Robert noticed activity along the opposite side of the boat. He couldn’t tell what was going on at first, but when the ferry cleared the end of the dock and turned to the northeast, he saw two of the kidnappers repositioning the speedboat he and Pax had arrived in so that it could be towed behind them.
Robert waited until the ferry disappeared behind the cruise ships before stepping out from the building. If he didn’t already have proof the world had changed, he had it now.
Pax’s kidnappers had made a serious mistake, though.
They had taken the boat Robert needed to help his people.
Perhaps old-world Robert—the one who had to worry only about himself—would have done nothing.
But, like the changing world, he wasn’t the same anymore, either.
Five
SURVIVAL STATION, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
FROM THE JOURNAL OF BELINDA RAMSEY
ENTRY DATE—JANUARY 5, NOON CST
SINCE MY LAST entry yesterday evening, three more people have been added to our waiting area. This is the fewest new arrivals since I got here. I’m not sure if that means there’s just no one else alive or what. Still, three more adds to our strain. There are already too many survivors here for the bunks we’ve been given. Noah pointed this out to one of the guards, but they basically told him to shut up.
I don’t know how many additional arrivals may have been added to the other area. I tried to get a count, but since most everyone over there seems to be sick, they pretty much go straight inside their dormitory and only a few come back out. There were at least four, though. Could have been double that, I guess.
It’s strange listening to the new people. They’re all excited and relieved. They can’t believe they made it. I remember feeling that way just a few days ago. How quickly things change, huh?
The question they all ask is how long until they get vaccinated? They can’t believe it when we tell them that none of us has received the shot. They make up the same excuses we all have—that the vaccine hasn’t arrived at the station yet, or the supply is limited so the UN wants to make sure we’re healthy first to prevent wasting any on someone it won’t help.
I still want to believe it’s one of these things, but it’s becoming harder and harder. Those who have been here longer than me have completely given up hope.
This morning we had something new thrown into our usually dull days. As we were given our breakfast, we were each handed a packet. Inside were about twenty sheets of paper stapled together, a pencil, and a Scantron card like something one of my college professors would use for tests. Printed at the top of each page of the packet was SURVIVOR SURVEY, and below were several multiple-choice questions.
The questions seem to be aimed at finding out about our backgrounds and skills. The multiple-choice aspect makes it a bit limiting, though, not letting you explain or elaborate on anything.
For example, here’s one that annoys me. The question is, Which of the following do you consider best describes you? The choices (we’re only allowed to pick one) are: A. Broad technical knowledge, B. Focused technical knowledge, C. Non-technical. I mean, come on. There’s a whole range of possibilities between B and C. And then there are follow-ups, very specific questions, like if you answered A, please answer questions 14-19, if you answered B, please answer questions 20-27, and if you answered C, continue on to question 28. The specific questions are clearly meant to zero in on the exact nature of the test taker’s knowledge.
There are more questions like that, all focusing on tangible skills like engineering and science and medicine. I get it. The world’s a different place now, and people with those kinds of abilities are going to be in high demand, but the rest of us are still useful. My writing skills are useful, for God’s sake. Someone has to record what’s going on, don’t they?
Be right back.
Okay, this is not good. I heard some raised voices outside and went to check what was going on. It seems another five people were just put in with us. Noah and two other guys tried to block the gate so they couldn’t get in. The shouting I heard was them yelling at the guards that until we got some more beds, the UN needed to find some other place for the survivors.
What happened next took us all by surprise. While the new survivors were held back, seven guards moved into our holding area and knocked Noah and the other two men to the ground. And by knocked to the ground, I mean they smacked the butts of their rifles into the men. The guy who hit Noah knocked him on the side of the head. Noah wasn’t exactly unconscious but he was dazed for sure, and there was blood all over his face.
I was too far away to do anything, but a few of those closer rushed over to try to help him up. Before they could reach him, though, the guard flipped his rifle around and pointed it at them, telling them to get back.
The guards then picked up the three men and carried them out the gate. I’m assuming they’re taking them to get medical attention but I’m worried that they aren’t. Needless to say, the new survivors were ushered in before the gates were closed again.
I can’t lie and say no part of me wishes I had stayed back in Madison. I guess I could write everything off as tension created by the pandemic. I mean, how can anyone be expected to act normal?
But as much as I’d like not to believe it, something feels wrong. Very, very wrong.
CAMBRIA, CALIFORNIA
11:10 AM PST
NOREEN DROVE HER motorcycle slowly down Moonstone Beach Drive, looking into the motel parking lots that lined the right side of the road. To her left, she could hear the waves crashing on the beach just below the short bluff.
Noreen, Riley, and Craig had been searching for Martina for three days now. When their friend had sped off in pursuit of the red Jeep, Noreen, the closest one to Martina at the time, had immediately followed. For over an hour, she was able to keep Martina in view, but ten miles north of Paso Robles, her bike began to sputter as it used up the last of her gas. Rolling to a stop, she had watched her best friend disappear around a bend a half mile south.
