

  Matt grabbed the remote and deactivated the mute.

  Out of the speaker came the sounds of pounding feet, cloth rubbing against cloth, heavy breathing, and wind whipping across a microphone. Whoever was carrying the camera was running.

  “Watch out! Bobby, Bobby. Watch out!” a female voice said.

  The camera tilted quickly to the ground, revealing an offset crack in the asphalt. The cameraman seemed to take a hop step, then the image moved back up.

  “This way,” the woman said.

  As the lens turned to the left, the back of a young woman came into view. She glanced over her shoulder at the camera. It was the reporter Ash had watched on TV the day before.

  “Just carry it, Bobby. You’re going to fall otherwise.”

  The picture swung wildly for a few seconds, catching sky, then ground, then feet, before stabilizing at a lower angle. The girl was still in the picture, running just a few feet ahead. Visible now beyond her was a military helicopter. As the image moved a bit to the right, Ash realized there wasn’t just one helicopter, but several.

  The woman looked back again, this time her gaze moving well beyond the camera. “Joe! Hurry up!”

  There were uniformed soldiers standing outside the open doors of the helicopter. As soon as the reporter got there, one of the soldiers grabbed her arm and helped her up.

  “All the way in, ma’am. All the way in,” he ordered.

  When the cameraman got there, the procedure was repeated. Once more the image became chaotic, then settled back down and angled out the door the cameraman had just come through.

  There were several dozen people running through the desert toward the helicopters. In the distance, Ash could see cars and media vans parked along the highway, and the same large military trucks that had been blocking the road since the previous day.

  Seven people seemed to be heading for the cameraman’s helicopter. One of the soldiers took a few steps toward them.

  “Only room for four more! Only four!” he yelled, holding up four fingers. He then pointed at the three people farthest away. “You, you, and you! Over there!” He directed them to a neighboring helicopter, but none of the three changed course. “No more room here! You’re over there!”

  The four who were okayed to get on reached the helicopter and climbed aboard.

  “Glad you could join us,” the reporter said to one of the men. Ash guessed he was probably the Joe she’d been yelling to earlier.

  The other three were still coming, so the soldier who had been trying to redirect them got between them and the helicopter, then moved the rifle that had been slung over his shoulder into his hands. He wasn’t exactly pointing it at them, but he was making it clear he could.

  “No. Room. Here. That one!” He tilted his head at the other aircraft.

  This time the three stragglers got the message.

  The soldier and his buddy who’d been outside with him jumped through the door, then yelled up front, “We’re good to go.”

  Almost immediately the helicopter lifted off. There was a final bird’s-eye shot of the desert, with Sage Springs laid out in the distance, then the image on the screen switched to the anchor in the studio.

  “Those startling images were taken by cameraman Bobby Lion. With him was PCN reporter Tamara Costello and their producer Joe Canavo. The video was shot earlier this morning as they were evacuated out of the expanded quarantine zone that now stretches over a large portion of the Mojave Desert in Eastern California. As a reminder, if you are watching us from within the quarantine zone, you are asked to stay in your homes until further advised and avoid contact with anyone other than those who are already in your home with you.”

  “It’s spread?” Ash asked.

  “Several cases reported in Victorville this morning,” Billy said. “That’s just northeast of L.A. They’re also calling it the Sage Flu now.”

  “My God.”

  “You’ll want to watch this,” Rachel said, still looking at the TV.

  “…alert for this man.” The anchor had been replaced by the same picture of Ash the networks had already been showing. “Daniel Ash, a captain in the U.S. Army, is now thought to be behind this terrorist attack. His motives are unknown at this time, but sources do tell us he’d been showing signs of instability since returning from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. As we learned earlier this morning, this tragedy was made worse by the discovery that Ash apparently killed his own family prior to releasing the lethal virus.”

  The image changed to a picture of Ash with Ellen, Josie and Brandon.

  All Ash could do was stare at the screen. Any doubts he may have had about what Matt and the others had told him—gone. Completely.

  “That’s enough,” he finally said, then stood up. “I want to get to work.”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “But why don’t we get you some breakfast first?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re going to need to eat something,” Billy said.

  “I said I’m not hungry. So what’s next?”

  Matt shared a look with Rachel, then glanced at Pax. “Weapons?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Pax said. He rose to his feet and smiled at Ash. “How about a little target practice?”

  “Lead the way.”

  • • •

  The door Pax stopped in front of not only had two deadbolts, but also a thumbprint-recognition screen that released steel rods holding the door in place from above and below. Inside was the armory. Weapons hung on all the walls, while more were stored on shelves.

  “Most of these never get used,” Pax explained. “They’re here more for education, so we’re familiar with anything we might come up against.”

