The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift

by Abrahams, Tom

  The two men behind and beside the Cracker were polar opposites. Both were young, but one was tall and thin, wiry. His eyes were dark, absent something human.

  The other was overweight and lacking any definition. His ruddy cheeks were flushed, giving him a childlike appearance. His eyes were wide, appearing to take in everything around him as if seeing it for the first time.

  The chubby one shook his head. “No, Trick. Nobody said nothing about trouble.”

  Cracker, whose name was apparently Trick, turned back to them and shrugged. He smiled, multiplying the creep factor by ten. “See? No trouble. Just being neighborly.”

  Mike’s expression flattened. “It’s all good, then. No harm, no foul. Y’all have a good day.”

  Trick raised a hand. “Whoa. Where you headed? If we’re being all neighborly and such, I mean. I came from where you’re going. You came from where I’m going. We can exchange information.”

  Kandy tried telepathy. She wanted to tell Mike to start running. To race westward and avoid the stranger offering candy from the open door of a white van. In her head, she repeated his name over and again. She whispered to herself, “No. No. No. No.”

  Kandy cursed herself for wanting to come on this adventure. She was angry at Barry for suggesting it, at Mike for agreeing to it. This was a bad idea. How could it happen any other way? How could they expect to wander the apocalyptic coastal landscape and not run into bad people?

  She remembered her mother telling her never to be on the road after two in the morning. Nothing good ever happened that late. Only drunks and idiots. The corollary to that was that if nothing good happened, then you weren’t supposed to be out. And if you weren’t supposed to be out, you exposed yourself to things that weren’t supposed to happen to you. Go out after two in the morning, bad things happen.

  This might as well be two in the morning. Bad things were happening.

  Kandy cursed herself again for drifting in and out of the present moment, calling to mind useless metaphorical aphorisms instead of life skills that might help mitigate whatever might come next.

  Her telepathy didn’t work.

  “All right,” Mike said. “What can we expect on the mainland? You from Cocoa?”

  Trick smiled broadly. He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said. “I don’t think so. You go first, brother. Why don’t you tell me about your day? That a spear gun?”

  Kandy tried moving the chess pieces in her head. All seven of them were armed, though Mike’s spear gun was a one-shot weapon. It didn’t count for much in a firefight. If one of them opened fire, all of them would die. It was a zero-sum game. Better to keep talking for now.

  “There are graves on the side of the road.” She spoke up when Mike hesitated. “The stores are empty. Nobody’s out. It’s a ghost town.”

  Trick didn’t look at her at first. His eyes stayed on Mike, perhaps gauging his reaction to Kandy adding herself to the conversation. When Mike didn’t react, Trick faced her. He gave her an elevator appraisal, pushing his lips into a pucker as he gave her what was easily among the most lascivious looks a man had ever shot in Kandy’s direction.

  She ignored it and jutted a chin toward the mainland. “How about you? What’s it like over there?”

  Trick lifted his chin and scratched the underside of his jawline where it met his neck. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He was as creepy a dude as she’d ever met and that was saying something. She’d interviewed death-row inmates in Raiford, New Year’s Eve drunks on Church Street and fraternity brothers at UCF. None of them matched Trick. But the inmates came the closest. There was a desperate resignation in the way they carried themselves. They had nothing to lose, but that didn’t stop them from working the system, manipulating people, trying to gain control where they had none. Trick was an ex-con. She was certain of it. His answer confirmed her suspicion. He scratched at his collar, revealing a black ink tattoo.

  “Better than some places I been,” he said. “Worse than others.”

  Barry spoke up. “Can we get past the checkpoint over there? Are they letting people through?”

  Trick shrugged. “I couldn’t say. There’s no barricade on this side.”

  The seven stood in awkward silence before Trick spoke again. He pointed at Mike’s pack. “Y’all are loaded down. Seems like you got plenty in them bags. Why you out looking? And what’s with the spear gun?”

