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

by Scheuring, R. A.

  “The others are all on the western and northern roads.” It was true. The ranchers had anticipated major approaches from the western part of state or from California, not from the more desolate corners of Nevada or southern Idaho. “They won’t get here in time.”

  Harr could see the convoy more clearly now: a large, dark SUV out front, followed by several RVs, a couple more SUVs, and what looked like three school buses.

  “It looks like a church group,” said Ammon. “Look, they got school buses.”

  Harr grunted, still watching through the binoculars. He couldn’t say why, but the convoy made him nervous. It wasn’t that they hadn’t answered the radio call. Perhaps they didn’t have a radio. And it wasn’t that they hadn’t heeded the Road Closed signs, because if Harr had really wanted through, he wouldn’t have let a couple of handmade signs stop him, either. Instead, it was something about the time—so early in the morning—and the direction, from one of the less populated areas of the western states. Together, it didn’t add up for him.

  He felt a chill ride up under his Carhartt jacket, raising goose bumps on his back.

  He put down the binoculars and scanned his surroundings: nothing but sagebrush and high desert valley on either side. A lone, dry creek cut through the valley not far away, gouging the parched earth, but it was too shallow to provide much cover. Harr looked back up the road toward New Princeton. Not much else there, either, except a few small buildings.

  Ammon was rocking on his toes. “You think they’re friendly, John? It looks like a church group to me. They got RVs and school buses.”

  Harr picked up one of the sawhorses that served as a makeshift roadblock and hauled it back to his truck. “We’re going back to New Princeton,” he announced.

  “What?” said Ammon, incredulous. “You’re fucking running from a church group?”

  Harr handed Ammon the two rifles and picked up the second sawhorse. “I don’t think that’s a church group,” he said from the cab of his truck.

  “Goddamn you, Harr!” Ammon shouted. He looked over his shoulder at the convoy, then ran awkwardly for his own pick-up.

  Harr pulled away, watching in his rearview mirror as Ammon followed, the fifth-wheel trailer swerving behind Ammon’s truck. Harr floored it. Ammon wouldn’t be able to keep pace with that rickety old RV attached, but Harr didn’t care. He hoped Joey Markamson was still in New Princeton. He keyed the radio on the side channel the ranchers were using to communicate with each other.

  Bess Markamson, Joey’s wife, answered. “Joey’s out back, John. What’s going on?”

  “We got some uninvited guests.”

  Bess didn’t waste time. “I’ll get him. Where are you guys?”

  “Two miles away and coming in fast. Anyone else around?”

  “No. Boomer’s up in Burns,” she said, referring to New Princeton’s only other resident. “He said he’d be back late this afternoon.”

  Harr looked in his rearview mirror. “Too late for us. We’re coming in, Bess. Get Joey. We’ll meet you at the house.” He clicked off and hooked the radio back on the dash. He felt for the rifle rack behind his head: a shot gun and a rifle. Not a whole lot of firepower.

  The tiny town of New Princeton rose in the distance. Joey Markamson’s house and barn lay to the east of the road. To the west stood Boomer Hedley’s house and outbuildings. Cattle wandered lazily into and out of a barn.

  A cloud of dust rose as he pulled into the Markamson’s gravel driveway. He swung out of the cab, rounded to the back, and started to pull out the Road Closed signs.

  Joey Markamson ran out from the house. “What the hell’s going on, John?” Markamson was a large man, still well-built despite his sixty years.

  “We’ve got visitors,” Harr said, as he hauled out a sawhorse. He moved quickly to place it across one lane of the highway and ran back for the second.

  “Friendly or not?”

  “I got a feeling they’re not.” He placed the second sawhorse.

  Markamson squinted down the road. “Good enough,” he said. He followed as Harr opened the cab of his truck and pulled out his guns. “How many and how far out?”

  “About twenty vehicles, as far as I could tell, moving slowly. I’d say about five minutes away.”

  Just then, Ammon pulled in, the trailer fishtailing as he decelerated in the gravel. He climbed out of the cab, his face red. “Dammit, John. What the hell are you doing, running off like that? You don’t even know who those people are.”

