The Next Ten: Beginnings Series Books 11 - 20

by Jacqueline Druga

  Dean groaned louder. He dug the palms of his hand into his eye-sockets and felt as if his eyes were going to fall from his head. He rubbed his eyelids and ran his hands down his face as he raised up his view. “What?” Dean spoke out loud, not recognizing the bedroom. “Where?” He spun around looking. The bed was made but messed up from where he laid on top. The room was feminine. Dean was dressed, all but his shoes and socks.

  Where was he?

  Each step to get out of the bedroom hurt. Each hard pat his bare feet made against the floor went straight to his head. As he reached for the bedroom door, he saw it on the dresser the ‘Daddy’s Girl’ Teddy bear. He recognized it well. Henry was playing with it when they searched . . . Bev’s house.

  “Shit!”

  Dean flung opened the door and, pain or not, flew as fast as he could to the steps. Lunging for that first step, Dean’s foot came down upon a woman’s flat shoe. His ankle twisted, his foot slid on its side, and then Dean lost his balance. Head over heels, he tumbled down the stairs.

  ^^^^

  With a coffee mug in hand, Ellen walked off her porch, still chuckling at the thought of her well arranged breakfast plate. Frank cooked for her all right, but he was making sure she understood exactly what he wanted to reiterate to her. So with the eggs arranged, the food item spelled out ‘Date. Us. Sat.’.

  “Ellen,” Elliott called out in the distance.

  Ellen stopped walking toward town and turned around. Elliott was coming in from the underdeveloped section. “Hey.” She walked his way.

  “Heading to the Clinic?” Elliott asked, carrying a clipboard.

  “Yep. I’m early too. Look at me. Frank’s at the house getting the kids up.”

  “I thought he would be sleeping. He’s still injured.”

  “Frank’s fine.” Ellen flung her hand.

  “He . . . he still can’t speak,” Elliott said confused.

  “Yeah.” Ellen nodded with a fast smile then a laugh. “And do you know what he did? He took the eggs and made them . . . made them . . .”

  “What?” Elliott tilted his head.

  “Scrambled.”

  “Oh. That was, uh, nice.”

  “Wanna walk with me?” Ellen asked. “Are you headed that way?”

  “I’m headed to Frank’s office.”

  “Good.” Just as Ellen turned to walk with Elliott, she heard the bang of a closing screen door. At first she thought it was hers and then she saw Joe walking from his house next door. “Hey, Joe.”

  “Morning.” Joe had that early sound to his voice as he stepped off his porch.

  “Walk with us?” Ellen asked.

  “Why not?” Joe reached into his pocket and grabbed a cigarette. “Did everything go well last night, Elliott?”

  “Yes, Mr. Slagel. Very well.”

  Joe shifted his eyes at Ellen’s snicker. “What?”

  Another snicker escaped Ellen. “Mr. Slagel.” She shook her head and sipped her coffee.

  “So, Elliott,” Joe said. “I hear we’re losing you.”

  A choke, then a spray of coffee come from Ellen.

  “What in Christ’s name is wrong with you?” Joe snapped at her.

  Elliott patted her on the back. “Yes, I return to New Bowman tomorrow. I’ll assist in rounds, helping Frank out like he asked, then do some training with Robbie and the men going out.”

  “And this is all before you escort Danny and Henry into New Bowman for that pre-trial shit? By eight thirty?”

  “Yes,” Elliott answered. “We’re starting at four.”

  Ellen slowed in her walking as they entered the main living section. “Elliott, if you have to get up early tomorrow we can cancel if . . .”

  “Absolutely not.” Elliott shook his head.

  The odd sound of another banging screen door echoing in the early morning, made all three of them stop. Henry came from Josephine’s with his toolbox.

  Ellen laughed.

  Joe was inquisitive. “Henry, what in Christ’s name are you doing coming out of Josephine’s at six in the morning.”

  “Oh!” Ellen snapped her finger. “I dreamt this. Oh, my God, what if I’m psychic? I dreamed you married Josephine, Henry, and . . .”

  “Ellen,” Joe shut her up. “We don’t want to hear that.” With a cringe, he started to walk again. Henry joined them.

  “Oh my God, Ellen.” Henry was aghast. “I can’t believe you would dream I married Josephine.”