When Riley and Craig showed up ten minutes later, she sent Craig after Martina while she and Riley refueled Noreen’s bike. They found Craig on the bridge just north of Santa Maria waiting for them. He had never even caught a glimpse of Martina and wasn’t sure she had come that way. They had continued south, though, thinking that staying on the 101 made the most sense.
When they reached Santa Barbara, they finally stopped. Any farther south and they would be encroaching on Los Angeles, where there would be a near infinite amount of routes Martina could have taken, and an equal amount of odds against them finding her. They decided their best course would be to check everywhere between Santa Barbara and where they had lost sight of her. That was what they had been doing.
“Noreen?” It was Riley, her voice coming over the CB radio they had installed on their bikes the day before. Each came complete with a new helmet that had an embedded microphone and speaker.
Noreen keyed the talk button. “I’ve got nothing over here.”
“East end of town is clear, too,” Riley said.
“Let’s check out the west end, then.”
“Meet you there.”
Cambria was a quaint tourist town along Highway 1 on the California coast. It was divided into several different areas, with most businesses either in east village or west village. Noreen entered west village from the ocean end and slowed again. Stores and restaurants occupied both sides of the street—gift shops and candy shops and antique marts and a barbecue place and a bar and grill. As she passed them, she had the sudden memory of being on this street before. It had been with her parents, some weekend trip God only knew how long ago, before high school, for sure, maybe even back when she went to Faller Elementary. They’d been in a magic shop, and she remembered being in awe of everything. But the shop seemed to be gone now.
She pushed the mic button, not wanting to think about the past. “Where are you guys? I don’t see you.”
“Not there yet,” Riley whis
pered back.
Noreen stopped in the middle of the road. “Something wrong?”
“There’s a grocery store between the east and west ends. We stopped to check it out.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Someone’s there.”
“Martina?”
“Not Martina.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“We’ve seen two people, but there’s got to be more,” Riley said. “They’ve got a pickup truck and at least two motorcycles. And they don’t look friendly.”
Immediately, the memory of the guy who had shot at them in the hills a few days earlier came back to Noreen. “They haven’t seen you, have they?”
“Uh-uh. We parked our bikes on Main Street and snuck up the hill. Hiding behind a delivery van someone left here.”
“Enough talking,” Craig broke in. “They’re going to hear us.”
“You guys should get out of there,” Noreen said. “We don’t need to make any new friends.”
“We’re okay here,” Riley said. “They can’t—oh, God.”
“What is it?”
“Shhh,” either Riley or Craig whispered.
Noreen killed the engine to her motorcycle and wheeled it onto a side road, parking it at the curb.
“What’s going on?” she said.
She heard nothing, not even static.
“Hello? Are you there?”
She looked at the radio to make sure she hadn’t accidentally switched the channel. The power light was off.
What the…
Crap.
The CB was a handheld model with a charging cradle that, with the help of an instruction manual, they had wired into the bike’s electrical system. She snatched the radio out and switched it from external power source to battery.
“…there? Noreen?”
“I’m here. I’m here. What’s going on?”
“Hide! Now!”
Noreen looked toward Main Street, almost expecting to see a horde of the undead staggering toward her.
“What’s going on?”
Nothing for a second, then Riley said between rapid breaths, “One of them saw us. He…ran back inside to get his friends…and we took off.”
“Where are you?”
“No place to hide…getting on our bikes…”
In the distance, Noreen heard their motorcycles roar to life. Then, as their engines idled a bit, a bang.
“What was that?”
“It’s okay…we’re all right,” Craig said.
“Were they shooting at you?”
“Missed us,” Riley said.
Hearing motorcycles roar down Main Street, Noreen shot a look at the intersection and was just in time to see Riley and Craig race by. As the sound of their engines began to fade, she heard more bikes coming from the direction of the market.
“They’re following you,” she said.
Knowing she couldn’t be standing there when the other bikes came by, Noreen ducked around the rear of the nearby shop and crouched behind a Dumpster. She could hear three motorcycles race past back on Main Street. A few moments later, a vehicle she guessed was a truck followed.
What was wrong with these people? Why did they care about Riley and Craig?
Staying hidden, she spent the next ten minutes trying to reach her friends.
Finally, Riley answered. “We’re okay.”
“What happened?”
“We cut up a hill into a residential area. They must have thought Craig had taken the highway north. They sped off that way. We watched them for a few minutes, but can’t see them anymore.”
“Why did they chase you?” Noreen asked.
“Maybe because we were spying on them?” Craig suggested.
“I guess, but why shoot at you?”
The only reply was silence, but Noreen suspected she already knew the answer.
The rules of life they’d grown up with no longer applied.
RIDGECREST, CALIFORNIA
12:36 PM PST
BEN BOWERMAN HAD checked everyplace he thought Martina might be.
