Last Dawn

by Kevin Partner

  "Son, we can't take them back. Whatever that woman had, it could destroy Hope."

  Jenson looked up at Bekmann. "Sorry Mr. … whatever your name is, but that's not how we do things in Hope, is it, Mr. Hickman?"

  "Actually, Jenson … you know, the needs of the many …"

  It hurt Hick to see the disappointment and disgust on the young man's face.

  "Well, whether you want to or not, there's a very good reason why we have to take them to Hope," Jenson said.

  "And what's that, exactly?"

  The young man gestured back at the truck. "Maybe you should've been riding with me on the last two trips—then you'd have heard the coughing for yourself. Whatever that woman had, so did plenty of others."

  "Oh my God." Hickman felt the ground opening up beneath his feet. He was a brave enough man, in his own way, but when it came to infectious diseases, he was a grade one hypochondriac.

  "And, anyway, Mom knows all about it. She didn't tell you 'cos she knew you'd try to pull out of the deal. I told her she wasn't bein' fair about you, but it seems it was me who was wrong. She knows what she's doin' and I don't reckon Ezra will take kindly if you keep the weapons but don't look after their folk."

  He was right about Ezra. But the trump card was the fact that Martha Bowie knew. There was no backing out now. Just when he thought he was getting a grip on things, someone kicked his legs out from under him. He nodded, got back into the cab of his truck and pulled a packet out of the glove compartment. The antibacterial wet wipes felt cold as he cleaned his hands, stinging a little when he wiped them over his face.

  The truck lurched back onto the main highway. Water streamed down the windshield as the ancient wipers struggled to flip-flop it away. The staccato knocking of the engine and the tapping of rain on the metal skin of the truck were the only sounds that accompanied them home. Bekmann said nothing and Hick wasn't in the mood for conversation. His mind was whirling as he desperately sought a way through this that didn't expose the whole town of Hope, including himself—and Sam, when she arrived—to this deadly contagion. Perhaps the woman had been an outlier. After all, if it really was flu, then most people who got it would recover. He'd read about the Spanish Flu, of course, after the First World War. All those survivors of what, at the time, had been the greatest catastrophe imaginable who were then struck down by random disease. Was history repeating itself? Had Hope made it through the firestorm only to be decimated by disease?

  Not if he could help it. He looked across at the silent Bekmann. Hick might have to take drastic action to save his town so that Sam had a safe place to come home to. And the one crumb of comfort was that he had no doubt the man sitting next to him was more than capable of doing what needed to be done.

  Chapter 9: Pathogen

  By the time they got back to Hope, Paul was sitting as far across in his seat as he could, and the window was wide open.

  Gert Bekmann shook his head theatrically. "It was just a little dust, man! I feel fine!"

  But Paul Hickman was taking no risks, so he continued breathing fresh air from outside as he pulled the truck into the warehouse.

  Dropping down out of the cab, Hickman watched as Jenson parked the other truck alongside. The young man got out and walked over to Hick as Brain opened the back of the trailer.

  Hickman nodded at the truck. "Any more cases?"

  "Not that I know of. Look, Mr. Mayor, have you given any more thought to what I asked? You know, to go look for the sheriff?"

  Hickman, whose mind had been on another track entirely, sucked in some air to buy himself a little time. "I ain't changed my mind, Jenson. I saw them bandits run into the truck he was drivin' and I saw what happened. So did Brain." Unless the idiot had said something to contradict this story.

  "But there's gotta be a chance they just wounded him."

  "I don't think so. His body's prob'ly lying in the desert somewhere. Look, son, it's a sad end for a good man, but you gotta let it go. We got enough problems with the livin' without worryin' about the dead."

  The young deputy went to speak, but got distracted by something behind Hick. "Pa? What're you doin' here? Where's Ma?"

  Joe “goodfernothin” Bowie had come in through the open warehouse door. A slim man with a nervous expression on his thin, craggy face, he beamed when he saw Jenson. "Thank the Lord you're back. She's sick, son. Real sick.”

