Desolate - The Complete Trilogy

by Robert Brumm

  Marshall gave him a half smile. “Ah, Sergeant. Dr. Wilson has explained the situation with your friend. Quite fascinating.” He turned to Wilson. “Please keep me informed of the situation.” He gave everyone a nod and went to check on the other patient.

  “We’ll do the operation tonight,” Wilson said. “We just need to prep the operating room and get things ready.”

  Dave downed the rest of the coffee. “Sounds good. If you need anything, just let me know.” He walked with Minnie and Emily out to the parking lot. It was getting late in the day and they needed to set up camp, even if it was just the corner of the lot.

  At the truck, they set about making dinner. While the others were inside the hospital earlier, Tre and Ann bartered with a man who caught a few fish down by the docks. Tre had already cleaned the two fish that cost them a can of potted meat and a few coconuts they had gathered along the side of the road on the way to Montego Bay. Tre lit the fire in their small charcoal grill while Minnie set a pot of water on their propane stove to boil some rice. Outside of Kingston they had come across a crashed delivery truck and were able to wrestle away a thirty-pound bag of rice from dozens of other scavengers all vying for the same food. It had been their main staple while out on the road. Fresh fish would certainly be a nice addition to the plain rice they were all getting tired of.

  They ate their simple meal in the grassy area next to the truck. As daylight faded they lounged in the grass, enjoying the warm evening air and the notion of staying in one place long enough to rest. Dave figured they could sleep on the grass for the night, but tomorrow they would have to start looking for something a little more substantial in the way of shelter. At least until Howard was back on his feet.

  It was time to come to terms with the fact that they were in this for the long haul. There probably would be no rescue, no return to any semblance of a normal life like there had been before. Not for a long time anyway. Dave wasn’t sure what tomorrow might bring, but the sooner everyone came to grips with this new world the better. Most of the survivors didn’t appear to be ready yet, including Dr. Marshall, who just assumed he was in control because he had been a member of the government. A government that no longer existed.

  Dave was stretched out in the grass when the sound of approaching footsteps cut through his dozing consciousness. Jake Wilson appeared, his hands shoved into the front pockets of his lab coat. He looked tired but satisfied.

  “Here you guys are.” He sat down in the grass. “I think your friend is going to be fine. Soo practically did all the work. I just stood there and helped her. That guy really lucked out.”

  Ann gave him a bowl of the fish and rice.

  “That’s great,” Dave said. “Thanks a lot, Jake.”

  Wilson shoveled rice into his mouth and smiled. “It’s my job, right? I guess instead of a six-figure paycheck and a Jag in the garage, I should get used to this as my reward.” He lifted the bowl and took another mouthful.

  “What happened to those things?” Ann asked. “Did you kill them?”

  “You know what? That Marshall guy wanted them. He acted like a kid winning a goldfish at the fair or something. Stood outside the OR and watched us the whole time.”

  “Wanted ’em for what?” Tre asked.

  “You got me. He said he was some sort of biologist before he got into politics. Probably just wants to study them. Can’t blame him, I guess. Under normal circumstances I’d probably be pretty fascinated too, but after the last couple of weeks my brain feels like mush. I just wanna go to bed.”

  He finished off the last of the rice. “I think they’re still alive. The sac they’re in is really tough. We made an incision in the abdominal wall and just pulled the sucker out with forceps.”

  Dave handed him a bottle of water. “How long before Howard is on his feet?”

  “As long as there’s no sign of infection he should be fine in a couple of days. He’ll be sore but I can give him a bottle of Vicodin.”

  Wilson thanked them for dinner and returned to his cot in the hospital to get some rest. Darkness fell quickly over the parking lot refugee camp and people settled in for the night. Dave stared at the brilliant stars above and tried not to think of his family back home. He tried not to wonder if his parents were immune, like him, or if they were able to hunker down in their house up in the hills of Pigeon Forge and stay isolated from the infection. He tried not to think of his sister, living in the upper west side of Manhattan among eight million other people. He tried not to think of his buddies in Oceanside, tried not to feel guilty he wasn’t among them when their country needed them.

