Melt (Book 8): Hold

by Pike, JJ

  Josephine held up her hand. What a good girl. She’d make an excellent Ridger, if only she’d come and join them. She was ten times smarter than Jacinta and possibly better informed than Herb. He had to make his case to her one last time.

  He wound his voice down to a more acceptable public pitch. You could lose some recruits if you were too zealous. “Josephine, tell them how we’ve treated you. We’ve always been cordial and inviting, haven’t we? You’ve never seen us try to circumvent our laws or impose our values on anyone who wasn’t willing to embrace them?”

  “You have made me welcome…”

  He rode over whatever she had to say. “We hold one another up. No one falls behind in Wolfjaw. No one’s left wanting…”

  “Sounds like Marxism to me.” The general had done Alistair the most amazing solid. He’d opened the door to the winningest argument of them all.

  “On the contrary, Wolfjaw is a true meritocracy. Each is rewarded according to their merit and effort. You work harder? You eat more. You think better; invent something that’s to our collective benefit show that you can outstrip and outshine your neighbor? More comes your way.” He scanned the crowd looking for someone else to latch onto. There was always more than one in a gathering this large. Usually kids trying to find their way in the world.

  There.

  In the back.

  A pimply kid with a crew cut. He was listening. Alistair nodded and waited. The kid, predictably, nodded back. He wanted to hear more.

  Alistair spoke as if he were speaking to that one kid only. “What if I were to tell you that your general here doesn’t give a goddamn what happens to you?”

  The general shook his head. “I categorically de…”

  No way Alistair was going to allow any of them to speak now. “You’re cannon fodder, you know that, right? That’s why they offered you the signing bonus. Because when push comes to shove, you’re going to be sent into the firing line, not him.”

  The kid blanched. Wow. Bullseye.

  “Old men with tired ideas want you to do their dirty work for them. Come to Wolfjaw Ridge. We do the dirty work together, myself included. There are no higher ups or lower downs. If it needs to be done, we do it. Together. The general called it Marxism because he lacks imagination. He’s never seen a true meritocracy. Nor a place where you can live in peace and harmony.”

  No one had stepped forward to join his ranks. It was the dead body. That had thrown them off course. They saw him as a brute rather than a visionary. No matter. He had an ace up his sleeve.

  “Indian Point, the nuclear power station that was supposed to be decommissioned, is on fire. It’s the first of many such fires.”

  The general sighed and leaned back against the truck closest to him. How stunning that a man so senior could ignore the signals his body language was sending to everyone around him. He’d admitted defeat and they all knew it. Alistair had to hold back an authentic, involuntary smile. He was the winner.

  “We’ve heard about this pestilence which rages up and down the coast. It’s eating modern life from the inside out. And why? Because the modern world was already rotten. We have none of those pollutants. Nothing to invite it into our lives. We’re plastic free and have been for years.” He nodded at Josephine. “Your neighbor, Alice Everlee, warned us and we listened. We didn’t need this disaster, which is now devastating New York and its environs, to know that BPAs were polluting our waterways. Do you want all that estrogen in your food? Your water? Your body? No. That’s insanity.”

  He felt the shift as several soldiers shuffled out of formation. Time to deliver the coup de grace.

  “We have built an underground city. Come with me now. See for yourselves. You can ride this disaster out.”

  He watched the shock ripple across Josephine’s face. How delicious. She hadn’t had a clue.

  “That’s right. Any one of you can come with me to safety. Guaranteed.”

  The soldiers divided themselves into four groups, rather than two. That was puzzling. There ought to have been a “go” and “stay” group but, no, there were definitely four distinct groupings. Two were closer to Alistair and two closer to Corporal Sandrino.

  Alistair checked again: the “definitely coming with you to your underground city” group had stepped behind him and joined Jacinta. The “absolutely not coming” group had clustered themselves around Sandrino. But then there was a group over to his right, somewhat closer to him, but keeping their distance; and a final group way over to the left, far from Sandrino but obviously not siding with Alistair and Wolfjaw. What on Earth was going on?

  “I have to go with him back to his compound. To Wolfjaw.” Josephine was in no-man’s land, neither close to Sandrino nor himself.

  In spite of his confusion with regard to who was going and who was staying, Alistair had to listen to Josephine as she made her case to the general. It wasn’t a chore to listen in. The general insisted on standing 20 feet away from Josephine and she didn’t approach him, so she was obliged to speak at a regular volume. Why? What would make them both keep their distance from one another?

  There was the obvious answer. The general could be sick with this disease that had emerged from the ruins of Manhattan. But that didn’t hold together under closer inspection. Alistair had been paying close attention to reports of the disease. Most died within a day or two of contracting the disease. Those who didn’t die immediately showed clear signs of infection: boils, sores, open wounds, etc. Only time stood between them and death. The infected had been rounded up and quarantined. Those attempting to leave the infected zones were shot on sight. He couldn’t fault the authorities for taking a hard line. He’d have done the same. No one with a communicable disease had been allowed inside Wolfjaw for at least ten years.

