by Tom Calen
Mike immediately understood her concern. Having lost the rest of her family to the virus, Sarah was quite familiar with its initial symptoms.
“What if he’s…sick, Mike?” she asked. Her eyes betrayed her and it was clear that she had intended to say infected but could not bring herself to voice the possibility.
“You can’t think like that. Sarah, kids get sick all the time. It’s been three months, he would have gotten sick long ago if it was the virus.”
He spoke the words, yet his emotion lacked much conviction. There was so much about the virus they did not know. When the outbreak first spread, news reports had limited the potential victims to certain blood types. If that was true, Mike wondered, then why did people who got bitten change? And, how could they change so rapidly? He detested the lack of information available to him. On one of the missions into town, he’d even ordered a stop at the local library to collect as many books as possible on viruses, specifically the Inclusion Body Disease virus, the reptilian illness that had started it all.
Though some of the erratic behavior in infected humans mimicked diseased reptiles, Mike was unable to learn much else. Over the intervening months, he began to worry that the virus had struck with such devastating rapidity that maybe no one had had a chance to truly study it.
Following Sarah into the house, Mike soon found himself looking at the unconscious and frighteningly pale young boy. His mother had covered him with as many blankets as the small group had in their possession; with the warm summer air, the other children had no longer been using them when they slept. The boy’s small frame was cocooned in warmth, yet still his body shook while he slept. To Mike he looked like a typical person with the flu, but having not personally been near to anyone with an earlier stage infection, he could not rule out the possibility that what Andrew had was a danger to them all.
“Is he…?” Sarah asked him, but could not bring herself to finish the question.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “Have the others been around him today?”
Sarah shook her head in response.
“Okay, for now, until we can be sure, they need to stay out of this room. If it’s not the virus, he still looks in pretty bad shape.”
Mike sat down on the bed and placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. The skin felt like fire to the touch. Searching his mind for answers, he recalled watching an episode of a hospital-based drama where the doctors helped break a patient’s fever through a warm bath. Hoping the method was grounded in some reality, Mike immediately went outside to retrieve the metal tub used for laundry. Bringing the tub into the room, Sarah helped him fill it with water from jugs. Though not large enough to fully accommodate a pre-teen boy, the tub was sufficient in submerging the boy’s trunk beneath the room-temperature water. Now out from under his shelter of blankets, Andrew’s body shook violently with shivers.
After twenty minutes in the tub, Mike removed the boy as his mother wrapped him in a large towel. He was unsure if the method had worked, but he thought Andrew felt somewhat cooler to the touch. Wishful thinking most likely.
Over the next two days, he and Sarah kept a steady vigil in the small bedroom. Mike had been forced to alert the others to the situation. He could see their emotions twist with concern for Andrew, and fear for themselves. After two days of being in close proximity with the boy, neither Sarah nor Mike showed any symptoms, which led him to believe that Andrew suffered from a strong flu, but not the Tilian Virus.
That hopeful assumption, however, did little to relieve his worry for the boy. His fever had diminished slightly, but still remained precariously high. Andrew had not eaten in over two days, and his already thin body seemed to be caving in upon itself. Though unconscious most of the time, when he did wake Andrew spoke with unintelligible words and sounds, the fever clearly clouding his motor skills and cognitive ability.
Not only worried about the young boy’s survival, Mike was concerned what effect his death would have on the others. Sarah, who had already suffered so much, seemed to live only for her son. Without him, Mike feared what would happen to her will to survive. His students, as he still liked to think of them, had grown very attached to Andrew. Just as Mike felt the responsibility for their well-being, so too had they undertaken the role of protector with regards to the youngest member of their campground clan.
By the third day, the routine of the house had come to a grinding halt. Mike and Sarah alternated between sleeping and watching Andrew, while the others desired to stay in the large front room waiting for some sign of the boy’s return to health. Mike closed the door to the sick boy’s room behind him and found the gathering of his students. Arrayed around the large table, their gloom was palpable. He took a seat in one of the empty chairs. He had intended to go to sleep in the room he shared with Erik and Blaine, but the expectant faces before him pleaded for information.
“No change, yet,” he said with a voice clearly marked with exhaustion. “How long have you guys been out here?”
“Since this morning,” Derrick offered.
“You can’t stay inside all day, guys. There’s work that needs to be done, and it’s not good for you to just sit around and wait,” he told them.
“No offense, Mr. A., but the little man is probably the only family I got left. So, picking twigs in the woods can wait until he gets better,” Erik said. The look he leveled at Mike showed that he would accept no argument.
Mike nodded his head with an understanding smile. For better or worse, he thought as he rose from the table and shuffled to bed, we’re a family.
On the fifth day of Andrew’s illness, Sarah’s strength had begun to crack. Mike held the heart-broken mother as she cried on his shoulder. The boy had shown no sign of improvement. What little food and water he consumed had to be forced down his throat. His skin seemed to stretch over his bones as muscle dwindled underneath it. Mike knew the boy could not last much longer in his condition. Sarah’s sobs came from a place of deep sorrow, a place only a mother losing a child could understand. As he held her, his eyes caught the slightest flash of movement from the bed. At first dismissing the movement as further shivering, Mike then heard a soft, rasping and weak whisper.
