Plague

by Michael Grant

  He turned it over. By now the suspense was even getting to Sam.

  Jack closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, turned the laptop over, and pressed the battery indicator light. Two tiny green lights blazed.

  “Two!” Jack exulted. “Two! I was afraid it’d be one blinking light.” Then, in a whisper. “Two. That’s maybe an hour and a half. Maybe two hours even.”

  “Dude. Are you crying?”

  Jack wiped his eyes. “No. Jeez.”

  “He’s lying, he’s crying,” Toto called out unhelpfully.

  “You need some time?” Sam asked. He doubted any power on earth could convince Jack to move on yet.

  Jack nodded.

  “Okay. Dekka and I will get the next one.”

  The eleventh container was more lawn furniture.

  The twelfth container was filled from bottom to top with the greatest sight Sam and Dekka had ever seen in their lives.

  This time it was they who stood, awestruck. Overcome by emotion.

  There was no mistaking that logo.

  “Can you put Pepsi in Cup-a-Noodles?” Dekka wondered.

  They leaped at the shrink-wrapped pallets and ripped cans free.

  Crack psst!

  Crack psst!

  Crack psst!

  The sound that had not been heard in the FAYZ for months was heard once again. Pop-tops were popped, and Sam, Dekka, and Toto drank deep.

  “Oh,” Dekka said.

  “So good,” Toto said.

  “It’s . . . It’s like life is all right again. Like the universe has finally decided to smile at us,” Sam said with a huge smile.

  Burp.

  “Oh, yeah,” Dekka said. “Soda burp.”

  The three of them were grinning. “Jack!” Sam yelled.

  “I’m busy!” he called back.

  “Get over here. Now!”

  Jack came running like he was expecting trouble. A grinning Sam held a can out for him.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “It is,” Sam assured him.

  Crack psst!

  Burp.

  Jack started crying then, sobbing and drinking and burping and laughing.

  “You going crazy on us, Jack?” Dekka asked.

  “It’s just . . .” He couldn’t seem to find the words.

  Sam put his arm around Jack’s shoulders. “Yeah, dude. It’s too much, isn’t it? I mean too much like the world before.”

  “I eat rats,” Jack said through his tears.

  “We all eat rats,” Dekka said. “And glad to get a good juicy one, too.”

  “True,” Toto muttered with some concern. “They eat rats. They didn’t mention rats before, Spidey.”

  The sun was well past noon. Sam said, “We need to check the last containers. Then get moving. Just because we’re living large doesn’t mean people at home are.”

  “We don’t need to find water, we have Pepsi!” Jack said.

  “Which is great,” Sam said. “Might last a few days. If we could get it back to town.”

  That sobered Jack. He nodded briskly and said, “Yes, you’re right. Sorry. I was just . . . I don’t know. For a few minutes there it was like maybe it was all over.”

  Just to do something different they went to the boxcar. The instant they rolled back the door they were assailed by a sickly sweet smell.

  The boxcar had been full of oranges. But this was only obvious because of the perky labels on the flats. The oranges themselves had long since rotted in the heat. A sticky liquid covered the floor of the car. Some of the crates sprouted fantastic growths of furry mold.

  “A little late on this one,” Sam said regretfully.

  “Oranges would have been good,” Toto said.

  The very last container was a mixed load: Stanley brand screwdrivers and saws and assorted hand tools, and exercise equipment of various types.

  But by then no one cared, because it was the next-to-last container that weighed on their minds.

  The thirteenth container had been loaded with shoulder-fired missiles.

  The so-called hospital had sounded even worse after the fire. Because then kids had been screaming. Screaming Lana’s name.

  No screams this time, Lana noted. Coughs. Lots of deep, rasping coughs. Like kids were trying to cough their lungs right out.

  Dahra was standing over one of the cots, laying a wet cloth on a kid’s head. She hadn’t noticed Lana walk in with Sanjit.

