Sick pe-1

by Brett Battles

  Ash hesitated a moment. The thought of going it alone once more passed through his mind. But the conclusions he’d come up with before hadn’t changed, so he grabbed the messenger bag off the other seat and got out. Immediately, he pulled his jacket tight around his neck. Though it had been cold in the car, it was near freezing outside.

  “We've got coffee in the motor home, if you'd like,” the man said, then nodded toward the woman. “Janice just heated up a pot before we turned off. If you're hungry we can cook you up something, too. There’s plenty of leftover chili from lunch. I'm Mike, by the way.”

  He held out his hand. Ash shook it.

  “Coffee sounds good. My name’s—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I already know who you are. You're Sam Wolverton. I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  Apparently Craig Thompson was out, and Sam Wolverton was in.It was as good a name as any, Ash thought.

  Mike and Janice led him over to the Winnebago, then inside where the temperature was a wonderfully bone-thawing forty degrees warmer. Ash slowly stretched his stiff cold fingers then rolled his shoulders, trying to bring his muscles back to life.

  Janice pointed at a table in the rear. “If you want to have a seat, I'll get that coffee while Mike gets us back on the road.”

  “Thanks,” Ash said.

  He pulled off his jacket and sat down. Between the heat and the feel of movement and the calm exuded by Janice and Mike, some of the tension he’d been holding on to began to ease away.

  It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.

  The next thing he knew Janice was touching him on the shoulder.

  “You all right?”

  He jerked in surprise, then looked up. “I’m fine. Thanks. Just…trying to warm up.”

  She set a cup of coffee in front of him. “This’ll help.”

  “Thanks again.”

  The coffee mug had a lid on top that allowed a person to drink without the liquid inside sloshing out while traveling. Ash took a sip. It was hot and delicious. In fact, it was the best cup of coffee he’d had in a long time.

  The Winnebago took a turn to the right and began increasing speed. Ash could see they were transitioning back onto the interstate, but he missed the sign so he still had no idea which one they were on.

  He took another, longer sip.

  “Mind if I join you?” Janice asked from over at the stove.

  “Not at all,” he told her.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee then took a seat across the table from him.

  “Do you…do this often?” he asked.

  She cocked her head. “Do what?”

  “Pick up strangers on deserted roads.”

  A half-smile graced her lips. “You're not a stranger, Sam. We've known you for years.” She lifted her cup and took a drink.

  “But we just—”

  “We just what? Pulled off the highway so we could stretch our legs?”

  He studied her face for a moment. “Who are you people?”

  “Mike and Janice Humphrey. Your old friends from college.”

  “I don’t care about any cover story. There’s no one else around. I’d just like to know who you are, and why you're helping me.”

  “You sure want a lot for someone whose life is being saved.”

  “How do you know that? I thought you didn’t know anything about me. How do you know you’re saving my life?”

  “How do I know? I don’t. It was just an educated guess, and by your reaction, a fairly accurate one. And you’re right. We don’t know anything about you. But even if we’re not saving your life, we’re saving you from something. I would think you’d be grateful for that.”

  “I am,” he said quickly. “Very grateful. I’m just…confused. I don’t know what’s going…what’s going…”

  His vision suddenly blurred.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He opened his eyes as wide as he could, but was unable to focus on anything. As he raised a hand to rub them, vertigo raced through his head like a wave. He no longer knew which way was up and which was down. He reached out for the table to try to steady himself, but he missed and fell sideways, dropping onto the floor. Janice was immediately at his side, her hand moving under his head. But her touch seemed distant and disconnected.

  “Relax.” Her voice was a million miles away. “You're going to be fine. You just need a little sleep.”

  He tried to speak, to tell her he wasn't fine. That nothing was fine. But his lips refused to move.

  A moment later, the unfocused world he’d been seeing turned black.

  12

  If Ellison had been in a humorous mood, he would have thought it ironic that the car he escaped in belonged to Major Littlefield, but he knew humor would never enter his life again.

  The whole time he was hotwiring it, he was sure the major would come charging out and find him, then drag him back into the facility before initiating Protocol Thirteen. But the engine finally roared to life, and he sped away without seeing the major or anyone else.

  Just before he reached the far end of the valley, the building exploded, lighting up the sky. Even though he’d been expecting it, it still caught him by surprise. He jerked the wheel to the right and nearly ran off the road.

  At least the explosion meant that he was safe for the moment. With the major and the small team at Barker Flats no longer in the picture, anyone the project would send after him was at least a few hundred miles away.

  All he had to do was find a pay phone before that.

  And torch the car.

  And die.

  It was an easy enough plan in theory, but after an hour of driving through the empty desert, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He needed to get some rest. He couldn’t afford to crash. Not only would he be unable to deliver the message, but anyone who came to his aid would be in danger of being infected.

  Just a couple of hours — a nap, really — that was all he needed.

  About five minutes later he spotted an old dirt road. He turned onto it and drove far enough that his car wouldn’t be spotted from the highway, then crawled into the back seat.

