Collapse (Book 1): Perfect Storm

by Riley Flynn

  “He was part of the decision. Look, you don’t know how bad it was in Detroit. We had to leave.”

  Joan paused for a moment, sitting up from her constructed bed. She considered Alex. That glare, again. It could slice through iron, given half a chance.

  “The citizens of Rockton,” she began, speaking very slowly and carefully, “noticed that I was sick. Then they noticed that they were sick. Who do you think they blamed? When I got better, they hoisted me up out of bed and marched me to the store, insisting that I teach them how to pull through. They passed food through the door, changes of clothes. One by one, they turned up. Feverish, sweating, just like your friend. Some of them came inside and died as I watched. I tried to treat them. I had to. Not just because that’s what they told me, but because these were people, human beings. Idiots, every single one of them. They were desperate. They saw someone survive and thought that I would be able to help them. I could do nothing. They all died. And now I’m alone. So, tell me, Alex Early, how bad was Detroit?”

  Beginning to shape the words in the back of his throat, Alex caught himself. Joan noticed. Letting out a dry, sardonic laugh, she returned to her couch.

  “That’s right, Alex, don’t apologize. At least you’re learning something. When it’s your turn to be sorry, I’ll tell you.”

  “You’re not good with people, are you?”

  “I find them lacking. In many departments.”

  “Have you tried drinking heavily?”

  She laughed again.

  “Yes. I have. But not in my current condition. Such is life.”

  “It’s all right, we drank the beer anyway.”

  Joan closed her eyes. Not sleeping, but feeling the late summer sun on her face.

  “You wouldn’t be the first to drink beers down here. It’s a tradition. Every Fourth of July. And you thought this was a good place to hide. I can’t even believe you packed beer to bring on your escape. You really did plan this like a road trip, didn’t you?”

  “Actually,” said Alex, finally happy he had a chance to correct his new companion, “we took the beers from a bar in town.”

  “You did?” Joan’s eyes opened. “From Danny Boy’s?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The bar, up on the main street. You took the beers from there?”

  “Yes. It was abandoned. Empty. Someone else had already smashed the windows.”

  “Idiots. No wonder your friend was sick. Half the town drank in there. The other half turned up to watch them do it. The whole place is probably teeming with infection.”

  Without an answer, Alex wondered. Every building along the main street had been looted. By someone. Someone else. How were they to know which places might be infectious? Desperately, he tried to remember whether it had been Timmy who first suggested taking a look. Who had found the beers? They’d both been there. Then Alex found himself facing a bigger, more pressing issue.

  “So why aren’t I sick? Why just Timmy?”

  “How on Earth am I supposed to know? Alex, you really do not think these things through. I’m just a nurse, working in a drug store in a backwater town. This is a disease that’s swept through the country in weeks. Days. No one knows anything. I don’t even know how I survived.”

  “But I should be sick as well. I’ve come into far more contact with the disease.”

  “There could be a thousand reasons. Timmy might have a terrible immune system. You might have breathed in at the right moment. You might be immune. You might have been ill when you were young and have the right antibodies in your blood. Alex, my dear, there is no science here. Only guesswork.”

  Turning his attention to his feet, Alex examined the soles of his shoes. Sneakers. Just the usual rubber shapes, coated in a fair amount of grime and dirt. And germs, potentially. For the entire journey, he hadn’t thought once about the way in which the virus was passing between people.

  Where possible, he’d covered his face. The notion of a virus attaching itself to something as normal and as boring as a beer bottle was worrying. He’d done so much in the time since he left his apartment. Hell, even in his neighbor’s place, he’d touched light switches and kitchenware. It could all have been covered in tiny, invisible germs.

  “Guesswork,” Joan continued, ignoring Alex’s introspection. “Including this.”

  From her pocket, she produced the pamphlet they’d found wrapped around the Tramadol. She passed it down to Alex, who stretched out and reluctantly took it from her hand. It had been locked away in a morgue with an Eko victim. If the beer bottles were liable to infect, then this pamphlet was like a death sentence.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you,” Joan told him. “I don’t think you need to worry.”

