Dead Fall

by Joseph Xand

  But he tried. The first half of that ten-day deadline he slept very little, pushing his team hard to test every possible scenario that might render answers. And for once, it wasn't for the reasons those who knew him best might think—to be known as the man who single-handedly saved the human race, and all the fame and glory such a distinction would most certainly earn him.

  No, his reasons for pushing so hard were not for the glory of success, but rather the shame of failure. Thad knew that if answers were not found soon, he would have to skip out before the deadline was reached, and then he would spend the rest of his life wondering if leaving had been the right thing to do.

  If he'd stayed, would he have eventually pieced the puzzle together? Found the missing link that would lead to the infection's demise? By leaving, would he have sacrificed all of humanity to save his daughter?

  He would never escape the possibility, as arrogant and conceited as it sounded, that much of the world might have been saved had he seen the deadline through. Was he being arrogant in his assumption that the CDC couldn't possibly find the answers without him? Sure. But sometimes there's a fine line between vanity and validity.

  Thad's plan was to wait until the night before the President was to go public before he slipped out of the hospital. He hadn't worked out all the details. He thought he had time. But five days into the ten-day deadline, four days into the New York quarantine, three new outbreaks of the infection emerged on the East Coast, two in hospitals (in Cleveland and Philadelphia, respectively) and one as a domestic disturbance resulting in the deaths of two people in a small suburb outside of Fort Lauderdale.

  By early evening, both hospitals were closed and quarantined, as was any personnel who had responded to the domestic disturbance. The media was fed a story and told the circumstances were unrelated, but the President was getting antsy.

  Later that night, a Tokyo hospital admitted a patient in the late stages of the illness. A reporter got wind that the patient's son had recently returned from a trip to New York. The President sliced the deadline back to the original seven days he'd wanted in the first place, forcing Thad to move up his own deadline of desertion.

  On the night of day six, Thad called Michael Talley, his co-worker at Levinson Pharmaceuticals, and told him his car had been stolen from a gas station and asked if Michael minded coming to pick him up, apologizing for the late hour.

  Michael was the only person Thad knew who, although he worked in New York, preferred to live more cheaply on the other side of the Hudson in Newark. Since the New York quarantine began in the early morning hours when traffic wouldn't be much of an issue, Thad guessed correctly that Michael had not been trapped in Manhattan when the bridges and tunnels were closed.

  Michael agreed to meet him outside the convenience store but warned Thad it could be awhile as southbound traffic was slow. Thad had expected as much and was, in fact, counting on it. The delay would give him plenty of time to feign sleep before making his way out of the first-floor window and across the parking lot underneath a fleet of ambulances.

  * * * * *

  Forty-five minutes after Thad sat down next to the dumpster behind the convenience store, Michael Talley's silver Mercedes pulled up slowly behind the back. Thad waved him over.

  "Hey, partner. Long time, no see," Michael greeted as Thad climbed into the passenger seat. He reached out a hand and Thad shook it. "They finally lift the quarantine at the hospital?"

  "Yes, just this evening," Thad lied, settling in.

  "Think the cops'll find anything?"

  "What?"

  "The stolen car. Any chance the cops'll get the guy who stole it?"

  With everything on his mind, Thad had briefly forgotten his cover story. "Oh. Well, they said the car might pop up, but weren't optimistic about finding the thief."

  "A brand-new Aston? Only place it'll turn up is a chop-shop. Newark's got its share of those." Michael drove out of the parking lot, headed north. "Why didn't they give you a ride?"

  "Who's that?" Thad had been turned around, looking out the back window, looking to see if the hospital entrance was visible from here. Unconsciously he slumped in the seat as if hoping to avoid detection.

  "The police. You said you spoke to them about the car. Why didn't they give you a ride?"

  "Oh. They were going to, but a call came in and they were the nearest unit, so they needed to respond to it. They offered to send another car for me later, but I decided to try you instead. I hope you don't mind."

