The System (Virulent Book 2)

by Shelbi Wescott

  “For appearance?” Ainsley cringed. “If it’s appearance you’re after, why don’t you dress my mom up in some leggings and take her instead?”

  Darla ignored the dig. “Look…on the off-chance that this guy is armed and good with a gun and he happens to know we’re coming and takes us all out…then I’d much rather have a doctor stay alive to care for my son and Ethan in my absence.”

  “Now I clearly know my value in this household,” Ainsley quipped. “Joey and I are going to form a least-appreciated club. None of you are welcome.”

  “Yeah,” Joey replied and he pumped his fist. But he had no further retort.

  Ethan frowned. “I’m even forgotten about for the least-appreciated club? Thanks.” Then he turned to Darla and narrowed his eyes, “If the cripple is perpetually stuck at home, shouldn’t I at least get a choice of company?”

  “Goodness,” Doctor Krause teased. “I was never once picked last in dodge ball, you know. Y’all are going to give us a complex.”

  “It’s not that,” Ethan added. “It’s just…that’s sort of a grim future for me. At least if I get Ainsley I have a chance of a pity hook-up.” He looked at Doctor Krause, “No offense.”

  Doctor Krause grumbled her disapproval at Ethan’s lewdness, but Joey snickered and leaned over for a high-five.

  “In your dreams,” Ainsley said, but everyone in the room noticed her cheeks turning red. So, she held her head up and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll go with you,” she quickly added to Darla.

  “Ouch,” Ethan said and he stabbed an imaginary knife into his heart. “Fine. You’re going to make me do this the hard way. If you make it back from the trenches, you want to go out on a date? I know a place. It’s called my mom’s kitchen.”

  Ainsley blinked twice. Then she turned to her mom, “Did you up his pain killers this morning?” She then turned back to Ethan, “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m happy we get the food back,” Ethan replied with a shrug. “And yes…I may have gone a little heavy on the codeine.” He brought his hands up to demonstrate that he had imbibed a bit heavier than usual.

  “What’s drunk mean?” asked Teddy from the corner, lifting his head up from a coloring book for a second before going back to his drawing.

  Spencer grumbled, “Is everyone done? I have a headache, I’m tired, and I’m ready to get this bastard and our supplies. Forgive me for not having an invested interest in Ethan’s suffering libido.”

  Darla, Joey, and a disgruntled Ainsley examined their weapon supply and then headed out the front door, slamming it behind them.

  The Trotter farm looked exactly as Darla remembered it. The generator they used for the fan still sat in the middle of the yard; the barn remained open and the house still looked shut up and empty. The only difference was that the pick-up truck and the white trailer now sat out front—a beacon for the four survivors.

  “Didn’t he think we’d notice a truck and utility trailer on our street?” Joey asked as they gathered behind the front shrubs.

  “But we didn’t notice it on our street,” replied Ainsley.

  Spencer maneuvered himself to the front. “All right, so we find a back door. Or head in through the garage. Or do we split up?” He craned his neck to watch the house. “We can’t assume he’s not armed.”

  “We don’t split up. We stay together. Follow me,” Darla instructed and she motioned for the group to scamper across the yard, ducking and making a beeline toward the trailer. When they reached it, Ainsley was winded. She shot Darla a look.

  “What? It’s a large yard.”

  “Stay here,” Darla said and after a quick scan, she walked to the trailer and threw the door open. Inside was bare. All the spoils of war had already been carted inside. Shoved to the side in the now-empty space was an overturned wheelbarrow with mud caked to the wheels. Darla shut the doors and joined the clan. “We’ll have to load everything back up.”

  “We should take everything he raided,” Joey added with a small bounce. “Leave him hungry.” He looked at everyone in eager anticipation.

  Darla shook her head. “He’s entitled to the stuff he found fair and square. I can’t imagine if he’s been hitting up the same houses we already looted that he’d have much of anything. And he’s about to lose his goldmine.”

  Joey grumbled, “I don’t know why you’re being so civil. This guy stole from us. You goin’ soft on us?”

