Gwendolyn thought about the mid-term and long-range issues from which the nation’s infrastructure might suffer. If enough people got sick and didn’t go to work, it could cause serious problems. Despite the modern reliance on automation and robotics, it still took actual humans to make sure the technology functioned. Without people at their posts, the power grid, water treatment, energy production, food delivery, and more could all fail. Those aftershocks could cause more apocalyptic effects than the disease itself. She didn’t want to think about it.
“Nobody knows why it’s happening,” said Morel. “It just is.”
“I wonder if the government is doing it,” she posited.
Morel’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. “Why would they do that?”
“It’s another way to control the masses. If you can’t communicate with someone at a distance, wouldn’t you be less likely to travel to them?”
“If I couldn’t get ahold of someone on the phone, I’d more likely drive to them.”
“I disagree,” she said.
Morel smirked and pointed to the top of her head. Then he wiggled his fingers like he was sprinkling salt into a boiling pot of water. “You might want to adjust that.”
She touched her head but felt nothing. “What?” she asked, puzzled.
“Your tinfoil hat. I think it’s on too tight.”
She rolled her eyes at him. He wasn’t funny. None of this was funny.
Gwendolyn put her seatbelt back on and adjusted her seat. She looked out the window and laid her head against it. The cold plexiglass felt good against her forehead and cheek.
Morel appeared to get the hint. Using the armrests, he pushed himself to his feet, backed out into the aisle, and stood up, stretching his back. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got seven and a half hours until touchdown. They want us at headquarters after we land. So it might be good if you got some shut-eye too.”
She lifted her head from the glass, the echo of the cold still there. Gwendolyn nodded at him and forced a straight line smile that told him “thank you” and “go away” at the same time. He reciprocated and, with his hands on the headrests, worked his way toward the back of the aircraft.
Gwendolyn turned back to the window but couldn’t find the same comfortable position. She wrestled with it for a couple of minutes, trying to recapture the position. It didn’t happen and she huffed, falling back against the seat, closing her eyes.
Sleep was evasive. There were moments when she was in that place between it and consciousness, where she was distantly aware of the whoosh in the cabin, the rise and fall of muted laughter, and her own breathing. Yet her disappointments over what had already happened and her fears about what was to come consumed her. They kept her mind whirring and prevented her from letting go. She took that final leap into her dreams. All it took was coming to the realization that there was nothing she could do about what had already happened, and she had no earthly idea about what was to come next. She was determined, however, as the Air Force carrier streaked through the moonless sky over a blue-black vastness of the ocean some thirty-five thousand feet below, that she would not be a passive bystander. She would take control of her own future.
CHAPTER 20
OCTOBER 3, 2032
SCOURGE + 1 DAY
DELTONA, FLORIDA
The sun was coming up by the time they crossed the bridge. It had taken them hours. There was no way around it. They were stuck there. In avoiding I-4, Mike chose to take highway 46 East through Sanford and then head north on 415. They’d made good time and Mike was about to sing his own praises when traffic in front of them came to a dead stop on the Douglas Stenstrom Bridge over the St. Johns River. At Miriam’s insistence, Mike resisted the urge to get out of the Jeep to learn the cause of the delay.
“Two words,” she said. “Road rage.”
Brice echoed her concern. “Can’t do anything about it, Mike. Better safe than sorry.”
Mike agreed. The mere thought of confrontation was enough for him to reconsider his idea.
As they crossed the bridge, Mike saw the culprit. It was a dually truck, a large Ford with rust creeping up the wheel wells. It was out of gas. A large red plastic gas can sat on the edge of its open tailgate. It was on its side and clearly empty. When the driver came to a stop, he was partially in both northbound lanes, making it difficult for anything bigger than a VW bug to get past him on either side.
Mike inched his way between the truck’s driver’s side and the concrete wall that edged the bridge, which was actually two bridges. One carried the northbound traffic across the river toward Indian Springs and highway 44. The other headed southbound back toward the town of Midway, which was east of Sanford and Lake Mary. The entirety of 415 ran parallel to I-4.
As he passed the truck, he eyed the exasperated driver sitting behind the wheel. A sleeping woman was in the front passenger’s seat. The driver scowled at Mike as he rolled by, and Mike offered a sympathetic smile the man didn’t appear to appreciate.
“That took long enough,” said Miriam. “We okay on gas?”
Mike checked the gauge, half a tank. “We’re good.”
It was early morning and the sun glanced off the river in a golden hue. The glare was nearly blinding and Mike used his right hand to shield his eyes. The road was wet from the rain the night before, but it was drying quickly.
“It’s hard to believe,” said Miriam.
“What?” asked Brice. His headache had ebbed an hour earlier, though his eyes still hurt. He kept them closed, but he was awake.
“The sunrise is so beautiful,” she said. “I mean it’s absolutely gorgeous, coming up like that over the river. It doesn’t even look real.”
“Why is that hard to believe?” asked Brice.
“I’ve always thought of sunrise as a new beginning, a fresh start,” she said wistfully. “Whatever happened the day before was gone.”