  Lana did a quick count. Twenty? Twenty-one? Some of them were on cots, some were on mattresses covered in piled-high blankets from a dozen homes, a dozen beds. Some were lying with very little clothing on the cool tile floor.

  And most were coughing, coughing, coughing.

  Dahra looked up at the sound of their voices. “Lana. Thank God. You want to try again?”

  Lana spread her hands helplessly. “I’ll do whatever. But the magic isn’t working on this thing.”

  Dahra wiped sweat from her brow. She looked like she hadn’t slept. Maybe ever. “Look, secondary infections, they’re called. Someone gets a virus and then something else moves in, too. A lot of times that’s what kills people.”

  “You’re the boss,” Lana said. She meant it, and she meant it only for Dahra.

  “Her.” Dahra pointed. “Start with her. One hundred and six fever. That’s what Pookie was before . . .”

  Lana went to the girl. She looked familiar; Lana thought her name might be Judith, but it was hard to recognize someone whose face was red from coughing, drenched in sweat, hair plastered down, eyes scared, bleary, and defeated.

  Lana laid her hand on the girl’s head and almost yanked it away. She was hot to the touch. Like touching a plate fresh from the dishwasher.

  Lana had no particular ritual for healing. She just touched the person and tried to focus.

  “Who are you?” Dahra snapped at Sanjit.

  “Lana’s boyfriend,” Sanjit said.

  “No, he’s not,” Lana said.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Dahra said to Sanjit. “We’ve got three known dead already. Go wash yourself off in the ocean and go home.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay. I want to help.”

  Dahra stared, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out if he was crazy. “You really want to help? Because I need someone to empty out the bucket. If you really want to help.”

  “I do. What bucket?”

  Dahra pointed to a plastic trash can with a lid. Around it was a reeking pile of Tupperware containers that Dahra used as bedpans.

  Sanjit scooped up the bedpans and balanced them on top of the bucket of urine and feces. The stench filled the room.

  “There’s a trench in the square. Then, if you’re motivated, you could rinse everything out in the surf.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Sanjit said.

  When he was gone, Dahra said, “I like your boyfriend. Not many guys volunteer to carry ten gallons of diarrhea and vomit.”

  Lana laughed. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, well, he can be mine if he wants to be. He’s cute. And he carries crap.”

  Lana felt the girl under her hand shudder and shake.

  Dahra was moving automatically from bed to bed, cot to cot, pile of blankets on the floor to pile of blankets on the floor. She sighed as she wrote down another temperature. She was keeping records. Probably not as good as a doctor would do, but better than the average fourteen-year-old girl with twenty-one hacking, shivering patients could be expected to do.

  “Why can’t I do this?” Lana wondered aloud. “The first round of flu it worked, mostly.”

  “Immunity, right?” Dahra said. “The virus gets into you, and then your body fights back. The virus learns, comes back ready for a new fight. So instead of reprogramming to beat antibodies it reprogrammed to beat you.”

  “I’m not an antibody,” Lana said.

  “Yeah, and this isn’t the old world, is it? This is some freak show where nothing works exactly the way it should.”

/>   His freak show, Lana thought. A single match and she could have burned it out, killed it. Maybe. How many deaths had come because Lana had failed?

  A boy Lana knew, a first grader named Dorian, suddenly stood up and started running for the door. It was a weaving, unsteady run.

  Dahra cursed and made a snatch for him.

  The kid was out the door in a flash.

  A moment later Sanjit reappeared with Dorian under one arm and the now semi-clean toilet bucket and containers in the other.

  “Come on, little man,” he said. “Back to bed.”

  But Dorian wasn’t having it. He started screaming and flailing around.

  Pandemonium erupted. Two kids started crying loudly, a third rolled off his bed onto the floor, and a fourth was shouting, “I want my mommy, I want my mommy.”

  Then, a cough that was so loud it drew every eye. The little boy, Dorian.

  He was standing up. He seemed startled by what had just come from his mouth.

  He reared back and coughed again.

  “No,” Dahra gasped.

