Generation M (The Toucan Trilogy, Book 3)

by Scott Cramer

  When they were halfway through Massachusetts, still making steady progress, he realized they might arrive in Mystic several hours earlier than he had estimated.

  Jordan kept his mind busy by focusing on the objects in his path, including the occasional sinkhole.

  During brief stretches of smooth, unobstructed road, Jordan turned his thoughts to Abby and Touk. When that made him too anxious, he calmed himself with daydreams of Wenlan.

  They stopped to gas up and take leaks within sight of the Rhode Island border, which was announced by a graffiti-covered sign. They chose to keep the empty gas cans with them, thinking they might come in handy later. The boys caught grasshoppers. Jordan and Spike stomped the insects with their feet before eating them. Eddie scarfed his down live.

  About to roll on, Jordan held up his hand to stop them when he heard a horn blasting in the distance. Two trucks zoomed by on their side of the road, kicking up dust. Blinking in the gritty wind, Jordan guessed the trucks were going seventy or eighty miles per hour. The white pickup truck in the lead had a large, dead animal in the bed, evidenced by four bony legs with hooves sticking up. The boys continued on, and when the city of Providence first came into view, Jordan pointed out a crowd about a mile ahead of them. Kids were blocking all three of the southbound lanes.

  They slowed and came to a stop about a quarter mile away. The crowd swelled as kids raced toward its center.

  They crossed the median strip, revving their engines to power through the tall grass. On the wrong side of the highway, they traveled in single file down the breakdown lane, wary of vehicles that might come in the opposite direction. Jordan’s eyes widened as they neared the mob. The white pickup truck seen earlier had flipped on its side. The other truck had flipped over too; its nose poked over the embankment. Kids were tearing into the animal carcass.

  A quarter mile farther, the boys returned to the southbound side of the highway. The gruesome sight of the feeding frenzy stayed with Jordan.

  About halfway between Providence and the Connecticut border, kids appeared from the tree line and raced to the edge of the road. Fearing they might collide with him, Jordan veered left, but the kids stopped at the last second. In his mirror, he saw them form a line. Were they playing a game?

  The locals played “scare the biker” twice more in Rhode Island. Each time, Jordan swerved and experienced the same heart-pounding surge of adrenaline.

  A mile into Connecticut, what appeared like a solid black carpet rippled across the road. They were crows. Jordan had hated crows ever since the night of the purple moon. The birds feasted on remains, and to see the birds gathered around an object on the ground always filled him with dread.

  The throb of the approaching motorcycles triggered an explosion of flapping wings as the birds lifted off in a hurry. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the road was empty.

  They stopped, congratulated themselves for making it to Connecticut, caught a few more grasshoppers, and consulted the map. Mystic was off Exit 90, seven miles away.

  “Stay alert,” Jordan told them. “We’re tired. The final leg of a journey is always the most dangerous.”

  Just beyond Exit 87, Jordan noticed something amiss out of the corner of his eye. Spike had disappeared from view. When he looked back, Spike was sliding on the ground, separated from his bike.

  Following two loud pops, Jordan’s handlebars wobbled violently. He braked and held on for all he was worth, realizing his tires had been blown. Ahead of him, Eddie suddenly toppled to the right and bounced on the road, hard.

  Jordan managed to keep the bike upright and came to a stop approximately twenty meters beyond Eddie. Eddie, pinned under the bike, shouted for help. Spike, thirty meters back, limped slowly toward Eddie.

  Jordan headed for Eddie. Halfway to him, he saw nails scattered on the road. It was an ambush.

  By the time he reached Eddie, the ambushers had come over the embankment, three girls and four boys all around fifteen years old. They took big strides. Each kid held one or more weapons: knives, lengths of heavy chain, bats. Eddie continued to scream as if his leg were clamped in the steel jaws of a trap.

  The armed gang stopped when Spike cocked the shotgun.

  Jordan lifted the bike and pushed it away from Eddie.

  From skidding on the road, Eddie had nails hanging at odd angles from his pants and shirt, and some had punctured his skin. Eddie’s ankle had swollen to twice its normal size, and Jordan feared it was broken.

