Smolder Road (Scorch Series Romance Thriller Book 6)

by Toby Neal

  I’m glad Dad is here, and safe, but the loss of Mom still makes my heart ache every time I think of it. I can’t help but wonder if I made the right choice, leaving the bunker in Washington to find JT. Would I have been allowed to work on the secondary vaccine in the lab there? Would we have found it faster, with every resource and multiple scientists working on it?

  No doubt we would have.

  Would my mother still be alive if I had stayed? How many lives could I have saved by sacrificing my own happiness?

  There’s no way to know. I did what I did, I chose what I chose, and now it has come to fruition.

  This moment should be more uplifting, more triumphant and celebratory, but I just feel sad and tired and wish the burden of finding a volunteer willing to risk their life and exposure to the deadly secondary strain could fall to someone else. I could ask JT to help me, but I’m afraid he’d volunteer.

  I put my glasses back on, don some fresh PPE gloves, and pick up a refrigerated egg from a chicken we named Henrietta Lacks after the woman who gave her cells to cancer research. Since I injected Henrietta with the vaccine, her eggs carry the broken virus, and are the foundation of making the actual vaccine for use.

  I crack the egg, separating it before centrifuging the white and pour the purified viral load into a beaker. After mixing it with reagent and processing some more, I centrifuge again, and draw it up into a syringe for injecting.

  There is no shortcut for this process.

  Each egg has to be produced by a live infected chicken and each dose, hand extracted and processed. Even if we had a huge lab, it would still be a matter of chickens, eggs, and extraction, not to mention keeping the doses cold and sterile once created.

  This slow process is why my father and other leaders in the government hoarded the first vaccine. What a heavy weight to carry. It’s hard enough trying to decide who I should test this vaccine on…and they had to decide who to save, without any real idea how the pandemic would play out, how many doses would be needed.

  Anger flickers in my belly, because hoarding was the wrong decision. That vaccine should have been distributed to the hospitals, given to health care workers. Not that it would have done any good in the long run…but it would have saved some.

  That’s the past. I set the loaded syringe down on the counter in front of me. This is the future.

  Should I just inject myself and get it over with? I’m confident of the vaccine…

  A knock on my lab door announces the arrival of my father. I try to smile as I look up to greet him. “Hey, Dad.”

  He’s still limping, but getting around a lot better. I’m not used to seeing how old he looks, how shrunken. He approaches and rubs my shoulders. I drop my head forward and sigh at how good it feels. I’m so lucky to have him in my life, when so many have lost everyone. Mrs. Sproat’s lined face crosses through my mind. Melody tells me she’s doing a lot better now that she’s connected with our supports.

  “What are you working on?”

  “The vaccine, of course. I finally have a viable specimen.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” Dad swivels me around on my stool, touching my cheek. “Why aren’t you more excited?”

  “The last step is the most difficult, with this or any other vaccine. But particularly with this one, since we don’t have any other clinical trials we can do, and time is of the essence. Time literally saves lives.” I put away the materials on the counter for something to do. “I’ve done everything I can to ensure that this vaccine is effective. We now have to test it in a human subject.”

  “I see.” Dad lowers himself onto a stool next to me.

  “I’m really confident in it. So confident I’m thinking of injecting myself.”

  Dad’s eyes widen. “No, honey. We need you too much. The world needs you, not just for this project but for all the things you will do for science in the future.” He looks around my lab, his eyes sharp, taking it all in. “It should be me.” His voice warms and strengthens as he turns back to me. “Please. Let me do this. Let me give something back. Make up for my mistakes in some small way.”

  My eyes sting with tears. I can’t lose him again. “No, Dad.” My throat closes and I have to swallow the lump in my throat before I can continue. “I don’t want to lose you. In some ways, I feel like I just found you.” He grimaces, his eyes dropping to his lap. “What is it? Your foot? Is it hurting?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s just that…” He takes a deep breath and meets my gaze, a new resolve shining in his bright blue eyes. “My whole life I tried to protect you, care for you.”