  “You came from her house,” Ellen defended. “What were you doing there?”

  “I was fixing her duct work.” Henry closed his mouth tightly when Ellen laughed. “You are so disgusting. She’s old. That’s not nice. She wanted to clean the dust from the top of it in the basement and knocked it all down. God, get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “Sorry.” Ellen tried to drink her coffee. “So she didn’t hit on you?”

  Mumbling, Henry spoke something that sounded, like ‘E ab a ut.’

  “What?” Ellen tugged on her ear. “What was that?”

  “She kept grabbing my butt! All right! You need to talk to her Joe!” Henry scolded. “I am not a sex object for a ninety year old lady.”

  Joe winced. “Do we need to hear this? No. I’ll talk to her. No more laughing Ellen.” Joe shook his head as he walked with them He was glad that at least Elliott didn’t say much.

  A rumbling moan rattled from Dean’s chest as he lifted himself to a sitting position on the floor. He leaned against the wall by the base of the steps and grabbed his head. “God, I knocked myself out.” If his head didn’t hurt before, Dean was experiencing a pain that he knew there was no escape. With his hand bracing on the bottom step, Dean lifted to a stand.

  He screamed.

  His knee, his elbow, his legs, his back, and head all blasted him in pain the second the weight of his body shifted. Trying to gain his balance, Dean spotted his shoes and socks by the door.

  Agony be damned, Dean was getting out there. Moving like a decrepit old man, Dean scurried from the stairs, picked up his belongings, flung open the front door, and made his early morning escape from the house.

  Not caring that the screen door banged, Dean dropped his shoes right there on Bev’s small stoop and, foregoing his socks, Dean fought the aches to slip into his shoes. And then . . . he looked up. He cringed, closed his eyes, and then he whimpered.

  Joe cleared his throat as he, Ellen, Elliott, and Henry all stopped cold in front of Bev’s home. “Morning, Dean,” Joe said, then without hesitation, moved on.

  Dean saw the look on Ellen’s face, the brief closing of her eyes, the sway of her head, and the cold walk away she made with Elliott’s hand resting firmly on her back. Opening his mouth to stop her, Dean lifted his arm and all that emerged was a soft moan of pain. “This isn’t happening to me.” He thought as the four of them kept walking.. The only one that even looked back was Henry and that was to snicker and point in a ‘ha-ha you’re in trouble’ taunt.

  Not even bothering to try at that point, with his shoes finally on, Dean pathetically limped away from Bev’s house.

  ^^^^

  Quantico Marine Headquarters

  The news was not good for George. As if his day wasn’t starting out bad enough by finding out from Dr. Walker that not only would the neck brace have to stay on at least another week, but the population of malfunctioning genetically-enhanced embryos couldn’t be shipped out.

  Giving the order to ‘gas’ the mutants and concentrate more on the intelligent species that were near birth, George wanted to move on to the immediate problems at hand.

  George at one end of the table and Steward at the other were joined by the minds that thought they helped George in his decisions.

  “Sgt. Doyle?” George had questions.

  “Of the hundred and fifty we sent out to eliminate the, seventeen returned.” Sgt. Doyle said.

  “How in the hell are they wiping us out? We have conventional weapons.”

  Sgt. Doyle looked l
ost. “I’m training them but we’re getting hit before we lay fire or set the explosives. Arrows, spears, traps, you name it. Two of our returning men reported seeing the corpses raped, sir.”

  George closed his eyes. “That’s not a detail that needed to be shared, but thank you Sgt. Doyle.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Steward?” George questioned.

  “Begging your pardon,” Steward said. “But maybe we should do what Beginnings does. Watch them. Just watch the little camps that are popping up. Beginnings is . . .” Steward flipped a page in his reports. “Reporting movement, sir. Mr. Slagel radioed to say they were following them to see where they were headed. They believe they are headed back to their main base, or one of them.”

  George ran his finger over his top lip. “That’s not an option. Beginnings has pilots. And they aren’t really watching all the small camps, just the one. Our flight capabilities fall way too short and even if we had the means to fly, we don’t have the means to enough conventional fuel. No, I think our best choice right now is to be ready for attack. Increase security around our industry. How . . . how many is Beginnings saying attacked yesterday.”

