The Pandemic Sequence (Book 2): The Tilian Effect

by Tom Calen

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (trade paperback): 978-1-61868-092-1

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-093-8

  The Tilian Effect copyright © 2013

  by Tom Calen

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Roy Migabon.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART TWO

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  For my parents,

  who taught me the power of imagination.

  Aggression unopposed becomes a contagious disease.

  -Jimmy Carter

  Prologue

  The black sedan wove its way through the slick streets of the capital city. Like most other aspects of Havana, the vehicle was a relic held over from a more prosperous age. Before the outbreak of the virus, Cuba—though keenly lagging behind the rest of the western world—thrived with colors, culture, and a certain nostalgic resplendence that defined its national image. The Communist bastion that had once brought a burning torch to the Cold War, had existed as an isolated oddity for much of the twentieth century. Trade embargos and travel restrictions assured that only a select few of the American population had experienced the island only ninety miles off the American coast firsthand. In a startling sense of irony, the isolation against Cuba imposed by the international community, with the intention to cripple the island nation, had actually served to train its inhabitants in the art of survival without global assistance.

  Though much of the indigenous population had succumbed to the virus, those that survived spent the intervening years cleansing the island of the infected, seeking out survivors in neighboring locales, and rebuilding a society. Gazing from the windows of the old car, he could see the clear line of inhabited and uninhabited sections of the city. It had been two years since the power had been restored, though conservation was strictly enforced through a power-curfew still some minutes in the future. Passing beyond the well-lit areas that housed the city’s several thousand citizens, the dampness on the road glistened in the car’s beams. This had not been a scheduled meeting, but it was still one of some importance. He had struggled with rebuilding for too long to allow this new company of refugees to disrupt his efforts.

  Now several miles outside what the citizens had dubbed the Settled Zone, the antique auto turned into an alley and came to a soft stop. As he stepped from the rear passenger door, he instructed the driver to dim the headlights. Squinting into the distance as his vision adjusted to the decreased illumination, he saw two figures step out into the alley. Once the soft lights from the low beams lit their faces, he could see the toll six years in the wild had taken on them.

  “I didn’t believe my eyes when I saw your names on the passenger manifest,” he said as he extended his hand in greeting. Each of his new companions took his hand with obvious reluctance.

  “It’s a risk meeting like this,” replied the shorter of the two.

  “But a necessary one given your actions,” the man returned dryly, yet with enough domination to silence further complaint. He turned his attention to the taller figure, the one he had always known to be far more reasonable.

  “Do they know who you are?”

  “They know what we told them, that’s all. We arrived at their camp separately to reduce any suspicion.”

  Pleased with the answer, the man relaxed his concern slightly before asking, “You lived with them, lived among them for years, and you never slipped about your involvement?”

  “If we had, I doubt we’d be alive right now.”

  Nodding with approval, he slid his hand inside his overcoat and withdrew two envelopes. As he handed them over, he said, “Enclosed you will find your communication protocols. You’ll need to be debriefed immediately, after which time you will have two weeks to settle into the community before resuming your work.”

  “Just like that? It’s been six years, six years that we’ve been out there waiting for a rescue. Perhaps we don’t want to resume our work,” complained the short shadow.

  Even in the faint light, the glare the man shot him was primal and terrifying. “It’s this or a bullet. That’s the only choice you will be given.”

  He allowed the stare and silence to linger briefly before he continued, “In the last two years we have been able to resume our work with the virus.”

  With clear shock, the taller figure exclaimed, “You’ve restarted the project?”

  “Yes,” he replied smoothly. “The outbreak was a setback, unforeseen and regrettable. But, that does not change the importance of the Ira Project.”

  Part One

  Chapter One

  The early morning breeze was strong and carried with it salted air from the nearby beach. Pink hues tangled with orange as the sun crept steadily higher in the eastern sky. Even with the rustling of the palm trees, one could still hear the gentle swell and crash of the waves against the shore.

  The street below the second story balcony was empty save for a handful of automobiles manufactured in decades long past. In a better time, life would have been stirring along the narrow road as children took to the streets to play, men and women hustled to jobs, and vendors set up tables to hock their wares. Instead, the only activity to be seen now was a few malnourished cats skulking in the diminishing shadows.

  The blue paint on the house had long since faded from it’s original brightness, like so many of the pastel-colored homes that lined the street. It had flaked off in several areas, dried by the sea air and falling away to reveal the many cracks in the building’s façade. The four rooms of the interior mirrored the passage of time that marred the exterior. A large bedroom, off which the balcony stood, was sparsely furnished even though furniture was in great abundance on the island. A queen-sized bed, two nightstands and a small table and chair set were all that covered the wide planks of the wood floor. There had been a substantial rug in the center of the room, but it had been stained and torn, and thus removed.