Though they were moving, the traffic was heavy. The Jeep was only traveling twenty miles per hour. Mike took his eyes off the bumper of the Mercedes ahead of them to steal a glance at Miriam. It was bright enough in that direction that he could only see the dark outline of her. It was enough that he saw she had her head turned toward the light. Her hand was on the window glass.
“Did you read that on the poster in a dentist’s office?” asked Brice. “Or did it pop up in your Instagram feed?”
She ignored him. “Today doesn’t have any promise, does it? It’s like God is mocking us. He brings us this beautiful sunrise while the world is going to hell.”
The taillights ahead of the Jeep flashed bright red and Mike tapped on the brake. They were moving at little more than idle speed. His lower back was aching from sitting in the Jeep for so long. His knees were stiff and his neck hurt from the tension he carried along his shoulders.
This was like driving in a pouring rainstorm, in the middle of the night, with no headlights, going the wrong way on a one-way street. That was how it felt to Mike.
“I should be waking up in my own bed,” said Miriam. “I should have a headache from too much tequila.”
“Speaking of tequila,” said Brice, “I’m hungry. Anyone want any Oreos?”
“I’m good,” said Mike.
He checked the rearview mirror and saw Brice reaching behind him. The Oreos were in the open duffel bag. Mike heard the crinkling of the wrapper and put his eyes back on the road.
“I saw people die last night,” said Miriam. “I saw you pack a woman’s leg with clotting powder.”
Mike felt her stare and shielded his eyes to glance at her again. She was looking at him, and though he couldn’t see her features, he was sure she was crying. He wondered how much of her introspective melancholy was from exhaustion. As far as he knew, she hadn’t slept. He hadn’t either, and he was beginning to get the kind of jitters he used to experience when pulling all-nighters during college exam week.
“That woman, Gretchen,” she said, “you saved her life. I
think a couple of other people too. The guy we helped find the medic. His arm was broken, remember him? The bone was sticking out? He was in shock?”
Mike remembered. He’d never seen a compound fracture before. It didn’t even look real. He replayed the experience over again in his mind, as he’d done countless times already. In his mind, he saw the chopper crash. It happened in slow motion, losing its altitude and spinning, hitting the ground, and bouncing before it tore apart. He heard the high-pitched whine of the engine, the thick whump of the rotors, the shattering of glass, the scraping and crunching of metal, the slice of shrapnel whipping through the air. The screams. Those awful, ear-piercing, gut-clenching screams. Sickening calls for help and the shouts of those searching for survivors in the wreckage. There was the heat of the flames and the acrid stench of the smoke and burning fuel. He remembered the feel of Gretchen’s torn flesh and the sensation of gore in his hands. A lump swelled in his throat.
“These Oreos are stale,” said Brice. “They’re disgusting. Who keeps Oreos so long they go stale?”
Mike cleared his throat. “Don’t eat them, then.”
Brice kept chewing. They must not have been all that disgusting, or he was that hungry. Mike thought about it. As much as Miriam hadn’t slept, he and Brice hadn’t eaten. They’d gotten up the morning before, hungover, and went into work. Ashley got sick, Brice got a concussion, a helicopter crashed, and now they were on their way to a stranger’s boat.
Mike figured the jitters in his stomach were more likely hunger pangs. He reached back toward Brice with his right hand and snapped his fingers. “Could I have a couple, please?” He put his hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “You want any?”
She nodded. Brice handed forward the plastic tray of stale cookies. Mike set them between the front seats and noticed a dozen of them were gone.
“They must not be that bad,” he said.
“Meh,” said Brice.
The three of them rode for the next ninety minutes without saying much. The traffic cleared as they headed farther north and east. Much of the traffic exited the highway at Walmart Supercenter near Deltona.
They finished the cookies and started on their bottles of water. Mike swished mouthfuls around between his teeth and over his tongue to wash free the cookie residue. The cookies were stale. And they were disgusting. But he was hungrier than he realized and had to stop himself from taking the last one. He offered it to Miriam and she declined. He insisted. She popped it in her mouth with a smile.
They were cruising now. The Jeep actually reached fifty miles per hour for a couple of minutes before the traffic slowed ahead. Then it stopped.
“Another truck out of gas?” asked Miriam. “Or a wreck?”
Mike rolled down his window and unbuckled his seatbelt. There was no oncoming traffic. The bifurcated four-lane highway was now two lanes, one in each direction. The southbound lane was empty. To his right was a large cell tower. To his left was a sandy shoulder leading to a cluster of pines and a couple of small buildings haphazardly plotted a few dozen yards off the road.
“There’s nobody coming this way,” he said, drawing his head back inside the Jeep. “Nobody is going south.”
Miriam shrugged. Brice was asleep, dark brown crumbs on his chin.
“I’m getting out to look,” he said. “I’m not going up ahead. I’m just standing next to the Jeep, okay?”
“Okay,” said Miriam. “Stay close.”
Mike nodded and shouldered open the door. He hopped out and stood in the southbound lane. Up ahead were the pumps for a gas station and a set back convenience store with a sub shop attached. Its parking lot was full. There were at least a dozen cars and trucks parked there. People milled about as if waiting for someone or something. High above them a helicopter flew past. It looked like a military chopper. It made a wide arc and flew back in their direction before swinging toward the coast.
