Red Death (Book 2): Survivors

by Robinson, D. L.

  Lee frowned. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe my butt! I’m sure.” Lee conceded it could be. Next, Tara told him about the gate fashioned into the fence behind the last barrack. This gave him pause.

  “I don’t want to wait until Melanie gets permission to open the barracks. I want to do it ourselves. I have to know what’s in there,” Tara insisted.

  Lee nodded. “I agree, we need to explore the place, there may be something there that points to a suspect. But it could also cost Melanie her job to go against orders. When is she coming back? We need her to get permission, period, or tell her we’re not waiting any longer. I’m sure she’ll make it happen then.”

  “She’ll be back tomorrow. She’s making local rounds this week. I just get the feeling she hasn’t wanted to ask, afraid of opening a can of worms.”

  Lee thought that could be.

  “I’m going over to Mary’s. I need to fill her in on the gate and the riding crop. I’m taking ointment over too and smearing Julie head to toe. We’re going to lay her in a lawn chair in direct sunlight—UVB is what the medical establishment was trying on Morgellons Syndrome. She might die of skin cancer in thirty years, but I refuse to let her die of Morgellons now.”

  Tara gathered salve and the fresh jug of antibiotic tea and hurried across the street to Mary’s. When the older woman opened the door, Tara shoved the riding crop in her face, spilling the story in a disjointed, stream-of-consciousness tirade.

  “Lee says it doesn’t prove a thing, and I know he’s right. But I have a feeling about it, and I always listen to those. It’s just a little too coincidental.” Mary agreed, having much the same “feeling” as Tara did. “Tomorrow, I’m going to insist Melanie get permission, or we’re breaking into the barracks without it.”

  “That’s a good idea. I hate to offend her, but hey, we’ve waited long enough.”

  “How’s Julie doing?” Tara asked, motioning toward the bedrooms beyond the kitchen. Mary shook her head sadly. “Not that good.”

  Little Ben yelled out a hello from the living room and ran to Tara. She scooped him up, hugging and kissing his neck as he giggled and squealed. She set him down and he ran back to his toys.

  “Are your lawn chairs out?” she asked Mary. Mary shook her head. “Go get them.”

  Mary went to the basement in search of a chaise lounge while Tara slipped on a mask and went into Julie’s room. Luke sat at her bedside holding her hand, his eyes sad above his own mask.

  “Julie, we’re taking you outside today. It’s sunny and warm—and UVB rays might kill Morgellons, so that’s the plan. The downside is, you may get a sunburn on top of the sores, which won’t be pleasant.”

  Luke and Tara helped Julie to her feet, and Tara cringed at the angry red bumps on her face and arms. Her pregnant belly made it even sadder. “I want to expose as much skin as we can Julie, do you have an old bathing suit?”

  Luke said she did, and opened the dresser drawer and began digging. He helped her out of her nightgown and into the bikini, which looked ludicrous on her six-months-along belly. Julie didn’t say much, and Tara knew she was disoriented and too weak to interact. They helped her out of the room and led her out back where Mary was setting up the lounger.

  Tara ran in for the tea and poured a glass, bringing the ointment out too.

  “Julie, I think we’ll let you get some sun first, then cap that off with a head to toe covering of this ointment. A couple days of this should let us know whether it’s going to work.”

  They helped Julie onto the chaise, and she closed her eyes against the bright sunlight. She gave Tara a weak smile, and whispered that it felt good.

  “Great, it’s already working!”

  “Are you hungry?” Tara heard Luke ask her. Julie shook her head and he sighed and glanced at Tara, shrugging slightly. Tara felt sick inside after seeing how weak Julie was. But she forced herself to believe this combination treatment would work. After all, Clyde had been getting slightly better with just the tea and ointment. The UVB might do the trick.

  “I’ve got an idea for supper later tonight, but still need a few things to add to it,” Tara told him. She asked Mary if she wanted to forage a little before they began the cleaning of Clyde’s house.

  “Yes, they’ve got things handled here.” Mary told the couple she would be back later. Luke stayed beside Julie and the two women went inside. “Are we still on for watch later tonight too?”

