Mike narrowed his eyes against the bright sunlight. He didn’t see anything at first. He scanned the opposite side of the Interstate, looking past the cars and SUVs in the northbound lanes. People were out of their cars, milling about. Clearly they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“I don’t see it,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter. Once we cross, we have to find the Intracoastal. In my opinion, the fewer people or houses we see, the better.”
“Do we even know where your cousin lives?” asked Brice.
“I’ve got his address,” said Miriam. “It’s in my phone. We can use GPS.”
“No, we can’t,” said Brice. “The phones are dead, remember?”
Miriam’s expression soured. Her eyes searched her memory. Her face brightened. She put down the duffle and fished her phone from her purse. She shook her head and mumbled to herself. After unlocking her phone using facial recognition, her fingers danced across her phone, swiping and tapping.
A grin spread across her face and she raised the phone. “Got it. I knew I had it.”
“Had what?” asked Brice.
“I took a screenshot of the directions to his house in case I couldn’t stay with Ashley,” she said. “Here it is. We can find him.”
Mike thought finding him, even with a list of turn-by-turn directions, might be tough. They didn’t know exactly where they were. How far south from 415 had they traveled? The woods were disorienting, and he was surprised they’d actually found their way out of them so quickly. He was convinced they’d be spending the night in the woods, taking shifts to guard their makeshift encampment from a search party of armed soldiers. He didn’t say any of this. Brice was skeptical enough for the both of them.
“Okay,” said Brice. “Why would you screenshot directions to your cousin’s house? That’s weird.”
Miriam’s smile disappeared. She glared at Brice. “Ride-share drivers are strangers. Who knows if I’m going to get in a car with some dude who wants to kidnap me or worse? I save the directions so I can keep track of where I should be going. If it deviates too much from where the driver is headed, I call him on it.”
“Okay,” said Brice. “Not so weird, then.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed. Then she checked her phone. “Still no signal.”
Mike checked over his shoulder, surveying the woods for any movement. The soldiers must have given up on them, decided they had bigger fish to fry. His neck hurt when he twisted back to face the Interstate. He tilted his head sharply to one side then the other, hoping to loosen the tension.
The exhaustion was taking hold. His lower back ached. His arms were thick with acid from the muscle strain of carrying two heavy suitcases through the woods and across the uneven detritus. The task ahead was daunting. Too many times in the last two days he’d wanted to curl up into a ball and escape.
Mike Crenshaw wasn’t an escape artist. He wasn’t a life-saver or a hero. If you asked him, he’d tell you he was a survivor. As a radio sales guy he was good enough at his job to keep it. He lived in a mostly unfurnished apartment. He had debt and student loans from a degree he never used. Plus he lived above his meager means and had credit card debt. The interest ate up much of what passed for a paycheck every month. Lately, it crossed his mind he might need a second job. And women? There were no prospects. Not if he was honest with himself. He was a decent-looking guy, he had a good heart, and was loyal to his friends. But he wasn’t a catch. Not for a woman like Ashley Pomerantz or anyone like her.
Ashley Pomerantz. He said the name over and again in his head as he stood there. She was probably dead. That thought simmered to an instant boil as he again revisited what had happened in the office conference room. Did he have a job anymore? Would he get a paycheck next week? What about his apartment? He couldn’t get back to it. He’d burned that bridge. As mediocre as his life had been two days ago, that was a paradise with promise compared to the road in front of him.
He drifted from his reverie to stare blankly at the traffic zipping past him on the southbound lanes. The cool wash of air from an eighteen-wheeler swirled around him and a chill ran through him. This was a new world. It was frayed at the edges and disintegrating. The longer he lamented his pain, let his exhaustion consume him, the worse things would get.
He motioned across the Interstate to the other side. Miriam looked at him. Brice raised his eyebrows, putting his hands on his hips.
“Let’s go,” Mike said. “We need to stay ahead of the curve.”