  “I like fishing.” Mike adjusted the pack on his shoulder. “Can’t ever have enough, right? No telling when things will get back to normal.”

  That elicited a condescending laugh from Trick. “Normal? You think things is getting back to normal? Brother, this is normal. This is how things is gonna be for a while.”

  The tall, thin man standing off to the side and behind Trick ran his hand across the top of his head. He sucked in a deep breath and puffed out the air with an obvious degree of boredom. The chubby one swayed in a way that reminded Kandy of a mother comforting a child in her arms. After another uncomfortable silence, Trick’s eyes locking on each of the weapons as he studied them again, he cut through the building tension.

  “Well,” he said, “it was a pleasure meeting you. Maybe we’ll see each other again. You never know. It’s a small world.”

  Trick turned away from them and led his men east. The tall one glanced over his shoulder as they walked.

  Mike held up his hand, indicating to the others they should stay put. “Let’s not turn our backs on them yet,” he whispered. “Hold on a minute.”

  Brice edged toward Mike. “Dude, I thought they were going to shoot us or rob us or both.”

  Kandy shook her head. “It wasn’t worth it. We’re as armed as they are. Too risky for them to make a move. But I don’t trust them. They’re bad guys.”

  Barry laughed. It was a bark of a laugh. “You think?”

  Kandy shot Barry a disapproving glance. “Yeah, Barry. I think. The one who did all the talking… Trick? He’s spent time in prison.”

  Brice’s eyes widened. “Why do you say that?”

  She ran her finger along her neck. “The tattoo at his collar. It looks like something he got behind bars. The color of the ink, the amateurish script, the symbol. I think it’s a prison gang.”

  Barry frowned. “How would you know that?”

  Kandy smirked. “I was a reporter, Barry. I interviewed guys in prison. I covered murder trials, did the perp walks after arrests. I’ve been around my fair share of bad dudes. He’s one of them.”

  She faced east and saw the men shrinking in size as they walked slowly toward Merritt Island. They were almost shoulder to shoulder. Trick was moving one of his arms as if gesticulating while emphasizing a point. The tall one shot another look back at them.

  They were talking about her and her friends much as she was discussing them. She wondered what their assessment was.

  Brice watched the trio walk east and then looked toward the mainland. “I wonder how many like them there are over there.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mike. “Ex-cons?”

  There was a sudden sadness in Brice’s eyes. A frown deepened the creases along the sides of his cheeks. It made him appear worn. “Bad guys in general. Are there more of them than there are of us?”

  Trick and his men were almost to the other side of the bridge. The first of them wound his way into the entrance to the serpentine barricade.

  Mike motioned toward the mainland and the quartet started walking. “That’s a good question,” he said. “It’s a philosophical question, right?”

  “What is?” asked Barry.

  “Are people inherently good or not?” Mike posed. “Are we only good because of the rules and conventions of society? When there are no repercussions for our actions, do we resort to our basest instincts?”

  Kandy understood this. “Survival in extreme circumstances requires extreme actions.”

  “Is that from a movie?” asked Brice. “Or a podcast? Where did you
hear that?”

  “Nowhere,” said Kandy. “I made it up.”

  Brice smiled. “You should write that down.”

  “You’re sweet,” said Kandy, “but it’s not that eloquent. And it does sound like I stole it from a poster hanging in the dentist’s office.”

  “It’s true though,” said Mike. “I never thought I’d shoot someone with a spear gun. Or a regular gun. And for what? My own survival. It’s like civility disappears in the name of self-preservation. Is that okay? Am I a good person? I don’t know. How am I different from that guy Trick? He kills to survive, I’m sure. No different from me.”

  Kandy shook her head in disagreement. “It is different, Mike. You’ve killed in self-defense. You didn’t go looking to kill or injure someone. They came to you. It’s a big difference.”

  “I looted Grace Ward’s house back there. I took things that didn’t belong to me. I violated the sanctity of her home.”