  “Can’t defend yourself out there.” Harr looked around quickly, sizing up the buildings. He glanced back at Ammon. “I feel a whole lot safer with a few strategic places to defend from.”

  “He’s right, Ammon,” said Markamson. “If they’re friendly, then we just man the roadblock here, and turn them around. And if they’re not…” He trailed off.

  “This is ridiculous.” Ammon stormed back to his truck and pulled out his rifles.

  “Pull your truck across the highway,” said Harr. “We’re a roadblock, Ammon. Block the road.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Ammon muttered, but he pulled the truck and trailer across the road so that the front and back ends extended into the gravel driveways on either side.

  “Not wide enough,” said Markamson. He gestured at the open driveway. “They could just drive around. I’ll pull the tractor over.” He loped off toward the barn.

  Bess poked her head out the front door of the two-story ranch house. “What’s going on, Joey?”

  “Stay in the house,” he shouted.

  Harr heard the big tractor’s engine roar to life and watched as Markamson pulled the John Deere into the driveway. It closed the gap on Markamson’s side, but the wide gravel driveway on Boomer’s property left enough room for a convoy to pass through.

  Harr climbed into his pickup and filled the gap. In the distance, he could see the snake of vehicles bearing down on New Princeton.

  “Joey, you better get in the house with Bess,” said Harr.

  Markamson shook his head. “You’re the best shot, John. You go in the house.” He gestured at the high-powered rifle with the scope in Harr’s hand. “You can pick off anyone trying to give me trouble.”

  Ammon peered into the distance. “It’s a fucking church group, man. Look at those school buses.”

  “Take this.” Harr handed the Markamson his shotgun. “There are more shells in the cab.”

  “Right,” said Markamson. He nodded once more at Harr and moved out toward the roadblock. Ammon followed, muttering under his breath.

  Harr watched the two men assume their positions by the open door of Ammon’s pickup. He jogged to the house, something gnawing at him, like an internal alarm he couldn’t silence. It took a few seconds to figure it out.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the door to Markamson’s house and saw the rancher squinting into the distance, his hand clasped around Harr’s shotgun.

  Harr wished from the bottom of his soul that he’d given Markamson that box of shells.

  From the window of Bess’s second floor bedroom, Harr had a good view of the roadblock. He stood off to the side, hidden behind the floral drapes, his eyes on Ammon and Markamson below.

  Neither man spoke. They stood in the center of the road in front of Ammon’s pickup, Ammon shifting back and forth on his feet nervously, Markamson standing perfectly still.

  The convoy was close enough that Harr could clearly see the black Suburban in the lead, but the eastern sun glinting off the windshield obscured its occupants. Behind, two Winnebagos, a succession of cars, three school buses, and another RV followed.

  Suddenly, as if it were some sort of intelligent amoeba, the convoy split into two, most of the cars and school buses drawing to a halt, the lead Suburban and the RVs continuing on.

  Harr saw Ammon look up at him questioningly. Markamson said something briefly to Ammon, then stepped forward to intercept the convoy, stopping about twenty feet in front of the roadblock. He raised his s
hotgun, waved it overhead, and then shouted something at the approaching vehicles. A small gust of wind picked up dust and blew it across the highway. Harr had the feeling something was going very wrong.

  The lead SUV drew to a halt several hundred feet from Markamson, the other vehicles idling behind it. Faint trails of humidified exhaust rose in the air around the vehicles’ tailpipes.

  Markamson shouted something again, but the vehicles didn’t move. The convoy’s occupants didn’t move either. No one emerged.

  There was a minute of eerie, motionless silence, and then the Winnebagos pulled slowly around the lead SUV. Harr felt rather, than saw, the old rancher’s puzzlement.

  Get back to the truck, thought Harr with sudden violence. Get back to the truck!

  But Markamson didn’t stir. He watched as the Winnebagos pulled across the road in front of the lead SUV.

  Harr stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Get out of the road, Joey!”