CHAPTER 23
OCTOBER 3, 2032
SCOURGE + 1 DAY
DOBBINS AIR RESERVE BASE, GEORGIA
The midafternoon sun slipped out from behind the thick layer of clouds, casting a warm glow on the tarmac. As soon as the color appeared, it dimmed. The sun was gone and the clouds hid it from view.
Gwendolyn Sharp stepped from the mobile stairs leading her from the plane, let go of the aluminum railing, and set foot on American soil for the first time in months. Oddly, it didn’t feel like home to her.
She remembered that in the past, when she’d traveled abroad, she always returned to the United States wrapped in comfort. As much as she loved visiting foreign countries, experiencing slices of their culture and tasting samples of their cuisines, she invariably enjoyed her return.
This was different. There was a chill, a frigidity, that didn’t come from the weather. She hadn’t landed in her home country. It was a close facsimile, something from an adjacent dimension, that on the surface resembled home in every way. Yet under that surface, roiling and stirring to reveal itself, was something rotten.
She was the last off the plane, other than the crew, and she stood on the tarmac watching the activity around her. It was unnerving and reminded her of something from a science fiction movie. It was the coalescing of troops, the readying of forces that preceded the fight against some giant, fire-breathing lizard. She’d seen it play out in good movies and bad over and again.
This wasn’t science fiction though. It wasn’t the retelling of some well-trodden tale of foreboding, a thinly cloaked story about the use of nuclear weapons or the destruction of the environment. The enemy here wasn’t a giant. It was the opposite.
It was so small nobody could see it attack without the help of a microscope. Yet its destructive force was equal. And it was real. It wasn’t a cautionary story told with B actors and expensive special effects.
“Here you are, ma’am.”
A uniformed airman handed Gwendolyn her twin bags. The handles were extended and the gray, hard shell of the suitcases almost blended into the color of the tarmac.
“Thank you,” she said.
The man nodded and turned sharply on his heel to return to the cargo hold. There was a collection of bags there.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Sir?”
The airman stopped. His precise steps closed the distance he’d just traveled and put him back in front of her. “Yes, ma’am? Is there something else I can do for you?”
She touched the tight bun at the crown of her head, making sure it was as it was supposed to be, and smiled politely. “Yes. Could you please tell me where I can find Dr. Charles Morel? Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The airman nodded. “He’s already in the hangar over there. Your transportation is awaiting you.”
She realized then that the airman had been on her flight. She’d seen him reading a book when she’d gone to the rear of the plane to use the restroom. The book was The Andromeda Strain by Michael Crichton. She’d wondered then if he understood the humor in that. She guessed not. “Thank you.”
Grabbing her suitcases, one in each hand, she pivoted them on their wheels and started toward the hangar. To her left, a military Humvee rumbled across the tarmac toward some unseen destination. In front of her a grouping of soldiers marched in unison. They chanted something she couldn’t understand as they moved in formation.
Large trucks with beds covered in canvas tarps arced in semicircle
s idled to her left. Men were in lines, working a daisy chain to load cargo into the backs of those trucks.
Behind her she heard the roar of a jet engine and the displacement of air as it accelerated, a high-pitched siren of a sound. The smell of jet exhaust washed across her.
She pulled her bags, the wheels clacking across the tarmac, and kept her eyes straight ahead. In the brightly lit hangar in front of her, there were five waxed ink-black SUVs. The vehicles were large with tinted windows, which appeared, from this distance, to match the paint jobs. There were several clusters of men and women in the hangar. Some of them held electronic tablets in their hands. Others had devices pressed to their ears. The distinctive angular shapes of satellite phones told her the communications were either secure or there was an issue with cellular transmission. Nobody, she noticed, was on a cell phone. That was unusual.
It wasn’t until she was at the edge of the hangar that she found Morel. He was standing with two men she didn’t recognize. They were in dark suits, their backs to her. Morel was talking. He glanced at her as she approached, said something, and the two men turned to face her. She stopped, let go of her suitcases, and offered her hand.
