Island Refuge EMP Box Set | Books 1-3

by Hamilton, Grace

  “He’s gone,” Malin said. “Vanished. I looked all around. No sign of him.”

  “Could he have gone to the bathroom?” Elna asked.

  “How far away would he walk just to pee?” Elna rose, grimacing from the effort, and stretched her arms over her head. “He’s been in a pretty foul mood the last few days, even after you guys patched things up. Maybe he needed another walk to clear his head.”

  By the frown on her face, Malin could tell she didn’t quite believe her own words. Walking over to where they left their supplies, Malin looked through it. “He took his bag. That son of a gun ditched us,” he said.

  Elna shrugged. “It’s entirely possible he got tired of waiting and went on ahead of us. Let’s just get going, okay? I’m tired of dealing with him, quite frankly. I was grateful for his help, but…I don’t know…”

  Despite their deplorable condition, Malin dared to hug her, holding her tightly for a few seconds. She looked like she needed it.

  “We have to get there today, Malin,” Elna said. “I’ve wasted too much time, but I’ve been so tired.”

  “We will. No matter what.”

  Malin took Mark’s place pushing their supplies on the flatbed cart. Elna pushed Raymond, all bundled up in his sleeping bag, in the wheelchair. It was a crisp morning, not quite as cold but with biting sea air drifting in off the coast. The road ran a mostly straight course, with trees on the left and a rocky embankment leading down to the shore on the right. Houses and businesses were set along the road here and there, and they passed a few camps of wretched-looking people.

  Still, even without Mark, it was slow going. Pushing the cart took more effort than Malin had anticipated. It was heavy as hell, and the wheels grinded as if the axles needed lubricant. The road itself was full of obstacles, with vehicles, potholes, and debris from wrecks scattered about. This forced him to follow a zigzag pattern, and the cart hated to be turned.

  How the doc managed to push this damn thing for so many days is beyond me, Malin thought. Maybe that’s why he was in such a foul mood.

  Periodically, he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see their semi-friendly giant running to catch up to them, but Mark seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. At one point, during a long, straight stretch of road with relatively few dead cars, he glanced back and saw movement far in the distance. Thinking it might be Mark, he stopped and turned around. He could just make out a group of people scattering into the woods.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “Really?”

  Elna paused and look back. “What did you see? A big, tall burly guy in a black coat?”

  “Nope.” The road was empty now. “It’s possible we’re still being followed.”

  “I’ll keep an ear out for them,” Elna said. “Just keep going. If they get close, we can scare them off.”

  “Oh, I’ll scare them all right,” Malin grumbled, feeling a rush of angry heat in his belly. He’d had enough of being stalked by thieves and weirdos.

  They pressed on. Another slow, agonizing hundred yards or so and Malin heard sounds echoing in the distance. Gunshots. He recognized them all too well. They seemed to be coming from behind, but he couldn’t be sure. Grabbing the bow, he turned and aimed it behind him. Both lanes were empty as far as he could see.

  “I don’t like this,” Elna said. “We’ve got to pick up the pace.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Malin replied.

  He put the bow back in the cart and leaned into the cart handles. After the echo of the gunshots faded, the world seemed to hold its breath for a few minutes. In a way, Malin found the quiet more disturbing. No screaming, no commotion, just dead silence. He tried to move a little faster, picking up as much speed as he could without losing control of the cart. Elna, at least, had an easier time of it with the wheelchair, which rolled along smoothly with minimal problems.

  It took a moment to realize he was hearing something new. It arose distantly, almost more of a sense than a sound, some rhythmic pulse. Malin came to a stop and reached for the bow again.

  “What is that?” Elna asked.

  He realized it as he said it, “Footsteps. Someone running.”

  Turning around, he saw the vast hulk lumbering down the road. With his thick limbs and black coat, he seemed to lope along like one of the great apes. Malin picked up the bow and raised it, centering an arrow on the quickly growing shape.

  “It’s him,” Elna said with a gasp. “We did leave him behind.”