  Most of all, he tried not to think of Linda, eighty miles away in room 342 of the Courtleigh Hotel and Suites. He wanted to forget the madness and collapse of the local clinic, the mobs in the streets, him carrying her back to the hotel when she became too weak to walk. He tried not to think of her last gasps for breath while he sat by her side, holding her hand, and never feeling more helpless and alone.

  Dave Penske decided then and there, staring at a night sky no longer spoiled by the lights of man, he’d return for her. No matter what happened, he would someday find his way back to room 342 and give his wife a proper burial.

  Three

  Marshall set down his cup of tea and lit a cigarette. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and exhaled a cloud of smoke over the dinette table he used as a work area. The air conditioning in the caravan struggled to compete with the muggy air trying to seep through the thin fiberglass walls and windowpanes. Still, he was thankful for the small generator outside providing him with some electricity for simple comforts. It was more than many of his constituents out in the parking lot had. Then again, many of them were better off now, a good majority little more than poverty-stricken, quasi-homeless people to begin with. It was true the rich tourists would no longer be bringing their wealth to spread around, but the amenities in place to pamper them were now up for grabs for the common man.

  He took another drag and inhaled deeply, staring at the small organ transplant cooler on the table in front of him. Part of him considered it silly, a waste of time, when clearly much more important tasks were at hand. As far as he knew, he was the last remaining survivor of parliament, making him the new Prime Minister by default. Nevertheless, it wasn’t easy to discard years of work and research in biotechnology, wasn’t easy to put aside his scientific mind and replace it with a political one. The contents of the cooler before him might contain one of the most important scientific finds of his lifetime.

  As for the plague, he didn’t have an answer for that. He was as clueless as a lice-covered vagabond as to what caused the outbreak and why a handful of the population was immune. But this…this cooler on the table held something tangible he could study. Something he could take credit for. Sure, there would be no journal publications, no television interviews, no awards or citations. But how could he resist such a find?

  Tea cup drained, cigarette snuffed, hand disinfectant applied, Marshall stood up from the table and dragged the cooler closer. He opened the lid, his nose wrinkling as the pungent odor hit him. Remarkably, the little creatures seemed more active than ever. They wiggled and swam, happy as clams floating in the amniotic fluid of the transparent sac. Apparently, it seemed they needed nothing more from that Bell fellow than a warm place to flourish. If anything, they seemed to be slightly larger than the first time he laid eyes on them, moments after Dr. Wilson removed the sac from Bell’s abdominal cavity. Their features were becoming less tadpolelike and more reptilian in nature as they grew.

  He counted just eight of them, which was fewer than he had seen earlier on the printout from the ultrasound. Before he could even start to ponder an explanation, he saw for himself the reason for the dwindling numbers. One of the larger creatures suddenly attacked one of its siblings, quickly devouring it. It was over in a matter of seconds; only seven remained.

  He adjusted the desk lamp directly over the cooler and picked up a scalpel from the table. He
attempted to slice open the clear membrane but it proved to be tougher than it appeared. Marshall grabbed the clear lining with forceps in one hand and sliced again, applying more pressure with the scalpel this time. The sac popped, releasing the clear fluid into the cooler, and more pungent odor into the room. Marshall gasped and covered his nose and mouth. It burned, not unlike ammonia or smelling salts.

  He stepped back and wiped his eyes before peering into the cooler. All seven creatures swam about, oblivious to the loss of their protective womb. Marshall took the forceps and carefully picked up one, holding it in the light. It squirmed and squealed between the metal clamps.

  “Fascinating,” he whispered to himself.

  It was the size of a mouse, but didn’t look like any creature he’d ever laid eyes on before. Its tiny mandibles continually clicked together under an almost beaklike snout.