  When he woke, the sun was high in the sky. Panicked, he pushed himself up but immediately dropped back down. It felt like his brain was trying to push out of his skull. Even his eyes ached.

  More slowly this time, he rose into a sitting position. As he tried to take a deep breath, it caught in his throat and he began to cough.

  Ellison was not the kind of man who would delude himself. Sure, he could have pretended he’d only caught a bad cold or maybe the flu. But the truth was he was infected with the KV-27a virus, and unless he had an immunity that worked like Josie Ash’s had, he was going to die.

  He forced himself to get back behind the wheel. His time was severely limited now. He figured he had no more than two hours to find an isolated pay phone. If he failed to locate one in that time, he would have to forget about the call and concentrate on eliminating his chance of infecting anyone else.

  “Should have stayed in the building,” the disease in his head said. “Should have let the fire take you.”

  He ignored it and used every ounce of concentration to keep the car on the road. Even then, he often found himself veering dangerously close to the opposite lane and then overcompensating by weaving back the other way and onto the shoulder. God forbid he came across a highway patrol car. They’d pull him over for sure.

  He passed a few possibilities, wide spots in the road with two or three restaurants and a gas station, but there were always too many people around. After ninety minutes, he started to think he would have to give up the idea of reporting in. But then he saw a little gas station along an otherwise deserted stretch of the highway.

  Though it looked like it was open, there were no customers out front.

  He slowed, then turned into the large dirt lot next to the building, his eyes scanning left and right, looking for…

  There.<
br />
  The pay phone was mounted to a wooden pole a good twenty feet away from the station.

  He pulled to a stop and stumbled out of the car, then cursed himself for not having gotten closer to the phone. When he finally got to the pole, he leaned against it and caught his breath. Closing his eyes, he focused on the number, trying to make sure he remembered it correctly. His headache wasn’t helping, but once he repeated the number several times, he knew he had it.

  He fished some coins out of his pocket, then picked up the receiver and dropped several quarters into the slot on top. His strength waning, he punched in the number, making sure he made no mistakes.

  One ring. Two.

  Then a click and a beep.

  “This is Ellison,” he said. “Barker Flats blown. I repeat Barker Flats blown. Littlefield initiated self-destruct. When the power came back on, the virus they were pumping into the target’s cell leaked into the rest of the building. Littlefield and three others eliminated with the facility. Target already freed at that point, but Littlefield discovered the escape and planned to report it to Karp. No confirmation if he was able to do that, but it seems likely.” He paused. “I’m…I’m infected, so this will be my last message.”

  He hung up.

  The phone was going to have to be destroyed, too, but that would be easy enough. He would just need to move the car right up against the pole before he lit everything on fire.

  He went around to the trunk of Major Littlefield’s sedan. Inside he found more than he had hoped for. Not only were there flares that he could use to help get the fire going, but there was also a hard plastic case containing a Colt .45 automatic pistol.

  It was a lot more power than Ellison needed, but then again, it wouldn’t matter when he pulled the trigger. At least he wouldn’t have to crawl out into the desert now.

  He stripped off his shirt, then fed as much of it as he could into the gas tank. Once he had the car in position, his plan was to use a flare to light the shirt on fire. He would then get into the car and throw the flare into the back seat to ignite the interior. As soon as he saw the fire catch, he would put the gun to his head and pull the trigger.

  What he hadn’t counted on were the three sedans that raced off the road and skidded to a stop twenty feet away, before he could get back behind the wheel and move the car into place.

  Men jumped out of nearly every door, most with guns pointed directly at him.

  “Stay right there, Mr. Ellison.”

  “They know who you are,” the disease whispered in his mind. “They found you. See? You should have just stayed.”

  “Get back!” Ellison yelled at the men. “I’m infected. Doesn’t matter if you shoot me or not. You come near me, your life is over.”

  None of the men flinched.

  “I’m not going to be a problem,” Ellison told them, then coughed. “Just let me take care of this, and it’ll all be over.”

  He stepped around the back of the sedan and headed for the driver’s door.

  “Stop. Now!” someone shouted.

  But Ellison couldn’t stop. He had to finish.

  “Stop!”

  Ellison put his hand on the door handle and started to pull it open.

  The first bullet caught him in the shoulder, knocking him into the car. The second went through his kidney and exited just below his ribs. He slipped to the ground, rolling onto his back as he did, and ended up looking at the group of armed men.

  They parted in the middle, and two new men dressed in protective gear stepped through. Not biohazard suits, though — something different. Then Ellison saw the thin rifles in the men’s hands, rifles with hoses attached to one end running around to tanks on the men’s backs.

  Not rifles. Flamethrowers.

  Oh, thank God.

  There was a whoosh, then short flames flickered at the end of each nozzle.

  The two men took a few steps closer to the car and raised their weapons.

  “The phone,” Ellison whispered as loudly as he could. “Don’t forget the phone.”