“Mom?”
Through her tears, Sarah had not heard the sound. In fact, Mike was unsure if he had even heard it, or his imagination had willed it, but again the boy’s voice rose.
“Mom?”
“Sarah,” Mike said as he pulled back from his hold of her. He turned her towards the bed, and she gasped as she saw her son struggling to sit up, his eyes open and clear.
With a startling scream, the mother rushed to her son and scooped his near weightless body into a tight embrace. Her tears of sorrow had quickly been replaced with ones of pure relief. Mike found himself unable to hold back his own emotions as twin wet lines rolled down his face.
Having heard Sarah’s exclamation, the teenagers rushed into the room. Mike smiled through tears as he watched them join the pair on the bed. Overcome with emotion, he exited the room and sought fresh air outside the stone walls. With a deep inhalation, he filled his lungs with the clean mountain air. Running his hands over his face to wipe away the wetness, he shook his head with a laugh.
In the following days, the routine returned to normal. Chores were completed and meals were again shared as a group. Andrew had regained his strength quickly, as well as his appetite. Mike could not help but remark to himself on the resiliency of youth. Free to admit it now that the danger passed, he had been sure the boy was on his deathbed. Now, however, he watched Andrew playing with Gazelle in the stone grove beyond the home.
Mike found himself on laundry duty that day and was returning to the house just as Blaine approached from the other direction, his arms loaded heavy with wood for the stove.
“I don’t care how young you are,” Mike warned jokingly. “You carry that much at once, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Well, I am definitely going to hurt myself if yo
u don’t open the door soon,” Blaine replied with a smile.
Mike quickened his step up the worn stone path and shifted the dry clothing to one arm as his left hand reached to open the door.
A loud sound ripped through the canyon, its echo reverberating along the stone walls. Mike felt the left side of his face splashed with liquid as his body reacted to the startling sound. He turned in the direction of the sound as Blaine released the wood he carried, letting it crash to the stone path. Mike glanced quickly at the falling logs, and then brought his eyes to meet Blaine’s own; they were wide and lifeless. As his body fell backwards, Mike saw the red exit hole of the bullet that had gone through Blaine’s skull.
Turning, Mike saw the forms of the five men at the head of the path leading from the woods to the stone house, each armed with either a rifle or handgun. On instinct, he hurled himself through the front door just as the men opened fire. Crashing to the hard floor of the house, Mike suddenly recognized the faces of the men—they were the same faces that had attacked him and the other refugees months earlier, the faces of the men he had mercifully let live.
Chapter Eighteen
The progression down the mountain was occurring at a much slower pace than Mike had anticipated. With over seventy people making the trek, it was well into the night before the group was able to make camp at mid-point. Few among the survivors had ventured away from the main camp as much as he and, the security and scavenger teams had. He had mentally prepared himself for delays, but Mike had not expected them to occur so soon into the journey.
The trail down that Lisa had selected was the widest of the ones used for an excursion off the mountain. Even so, the mid-point camp could barely contain the large number of people that now milled about. Not wanting to risk a visible fire, the refugees had dined on dried and salted meat prepared days in advance. Though the texture was unappealing, the taste of the jerky was good, and the meal helped fill the many rumbling stomachs that complained loudly during the march.
Dr. Marena was busy tending to various requests of assistance, severely blistered feet being the most common. Mike was surprised at how quickly the refugees had lost their travelling skills. In just the year and half spent in the mountain camp, they had grown soft compared with the earlier years of frequent relocation. No complaints were voiced, but he could tell that just the one day hike had taken its toll.
“They got comfortable,” Paul said, lowering himself down near Mike on the ground. He was always amazed at how well Paul could read his thoughts.
“And we still have another day’s hike before we reach the transports,” Mike said dully.
“After years on the road,” Paul began in reply, “you can’t blame them for welcoming the relief the camp offered.”
Before Mike could respond, Lisa and Michelle joined them on the soft undergrowth.
“How we looking for tomorrow?” Mike addressed the question to Lisa.
“If we keep moving like we did today, you’re going to have to make the call about leaving.”
The debate had already begun in Mike’s mind earlier in the day when he saw how little progress the group had made. At the current rate, the refugees would not reach the transports until dark. Mike would have to decide whether to make camp and wait for dawn, or risk starting the drive in darkness. Experience had shown that the Tils did sleep, but the vehicle headlights would be more than enough to draw them into the open and kick off their frenzy. Sleeping out in the open, however, was also an undesirable risk.
“What do you think?” Mike asked her.
“It’s a crap shoot either way,” she said. “And I follow the lieutenant’s example, I advise but don’t decide, Chief.”
Mike could not help but join in the laughter of the other three. Memories of the lieutenant were a welcome break from the decisions ahead. The small group sat for some time reminiscing about the gruff man and his idiosyncrasies.