  "That's fine. It's good to see you."

  Thad nodded. "I'm sorry for the late hour."

  "No problem. Glad to help. Hey, did you need anything from work? I forgot to ask. I can turn around…"

  "No. No, there's nothing. Everything was in the car."

  "Damn. Sorry to hear that."

  Thad just shrugged. They drove in silence for several minutes. Eventually, he sat up straighter, feeling foolish when he noticed his posture.

  "So where to?" Michael asked, breaking the silence. "Have they put you in a hotel around here or something? Obviously, I can't drop you at home in the city."

  "Well, I was wondering if we could go back to your place."

  "Sure," Michael said, palming his cell phone. "Let me call Marie and I'll have her prepare the spare bedroom. And there's a car rental place just around the corner. Tomorrow morning you can—"

  "Actually, I was going to see if Marie would let me use her car, just for a couple of days."

  Michael sat his cell phone down between them on the seats and narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. Why? Was your wallet in the car? I know the car rentals usually want a credit card, so if it's about that I can—"

  "No, nothing like that. I was on my way to Albany. I have to present our findings of the last week to officials there tomorrow morning, and they want it done in person. I really need to drive on up."

  "A drive to Albany? At this hour?"

  "It's important."

  "It must be." Michael didn't say anything for a moment. "I'll talk to Marie once we get to my place, and…oh, fuck it. She'll be asleep. There's no need to wake her up. You can just take the car, and I'll explain it to her in the morning. She'll understand. She watches the news."

  "Thanks, I really appreciate it."

  "You better. I'll probably be on the couch until she gets the car back."

  Michael chuckled. Thad smiled and nodded. He didn't have the heart to tell Michael his wife, in all likelihood, would never see the car again.

  "Is there anything else you need?" Michael asked, changing lanes and slowing as he passed through a toll booth.

  "Actually…do you have any camping equipment I could use?"

  Chapter 9

  M EYERS COULDN'T PINPOINT the exact location of the convoy, but she knew they were in Ohio somewhere. Or at least they were an hour ago, according to a highway sign giving directions to the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

  She also knew they were still headed east, roughly. She hadn't seen the sun out either of the side windows, other than the occasional glimpse, for a few days, which meant the sun had to be passing overhead the length of the van. That also meant she had a hard time gauging the time of day. But from the amount of heat being absorbed into the back of the van at the moment, she could guess it was currently the hottest part of the day, probably mid-afternoon.

  She took a sip of water from a bottle. The water was a testament to the progress of one of her plans for escape. Murphy had slipped it to her a few days ago, after she'd pleaded one day, telling him how thirsty she was. A little more pleading, and she got one for Travers as well.

  Early on Meyers had recognized Murphy as a little nicer than the rest. Her intuition told her there was an opportunity there, and she returned his kindness with smiles and veiled flirts. When he raped her, he seemed to be doing it more because it was expected of him. He was also gentler than the others, and so she pretended to enjoy it, attempting to match his thrusts and returning his kisses rather than turning awa
y from them.

  After the rape sessions, where the other men would finish and leave, with Murphy, Meyers would appeal for him to stay a little longer. Hold her for a little while.

  Murphy told her he was the second-in-command of their little outfit. Although Murphy and Beechum were often seen together with Murphy taking notes and following Beechum around like a good, little lap dog, Meyers wasn't buying it. She doubted any of the other guys were either.

  Not that she told Murphy as much.

  Eventually, Murphy started talking about their plans—Beechum's plans—to head to some prison in upstate New York, lock themselves in, and try to wait out the outbreak. Murphy didn't seem crazy about the idea, and Meyers sensed another opportunity presenting itself.

  That's when Murphy confided in her what he would do were he in charge. He was from Florida and felt their chances were best if they headed down to the Keys or maybe hijack a boat and find some island in the Bahamas, easily defensible, to hold up instead.

