Hard Road: Deadly Horizon (Dark Plague Book 2)

by Bradley West

“What are you talking about? The only reason Mona accepted our proposal was that we’re giving her the video recordings and instructions. She’ll work with epidemiologists she knows to set up a lab and manufacture treatments. She’s doing this for free, as are we.”

  Now Matt was on the back foot. “Fine, have it your way. There’s not much here for me anyway, with my best clients either fled or dead. I suppose I’ll come north with your group.”

  “Whatever for? We’re twenty pioneers headed for the wilderness. Based on how long it’s taken us so far, there’s no guarantee we’ll make it there before winter, and that means we might not survive to spring.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. They sent you two down here on a longshot gamble that it looks like will pay off. That took planning. I’m a successful professional poker player and a computer expert when I’m not working as a fixer. That’s a blend of skills I’m sure you don’t have. I also have enough motherboards, chipsets, drives, LAN gear and plug-in boards to create the custom servers and network connections that Thunderdome needs.”

  “Steph and I can’t unilaterally let anyone join our group. It takes a unanimous vote. If you’re willing to chance it, you can fly up with us, we’ll hand you the last dose, and you can make your case face to face.”

  Matt didn’t see the immediate angle, but he’d be away from Vegas, which was becoming more ghoulish by the day. “I’m your man. After this is over, we’ll swing by my place and I’ll call a few pilots. We can ignore the owners, but jet fuel is likely to cost a vaccine, so your math is still right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Divide and Conquer

  Saturday, July 18, 2020: Spice Land, Idaho late night

  Sitting outside in the low-eighties (27–28C) sunshine was pleasant after Gardnerville-Minden. The rocky terrain near their camp transitioned into a rolling meadow five hundred yards farther inside the fence line. In the distance, sparse pines covered low hills and puffball clouds hung in a bluebird sky.

  Sal’s stamina was but a shadow of the man who’d run four to five miles three times a week in Marin County’s hilly parks. The big heart attack followed an hour later by a forearm-shattering bullet left him breathless after brushing his teeth. Compounding matters, his tachycardia had reemerged, an ugly reminder of his preexisting heart condition. On the other hand, Sal’s mind remained sharp and he’d reflected at length. Repeatedly, his thoughts swirled around the convoy’s direction. To survive the trek north, the team needed to focus on one aim and take its inspiration from a leader wholly dedicated to that goal. The 3M was too small and the mission too difficult for the luxury of balancing competing interests. Carla’s narrow election as the 3M’s boss had settled matters only in theory. Sal had subverted his niece more than anyone, but her inconsistent stances hadn’t helped her cause. The fundamental difference lay in Sal’s focus on their group, whereas his niece wanted to help everyone. Sal believed that people were part of the problem and to be avoided. Most of the time, it seemed that Carla wanted to save the world one chance encounter at a time.

  As Sal rolled the matter around in his mind, an answer presented itself. Carla wanted to save as many people as possible by publicizing the Dark Cure procedure. Instead of fleeing from people and seeking refuge far away, her instincts were to proselytize. Carla’s awful experiences as a lab scientist in a secret facility had made her fervently anti-government too. She would require an armed retinue and a media platform—to the extent that the internet still existed—to spread the message if she insisted on continuing down this path. Chances were good that she’d fail, but with millions of lives in the balance, a brave person could rationalize the risks.

  The conclusions were obvious but painful. If Carla wanted to evangelize, the 3M had to enable her. The caravan’s original mission called for them to subsist in anonymity and isolation. They’d outlast the pandemic, and the survivors would perfect a template for living off the land in a blend of pastoralism, agriculture, and hunter-gathering augmented by modern technology, such as they could still access it. Sal remained committed to this vision, but wondered about the dedication of others.

  Sal’s approach would take longer, be more family-focused and carry lower risks. Carla’s would be higher profile and play out in a hurry. Within six months—if not six weeks—they’d know whether she’d succeeded. Perhaps there was a way to marry both dreams, but they needed to divorce before these different outlooks could be reconciled.