  “Are you guys like some sort of militia? Is that what this is?”

  Pax was silent for a moment. “That’s really a hard question to answer. I guess in some people’s minds we might be called that. But our purpose isn’t to create our own little country, or take on the government, per se. But you should really talk to Matt about that. He’s the explainer. Me, I’d just mess it up.” He flashed a quick smile. “When was the last time you fired a handgun?”

  “I don’t know. Four or five months ago.”

  “How good are you?”

  “Good enough. Better with a rifle.”

  “Probably gonna want to avoid rifles for a while,” Pax said. “If that butt’s in your shoulder and it kicks off and hits you in the face, you will not be happy. Of course, you could have the same problem with a pistol if you can’t control the recoil.” He smiled again. “Break your nose all over again. That’s not my idea of fun.”

  “Don’t worry. I can control the recoil.”

  “Thought yo
u could.” Pax smiled. “How about a little pistol refresher? Sound good to you?”

  “Sure.”

  Hanging on one wall were at least a hundred different handguns.

  “The Army issue you an M9?” Pax asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I could pull down one of those, if you like, but I prefer one of these three here.” Pax removed three pistols from the wall.

  “I’m not married to the M9, so if you’ve got something better, great.”

  Near the door were two floor-to-ceiling cabinets.

  “Here,” Pax said, handing the guns to Ash.

  With his hands free, Pax pulled a couple boxes of ammunition out of one of the cabinets. He then motioned Ash back into the hallway, and led him to the door on the opposite wall.

  “Right in here,” he said as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  Ash could sense the depth of the room even before Pax flipped on the lights and revealed a space that moved out from the door for at least fifty yards. Not too far in was a row of narrow dividers, and tracks along the ceiling that ran the length of the room. A classic indoor firing range.

  Pax set the boxes of bullets on the shelf of the middle divider, then took the guns back. “As you might have noticed, we’ve got three compacts here, all nine millimeter like your old M9.” He set two of the guns down, then held up the third. “This one’s a Smith & Wesson M&P Compact. Twelve rounds plus one in the chamber. Trigger pull at six and a half pounds.” He put it down, and picked up the next one. “Glock 19. Fifteen rounds standard. Five and a half pounds on the trigger pull.” He replaced it with the last. “And this one’s the SIG SAUER P229. It holds thirteen rounds. Single-action trigger pull at four-point-four pounds. So, which would you like to try first?”

  Ash decided to take them in order, starting with the Smith & Wesson. Although he had no problem controlling the kick, he could feel the first few shots all the way up his arms and into his head. Once he got going, though, the pain became more background noise than anything else.

  Next he went to the Glock, then the SIG. After he took the last shot, Pax said, “So?”

  Ash looked at the gun in his hand. “I like the feel of this one.”

  “Good choice. One of my favorites. Of course, I’m partial to all three of them, so you couldn’t go wrong whichever way you went. You want to shoot some more?”

  “Yes.” Ash popped the mag out and handed it to Pax. “I’d like to tighten up my groupings.”

  With Pax’s help, by the time Ash had polished off the last round in the second box of ammo, his groupings at fifty feet could be covered by a dollar bill.

  “It’s a good start,” Pax said.

  “Get another box.”

  Pax looked at him, surprised. “Don’t want to take a break?”

  Ash released the mag into his hand. “No.”

  As he plowed through the third box of bullets, he pictured the face of Dr. Karp on the target.

  This time, his groupings were much better.

  24

  The members of the media who’d been covering the roadblock at Sage Springs were flown to Fort Irwin Army base outside Barstow, California. Technically, they were still in the quarantine zone, but so far there had been no known cases in Barstow or on the base.

  There, Tamara was able to learn that contingents of soldiers had been sent east on I-40 and northeast on I-15 to turn back motorists coming in from Arizona and Las Vegas. She’d also had an interesting, off-the-record conversation with one soldier who’d said the roadblocks had already dealt with several irate drivers insisting that they didn’t have time to drive all the way to the I-10 to get to L.A. so they should be let through. Many promised to “keep their windows rolled up” and “not make any stops,” while a couple of people had even gotten out of their cars and tried to physically intimidate the highway patrol officers who were handling most of the problems. Needless to say, those individuals had been arrested and taken east to a jail just on the other side of the Nevada border.

  Even having learned all that, Tamara was frustrated. The Army was not allowing them to go anywhere. It was like the media were prisoners on the base, stuck with whatever news the Army decided to give them.

  To add to her annoyance, her brother still hadn’t gotten back to her. He’d given her that great lead then poof—disappeared. She’d just tried to call him again, but when she got his voice mail once more, she’d hung up and called her parents.