  “Forty,” Steward answered. “And they estimated a hundred were heading northwest.”

  “Goddamn, that’s a lot. Figures.” George tried to turn to Clark Davidson, a mathematician, “What’s the estimated total of Savages thus far?”

  Clark, a wiry older gentleman, reviewed his notes. “Giving what Beginnings said has attacked so far, and escaped, along with what we have experienced . . . Total Savages accounted for, estimating that ten percent are repeats, Five hundred and fifty killed, with approximately two hundred of them alive and moving about. East and West.”

  With a few squeaks, George shook his head. “That’s close to a thousand. Does anyone but me find this number ridiculously high?”

  “It’s ridiculously higher. My team has worked on this,” Clark interjected. “Think about it. Really think about it. What are Savages? They are a vile product of the world gone bad. Estimation shows that nine tenths of one percent of the world’s population survived the plague. That’s roughly three million, eight hundred thousand people in the US alone. Now do the math. Giving all scientific theories, twenty percent would die of this, twenty of that . . .” Clark rambled about. “Half of those who survived the plague would have died in the first five years.”

  Steward, who literally did the math, looked up. “That still leaves one million, one hundred thousand in the US.”

  “Exactly,” Clark said. “Beginnings and their cavalry wannabe’s have what, twelve hundred. We have a male population in the Eastern Caceres Society of roughly seventy-six thousand. Add the pre-plague females and children, together with Beginning, only seventy-nine thousand of the remaining US population is accounted for. We’re still searching out the rest. This is a big country. But, suppose, just suppose a mere one percent of the remaining population became Savages . . .”

  “Fuck.” Steward looked up. “Excuse me, I mean, shit.”

  “What?” George asked. “What did you come up with?”

  “A hell of a war.” Steward dropped his pencil and looked at a smug Clark. “If his mere one percent is right, we’re looking at approximately . . . eighteen thousand, two hundred Savages.”

  ^^^^

  Even though to Dean it was like watching a television on mute, Frank still was laughing and laughing hard. His face was red and his eyes watering while his mouth moved in a silent laugh.

  “Are you done?” Dean asked as he sat at the dining room table at Ellen’s.

  Frank shook his head, still chuckling at a totally banged up Dean. A small bump graced his forehead along with rug burn on his cheek from his stair fall. They were only minor facial injuries. Dean held a wet cloth to his elbow that was not only bleeding but swollen as well.

  “And I have a small lump on the back of my head too . . . Frank. Please. Stop laughing. Remind me to do an ultra sound on you to see if you can try to talk.”

  Frank was thrown a little by the sudden change of subject. Though he liked the idea of checking to see if he healed, he wanted to stay on the subject of Dean’s mess. Grabbing his pen, Frank wrote on the tablet that sat between them. “Are you’re sure?”

  “Positive,” Dean answered. “You’ve healed a few days. It could be safe.”

  Dramatically Frank shook his head. ‘No-no-no’. Tapping the pen hard to the tablet, Frank underlined the question ‘Are you sure’ then wrote ‘no sex’.

  “Oh, my God, Yes. I mean, no. I mean I’m positive.” Dean ran his hand through his hair flustered. “No sex happened. Aside from the fact the bed wasn’t touched and I was still dressed, The tell tale signs weren’t there. I’m sure. Now how do I explain this to Ellen?” Dean leaned forward as Frank wrote. “What?” Dean asked confused. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t’? I have to. The woman knocked me out somehow. Her and her accomplish whoever that is and . . .”

  Frank snapped his fingers trying to get Dean to read what he wrote.

  Dean just glanced at the words, ‘There is no explaining. Find the proof’. “I’m trying here, Frank. I am and I appreciate the help, but it seems every corner I take, every advance I make, I get thwarted. My body aches, my head is pounding, and my wife hates me. I leave the clinic last night, minding my own business.” He sounded lost. “I need some answers, Frank. Do you have any ideas or suggestions . . . how I can . . . deal . . . with.” A widening hit Dean’s eyes. “That bitch!” Dean stood up outraged and flung the tablet. “Knocks my ass out! This is fuckin shit! She thinks I’m that dumb!” Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, his face a piercing red. “What the fuck’s she up to, huh? What! What! What!” With a spinning hunch of his body and a loud grunt of pain, Dean’s hands sprung to his eyes.

