by Pike, JJ
“Okay.” Alice was confused. Was Christine saying resistance to MELT was tied to blood type?
“I’m using it as a metaphor.” Christine was grinning at General Hoyt. Ah, so she was flexing her latest intellectual muscles for his benefit. As long as it didn’t lead her astray that was fine. “Perhaps as many as a quarter of mankind has a built-in resistance to MELT. You wondered if it might be inherent. We don’t know. We only know that it is the case that a substantial number of people have not contracted the disease in spite of being exposed to huge doses of the infectant early on.”
Alice counted off all the people she knew who’d been as lucky as her. The professor, Fran, Bill, Paul. Oh, goodness. Why hadn’t she threaded that needle sooner? Paul wasn’t infected. He was deathly ill, but not with this. His wounds were gun-related, not caused by MELT. She had to leave word for Bill. He’d been so heartbroken when she’d told him the twins might not be his. No, that wasn’t accurate. He’d categorically rejected it; said they were his; told her to shut it and never broach the subject ever again. She’d gotten so many things wrong. At least that was one she could put right.
“Alice?” Christine clicked her fingers in front of her friend’s face. “Are you here or do you need an isotonic drink? An energy bar? Goodness knows we’re all punchy. But I need you to concentrate. I can’t have you floating away like that. Are you up for this or do you need a few moments to yourself?”
Could she? Could she take a moment to herself? She hadn’t rested for so long and the road ahead was as treacherous as any she’d ever trodden.
“So?” Christine rubbed her hands over her face. “Are you back in the game or do you need a moment to yourself?”
Alice was drowning in “the feels” as Petra would say. Fran had done a number on her head. She needed a second or two—maybe minutes if they could spare her—to get her head back on straight. “If I could have ten minutes to myself, I’d appreciate that.”
“We have equipment to set up, people to talk to. I’ll confer with Michael while you bring yourself up to par.”
Alice scanned the tech haven for a quiet corner and huddled down behind a desk. Sleep came instantly. She didn’t dream. Time didn’t exist; only sleep.
The general spoke her name very softly. He didn’t touch her. “We left you as long as we could, but things are heating up now.”
She had to have been asleep for several hours. The room was jammed with soldiers, each at their post, tapping away. The screens on the wall were bright with maps that spanned the world. Christine and Michael were holding court with a gaggle of onscreen white coats. Brains had been recruited, she didn’t know how. Christine had said they’d covered a lot of intellectual ground. This had to have been what she meant.
“We have several hours of work to do before we leave,” said the general. “Christine has given me permission to send the chopper to the salt mines to collect your family.”
The lump that rose in Alice’s throat was enormous. Aggie had said she wanted to stay there, on their own, but there was an underground city beneath Alice’s feet. She had to at least give them the choice, didn’t she? She nodded.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you take the journey.” The general was genuinely apologetic. What a nice man. “You’re too important, according to our science team, but I’d be happy to send a message with the pilot, if you like?”
Alice hunted for a piece of paper and a pencil. It took a moment, but not as long as it took to find the words she wanted to say to Bill. She didn’t want to pressure him into coming or make him think she wouldn’t honor any decision he made. She only wanted him to know that their safety was paramount in her mind. “The pilot will tell them what’s available here, won’t he?”
The general nodded. “Christine has been into Wolfjaw Down. She says they’ve done a damned fine job of creating a livable city. And you know her, she doesn’t blow smoke. They have food, a production schedule, medics, medicine, clean water, everything you can think of.”
Alice looked at the map of the States hanging over their heads. If MELT-plus and radioactive waste was going to decimate everything west of the line from Ohio to Florida, her babies were inside the hottest hot zone on the planet.
Her pen hovered over the page. “I’m sorry,” she wrote. “I love you more than language has words. I will always be with you, whether I am on this mortal plane or the next. And when I can, I shall return. If you’ll have me.” She hesitated, then signed herself, “Alicia.”
The general took the note and left the premises.
“Alice?” It was Baxter. She’d left Michael at his station, found a set of overalls and some canvas shoes, and was encouraging her to put them on.
Christine dressed herself in an identical set of cotton coveralls. “As I was saying, before you took your nap, I’ve had a chance to think about your obsession with genetic resistance.”
Alice didn’t have an answer. They couldn’t test resistance…
Actually, now that they were reconnected with the world, perhaps they could. There were labs in other countries with blood banks, scientists, and centrifuges. Baxter would be in her element directing them to test this and think about that and work out if there was any way they could fight back against MELT-plus eating its way through the human body.
“I may need to leave the country. Take MELT-plus with me.” She rested her hand on Alice’s arm. “In an hermetically sealed container, of course. I’m no fool. But if I could find a lab and take genetic samples from a wide range of people, I might be able to identify what has kept you and me safe. If, in fact, it turns out that we have some built-in resistance.” She opened the door to the outside world. “Having the general’s help has made all the difference. He has people, transport, equipment. He can make things happen. Like you used to at K&P, when we had money and personnel and a mandate to save the world.”
Alice followed Christine out of the communications center and into Wolfjaw’s main square.
The sun hadn’t set, but the sky was heavy and low, pressing down on them. It wouldn’t be long now.
“There’s something I want to show you.” Christine opened the door to one of the Wolfjaw houses.
Alice gasped.
Betsy and Jim hovered over a bed, tending to a child.
“Can you guess?” said Christine. “Go on, guess who it is.”
It couldn’t be Margaret. Not yet. And, in any case, if it had been her baby, Bill would have been at her side.
She looked down to see Angelina blinking up at her.
The child smiled. “I’m hungry.”
There was so much food in Wolfjaw, they could eat until they popped. The sick were going to be cared for and loved every bit as much as the living, Betsy would see to that.
Alice ran to the kitchen and hunted for something soft and sweet for the child. She loaded up a tray, grabbed the miniature vase of wildflowers that sat on the window, and returned with a feast.
“Pretty,” said Angelina and tucked a flower behind her ear.
“When the helicopter returns, we’re leaving.” Baxter was at her side, buttoning her coveralls.
“I’m ready,” said Alice. She’d always been ready. Bill might come with the children, he might not, but she loved them and was going to make the world safe for them. It wasn’t her fault that there were bad men and wicked women and lazy people who wouldn’t do their duty. The only thing she could do—and the only thing she planned to do from here on in—was to do her own part to the very best of her ability. She was Alice Everlee and she would not be crushed by her enemies, be they inside or out. She was an Everlee and the Everlees never give up.
POSTSCRIPT
FIELD NOTES: ALICE EVERLEE, former Klean& Pure executive; currently on route to NYC.
MELT-plus is out of control. I was sure it would have been contained by now and I could sign off and tell you the world had been made safe again, but that’s not the case.
The opposite is true.
MELT
is in the Atlantic, devastating marine life and being borne aloft by pelagic flocks. The west coast of Africa and Europe are in its sights.
Hurricane Erin is bearing down on the east coast, promising devastating winds, pounding rains, and a lethal mix of MELT and radioactive isotopes.
My own family—my darling husband and precious children—are in its path, as are the thousands of people stampeding west.
Professor Christine Baxter has a plan, but we have no way of knowing whether it will be successful.
We shall continue reporting until one of two things happens: We beat MELT or MELT beats us.
Over and out.
MELT – Book 9
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