  Lana leaped to the little boy’s side and pressed her hand against the side of his head.

  He coughed with such force it knocked him down, flat on his back.

  Sanjit straddled him, holding him down, while Lana lay her hands on him, one on his heaving chest, the other on the side of his throat.

  Dorian coughed, a spasm so powerful Sanjit fell backward and Dorian’s head smacked against the floor with a sickening crack. Lana kept her hold on him.

  “He’s so hot I can barely keep my—,” Lana said as Dorian convulsed, bent into a C, and erupted in a cough that sprayed bloody chunks over Sanjit’s face.

  Lana did not waver, did not pull back, but Dorian coughed again, and now blood seeped from his ears and pulsed from his lips.

  Lana stood up suddenly and backed away.

  “Don’t stop,” Dahra begged.

  “I can’t cure death,” Lana whispered.

  Just then two kids appeared in the doorway carrying a third. Lana could see from clear across the room that the girl they were struggling to carry was already gone.

  Dahra saw it, too. “Set her down,” she said to them. “Just set her down and get out of here, wash yourselves in the surf, and then go home.”

  “Will she be okay? She lives with us.”

  “We’ll do everything we can,” Dahra said flatly. And when they beat a hasty retreat, she added under her breath, “Which is not a damn thing.”

  Lana closed her eyes and could sense the Darkness reaching out for her, questing, a faint tentacle reaching to touch her mind.

  So this is how you destroy us, Lana thought. This is how you kill us off. The old-fashioned way: plague.

  Chapter Nineteen

  28 HOURS, 11 MINUTES

  ORC TOOK A small detour on his way to the beach to tear his old home apart looking for a bottle. He found two.

  With one bottle in each hand he headed toward the water. He was drinking from both bottles, a swig from the left, a swig from the right, and very soon he was finding the weight of feces in his pants almost funny.

  “Orc. Man, where you been?”

  Howard. Right there in front of him.

  “Go away,” Orc said. Not angry, too happy now to be angry. “Orc, man, what is going on with you? I been looking everywhere for you.”

  Orc stared dully at Howard. He drank deeply, tilting the bottle back so far he almost lost his balance.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Howard said. He stepped forward and reached for the bottle and got his fingers around it.

  Orc’s backhand sent him flying. He had a sudden savage urge to kick Howard. Howard was looking at him as if he had already been kicked and not just swatted away. A look of betrayal. Of hurt.

  Orc closed his eyes and turned his head away. Not up for this. He had turds in his pants, his head hurt, bad memories were bubbling up inside his brain, and he didn’t need this.

  “Dude, come on, man, this isn’t right. I’ll take care of you, man.” Howard stood up and made a show of being fine. His voice was soothing, like he was talking to a baby. Or to some stupid animal or something.

  “I got what I need,” Orc said. He held the two bottles out like trophies.

  Howard stood cautious, ready to jump back. There was blood running from his nose. “I know you’re feeling bad about Drake. I know that, because you and I are best friends, right? So I know how you’re feeling. But that’s done. Anyway, it was just a matter of time, sooner or later it was going to happen.”

  Orc liked this line of reasoning. But he felt like maybe there was a diss hidden in there, too. “’Cause no one could trust me, right?”

  “No, man, that’s not it,” Howard said. “It’s just, no jail was ever going to hold Drake forever. This is all Sam’s fault, if had just done what he should have done—”

  “I think I hurt some little kid,” Orc said.

  Just like that. Out it came. Not planned. More like it had to escape. Like Drake: it was going to get out sooner or later.

  The comparison made Orc laugh. He laughed loud and long and took another drink and was feeling almost cheerful until his bleary eyes settled on Howard’s face once more. Howard was grave. Worried.

  “Orc, man, what’s that mean? What do you mean you hurt some kid?”

  “I just want to go wash off,” Orc said.

  “This kid you hurt. Where did it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Orc growled. He looked around like he might be in the right place. No, this wasn’t it. It was . . . He spotted a stop sign at the far end of the block.