  He'd apparently put a lot of thought into it (although he, admittedly, had never been to the Florida Keys or the Bahamas and had no clue what to expect) and bemoaned the fact Beechum had shot down his idea without even considering the potential benefits.

  Meyers didn't want to "hold up" with this group of murderers and rapists no matter how safe a location they discovered, but she led Murphy to believe she thought his plan made the most sense and that locking themselves in a prison would only lead to their eventual demise.

  To further sow the seeds of dissension, she told him he should share his idea with the other members of the convoy to see if other people would agree. If enough of them did, she told Murphy, then maybe together they could convince Beechum to rethink their destination. If nothing else, she said, they could out-vote Beechum, essentially veto Beechum's plan by majority rule, and then head south.

  At first, Murphy was against such actions, but Meyers brought it up every chance she had. Murphy was often the one who drove the police van (Meyers thought he probably volunteered for the duty to be closer to her), and she'd talk to him through the grated window separating the back of the van and the cab.

  Then one day, he finally said he'd mentioned it to some of the other guys, and they were for doing whatever. She always pressed him for details of his progress and sometimes joked that she couldn't wait to lay out on a beach and work on her tan.

  Where would all this get her as far as piecing together a plan of escape? Meyers wasn't sure. But the men were obviously capable of mutiny, and another schism might present a chance for her and Travers to slip away. After all, the men were following Beechum, but from what she could see, they were hardly loyal to him. Each man was looking out for number one and would leave Beechum in an instant if any of them felt it was in their best interest to do so.

  If nothing else, Meyers held on to the possibility of talking Murphy into stealing the police van in the middle of the night with her and Travers in it and heading out on their own. She was certain she could take Murphy down once he was away from the group.

  Meyers looked over at Travers as she sipped her water. He was sleeping, thankfully, because if he wasn't sleeping, he'd probably be crying. They still made him wear women's clothes. Each time they came for him, which was more and more frequently, he would be wearing something new. He'd strip off the clothes once he had returned and recovered, preferring to sit in the van naked. The clothing probably reminded him of what he'd just gone through, the material taunting him, the fabric ridiculing him as it moved against his skin.

  Sometimes, once he passed out from exhaustion, Meyers would shimmy into the discarded clothing. They was usually cleaner and smelled better than her uniform, even if it was way too big for her.

  At the moment, Meyers wore a quadruple extra-large, yet low-cut, pink nightshirt that said, "Girls just want to have fun!" She sat in the corner of the van, her knees pulled up into the shirt. The pajama bottoms Travers had been wearing along with the shirt were folded underneath his head.

  She'd gotten used to his nudity. She'd also gotten used to not asking what they did to him when they took him away. She didn't need to.

  Travers awoke with a start. "Why have we stopped?" he asked

  Meyers hadn't noticed at first—the convoy creeps along so slowly with the roadways so full of abandoned cars that they could probably walk to New York faster—but Travers was right. They were stopped. And Travers knew it was impossible for Meyers to supply an answer as to why.

  Travers's face took on a look of distress, as if he might start blubbering. He probably feared it was his turn to entertain them for the night. But then, just as quickly, the look on his face switched to one of clarity and calm when he looked at a window and realized it was still light outside.

  They never came for either of them before it got dark.

  Travers didn't like to stop for anything, although stops were frequent. Blocked roadways, rummaging other vehicles for supplies, bathroom breaks (not for Meyers and Travers, though; they'd been given a five-gallon bucket with a lid to use, which was emptied every few days), lunch breaks, or sometimes just to give everyone a chance to stretch their legs while Beechum studied the road atlas. But Meyers and Travers were never allowed to leave the van unless they were entertaining.

  If it were up to Travers, they'd never stop. Rather they would travel straight through to the prison in upstate New York. Meyers couldn't figure out why. What did he think would happen when they got there? Did he believe they'd be treated better when they got there? That the rapes and beatings and humiliation was a sort of initiation process that would stop upon arrival? That they would be finally accepted as one of the group? Or that they would simply be allowed to leave?

