DRYP Trilogy | Book 1 | DRYP [The Final Pandemic]

by Scheuring, R. A.

  “Shit!” he said, when he saw the ten-foot chain-link fence separating the construction site from Zonal Avenue and his car on the other side. He eyed the fence’s length, looking for a gate.

  There was only one. He could tell, even in the dim light, that it was chained and locked.

  “Shit,” he said again. He knew he had been lucky, because even though the basement was deserted, thousands of health care workers and patients still clogged the areas upstairs. No way was he going back with his contraband PPE.

  He walked the length of the fence, until he found a section flanked by dense ivy. Ezra lobbed the two boxes over and watched as they landed with a rustle on the other side.

  A second later, he was climbing. His skin tore on the rough metal, but he didn’t care. His breath came in surges, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  His first attempt to throw a leg over failed, but on the second, he managed to straddle the jagged top.

  And then disaster struck. The fence wobbled under his weight, first tilting toward the construction site and then toward the street, as though it couldn’t decide which way to topple. In the end, the fence settled on the Zonal side. Ezra went flying.

  He landed in ivy with a thud, a lightning bolt of pain shooting up his arm. Ezra moaned and rolled.

  What an idiot! He thought savagely. What a fucking idiot!

  He looked at his arm, searching for deformity, some evidence he’d broken a bone, but there was none.

  Thank god, thank god, thank god, he thought.

  He scanned the ivy for the boxes and realized he was sitting on them. The masks spilled out on either side of his butt—some wet, some dirty, others just bent. The glove box was flattened too.

  An unconscious sob escaped Ezra’s mouth as he scooped them up with his good arm. His own mask had come askew in the fall, but he didn’t pay attention. Ezra limp-ran to his car, clutching his precious PPE to his chest.

  Three blocks away, Alan Wheeler sat alone in the University Hospital ICU waiting room, staring sightlessly out the window at the dull glow that rose from the old county hospital two blocks away. Most of County was obscured by the newer medical research buildings that stood between the modern private hospital and the older one, but the eerie glow crept around the buildings, portending things too horrible to contemplate.

  No diagnosis. He had waited all day, pressured the nurses to page the doctors, had even called the hospital CEO. But no one could answer the question that would allow Alan to get his son out of Los Angeles. No one could say with certainty that the boy didn’t have plague.

  It’s a tricky bug to isolate, they’d said. Often misidentified by a standard lab’s automated culture systems. They had to send specimens to the state’s Microbial Diseases Lab, which was specially equipped to detect plague, but which was now so overwhelmed that they weren’t even certain where Jason’s blood samples were.

  Through it all, Grif Richardson kept calling, asking for updates, his clipped tones reminding Alan of a kitchen timer counting off the minutes until the airspace closed for good. “They’re saying there’s thirty thousand sick people in Los Angeles, Alan. Thirty thousand. We’ve got to get you out.”

  Alan’s gut churned. “I don’t have a diagnosis, Grif. Can’t you get the transport company to go with a probable diagnosis?”

  “They’re not crazy, Alan. Technically, they’re violating the quarantine, but if we definitively rule out plague, we at least have a legal leg to stand on. The company can afford the legal fees. Hell, you can afford the legal fees.”

  Alan didn’t reply. Of course, Richardson was right. Only rogue operators were willing to violate the lockdown, and even those were getting skittish.

  Which meant there was a very good chance he, Brooke, and Jason might have to ride the quarantine out in Los Angeles. He couldn’t imagine a worse place to be than the city of 18 million.

  Brooke went berserk when Alan suggested she evacuate without him and Jason. “I’m not leaving my son! You go, if you’re so desperate to save yourself!”

  “I never wanted to leave,” he said. “But I’m not sure we’ll get out if we delay any longer.”

  That silenced her. She stared at him, her eyes large and tearful, small smudges of black mascara below her lower lash line. She was falling apart. Alan could see it in her face, in the small twitches of her mouth as she swallowed, trying to speak.

