“Hey. How many boxes?” He was already doing the mental geometry in his head. If he moved the boxes next to his cot to behind the bathroom, there might just be room for—
“Boxes? No boxes tonight.”
Fabian was tired and in no mood to play the courier’s games. He’d told Iggy to be more picky, but the idiots kept coming. Fabian tried his best not to let his frustration show. The antisocial side of himself wanted to close the door.
“It’s late,” he said, rubbing at his eyes. “How many boxes?”
The courier’s eyes lit up like he’d remembered something. “Is Iggy in?”
Fabian almost turned and called for his brother. Then he remembered that Iggy was in no shape to do business, though he probably would’ve argued otherwise.
“He’s asleep. Where are the boxes?”
Everything came in boxes. It started with toilet paper, hand sanitizer and survival food. They’d moved on to weapons, ammunition and booze.
The courier, who Fabian now remembered was named Choo Choo, for a reason he didn’t know, didn’t seem to know what to do. It was like his programming had jammed. Fabian just wanted to be done with it and off to bed.
“It’s Choo Choo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, Choo Choo, it’s late. I’m sure you’ve got better places to be. I’m sure you want to get paid. How about we get done with it so you can have both.”
The cue about money seemed to jangle Choo Choo out of his indecision.
“Cool if I back the car to the door?”
“Sure,” Fabian said, wondering why he hadn’t carried the damn box like everyone else did.
He watched Choo Choo take his time, even revving the engine of the old Volvo sedan a couple times. For effect or because it might putter out?
“Hurry up,” Fabian grumbled. Iggy was right. He was the supply and logistics guy, not the people guy. It was better that he stick to the paperwork and let his shady brother take care of the hoodlums.
The car backed in slowly. Fabian held up a hand and then banged on the trunk to get Choo Choo to step on the brakes.
The idiot left the car running, gray exhaust pumping happily.
“Here’s the key,” Choo Choo said, handing it to Fabian.
Fabian almost told the moron to do it himself, but he was too pissed and tired to waste another syllable on the clown.
The key and the lock took some coaxing, but Fabian got the trunk open. The smell of body odor and urine hit him square in the face. He backed up a step.
“Smells like hell, don’t it?” Choo Choo said, letting out a deep whistle for moronic effect.
Fabian was about to deck the guy when his eyes settled on the trunk again. At first glance, he’d thought it was empty.
Then the blackness inside shifted, and a face—a scared face—peeked out from behind the fabric.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fabian Moon
His hand grabbed Choo Choo’s collar, and for the first time, a wave of fear rippled across the idiot’s face.
If Fabian had the ability to bite the man’s head off, literally, he would have. He’d have to settle with mortal words.
“What the hell—”
“Yo, Choo Choo!” Iggy’s words slapped Fabian in the back. “You’re a little early.”
Choo Choo bobbed his head as much as he could with Fabian’s grip tightening the shirt noose.
“Let him go, big brother,” Iggy said, his tone oily and confident. “It’s been a long day for us all. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Fabian let go of the collar but gave the idiot a shove for good measure. “Get in the car,” he said, pointing a dagger finger at Choo Choo. The courier complied quickly. There. That was better.
When Fabian turned to confront his brother, he assumed that more smooth talk would follow. It didn’t.
“Get inside, Fabian.”
“You listen to me—”
Iggy’s eyes flashed cold. It was a cold so deep that Fabian saw a redeemable promise of death in there. Still, he couldn’t back down. They weren’t in the kidnapping business. A little breaking and entering was fine. Most of those places were abandoned because of the pandemic anyway. Best to clear the goods. At least that’s what Fabian told himself when the worry hit.
Iggy leaned in close, a close that only two brothers could share.
“I’ve got something that’s gonna make this little butt-wipe business of ours look like a lemonade stand.”
Fabian took that as a personal insult. This little, butt-wipe business was bringing in more money than Fabian had ever seen.