  “What exactly are you, my little friend?”

  The creature answered with a renewed round of squealing and struggling. It slipped free from the forceps and fell to the table. Marshall cupped his hand over it before it could escape and was bitten on the web between his thumb and forefinger. He jerked back in pain, the creature still attached. It released its grip and fell to the floor before scurrying out of sight.

  Marshall reached for a towel on the counter for his bleeding hand. He cursed himself for being so careless and scanned the floor of the caravan for the specimen. There were a number of cracks and crevices for it to hide in and with daylight gone it would be very difficult to spot. He realized he didn’t have a flashlight handy but could probably have Arscott locate one for him.

  He removed the towel from his hand and hissed between his teeth. It burned relentlessly and the flow of blood didn’t seem to be slowing. He reached for a bottle of water on the counter and splashed some on the wound, only making it feel worse. Marshall turned his attention back to the cooler.

  The six remaining creatures continued to crawl about in the fluid, no worse for wear. It was getting late and he became less concerned with the escapee as the minutes passed. It was probably scared and most likely crawled into a dark corner someplace. He doubted it would survive very long, being so young and without food.

  He decided to leave it be and get some sleep. Half a dozen specimens were more than enough and would be fine in the cooler until morning. And if not, he would have his pick of six for dissection and further study. After all, he had no idea what these things needed to survive. They certainly wouldn’t be looking for a suckling teat from the man they were removed from.

  Marshall switched off the desk lamp and lit another cigarette on his way back to the small bedroom. Tomorrow was a new day, a new beginning for his country and his people. In the meantime, he had his new pets to keep him entertained when recovery efforts became dull.

  Four

  Howard dreamt of a time when he was young, probably no more than eight years old. It was one of those dreams where you hear a noise in your sleep that plays a supporting role in your dream.

  One night, a June bug had managed to find its way through a hole in the window screen. As dawn broke, it flew around by the ceiling in his bedroom. It buzzed around all morning and bounced off the ceiling, it’s exoskeleton shell making a metallic tic tic tic every time it came in contact with the eggshell paint on Howie’s ceiling.

  His subconscious mind registered the racket the June bug made and it entered his dream as his mother’s voice. He was sitting at the table trying to do his math homework but the numbers made no sense. Simple addition problems were as perplexing as Japanese trigonometry. His mother sat opposite, losing her temper and yelling at Howie for being so stupid. She was in no goddamned mood to be helping him with his homework, and he was making her miss the beginning of Knot’s Landing. Her voice was the buzzing of the June bug. The long fingernail of her index finger, tapping on the table as she spit angry, buzzing nonwords in a nonhuman voice, made the tic tic tic from the shell against the ceiling.

  Howard dreamt the dream he’d had when he was eight because of the sounds he was currently hearing in the emergency room of Oswald Regional Hospital. Those sounds were like the sounds in his dream’s dream. This made perfect sense to Howard’s mind as he slept. As his unconscious and conscious worlds slowly mixed together while he woke that morning, he discovered the logical explanation for the dream.

  Directly overhead was a flickering light fixture. The long fluorescent bulbs buzzed and stuttered, the glass tubes making the ticking sound from his dream, as the filament attempted to burn at full capacity before sputtering out again and again.

  Howard blinked and frowned at the light before rubbing his eyes. Just as he was about to turn his head to take in his surroundings, the power to the bulbs finally died, plummeting the room into total darkness. The room was silent, the air thick and stifling. Howard couldn’t help but remember the last time he woke up confused and alone. He sat up and was relieved to find himself not restrained in any way this time. An old companion spoke up as he moved into a sitting position, his sore abdomen. In pain, he reached for the area and felt new bandages and dressings beneath yet another hospital gown.

  “What the hell?” he muttered to himself.