  Tara nodded, planning to take her turn with Mary, Craig and Jenny. None of them had spotted anything in the days since they’d begun the surveillance. But Tara knew when the perpetrator decided to commit his next heinous act, they would be in place and ready, and hopefully have the element of surprise.

  Chapter 12

  Tara led the way, heading out on their usual bi-weekly foraging route, their backpacks stuffed full of bags in case of a particularly productive trip. She tried to lighten the mood by complimenting Mary on her much-improved bicycle skills, but Mary’s mind was on Julie. It was no use. Mary sighed and began discussing her sick daughter for a little while, with Tara doing her best to stay positive. It was hard. It was much easier to change the subject entirely.

  “It’s another gorgeous day—I think June is my favorite month.”

  The cerulean blue sky was full of big, white, fluffy clouds, the temperature an ideal seventy seven degrees according to the outdoor thermometer hanging on Tara’s back porch. This had also worked in their favor to get Julie some sun.

  “It’s my favorite too, other than maybe October. I love seeing the leaves turn colors.”

  As she pedaled along, Tara’s mind immediately began flashing back memories of June days past, back in Pre-E times. I’d always make freezer jam, as soon as the pick-your-own strawberries were ripe—“Hey! Mary, I just realized something. We used to go to Strausville to pick our own berries for jam and they were always ripe right about this time!” The very thought of the delicious, sweet plump berries made her drool. “I wonder if they lasted the winter without any tending?”

  “That’s right! They’re ready by mid-June. I used to grow strawberries, and yes, there would definitely be a crop. The commercial growers usually rotate their fields, planting different cultivars to be sure of a good crop.”

  “It’s quite a trip, a good four miles one way. But wow, so worth it if they’re ripe! We could pick as many as we can and dry them for later. Not only a fabulous treat, but a really good source of Vitamin C all winter, along with my apples and rose hip tea.”

  Tara and Lee’s apple trees graced their front yard, and were formerly considered a messy nuisance. A plethora of apple blossoms in previous years had produced feelings of dread in them both, and many times Lee had threatened to cut them down when it looked to be a bumper crop. This year, the trees were loaded with buds again, and now they were coveted and watched carefully. Tara was thrilled and planned to dry or use every single apple. Gratitude at the decision not to cut them down washed over her each time she glanced out front.

  “Let’s go out there to the fields, Mary. We’ll take the cart.” Luckily, they were just down the street from home.

  Lee insisted Tara take the gun, and she hiked up her shirt to show him it was already tucked into her waistband. Mary had hers too. Tara noticed Lee putting weight on his bad leg as he came out onto the porch. He barely needed the crutch. She decided to point this out, and he smiled.

  “The exercises Mary gave me are really doing the trick.” Tara could see how pleased he was, and she was happy for him. In this new world, you had to be grateful for the small things.

  “It won’t be long till you’re back to your old self, Lee. Just don’t overdo it, slow and easy is the way,” Mary told him. After apprising him of their plans and hooking up the yard cart, they were off.

  “Bring back strawberries!” Lee called as they pedaled away. Tara immediately began brainstorming what would be needed to make a ghetto version of strawberry shortcake. She had learned some cooking tricks and
ingredient substitutions since the pandemic hit, but the lack of eggs, milk, and butter made it rough to do much baking. It was ironic how food was the only way to feel semi-normal in daily life, and now it was the most difficult thing to procure. So much of each day was focused on it; what to eat, how to cook it, where to find it.

  She and Mary had harvested a lot of young tender Bishop’s Weed from the flower beds around Tara’s house earlier, both the green and white variety, and the solid green. It was all edible. She planned to use the leaves as a filling in savory little pies, much like spinach. She’d invited Jake to dinner again.

  “It will be nice to have strawberries and shortcake along with our “spinach” pies tomorrow night when Jake comes again too. Thank God we still have several cans of butter-flavored Crisco for the shortcake and the crusts. We may die of artery blockage but we won’t die of starvation.”

