Eden Rising

by Brett Battles

  “What was that?” Sanjay asked, looking back.

  Jabala was already pulling something from her bag. In the dark, it looked like a black lump. She touched it and held it to her head.

  “Hello?” she said.

  She had a phone? A working phone?

  She listened for several seconds. “No,” she finally said. “We cannot talk now. Later.” She listened again, then, “Hold on.” She put a hand over the phone and said to Sanjay, “How long until we will be able to stop?”

  “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

  “A friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “Sanjay, how long?”

  Reluctantly, he said, “We still have a few kilometers to go. Could be thirty minutes. Could be two hours.”

  Jabala was silent for a moment before removing her hand from the phone. “Leon, please try again in one hour…okay, okay. Good-bye.”

  As she put the phone away, Sanjay said, “Who is Leon?”

  “He is in America,” she said. “He answered Naresh’s radio signal.”

  “That’s the satellite phone from the school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you bring that here? It might get broken or lost.”

  “I thought it important you talk to Leon yourself. He warned me about the survival stations, that the UN personnel were not who they said they are. Exactly like you have been telling us.”

  “He said these things?” Sanjay asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What else did he say?”

  She told him about the conversation she’d had.

  When she finished, he was quiet for a moment. “All right. Let’s go. We have already stayed in one place too long.”

  “But you do want to talk to him, yes?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, silently adding, Very much.

  16

  MADISON, WISCONSIN

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF BELINDA RAMSEY

  ENTRY DATE—JANUARY 1, 11:51 AM CST

  I HAD HOPED to be on the road for at least a couple of hours by now, but it took me longer than I expected to get ready.

  My first obstacle was finding a bag. It’s not like I can haul my wheeled suitcase behind me. I needed a backpack, and not a book bag type. If that were the case, I would have found what I needed right away. There are plenty of those lying around. But a backpack I can carry food and clothes and that kind of stuff in is not exactly something most of the other students left behind during the holidays.

  For the first time since all this started, I actually left my floor. I have to say, even though I knew logically that if anyone infected had been in the building they were days dead now, and, hopefully, no longer a danger, I was scared to death. I think if a draft had caused a door to swing just a few inches, I would have turned on the spot and kept running until I got back here. The tingling I felt under my skin was near constant, and though I was wearing a heavy jacket and a scarf around my face, I was shivering the whole time.

  My search ended two floors below mine. The room was shared by a couple guys who apparently had never been taught how to keep their place clean. I cringed with every dirty shirt I had to move to see what was underneath. The backpack—an honest-to-God hiker-type backpack—was on the floor of the closet buried under several jackets and a duffel bag full of baseball gear. There was a tag on the strap identifying it as belonging to JEROME LARSON. I’ve probably seen him around, but I don’t know the name. I am, however, very thankful that he decided he didn’t need the pack over Christmas. I found a bonus, too. A compact sleeping bag that looks like it’s meant to work in some pretty harsh weather. Of course, maybe that’s a little wishful thinking.

  Whatever the case, thanks, Jerome.

  For clothing, I went through everything that had been left behind by the girls on my floor, and gathered the best of the lot that fit me—thermal underwear, T-shirts, pants, sweaters, gloves, caps. There was too much to carry, so I ended up having to pare down quite a bit.

  Food was next. I decided to only carry enough for three days at a time. I figure it should be easy to find something to eat along the way. Any store or restaurant or house I pass will likely have plenty of canned stuff I can pick through as needed.

  After the food there were several small things: toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, deodorant (I went back and forth on that but decided I would wear it for myself if no one else), brush, flashlight, matches, and a pocketknife I found sitting on Norman Gleason’s dresser. I also took Kaylee’s Sorel boots. They’re much better than anything I have.

  I can’t lie and say I didn’t wish I’d found a gun. I know, I know. Pre-Sage Flu, a gun on campus—in my very building—would have scared the crap out of me and pretty much everyone else. I probably would have been the first calling for the gun owner’s expulsion. Now I wish somebody had smuggled one in.

  Before I finished packing, I made one final look around, in case I found something that might be useful. The only thing I ended up adding was a picture Patty had in her room of the two of us and Josh and Kaylee. I know Josh is dead. When I called his phone and the woman who answered—maybe his mother or sister, I’m not sure—said he wasn’t with us anymore, I hadn’t realized what she’d meant, but it wasn’t long before I pieced it together. I don’t know about Patty or Kaylee, though. I guess they’re probably dead, too, but I hope not.

  So that’s pretty much where I am. My plan is to head south to the Beltline Highway, and take that east to I-90. From there I can take the interstate all the way to Chicago. If I find roads clear enough, I’ll see if I can find a car I can use. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into someone who can give me a ride. I know I’m supposed to be careful about exposure to others, but exposure to the elements isn’t going to be all that great, either. Guess I’ll play that one by ear.