  “We all did that,” said Brice.

  Mike was unmoved. “That doesn’t change anything. It goes back to my original question. Are we good or bad? There’s that saying, it’s not a poster or anything, but it goes like, ‘Adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals it.’ So is this apocalypse just revealing who we all are when it strips away societal norms?”

  “This is way too deep,” said Barry. “I don’t think we need some freshman survey class analysis of human behavior, Mike. I think we should focus on—”

  The crack of gunfire rippled through the air. A flock of gulls launched from the bridge railing and flew west in formation. A second shot altered the birds’ course. It was an echo of the first, the same weapon fired twice in quick succession.

  All four of them froze.

  Kandy spoke first. “Do you think…?”

  “The guards,” Brice finished. “The sergeant and Sal.”

  “Should we go back?” asked Mike.

  Barry checked the west side of the bridge then looked east. “I don’t think so. For what? So they can ambush us? We should keep moving. We’re running out of time.”

  Mike gestured toward the east end of the bridge with his spear gun. “They could be alive. We could help them.”

  Kandy started east. “I agree. We should go back. If they’re alive—”

  “They’re not alive,” said Barry. “No way. All we’re doing is putting ourselves in danger. That exchange with those guys was enough for me. You said it, Kandy. The guy’s been in prison. We’re best to steer clear.”

  “I agree with Kandy,” said Brice.

  Mike swallowed, flexing his jaw in thought.

  Barry threw up his hands, lifting his weapon into the air. “Fine. I’m clearly outvoted,” he huffed. “We go back and find two dead guys. Then we get shot and—”

  “Nobody’s making you come with us, Barry,” said Mike. “You can make your own decisions.”

  Barry checked his watch. “I think you’re stupid for going back to check on those soldiers. But I’m not stupid enough to go exploring by myself. If the three of you are headed back, I’m stuck with you.”

  Kandy ignored the exhaustion, the swelling fear and led the men east again. Blisters stung her heels in her boots. The raw skin rubbed against her socks, almost forcing a limp every few steps. The blisters, she worried, were the least of their problems.

  CHAPTER 17

  MARCH 13, 2033

  SCOURGE +163 DAYS

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  John Treadgold sat across from Gwendolyn. His head was in his hands, his fingers spread across his scalp such that clumps of hair covered them. She couldn’t see his face. Didn’t need to see it. Not from his slumped posture, his bouncing knee and the repeated deep sighs.

  When she’d had enough, she spoke. “If you’re not up to the task, I’ll find someone else. It’s that simple.”

  Treadgold ran his fingers through his hair, which now looked wild. He lifted his head, his weary eyes searching hers. He licked his lips, curling the lower one into his mouth and biting down on it.

  “This is happening,” she said.

  Treadgold leaned his elbows on his knees. The bouncing stopped. “I heard you. I get it. I either get on the train or get tied to the tracks.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say that. You’re being dramatic.”

  “Dramatic? Are you serious? You’re talking about weaponizing this disease, testing it on people and then deploying it on American soil.”

  Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and shook her head. “There are three problems with that assertion.”

  Treadgold barked a laugh. “Only three?”

  The two of them were in a secure office near the labs. It was at the end of a hall, electronic locks separating them from the rest of a virtually empty section of the facility. He sat on a faux leather loveseat along one wall underneath a framed black-and-white photograph of the Tower Bridge in London. She was in a matching club chair, sitting perpendicular to him. The office served a dual purpose. It was a quiet meeting place and a lounge. Its furniture, for reasons unknown to everyone, was on the plush side of things. Certainly they were more comfortable than the furnishings in most every other room in the complex, save the converted dormitories.

  The whoosh of processed air filtered from the overhead vents. An analog clock ticked, its second hand sweeping haltingly across the face. They were alone and insulated, but Gwen lowered her voice and spoke in the even tone of someone trying to reason with an irrational person.