  If anything, Meyers knew, things would only get worse, the sexual whims of the men not hampered by the need to be behind a wheel. At the prison, there would be very little to do. And that boredom would be bad for Meyers and Travers.

  "I don't know," Meyers said. "Let me try and find out."

  Meyers knocked on the grate that gave her access to the cab of the truck, but the thin, metal panel blocking her view didn't slide out of the way. Instead, the van rocked ever-so-slightly as Murphy climbed out of the cab and shut the drivers-side door.

  * * * * *

  Beechum stepped out of the Humvee's passenger seat, Rand-McNally in hand, and stretched. He looked at the semi and its trailer extended across the roadway. He wasn't confident they'd be able to move it. None of the vehicles in the convoy could get in front of the truck without sinking in the mud next to the road. It hadn't rained in a few days, and visibly the ground was dry. But he knew any of their vehicles, at least those capable of towing the truck and its cargo, would seek out the mud hidden below the surface.

  They could try to disconnect the truck from the trailer. Maybe put it in neutral and muscle it out of the way. With it moved, maybe they could squeeze around the trailer.

  Another option was to backtrack about a mile to an on ramp, take the access road around the wreckage, and then slide back onto the highway further down. That would probably be the best option.

  But he was in no hurry to get back on the road. They'd been driving constantly since 5 a.m., and Beechum figured they could afford to rest a couple of hours. During that time they could eat lunch, forage around the surrounding cars for anything useful, refuel. Behind him, Cadagon and Fuller were already siphoning diesel out of another semi a little ways behind the convoy. Later they'd run the fuel through a filter to strain out any impurities and rust that often collect in the gas tanks of dead cars after a few months.

  Beechum looked around and scrutinized the surrounding terrain. On either side of the highway, a long swath of unmown grass, weeds, and other wild tangle limited visibility. To Beechum's right, the patch of growth between the highway and the access road sloped enough, the turnpike sitting higher, so that the tall grass appeared thinner. Through it could be seen a grove of trees with what looked to be open fields behind them. But to his l
eft, the westbound lane constructed level with the eastbound, the tract of unkempt land between the two opposing thoroughfares was impenetrable, he couldn't see through it at all.

  Once they'd procured all the diesel from this side of the road, he'd have to send men through the thick grass to see what could be had on the other side.

  Murphy joined him, having come around the front of the police transport three cars back. He squinted at Beechum from beneath the bill of his baseball cap, which showed an angry, cartoonish river otter flexing a bicep. Beechum had long thought the mascots head more closely resembled a beaver, but what did he know about river otters. Murphy also wore a Guns N' Roses t-shirt, far too big for him, and blue jeans. He looked like a bratty teenager more than a soldier. They'd all dispensed with the military fatigues weeks ago. Murphy's ensemble was made more ludicrous by the M-16 strapped over his shoulder.

  "What's up, Jake?" Murphy asked.

  They'd also dispensed with etiquette and courtesy where rank was concerned about the same time they tossed their fatigues. Beechum gritted his teeth.

  "Round up the guys and let 'em know we'll be here a while. Let's have some lunch and see what we can find."

  Murphy nodded and walked back the way he came. A group of guys, Nunez, Tucker, Caldwell, and Phillips, stood smoking between the two supply trucks, laughing occasionally. They regarded Murphy as he moved towards them and Murphy twirled a hand over his head, index finger in the sky, signifying for them to make the rounds. They all nodded in understanding, but none of them moved from their small circle to see to their orders.

  Beechum heard the patter of water on concrete and looked over his shoulder to see Schuler urinating in front of the Humvee's open drivers-side door. He'd laid his automatic rifle on the hood.

  "That truck caused a bit of a traffic jam," Schuler said, looking back and forth between Beechum and his stream of piss as he did so.