  But his words were lost as long streams of flames roared out from each weapon.

  * * *

  “Stop there, stop there,” Chuck said, pointing down the road at the lonely gas station.

  “Why?” his friend Len asked. They were supposed to be meeting some other friends for a couple nights of camping, but somewhere they’d made a wrong turn. Neither of them could get a signal on their cell phones so using their GPS wasn’t an option.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Again?”

  “What do you mean, ‘again’? That was like two hours ago. I’ve drank two sodas since then.”

  Len pulled into the station, figuring while Chuck did his business he could at least find out where they were. As he got out of the car he caught a faint whiff of barbeque. Maybe they were selling sandwiches inside. He could use something to eat.

  Chuck raced ahead like his bladder was about to burst.

  “Next time, don’t drink so much!” Len yelled after him.

  Without looking back, Chuck flipped him off as he entered the store. Len reached the door a moment later, and was starting to pull it open when his friend came running back outside. He looked at Len, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then quickly bent over and threw up on the asphalt.

  Len jumped back. “What the hell? I didn’t know you were sick.” As soon as his friend seemed to finish, he said, “Are you all right?”

  Chuck breathed deeply, but said nothing.

  Len could see his friend’s face was a mess, so he said, “I’ll get some napkins.” As he reached for the door, Chuck grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t go in there!”

  “Why not?” Len asked.

  “The guy’s dead. Somebody shot him.”

  “What guy?”

  “The attendant! He’s slumped over the counter, blood all over the place.”

  “Is the person who shot him still there?”

  Chuck’s eyes widened. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t hear anybody. Jesus, do you think maybe he is?”

  Len glanced around. The only other car he could see was an old truck parked against the side of the store, right where someone who worked there would probably park.

  “I doubt it,” Len said. “I’m going to go take a look, okay?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dead?”

  “No,” Chuck admitted. “But he looked dead.”

  “We should check to make sure, don’t you think?”

  Reluctantly, Chuck nodded.

  “Why don’t you call the police while I go inside,” Len suggested.

  “Okay. Good idea.”

  Len pushed the door open with his shoulder in case there were fingerprints on the handle the police could use, and stepped inside.

  Immediately, he covered his nose to block out the overwhelming smell of blood. The counter was just inside on the left. Lying face down across the top was a man with gray hair. There was no reason to check his pulse, though. He was dead for sure. Len could see two bullet wounds: one between his shoulder blades, and one in the back of his head. The cash register was open, and whatever money had been there was gone.

  A robbery, out in the middle of nowhere.

  “Len,” Chuck called from outside.

  Grateful for a reason to leave, Len rejoined his friend.

  Chuck held up his phone and shrugged. “I still don’t have a signal.”

  Len pulled his cell out. No bars for him, either.

  He looked back at the store. There was probably a phone inside, but chances were it was on the counter next to the body, which would mean stepping on the bloody floor to find it. Beyond the fact that doing so wouldn’t make the police happy, the creep-out factor was way off the scale, so as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t an option.

  “We’ll have to go to the next town,” he said.

  “And just lea
ve him here like this?”

  Len thought for a moment. “No. You’re right. We can’t do that. One of us should probably stay.”

  “I ain’t staying.”

  “Fine. You take the car. I’ll stay.”

  Chuck didn’t look happy with that solution, either, but then he started rocking on his feet and said, “I gotta pee.”

  He headed toward the side of the building.

  “Where you going?” Len asked.

  “I’m not going back inside!” Chuck disappeared around the corner. But it was only a couple seconds before he yelled, “Hey, Len!”

  “What?”

  “There’s a pay phone over here. If you have change you can call the police.”

  “You don’t need change to call 911.”

  “What?” Chuck’s voice had grown distant.

  “You don’t…never mind.”

  Len headed around the side of the building and saw that his friend had moved out into the desert. The phone was off to the right just a bit, hanging on a wooden post.

  Good,he thought as he walked over. At least now he and Chuck wouldn’t have to split up.

  13

  Ash woke with a pounding headache.

  He must have gasped or something, because a hand was suddenly on his shoulder, rubbing it softly. Then a voice said, “It's all right. You're okay.”

  It was a woman's voice, but it didn't sound like Janice's.

  “My head,” he grunted.

  He tried to raise his hand to his temple, but his arm would only move a few inches before it stopped. He opened his eyes just enough to see what the problem was. There was a tube or something coming out of his arm, and what looked like a leather strap around his wrist.

  He tried his other hand. It moved without opposition.

  “Sleep some more,” the voice said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Are we stopped?” he asked, realizing he felt no motion.

  “Stopped?” A pause, then, “Just sleep.”

  And as if it were a command, darkness overtook him once more.

  * * *

  The next time he woke, his headache was gone.

  When he opened his eyes, he realized he was not, as he’d previously thought, still in the RV. Instead he was lying on a bed in a wood-paneled room, soft sunlight seeping in through the window on the far wall.