  The other rooms were similarly decorated and reflected the Spartan tastes of the home’s current occupant. Six years in the wild had served to further his minimalistic preferences. In truth, he had had a difficult transition to even the relatively minor comforts Havana offered. He had chosen the house in large part due to the immense balcony that allowed him to gaze across—as he did now—to the vast sea several streets over. The sprawling waters on the northern end of the island nation offered him a sense of freedom that the walls of the home did not.

  Even in his adolescence, Paul Jenson had preferred the comp
lex simplicity of nature. Tides roll in and out, trees produce and shed their leaves. Nature was free from the vapid societal entrapments that had ensnared so many of the people he had known before the epidemic. While his friends had clamored after the newest video game, he had spent quiet afternoons with his maternal grandfather, exploring the natural world. For Paul, no computer graphic had richer detail than the colors of the flora and fauna in nature. He appreciated and respected the animals’ focus on basic frill-less survival, unlike their human counterparts. Yet, as his grandfather had shown him, beneath the simplicity of nature there existed a complexity equally as compelling. He spent hours watching spiders weave intricate webs, birds flitter about collecting twigs which they then sculpted into a nest. The patterns and designs in nature, the evolutionary skills encoded in a creature’s genetics, it was those aspects of life that had taken hold of him in his youth.

  His parents had hoped their son would pursue a career in business. Brett Jenson, Paul’s father, had come from a middle class suburban home, and quickly entered the field of real estate after securing a degree at the local college. His wife, Suzanne, had been born into a less-fortunate home. Her father spent most of his life in seasonal employment, while her mother worked odd-jobs to help feed and clothe Suzanne and her four siblings. Through a mixture of determination and hard work, Suzanne received a college scholarship and was subsequently the first in her family to obtain a college degree. During her third year at the university, she met her future husband through a mutual friend. After a courtship of two years, Brett bent the knee and proposed marriage. Not long after their first anniversary, they welcomed their son, Paul, into the world.

  Though raised in suburbia, his father a realtor and mother an accountant, Paul aged with an increasing sense of “difference” when compared to his peers. While a popular student, often invited to the various weekend parties in high school, he preferred to drive to the country each weekend and spend his time with his grandfather. It was with some disappointment—but little shock—that his parents greeted his announcement to enroll in a community college in order to meet the requirements for becoming a park ranger. His parents’ concerns that he would face the same inconstancy that had plagued his grandfather’s career were somewhat alleviated when Paul secured a position with the Tennessee Parks Department shortly after he graduated.

  Standing on the balcony overlooking the Mexican gulf from the island of “New Cuba,” as most of the residents now called it, Paul could not help but smile at the memory of his parents. And you guys thought unemployment was going to be my biggest concern, he silently joked with their ghosts. He had never been able to confirm their deaths but a search of their home had revealed enough horror for him to assume the worst.

  A year had passed since he and the other refugees landed on the foreign shores of Cuba. After a brief time in quarantine, the new arrivals had been given a tour of the inhabited sections of the island. The city of Havana retained its capital status and served as the main residence for the island’s population of nine thousand. The overabundance of unoccupied homes provided a dizzying selection for the refugees. Most opted for homes near to each other, while a few chose to live further away. Paul had shown no great preference for location, save for proximity to the water, so he readily agreed to the block Michelle Lafkin and Erik Lasdale selected. As much as he missed wilderness living, he could not deny a welcome sense of kinship living so near to those with whom he had survived the last years in the mountains.

  Pulled back to the present by the rustling of bed sheets behind him, Paul paused briefly to take in one last gaze of the dawn before making his way over to the bed. Setting down his still warm mug of coffee, he gently sat on the right side of the soft mattress.

  “Good morning,” he said with slightly more than a whisper.

  With a relaxed stretch of wakefulness, Lisa Velazquez smiled a return to his greeting.

  “What time is it?” she asked, sleep still present in her voice.

  “Little after six.”

  Sliding up to rest her back on the headboard, she reached over to the nightstand and took a grateful sip from his mug. Paul smiled as her eyes found his own over the rim. It was a routine he had come to enjoy over the last several months.

  The attraction had been instant and mutual when the two had first met years earlier at the mountain camp, but the deep wounds from the loss of his wife and newborn child had been too fresh to allow Paul to entertain any thoughts of pursuing Lisa. Once he had been able to accept his developing feelings for her, the chaos of their lives further prevented a romance. Only after they had reached the safety of Cuba did the two relax enough to admit and act on their feelings.