  Not sure how far I’ll get today. The sun goes down pretty early, and there’s no way I’m going to be walking after dark.

  I’ll write again when I stop.

  17

  WARD MOUNTAIN NORTH, NEVADA

  12:21 PM PST

  THE THREE MAIN communication workstations had been manned nonstop all morning. Several of the stations in the mobile comm trucks the Resistance had brought from Montana were also in use. Now that most of the so-called survival stations around the world had opened, the Resistance’s efforts to save what was left of humanity had gone into overdrive.

  Leon and the other communication coordinators knew they wouldn’t be able to save everyone, but they would try. The biggest obstacle they were facing was convincing those who were in traveling range of a survival station to not go there. The survivors were desperate for anything that seemed like a way out of the horror, and Project Eden’s UN ploy filled that void perfectly. Of course, the Project had known that from the beginning, and had carefully planned out this phase.

  Where Resistance coordinators could, they sent in teams, armed not only with proof that the UN did not exist anymore, but, more importantly, with vaccine. This personal touch worked more times than not, but there were still groups and individuals who would not listen to what the Resistance had to say and headed for the stations anyway.

  By noon, Leon was in contact with fourteen different groups, but the one that interested him most was Jabala’s. She and her friends had apparently figured out on their own that the survival stations were false fronts for something more sinister. How, exactly, still wasn’t clear, but he felt particularly connected to them, and wanted to make sure they were all right.

  The girl had told him to wait an hour before calling back, but he figured fifty-six minutes was close enough and input her number again. Though the computer indicated the call had connected after the third ring, he could hear nothing from the other end.

  “Hello?” he said.

  No, not nothing. Breathing, and…something else. A faint, rhythmic tapping sound.

  “Jabala?”

  “Five minutes,” Jabala said, her voice a whispered rush.


  The line went dead.

  Leon stared at the screen. What was going on? Was she in danger?

  He checked the clock to note exactly when he could call back.

  At the station next to him, Crystal was saying. “Uh-huh…okay…yes, you’re authorized. Keep us informed.”

  As she was clicking off, the door opened and Rachel walked in.

  “How’s everything going?” Rachel asked.

  “Just got off with our people in Panama,” Crystal said. “Their team in Belize is getting bogged down. Apparently there are several pockets of survivors, but getting to each is proving difficult.”

  “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”

  “Rachel, it’s the same team that’s scheduled to visit that large group in Costa Rica tomorrow morning. No way they can make it now.”

  “How soon?”

  “At least another day. Maybe two.”

  “When did Project Eden say they’d return to the island?”

  “Going by the radio conversation we intercepted, could be anytime in the next forty-eight hours or so.”

  “No way to rearrange our people?”

  “The team’s in the field, away from the plane. Even if we order them back, it’d still be a day and a half until they get to the base, load up again, and go to Costa Rica.”

  “No alternatives?”

  “The real problem isn’t the medical team or aircraft, it’s the pilots. Panama has an extra seaplane sitting there, and there’s a med team in Guadalajara that just finished up, but no one to pick them up or fly them to Costa Rica.”

  Rachel closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “We can’t afford to lose anyone,” she said in a low voice probably meant more for herself than anyone. She looked at Crystal again. “Do what you can. As soon as a flight team becomes available, send it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Rachel switched her attention to Leon. “You look…concerned.”

  He hesitated a moment before saying, “I am.” He explained what had been going on with the group in India. When he finished, he glanced at the clock. “It’s actually time for me to call them again.”

  “Then do it. And please put it on speaker.”

  This time the call was answered on the first ring.

  “Leon?” Jabala asked.

  “Jabala, are you okay? You sounded—”

  “We are okay now, thank you.”

  “Did something happen?”

  Over the next several minutes, Jabala told him of her decision to travel to Mumbai in search of her brother-in-law Sanjay, thinking he and Leon should talk. Apparently while she was on her way there, Sanjay and Jabala’s sister Kusum had sneaked into the survival station and rescued several of the people being held there, or something like that. It wasn’t completely clear. Now they were all together, hiding from soldiers who were pretending to be with the UN.

  After sharing a long, surprised glance with Rachel and Crystal, Leon said, “Perhaps I should talk to Sanjay.”

  “Of course. One moment, please.”

  A few seconds later, a male voice said, “Yes?”

  “Is this Sanjay?” Leon asked. The man sounded younger than Leon had expected.

  “Yes. And you are…Leon?”

  “Right. Your sister-in-law tells me you’ve had quite an adventure this evening.”

  “I am not sure I would call it an adventure,” Sanjay said, no humor in his voice.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

  “It is okay. I am tired.”

  “Of course. I’ll try not to keep you long. Jabala said you actually went into the survival station.”

  “That is correct. But it was not that difficult. I knew about the hole under the wall from before.”

  “That’s right. You worked for Pishon Chem.