  There was a pile of rags at the bottom of the sign.

  Orc felt an icy cold fill his body. Howard was still talking, but his voice was just a distant buzzing sound.

  Orc stood staring, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to breathe. Stared at the little pile of rags that was so clearly, so terribly clearly, a body.

  Memory. Orc was back in his old body, the one before, the one made of flesh and not rock. He was raising his baseball bat, intending to teach Bette a lesson. Just a tap. Just a smack to show her he was in charge.

  He had never meant to kill her, either.

  “I’ll get rid of it,” Howard was saying from far away. “I’ll hide it. Or something.”

  It. Like the pile of rags wasn’t a little kid.

  Orc walked away, numb, indifferent to Howard’s pleas.

  It was a small, sandy area, not quite a cove, not really large enough to be much of a beach. It was just a sandy space between jumbled rocks on one side and a stand of scruffy-looking palm trees and grass on the other.

  The five fishing boats—the fleet—were beached, pulled up onto the sand. It was like one of those picture postcards from quaint European fishing villages, Quinn thought. Not that the boats were very pretty, really, they were actually rather scruffy, and lord knew they smelled.

  Still, kind of perfect.

  Quinn and his fishermen had set up a reasonably pleasant campsite. There was never any rain so the fact that they had no tents or other cover didn’t matter.

  “We’ll camp out old-school,” Quinn had announced as though it was all a fun diversion.

  There were nineteen of them all together and they soon discovered that the beach was alive with fleas, tiny sand crabs, and assorted other animals that made sleep really unpleasant.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Then someone had the bright idea of burning a patch of grass on the theory that the cleared area would be relatively bug- and crab-free.

  This of course gave way naturally to a bonfire of driftwood. It smoked way too much and was hard to keep burning, but it improved everyone’s mood and soon they were cooking an early dinner of fish, including some excellent steaks from the shark.

  The dinner talk was all about what was happening back in town. Quinn hoped someone would think to update them. Not just forget about them. He made a point of reassuring
his crews that Sam and Edilio would be taking care of their siblings and friends.

  “This is just so we don’t get sick and can keep working,” Quinn explained.

  “Oh, goody: work,” Cigar said, and everyone laughed.

  None of the fishermen seemed sick. No one had complained. Maybe the fact that they were a sort of self-contained group who mostly hung out together and spent most of their time out on the ocean had kept them safe. Maybe they would be okay.

  Quinn watched the sun plunge toward the horizon. He walked out alone onto a spit of rock and sand that stretched a few dozen feet from the shore. Weird how much he had come to love his job and being out on the water. He’d always loved surfing, and now that was gone, but the water was still there. Too calm, too peaceful, too much like a lake, but it was still a remnant of the actual ocean, and he loved being near it and on it and in it.

  If the barrier ever came down, what would he do? Wait until he was old enough and move to Alaska or Maine and become a professional fisherman? He laughed. That was not a career path that would ever have occurred to him in the old days.

  But now he just could not even pretend to care about college or being a lawyer or a businessman or whatever it was his folks thought he should be.

  He had crossed a line. He knew it and it made him a little sad. None of them would ever be normal children again. Especially those who had found ways to be happy in the FAYZ.

  A light. Down in the direction of the islands. It would never have been noticed back in the days when Perdido Beach itself was lit up.

  Quinn had heard the story about Caine and Diana occupying one of the islands. It was weird to think that the light might be coming from Caine’s bedroom. And that Caine might be gazing out at the dark night.

  Life would never be totally peaceful as long as that guy was alive.

  Quinn turned his gaze south. The Sammy suns in people’s homes weren’t bright enough to light up the town. But the red glow of the setting sun painted the bare outline of Clifftop, snug up against the nearest arc of the barrier.

  Lana. Quinn had liked her. Had even thought maybe she liked him. But something had changed in Lana. She was, in some sense, too large and powerful a person for Quinn.

  Like Sam, who had once been Quinn’s closest friend. They were both part of some different class of person.