  “We’ll both stay,” he said, as gently as he could. “But Brooke, you’ve got to rest. You’re a wreck. Go home. Sleep tonight. Jason is doing better. I’ll stand the watch during the night. You can relieve me tomorrow.”

  She looked at him uncertainly. Fifty years of living showed on her face, no longer carefully hidden by artful grooming. Her black hair was flat, the bangs greasy and pushed aside so that her smooth, botoxed forehead was exposed, jarring in its blandness against the obvious distress in her lower face.

  She seemed to crumple, all at once. “You’ve got to get us out, Alan,” she sobbed. “Please get us out. I don’t want to die here.”

  He took her into his arms. “Shhh, shhh,” he said against her hair. She smelled ripe, the perfume she wore not entirely disguising the fact that she hadn’t showered in days. “I’ll get us out of here, Brooke. I promise you.” He gently pushed her away, so he could look into her face. “Go home, Brooke. Get ready to go. When we get transport, there won’t be much time to pack, so you’ll need to be ready.”

  She sniffled, the struggle for composure pitiful to watch.

  But she left. She took the car and departed.

  Alan was alone at the hospital when Jason crashed.

  He heard the distant beep-beep-beep of a pager going off, and then he watched as two white-coated residents jogged by.

  They’re moving too quickly, Alan thought, for something that isn’t an emergency. A chill shuddered through his body. He stood up, not certain what to do. Embarrassed, but also a little desperate, Alan walked to the ICU’s entrance and peered through the doors’ small rectangular windows. He could see nothing except the expanse of an illuminated, short hallway and the abandoned desk at the end, where a security guard usually sat.

  He forced himself to turn away, but tension twisted his heart into a knot, and he found himself instead pacing in tight little circles in front of the doors, his hands jammed in his pockets.

  “Respiratory therapy, fifth floor ICU, stat. Respiratory therapy, fifth floor ICU, stat,” a disembodied voice announced over the public address system.

  Alan shook his head, tried to clear his mind of the deep and terrifying dread that was spreading throughout his body.

  It’s not Jason. It’s not Jason. He’s doing better.

  But as the seconds ticked into minutes and he watched two more scrub-attired hospital staffers make their way into ICU, Alan’s resolve dissolved. He wanted to pound on the double doors in anguish.

  A doctor came out. He wasn’t one that Alan had ever seen before: blond, disheveled, as though he’d been yanked from sleep. He wore a white coat over his scrubs, and once he emerged from the ICU double doors, he didn’t look far before he found the person he was looking for. He came straight toward Alan.

  “Mr. Wheeler?” he asked through his respirator.

  “That’s me,” said Alan, in a voice that he didn’t recognize.

  The doctor’s tone was grave. “Jason’s taken a turn for the worse. His blood pressure is falling again, and his respiratory condition is deteriorating. I think you’d better come see him.”

  Alan didn’t ask any questions. He followed the doctor through the double doors, through the hallway to the isolation room, where his only child struggled for life.

  When Alan saw Jason, his heart cracked in two. The boy looked lifeless, a shrunken shell. Several people in isolation gowns and respirators tended to him, adjusting the IVs that attached to every limb like grotesque marionette strings. A nurse uncovered his arms and pointed to the dark red blotches that were beginning to form.

  Jason co
ughed without opening his eyes, a weak little spasm that barely moved his wasted body but still sent a blob of bloody phlegm up his breathing tube. The respiratory therapist disconnected the tube from the ventilator and suctioned it. Two inches of red sputum filled the suction canister at the head of the bed.

  “I’m not sure how long he’ll last.”

  Alan nearly jumped. He had forgotten the physician next to him.

  “I thought you would want to see him, to know what is happening,” the doctor continued. “You can go in if you like, but you need to fully gown up and wear a respirator mask.”

  Alan looked up. “I thought the gowns and mask were to protect him from us.”

  The young doctor looked surprised. “No, it’s the other way around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The doctor was blunt. “He’s got plague.”

  Twenty-Seven

  It took Ezra nearly two hours to reach the marina. He parked his BMW in the deserted lot, popped the trunk, and pulled out a large leather duffle bag.