  “I did, well, until I found out what they were going to spray was not an anti-malaria chemical.” He explained about finding his cousin Ayush dying of exposure to Sage Flu; about getting Kusum, Jabala, and their family out of Mumbai; about sneaking into the Pishon Chem compound, and forcing the managers to give him vaccine.

  “When we first heard about the survival stations, we were excited,” Sanjay went on, unaware of the stunned listeners at Ward Mountain. “But when the location was finally announced, and I realized it was the same facility used by Pishon Chem, I became suspicious. I knew we needed to check first before sending everyone there. So my wife, three of our friends, and I came here. When I saw that the people who seemed to be running the operation were the same people in charge of Pishon Chem, I knew these were not UN representatives, and that whatever they had planned could not be good.” After seconds of silence, he asked, “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry,” Leon said. “It’s just, well, your story is surprising.”

  “You do not believe me?” Sanjay asked, his tone growing defensive.

  “Absolutely, we believe you,” Leon said. “You’ve been through a lot, that’s all.”

  “Has not everyone?” Sanjay asked.

  “Yes, that’s true.” Leon paused. “So when you realized these people weren’t the UN, I assume that’s when you snuck back in and helped the survivors they’d collected escape.”

  Sanjay took a moment before responding. “There were two holding areas inside. One for those who were not obviously infected, and one for those who were. I brought everyone who was not infected out. I…cut a hole in the fence for the others, but left it for them to discover. I did not want to risk picking up the disease and spreading it to anyone who had not been vaccinated yet.”

  The last came out as almost an apology.

  “You did the right thing,” Leon said.

  “I do not know about that, but, I, uh, I did what I had to.”

  “Are you going to take everyone out of the city to your boarding school?”

  “The school?” Sanjay said, suspiciously. “How did you know about the school?”

  “Jabala mentioned it, but don’t worry, she didn’t tell me where. And even if she had, the last thing we want to do is harm you.”

  “Who exactly are you?”

  “We’re a group of people who have been fighting those behind Pishon Chem for a long time. Though we tried, we couldn’t keep the virus from being released. Now our goal is simply to keep the survivors alive.”

  “And the others? Who are they?”

  “They call themselves Project Eden. And they have been planning this for a long, long time.”

  “But why? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand it, either. All I know is that they want to control those they chose to survive, and direct the future as they see fit. I’m sure this is all difficult to believe, but—”

  “Not as difficult as I wish it was,” Sanjay said. “You wanted to know what I am going to do? I’m going back.”

  “Going back where?”

  “To Pishon Chem,” Sanjay said. “To the survival station.”

  “Why would you do that?” Leon asked, not trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “Because we have no more vaccine, and the people who escaped today will need it. The only place I know to find it is inside those walls.”

  Leon was about to tell him that he might be able to get some vaccine to them in a few days when someone touched his arm.

  __________

  “HELLO, SANJAY. MY name is Rachel.”

  “Hello.” His reply came back tentative, as if unsure why he was being passed off to someone else.

  “Sanjay, no one here thinks it’s a good idea for you to reenter the survival station.”

  “What choice do we have? We are out of vaccine.”

  “We have vaccine,” she said. “It will just take time to get it to you.” She glanced at Leon. He held up three fingers. “Three days at the earliest.”

  “Three days is a long time,” he said. “This flu is everywhere, yes?”

  “The risk of exposure is s
till very high, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then I do not see how I have any choice.”

  She hesitated. “I said we don’t think it’s a good idea to go, but if you need the vaccine now it could be your best chance. That’s something you will have to decide. What I will promise you is that we will get vaccine to you no matter what you choose to do, in case you run into others later.”

  “If anyone dies because I did not go back for more vaccine, it will be as much my fault as that of those who have spread the disease.”

  “Sanjay, that’s not true.”

  “Of course, it is true. How many people have died?”

  “We…we don’t know.”

  “Here in Mumbai there were millions and millions people. Now maybe I have seen one hundred still alive. One hundred people out of so many. Is it the same everywhere?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Then I must go.”

  THE RANCH, MONTANA

  1:44 PM MST

  THE TRIP SOUTH had been anything but pleasant. The Dash 7 Combi aircraft belonging to the research station on Amund Ringnes Island was a hearty, four-propeller plane, but it was not immune to the heavy turbulence that kept Pax and the others strapped in their seats most of the time. Its limited flight range of a thousand miles in the best weather conditions also meant stops at deserted airports in Cambridge Bay, Yellowknife, and Edmonton for fuel.

  Edmonton was the most disturbing. More than a million people had lived in and around the city. The airport had been used by large commercial airliners. Thousands of passengers had passed through its terminal every day. But during the stop, not a single person was seen.

  As soon as the plane crossed the US border, Pax made his way up to the cockpit.

  “Strap in,” the pilot told him, pointing at the auxiliary jump seat. “Catching up to another storm.”