“I’m Dr. Gwendolyn Sharp,” she said. “I’m sure Charles has told you about me.”
The men glanced at each other. She stood there for a moment with her arm extended before one of the men took it and shook it vigorously. The handshake didn’t hurt, but it was clear to her he applied enough pressure to send a message.
“He has,” said the man, letting go.
Gwendolyn studied him for a moment and focused on the other man. She still hadn’t made eye contact with Dr. Morel, but felt his eyes on her.
“Gwendolyn,” she said to the second man. She didn’t offer to shake his hand.
“We know,” said the second man.
“Charles,” she said to Morel, “you left in a hurry. I was left to fend for myself on the tarmac. Had it not been for the kindness of strangers, I might not have found you here with Thing One and Thing Two. Was that the plan?”
The hint of a smile flashed on Thing One’s face. Thing Two frowned, his heavy lids drooping lower over his eyes. Both shifted in their polished black wingtips.
Morel blinked irregularly. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple shifted in his throat. Then he smiled flatly. There was a new resolve in his expression. “There was no plan, Gwendolyn,” he said. “I had business here. It was urgent. I figured you were a big girl and could handle yourself.”
Now it was Gwendolyn who smiled. Morel was playing the tough guy in front of these…whoever they were. This wasn’t the same Charles who helped her in the lab, guiding her with support and encouragement. It wasn’t the same Charles who, a day ago, downed honey pepper vodka by the glassful, confiding in her his own disappointments and regrets.
She saw through him. Instead of calling him out on his condescension, she played along.
“I can handle myself,” she said. “And I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, gentlemen. By the way, Thing One, your fly is open.”
She shot a quick glance at his crotch and moved past them. Her shoulder brushed against Thing Two, bumping him as she moved past, pulling her suitcases behind her. In her peripheral vision she saw Thing One’s hands move to his zipper. His head dropped. He muttered a pejorative term under his breath as she moved to the black SUV at the front of the caravan.
Without asking permission, she opened the tailgate with a swipe of her foot under the rear bumper. The tailgate lifted and she put her suitcases into the rear cargo hold. Then she swiped her foot again, the tailgate lowered itself, and she moved around the passenger’s side to the front door. She swung it open and climbed into the tufted black leather seat.
The cabin smelled new. There was the intoxicating mix of the leather and the off-gassing of the chemicals in the plastic accouterments. There was burl wood trim along the doors and across the dash. A large rectangular tablet, similar to the newest iteration of an iPad, was the centerpiece. Between her seat and the driver’s was a center console with cup holders, USB ports, and a joystick she imagined controlled some of the SUV’s more delicate functions.
The engine was running. The air blowing from the vents in front of her was cool but not cold, and there was a gentle stream of air coming from her seat. It was vented and could acclimate the surface to whatever temperature she chose.
Gwendolyn pulled down the visor and flipped up the cover to a lighted mirror. She studied her face, her pinched nostrils, her oval, catlike eyes. She ran a finger along the singular, uneven crease that ran across the length of her forehead. She smiled and licked her teeth clean of lipstick.
An attractive, if not somewhat harsh-looking woman, Gwendolyn Sharp didn’t wear much makeup. There was enough to conceal the beginnings of age and results of stress. But her skin was otherwise flawless. There was a hint of blush on her cheeks, a dusting of shadow above her eyes, a muted color on her lips, a fine powder to reduce the shine on her nose, chin, and forehead. She touched a diamond earring in her left lobe and twisted it between her thumb and forefinger. Her hand was still at the side of her face when the driver’s side door opened.
A compact man in uniform started to climb into the SUV when he saw her. He stopped. His powerful jaw flexed. His eyes narrowed. “May I help you?” he asked. His voice was deep. There was the resonance of a smoker.
He braced himself against the driver’s seat, the taut muscles in his exposed forearms as thick as some men’s biceps. It reminded Gwendolyn of the old twentieth-century cartoon Popeye. All that was missing was an anchor tattoo and a can of spinach.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
She turned back to the mirror, closed it, and flipped up the visor. The hint of a woodsy cologne wafted into the cabin. It was pleasant enough and masked some of the plastic off-gassing.