His eyes scanned to the right, toward the intersection with highway 44. It was just beyond the gas station and it was their turn. They needed to go right onto 44 and head east to the beach. They were almost home free. But they weren’t. Mike saw what was holding them up.
At the intersection with 44 there was a blockade. Armed men and women in military uniforms stood watch. There were traffic barriers. A green Volvo station wagon was at the front of the line. One of the soldiers was circling his index finger in the air above his head.
The Volvo turned hard to the left, backed up, turned again, and started heading south. Mike stood in the middle of the lane until the station wagon got close, and he waved while stepping to the side near his Jeep. The driver’s side window was down. An older man, bald and red-faced, was at the wheel.
“Might as well head back,” the man said before Mike could ask him what was going on at the intersection. He had a thick Southern drawl. It was more country than refined. “You can’t get past them boys up there. They got their orders.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mike.
“They’re National Guard. Ain’t you seen the news? They got quadrants and stuff now. You can’t get from one to the other for love nor money.”
Mike motioned to the gas station parking lot. “What’s with those people?”
The man checked his rearview mirror. “Them? They think they can wait it out, like the president’s gonna change his mind or something. I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut, my dollar your donut, those folks is sitting there when the good lord comes back and takes us all to Heaven.”
Mike noticed there were a couple of young children in the back seat. The bald man must have seen this.
“Trying to get my kids back to my ex,” he said. “She’s up in Port Orange. Guess it ain’t gonna happen. I can’t call her to tell her neither. She’s gonna be fit to be tied.”
The man had the most colorful language Mike had ever heard. He thanked him and wished him luck.
“You too, sonny,” he said. “Hope you get where you’re going. But it ain’t gonna be that way.”
Mike waved and moved back to his Jeep, climbed in, and put on his seatbelt.
“What’s going on?” asked Miriam.
“There’s a blockade up there,” said Mike. “They’re not letting anybody through.”
“But we have to get through,” she said. “We’re running out of time. I just know it.”
“I’ll think of something,” said Mike. “Don’t worry. I’ll get us there.”
Mike wasn’t sure he was telling her the truth. He had no plan and he wasn’t one who defied authority. Yet if there was ever a time to push his own personal boundaries, the end of the world was it.
CHAPTER 21
OCTOBER 3, 2032
SCOURGE + 1 DAY
ORLANDO, FLORIDA
The glass shattered and Kandy raised her arm to protect her face. She screamed when a gloved hand reached through the broken window of her station SUV and grabbed the back of her head. Her neck strained and she gritted her teeth. The pain at her scalp was a lightning bolt that shot from ear to ear.
She flailed against the intruder and managed to blindly swing her left elbow through the open window. It connected with something hard and she heard a crack. It sounded like bone or cartilage snapping.
The intruder yelled in agony, groaned, and let go of her head. The assailant doubled over next to the driver’s door, so she steeled herself and pushed it open with as much instant force as she could summon.
The door slammed into the man’s head. The vibration of the collision traveled through the door and into Kandy’s body from her arm to her chest. The man dropped to the concrete face first. A pool of blood leached from what Kandy imagined was a broken nose and broken teeth.
She was on the verge of hyperventilating, the smell of smoke stinging her nostrils, when Phil reached her. His shirt was torn. The left side of his face was red, and the skin under his eye was swelling. His eyes were wide with the kind of fear Kandy had seen in the victims of violent crimes she’d interviewed over the years.
They always had that paradoxical combination of acute alertness and flat disconnect, like they were reliving what had happened to them while at the same time preparing for it again.
Phil reached out his hand and pulled her to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her. She squeezed him and quickly pulled back, afraid to lose her situational awareness.
She gently touched the side of his face and he winced.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You should see the other guy.”
Phil feigned a smile and she saw thin lines of blood lining the gums between and around his teeth. He looked like a man who’d flossed his teeth for the first time in months.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Although she nodded, she wasn’t sure. Kandy touched the crown of her head. It was tender.
His hands were on her shoulders, his eyes moving up and down her body, checking for signs of damage. His face twitched. “You got some cuts on your face,” he said. “Glass?”
Kandy moved her fingers to the left side of her face then looked at them. They were bloody. She didn’t even feel the minor wounds. There was too much adrenaline sprinting through her veins. “I guess. We need to get out of here.”
“We can take my truck,” said Phil.
He took his hands from her shoulders and turned around. His back was to her, but he was close. He stood in front of her like a bodyguard, his hands at his sides, elbows flexed, arms flexed, fists tight.
Kandy scanned their surroundings. They were at the parking lot of a grocery store near College Park, a neighborhood separated from downtown by I-4. It was an older neighborhood whose fortunes mirrored the economy. Once a hamlet for young couples and urbanites, it fell into disrepair when suburban flight kicked into high gear. Only recently had investors and people with foresight begun the re-gentrification of the mid-twentieth-century homes. It was what realtors dubbed “eclectic” and “up-and-coming.” Kandy was aware those were code words for hit and miss, a mixture of comfortable and desperate. That defined both the real estate and the people.
The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared Page 21