  The small windows on the sides of the RV opened in slow motion, but still, Markamson didn’t move. He lowered the shotgun to chest level and pointed it at the RVs. He shouted something again.

  “Jesus Christ, Joey, get out of there!” Harr yelled again.

  A deafening blast of gunfire ripped out of the RVs. Harr watched in horror as Markamson’s body jerked backwards.

  “Joey!” Harr heard Bess’s agonized scream from somewhere in the house—and then the crack of rifle shots.

  My god, he thought. She’s firing!

  He raised the rifle to his face and peered through the scope. Two loud blasts sounded from the roadblock, and then a deafening barrage echoed. Small flame balls leapt from the RV’s windows.

  Assault rifles, thought Harr. Shit!

  Harr got one of the RVs windows in his crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger. The small curtains in the window blew back, the fireballs from the window ceasing. Harr pulled back into Bess’s room, sat back against the wall, and reloaded. It was only a matter of time before the RV’s occupants figured out where he was shooting from, and then, he’d be under fire, too.

  Harr pulled the curtain back and took a quick look. Ammon was down on the ground, hidden behind the rear wheel of his truck, reloading, first one rifle, then the other. A box of bullets lay scattered next to him in the dirt.

  Another crack-crack sounded from somewhere downstairs in the house, and the windshield of the first Winnebago shattered. The gunfire that followed was so loud that, for a second, Harr was transported back to Afghanistan. The Winnebagos had unleashed the big guns. The house shuddered under the onslaught.

  Harr put his rifle up again, forced his breath to come slowly, and trained the scope on the remaining window of the front RV. He could see flames flashing from the barrel of whatever weapon they were firing. Distantly, Harr could hear the crash-crash of the downstairs windows as they shattered.

  Harr fired again, taking out the second window. For a moment, there was silence. The lead Winnebago appeared mortally wounded, its grate peppered with Bess’s gunfire, the two snipers in back out of commission.

  But then, motion resumed again. Harr saw a blur of movement down by the trucks. Ammon streaked behind the barricade, his body hunched over, rifle in hand. Harr wasn’t the only one who had witnessed Ammon’s position change. The rear Winnebago opened fire again, peppering the vehicles with bullets. Harr fumbled to reload his rifle, but what he saw next made him freeze in mid-motion.

  Ammon climbed in the passenger side of Harr’s truck and slunk his body like a snake across the bench seat. A moment later, Harr heard the Ford roar to life. He watched in astonishment as Ammon took off down the road, gravel shooting like shrapnel from beneath the truck’s big tires.

  The rear RV pulled out slowly in front of its stricken twin, its windows now facing the house. Harr saw the small curtains puff in and out of the windows, and then the relentless barrels emerged again. This time, though, Harr heard no returning gunfire from downstairs. He shouldered his rifle and took aim. He squeezed the trigger, but the shot was off, striking the side of the RV a few inches from the window. Desperately, he pulled himself back into the room, his heart pounding in his ears.

  They were firing directly at him now. Bullets pierced the bedroom walls, pieces of wallboard flying through the air. He forced his shaking fingers still as he reloaded, but then the shooting stopped. Baffled, he stuck his head up at the bottom corner of the window and peeked down.

  A man dashed from behind the Winnebago and hurled something onto the front porch before diving behind the RV again. In the crash and crackle that followed, Harr aimed his rifle again and fired, but the RV was in motion, pulling backwards, its guns withdrawn into its interior.

  For a confused second, Harr thought the RV was retreating, but it stopped parallel to its wounded twin. Harr aimed his scope, trying to make out what was occurring between the Winnebagos, but couldn’t see. Dark, acrid smoke billowed up from the porch down below.

  He and Bess were in big trouble. Whatever accelerant the RV owners had put in their Molotov cocktail was a powerful one. The stench of burning petrochemicals floated through the bedroom window.

  He couldn’t breathe. Gagging, he grabbed the box of bullets from the floor and ran out of the room, down the hallway, his body convulsed in a paroxysm of violent coughing. The fire roared.

  “Bess!” he shouted.

