The Source: A Wildfire Prequel

by Marcus Richardson

  He looked at the wall clock—10:32—and leaned back against the door to stare at the radio. They must really want me bad. They've got some poor guy sitting there repeating that message over and over.

  He thought about the first radio he'd taken and how he'd attached it to Tristan the dog. They tracked him with that one and he never even hit the transmit button.

  "Are you tracking me with this one?" he said to himself. No way am I pushing the transmit button—soon as I do, some black helicopters will show up or one of those huge trucks. No way. He put the radio on the floor and read the instructions on the beef stew pack.

  "Chad Huntley, the time is now 10:39 am. If you find a box filled with food we left for you, please make use of it. My name is Lieutenant Daniels, I'm with the army. We're here to help you, Chad. You’ve got to believe me—no one wants to hurt you—you've done nothing wrong."

  Chad ignored the voice as he followed the instructions on the foil packet and 'cooked' his beef stew. It sure didn't smell like any beef stew he'd ever had, but the prospect of a warm meal made him forget the smell. He didn’t notice smells much anymore, good or bad.

  The radio continued to drone on in the background and Chad could tell the speaker was tired.

  "…other group, the men in black uniforms. We know about the firefight. If you're alive—if you're wounded— just press the transmit button. We'll come take care of you. You've got to believe me, I'm on your side, okay? I'm a virologist with the United States Army."

  He checked his watch. Time's up—the food should be ready. He opened the foil pouch to let the steam escape and inserted the little plastic spoon provided with the kit. He stirred it up and withdrew the first steaming mouthful of—he wasn’t sure what it was.

  Chad stared at it. It didn't smell like any beef stew he'd ever had before and it didn't really look like beef stew either.

  Soldiers eat this stuff?

  He opened his mouth in spite of the doubt that filled his mind but paused when he heard a noise in the distance.

  Chad dropped the included spoon to the floor and scrambled to the nearest window. He closed his eyes, shook his head and opened them again. Down the street, a Humvee painted in tan camo screeched around the corner and barreled toward his house. He watched in horror as it came to a stop out front, tires squealing. Three camo-clad soldiers jumped out the back and ran straight for the front door.

  Chad scooped up Jess' satchel in one hand and as many MREs as he could in the other, then ran for the back door. He was halfway through the kitchen when the silhouette of a soldier appeared at the back door, rifle across his chest.

  Chad dropped to the floor and hid behind the kitchen counter. Did he see me?

  The harsh sound of breaking glass from the living room was his only answer.

  He saw me.

  A second later, the front door resounded with two thudding kicks. The door frame shattered and the front door sprang open. The interior of the house was flooded with cold, sterile light.

  "Chad Huntley!" called out a voice from the front of the house.

  "In the kitchen!" replied a voice from the living room.

  Chad closed his eyes as he heard more and more sets of boots enter the house. He was finally trapped.

  Someone stopped in front of him. "Mr. Huntley, are you okay?"

  Chad opened his eyes and looked up at the young soldier.

  "My name is Corporal Reeves." He slung his rifle over a shoulder and extended his hand to Chad. "I'm real glad to meet you, sir."

  Chad took the gloved hand and let the corporal assist him to his feet. He expected to be handcuffed or restrained or something, but instead the soldier clapped him on the back and smiled.

  "Boy, you gave us one helluva chase. I'm pretty impressed. Are you hungry? Did you figure out how to make those MREs?" Reeves made a face. "I hope you didn't try the beef stew."

  "That shit's nasty, yo," muttered the soldier in the living room.

  "Shut up, Garcia." Cpl. Reeves didn't look threatening—in fact, he looked only a little older than Chad.

  "He tried it! Here's the package," said a third voice.

  "Pay up!" Garcia cheerfully called out. "I knew he'd pick that one first!"

  “Garcia, you’re the luckiest son of a bitch I ever met.”

  Reeves turned Chad away from the bickering soldiers. "Look, man, I don't know what you’ve been going through, but you gotta be scared—you're lost and alone, right? You're hungry and you’re tired, like most survivors out there, but they sent me to come find you and bring you back. We got food, medical attention if you're hurt, warm beds to sleep in—safety, man. A lot of people all around the world are counting on you."

  Chad clutched Jess' bag across his chest as they slowly walked toward the front door. “Why won’t someone just tell me why?”

  Reeves adjusted his helmet and looked down. "That’s above my pay grade, man. But look, the docs back on base keep telling everybody the blood they took from you…you know, on that bus? Anyway, they say that blood—your blood—is special. Real special. This one guy, what's that old guy's name?" Reeves called over Chad's shoulder.

  "The one who looks like Ben Franklin?" Garcia replied, counting money.

  “Yeah, that’s him—” started Reeves.

  "Boats," replied another soldier.

  "No, that's not it. It's Boatner," replied Garcia.

  "Right," Reeves said nodding. "This one guy, Dr. Boatner? He's convinced he can use your blood to create some kind of cure, but he needs your help."