  The two friends pedaled north to Strausville, discussing Julie, Meyers, and finally, Morgan, the creepy man who tended the vineyards. Both women felt he may be involved. The miles flew by and soon they saw the first houses on the outskirts of the village. To Tara, it seemed so strange to see the emptiness and desolation there; dead streets, overgrown yards; the silence of each blank house staring back at them as they passed. It was hard to witness. It hit Tara again just how much they had lost and she sighed.

  “You too?” Mary commented. “I was just thinking how sad. The last time I was here, we went to a pee wee little league game Ben played at their park.” They rolled silently through the small town toward its outskirts, where the strawberry farm lay five minutes away.

  A large white barn stood on a small rise on their left with a huge field of planted rows stretched out below it. Across the road on their right were a couple acres more. “Look,” Tara whispered. Someone else had obviously remembered the strawberries; a man and woman were bent over in the rows, harvesting berries. Tara stopped, concerned, until Mary pointed out the man and woman’s hair. It was a bright orange-red, hers a shade darker than his. No one else Tara had ever known possessed that hair color, except the people she’d last seen at the food swap before nursing class. She couldn’t remember their names, and Mary supplied them.

  “I think that’s Dave Collins and his wife, Bonnie!” The women rolled closer and Mary was certain, so she gave a yell.

  “Hey, Dave!”

  Tara saw the couple jump, startled by another human voice. They straightened and watched for a moment, then recognized Mary.

  “Hey!” they yelled back, waving.

  The women rode up the slight hill to the edge of the field, and then carefully straddled the rows with their bikes and the yard cart so as not to squash the berries. Tara pushed the bike cart over to their townsfolk.

  “You had the same idea as we did!” laughed Mary. She and Tara immediately bent over to retrieve ripe berries. Tara brushed hers off and popped it in her mouth. It was unbelievably delicious. She closed her eyes, scrunching up her face. “Oh, heavenly.”

  Dave Collins’s pale skin was red with sunburn, but Bonnie wore a hat, her long red tresses hanging out beneath. “Yeah, they are so good.” Dave pointed to their own bikes with baskets in front and large plastic tubs strapped on back with bungee cords. “We’re almost full!” Bonnie laughed and said they were both sunburned and her back was sore, so she was glad they were about done picking.

  “That doesn’t bode well for a woman of my years,” Mary told them, disparaging her own age.

  “Any news?” Dave asked. “We joined the watch team last week, so we’re more in the know than we were. I had no idea all this was going on. We’re very concerned.”

  Tara told them about the piece of the riding crop and the gate. “I want to get in that barracks, and if Melanie doesn’t go through proper channels to do so soon, we’re going against rules and breaking in.”

  “I support you on that. The military isn’t here, we are, and we have to handle our own problems now. There aren’t enough armed forces personnel to go around anymore.”

  “To be honest,” Tara began, bending to pick more berries and eat them, “I have a bad feeling about Morgan, the vineyard guy at the winery. Jake, the kid who works there, is coming for dinner tomorrow night, and I’m going to pry more information from him.”

  “Well, I can fill in a little more for you—my brother-in-law was from the town up north where the Brenner family winery is. He told me long ago they were a strange bunch.”

  “Really!” Mary gasped, as Tara, mouth full of strawberries, stopped chewing in surprise, waiting for some useful information.

  “Yeah, very strange. Brenner’s father was a famous heart surgeon, one of the early pioneers. He was like a God back in those days, extremely wealthy. He and his sister, that would be Morgan’s mother, opened the winery. It was one of the first in the country. Brenner’s surgeon father apparently retired young from practicing medicine to focus on making wine, and the sister ran it with him.”

  “What about their kids, Brenner and Morgan, the cousins?”

  Dave stood thinking. “It was a long time ago when my brother told me. I’m thinking there were allegations of abuse, some horrible stuff Brenner’s father and sister did. I think he said it all came out that the winery was a front for some nefarious doings. Real Jekyll and Hyde stuff.”

  “Wow. I wonder what happened,” Tara breathed.

  “We’ll probably never know now,” Mary said. “No internet to look things up, no way to access records.”