  One hundred feet away, Kyle and Erinn bounded in and out of the hospital RV, moving boxes at Carla’s command. Tina had bivouacked the Garcias in the Telluride for their remaining convalescence and quarantine. Derek and Tom Strub helped Tien erect the tent that would house the decoy Dark Cure apparatus and concoctions. Sal squinted into the sky but didn’t detect a drone. Earlier in the afternoon, they’d seen one overhead slowly tracing the perimeter fence until an annoyed Travis pointed an M-4 at it.

  The generator ran full-out recharging batteries and powering electrical doodads. An attempt by Jaime to set up their portable satellite internet dish following instructions read aloud by Melvin provided comic relief. Arkar, Zarni and the Burmese kids kicked a ball around on a flat patch. It was the first time they’d laughed since Maung and Chesa’s murders. Orphans Kyaw and Schway showed less enthusiasm than self-styled striker Yonten.

  Sal wished for a second that he could preserve this pastoral scene, but he knew it was only the eye of the hurricane. When they broke camp, their union would rupture as well. He was no more qualified to advise on the right choice than he was in picking the correct religion. Ultimately it came to down to faith—or the lack thereof.

  * * * * *

  Dr. Almeida matter-of-factly confirmed what they’d all suspected: Tyson had suffered a linear skull fracture along the cranial sutures. This caused a subdural hematoma which was the source of moderate intracranial pressure. In laymen’s terms, the baby had a cracked skull, brain bleed and swelling. There weren’t any low-risk options, but she recommended a decompressive craniectomy. Greg thought Steph would faint when their neurologist explained that she proposed to release the pressure by removing a bone flap from Tyson’s skull. Once the incisions had healed to where he no longer required antibiotics, the doctor would undertake a second surgery—a cranioplasty—to close the opening. Only time would tell if their little boy would suffer long-term cognitive disabilities.

  The alternative was to monitor the situation and hope for the best. Babies’ skulls aren’t completely closed, which means they tolerate increased ICP better than adults. That Tyson was more alert and feeding regularly suggested the pressure had diminished. Complicating matters, Dr. Almeida said she didn’t know of an anesthesiologist in Las Vegas who would risk coming to a hospital for money alone, certainly not a place so recently known as “The Doctors’ Graveyard.”

  “What if we offered the anesthetist a Covid vaccine?” Greg asked. “Would that do the trick?”

  “Then we won’t have enough left to charter the plane and pay for gas,” Steph said.

  “We would if we supplied Matt from the convoy’s Dark Cure reserve and sweetened the deal by voting him onto the 3M.”

  “That sounds workable.”

  “If you’re contemplating flying anywhere with Tyson post-op, I have two suggestions,” Dr. Almeida said. “First, don’t fly in a pressurized cabin. Second, if you elect to have the surgery and he travels within the next two weeks, you’re unlikely to find someone qualified to perform the second half of the procedure, the cranioplasty. That means Tyson will have a half dollar-sized hole in his skull that will leave him susceptible to further severe injury for life. As he ages, the hole will decrease in size, but it won’t heal over completely.”

  “That’s unacceptable,” Stephanie said.

  “Then my advice is to forego the surgery rather than do half of it. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” Greg asked.

  “Unless I come with you and perform the cranioplasty under a local in
two weeks. I can preserve the skull flap and close the opening to maximize Tyson’s chances of a full recovery.”

  “That means you’d be with us for weeks,” Stephanie said.

  “I’d only come if I were staying for good. Would your group be interested in a fifty-three-year-old neurologist with zero practical skills?”

  “My father created and funded the entire 3M project,” Stephanie said. “It’s a long story, but he’s also why Tyson was kidnapped to begin with. He owes it to his grandson. Besides, we only have one doctor. It would be much better to have another.” She looked at Greg. “What do you think?”

  “Matt asked the same question a few hours ago,” Greg replied. “I told him he’d have to audition since Sal said it takes a unanimous vote to add new members. I’d like for Mona to join us, and I don’t see any reason why everyone wouldn’t vote her in.”

