Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ

by Melrose, Russ

  "It's not your fault, Addy" Jules said. "You didn't do anything wrong."

  Addy shyly moved across the tent to Jules and threw her arms around her, sobbing, her head on Jules' shoulder. Jules hugged her and gently patted her on the back.

  "It's going to be all right, Addy," Jules told her softly.

  Addy pulled away and brushed the tears from her face. She gave Jules a hurt look.

  "I'm not stupid, you know," she whispered accusingly.

  Jules was puzzled.

  "I know what's going on," she said, her hand shaking as she brushed another tear away. "You came here looking for someone like Mr. Glickman. You thought it was that Albrecht guy, but he's dead. That means it's someone else, isn't it? That's why you've been meeting with the sheriff and the deputy. The mayor too. There's someone like Mr. Glickman here, isn't there?"

  Jules couldn't deny it. Addy had pieced things together. Angela knew something was up too. And Caleb. Too many people either knew or had an inkling something was up. At the bureau, it had been easy to keep information from the public unless releasing the information would be advantageous in some way, but Gideon was a different animal altogether.

  "Yes, Addy, there's someone like Mr. Glickman here. But for the time being, it's important you don't tell anyone. We need to find out who it is, and we don't want people to panic. If people panic, it would make it more difficult for us to find him. Just make sure you never go anywhere alone and everything will be all right. Did you mention this to Nikki?"

  Addy smiled weakly. "Yes. I told her."

  "All right. Please tell her not to tell anyone else. And tell Nikki not to go off anywhere alone."

  Chapter 35

  Nikki Gibson

  Nikki was exactly where he knew she'd be, leaning up against the same elm tree as always near the porta-potties, puffing on her cigarette like some prima donna hipster. Every night after her father fell asleep, Nikki would sneak out for a smoke. Just like clockwork. The curfew wasn't going to stop Nikki. She smiled playfully at him as he approached. Nikki had a smile for everyone, especially men.

  He was humming his latest, greatest earworm. It was Keith Urban this time—Blue Ain't Your Color. He wondered if blue was Nikki's color. Not likely. He imagined Nikki's color, if she had one, would be extra-ripe ruby red. Nikki was perpetually cheery and energetic—a virtual Energizer Bunny. He returned her smile as he walked toward her.

  Before he approached her, he'd carefully reconnoitered the area to make sure no one was in the vicinity. If anyone had been, he'd have waited for a different night. Because of the curfew, folks were settled in for the night. No one was around. Gideon was, after all, a sleepy town. The guards positioned along the riverbank wouldn't hear a thing. It would just be the two of them.

  It was a beautiful night, dark and dreamy. You couldn't ask for a better night. The sky was filled with stars, and the only sound was the ever-present whispering of the river. He knew it would go perfectly. He'd planned every detail with great precision.

  Under normal circumstances, he'd have never chosen Nikki. Too stockily built for his needs, but she'd have to do. There weren't that many options available. Addy was perfect, so much like AJ, but he would wait for her, wait till the time was right. Patience. Addy first and then Jules. They were special.

  He held the chloroform-doused washcloth in his cupped hand. He kept the back of his hand facing Nikki, keeping the washcloth hidden from her view as he walked toward her.

  After taking a drag off her cigarette, Nikki hollowed her cheeks and puckered her lips into a shapely o and exhaled the smoke ever so slowly, creating a snaky trail that rose upward into the night.

  "Hey," she said casually, smiling mischievously with her eyes as he approached.

  He returned her smile but only for a second. He stopped and craned his head around to look past Nikki as if he'd seen or heard something in back of her, his face suddenly serious as a heart attack.

  She followed his lead and turned to look.