  “I can see that now.” Everything that separated us has fallen away and I see my father clearly: flawed, but beautiful. Courageous, hard-working, proud, and overprotective. But able to grow and change.

  His hand covers mine, and he strokes the back of it. “Such beautiful, perfect hands. Your mother’s hands. I miss her so much.” He swallows, emotion tightening his voice. “She understood me. Knew everything about me.” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “There is something I need to tell you.”

  My heart stutters in my chest. Is it something about his political career? Did he participate in the pandemic?

  He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. “I’m gay.”

  My father’s bright blue eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s worry and stress in them.

  He’s afraid I’ll reject him.

  My mouth drops open in shock and relief. A grimace crosses his face, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m sorry I lied to you for so long. To everyone.”

  Like the snowflakes settling in a shaken snow globe, the memories of my childhood shift into a new pattern accommodating his words.

  The separate bedrooms. I never questioned it because my parents clearly had love and affection. They hugged each other and held hands. One time I asked about the bedrooms and Mom just shrugged and said they slept better apart and had a habit from all of Dad’s campaign traveling.

  I can’t imagine living in a marriage without the passion that ignites me every time I’m with JT.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again.

  “Dad.” I find my voice, and there’s a hint of laughter behind it—relief that he’s not a mass murderer is making me giddy. “It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay with you being gay.”

  His eyes brim with tears and it makes my heart ache for him. He’s had to hide for so long.

  “I loved your mother deeply.”

  “I know you did, Dad.” My own voice is thick with emotions now as the truth of their marriage settles in around me.

  “She was my best friend, and lived with me under the scrutiny and secrecy of my position, and she did it all so that we could serve the nation. Together.”

  Objections rise up, old assumptions about my father: that he lived for his career and personal glory, not service to others. But those thoughts are a habit, a pattern of perception that I used to distance myself and break free of his overprotective grip. And Dad may have been in the closet, but at least he didn’t try to advance discriminatory legislation—he always spoke out for rights of all.

  “Did you have…lovers? Another relationship?”

  Dad shakes his head, tears glistening in his eyelashes. “I was always faithful to your mother.” He’s never known love like I have. His eyes find mine and they are lit with that internal strength I recognize so well. “Let me make up for my mistakes in hoarding the vaccine, not coming out earlier to warn people about how deadly this thing was…please, let me be the test subject. It would make me so happy to help, no matter the outcome.”

  He’s sincere.

  How can I deny him this chance to do something good? Because of my own selfishness?

  “Are you sure, Dad?”

  He rolls his sleeve up exposing a thin arm corded with muscle. Dad bunches his hand to make a fist. “Shoot me up, Lizzie, and let me go down in history.” He winks, and I can’t help smiling. I uncap the syringe and slip the needle into
his flesh, releasing the broken virus into my father. Please, please let this work.

  Chapter Thirty

  Roan

  Summer replaces spring as Shadow and I pursue our new mission.

  Slash marks encircle my waist.

  I forge my path, stalk my prey, and set my traps, only venturing into human settlements when I need to resupply food staples or ammunition.

  I am silent. Going back to being mute is easy. Maybe it’s how I look or smell, after weeks living in the forest—but the people who see me avert their eyes, and seldom ask me anything. Even when I crave a cup of coffee enough to darken the door of some small establishment, my silence is a given—and appreciated.

  People don’t want to see me and they don’t want me to see them.

  The first terrible wave of the Scorching has passed, and most of the bodies are buried, burned, or rotted into the ground. The secondary infection remains, randomly striking, ripping through communities, reminding us all that we are never safe.

  No one is safe.

  The cities are gutted husks, burnt and looted. A decimated population remains, desperate to survive: small towns clustering their resources, and little communities of people like the Lucianos, banding together for strength in numbers.