  “Oh my God,” Malin muttered, lowering the bow. “You were right the first time. Doc was off in the woods peeing or something.”

  The big guy was sweating like he’d run a marathon, his curly hair wilted against his temples and forehead. Malin raised a hand in greeting, but he didn’t return the gesture. He just kept coming. For a moment, Malin had the strange thought that Mark was going to keep coming full steam until he ran into them, charging through them like a raging bull, casting cart and wheelchair aside as he swept past.

  “I’m sure he’ll be in a much better mood now,” Elna muttered, rolling her eyes.

  “Hey, what we were supposed to do?” Malin replied. “He disappeared without a word.”

  Finally, Mark came close and slowed down, pressing a hand to his chest as he gasped for breath. Sweat poured down his face, soaked into the collar of his coat. He smelled terrible, approaching the record-breaking ripeness of Grover. Malin expected him to immediately start growling like a bear, complaining, but instead he pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and shook his head.

  “Where the hell did you guys go?” he said. He sounded more nervous than angry, like a kid who’d gotten separated from his parents at a supermarket. “Everyone was asleep, so I scouted the area for supplies. I wasn’t gone that long. Are you sure you weren’t trying to ditch me?”

  He waved Malin aside, tossed his bag into the cart before grabbing the flatbed cart handles. Malin wasn’t about to fight for them. Still, the doc’s attitude surprised him. He didn’t seem angry at all. For a guy who’d spent days growling and grumbling about absolutely everything, he was surprisingly energetic, jumpy.

  “Where exactly did you go looking for supplies?” Malin asked peering at him. “The area around the cabin was wide open, and we didn’t see you anywhere.”

  “I went up the road, checking vehicles,” Mark said, as he ducked his head and resumed pushing the cart. “I would have gathered a few things, but then I realized you guys were long gone, and I sort of panicked.”

  “Sorry, Doc,” Malin said, keeping pace with him. “We thought you’d gone on without us.”

  Elna resumed pushing the wheelchair, but she had a hard look on her face. Malin noticed her staring at the doc from time to time, as if studying his face, her eyes narrowed.

  “Did you hear those gunshots a while ago?” she asked.

  Mark blew his breath out, almost violently. “Yeah, made my heart leap into my throat, but they weren’t close to me. I think they came from somewhere deep in the woods.”

  Is he lying? I think he’s lying. Otherwise, why is he so damned twitchy right now? But why would he lie? What the hell are you up to, Doc?

  It was all a little too strange but they were too close to their goal now for him to dwell on it.

  “Anyway, sorry for the confusion,” Mark said. “We’re close now. A mile, maybe less.”

  “Okay, but next time,” Malin said, “tell us before you go wandering off to scavenge, even if you have to wake us up.”

  “Will do,” Mark said, giving a short, strange laugh.

  They continued moving south, falling back into their quiet, familiar rhythm as if nothing unusual had happened that morning. Malin was annoyed with Mark’s peculiar disappearance, but decided to let it go. He was still adjusting to Mark’s return when he saw a group approaching from the south. A sizable group, it appeared to be a couple of families, with parents and older siblings surrounding about half a dozen children. They were pushing shopping carts piled
high with their gear, and two men in front had rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “Let’s hope these people are friendly,” he said, moving up beside the flatbed cart in case he had to grab the bow.

  The leader of the group seemed to be a broad-shouldered gentleman with a white mane of hair and a long beard. He wore green flannel and cowboy boots, and had a long-barreled rifle slung over his back. Malin didn’t know all that much about guns, but he thought it was an old Soviet SKS, practically an antique.

  To stave off any unnecessary suspicion, he stepped past the flatbed cart and raised a hand in greeting.

  “Good day, neighbors,” he called, when the group was within shouting distance.

  The white-haired man turned and said something to the man beside him. Then he broke away from the group and moved to intercept Malin and the others.

  “Where you folks headed?” the white-haired man said in a gravelly voice. They were certainly the cleanest group of people Malin had seen in a while.