  Furthermore, Josephine Morgan would not have allowed anyone carrying what amounted to a plague to circumvent those rules.

  Unless…

  No. She wouldn’t be that foolish.

  Would she?

  Was it possible? Would she have broken the rules and allowed the infected to travel out here, to her home? What could have prompted her to do such a thing? Did she have some kind of God complex that allowed her to think she could cure them when there was no cure to be found?

  The light bulb went off in his head.

  Good grief. Her dead husband. She was trying to save her dead husband. She’d talked about him in passing and Alistair had known for some time that the memory of her husband drove her to try to do good but this was beyond the pale. Was she truly trying to rescue someone from certain death in order to right that wrong?

  Alistair was a student of human psychology. He knew, as most did not, that the drives and desires that make up the human operating system were so far below the surface as to be invisible. Josephine might not even know she had a Savior Complex. She might be doing this without knowing why.

  If he was reading the situation aright, the general was keeping himself at an arm’s length because he was infected.

  The soldiers who held themselves away from the pack. Were they infected, too?

  He took a step back, and another, his skin suddenly crawling with ants, then caught himself. If he said the infected soldiers were not to accompany him to Wolfjaw he might lose some of those who’d self-selected in. He couldn’t do that. Two women had joined his crew.

  Never turn women away.

  Never.

  The future depends on them.

  He rearranged his features so that they wouldn’t betray him. He could allow the infected to tag along and deal with them once they reached Wolfjaw. They’d never get close to him. They held themselves apart—deliberately not touching one another, not going close to the rest of their colleagues—so he was fairly certain they’d stay away from his people, too.

  Good.

  If Josephine was comfortable being that close to the general, he would use that distance as his yardstick. He’d keep himself that far, or further—further was fine, too—from th
e sick and feeble. He had a natural aversion to illness. Who didn’t? It was the precursor to death and no one wanted that. Once he explained why they couldn’t be allowed inside the gates, who would argue? No sensible human. Then again, Josephine was on a mission. She’d want to house them and make them comfortable. He’d listen, of course, but nothing would change his mind. The terminally ill should be terminated. It was the only thing that made sense.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I need to talk to your mother.” Bill was coherent. He’d been talking in full sentences for a couple of minutes.

  Aggie would have been happy if she’d understood what he was talking about.

  “Where’s Alice?” Bill tried to stand, but he was doped up to the eyeballs. He managed two steps before he staggered and was reaching for the porch railing.

  Aggie and Petra helped him back to the loveseat.

  “I have to talk to her.”

  “She’s with Fran.” Aggie chose her words with care. He was so fragile—with any luck he’d blocked out the images of the young woman with her brains parted from her skull—and Petra didn’t know any of the particulars yet. Best keep it that way for now.

  Bill groaned and turned his face away from them. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Pops.” Petra crouched down so she was at her father’s level. “I know you feel like hell, but I’m going to tell you what you’ve always told me: This will pass. You are not your feelings. You don’t need to let them dominate you. Let it go…” She reached for his hand, but he didn’t take hers. He had that doll clutched tight and wasn’t going to loosen his fingers for anything or anyone.

  “I said that because I was an idiot. I didn’t get it…”

  Aggie didn’t know what to make of it. He wasn’t delirious, but nothing he said added up. He was going round in circles: The girl who’d given him the little doll he had clutched in his hand had been Bryony’s age? When what happened? He hadn’t filled in that part of the puzzle. Fran had given him cake. Where, when, why? What did it matter? How did that add up to “everything” being his fault? He couldn’t possibly be responsible for Fran taking her own life.

  “I didn’t know, Petra…” He was looking at his eldest daughter with perfect concentration. No dad jokes now. This was pure, serious William Everlee. They’d never seen this side of him. “If this is how you felt when you had one of your depressive episodes—desperately low, full of misgivings, unable to shake the darkness—then I owe you an apology.”

  Petra did her best impersonation of a goldfish.

  Aggie stepped to one side. It was an important moment. They’d all made fun of Petra, each in their different ways. The shortcut, of course, was to call her what she called herself and say she was “too emo” but Dad was casting that in another light. If she was hearing him correctly he was saying Petra was right to feel the feels the way she felt the feels. He was saying she had suffered from depression and they hadn’t taken her seriously but he got it now because he was feeling that bad. Aggie took another step, even further from her father. She didn’t want him to say that to her. If he turned and looked and said she had a right to feel angry—a feeling she barely admitted she felt—she’d burst into flames.

  “I’m going to get the Humvee ready.” She ran down the steps, away from the emotional moment between father and daughter. It was their time, anyway. She shouldn’t be witness to something that private.

  Aggie didn’t go directly to the Humvee. She went to Indie. Her horse got it when no one else did. How great would it be to saddle up and take off? She hadn’t had anywhere near enough down time since this had all kicked off. They could gallop across the fields out back and both be the better for it. Indie shifted from one hoof to the other when she saw Aggie. At least someone was pleased to see her.

  She was going to take her, feed and water her, then come back and deal with the humans. They needed a moment before they evacuated, it seemed. Whatever was going on between Dad and Petra was between them. She really, truly, seriously, utterly and completely didn’t need to know.