  Frank stood immediately from the table, still confused over Dean’s sudden, unexpected outburst. He knocked on the surface of the table to get Dean’s attention.

  With his demeanor totally changed, Dean turned around, stood up straight, and calmly faced Frank. “Deal with this? Any ideas?”

  Closing his mouth tightly and thinking ‘O.K.’ Frank shifted his eyes and looked around the empty living room, waiting for the kids to wake up and fly in from Dean’s yelling. He didn’t have an answer nor did he have a clue on what to say. Grateful at that moment he couldn’t verbally convey anything, Frank turned, and whistled soundless as he went to the kitchen to start breakfast for the kids.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “So what do you make of it?” Joe questioned Jason in the Quantum Lab.

  Jason sat on a stool and flipped what he felt was the one hundredth sheet. “It’s a hell of a ‘cause and effect’ theory they have here to substantiate their survivor numbers.”

  “I don’t think they needed to send the whole theory, do you?”

  “Yes, most certainly. If they just tossed a number out at me and said, here, believe this, I wouldn’t. I, myself, probably could have sat down and come up with the same numbers give or take a thousand. Like here . . .” Jason moved the sheets to Joe. “They estimate deaths via unpurified water to be at twenty-five percent. I don’t believe that to be true. I believe most people are smart enough to figure the water went bad. My estimate would be lower.”

  “So you think what? Ten percent?”

  “Twenty-three,” Jason stated not seeing Joe’s rolled eyes. “However, I like Davidson’s break down of percentages.”

  “You know this guy?”

  “He a brilliant mathematician. Bet me he had to be frozen earlier than the rest of us though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Jason shrugged. “He supposedly died five years before the plague. Which . . . explains why, when he did his figuring, he leaned toward the Stakowski apocalyptic survival theory done in 1974. Which is based on psychological case studies of different sociological groups. Had Davidson been around another two years then he would have encountered the Dawson apocalyptic su
rvival theory which is based on, not only psychological case studies, profiles, and such, but . . . actual demented experiments. Then again, he wouldn’t have had to use the Stakowski apocalyptic survival theory had he gotten a chance to meet Dawson, who was . . . from reading the Cryo sheets, frozen as well. Unfortunately, the brilliant apocalyptic theologian Dawson, was Garfield Cryogenics subject number eighteen, instead of say, seventeen and now Dawson is brain dysfunctional fieldworker number four.” He raised his eyes from his sheets and rambling to a stunned Joe. “Did I lose you?”

  “Yes, in boredom, five minutes ago, Christ, I just want to know your opinion about the theorized number of Savages. Is it plausible?” Joe sat back and hoped he didn’t get another long winded explanation, but he expected one.

  “Yes.” Jason handed the sheets back. “We’d better head up to that meeting.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Joe watched Jason boot down his computers. “Playing again?”

  “Well.” Jason dusted off his hands. “Just powering her up. You know, getting the quantum juices running. But . . .there’s nothing to send, nowhere to go, and no reason to. It’s a pain in the ass task to get her to run a trip since I reconfigured it to stop time thieves.”

  Joe chuckled. “Time thieves?”

  “Yep. The person who kept breaking in my lab and taking a little ripple cruise. A time thief. They should be shot.” Jason shook his head and moved to the door. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Joe followed and pulled the door closed.

  The moment the door closed, and not one instant after the bolt went into the latch, a small surge of electricity hummed, causing a dull blue-white light to illuminate the lab. Weakly and brief it flickered, very briefly, and then it stopped.

  ^^^^

  Melissa’s sobs and vocal shudders of sadness drowned out any whisper Dean made into Ellen’s ear. “Fifty milligrams of Aubergine. Send her home.”

  Ellen nodded and left the patient room. She returned only a minute later. Melissa was still huddled into the corner with her arms folded tightly to her. Patrick was trying to give her comfort. Ellen headed straight to them, motioning her head to Patrick. “Hey,” Ellen spoke softly. “You need to calm down, all right? This will help.” She held up the syringe. “Then I want you to go. Grab Marcus from school and spend the day with him.”