When he had arrived in her hometown two nights before, his intention had been to head straight to her house. He had been there only once and that had been the previous summer, so he had just a vague idea of its location. If Martina had lived in one of the housing tracts within the city limits, he was sure he’d have no trouble finding her house. But the Gables’ home was down a dirt road west of town, where everyone had his or her own few acres of desert.
It turned out there were a lot of dirt roads in that direction, and Ben’s search wasn’t helped by the sun going down. It took him until almost ten that night before he finally found the house, recognizing it by the large, detached three-car garage with asymmetrical sloped roof.
He felt a rush of hope when he saw Martina’s Toyota Corolla parked out front. He jumped out of his car and ran to the front door of the house. It was locked.
“Martina, it’s me!” he yelled, knocking loudly.
Nothing. Not even the creak of a floorboard.
He raced around to the back door, but it was also locked.
“Martina! Are you in there?”
He looked up at the darkened second-floor windows but sensed no movement beyond them.
He remembered Martina had said her family kept a spare key in the garage, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall where. So he grabbed a log off the firewood pile on the side of the house and smashed it through the window next to the rear door.
“Sorry!” he yelled through the opening just in case someone was there. “It’s me. Ben Bowerman. Martina’s boyfriend.”
He reached inside, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
“Hello?” he called. “Anyone home?”
No answer.
Reluctantly, he stuck his head a few inches inside and sniffed the air. Stale, but no smell of death. Relieved, he stepped all the way inside.
The house was quiet, the same kind of undisturbed silence he’d experienced pretty much everywhere he’d been the last several days. He felt along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it up. Nothing. He hadn’t really expected it to work. He had seen no lights on anywhere else in town. So he returned to his car and retrieved a flashlight from the bag of things he’d been collecting to replace the stuff he’d lost when Iris Carlson stole his Jeep.
Back inside, he methodically worked his way through the house, hoping to find a note or some other indication of where Martina went. It was clear from the open drawers and closets in the bedrooms that the Gable family had left in a hurry, but he discovered no clue about their destination.
He slumped down on Martina’s bed, tired and frustrated and depressed. He had been so sure he’d find her here that he hadn’t considered what to do if he didn’t.
He hadn’t intended on falling asleep right there in her room, but that’s where he found himself late the next morning when he woke. Still unsure what he’d do, he headed downstairs to see if there was any food left in the kitchen. As he crossed through the living room, he looked out the row of east-facing windows. In the distance, he could see the hill with the large white B painted on it.
B Mountain, Martina had called it. The B standing for Burroughs High School. While the high school was in town, the mountain was located within the confines of the China Lake naval base.
The navy, he thought.
Surely the military had taken some action to try to save people. Maybe it had set up a safety zone within the base. Though Martina’s dad was a civilian, he worked for the navy. Wouldn’t the navy’s first priority be to save its own? Would that include civilian employees and their families?
Yeah. That has to be it.
With renewed purpose, he drove through town toward the base and found the entrance without too much trouble. The guardhouse was unmanned. That was to be expected. If there was a flu-free zone inside, any personnel would most likely be consolidated near it. They’d probably be jumpy, he thought. To b
e safe, he kept his speed down so he wouldn’t look threatening.
He spent the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon driving around the base, checking every building and road. He had been right in one respect. There had been an attempt to consolidate survivors. It had occurred at the airfield in the isolated northern portion of the base.
A series of roadblocks flanked by fortified gun stands had been erected along what appeared to be the only route to the isolated section. None were occupied, though. Because of this, Ben knew what he would probably find, but he had to check anyway so he weaved around the concrete barriers and didn’t stop until he reached the airfield.
Hundreds of people had camped out in the hangars—men and women, some in uniform and some not. And children, lots of children.
And every single person dead.
Ben stood frozen outside the main hangar for twenty minutes before he forced himself to grab a hoodie from his bag. Using the arms, he tied the pullover around his mouth and nose and headed into the hangars. He didn’t want to walk among the bodies, but he had to know if Martina’s family was there.
If she was there.
It wasn’t long before he lost the small breakfast he had eaten, and by the time he’d confirmed that the Gable family wasn’t among the dead, his stomach had revolted twice more.
Weak and in a daze, he had gone back to his girlfriend’s house and fallen asleep on her bed before the sun had even set.
When he woke up that morning, he drove up and down the streets of Ridgecrest, honking his horn every once in a while, but the town was as devoid of the living as the navy base had been.
With all options in town exhausted, he didn’t know what to do. Martina was still alive. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe anything else. But where was she?
A million possibilities raced through his mind before one finally pushed its way to the front.
A survival station.
Would she have gone to one?
Of course. That had to be it. He had assumed that if she was immune like he was, she wouldn’t have seen the need of going to one of the stations to get vaccinated, but her family wouldn’t be immune so she would stay with them.
The Project Eden Thrillers Box Set 2 Page 57