  He was on her before she knew what was happening. He smothered her mouth with the washcloth and simultaneously wrapped his other arm around her. She screamed into the washcloth but her screams were muffled. Scream all you want was the refrain that played in his head. Screaming would help the chloroform work faster. She fought like a wild alley cat. She back-kicked his leg and tried to wrench herself from his grip. Nikki proved to be stronger than the others, and he struggled to keep her in his grasp. He put his leg in front of hers and tripped her face first to the ground, making sure to keep her mouth covered. Her face smashed into the ground. He fell heavily on top of her and pinned her right arm to her side. She continued to struggle but it was much easier to control her on the ground. There was a last, harmless slap to his arm, and then she relaxed and went still. Just to be sure, he kept the chloroform over her mouth and nose a little while longer.

  He got to his feet and breathed in the pleasant night air and let himself relax for a few seconds. He felt incredibly powerful in these moments. He headed to the bushes where he'd left his backpack. After he slipped it on, he went back for Nikki. He removed the syringe from his backpack and injected the needle into the back of her neck. He turned her over and lifted her up onto his shoulders into a fireman's carry and headed for the dam.

  He'd have to work fast. Three hours at the most. Not to his liking, but he had to appear fresh in the morning so as not to arouse suspicion.

  When he was within a hundred feet of the dam, he set her down quietly on a patch of grass. He was glad to finally get her off his back. He smiled at his unintended wordplay. He was sweating bullets from the workout he'd had carrying Nikki. He had to bend over for several seconds to catch his breath. Finally, he straightened up and stretched his body. Out of the blue, Nikki mumbled incoherently. He shook his head and laughed silently. He removed the masking tape from his backpack and covered her mouth.

  He checked his watch. Harold Curtis would have been on guard duty for three hours now. He hoped it would be enough time.

  Harold being on guard duty at the dam was a gift and one of the primary reasons he'd picked tonight. Harold Curtis was a salty, rail-thin sixty-year-old with a well-nurtured affection for alcohol. If everything went as planned, he wouldn't have to kill Harold. He didn't need any complications.

  Once he reached the southern wall of the generating plant, he walked quietly to the front of the building. Nothing to be concerned about yet. Like taking a walk in the park. Easy as pie. He knew Harold would either be on the cement steps that led from the plant's front door down to the dam or the grass bank next to the steps.

  Having a guard at the dam was relatively new, and he acknowledged the extra precaution was the result of his leaving more than a little evidence at George's. He took responsibility for it, but he didn't regret it. He liked fencing with Jules. He knew he'd miss her when she was gone.

  When he arrived at the front of the building, he wasn't the least bit surprised to see Harold lying on the bank, mouth as wide open as the Grand Canyon, snoring loudly. A nearly-empty bottle of gin sat on the step next to him—a recent, anonymous gift. People were so predictable.

  It was good news, for him and Harold. Harold's drunken slumber would make things simple as long as he remained in a comatose state.

  In case Harold didn't, he'd brought a Bowie hunting knife with him. A gun would be too loud, and he no longer had the silencer he'd used in Vegas. The silencer had found a permanent resting place in the river.

  Beforehand, he'd entertained the thought of giving Harold a shot of GHB, but if Harold happened to wake up while being given the shot, he'd have to kill Harold anyway. So, injecting him was as pointless as it gets. Besides, at this stage, Harold was so far gone, he doubted a shot would likely add more than a wink or two to his already blissful slumber.

  He took the ski mask and baseball cap from his backpack and put them on. Can't be too safe. He was already wearing dark clothes he'd appropriated for the occasion. When it was over, he'd get rid
of it all.

  With Nikki back on his shoulders, he made his way to the steps. He slipped by Harold who snored like a rhino. A third of the way across the dam, he turned to make sure Harold was still sleeping and checked twice more before he was across the dam.

  It couldn't have gone any better. Once across the dam, he deposited Nikki in the van, walked through, and then pulled her out on the other side. Slick as could be. The Hinkley Tech building wasn't more than a short walk away now. He wouldn't have to concern himself with Harold anymore. When he was done, he'd swim across the river at its narrowest point, about halfway back to Gideon. No one would see him. He'd get rid of everything and head back to camp.

  Nikki moaned weakly. He smiled to himself and began to hum Blue Ain't Your Color again. Not too long from now, he figured blue would be Nikki's color after all.