The man’s fists sank into the leather on the driver’s seat. His elbows were locked, his rugged face expressionless. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Gwendolyn Sharp. I’m on the team from the CDC.”
He frowned. “I don’t know you and don’t recognize your name from the manifest.”
She couldn’t read the name on his chest. He was wearing digital green camouflage. The sleeves were folded neatly above his elbows, where they were buttoned into place with a fabric loop. Creases ran along the sides of his arms at his biceps. His blond hair was cut high and tight. His face was redder than it was when he first opened the door. A thick vein ran along the side of his neck.
“Check it again,” she said.
The man studied her, unmoved. Then he backed away from the vehicle without responding, leaving the door open. He walked toward men in dress uniforms. They were Army.
The cluster of soldiers eyed the driver then looked past him toward Gwendolyn. She smiled at them and waved. She reached across her shoulder and pulled her seatbelt over her waist and shoulder.
The driver returned with three of the soldiers. One of them had a ribbon rack on the left side of his chest larger than any she’d seen. He wore a cap on his head with the markings of someone in the chemical corps. She recognized it from meetings with the military in Kiev.
“I’m Colonel Whittenburg,” he said. “You’re sitting in my seat.”
“Am I?”
Whittenburg raised an eyebrow. There was a shadow from the brim of his cap that cast his face in shadow, but his expression was vibrant enough she saw it.
“Miss, I think—”
“It’s doctor,” she said. “Dr. Gwendolyn Sharp. I’m with the CDC. I need a ride. One car is as good as another.”
Whittenburg stiffened. The muscles in his face tightened and his affable expression disappeared, replaced by the hardened shell of a career soldier. “Doctor,” he said, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. This is a sensitive operation. We are working with your organization to ascertain the ongoing threats to our security. You, as best I know, are not part of nor are you privy to t
hose discussions. I’ll ask you to exit the vehicle before it becomes uncomfortable for both of us. This is not a request. It’s an order.”
The longer she sat in the SUV, the more emboldened she became. The expression, “possession is nine tenths of the law” came to mind.
“I’m not subject to your orders, Colonel,” said Sharp. “I’m a civilian.”
“We are under martial law, Doctor.”
“You don’t have jurisdiction yet,” Gwendolyn countered. “Unless, of course, you’re a weekend warrior. Congress hasn’t approved the use of—”
“Might I remind you,” he said in a tone worthy of a senior military officer, “you are on federal land right now. You hitched a ride on an Air Force plane. You left Kiev because you couldn’t get the job done. If I were you, I’d stop pretending I had any leverage here.”
Colonel Whittenburg ducked his head into the SUV. The top of his cap bumped against the doorframe and the hat tipped back on his head. His eyes were penetrating. They were focused. The creases that framed them spoke of experience and wisdom rather than age and exhaustion.
“So you do know who I am,” she said without flinching.
Whittenburg’s face twitched and he blinked.
“All of you know who I am,” she said. “And you know I’m not here because I failed. I’m here because something else is going on. I want in on it, whatever it is. Whatever you’re doing, whatever my superiors at the CDC are doing with you, whatever it is that brought Thing One and Thing Two here, I want a piece of it.”
She was taking a huge risk. Suggesting there was something untoward at play in dealing with the Scourge could make her a liability. It would be nothing for the people in charge of the base to whisk her away and make her disappear.
The truth was, if there were some multinational conspiracy involving the Scourge, she would just as soon be dead and buried six feet under the red Georgia clay than be alive and not be a part of it. If she didn’t make a play now, it would be too late.
Whittenburg’s expression softened. He studied her silently for a long moment. It was like she saw the wheels of his mind turning, grinding. A smile slowly spread across his face, blooming into a grin. It wasn’t born of good humor.
The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared Page 24