  Steph loved her husband for his scrupulous honesty, but she could have strangled him. “Mona, we have a shortwave radio and are due to speak with my father tomorrow morning shortly after eight. I’m highly confident that our friends and family will vote for you. Shall we postpone the surgery?”

  “It will take at least a day to line up an anesthesiologist,” Dr. Almeida said. “Plus, I’ll need to arrange for an OR, have it sterilized and bring in various support staff. Miscellaneous expenses could total fifty thousand dollars.”

  “By tomorrow morning, we’ll have that money,” Steph said.

  “Good. I’d better speak to the guards downstairs and make a few calls. Cell coverage is spotty, surviving staff are on the move and I may have to drive around town to line everyone up. I know all too well where Matt lives. Here’s my card. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight. Oh, and I’ll need a Covid-20 vaccine for the anesthetist before the procedure. No one operates on trust any longer.”

  Greg and Steph looked at each other. “Fine,” Stephanie said. “You can collect it tomorrow morning once we add you to the 3M.”

  “I’ll find Matt,” Greg said to Steph. “We’d better wait till we’re back at his house before we explain the change in circumstances.”

  * * * * *

  “Uncle Sal, I have to leave for the cremation ceremony soon, and I’m not done setting up the lab. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Carla normally showed her uncle more patience, but he was the one who’d coerced her to start another Dark Cure batch right away.

  “It will be a short but important conversation. We can speak over dinner. You need to eat, right?”

  “Fine. Erinn! Kyle! Let’s take a quick dinner break.”

  Sal and his niece sat at the camp table farthest from the cooking station. Derek had done his best to convert rice, cubed Spam and canned fruit into a balanced meal. He’d also been delighted to find several cases of ramen. Sal’s tasted like black beans, and the broth scalded his tongue, so he switched his attention to the Spam fried rice.

  “We continue to go round and round the same few issues,” he said, “and I’m concerned we might blow up the 3M.”

  Carla tried to respond, but he waved her off.

  “Hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have to say. Your top priority is saving people by publicizing the Dark Cure and showing them how to produce it. In an ideal world, you’d travel around the U.S. until there were dozens of trained scientists pledged to the cause. Is that more or less correct?”

  “Yes,” Carla said, fearing a trap.

  “If I said we were repurposing the caravan to do just that, would you be comfortable leading that group? Instead of heading to BC right away, you’d spend time—say six months—traveling before heading north, spreading the Dark Cure technique as you went?”

  “You’re firing me and throwing me out? That hardly seems fair—”

  Sal didn’t have the energy to interrupt often, but this was one of those times. “I’m not dismissing anyone. I’m suggesting we have a town hall meeting after dinner. You describe what you propose to do, and I’ll reiterate the objectives of the original 3M. Everyone chooses one path or the other. We’ll divide the resources pro rata and take it from there. My group will head north to Canada without delay. If all goes well, we’ll meet at Thunderdome next spring or summer.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s always been my plan to interact with others as little as possible, then hunker down until the madness ends. In theory, you support this approach, but every time an opportunity to reach out arises you can’t help yourself. Just look at tonight—you’re our leader and yet you’re attending a life celebration hosted by commune members we don’t know. Maybe they’re harmless hippies or maybe they’re paramilitary cultists—the website supports either interpretation. Travis and Arkar won’t be able to protect you and there’s no 3M purpose being served.”

  Uncle Sal had pigeonholed her and missed a few important points. She’d ignore the oversights for the time being. “I suppose you think you could send Travis and Arkar up there to count oil drums and they’ll deliver the shortfall first thing tomorrow just because you’ve already paid? In my world, personal relationships get things done and that’s why I’m going up there tonight. I’ll have a few drinks, meet everyone, smile a lot and figure out how to best serve the group. Is that a role you want to take on?”

  The tone, if not the content, surprised Sal. “I’m not questioning you have skills that no one else has. I’m grateful for what you’ve done, and we wouldn’t have made it this far without you. But you have to be honest with yourself too. Part of you wants to be a hero. Telling seventy-five people that you will give them life-saving vaccines makes you their savior, their queen.”