  Indie was so tractable. She allowed herself to be led around the east side of the house—even though that was the long way round—and down to the stream.

  Aggie sat on the bank while Indie waded in, knee deep, and drank her fill.

  There was a movement in the trees on the other bank. Aggie was on her feet, calling to Indie as soon as she saw the streak of white that peeked through the branches. She had her by the reins and was ready to mount her and take off when she realized she was looking at Floofy. How did their alpaca get over there? She was totally the wrong side of the river, when she should have been in her pen. Floofy had finally allowed herself to be fitted with a saddle, though Aggie was sure she’d never allow a human to mount her. She’d planned to hang light supplies—water bottles, a small backpack, literally snacks for the road—from the saddle once she’d gotten the people on the move, but she hadn’t been down to check on the animals in a while. How had she gotten out?

  She waved her arms above her head and made a clicking sound she knew Floofy would recognize. What was it about alpaca faces that made everyone smile? Even after all this time she couldn’t help herself. As soon as Floofy’s head popped up over the top of the bush—her mouth grinding leaves in a sweet side-to-side motion—Aggie felt the grin spread over her face. The aggravation of the last hour slid away. Nature. Always nature. There was nothing else like it. If she had to be around humans all the time and could never slip into the woods or forest she’d lose it.

  She clicked at Floofy a second time. The alpaca shifted in place but didn’t come across the stream. Shoot. If she’d gotten out her pen, what about Pippy? Midge would never forgive her if Pippy went missing. “Come on, Floofy. Come to me. You know you want to.” She didn’t have anything that might tempt the alpaca. Floofy loved apples, carrots, even broccoli, none of which Aggie had available.

  “Come on, Floof. We don’t have time to mess around. Don’t you know it’s the end of the world?”

  Floofy’s head went back down behind the bush on the other side of the river. It was the end of the world but none of the animals were giving off any signs of distress. Floofy didn’t give two hisses or a hoot.

  Aggie was going to have to wade over and collect her. Or ride. She spent ten very satisfying minutes unhooking all the straps and cords and stupid ropes she’d rigged to Indie (back when she was planning—what had she been thinking—to pull Paul across country). The horse shook herself—head to rump—when she was free. They both felt tons better.

  Together they waded across the stream. There was more garbage in the stream than Aggie had ever seen before: Coffee cups, water bottles, energy bar wrappers; you name it, they’d dumped it. People had already begun to get rid of their trash the “easy” way. Idiots. You might think you were upstream, but you were downstream from someone and their trash would end up in your drinking water, washing water, cooking water. A couple of fish floated on by with the trash. Poor things, what chance did they stand with all those contaminants? Indie stepped around them and Aggie made sure they didn’t touch her.

  Floofy hadn’t moved, which was good, because the other side of the river was not a hospitable place. There were more blackberries and brambles than walking or riding paths. Jim and Betsy had designed it that way. It was a form of “natural defense” they said. While it couldn’t stop a heavy vehicle—should anyone be stupid enough to drive into the three-mile stretch of thick, strong, spiked bushes—it would absolutely repel any intruders who arrived on foot. Aggie had never bothered trying to hack her way this side of the river, but she made a note to tell Jim how effective his bushes were when she next saw him.

  The water was slow-moving and the bed even. There was too much garbage, but no surprises. Those came when they reached the alpaca. Floofy’s saddle—new to her, probably making her a bit jumpy and reactive—was tangled in a bush. Aggie couldn’t afford to allow Floofy to take off. The alpaca couldn’t outrun Indie, but there wa
s no way she was taking Indie into that snarl of thorns. Even if they managed to get Floofy to run towards them and the stream, Aggie was no rodeo calf roper. She couldn’t rope another animal from her perch. She had to slowly, calmly, no nervous energy coming off her, convince the Floofmonster to let her free her from the thorns and lead her home.

  “Easy.” She slid off Indie and into the bushes below. The eager, ever-ready spikes stabbed her through her trousers, nipping at her legs. She was going to be crosshatched with little scratches by the time she was done.

  “Easy.” She petted Floofy’s lovely, long neck. The creature kept on munching. She seemed not to have noticed that she was a prisoner of the blackberry bush. Aggie had no gloves. She was going to get scratched up pretty badly if she didn’t cover her hands. She looked at the thick brambles snaked around the billet strap. That wasn’t the worst of it. She could have removed the saddle and left it where it was. The bigger problem was the prickles snagged in Floofy’s fur. What Aggie really needed was a pair of shears, but she’d come away from the house with nothing. How many times was she going to have to mess up before she remembered the most basic tenants of training: Never leave home unprepared.

  This time it meant bleeding fingers, much swearing, and a few chunks of Floofy’s fur left behind. It wasn’t the hardest thing she’d ever done, nor the most satisfying, but it was a success and with Floofy attached to Indie with a string of jury-rigged ropes, the three of them were trotting to safety soon enough.

  Before they reached the other side of the stream, Floofy put her head down in the water and took a bite of something.