  “Manchester,” Malin replied. “What about you folks?”

  “Somewhere better,” he said. “We’ve heard there are stable communities up north, places where the thugs and criminals are being dealt with. Have we been misinformed?”

  “Well, if you like militia-run camps, you’re headed the right way,” he said.

  Surprisingly, the man seemed to receive this as good news, turning and nodding at others in his group. “We have a few injured people. We’re looking for any semblance of law and order. I can’t imagine what business you have in Manchester.”

  “Actually, we’re headed for a medical clinic there,” Malin said. “Do you happen to know it?”

  The man regarded him with a flat, unreadable expression for a few seconds, then said, “I know it.” And with that, as if suddenly uncomfortable in Malin’s presence, he moved back to his group, saying over his shoulder, “Good luck and safe travels.”

  And with that, the group of refugees pressed on, passing the flatbed cart and the wheelchair. Malin noted that every single person gave him a wary look in passing.

  “Well, I seem to have spooked them,” he said.

  “Everyone is spooked these days,” Elna replied.

  Malin glanced over his shoulder, looking past Mark to the retreating refugees. A couple of people from that group gazed over their shoulders at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said, turning back around. “Everything we’ve heard about this clinic lately paints a bleak picture.” He looked down at Raymond, but the man appeared to be either asleep or delirious. “Raymond was headed there before the EMP, when it was a normal clinic, but it seems to be something else now.”

  “I know, Malin,” Elna said. “I’ve thought about all of this a hundred times. We’re headed for trouble, that’s pretty much guaranteed, but we also don’t have a choice. If we don’t at least try to talk our way into that clinic, Raymond’s not going to survive. He’s fighting a bad infection. Daniel probably won’t make it either, and my father’s in serious trouble, too. This is a risk we simply have to take.”

  “Let’s not get too worked up about it,” Mark said. “I doubt the clinic will be as bad as people are making it out to be. Of course, it’s going to be guarded. That’s the only way to keep medicine from getting looted by nutjobs. I’m sure we can talk our way in.”

  Malin didn’t buy Mark’s sudden enthusiasm. Clearly, he was trying to leave his surly unpleasantness behind him, but foolish optimism was hardly a suitable replacement. Both Elna and the doc were determined to reach their destination, whatever happened, but Malin couldn’t help feeling a mounting sense of doom.

  21

  The last mile turned out to be almost entirely uphill, a long slog up a miserable slope toward the edge of town. Malin could see it, a quaint little sign mounted on a stone wall on top of the rise, a group of pretty little houses set on either side of the highway beyond. Manchester seemed like a tiny town, so he assumed the clinic would be easy to find. Still, the road there was going to brutalize them right up to the end.

  They passed another group of apparent refugees on their way up the slope. A long band of adults and children, even an infant being pushed in a stroller, they said nothing at all in passing. Even when Malin raised a hand in greeting, they ignored him and kept going.

  “Friendly people around here,” he noted. “At least they didn’t attack us.”

  As they continued up the hill, Malin felt a strange crawling sensation, like someone breathing on the back of his neck. He spun around, half expecting to see the refugees staring daggers at him. However, the group was continuing on its way, all eyes ahead, as if they’d already forgotten about the weirdos with the flatbed cart and wheelchair. But the feeling didn’t leave him, and his eyes went to the trees on the east side of the highway.

  Is someone watching us?

  He thought it, but he decided not to say anything. They were so close now. Why encourage worry?

  Passing the city sign at the top of the rise felt like a dream, and he reached over and laid a hand on Elna’s shoulder.

  “Are we really here?” he said. “It seems too good to be true.”

  “Reserve that thought until we successfully get inside the clinic,” she replied. Then she bent down and gently patted Raymond. “Raymond, we’re in Manchester.”

  He moaned, struggled to sit up, and finally said, “Gloria a Dios. I can’t believe it.”