  Chapter 36

  The Call

  The end came swiftly. It was on a Thursday, two days after the Fourth. It came like a thief in the night. And within a few hours, Jules found herself alone at the Coleman's. The three agents assigned to protect her inside the home were the first to leave. News reports and calls from worried spouses and family members provided the impetus.

  The agents felt conflicted, but Jules encouraged them to go home to their families.

  A while later, the Colemans left too. Trudi's sister had a fever, and they took off to go help her. Jules had no idea when the two cars with the agents in them had left.

  She sat on the edge of the couch, mesmerized by the crazy videos being shown on CNN. It couldn't be real. Sick people wandered the streets, shuffling aimlessly, arms dangling at their sides. They wore stupefied expressions like drugged-out psych patients. Their skin had turned ash gray and their eyes were red-rimmed and jaundiced.

  Whenever the sick ones would see a healthy person, they'd attack with a crazed ferocity, often in groups, biting and ripping chunks of flesh away. Jules cringed at the gory bloodletting but couldn't stop watching. She had to know what was happening.

  CNN cited Homeland Security reports that claimed the virus had been released at airports throughout the world on July Fourth. A CNN medical expert speculated that the incubation period was around thirty-six hours. During the incubation period, people wouldn't realize they were infected. After that, cold and flu-like symptoms would present. Later, the more serious symptoms would begin.

  Jules mind drifted in a haze. She tried to comprehend what all the insanity meant but couldn't reconcile it in her mind. She wanted to believe the situation would be sorted out by the government or the military, that everything would return to normal, but a hollow feeling in her gut told her otherwise.

  For one of the few times in her life, Jules felt frightened. It wasn't the infected that frightened her as much as the possibility that the world she knew would no longer exist. The thought terrified her. Jules needed the stability and orderliness the bureau afforded her. The FBI served as her foundation, her rock, the same way her stepfather had when she was growing up.

  Jules was scheduled to meet with Stohl in the morning to give him her report on Glickman. Despite her personal dislike for Stohl, she was actually looking forward to the meeting.

  The sudden ringing of the landline phone startled Jules. She thought it might be the Colemans calling to let her know what was going on. Jules muted the television. She picked up the phone and checked caller id. Beckerman. She replaced the phone into the base and stared at it.

  He'd texted her that morning and told her he was in Gideon again. Jules was doing her best to avoid him.

  It rang five times and went to recording. "Jules?" he asked, sounding confused. "There Jules? Home?" Beckerman was silent for several seconds.

  "Listen. Not the-the ma-mackerel," Beckerman stammered insistently. "No! Not the mackerel."

  Jules wondered if Beckerman might be infected. He didn't sound like himself and wasn't making any sense. She had no idea what he was talking about.

  "Found her," he emphasized, sounding exhausted. "Her," he repeated. "Understand? Her! Not the ma-ma-mackerel. No. Not the mackerel." There was a pleading, desperate quality woven into Beckerman's voice. He sounded like a flustered old man who couldn't get anyone to understand what he was saying.

  Jules considered picking up the phone.

  "Carol?" Beckerman said suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion. "Come home, Carol. Please come home. No. No, no, no!" he screamed. "Have to remember. Not the mackerel!"

  A moment later, Beckerman started sobbing. "Carol," he said gently in a defeated voice. "Carol there?"

  Jules picked up the phone. "Noah, it's Jules. Noah?"

  He didn't answer. Jules heard a sudden sharp thwack, the sound of the phone striking a hard surface. After that, scraping noises like someone shuffling down a hallway.

  "Noah!" Jules yelled.

  She listened intently, hoping he'd come back. She heard the creaking of a door hinge. After that, everything went quiet. Jules listened intently. Without warning, the silence was shattered by a bitingly-loud crack, the unmistakable sound of a gun being fired.

  "Noah!" she screamed into the phone. "Noah!"

  Jules held onto the phone another fifteen minutes, straining to hear anything. But Noah Beckerman was gone.