  The color vanished from Jenson's face. "Is it the flu?"

  Joe nodded. "Yeah. I told her not to get so close to the sick'uns, but she didn't listen to me."

  Sure you did, Hick thought. "How bad is she?" Maybe this cloud has a silver lining.

  "Pretty bad." Libby Hawkins had followed Joe Bowie into the warehouse and was welcoming the sick and infirm of Ezra as they climbed out of the other truck.

  "Yeah, well thanks for helping spread disease to Hope. A fine reward for our charity."

  Hawkins snorted at that. "Seems to me you got a pretty good deal out of my mother. And anyway, it's only been a few cases so far. Mrs. Bowie was a little too hands-on."

  "I'm going to see my mom, Mr. Hickman," Jenson said.

  "Sure, son. Give her my best. Mr. Bowie here can take her place."

  Joe Bowie shook his head. "Nossir, Mr. Mayor. Martha said I was to bring Jenson back, and then Pa would take her place."

  Well, he had to admit that made more sense. Old Leonard Bowie—known by many as Dave—was Joe's father and Jenson's grandfather, and though he wasn't blood-related to Martha, he was a whole lot more like her than he was his son.

  Hick nodded his assent—it wasn't being sought, but it paid to keep up appearances and deal with the disrespect later. He watched as Jenson ran off, followed at a slower pace by his father.

  The back door of the passenger truck slammed shut and Hick looked over at the group of Ezrans. They were the worst of the worst, as far as he could tell. Half were propping themselves up on boxes or racks of shelving while the other half gathered around Libby Hawkins.

  A hacking cough reverberated around the warehouse followed an instant later by another coming from someone else.

  "Get them outta here, Ms. Hawkins!"

  Libby Hawkins flashed a venomous look in his direction, but he didn't care. He wanted those people out of his warehouse so they couldn't spread their pathogens on the supplies he had in here. And, despite all the fear, he wanted to take a look at their haul of weapons. Inside the truck was the last piece of the jigsaw. Paul Hickman now had all he needed.

  Thirty minutes later, Hick found himself striding along Main toward the community center. He, Brain and Gert had unloaded the munitions and locked them in the most secure room in the warehouse. It was somewhat laughable, and Hickman knew he had to find somewhere better to store enough equipment to supply a small army, but it would have to do for now. It came to something when he'd left the security of that treasure trove in the hands of an idiot and a man he'd only met a couple of days before. Brain, at least, was trustworthy enough, but Hick shuddered to think what Gert Bekmann could do with that much weaponry. But he considered himself a good judge of character and unless he was badly mistaken, Bekmann was the sort who abided by a strong code of ethics. They may have been pretty twisted, but if he said he'd guard the weapons, then he'd do it. Hopefully.

  Just as Hick's mind was turning to step two of the plan—which began with a long and careful conversation with Bekmann—a harassed-looking Councilman Rudy Ramone had burst in and, once he'd picked his jaw off the floor as he caught sight of the machine guns and rifles lined up in their crates, he'd delivered unwelcome news to Hick. People were dropping like flies with the sickness that had come in from Ezra, and those who weren't ill were panicking. He was needed at the community center, and he was needed right now.

  He turned the corner onto Avenue K, casting a glance at Bowie's store as he did so. A pair of deputies he didn't recognize stood outside the front door with shotguns held across their chests. The building was dark inside—that would have to be remedi
ed quickly. However tough it was for the Bowies right now, their store was essential and, one way or another, it would have to open up again quickly.

  As the community center came into sight, he spotted a group of people outside. Even before he could separate them into individuals, he could tell they were riled up. Rusty had appointed Waydon Downs—a man Hick barely knew—to run the department for him in his absence and it looked as though Downs, who stood in the entrance of the community center arms crossed, was taking a proactive approach to security.

  "Hey, it's the mayor!"

  Faces twisted around to greet him as he emerged in the parking lot. Some were friendly enough, but he also saw a heap of anger there. And the point of the spear was Lynda Strickland, his deputy and royal pain in the butt.