  The Great Nation America movement extends its reach with a strategy of force and persuasion, promising a rise to the old greatness, preaching in its churches a new nation “under God” cleansed from the impure.

  Rumors circulate that there is a growing movement to take down Great Nation America, to replace it with a legitimate democracy fashioned on the bones of the old. And gossip is, there’s a man hunting skinheads…someone they call the Gray Man.

  I am the Gray Man.

  Have I become truly evil? Or am I finally good?

  I leave Shadow to guard the gelding, Mist, on the edge of a little town called Amity, nothing but a row of shops and a few hardy souls running them. I can’t stand the smell of myself for even one more night, and my body is sore from a big raid yesterday. I want a room and a bath in the combo diner and boardinghouse that anchors what remains of Amity’s main street.

  “The Gray Man struck again,” says the woman pouring me a cup of coffee. Her brass name tag reads Alice and she accepted my trade of two rabbits for the coffee and a slice of strawberry pie. I could have pointed to any of the four kinds of pie on the chalkboard, but of course I picked the one that reminds me of Lucy.

  I dig my fork into the golden crust and take a bite bursting with berries, tart and sweet, closing my eyes to savor it.

  “You’re a stranger in these parts,” Alice says. “Do you know about the Gray Man?”

  I look up at her, and she sees something in my gaze that turns her away. A garrulous woman, she moves on with her tidbit of news to the next customer, a man in overalls who wears the grime of a farmer under his nails.

  “I’m glad the Gray Man is working on the side of the Resistance,” Farmer says, holding up his mug for a refill. “Wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”

  The Resistance is a sporadic, knee-jerk response to the depravities of Great Nation America rather than an organized movement.

  Are my kills helping the Resistance, or hurting it?

  “They say he tortures the skinheads for information,” Alice says to the Farmer. “That he uses a knife to get them to talk, then cuts out their tongues before he shoots them.”

  I only did that once, but it has become legend.

  Is that good or bad?

  The Great Nation America cultists are alert, prepared, and travel in larger numbers. It’s getting more difficult to find small groups to attack.

  I guess they want to keep their tongues.

  The thunderclap of a gunshot in the enclosed space of the diner sends me diving behind the serving counter. Listening to the gossip and savoring the pie preoccupied me, and I didn’t notice the group of three skinheads, two men and a woman, entering the joint.

  I pull my weapon as one of the men, a big guy with dark stubble on his head and jaw, grabs Alice, wrestling her to the wall. “Pay up, bitch!”

  The woman skinhead, tatted and scarred, advertises her allegiance with a buzz cut just like the men. “Time to contribute to Great Nation America!” Her voice is the screech of an owl descending on a mouse.

  The second man, bald with a gray beard touching his chest and swastikas tattooed in red on both forearms, orders the farmer to empty his pockets.

  I bide my time.

  When they’ve taken everything from the restaurant patrons, the woman heads for the cash register with her AK hanging loose. “Doubt there’s much actual coin in here.”

  “I’ve told you shitheads before. We mostly trade.” Alice’s voice is high with rage. “You ripped us off just last week.” Dark Stubble backhands her across the face, the sound as loud as the gunshot.

  I unfurl from behind the counter, raising my Colt. Gray Beard is by the door, and I nail him in the chest. Blood explodes onto the glass behind him. The woman is closer, and she’s got her AK up when I turn and fire on her. Her head flies back, taking the rest of her body with it, crashing into the coffee maker and clattering to the floor, the scent of fresh coffee and blood blooming in the air. Dark Stubble gets off a shot that thunks into the counter in front of me. Before he can try again I fire, hitting him right between the eyes.

  Taking that shot reminds me of shooting that weasel in the mine to free Lucy.

  She never doubted me for a moment. Even when I pushed her away, she never doubted I could be the man she thought I was. Such a silly, loving, beautiful girl.