  Trusting her, Alex began to examine the document. It had been folded and balled up. Each crease in the paper was now a thick white line, obscuring the text where it had rubbed against the inside of the pocket. Even in the tattered condition, Alex could tell it had been printed recently.

  The insignia of the Department of Health and Human Services was in the uppermost corner, right next to that of the Department of Homeland Security. NOT FOR PUBLIC CONSUMPTION, the headline text read. FOR HEALTH PROFESSIONALS ONLY. Beneath, there was a picture of a grey-skinned body and the two big, bolded words: EKO VIRUS.

  “What’s this?” Alex asked, turning the pamphlet over and over.

  “We get government issued health packs all the time. Flu season, especially. But never something like this.”

  “Why did they send it to you? Why was it in that man’s pocket?”

  “Alex, I discovered it at the same time as you. I’d never seen it before. But I can make an educated guess.”

  “It’s a warning to doctors?”

  “Something like that. It can’t be older than a week. I read through it. It mentions a number of recent events. I don’t know how much you keep up with that kind of thing. Anyway. It’s a breakdown of everything the government knows about the Eko Virus circa two weeks ago.”

  “But that was before the President… Before everything… Why two weeks ago?”

  “Because that man was in the morgue for the past two weeks. If I had to guess, I’d say he received it, read the information, realized that his flu symptoms weren’t exactly a flu, and had decided to take as many Tramadol pills as he could muster. I found him before he could execute the plan. Already too sick to follow through. He barely lasted a day.”

  “So this is it? This will tell us how to treat Timmy?”

  “No,” said Joan, sharing again the dryness of her single syllable laugh. “There’s almost nothing in here that is helpful. If this is what the government knows about the disease, then they know nothing. No treatment, no symptoms beyond what even you seem to have noticed, and no indication of any research. It’s mostly just demanding that doctors keep everything quiet. Lot of good that did.”

  Not for the first time, Alex felt the full weight of reality pressing down on his shoulders. There was a fine line between pessimism and being realistic and it grew thinner by the day. Even in those moments where he had cause to smile, the situation could inevitably turn for the worst, like trying to spot the silver lining in a mushroom cloud.

  There was nothing much to say. Cautiously, Alex turned the pamphlet over and over in his hands. Joan began to sleep. It must have been the first time she’d been outside in days. As the sun tracked across the sky, he tried to read. But the words didn’t stick. Eventually, he settled in to watch Timmy, propped up against the bike. There was nothing else to do but wait.

  28

  The fever refused to break.

  Before the light faded, Joan convinced Alex that Timmy had to be moved. They waited until the IV drip was depleted, placed him on one of the motorbikes, and pushed him into the center of town. Many of the possessions, as well as one of the bikes, were left behind. Alex would have to return for it all afterwards.

  As the dusk began to seam in, Joan guided them through Rockto
n. Alex thought about the name. It was nothing. A bland, boring name for a bland, boring town. He began to understand why Joan resented the community, at least at a base level. After living here so long, she had constructed a steady foundation of dislike for the town.

  But she knew her way around.

  On her advice, they found a building at the opposite end of the main street. It was a home that had been left vacant some weeks before. The family had gone on vacation and never returned. It was unlikely that they ever would, now. The apartment was on the second floor, overlooking the chapel at one end of the main street and with a small, walled-in back yard to the rear.

  They carried Timmy up the stairs and into a child’s bed. A new IV was attached and dangled from a book shelf. With all the painkillers, Timmy barely moved. But his forehead was hot to the touch, burning up. When he did awake, on occasion, he described nightmares to Joan. He wouldn’t share them with Alex and neither would Joan. They were his own private visions, however bad they were.