  “That’s close enough,” Spike said to a boy with chipmunk cheeks who was swinging a chain and inching closer.

  Tears streamed down Eddie’s cheeks. “Leave me,” he said when Jordan started pulling nails.

  “Yeah, leave him,” a girl holding a brick said.

  “I’ll count to three,” Spike said in a calm tone.

  Chipmunk kept coming.

  “One, two ….” The gun was an inch from Chipmunk’s nose.

  “Three,” Chipmunk said. “I dare you.”

  Spike held his arm rock-steady and began squeezing the trigger. The blast of silence tore into Jordan’s heart. The slightest pressure on the trigger would decapitate the boy.

  Maybe Chipmunk finally realized Spike wasn’t bluffing. Fear clouded the boy’s face and his cheeks jiggled as he swallowed hard. He cursed and turned. Within a minute, the gang had disappeared over the embankment.

  Jordan and Spike both went to work on Eddie to patch him up the best they could. Eddie kept saying they should leave him. They told him to shut up and used Jordan’s belt and the shaft of the motorcycle mirror to splint his ankle. Spike went to collect what gas he could salvage from the tanks, dribbling it into the can, as Jordan inspected Eddie’s puncture wounds. The blood had clotted, but he worried about infection. Wenlan might be able to get Eddie some penicillin.

  Jordan and Spike got Eddie to his feet, and then each hooked an arm over their shoulder.

  Eddie cried out when they took their first step.

  “Three miles,” Jordan said. “You can do it. I believe in you.”

  Mystic was more like eight miles away, but Jordan knew if your mind believed something enough, you could make your body believe it too.

  2.05

  MYSTIC

  Abby swallowed the last bite of the MRE Jonzy had given her and let her head flop back on the car seat. She had taken the antibiotic pill two hours ago, and it finally seemed to be working. Although she still ran a fever, she only had a mild stomachache, the kind she used to get in the seventh grade when she’d eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich too fast.

  Her brief sense of relief ended when they turned off the highway and entered Mystic. They’d reach The Port soon, and she worried about Jordan. What if they couldn’t find him right away? How long could they look for him before they had to leave for Atlanta?

  “Where are we?” Mark asked.

  “We’re passing a school,” Abby said. “I think it was a school, anyway. There’s a burned out school bus in the grass by a flagpole.”

  “Can I take a look?” he asked.

  Abby, Toby, and Jonzy all scanned the immediate vicinity. On the right side of the road, a pack of survivors seemed preoccupied with catching bugs.

  “All clear,” Toby said. “Make it fast.”

  Mark briefly sat up and ducked down once he got his bearings. “That’s the McCarthy Middle School. We’re about three miles away from The Port. We should arrive at a Shell Gas Station in half a mile.”

  Abby turned the car radio on again, but the only thing coming from the speaker was a loud hiss.

  They reached the site of the gas station, which was now a huge crater in the ground.

  “We’re at the station,” Abby told Mark.

  He peeked out the window. “Take the next right. Go about a mile. You’ll see a water tower. Take your second left.”

  “What message should we broadcast?” Jonzy asked.

  Abby thought that Jonzy was as keen to spread the news about the epidemic as s
he was to find Jordan.

  Toby chimed in. “Go to Atlanta and attack the adults.”

  “Tell them to listen to the CDC channel,” Mark said. “When we get to Atlanta and get the Alpharetta plant running, we’ll broadcast instructions on the pill distribution. Until then, everyone should remain calm and orderly.”

  Toby banged the wheel with his palm. “The Pig will kill everyone while they’re trying to stay calm and orderly.”

  Abby cast her eyes out the window. The flecks of glittering purple space dust imbedded in the sand that streamed by at the edge of the road hypnotized her.

  “We should tell them how the bacteria attacks your body,” she said. “Your mind makes you think you’re hungry.”

  Toby placed the back of his hand on her forehead, his expression pinching with concern. “You’re burning up.”

  “You can take a second pill four hours after the first,” Mark said.

  “I’m really feeling much better,” Abby said, wanting everyone to concentrate on finding Jordan and Mark’s daughter and restarting The Port.