  “My job is to get our food back, not to start some war—”

  “Hey guys,” Ainsley interrupted in a lazy drawl.

  Spencer moved toward the front of the truck, his gun drawn. He peered toward the open garage. “A generator? Oh, hell yes. We’re taking the generator as payment for this guy being a pain in the ass.”

  “Um, guys—”Ainsley said again without urgency.

  “Spit it out, Ains,” Darla said while keeping her eyes trained on the porch.

  “Yeah, um, the dude we’re looking for is just chilling over there,” she lifted her hand and pointed to a corner of the yard.

  The man sat in a lawn chair, sunglasses on, holding a beer can. He didn’t move or wave, but they could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His head was titled to the side and his cheek flat against his shoulder.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s asleep,” she added and then dropped her arm, with her unloaded gun, by her side.

  Darla grumbled and took off marching and as she neared the chair, it became clear that Ainsley’s prediction was true. There the thief sat, sheltered from view initially by a large weeping willow, in a plastic lawn chair; his head hung limp to the left and he snored on occasion with a throaty growl, his hands clutching his newest treasure: warm beer.

  Raising her gun, Darla poked the muzzle against the man’s shoulder. He didn’t budge. She tried again, this time poking his cheek. He shifted in his chair, his beer can sliding down his hand an inch, but still he didn’t wake.

  “What do you expect?” Ainsley asked. “Stealing our stuff was hard work.”

  Spencer cleared his throat. “Come on, step back,” he said. Then without warning, he raised his hand upward and fired two shots into the air. Bang-bang, in rapid succession.

  The deafening blast wakened the sleeping man with a jump and, startled, he flailed wildly, flinging his can to the ground, where it dropped with a thud, foamy liquid pouring out in a gush and seeping into the grass. Then he tipped over in the chair and scrambled backward, his eyes wide like saucers above his now-askew sunglasses. And when he settled, his breathing heavy, on the ground in a heap, he ripped the glasses free and stared up at his visitors with shock.

  Darla motioned and snapped once and immediately the four of them trained their guns on the thief. Even Ainsley brought her hand up, although her weak wrist made it look like she was pointing the gun at the man’s feet.

  “Don’t move,” Darla said. She was calm, as if discovering him was merely inconvenient, but her tone was still commanding. “Sit up and put your hands where I can see them.”

  “I’m not armed,” the man replied. “I’m not armed,” he said again as he shifted to his knees and lifted his hands so the crowd could see.

  “You have a productive day today?” Spencer asked, his voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe you wiped out our entire food supply? Maybe you thought you’d leave us to die? And you bought a little boy’s silence with a chocolate bar?”

  The man was quiet. Then he licked his lips and blew a breath of air. “Look man,” he motioned toward the guns, “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you lowered your weapons.”

  “No,” Darla answered.

  “I’m not armed and I’m not dangerous. So, maybe lower the guns out of my face?” The man raised his eyebrows and waited, and then he added, “Please?”

  “What’s your name?” Darla asked, taking a step forward.

  “Dean. Dean Trotter,” he answered and Darla exchanged a look with Spencer.

  “Well, De
an,” Darla answered without budging, “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. You have a preference of which I tell you first?”

  Dean thoughtfully considered his options. “I want the bad news first.”

  “Everything you took today from us…we’re taking it back. And we’re taking your generator. And we’re taking your truck and trailer to transport. Unless you’ve got a stash of weapons too and a small army hidden in your house, I’m pretty sure you’re screwed. But I’ll make a deal with you…you walk back for the truck and we’ll hand over the keys. I don’t need your truck.”

  Dean coughed. “Look…”

  “You don’t get to negotiate,” Spencer snapped. “Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Fine,” Dean answered, lowering his head. “What’s the good news?”

  Darla smiled, “We aren’t going to shoot you.”