“I’ve let you have your way before, Ig. But this…” he pointed at the trunk, “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say about this. What the hell is going on here anyway?”
Iggy’s face changed, like he was about to divulge a secret. “What do you think is happening out there, big brother? You think X-99 is gonna go away? You think we’re gonna have a vaccine tomorrow?” Iggy shook his head. “No, sorry. People are dying. A lot of people. And I couldn’t give a spit about any of them. What I care about is you and me, Fabian. You and me. Hasn’t it always been us? When mom and dad split? When they took our apartment? You and me, remember?”
Fabian didn’t want to remember, but he did. Those were memories he’d run from. That’s why he’d joined the Army as soon as he could. That’s why he never visited his old home. That’s why Iggy always had the in with him. It had been Iggy who’d made survival possible.
Fabian was suddenly so tired that he would’ve given up everything to lie down and sleep for a century.
Iggy went on, coaxing Fabian like he was singing a lullaby. “I’ve got you, big brother. I always have.” He paused and looked down at the trunk. “Now this… this is our shot at the big time. The real big time.” He pulled out a wad of cash. “This is for Choo Choo.”
His little brother had close to ten grand in his hand. So that was the going price for kidnapping. Fabian could’ve laughed if he’d had the energy.
“Do you know how much that bag of blood is worth?”
Fabian shook his head.
“Five hundred grand,” Iggy said.
Fabian shook his head as if to clear his ears with the motion. “How much?”
Iggy smiled. “Half a mil, big brother.”
The wheels in Fabian’s head turned an inch. “What is he, a scientist or something?”
Iggy laughed. “You really are a baby deer, aren’t you? Don’t ever change, big brother. Don’t ever change.” Iggy slapped Fabian on the back. Then he turned and rested his hands on the rim of the Volvo’s trunk. “No, this gentleman is much more than a scientist. He’s got something that a lot of really rich people want right here and now.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Fabian.
“I’ll give you a hint.” Iggy threw his elbow across his face and cocked one eyebrow. “Blood! I vant blood!” He took his arm away and burst out in a spitting fit of laughter.
“What are you talking about?”
Iggy took a moment to compose himself. “Blood, Fabian! They want blood. They think it’s some sort of magic healing potion. All that fake news out there has got some of these idiots believing in miracle cures. Type O neg, to be exact. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to milk our friend over here literally for all he’s worth.”
That night the Moon brothers signed a short-term lease on a quiet building far from prying eyes. It was perfect for what Iggy had planned. The sleepy-building owner wasn’t so sleepy when he drove away with a year’s rent in his hands. And the only way Fabian could gulp down the disgust was by counting the escalated pile of hundred-dollar bills in his personal bank account.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chuck Yarling
He lived in a world of nightmares now. If he wasn’t dreaming them, he was thinking them. Sometimes he’d wake from a dead sleep scratching his arm where the permanent pen had written X-99.
The clickin
g of Morris’s nails on the hardwood drove him to distraction.
“Okay. I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Morris pranced around Chuck as they made their way to the front door. He loved that dog, but these days the burden of care felt like too much. He’d thought about giving the dog to a family who had more time, more love to give. Chuck’s well of love felt dry and cracked.
He’d barely gotten the front door open when Morris scooched through and made for the hedges. Chuck shielded his eyes from the foreign sun. He was a creature of the night now.
Morris took his time coming back, even after Chuck called him five times. Stir crazy, Chuck thought. But there would be no more walks. He was too scared to leave his house. He figured they were watching him anyway. Maybe they’d measured the length of Morris’s pees to add insult to this nightmare.
He shivered, though it was far from cold. The weatherman said 80 degrees today. A perfect day for a stroll in the backyard, he’d said.
What did he know? He probably had a super special quarantine compound reserved for TV personalities. Though now that Chuck thought about it, the weatherman was new. Very new. In fact, he was the second one this week alone. Strange. And that jangle in the man’s voice. Was it a newbie warble or something else?