  From within the drug store, Joan was able to fetch more of her possessions. Food, for the most part. Once he had retrieved the motorbike and the tent, Alex offered to drive her out to her old house. But she refused. It held nothing of any interest or value. Instead, Alex stashed the two bikes in the back yard, out of sight.

  Timmy did not stir.

  Locked into his dreams and his fever, there was little anyone could do. According to Joan, she had only just managed to triumph over the virus by being holed up in bed. She’d lost almost a week of her life. Most people didn’t make it through a few days. The fact that Timmy was fighting, she said, was a good sign. All they could do was wait.

  Alex was restless. They’d set off for Virginia on stolen motorcycles with a small arsenal at their side. They should have been there by now. They were wasting valuable time stuck in this dead-end town.

  There might not even be a farm to get to by the time Timmy had recovered. After everything they’d already achieved, being told to wait made him feel helpless. Wasted. Lost.

  Every day, he sat looking at the map. It wasn’t far to Virginia. When Joan caught him staring at the roads and the forests, she’d ask him questions. Alex batted them away, avoiding the conversation. Once or twice, she’d nearly hit on something important.

  He’d considered telling her about Sammy or about his parents. But there was nothing to say to her. He’d barely shared that information with Timmy. This strange woman who had stormed into his life was not about to receive the same access to information.

  Time stretched out mockingly. First one day. Then another. Then another.

  At least the food was better, holed up here. The family had a gas stove. Once lit with a match, it was unaffected by the energy blackout. Alex began to learn about the medicine given to Timmy. Antiretrovirals. Beta blockers. It all sounded like gibberish. But Joan, with nothing better to do, explained the importance of each drug.

  In return, Alex decided to try and teach her something. They took a handgun, one of the Glocks, left Timmy sleeping for as long as they dared, and went out through the backstreets of the town, taking a small trek into the woods. Though he was hardly a fantastic shot himself, they practiced with the pistol.

  Tin cans on a tree trunk. Movie material. Joan was a better shot than expected, though she hated the smell it left on her fingers.

  No one else came to Rockton. Occasionally, at night, a dog howled. Birds passed by overhead but never stopped. The analog radio picked up only static. On the third night, they heard gunshots. A series of loud cracks which pierced the silence, then went quiet. They stayed inside the next day.

  After another quiet night, they decided to try the shooting practice with the Glock again. It was more important, they reasoned, though they tried to keep a closer eye on their surroundings. Once they could reliably knock most of the tin cans out of place, they wandered home. Neither Alex nor Joan asked each other too many questions. Not anymore.

  Then the fever broke.

  It was morning when Alex entered the child’s bedroom to change the drip and administer the drugs, just as he’d been taught. When he bent down to help his friend, Timmy lay still. Waiting. Just when Alex’s hand had been within reach, as he focused on the task, Timmy seized hold of his wrist. As the shouting died down, Joan arrived. They laughed, eventually.

  But Timmy was far from well. The virus, though easing off, had taken its toll. Pounds and pounds of flesh had fallen away from Timmy’s already skinny frame. Water weight, most of it, sweated straight through the sheets every day. The road to recovery would be a long ride, so they stayed put.

  Now that the patient was awake, the planning could begin again in earnest. Taking the maps upstairs, Alex and Timmy finally found Rockton on the page and plotted a new course. Days, they thought, until they reached Virginia. As soon as the last shackles of the illness had been shaken away, they could hit the road.

  Until then, they practiced. After Alex had told Timmy about the gun range he’d built in the forest out back of the house, it became an obsession. Every day, Timmy wanted to get out there, to see what it was all about, to take his own gun and finally feel the feather weight of the trigger kiss the bend of his finger. That sulphur tang, he kept reminding the others, smelt like victory.

  On the fourth day after the fever broke, Joan’s examination ended in an all clear. Though Timmy was not yet ready to walk alone, they helped him down the stairs, through the back yard, and out into the forest. Alex carried the guns. He brought a selection, just to be sure.