  The town was small enough that they could see all of it from the top of the hill. Two intersections with about a dozen buildings, some shops and a motel, and then a few more houses tucked farther back. The most likely candidate for the specialty clinic stood out like a castle looming over a medieval peasant village. A gleaming white building on top of an even higher rocky hill overlooking the ocean, it had another tree-lined road winding up to its front gate.

  “That has to be it, right?” Malin said. “That looks like a pricey, private medical clinic. You don’t look that nice unless you’re overcharging Medicare and private insurance companies.”

  Nobody found his joke funny. Elna rolled her eyes, and Mark said nothing at all. Partly to cover the awkwardness, Malin moved up beside the cart and popped open the toolbox, digging around inside until he found a pair of binoculars. He raised them to his eyes and adjusted the focus.

  A sign was attached to the whitewashed stone wall, but someone had broken it. The word Clinic was still intact, along with a weird logo that looked something like a stylized wave—but mostly like a stylized random shape.

  “Yep, that’s it, folks,” Malin said.

  He shifted his view to the gate. It was a rather fancy iron gate—probably originally intended to be mostly decorative. Someone had bolted aluminum sheets along the back, filling in the gaps between bars. A small hole had been cut into one of the sheets, and Malin saw a shape moving back and forth on the other side. Someone had also topped the nice white fence with shards of broken glass.

  “Not the friendliest looking establishment,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “As it turns out, all the rumors are true.”

  “It’s okay,” Elna replied. “Keep hoping for the best.”

  As they moved through the town, Malin first thought it was a ghost town. Maybe the groups of refugees they’d seen were most of the residents. However, as they passed a little store—the sign in front identified it as a consignment store—he saw numerous people huddled inside. The shelves and displays had been pushed to the wall, the room filled with futons, mattresses, and blankets, and a bunch of listless people lounged about.

  “This is a happening town,” he said. “I can see why so many people are in a hurry to leave.”

  Unfortunately, the winding road that led up the clinic was long and steep, cutting back and forth almost at random as it led up the rocky slope to the hilltop. Tall trees had been planted on either side. Mark paused a moment at the bottom of the hill, digging the water jug out of their supplies. Only dregs remained.

  “You ready for the
final push?” Malin asked.

  Mark took a drink of water then screwed the lid back in place. “Yeah, I’m getting there. Give me a second.” He stuffed the water jug back into a supply box, glanced over his shoulder at the town as if he was looking for something or someone, then nodded. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  With that, he resumed pushing the cart, heading up the winding road and into the deep, chilly shadows between the trees. Malin’s legs were on fire. He’d been an active guy his entire adult life, a surfer, hiker, and occasional rock climber, but the many days of walking, with minimal food, had finally worn him down. He felt about as weak as he’d ever felt.

  Meanwhile, Elna was pushing Raymond, and she soon began panting, sweat melting the dust on her face.

  “You want to trade places?” Malin asked her. “Let me push our buddy up the hill.’

  “No,” she replied, somewhat sharply. “I want you to have two free hands, so you can draw your bow, fight, or do whatever else you have to do.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  He still had that skin-crawling sensation, but his view now was greatly restricted by the trees. They turned a sharp, steep corner and encountered a problem. Two pickup trucks had been turned and set bumper to bumper to block the road. With the trees growing so close to the road, it made the way unpassable for the cart and wheelchair.

  “Something tells me we’re not wanted,” Malin said.

  Elna stopped the wheelchair and set the brakes. “Raymond, can you walk? You’ll have to get around these trucks, and the wheelchair will have to go over the top. It’s not far.”

  “I think so,” Raymond said, weakly.

  First, Malin helped Elna get Raymond out of the wheelchair. The guy was smaller and more shriveled than ever, but he felt feverish, heat radiating off him like he had a belly full of burning charcoal. Malin put an arm around his shoulders, while Elna supported him around the waist. As they pulled him to his feet, the sleeping bag fell onto the wheelchair like a discarded cocoon.

  Time to fly, little moth, Malin thought.