He’d become numb to such things, reducing these horrible little mysteries to mere idle speculations.
Morris ran into the house, shaking Chuck from his daydreams. His every waking hour felt like this—dreamlike, fogged. Maybe the real Chuck Yarling was in a bubble somewhere, sedated, his replica left to deal with the new reality. Another shiver.
Breakfast was a half a cup of lukewarm coffee he’d forgotten about earlier and a burnt piece of toast. How messed up were his days that he couldn’t even manage toast anymore?
“You truly are a wreck, Yarling,” he said aloud, immediately chiding himself for talking to himself.
Only he didn’t feel crazy. His body felt whole, like it was amped for a marathon. If given a Bible, he might’ve sworn on it that when he looked in the mirror in the morning that he looked younger, more alive. The only flaw were the dark bags under his eyes. Sleep. He needed sleep!
The final three quarters of the toast completely forgotten, Chuck sipped his coffee on the way to the study. It was where he holed up now. The bedroom was too pathetic. At least here he could pretend to be of some use, what with the bookshelves stuffed full of knowledge and history. But he couldn’t bring himself to crack open a single tome. Nothing pulled him.
Why learn new things?
Nothing except for what lay on the card table in the middle of the room.
He walked over and clicked on the reading lamp he’d brought in from the bedroom. The yellow glow of the ancient bulb splashed its pre-Internet pallor on the map. Chuck traced his hand along the trail, starting at his house, then along familiar roads. Five snaking lines branched out, each tracing the course Chuck thought he might’ve taken on that night he’d woken up in the death factory. He shivered again thinking about it.
“Out the main drag, down to Jackson, hop over the...”
No, that wasn’t right. He had to get it right. If for no other reason than to regain a slice of his sanity. There really were days when he thought he’d dreamt the whole thing, that maybe he was going nutso.
Then he’d pick up his phone and open the photos. And there it was, the picture of X-99 written on his arm. It was real. This whole mess was real.
After trying to chart his path three more times, Chuck gave up and went to the computer. Maybe there’d be some answers there.
He waded through the loading screen, logging in, then went through a specific protocol. He was careful because he’d been taught to be so. Have your identity stolen once and you’ll take a higher interest in your technology trail. The thousand-dollar crash course had seemed like highway robbery at the time, but it’d come recommended from a friend in the know, a man who’d spent his life in cybersecurity. Luckily, Chuck was a quick study, with none of the tech hang-ups of so many of his old friends.
Once he was behind the curtain of anonymity, he visited his usual online haunts. There was only so much news he could take, and after a few visits to the Dark Web, he knew most of what they showed on television was bogus. It was all propaganda created to sell views, put up a brave front, and keep the mobs from sacking Rome.
Morris entered the room and took his customary spot at Chuck’s feet.
“Hey, buddy,” Chuck said, taking the time to massage the dog’s neck. Thank God for Morris. He hated himself for thinking he might give him away. If he did, who would he have to talk to when the world really went to hell?
His secret message account opened and Chuck perused the latest from a handful of newsletter subscriptions. Nothing of much interest. More of the same. The governments of the world were doing their best to hold things together. Then there were the messages detailing sightings of special units and corresponding disappearances. There was all manner of hypotheses. He honestly didn’t know what to think. He’d never chimed in because the fear went too deep. His online wanderings were fact-finding missions, not social calls.
It was the second to last newsletter that got his full attention. The subject was in all caps: ARE YOU ONE OF THE IMMUNE?
He clicked on the link and began to read. It sounded like hokey science fiction. Then he got to the symptoms: Increased vitality. Repaired vision. Old wounds healed. The list went on for a full page.
Chuck went over the list a second time. No. It was a trick, a joke. Had to be. The author of the article said that these “immune” were somehow contracting X-99 and then being catapulted into some stratospheric human metamorphosis. The author of the article compared the change to enlightenment, or a higher mental reality, though the Immune seemed only to exhibit physical change.