  They reached the range, an old river gully that had dried up. A sycamore tree, weathered and thick, had toppled down into the gulch. It hadn’t rained for a month and the ground was rigid and firm. The three stood at the top end of the gully, facing downstream. Behind the fallen trunk was nothing but a bend in the river, now riddled with bullets.

  The tin cans were still there. They were bent and twisted all out of shape. But they still made for decent targets. Just harder to hit. Placing the guns carefully on the ground, Alex wandered down range–some fifty feet–and lined the cans up along the tree trunk. Timmy sat on a mossy stone and watched.

  “You both been shooting from here? You’re practically on top of the targets. How’d you ever miss?”

  As the virus had abated, Timmy’s humor had come back with a vengeance. When Alex arrived back, he looked down at the selection of guns and ammo. A couple of pistols, a rifle, and as many rounds as they’d need.

  “Where do you want to start?” he asked Joan.

  “I think you should lead the way. Show your friend what you’ve taught me.”

  “Okay then,” Alex said, happy to demonstrate what he’d been picking up these last few days. “Let’s start with the Glock.”

  Picking up the pistol, he checked it over. He loaded it up, feeling the familiar click of the thumb release. The slide catch caught without even looking. Timmy was grinning the whole time.

  “Been practicing, man?”

  “A little,” Alex admitted through a sheepish grin.

  The gun was far more familiar in his hands than it had ever been. Thinking back now, to that night in the warehouse, how strange he’d felt holding the paintballing gun, he was almost embarrassed. A magazine was already stacked full of rounds, slid up inside, and Alex tugged back on the slide. The sound told him everything was loaded.

  “Very smooth.” Timmy mocked a round of applause. “Though you could just flick the slide catch with your thumb. And always point down range, man. Joan, has he been teaching you bad habits?”

  Tutting, he turned back to Alex and motioned with a sweep of the hand. The targets were lined up, ready. Alex nodded. The other two covered their ears. He rattled off ten shots, hitting seven of the tin cans. They toppled through the air, falling on the forest floor. Alex unloaded the pistol and placed it in a holster on his hip.

  “Not bad, not bad at all, man. But you gotta look at your standing leg. Where’s all your weight going? And don’t shut one eye w
hen you shoot; you need to keep looking around. Think about where your hips are. And—”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t bad? I hit seven out of ten. That’s all right, no?” Alex smiled as he spoke.

  “I’m just breaking your balls, man. Seven’s not bad. What about the other three?”

  “I hit them sometimes.”

  “Let’s hit them every time, then.”

  “All right, Yoda, tell me what to do better.”

  Timmy licked his lips. Joan, hand over her mouth, watched quietly.

  “And Joanie. Let’s see what you can do. Come on, I won’t bite.”

  From somewhere, Timmy had picked up a stick. He was using it to point, motioning all up and down the range. And it went on like this for hours. They ran out of ammo once, and Alex had to run back home for more. Tin cans, too, to replace the ones which were all shot up.

  As the afternoon rolled through, Timmy sent Joan looking for a bigger stick. Armed with a longer reach, he could point out people’s failings and errors from his mossy stone. It suited him well, Alex thought, all talk and no having to back it up on any occasion. Timmy the teacher.

  They were losing the light. Down in the gully, it was harder and harder to see the cans. One more go, Joan said, insisting that she was getting the hang of the handgun. Armed with his big stick, the self-appointed teacher poked and prodded her knees and hips, positioning her to point down range.

  Ten shots, ten hits. Each tin can toppled from the tree trunk. Joan turned back to the two men, daring them to criticize. Alex took the pistol, still hot, from her hands, unloading the rounds and checking the magazine. As Timmy began to stand, leaning heavily on the stick, about to open his mouth to doll out droll praise, there was a sound.

  Gunfire.

  Shot after shot. Not from nearby. But close. Coming from the town.

  “It’s an echo?” said Joan, more hopeful than sure.

  Alex was already packing up the guns. Timmy hobbled to his feet. Not an echo, they knew. They needed to hide.