  He was halfway to the dock when a sharp voice called out, “Who’s there?”

  Ezra froze. A uniformed man emerged from the marina master’s office. A prickle of unease ran up Ezra’s spine when he saw the man’s gun.

  “I’m Ezra Pilpak. My family owns a boat here,” Ezra said and immediately felt like an idiot. Jesus, don’t tell him your name! He’ll report you.

  The security guard looked at him suspiciously. “The marina’s closed. No boats coming in or going out because of the quarantine.”

  The guard appeared to be in his fifties. There wasn’t much wattage behind his eyes—just enough to indicate a man that would follow a simple message with dogged obstinacy.

  And that message is not to let me or anybody else in, Ezra thought, with a sinking feeling. Ezra’s gaze darted reflexively to the dark shadows of the marina. He could hear the quiet slapping of the water against the dock.

  “I just want to put something on my boat,” Ezra said.

  “Nope,” said the guard. “The Coast Guard has closed down all the marinas, including this one.”

  A bubble of anxiety formed in Ezra’s chest. He raised the duffle bag, offering it to the guard. “I’ve got money in here. Ten thousand dollars. Half of it’s yours if you let me go.”

  The guard’s brows drew together. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

  “Not a bribe,” said Ezra, his voice rising a pitch. “Just a reward. I know you’re working hard out here. You let me go to my boat, and I’ll share my money with you. That’s all I meant.”

  The guard wasn’t buying it. Disgust flattened his features. He raised the gun higher. “All you rich people think you can buy your way out of anything. You’re wrong, pal. I’m turning you in.” He holstered his gun and reached for his cell phone.

  Ezra’s mouth dropped open. His whole plan was going down the shitter because a half-witted security guard held a grudge against the one percent? Ezra didn’t want to die! He’d already done his part. He’d tried to save some people, but there was no saving people now. There was only dying left, and Ezra didn’t want any part of that!

  Ezra launched himself at the other man. Dimly, over the pounding of his heart, Ezra heard the cell phone clatter against the pavement, but the sound only registered peripherally, because the guard had his hand on his gun again. The two men toppled backwards, the guard grunting as he hit the pavement.

  Ezra punched at the older man’s gut but abandoned this when the guard cleared his gun from its holster. Ezra went for his gun hand instead.

  Terror blew through Ezra’s head like a fireball. The guard had to be at least twenty years older, but he was strong. Ezra kicked furiously, but the other man had Ezra on his back. Ezra watched in horror as the man began to pull the trigger.

  It’s all over, thought Ezra. I’m a fucking dead man.

  Ezra’s body rioted. He punched. He shoved. At the same time, a deafening bang rang out through the night. Ezra waited for the pain, but instead, the guard jerked twice above him. A small red blotch appeared on the older man’s chest.

  “Jesus!” said Ezra, horrified. The guard looked surprised, as though this outcome had never occurred to him. He looked down at his shirt, at the black hole with the expanding red halo that marred the crisp gray guardsman uniform.

  “Holy shit,” Ezra cried. “I’m sorry!”

  The guard dropped his gun. He touched the wound gingerly and then fell to the side, half sitting, half-reclining. He couldn’t stop looking at the blood on his fingers.

  Ezra thought he should do something, but he felt frozen. The guard sagged to the pavement. Ezra fought the urge to cry. His chest began to shake.

  The man’s breathing slowed, became shallower. His eyes turned upward into the darkness.

  For five minutes, Ezra watched the guard die, the pool of dark blood around his body turning sticky and thick.

  And then Ezra stood up, grabbed the gun and his duffle bag, and ran for the gate.

  Alan Wheeler called and called, but the same mechanical, recorded voice repeated that all circuits were busy. He had almost given up when the phone at last rang. Brooke’s happy sing-song message answered: “I’m unable to take your call at the moment, but if you leave a message, I’ll call you right back. Promise!”