  She accelerated in his direction so she intercepted him ahead of the crowd. "Mr. Hickman, we've got a problem. This needs handling carefully."

  Another voice said, "Well, you sure turned out to be just like every other politician."

  Hick couldn't place the man's name, but he recognized trouble when he saw it.

  Fight fire with fire. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

  "When that RV came into town, you made a helluva fuss about ol' Gil lettin' them in without a full council meeting. But Mrs. Strickland here says there's over a hundred comin' in from Ezra. And she says you didn't ask no one."

  Hickman glanced across at Strickland. "Thanks, Lynda."

  "I won't lie for you, Paul. And Max has a point."

  Ah, yes, Max Shriver. He'd been a local official in some city across the country. Big cheese in a small town. Trouble.

  "I took an executive decision, Mr. Shriver," he said, before raising his voice so the gathering crowd could hear him. "And because of the deal I have done, we can all sleep safe in our beds knowing that if bandits come to our town again, we can defend ourselves."

  An approving murmur susurrated through the crowd.

  "Maybe, but they're sick. And they've infected our folks. Like Martha Bowie. I won't be sleeping safe in my bed tonight; I'll be listening to every cough my kids make, wondering if they've come down with this disease."

  The mood in the people around Shriver hardened. Hick was losing them.

  "I share your anger, I can promise you. But I ain't gonna bus them out into the middle of nowhere and leave them to die. So, if you'll let me through, I'll see what the situation is."

  Hick went to move past him, but with startling speed, Shriver grabbed his arm and hauled him close. "I'm warning you, Hickman. If either of my daughters so much as sneeze out of place, I'm coming for you."

  There was a roar of approval from two or three people behind Shriver. This was getting out of control.

  "Now, I suggest you step back, Max, and let Mr. Hickman come on in."

  Shriver let go of Hick's arm and his eyes swiveled up to where the barrel of Deputy Waydon Downs's shotgun hovered a foot away.

  "You be careful choosing whose side you take, Waydon. People ain't gonna forget."

  "Neither am I. Now step back."

  Hick breathed as he slipped past Downs and into the building. He made a mental note to thank the deputy; he could make an ally. But he had more pressing matters to attend to for now.

  Doctor Pishar turned to him as he emerged into the gymnasium. "Oh my God," Hick muttered. The room had been transformed into a makeshift hospital. Beds of all shapes and sizes had been placed around the walls and, in the center of the room, curtains had been strung up to make a sealed-off area. Hick fought back his instinct to run and, instead, kept himself as far away from everyone as possible.

  "At last," Pishar said as Hick reached him. "You took your time."

  Hickman's eyes narrowed. "Don't talk to me like that, Doctor. I had to make sure the … supplies we'd picked up in Ezra were secured."

  "Yes, I've heard about what you've brought back. Right now, though, we've got a crisis on our hands."

  "The flu?"

  Pishar nodded. "It certainly looks as though it's a strain of influenza. A particularly virulent one. I don't have the means to identify it, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's a version of H1N1."

  "Spanish Flu?"

  The doctor's eyebrows threatened to meld into his forehead. "You know something about influenza?"

  If he were to be honest, Hick would admit that he had the knowledge of a true hypochondriac with a particular dread of infectious disease. He'd watched every pandemic as it spread, just waiting for the big one to hit. It was like some kind of cosmic joke that it would happen now, just after the greatest disaster in human history. Talk about kicking a species when it was down.

  But instead of saying any of that, Hickman simply nodded. "Just an interested amateur, doc. I'm impressed with what you've done here."

  Behind him, someone was coughing up their lungs. Hick glanced over to see an old woman he recognized by sight. So, some of these people were from Hope.

  "We're doing our best. The Ezrans brought their own medical staff, and are being looked after in the communal homes Mrs. Bowie and Ms. Hawker set up."

  "You mean, all these people are from here?"

  The doctor nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. And this isn't everyone. They only come in here if their condition becomes especially serious. Mrs. Bowie is the exception—she insisted on staying at home, come what may."