  “Tammy, please tell me everything’s fine,” her mother said. The last time Tamara could call them had been the previous day right after the news broke. “We’ve been glued to the TV every second we’ve been awake. They keep showing that part where you and your friends are running to the helicopters. I wish they’d stop that. It nearly gives me a heart attack every time.”

  “Mom, just turn it off when it comes on,” Tamara said. “Or just switch to another channel.”

  “I couldn’t do that. Your ratings.”

  Tamara’s mom had it in her mind that every single household was monitored and counted in a network’s ratings. Even if that were true, PCN’s ratings wouldn’t have suffered from the temporary loss of one viewer. Especially not now, when Tamara was sure that if a TV was on somewhere, it was tuned to one of the news channels.

  “Mom, have you heard from Gavin?”

  “No, dear. But you know your brother. He gets tunnel vision. Probably working on a project.”

  Tamara frowned. He did get tunnel vision at times, but he’d never let her down like this before. “Okay. Thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  “Tammy?” her dad said. He’d obviously been listening in on the other line. “Have you talked to your boss? They need to get you out of there. You’re right in the middle of everything.”

  “I’m a news correspondent, Dad. I’m always in the middle of things. Besides, everything’s fine here. The closest outbreak is at least fifty miles away.”

  “But you never know, sweetie. The sooner you get out of there, the better your mother and I are going to feel.”

  “Don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine.” She noticed Joe trying to wave her over to where the majority of the media was hanging out. “Look, I’ve got to go. I love you.”

  “We love you, too,” her mother said.

  “Very much,” her dad added.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  She hung up, then hurried over to her producer. “What’s up?”

  “Just got off the phone with Irene,” he whispered. Irene was their boss in New York. “She says they’ve been negotiating with the Army to get us taken out to the I-15 roadblock.”

  “That’s great!”

  “What’s great?” Peter Chavez, a reporter with one of the wire services, turned and asked.

  “Uh, nothing, Peter,” Joe said, then smiled. “Just…telling Tammy about what I’m getting my wife for her birthday.”

  Peter didn’t look convinced. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Tamara said, trying to cover her mistake. “He’s taking her to Paris. Isn’t that cool?”

  Peter frowned. “Guess salaries are nicer over there at Generic Cable News.”

  “I guess they are,” Joe replied. He then grabbed Tamara’s arm and moved her away from the crowd. “What an ass.”

  “When will we know about going to the roadblock?” she whispered.

  “I’m not sure. Soon, I hope.”

  Not too far away, a TV had been set up under a canopy so that people with nothing to do could watch. The screen suddenly filled with some jumpy, low-quality video, catching Tamara’s eye.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Joe looked over and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Quickly they both made their way to the back of the group watching the television.

  “Bobby,” Tamara said, noticing her cameraman a couple people ahead of her.

  When he turned, she motioned for him to join them in the back.

  As soon as he moved in bes
ide her, she asked, “What is that?”

  “Somebody just uploaded it to the Internet,” he said. “Some sort of skirmish at a roadblock just east of Tehachapi.”

  Tehachapi was west of the town of Mojave, which was in the quarantine zone, and east of Bakersfield, which was not.

  The footage looked like it had been shot on a camera phone. There were several dozen people pushing and shoving. Most were civilians, but there were a few people in uniforms, too.

  This went on for several seconds, then a face flashed across the screen that caused Tamara to jerk back, startled.

  It was Gavin, or someone who sure looked a hell of a lot like him. She pushed her way through the crowd so she could get closer to the screen.

  Whoever was holding the camera seemed to be moving slightly away from the crowd. She could see the whole mob now, pushing and shoving at each other. She tried to find the guy who looked like Gavin, but didn’t see him.

  A voice cut over the video, distorted by the poor quality of the camera’s microphone.

  “Most of these guys…I think have family…in the…zone.” The speaker’s voice was punctuated by deep breaths. “They want to get in…but…the soldiers are…trying to push them…back. It looks like some…people are getting through.”

  The shot zoomed in on a small group that was trying to go around the end of the roadblock while the soldiers were busy with the larger crowd. Suddenly several members of the big group saw what was happening and took off after the others, no doubt hoping that they, too, could get through. The trickle became a stream, then a river.

  At the edge of the pack, two soldiers went down. As soon as their colleagues saw this, they opened fire.

  “Oh, my God!” someone standing near Tamara yelled out as civilians started falling to the ground.

  But Tamara couldn’t even speak. She had seen Gavin again. He was wearing one of the shirts she’d given him for Christmas. And when the chaos was at its height, it looked very much like a bullet had hit him, too. Only unlike the others, he hadn’t fallen away from the roadblock, but toward it, like he’d been shot from the other direction. And then there was the look on his face a moment before he went down, a look of disorientation and confusion.