  Perhaps in an effort to make up for lost time, he had quickly asked Lisa to move in with him. The months since had been more joy-filled than Paul had thought possible after the outbreak. Looking at her now, dark hair in a sleep-induced tangle falling gently to her shoulders as she hugged the white sheet against her mocha skin, he could admit he was in love without feeling he was betraying the memory of his deceased wife.

  “What time do you go in today?” she asked.

  “Not ’til ten. We’re just getting briefed for the Turks & Caicos trip.”

  “I can’t believe they’re sending you all out again so soon after the Caymans. They prepped for what? Two weeks? And the islands were empty,” Lisa grumbled with clear frustration.

  It was true that the Caymans trip had been fruitless in terms of finding survivors, but the islands did yield an adequate amount of weapons and supplies. The exploration of the British island territories had quickly shown that both survivors and Tils had long since died off. With each search and rescue mission, the number of survivors recovered had decreased. As the teams had grown accustomed to, the smaller the island—the less likely survivors would be found. In fact, Paul’s team had not found any survivors in the last three missions. The shared island of Haiti and the Dominican Republic was the last successful mission, and the sense of triumph from rescuing over seven hundred people had dwindled significantly in the last four months.

  “I’m not sure how many more missions there’ll be after this,” he replied, “There’s talk about heading over into the Lesser Antilles, but that would mean a much longer deployment. I doubt the brass is going to go for it.”

  “I still think you should move to security with me. You know we could use skills and you won’t have wasted trips.”

  It was a debate the two had engaged in several times in the past few months. When it came time to participate in the life of New Cuba, Lisa had joined the island’s security force. Though not as efficient as an American-based military should have been, the several hundred person army was well supplied from the arsenal at Guantanamo Bay. Tasked with establishing a strong island defense, the army of New Cuba also served as a police force for the populated areas of Havana. Though Paul had been tempted to join as well, he instead opted for the newly formed search and rescue team. Even with the disappointments of finding the islands uninhabited, he still greatly enjoyed the work in large part for the opportunity to escape the city and explore unfamiliar areas.

  “Yeah, well, I’m thinking soon I won’t have any choice but to work security.”

  “Good,” Lisa said with a smile as she leaned forward and kissed him.

  --

  The briefing dragged on for three hours as Paul and his team studied various maps detailing the layout of the islands of Turks and Caicos. The terrain the fifty-man team would encounter was typical of the region and therefore posed no significant need to retrain ground procedure. The only real challenge the island groups presented was the sheer number of places to search. While the main islands numbered eight, there were over two hundred smaller islands. It had been decided that as the main force searched the larger and previously more populated islands, the three ships in their small fleet would observe the smaller islands to identify any signs of life. In theory, the mission would take two to three weeks, barring a
ny unforeseen entanglements.

  Chris Nieves, the team’s chief of intelligence, was slowly winding down the Q&A; Paul was thankful that it was the final portion of the briefing. Nieves was in his early forties, his age only seen in the flecks of gray hair mingling with brown at his temples. A career military man, Nieves’ last rank was Sergeant First Class, and he had been serving at Gitmo when the virus broke out. Hailed as an unofficial founder of New Cuba, Nieves had worked tirelessly over the intervening years to eradicate the infected from the island. One of a handful of servicemen to join the Search & Rescue team, Nieves’ background in intelligence had proven invaluable to the search and rescue team.

  Paul had been wary of accepting a leadership position on the team so quickly after joining the island community. Though the team itself had only been formed just prior to his arrival, Paul worried what toes he might be crushing by such a hasty advancement, but word had spread quickly that he had been an integral part of the refugees’ survival for so many years. With almost unanimous consent, the other members of the S&R team had accepted his authority, and with each mission, any who had questioned his ability had quickly been won over.

  As Nieves’ finished the final answer, Paul rose to take the podium and address the squad.

  “All right, Sergeant Nieves covered the specifics. This is a standard operation and we know how to work those. Lieutenant General Reed wants us deployed within the next two days,” Paul informed the crowded room. The last part earned several moans from those assembled. “Wednesday, 0800. Dismissed.”

  The room emptied as the team shuffled through the two exits. Once most were beyond hearing range, Nieves approached Paul with a look of concern on his face.

  “Nice job with the briefing,” the squad leader said.

  “I could do them in my sleep now. Same info, just a different island name,” replied the Sergeant, before changing topics. “Paul, some of the boys have been talking. They’re of a mind that this is our last mission and I can’t find much to dispel that opinion. Has Reed said anything about the Lesser Antilles?”