  “For real?” Toby asked.

  “Watch the road,” Abby told him.

  After they took the second left from the water tower, Mark informed them that the radio station was about a mile ahead, on the left-hand side of the road, at the bottom of a big hill.

  “The antenna,” Jonzy cried, pointing to it.

  Abby did a sweep of the area. Route 95 was now about a mile away. Plenty of vehicles clogged the highway, none of them moving.

  “Mark, it’s safe to sit up,” she said.

  Toby turned into the station parking lot. It had a few cars in it, but all of their tires were flat. A bicycle on its side offered a glimmer of hope that someone was inside the squat building. The car radio delivered an uninterrupted torrent of white noise.

  With her stomach on fire, Abby wondered when the four hours would be up so she could take a second pill. She wanted to ask Jonzy for another MRE, but instead bit her tongue, knowing it would alarm Toby.

  They exited the car. Fuel drums and a generation were to the right of the building. Jonzy used a screwdriver lying on top of a drum to pry off the cap. He put one eye close to the opening to peer inside, then sniffed. He waved his hand across the opening, wafting the odor.

  “Diesel fuel,” he said.

  Mark pulled the starter cord to a generator. The engine fired up on the fourth try. He turned it off right away to preserve the fuel.

  With a broad grin, Jonzy skipped to the station door.

  The others followed him, feeling less enthusiastic.

  “Hello,” Jonzy called into the shadows.

  A sleeping bag was bunched on the floor next to a couch. That lifted Abby’s spirit a bit. Someone had been here recently. Soggy material covered half of the couch. The roof above had leaked, and the ceiling was partially collapsed. Empty peanut shells covered the floor.

  Abby scanned for whole shells, consumed with the thought of crunching a salty peanut.

  In the wall opposite the front door, a window looked into another room filled with equipment and a microphone. There was a door next to the window.

  “That’s the control room,” Mark said and turned on his flashlight.

  Through the window, he trained the beam on the ceiling of the control room; it, too, had sustained a lot of water damage.

  The door opened and a boy stepped out. He had on a baseball cap, and gold chains around his neck tangled like strands of spaghetti. Despite the dark room, he wore sunglasses.

  His jaw dropped when he spotted Mark. “Whoa, a big dude!”

  “Who are you?” Abby asked.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked, removing his sunglasses to stare at Mark.

  “I’m Mark Dawson.”

  “Unreal,” the boy said.

  Abby stepped forward. “I’m Abby Leigh, and I’m looking for DJ Silver.”

  “That would be me.”

  “You are DJ Silver?” Toby said.

  “True is the word. Sorry, I’m not taking any song requests. Water leaked on the soundboard, and it got fried.”

  “I’ll get The Port on the air again,” Jonzy said.

  “And who are you?” DJ Silver asked.

  “He’s a genius,” Toby said.

  DJ Silver rubbed his chin and once again stared at Mark. “A freaking adult. Amazing.”

  Abby stepped between them. “I’m looking for my brother. Jordan Leigh.”

  DJ Silver scrunched his eyes. “Sounds familiar.”

  “We’re from Castine Island,” Abby said.

  The DJ’s eyes popped wide. “Hey, that is so cool! I got a lot of fans there.”

  Abby traded glances with Toby, then Jonzy. They had stumbled into another universe and were meeting one of its inhabitants.

  “You dedicated a song to me and my sister,” she said. “Here Comes the Sun. To Abby and Toucan.”

  DJ Silver snapped his fingers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Abby and Toucan. That’s it. Your bro walks with a limp. He took a bullet in the leg from pirates.” The DJ held his hand up when he saw Abby’s jaw drop in fear. “He’s fine. Wenlan is taking good care of him.”

  “Wenlan?” Abby blurted.

  “Yeah, his girlfriend. How many fans would you say I have on Castine Island?”

  2.06

  CONNECTICUT

  Jordan kept his right arm around Eddie’s waist, hooking two fingers through Eddie’s belt loop for a better grip. His arm crossed beneath Spike’s. Spike served as a human crutch on Eddie’s right side. Eddie had an arm draped over each of their shoulders. They inched ever closer to their destination — Wenlan’s clinic — at a rate Jordan estimated would take them a long three days to reach.