  He found her in the living room downstairs, sprawled on the floor behind one of her antique couches. Blood stained the front of her polyester shirt and spread on the floor around her, but she was alive. He could hear her moaning.

  He put his right arm around her chest and hauled her out of the room. She cried out, but he didn’t stop. A powerful surge of adrenaline worked through him like wildfire. He burst through the kitchen door into the small patio area at the side of the house, the rifle in one hand and Bess’s limp body in the other. He dropped her unceremoniously on the concrete and pulled the rifle to his shoulder, ready to fire.

  But he was too late. He watched as the undamaged Winnebago crossed the breach left in the barricade by Ammon’s flight, following behind the three school buses that had once been at the rear of the convoy, their approach to Burns no longer impeded.

  Twenty-Nine

  Ezra Pilpak ate sardines for breakfast. He hated the little fish, but his parents loved them, so the boat was stocked with several small cans. Ezra pulled one open, dug out an oily chunk, and stuck it on a stale cracker. More than anything, he wanted coffee and a bagful of Krispy Kreme donuts, but as sole captain of his getaway ship, eating was a matter of convenience, not of pleasure. He felt like he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days.

  He gazed out across the bow. The Bayliner Ocean Cruiser was a large boat, but it was still a private leisure craft, and it bobbed up and down so much out in the choppy Pacific Ocean that Ezra worried the sardines would come right back up. He wiped his fingers on his pants, put both hands on the ship’s wheel, and tried to get ahold of himself.

  He couldn’t fall apart now. He was a fugitive. Unbidden, a sob shuddered through his body. He was tired, and hungry, and smelly, and he hardly knew how to pilot the yacht, and yet here he was, motoring south toward Mexico because there didn’t seem to be anywhere else to go. North up the coast meant more plague and jail time, because he was certain the police would put two and two together after this epidemic blew over and figure out that he, Ezra, had put that bullet into the security guard. And then, he’d never get to practice medicine, because even if the guard’s death had been an accident, he’d still have a trial, and the medical board would never let him practice until he was absolutely cleared of any wrongdoing.

  He reached for another cracker, dipped it in the can, and brought it to his lips. No, he was done for. He no longer had a future in California, so it was off to Mexico. And truth be told, he had never liked Mexico much. It was hot on the beach, and people didn’t wear much clothing, and Ezra hated taking off his clothing.

  His eyes wandered to the duffle bag o
n the cabin’s table. Ten thousand dollars. That should last a while in Mexico. He could find some little beach house somewhere, maybe open up a clinic and make some money treating the locals.

  Hell, he could even sell the boat, if he had to. His parents wouldn’t like it, but if it was a matter of survival…

  A guilty sob escaped him. He’d tried to call his parents, but the circuits had been busy, and then he’d gotten scared, and that’s when he’d made a run for the boat. They’d understand what was at stake. Surely, they would.

  They were tough people, his parents. Tough and Bel Air wealthy. No way would the plague get to them. They’d have a plan, like they always did. Toughness and survival were bred into their genes.

  But it seemed like a lie, and Ezra knew it. DRYP didn’t care if you were rich and tough. It was an equal opportunity killer. He had seen it over and over, in the thousands of people dying at County, and on the news, in different cities across the country. And that’s why he was here, sailing south, with the coastline barely in view.

  Ezra’s breath came out raggedly. He scanned the horizon bleakly and tried to get a grip on himself.

  Yes, he told himself. His parents wouldn’t have cared that he didn’t call. He was actually doing them a favor. He knew they’d never really loved him, that he’d always been a disappointment.

  Ezra’s features flattened. He was a survivor, too. He might not have his parents’ good looks, but he had their genes. He’d survive this. He just had to get the damn boat down to Mexico and find a little fishing village. Hide out for a while, until things settled down.

  He gripped the steering wheel and threw his shoulders back.

  Then I’ll come back, he thought. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Ezra Pilpak was a survivor! He’d show his parents. He’d come back to Bel Air after the plague had passed, and he’d build anew. No one would know about the guard. When tens of thousands of people were dying, who was going to pay attention to one stupid security guard?