  “According to Jake, Morgan is a real weirdo,” Tara told them. They stood speculating for a few more minutes, and then Bonnie, rubbing her back, said they were packing it in. Tara and Mary told them goodbye, and that they would see them at the next class. The previous week had been cancelled due to Clyde’s death and Melanie’s absence. The red-haired, red-skinned couple stowed all their berries into the bins and started for home, the women waving at each other.

  Tara and Mary stood there thinking for a minute. The new info was intriguing, but Tara wasn’t sure it would help them in any way, except maybe as a psychological profile. After seeing Brenner tend to Ben’s scraped knee, she thought maybe he had overcome his childhood as some abused children do. It seemed to Tara that when some abuse victims suffered so much, they became extra kind as adults to make up for it. But there was usually one in the family who identified with the aggressor, refusing to ever be a victim again and becoming cruel in a preemptive strike sort of way. It has to be Morgan.

  She discussed this with Mary as they picked berries for the next couple hours, eating a third of them. With the yard cart and their baskets full, their stomachs groaning and their backs aching, they started for home.

  ~

  Tara’s Diary

  June 15th, 2016

  I wish I could write that our problems are solved and all is well. Maybe I should start with the good news. Lee’s leg is the best it has been since he broke it while spying on the camp last October. That was eight long months ago—some of the worst months of our lives, I think. Anyway, he’s able to put weight on it, he’s barely using the crutch. And his entire attitude has changed. I know he finally believes it will get better now.

  That’s the good news. Now the bad news: Clyde is dead of some horrible new disease and Julie has it too. The worst part is Clyde was getting better with the treatments we tried, until this madman—whoever committed the hellish atrocities in the graveyard—finished him off. They or he, seems to have a vendetta against us. The only person I can think of who would hate poor old Clyde, is Meyers—who just happens to have escaped from prison, right before murdering Clyde’s grandson—the general Clyde called to save us all from Meyers and his faux FEMA camp. And I think Meyers just left us a calling card near the last barracks. We’re watching for him, systematically staking out the area, but so far, nothing. If Melanie doesn’t open the last barracks, we’re going in ourselves, soon. Very soon.

  ~

  Brent “The Brick” Meyers, former commander of FEMA Camp
46 and most recently, escaped prisoner, made his way in the dark to see the colonel, dreading this formal but necessary meeting. The young soldier at the brig had appeared out of nowhere, unlocked his cell in the dead of night, and handed him a firearm. He had also relayed the colonel’s orders, which were distasteful but necessary. Meyers had hidden in an empty office closet until the next morning, then carried out the execution of the general.

  Meyers thought back to that day early in the Ebola pandemic—in fact it was right after he’d been appointed commander of the camp—when he’d discovered the colonel dismembering a woman alive in the last barracks. His military training kicked in, allowing him to recover quickly from the shock of a man standing in front of him holding a severed human leg. He knew immediately it had to be the colonel. Meyers had heard about him, everyone had. Many retired military had been called up in this time of extreme crisis— and the colonel’s legendary exploits had preceded his reappearance. The colonel had asked him to come in. Meyers stood rooted to the spot in shock, and the colonel repeated the line, apparently recognizing Meyers was frozen in place.

  “Come in. I have a proposition for you.”

  Meyers had pulled himself off the fence and back inside the door, closing it behind him, still ready to bolt if need be. The colonel appeared completely unruffled. The woman whose leg he held had bled out, and was now either dead or unconscious-soon-to-be-dead. An alarmingly large pool of blood spread slowly across the floor toward Meyers from beneath the table.

  “Messy work,” the colonel told him nonchalantly, laying the leg beside its former owner. He stripped off his gloves in one quick motion and approached, stepping over the dark, spreading pool.

  “I selected you for this job for certain qualities I know you possess, one of them being discretion.” The colonel’s steely gaze held his own and although Meyers was rarely flustered or at a loss for words, he was now. The colonel continued, those eyes measuring him, weighing him.

  “I am, above all, a scientist,” the colonel went on. “The current conditions in the world are optimal—they allow for opportunities never before possible, for experiments so necessary to my research but always beyond my reach in former times.”