  "A cure?"

  Reeves nodded again. "A cure, a vaccine—I don't know…it was some kind of science bullshit. I don’t really know what the hell he was talking about, but they're all real excited about you. Look, can you come back with us? Please?"

  Chad took a hard look at Reeves. He wore standard camo like the other soldiers he'd seen. He didn't have a fancy-looking rifle or night vision like Meigs and the Oakrock mercenaries. Reeves looked like a college student. He looked tired, even a little scared, but he didn't look like somebody who wanted to kidnap anyone.

  “Please?” Reeves said again.

  Chad sighed. Something broke inside him when Reeves asked a second time. He asked—he didn’t demand, and he said please. Chad looked at the floor.

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Meeting

  CHAD SPENT THE WHOLE ride back to the airport stuffing his face with MREs. Each of the soldiers inside the truck insisted he try their favorite kind. He finished the beef stew then moved on to chicken noodle soup, but by far the best was mac & cheese combined with beef chili. Garcia won another bet.

  By the time they reached the airport, Chad's stomach was full for the first time in weeks. He closed his eyes in bliss and downed his third bottle of water.

  This time there was no shadiness about his arrival. Chad stepped off the truck and Reeves and his squad surrounded him as he was led through lines of survivors waiting to be processed.

  Chad noticed a lot more people waiting in line. Four buses lined up and unloaded even more people as he watched. The crowd waiting to get inside the large hangar easily numbered in the hundreds.

  "They're finding that many survivors?" he asked in awe.

  "Sometimes. The further away from the Metroplex we go, the more people we find generally. Looks like anyone north of Grapevine had a decent chance of surviving. Some places, like down near Arlington though," Reeves said shaking his head as he walked. "Man…they're ghost towns."

  "Watch it, bro," Garcia quietly warned.

  Chad clutched Jess' satchel tighter. "What?" he asked quickly.

  Reeves paused as the rest of the squad cleared a path for Chad to enter the main hangar. "No, you're fine. It's just Purnell over there…his family's from Arlington. We try not to talk about it too much, you know?"

  Chad took a look at the indicated soldier, who held the door open and stared with glassy eyes at the mass of refugees. The man's pain was right there, just under the
surface and visible in the tight little lines around his tired eyes.

  "Where are you taking me?" Chad asked quietly as they shuffled inside.

  "Just down this hallway. Dr. Boatner already knows you're here," replied Reeves, gesturing for Chad to keep moving.

  Thirty feet ahead of them, the door labeled "Maintenance Office" crashed open and a man approaching middle-age in a white lab coat stepped into the hallway. When he spotted Chad, his face lit up with a big smile.

  "Is this him? Chad—Chad Huntley?"

  Chad took a step closer to Corporal Reeves. "That's me."

  Dr. Boatner took Chad by surprise and gave him a big bear hug. "I'm so glad they found you!" He ran his hands over Chad's shoulders and held him at arm's length, his face suddenly serious.

  "Are you hurt? Any cuts or bruises? Nothing broken?"

  Chad shook his head. "Uh, no…no, sir."

  Boatner closed his eyes and hugged Chad again. "Thank God!" He stepped back and narrowed his eyes. "You're malnourished." He glared at the soldiers. "Didn't they give you the MREs like I said?"

  "We did—but…" began Reeves.

  "I didn't eat them," Chad said quickly. "Not at first."

  Boatner stared at Chad. "Why wouldn't you?" He shook his head. "Nevermind—doesn't matter." He smiled again. "You're here now, that's all that matters."

  Chad met Reeves' gaze and the soldier shrugged one shoulder.

  Boatner stepped back and shook hands with Reeves. "Sergeant, I'm going to recommend you for promotion or a medal at least."

  "Nice job, sergeant," snorted Garcia.

  Reeves laughed as he took his hand back. "That's not necessary, Dr. Boatner. I'm just doing my job, sir." He showed the scientist his arm patch. "And it's just corporal, sir."

  "You'll be a captain if I have anything to say about it," Boatner said. "How many men do you have with you?"

  "Seven sir, including myself and Mr. Huntley here."

  "Fine, fine. Come with me then—you'll all fit." Boatner put a hand on Chad's shoulder and urged him forward. "Don't worry, son, I'll be with you the whole time."

  "Sir, my orders were to—" began Reeves.

  Boatner waved him off. "It doesn't matter what your orders were, corporal—I've been granted temporary command of this facility. If someone has a problem with it, they can talk to me. Follow me please," said Boatner, leading them toward the end of the hallway.

  "Where are we going?" asked Chad.

  "We need to get you out of here. I'm taking you to a secured facility—Fort Sam Houston."

  "Fort Sam Houston?" blurted Reeves. "Sir, I will definitely have to clear this with my CO—"

  "Don't worry about your commander, Corporal. I'll clear everything once we're in the air. Trust me on this—nobody will give you a hard time for escorting us."