  “Step,” Jordan said.

  Eddie yelped as he slid his good foot forward.

  His ankle had swelled to three times its normal size, and his skin felt hot as tar baking in the sun. Splotches of blood had soaked through his shirt and pants, though the bleeding from the puncture wounds and road rash seemed to be under control.

  Jordan battled his own pain, his left hand cramping from carrying the can of gasoline. “Step.”

  “I can’t,” Eddie said. “The vibration goes up one leg and down the other leg to my ankle.”

  “Step,” Jordan repeated. “We’ll be at Wenlan’s in no time.”

  Eddie went limp, forcing Jordan to shift his feet to brace himself while holding up the dead weight.

  “Put him down,” Spike said. He was also contending with his shotgun and a can of gasoline.

  The two human crutches bent their knees, and soon, Eddie lay sprawled at the side of the road. They sat beside him.

  A car approached, and Jordan jumped to his feet, holding up the gas can, pointing to it.

  “Trade a ride for gas,” he shouted as the car sped by.

  Dejected, he sat back down. “Who would turn down gasoline?”

  Spike shrugged. “How does the driver know there’s gas in the can?”

  Jordan picked up Spike’s shotgun. “This is what scared them. Nobody would pick up someone carrying a loaded shotgun.”

  Spike cracked the gun open. “Who says it’s loaded?”

  Jordan’s jaw dropped as he peered into the empty chambers. “All this time ….”

  “Yep,” Spike said. “All you need to survive on the mainland is confidence. If you believe you are powerful, people will respect you.”

  “Trust me, Spike, your gun makes a difference.”

  “Confidence makes the difference,” he replied, tapping his head.

  Glancing at Eddie, Jordan knew his friend couldn’t go any farther, and he and Spike were not strong enough to carry him outright. They had discussed splitting up, but Jordan had been against it. Now, they were out of options.

  “I’ll go to Wenlan’s,” Jordan said. “She’ll talk to William, the local fuel king, and get a car for me.”

  Spike gave a nod. Jordan went to tell Eddie to stay strong, but his friend had
passed out.

  “Confidence,” Spike said.

  Luck, too, Jordan thought as he headed off.

  2.07

  MYSTIC

  DJ Silver had given them directions, and Abby identified Wenlan’s clinic immediately when Toby turned onto Shattuck Avenue. A line of survivors extended out the front door and into the street.

  She scanned the crowd, keeping an eye out for Jordan. He might be hard to recognize. Toby had undergone a drastic change, shaving his head and piercing his ear to fit in. Her brother might have done something similar.

  Jonzy was back at The Port, trying to put the station on the air, and Mark was curled in the backseat, hidden from view.

  Abby shoved a fistful of pills into her pocket. “You guys go look for Sarah.”

  “Forget it. I’m staying with you,” Toby said.

  Abby took his hand. “Mark needs you. We’ll all meet back here.”

  Toby narrowed his eyes, but before he could argue with her, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Hurry.”

  Mark sat up. “I can drive. I know the way.”

  “Tell me the way,” Toby said.

  “It’s easier if I drive.”

  Toby made a face. “If kids see you, we’ll never get there.”

  Abby stepped out of the car and headed off. Glancing back, she felt encouraged to see Toby slide over to the passenger seat.

  After a few steps, she gripped her sides and doubled over as spasms erupted throughout her midsection. When she straightened, she fished a pill from her pocket, desperate for some relief from the pain, and swallowed it.

  Many of the kids waiting in line were clutching their sides and crying out, obviously suffering from the Pig. A few hung their heads lethargically. Several kids held bloody rags up to their faces. Abby wondered if they had been involved in fights over food.

  She couldn’t decide what to do. One part of her wanted to help the kids in line, especially those who looked the sickest, by giving each one an antibiotic pill. Another part wanted to enter the clinic straightaway and see Jordan. She headed for the door.

  Kids directed loud, angry shouts at her.

  “Hey, wait like everyone else!”