by Jon McGoran
78
Dunston was declared quarantined for another two weeks, and that was fine with me. I had no place to go anyway. I wasn’t even in much of a hurry to get back to work. Like I had told Bert Squires, the town was growing on me.
Nola got dramatically better over the next couple of days, and our visits got longer. Each time I visited her, the little sunroom was more populated, as more victims of Rupp’s pathogen recovered. The doctors were concerned about the possibility of liver damage from the Mycozene, but so far everyone was fine.
At first, Nola was happy just to be alive, and to be with me. But after a couple of days, I noticed a melancholy setting in.
We were sitting in the sunroom, speaking in hushed tones since the room was now full. “My farm,” she said, when I asked her what was wrong. “I put everything I had into it. Now it’s gone. My little organic farm is a toxic waste site.” When she sighed, it was deep and sad, but free of rasps or wheezing. “Maybe your friend Jordan Rothe will reconsider.”
I didn’t tell her that Jordan Rothe had probably lost everything and wouldn’t be buying anything for a long, long time. Instead I put my arm around her and told her everything would be all right.
The next day, when I came to visit, she still seemed down. But I brought her a present. It was an apple, the one I had seen through the fence, half-buried in mud. It was bruised and withered, and Nola looked at me funny when I gave it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, putting it aside. “I’ll eat it later.”
“No, you won’t.”
I told her about what Sorenson had said, about how they couldn’t find Rupp’s apples, and how badly they wanted to get hold of them. How badly the drug companies would want to get hold of them as well. How the feds would offer a big reward.
“And that?” she said.
I nodded. “There’s ninety cases of them out there somewhere, and the trees themselves are out there, too. They’re bound to turn up sooner or later. But this is the only one to turn up so far. It’s up to you what you want to do with it. The pharmaceutical companies would probably make you pretty rich.” I shrugged. “But Sorenson could probably come up with enough to pay off your mortgage and buy a few acres and a house in a town at least as nice as Dunston.”
She smiled and picked up the apple. “And you’re giving this to me?”
I nodded.
“You know, I … I don’t really approve of profiting off genetically modified crops.”
I put my hand on her knee. “Someone’s going to find them, and someone is going to get paid. You might as well get paid first.”
She thought about it for a moment. Then she smiled. “You’re a heck of a guy, Doyle Carrick.”
I smiled back. “I keep saying.”
She put her arms around me and gave me the kind of long, lingering kiss that let me know she was feeling better.
She was released the next day with a clean bill of health. She was a little weak, but her color was back and she looked beautiful. I took her home, and I took good care of her until she got her strength back. And after that, she took care of me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JON MCGORAN is one of the founding members of the Philadelphia Liars Club, a group of authors dedicated to promotion, networking, and service work. McGoran’s short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, with three stories set to be released this year, including two in IDW’s “Zombies vs. Robots” franchise. In Drift, he combines his interest in the increasingly bizarre world of food production with his love of the thriller. Visit him on the Web at www.jmcgoran.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DRIFT
Copyright © 2013 by Jon McGoran
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Daniel Cullen
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
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Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3470-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 9781466815247 (e-book)
First Edition: July 2013