  Chapter 37

  The Reminder

  It was past nine-thirty and the sun had just dipped below the horizon. Despite the absence of the sun, the desert air was brazenly hot, baking everything in sight. The Colemans' patio thermostat registered 106 degrees, but Jules didn't care. It seemed hotter in the house. She set the glass of pinot noir on the patio table. Normally, she'd be setting a bottle next to it, but since she was leaving first thing in the morning, the lone, generously-filled wine glass would have to do.

  Jules stared at the Colemans' dying grass. Half the grass in the Coleman's backyard had turned a dried-out corn-husk yellow. The yard had withered away like everything else. Electricity was the culprit. One day out of the blue, the electricity died. It cut off water to the yard and killed everything that wasn't desert friendly. Now, it was as if the electricity had never existed. Inside, the house had become a silent tomb with Jules its only inhabitant. Till the electricity went out, Jules hadn't realized how much the sound of the air conditioning and the hum of electrical appliances had been keeping her company.

  The only sounds she heard now were the incessant, grumbling moans of the infected, their scratchy sounds drifted through the scorching summer air.

  The patio had served as Jules' evening sanctuary since the electricity died—that and the wine. The house had become like a prison. She was glad the food had all but run out. It was forcing her to leave. The water was nearly gone too. She'd begun boiling water that first week, filling up any containers she could find.

  The dry, acidic pinot noir made Jules' lips pucker, and she had to keep wetting her lips with her tongue to keep them moist.

  What little wine was left in the Colemans' basement cellar was suffering from the heat. Its elements had degraded and the wine had become flat. Jules knew she'd become too dependent on the wine over the past three and a half weeks.

  A thin film of sweat from the dense heat covered her arms and legs. The hot desert air was sucking the water right out of her pores.

  Jules turned her attention to the long, iris-colored clouds lingering above the horizon, their ribbed underbellies tinged a deep salmon red. The clouds sat silent and motionless in the listless sky.

  Jules couldn't wait to leave in the morning.

  She had to get away from the house or she would go stir crazy if she wasn't there already. Her mind drifted, as it often did, to thoughts of Noah Beckerman. Noah Beckerman and his daughter, Carol, were her only companions. The wine was supposed to keep her from thinking about them, but it wasn't getting the job done.

  Jules drained half the glass. She regretted not picking up the phone the day Beckerman had called and the guilt festered in her mind. She didn't pick up the phone because she was concerned for her c
areer. It was an act of selfishness and Jules knew it. Now her career was gone anyway. She winced at the cruel irony.

  Jules blamed herself for not being there for Noah Beckerman, and she'd have to live with it. But it was the Calligrapher whose fingerprints were all over Beckerman's demise. The moment Noah Beckerman's daughter died, his life had begun to ebb away. Jules heard it in his voice when he left her voicemails the day he was in Washington. Despite the progress he seemed to be making, a deep emptiness pervaded his voice.

  And then there was Carol Beckerman. Every time Jules would drift off in relaxation or the onset of sleep, images of Carol Beckerman would fill her mind. One moment, Jules would see Carol's fresh, youthful face, full of life; the next, she'd see the same face stilled in a silent, horrible death.

  They were owed something. That's where her mind went when she thought of them. They deserved justice, a balancing of the scales. And while she didn't personally owe them that, it's what they deserved. The other young women too.

  As the weeks passed, she'd tried to keep busy and focus on other things. Once the electricity was gone, her internet access died along with it, and Jules was left with too much time on her hands. Every day she'd practice her Goju-ryu strikes and attacks and would exercise, but that only took a few hours. To fill the vacuum, Jules had begun to do housework, something she'd always hated. She'd sweep and dust and clean the bathrooms, whatever she could find to do, but it still left too much time to think.

  When she realized she had to leave, Jules knew what she would do. She would find the Calligrapher. She would balance the scales. His victims might not ever know that justice had been dispensed, but Jules would know, and that would be enough.

  Jules drained the last of her wine. She had a sudden inspiration.