  The farmer and few other patrons beat a path to the door, leaping over Gray Beard’s body to exit. Alice, with her plump freckled cheeks and the creases of good humor beside her eyes, dabs her split lip with her apron. She looks at the bodies strewn around the restaurant, the blood spattering her windows and walls, her gaze finally landing on the destroyed coffee machine.

  “You’re the Gray Man, aren’t you?”

  I say nothing, as usual, and her gaze softens, looking me over. “Thank you for getting rid of those hyenas. They’ve been hassling us for months.” Her eyes travel up and down my bloodied leathers. “You want to stay awhile, take a shower? I can clean those for you.” Alice meets my gaze. She gestures to my clothing. “My husband wore leathers like that.” She’s not afraid of me. She sees me.

  I nod, and follow her upstairs to her boarding rooms.

  I wake up the next morning from the best sleep I’ve had in weeks to find that Alice has left a meal on a tray outside the door, and my cleaned leathers.

  Alice enjoys gossip. I can’t see her keeping quiet about something as sensational as having entertained the Gray Man under her roof. They’ll know what I look like, and the skinheads will be even more prepared.

  Smart move would be to kill Alice so she can’t talk, but the idea turns my stomach. There is still good in me.

  It’s time to take a break, to find a new direction…but without the killing purpose of this summer, without the hunting to fill my days, I immediately feel a black vortex of meaningless heartbreak waiting to swallow me.

  If I’m not the Gray Man, I need something else to live for.

  The broken eagle feather catches on my buckskin shirt as I pull it over my head. The quill digs into my cheek, getting my attention. A sign?

  Phil Standing Rock gave me the feather, and he’s the only man who can help me—if he’s still alive, and will speak to me.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lucy

  I sit on one of the rocking chairs out on the log cabin’s front porch, wrapped in a blanket, and watch the sunrise.

  Sleep is a curse.

  As a teenager, I luxuriated in my rest, but now I dream of Roan. That steel door closing between us, a physical and emotional barrier that I have no recourse against, slams over and over again every night…with my heart on the other side.

  Sitting in the rocking chair that Roan made, I close my eyes and let
the rays of the new day warm my skin. Imagining the arms of the chair are Roan’s arms on either side of me, I can almost feel his breath on my neck, his hands caressing my thighs.

  Footsteps behind me and a baby’s whimpering turn my head. Luca steps out onto the porch, his hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep, his daughter Jade, just six weeks old, fussing in his arms.

  Nani began to have contractions two days after I got back. Like the warrior she is, Luca’s wife labored for over twenty hours without medication. Jade came into this world at right about this time, just as the sun was rising on a new day, a new beginning.

  Elizabeth injected her father with the new vaccine the same day—and he survived. What a relief that the babies are protected now. The whole family, all the deputies and a lot of the town are now safe from the secondary flu. Roan isn’t, though, wherever he is out there…

  Luca sits down in the rocking chair next to me. Jade snuffles against his shirt and he whispers against the black fuzz of her hair. “Shhh, baby girl. Go back to sleep. Daddy’s here.”

  Jade quiets, giving a big yawn, showing her gums. She rests her head on Luca’s chest and closes her eyes. Soon her breathing falls into the deep rhythm of sleep, her plump pink mouth open.

  My heart melts to see my big, brash brother, now so sweet and gentle with his daughter. Luca always had an aura of anger, an unsettled reactiveness about him. Now, he’s a boulder: steady and strong, at peace and at home.

  “She’s so cute,” I whisper.

  Luca grins at me, his chest swelling beneath the baby. “I’d do anything for her.”

  “I know, Luca. You’re a great dad.”

  “Thank you.” He watches me for a moment, and his amber-brown eyes darken as his lips curl down, creasing his stubbled cheeks in a frown. “What are you doing up this early?”

  “Just couldn’t sleep.” I turn away from him, looking out across the lawn, over Ma’s garden, budding with early summer abundance, to where the sun is rising behind the mountains, lighting the snowcapped peaks with the pink of new day.