  Ainsley leaned forward a few inches and cocked her head. “And your son may be alive and on his way to Nebraska?” she added. “I never met the dude, I was just saying…in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t,” Dean replied. “Who else would’ve loaded up my brother’s balloon without my permission?” He scanned the faces of his captors and ran his hand through his hair, then he flashed them a sheepish grin, all teeth, and tossed his hands up. “Well, I’m sorry about the stuff, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Right?”

  “You can, actually,” replied Darla.

  “You stole from a child,” Spencer added. “That didn’t cross your mind?”

  Dean scrambled to his feet, still raising his hands. “Hey now. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t think…I thought you had more. Who puts all their food outside?”

  “People who think they’re the only ones left in Oregon,” Ainsley replied. “But point taken.”

  Darla shot her a look. Ainsley pursed her lips and shrugged.

  “Well,” Dean continued. “Look, no hard feelings. Really…I’m just a dude trying to hunker down for the duration, you know? I’d been watching the houses… I didn’t want trouble. Just…I didn’t think you could follow me. My stash was dwindling…you run out of places to go. I want to start over. Can I start over?” He waited for their reply. Then he shot out his hand.

  The group exchanged wearied glanced.

  “I have weapons back at the house,” Dean added quickly. “And a large stockpile. I’ve hit up East County in my spare time…got the trailer up past 182nd one day. I’ll let you take a look. Maybe we can work out some trades. Your meals would make life easier.”

  Darla shook her head with disbelief and Joey watched wide-eyed. Then he was the first to chuckle; a slow bubbling laugh that he tried to suppress and then, understanding its inappropriateness, it only seemed to grow. When he looked at Dean, he stood there with a half-smile on his face, watching Joey like he was a simpleton.

  “I’m sorry,” Joey said after a long second. He covered his mouth his hand. “I’m sorry. Just…” he laughed again, “I think we just made a friend.”

  Spencer muttered under his breath, but then was the first to lower his gun. “You’re a real piece of work, Dean,” Spencer said and he put his hand on Darla’s arm, encouraging her to follow suit. She resisted at first, shaking Spencer off, but then he gave her a solitary look—a moment just between them, and Darla dropped her weapon. Then he turned back to Grant’s dad and sighed, “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or an idiot.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t heard that before,” Dean said with a smile. “Anyone up for a beer?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Scott moved Grant back into the lab, keeping a firm hand on the boy’s elbow as he directed him into the bright, sterile room. He bypassed securing Grant to the table, but Lucy’s father still seemed hesitant and on-edge, as if Grant might bolt. Which was a ridiculous worry, since Grant knew he was trapped. He’d been in the supply closet at least a few days, but maybe even longer, and Scott ventured down during strange and unpredictable hours to help Grant eat, go to the bathroom, and then he’d run his tests. Bruises formed along his arm from the poking and prodding after blood draws and other needle pricks. While Grant had never been squeamish about medical procedures, and he didn’t intend on starting now, he’d certainly taken a beating under Scott’s careful watch.

  Whatever those tests were telling Scott King, Grant had not been privy to the details—but while he still tried to engage Grant in shallow conversations about books and movies, his entire demeanor suggested that he was a world away. Detached and distant, Scott treated Grant like a talking monkey: A fascinating specimen with intriguing ideas, worthy of basic conversation, but perhaps not human decency.

  At the end of the day, here in the System, Grant was only a lab rat.

  A lab rat with acute self-awareness.

  His video collection pile was dwindling and during the hours of solitary confinement ennui was Grant’s most overwhelming emotion.

  “I brought you some new books,” Scott said as Grant hopped up and walked out toward the lab, the schedule of events rooted firmly into place.

  “You have a library in this place?” Grant asked.

  Scott nodded. “Very well stocked, too,” he added.

  Grant shrugged. “Did you have to decide what to bring? Was it like some committee of the best minds in literature sitting around some table all arguing with each other?” He sat up a little straighter and assumed a deep-announcer voice, “If you’re about to annihilate the world and live underground, what five books would you take with you?”

  “Something like that,” Scott replied. “The difference is that over the course of time, we will have access to everything again. The books left above ground are not lost forever…just for a time,” he explained.