With an early morning start to the final leg of the descent, Mike indicated his intentions to retire for the evening. His unspoken influence over the refugees motivated them to follow his example, and soon the campsite grew quiet, save for the soft footsteps of the security team that patrolled the perimeter.
Mike’s sleep was fitful as his mind continued to deliberate over the next night’s options. Even in college, he had been prone to weigh the potential outcomes of major decisions, trying to will his mind to follow the successive ramifications of each course of action. Serving as the leader of the refugees, that tendency had served him well and kept him from making rash moves that could endanger the lives of others. The cost had deprived him of many restful nights, and he could feel the effect the past years had on him. Though only twenty-nine, his time as leader had tired him, and aged him, more than six years should have.
Dawn came too quickly, as he had grown accustomed, and the camp’s activities stirred to wakefulness those that remained asleep. If Mike had been pleased that the travelers voiced no complaints last night, he was highly agitated by the conversations he overheard as he convened with the council. People immediately began grousing about sore feet and legs, stiff backs from the bare ground, and exhaustion from too little sleep.
With a quick glare from Mike, Paul broke away from the council and began to navigate through the griping crowd, employing whatever magic skill he had to turn the mood around. Mike hoped it worked because the day’s journey would be just as arduous as the day before, and his patience for unnecessary complaints was thin. He had intended to speak with the refugees once the drive south began. He wanted to caution them about the potential dangers, and to encourage them for what he believed would be a monumental journey that would change their fates forever. He certainly was not planning on giving a pep talk to get them down the mountain, which would most likely be the easiest part of the trip.
Once again, Paul succeeded in his task, and by the time he rejoined the council’s discussion, Mike could already sense a drastic reduction in negativity as the refugees made ready to depart. He gave Mike a playfully arrogant smirk, as Mike shook his head at his friend’s charismatic abilities. Not wanting to waste the current good mood of the travelers, he ordered their departure, and the final trek down the mountainside was underway.
* * *
The pace did not increase that day, and it was close to midnight before they reached the road and the guarded transports. Having accepted a moonlit arrival during the hike, Mike decided that they would wait until first light before continuing their exodus.
“Lisa, I want everyone not part of the security team, scavenging team or the council loaded up. They’re not going to like it, but they are sleeping in the vehicles. We may have to make a quick exit tonight, and we can save a lot of time if most everyone is already in the transports,” Mike informed her.
“Yes, sir,” she replied with military formality.
Turning to Paul, he said, “Make the rounds and do your thing. Make sure they all know that even a whisper could do us in. And anyone that complains about sleeping in a cramped car or bus, you can tell them that I have ordered that at the first sighting of a Til, the transports are pulling out of here with whoever is on them.”
“I’m on it, Chief,” Paul affirmed, smoothly switching from friend to subordinate.
“What shape are they in?” Mike directed his next words to the doctor.
With a shrug, Dr. Marena replied, “They’re a bit worse for the wear. We have a good supply of pain relievers for the more serious bruises and soreness, but the rest can do without, I think.”
“All right, do me a favor Doc, and check in with the security and scavengers first. You’re authorized to bench any of them that you believe unfit due to exhaustion, etc. They will be our only protection tonight and I need clear, alert people out there.” Mike had thrown in the favor remark since he learned long ago that the doctor’s feathers ruffled whenever he thought he was being given an order. With Dr. Marena, he always had to use a good amount of honey to catch the flies he needed.
>
Mike smirked inwardly as the doctor set off to his task filled with self-importance and temporary authority. He was pleased to see that many of the refugees loaded into the school bus and other passenger vehicles with heightened attention to silence and, thankfully, a decreased attention to protestation.
“Just let us get through tonight,” he whispered to the darkness. Mike said a silent, ironic thank-you for the truly late hour of arrival. Dawn would be just five hours away, so the refugees would not have to linger too long in the open.
After completing his check of the security detail, Dr. Marena made his way over to Mike who rested atop the hood of the large, yellow school bus.
“How’s the mending going?” the stout physician asked him.
In truth, the journey down the mountainside had proved more difficult than Mike had expected. He had begrudgingly allowed his pack to be carried by a fellow refugee as the weight and straps painfully compressed his broken ribs. Even the double-holster vest he wore had to be loosened often during the trip to avoid sharp pangs of pain through his chest. Worse yet, though, was his inability to eat much food due to his still-swollen jaw fractures. Thankfully the swelling around his eyes and nose had drastically diminished, leaving behind a yellow and purple colored mixture of bruised flesh.
With a muted laugh, Mike responded. “It’s going. I’ll definitely pass on any more mountain hikes for the next while.”
“Well, it would be easier going if you would just take some of the painkillers,” Marena admonished.
Mike shook his head in response. He had refused the medication once the journey began. The trek south would be hazardous and he had no intention of letting his mind be clouded when immediate decisions were sure to be required.
“Listen, Mike, I need to tell you something,” the doctor said. His voice took on an even more hushed tone, speaking now in barely a whisper. Through his time with the camp, Marena had always seemed unconcerned and aloof with regards to the camp’s well-being. Now Mike could clearly see the anxiety written across the man’s face.