  “The disease is already weaponized. The Scourge killed more people than all of the wars, bombs and ethnic cleansings in all of human history. We’re not making it a weapon, we’re harnessing it. Adapting it to our needs.”

  Treadgold sat back and folded his arms across his chest. He scratched his elbows with nervous fingers.

  “As for testing,” Gwendolyn continued, “we don’t have the luxury of preclinical research on microorganisms and animals. There is no regulatory body anymore to oversee us, to track our progress and suggest alterations in protocol. Plus this isn’t some manmade compound intended to help with diabetic blindness or erectile dysfunction. This is a known combination of bacterial and viral material. We know its primary efficacy. It’s only a matter of tweaking it. Controlling it.”

  Treadgold said, “You can’t compare this to diabetic blindness or erectile dysfunction. Aside from those being the oddest combination of examples you could posit, the research for those issues is beneficial in nature. What you’re talking about is not curative. It’s deadly. Add to that we can’t control it. Nature made it, not us. To think we can somehow bridle nature is hubris.”

  Gwen folded her hands into her lap and clenched them into tight fists. She tried to hide this from Treadgold, not wanting him to see her frustration. She lowered her voice and slowed the pace of her speech another notch.

  “To your third point,” she said, “Texas is no longer US soil.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means Texas is a threat. The people there are a long-term threat to rebuilding our country. Testing it on Texans isn’t testing it on Americans.”

  “That’s semantics,” said Treadgold. “And it’s not ethical.”

  Gwen snorted a laugh. “Ethical? What does that even mean? Our job here is to save lives and protect people from health threats. When those threats arise, we respond.”

  “You don’t need to quote the mission statement to me,” said Treadgold. “I’m well aware of our job. This doesn’t feel like it fits.”

  She reached out and touched his knee. He eyed her hand but didn’t flinch.

  “This is for the greater good, John,” she said. “Think about it. If we can harness the Scourge, understand and anticipate its adaptive morphology, we can save more lives than we take. The sacrifice of the few is always required for the success of the many. It’s how the world works. Ethics have nothing to do with survival.”

  Treadgold rested his head on the sofa, looking at the ceili
ng. He squinted at the soft light or at his own thoughts.

  Before he could say anything, there was a series of clicks at the door. An electronic thunk and hum preceded the door opening into the room. It was Dr. Charles Morel.

  The door shut behind him and he padded across the office. His lab coat was unbuttoned and he wore a black Georgia Tech T-shirt underneath it.

  He looked at Gwendolyn. Then Treadgold. Then Gwendolyn again. “Am I late?”

  Gwendolyn lifted her arm and looked at her wrist. There was no watch there. “What do you think?”

  “Sorry. So sorry. I was indisposed.”

  “That’s French for being on the toilet.”

  Morel twisted his expression. “Is it French? Indis—”

  “It’s a joke,” Gwendolyn said with another roll of her eyes.

  Men were useless, she decided and motioned toward the club chair opposite her. Together, the love seat and two facing club chairs formed an angular U shape. Morel took his seat and adjusted his lab coat underneath his body. It took him several seconds to stop fidgeting. When he was finished, he nodded at Gwendolyn.

  “What did I miss, Dr. Sharp?”

  Gwendolyn wasn’t accustomed to having men here address her formally. It was almost always Gwendolyn. Occasionally, they called her Gwen, which she despised. Rarely did someone refer to her as Dr. Sharp. She liked the sound of it. She’d earned it. Double major in her undergraduate years. A master’s, an MBA and then a PhD. Her parents, rest their souls, wondered if she’d ever finish her schooling and, moreover, if she’d ever pay off the debt.

  Working for the government was a way to work off a large portion of her six-figure graduate loans, but there was a hefty undergrad bill that until the Scourge, she thought might always hang over her head. The end of the world had also seen to the end of her debt-repayment plan. Thank the lord for small miracles.