  "Give me the numbers."

  Pishar looked down at his clipboard. He was young for a doctor and Hick guessed that his parents had offered him medicine or law as his career options. Hick couldn't help thinking he'd have made a success either way, but right now he looked burdened by responsibility and just about fit to collapse.

  "Twenty-six cases among the Ezrans, including three deaths and four others whose condition was critical when it was last reported. We have fifteen in here and another thirty-two at home. We haven't lost anyone as yet, but it's only a matter of time. It is a particularly virulent form of the disease, it would seem. But that might not be our biggest problem, Mr. Hickman."

  Hick looked up from the clipboard, and realized he was within transmission distance if the doctor coughed right now. He stepped back a little. "Oh, do tell."

  Pishar gestured out toward the parking lot. "People are starting to get nervous. Soon, they'll panic and all hell will break loose. I'm no security expert, but I don't think you have nearly enough deputies to keep it under control. It's a pity about Sheriff Kaminski; we need a lot more like him."

  Hick nodded. Maybe there was a silver lining to the cloud, after all. I mean, no one could complain about due process in a true emergency, could they?

  "Anything else, doctor?"

  "Antivirals. We don't have enough."

  "Do they work with this strain?"

  Pishar shrugged. "As well as with any other. They don't cure it, of course, but they reduce symptoms."

  "And increase survival rates?"

  "They should do, though I can't say by how much. Caught early enough, antivirals would reduce mortality close to zero, but a lot of the people here are already very ill. We're almost entirely out of supplies, so if you can obtain more, then you'll be saving lives, Mr. Hickman."

  Paul Hickman shook the doctor's hand, thanked him for his service and promised to do his best. He knew well enough where there were some antivirals, but they were already earmarked for lifesaving, and the lives in question weren't the common folk of Hope or Ezra. Hick cared about two lives: his own and his daughter's. Sure, if he had plenty, and it was to his advantage, he'd hand them over, but for now he was going to keep them secret.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, keeping out of sneezing distance, then turned to face them. "People of Hope! I have spoken with our doctor and am making arrangements for further medical supplies to be provided. The outbreak is contained and I ask you all to come together in unity to protect our city. I am doing everything to keep folks safe and I ask for your trust and your patience."

  He turned on his heels and walked away from the questions f
ired at him. This flu outbreak had presented him with an opportunity. The absence of Rusty and Martha meant that there was no one to protect the open goal. And Max Shriver, or someone like him, was going to present Hick with the excuse he needed.

  Hickman quickened his pace as he walked the quiet street. Hopers were evidently staying indoors to keep themselves safe, but he was willing to bet that as soon as the trouble started, they'd be out on the streets fast enough.

  And that was perfect. He just had to have a little chat with Gert Bekmann.

  Chapter 10: Samantha

  "We must go," Devon said. "You're taking too big a risk."

  Noah helped him to his feet as he climbed painfully out of the wood pile and stood to one side so Jessie and the others could follow.

  "That is for us to decide, surely? Now, come inside and warm yourselves."

  They followed Noah into the kitchen where the kettle was singing on the stove-top. There was no sign of the breakfast bowls they'd been using when the knock on the door had sent them scurrying into hiding again. "I am sorry. They stay for a long time."

  Devon felt the warmth of the chair's previous occupant as he sat at the table. "No, it's us who should apologize, we've put you in danger. They obviously suspect something."

  Noah sighed as he settled into a chair and took a cup of tea from his wife with a smile. "We are no strangers to the Wächter—the guardians. Whenever there is something amiss in the community, they visit us. When Muller lost six chickens in a week, they came."

  "They thought you stole them?"

  He shrugged. "Probably not. Perhaps we cursed Muller?"

  "Why would you do that?"

  "The better question might be why, if we had the power to curse, we would be content to harm his chickens rather than himself."

  Anna sat down beside her husband and took his hand in hers. "What is different about us, do you think?"

  "I've no idea. I don't know many Amish," Devon said.

  "What do you know of us? That we live simple life? That our lives are devoted to God? What else?"