  “Brooke, Brooke,” he said, holding his hand over the receiver. He stood near the main ICU desk, his back to the clerk sitting there. “I don’t know where you are, but listen…Jason’s not doing well. He’s got plague, Brooke. He’s dying, and he needs you…” He lowered his voice, trying to keep his words from the clerk who was watching with wide eyes. “I’ll try the house phone.”

  She didn’t answer the house phone, either. He contemplated calling his neighbor, but when he looked at his watch and saw that it was only two thirty am, he hesitated. Some residual logic in his brain told him she was probably asleep. God knew she was exhausted.

  “I’m sorry about your son, Mr. Wheeler,” the clerk said, startling him. She looked around surreptitiously before continuing in a rushed whisper, “We all know who you are, and we appreciate how much you’ve done for the hospital. But I got to tell you, you need to leave. We’ve got so many plague patients that we’re running out of supplies. They’re triaging what’s left downstairs. It’s only a matter of time before this whole hospital collapses like a house of cards.”

  Alan stared at her. “If you really think that’s true, why are you staying?”

  “I’m not. It’s too dangerous here. And I’ve got kids. After this shift—” She cleared her throat. “Well, anyway, you should get out of here. That’s all.”

  He noticed, then, that she had been straightening up the desk, all the papers neatly stacked in their various cubbies. Her guilty eyes met his. “I’m not leaving a mess,” she said lamely.

  “Of course not.”

  After an awkward moment of silence, she bent over, pulled open the lower drawer of a filing cabinet, and removed her purse. “I hope you get hold of your wife,” she said as she backed toward the double doors. “Good luck, Mr. Wheeler. Good luck!”

  She turned and hurried out of the ICU.

  Twenty-Eight

  Dawn crept across the eastern horizon, cold and lonely, a dim, pinkish gray that lit the sweeping sagebrush of the high desert plateau, so that it looked like a faded Persian carpet.

  “Jesus, it’s cold.”

  John Harr looked over as Ammon Custer emerged from the rickety trailer attached to his brand new Ford F-150 pickup.

  “Any business?”

  “Nope.” Harr grunted. He wasn’t a talkative man in the best of circumstances, but he felt even more taciturn than usual. Ammon’s unstoppable gregariousness annoyed him. Harr picked up the binoculars and scanned the highway down the valley.

  Ammon farted. “You want a turn for some lie-down? You been awake all night.” He waved a hand behind his ass, laughing. “Whew. That coffee’ll getcha. Hey, what’s that?”

  “I do
n’t know.” Harr peered through the binoculars. A snake of vehicles appeared on the distant horizon, moving slowly up the valley toward them. “There’s a lot of them.”

  “You think they’re all together?” Ammon didn’t have binoculars. He squinted, trying to see the vehicles that were still several miles away.

  “Looks like.”

  Ammon moved quickly to the trailer, popped inside, and emerged with a couple of rifles. “How many?”

  “Can’t tell. A lot.”

  “Might be a little harder to turn around.” Ammon loaded a round into one of the rifles, leaned the gun against one of the roadblocks, and then loaded the other. “It’s easier when they come in groups of one or two.”

  “Well, this is a lot more than one or two.” Harr counted at least twenty vehicles slowly snaking toward them. “Try the radio.”

  Ammon opened the door to Harr’s pickup and snatched the radio off the dash. He keyed the hand-piece. “Approaching convoy, this is Harney County Sheriff’s Department. Identify yourself, please.” Neither of the men were members of the sheriff’s department, but both had been deputized to man the roadblock on the county’s southeastern approach. If Ammon stretched the truth a little, it was fine with Harr.

  A burst of static answered Ammon. He looked up at Harr and then again at the convoy of vehicles. “Well, they sure as hell can’t read. They’ve passed the first set of signs.” Harr and Ammon had posted Road Closed Ahead signs at the county border the day before.

  “Approaching convoy—” Ammon keyed the radio again. “This is Harney County Sheriff’s Department. Repeat, identify yourself. State Highway 78 is closed twenty-five miles south of Burns at New Princeton.”

  “They’re not stopping,” said Harr.

  Ammon still held the radio. He suddenly seemed very jumpy. “You think we need backup?”