  “Can I make requests then?” Grant asked. He thought maybe he’d try to read through all those books his high school teachers said were important, but he hadn’t ever tried to read. It was a start. The idea had come to him while he thought of Lucy—he remembered her trying to read through Fahrenheit 451 while they had been trapped together. He thought maybe she’d be proud of him.

  “Certainly,” Scott replied. He organized his tools and counted vials. He wasn’t too chatty and it made Grant feel awkward and more inclined to start a conversation. They had endured long silences in the lab before, but only when Grant was feeling woozy from the experiments. Scott was the only person Grant had left to talk to.

  “Whatcha got for me today?” Grant asked, glancing at Scott’s usual assortment of medical equipment.

  Scott walked over and put Grant’s arm flat against his own. He inserted a small needle into the flesh of his upper arm. Then he pulled the needle out and inspected the injection site. The shots rarely hurt, but this one ached instantaneously. Grant felt a little lightheaded and he looked at Scott askew, rubbing his arm.

  “That’s a new one,” Grant said.

  “A direct injection of the virus.”

  Grant shot up and opened his mouth to protest. The word took a bit to form as he felt himself starting to panic. “I told you,” he said, his voice rising. “I want to know. You don’t get to do it without warning. I need a chance to prepare. It’s all I’ve asked for.” He felt close to tears. Passing away on the table in the middle of talking about books was not how he needed it to happen. He’d asked Scott numerous times to let him know if the end was near; besides incidentals, it was the only legitimate thing he had asked of Lucy’s father, even though he could think of a million more things he truly wanted instead.

  “This won’t kill you,” Scott said matter-of-factly.

  “Direct injection? Of the virus that killed everybody?”

  “It won’t kill you. You’re immune. Finding out why is the next step. But I need to see if your cells respond at all. If the virus multiplies at all. It’s crucial.”

  “Why?” Grant asked.

  “Lots of reasons. Are you still a carrier? How does your body respond? Where does the virus bec
ome inhibited? At what point in the process does that happen? I have many questions and no answers. You’re puzzling, Grant.”

  Grant nodded and rubbed the injection site. When Scott looked down for a second, he wiped his eyes and tried to make it look like he was just scratching an itch.

  “I wrote Lucy a letter with the paper you gave me,” Grant said after a moment. The light-headedness passed, but his arm still ached. He hadn’t wanted to tell Scott about the letter yet, but the end seemed closer—more tangible. He’d hate to have his words go to waste.

  His statement caused Scott to freeze, and he closed his eyes. When Lucy’s dad opened them, there was a twinkle. A knowing look. Grant regretted mentioning the letter if teasing was on the menu. When it came to their bizarre relationship, Scott often blurred the lines between his role as torturer and his role as Grant’s solitary companion.

  “You did?” Scott asked.

  “It’s a goodbye…it’s a—” he wanted to say a manifesto, but that wasn’t the right word. It was his final attempt to say what was in his heart. It was a way to keep himself alive in her heart. He hesitated, “She’s my friend. My only friend, I guess.”

  Scott leaned against the metal bed and then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward—an act of fatherly intimacy that Grant felt like Scott didn’t deserve. He looked at Scott and wondered what he would say, how he would respond, if Lucy ever shared the letter with him. Under different circumstances, he might have met Scott as he picked up Lucy for a date. He’d have shaken his hand at the door and exchanged mumbled conversations about dinner plans. He’d have tried to assess what kind of father Scott was going to turn out to be: relaxed and kind, militant and angry. Would he have waited up until they returned? Or would he have left the post-date spying to his wife? Grant shook all those thoughts away. He tried not to entertain them.

  When Salem had kissed him outside the journalism room, Grant wished he had been kissing Lucy. But it never seemed like the right time to bring that up; there was nothing like the worry and threat of disaster to thwart romance. As their days and weeks progressed together, he knew that if he could make it through this, he hoped Lucy would remain by his side. He’d wanted her to give him a signal, anything, to let him know that he wasn’t the only one feeling a connection. But she’d been so focused on her family, on Ethan, on the future—it was never the right time.