  His throat was dry and sore, his voice hoarse. Robbed of his vision, he reached out and groped with his hands. He brushed against something metallic and knocked it to the floor. Steel crashing onto tile echoed throughout the room. Howard took a deep breath and tried to keep the rising panic at bay. He reminded himself that he’d seen flickering lights overhead just moments ago, so he hadn’t gone blind. He was just in a dark room, presumably in a hospital.

  He put his feet on the floor and carefully stood. He took a few steps forward but wasn’t sure which direction to go. As he stood with one hand on the bed, making sure his balance was steady, Howard noticed a break in the blackness. Now that his eyes had fully adjusted, he could make out a sliver of light and shuffled toward it. He moved slowly with his hands out in front, fully expecting to bang his bare toes or shins against something hard and unforgiving.

  He broke out in a sweat and found his attempts to keep calm were quickly failing. The air in the room was too thick and hard to breath in. His abdomen was throbbing, reminding him of the attack he’d had in the back of the pickup truck, the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life. Was it happening again?

  A foul odor attacked his sense of smell and his imagination started to run wild in the darkness. Was that a footstep behind him? He quickened his pace toward the light. Just as he was about to throw caution to the wind and break into a run, his foot hit something and he crashed to the floor. Both knees connected painfully with the tile floor and his palms slid in a wet, sticky mess before he came to a halt.

  Howard sat back and tried to wipe his hands on the hospital gown, but it didn’t help much since the material soaked up some of the mess too. He allowed his fingertips to graze over the floor, back to where he’d tripped. He flinched when they met something. It was a hand, stiff and cold. Howard managed to scramble to his feet, away from the dead hand, no doubt connected to a dead body. He shuffled away from the mess that was most likely a sea of spilt blood, and made for the light.

  It came from beneath a door. Howard put his palms on it and shoved, making a racket but accomplishing nothing else. The door didn’t give. He frantically felt around for a handle, found the metal release bar, and pushed it open to freedom. It led to a dimly lit hallway. Howard stood with his back to the door, trying to catch his breath. A sign nearby pointed to RECEPTION.

  The others must have brought him here after he blacked out, but where were they? Where was anybody? And exactly how many times was he going to have to wake up with fresh bandages and new scars with no idea how they got there?

  The reception sign led him to the lobby outside the emergency room area. Howard squinted and slowly walked toward brilliant sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The body of a woman lay outside the door that was stained with her blood. He coul
d make out the streaks of her handprints as she had slid down the door before dying.

  The parking lot beyond was a disaster, littered with more bodies among a sea of disturbed campsites, supplies, and vehicles. It looked as if the people who had been out there were in a big hurry to escape, not all of them making it. He saw a young girl among the dead and thought of Emily, relieved when he realized the dead girl was too old to be her. Standing out among the rest of the carnage was the smoldering remains of what looked like a trailer or RV, and charred vehicles close to it.

  Howard tried to open the front door but it was locked. He banged on the glass and shouted, scanning the exterior for any kind of movement but saw none. He had a few more options for interior doors leading out of the lobby area, but he wasn’t exactly eager to explore the rest of the hospital. The only light came through the windows, and judging by the growing shadows outside it wouldn’t last much longer.

  He sat down in one of the chairs and absently rubbed his bloody hands on the upholstery, not sure what to do next. He thought of all the times he’d watched horror movies with Gina. She always had the same reaction to the pivotal scene where the protagonist came face-to-face with some horrible monster or alien, or dozens of enemies, where death was almost certain and definitely unpleasant. “Yeah, that’s when I would just say fuck it and kill myself,” was Gina’s typical response to such situations. Howard was beginning to think she may have had a point. What use was it to keep going? How much longer would he have to endure before finding some kind of peace? He looked at the dead woman a few feet away outside and envied her. At least her suffering was over.

  A noise beyond the lobby snapped Howard out of wallowing in self-pity and his heart raced. There is was again. A door slamming. Somebody or something was heading his way, and judging by the hospital’s current state of affairs it probably wouldn’t be an elderly volunteer handing out magazines.