Chuck scratched his head, an old habit from an old wound. He looked at his hand, his fingers. He brought them to his head again and repeated the motion. Strange. The scratch felt different somehow. Where a scar had once been now there was only hair-covered scalp. He checked again. Impossible.
Then he looked at the list on his computer screen: old wounds healed.
Impossible.
But as he sat there thinking, his eyes wandered to the end of the post. The author was suggesting a meetup of those who believe they were part of this new Immune category. Chuck brushed the idea away and chuckled at the absurdity of it.
It was absurd.
Wasn’t it?
He spent the next hour reading and re-reading the post. When he’d pretty much memorized the entire thing, he did something that broke every rule regarding self-isolation he’d put in place after escaping that house of terrors: He messaged the author of the post and asked when and where they might be able to meet.
There was a video call—a one-sided one at that—where Chuck outlined his potential immunity in detail for the faceless leader, culminating in the narration of his harrowing escape from the death house, and the revealing of government-issued tattoo.
And three hours later, with Morris boarded at his neighbor’s house, he was ready to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chuck Yarling
The meeting. He couldn’t believe he was going. Stupid? Probably. Insane? Most definitely. He’d get there and be fitted for a tinfoil hat and handed a little cup to drool in. There’d be a cadre of pale folks with permanent Cheeto stains around their lips talking about a takeover by lizard people from Alpha Centauri.
And yet, he was going.
“You’ve lost all grasp on reality, Yarling,” he said.
He passed no fewer than five military convoys in the hour it took him to get to the half-a-horse town: Finkleton. What kind of a name was that for a town? Like a shrine to a long-dead nerdy professor. Welcome to Finkleton! proclaimed the blue sign, neatly punctuated with shotgun spatter in three corners. Seemed that even the residents didn’t like the name.
Finkleton was a one-main-drag-kinda place. Chuck
had checked. Best to stay away from the main drag. In fact, the directions he’d received said as much. Avoid all contact with residents, was the warning. Great. Lizard people.
His left leg hadn’t stopped jittering the entire time. He wished he still had a car with manual transmission so he could keep the damned leg busy. “Don’t you quit on me now,” he said to it.
Great, now he was talking to his damned leg.
In the past he’d lamented not having a nicer car. As a bachelor, he could buy whatever he wanted. He didn’t have a lot of money, but he had enough to buy a decent car. But frugality born from decades of familial guilt won out. The plain-Jane vehicle was one of a few million on the road. Most days Chuck cursed it. Today, he was thankful. Less conspicuous this way. It was white. Lizard people can see the color white. He chuckled masochistically at that thought.
He passed the turn and had to go another two miles to find a suitable place to loop around, trying to look innocent on the small roads. There wasn’t another car on this road, though it was well tended. Not a pothole in sight.
He saw the sign he’d missed the first time, a tiny thing not a foot off the ground: 377. He wondered if it meant anything. Then he wondered if for the rest of his life, however short that might turn out to be, would be spent looking for conspiracies around every corner. Those darn message boards had a way of getting inside a guy, really planting the seed of doubt in everything he saw.
Of course, 377 is the atomic number of Lizardium, a vital element discovered by the world shadow government and used to protect true believers from mind control rays.
The dirt road he was on now had plenty of potholes, so many that Chuck hoped he could get to the meetup without a flat. Four times the car bottomed out, making a nasty scratching sound along the road. He gritted his teeth and kept going. Too far to go back now.
A house came into view at the next bend, then disappeared again as the bend went wide, trees and shrubs obscuring everything. “Should’ve come armed,” he whispered, trying to see the sun through the canopy. The invitation had said no weapons. How convenient. He felt the fool all over again. Here he was, walking right into their arms, whoever they were.
The Next Dawn Page 7