  Uncle Sal knows me better than I’d given him credit for.

  “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing, but if there are others like me who want to stick to the original plan, then we should talk it over and let everyone choose their paths. After tonight, there won’t be any more votes. If the group wants to stick with you, then that’s what we’ll do.” Sal was tired, and his now-cold meat fried rice had lost his attention.

  “Seems as if you’ve thought this through. What happens to your group if we split up?”

  “We travel by night and hide by day. Once we’re a hundred miles north of the U.S. border, the population thins out. Fuel will be a major factor, so I’m hoping you’ll make enough extra Dark Cure doses—I’m thinking twenty—for us to trade for gas and diesel that will supply us all the way to Thunderdome. We’ll have a narrow window to repair the dilapidated buildings, install stoves, cut firewood and harvest whatever calories we can find. Then we’ll hole up until spring and plant a big array of seeds that Barb selected. We’ll add cattle, pigs, sheep, rabbits, chickens—you name it—and go from there based on what does best.”

  “What are your chances of making it to Thunderdome with a much smaller group?”

  “We’ll be critically exposed by the loss of any adult, particularly anyone with a military background. We’ll add more people along the way, particularly in Canada since they seem less violent by nature. If we can get the 3M back to twenty heads and have provisions for that many mouths, we stand a decent chance of making it to spring.”

  “What about my group?” she asked.

  “You have a fundamental paradox to contend with—to forestall violence, you must have a credible deterrent force. Travis can recruit more gunmen, but the greater danger is that you become undisciplined and either refuse to use force when necessary, or pit yourselves against overwhelming odds. The outside threats we’ve survived to date will multiply if you target larger cities, or chance into military units. Your efforts end whichever comes first: a critical mass of expertise spreads too fast for the authorities to stamp it out, or your former employer kills your movement in its crib.”

  “You honestly think the government wants to suppress the Dark Cure? We don’t know that.”

  “The government’s failures to publicize Dark Cure instructions or the vaccine’s formula speak volumes. The president
and her people won’t let you expose their efforts to corner the market for the 896MX vaccine. That entire narrative of the Immortals program where only the D.C. elite receive the ten thousand doses won’t play well. As principled as you are, I know you can’t keep quiet on this topic.”

  Carla was impressed. “So how do I protect my people?”

  “Make multiple copies of your Dark Cure video and instructions, and focus on distributing them rather than appearing in person. Base yourself somewhere remote, stay off the air and communicate only via trusted couriers. Find friends, particularly in the military or law enforcement, who can pass you intel and allow you to lie low the rest of the time. This approach kept bin Laden alive for a decade.

  “You’ll also want to disincentivize your old boss Holland and the rest from looking too hard. You’ll need a dead man’s switch for that—a recording of you on camera listing the crimes committed in the BSL-4 lab, naming names. You’ll need enough copies spread out among enough people who know to release the recordings if you die or disappear or fail to make contact at the agreed date and time on a certain shortwave frequency. That’s not foolproof, but it’s the best I can think of.”

  Carla stood up, appetite gone. “That’s a lot to digest. Let me speak with Travis. Can we start the town hall in an hour?”

  “Should be fine. I’ll let everyone know,” Sal said.

  * * * * *

  Sal and Carla cohosted the town hall, helping one another make their respective pitches to underline that this was an amicable split and, they hoped, a temporary one. Sal shuffled to the opposite side of the fire pit. “Anyone who wants to stick with the 3M, walk down here. If you’re with Carla, move closer to her. Please don’t look at anyone else: we want the votes to be independent.

  Pat, Jaime, Johnny, Melvin, Derek, Tom, Erinn and Tien gravitated to Sal. Carla’s flock included Travis, Barb, Arkar, Zarni, Yonten, Tina, Tien, Jeanie, Kyle, Kyaw and Schway. Standing forlornly were Rosa Garcia and her children, Juan and Lupita.