  Boatner rushed to the end of the hallway and opened the exit door. "It's him!" he shouted to someone outside. "Let's go!"

  Chad heard the whine of a helicopter engine spooling up.

  "All due respect, sir," began Reeves again over the noise, "I really need to clear this through my commanding officer before I take Mr. Huntley anywhere off-base, especially in a helicopter—"

  Boatner smiled. "My authorization comes straight from the top, son. Don't worry about it."

  "The top of what, sir?" demanded Reeves as he stopped in front of the door. Chad watched the confrontation closely. So far, Reeves had shown an active interest in keeping him safe—that was good enough for Chad to trust him going forward.

  "I need to know where your authorization came from, sir."

  "How's the Oval Office sound?" asked Boatner, with a smile. "Nobody's getting in trouble." He pulled out a paper and handed it to the doubting soldier.

  Corporal Reeves skimmed the paperwork with wide eyes. "Holy shit," he muttered.

  Garcia glanced out the door. "Is that for real?" he asked.

  Reeves joined Garcia at the door. "Holy shit," he said again.

  Chad leaned around the soldiers and stared at the huge green helicopter with a white stripe down its side. Its rotors tore the air behind the hangar and created a blanket of noise that drowned out the rest of the world.

  "Let's go, gentlemen," said Boatner. "I'm sure the president will want his helicopter back at some point."

  CHAPTER 25

  The Talk

  CHAD FOUND IT IMPOSSIBLE to relax on the utilitarian hospital bed, no matter how hard he tried to process everything from the past three days. Between his escape from DFW to hiding out in the homes of dead people to meeting the survivors at the supercenter, his head still spun over finding himself alive. Yet now he was locked away in some medical facility on an army base.

  He fidgeted with his belt in frustration. A dome light on a swing-arm hung over his head and bathed the small, windowless room in a harsh, sterile white light. It was like he was trapped in a white box.

  Chad listened to the heart-rate monitor beep softly. He traced the wires with his eyes from the machine to his arm and back again. So far, no one had done anything other than feed him, let him sleep for six hours, and provide him with clean clothes—for which he was eternally grateful. But he still wished someone would just talk to him. He hadn't even seen Reeves and the others since they'd landed.

  But the shower! He'd luxuriated in a long shower with steaming hot water. A smile played across his lips as he remembered the simple joy that hot cleansing water could bring someone who'd been living in filth and surrounded by death for more than a week.

  His skin, scrubbed pink by orderlies in chemical suits to make sure he was free of the pathogen stood in stark contrast to the oversized camo pants and olive-drab shirt he now wore. They were clean though and that's all he cared about.

  "It's the best I can do on short notice. I'll send someone to the PX and get you a pair of jeans or something later," Boatner had said by way of an apology.

  He plucked at the coarse, stiff fabric over his knees. What would Mom say if she saw me sitting here like this?

  Chad didn't have to wonder—he knew exactly what she'd say: Be brave, you can do this.

  His mother had caught the flu and died because of her unselfish ways—she'd been determined to help her sick neighbors though she knew it might mean her own death. That was just the kind of woman she'd been.

  No matter what Dr. Boatner wanted to do to him, Chad decided if it could help just one person survive, he'd do it. It's what Mom would have done in his place.

  Thoughts of painful blood draws and needles—lots of needles—flashed through his mind. He swallowed and pulled out Jess' diary again. He needed something to ease the anxiety of waiting in a room with literally nothing but the bed, the door, and the heart monitor.

  Chad opened the worn composition notebook and a newspaper clipping fell out. It detailed how Jess' school district adopted a "wait and see" attitude about closing schools over the flu outbreak.

  Jess had been the last person to hold the scrap of paper. That thought gave him a little comfort in his isolation. Chad held the little slip of thin paper and remembered how it felt when she'd wrapped her arms around his neck. It was the only human contact he'd had since his family had died. Other than doctors grabbing him, soldiers shoving him—or shooting at him—and survivors threatening him, no one had talked to him besides Corporal Reeves and Dr. Boatner.

  No one except Jess.

  I don't even know her last name, he thought mournfully. His only friend left in the entire world was a girl with one name. He sighed and started reading.

  February 10th.

  Friday.

  Okay, I thought it was scary the other day, but now it’s really scary. I didn’t see a single car drive through our neighborhood today. Not even the mailman. That's freaking crazy for a Friday that’s not Christmas, New Year's, or some other national holiday.

  Dad wouldn’t even let us go outside today. I mean, I get it—this flu is worse than the Spanish Flu of 1920 or whatever year he said it was—but come on, Dad
! There’s no one outside, who’s going to get us sick?

  Anyway, I have a new job evidently….Mom and Dad sat us down at the table this afternoon and gave us all notebooks.

  Dad’s on this crazy survivalist kick. I get it, but I think he’s going a little over the top. He convinced Mom to go along—she’s usually a lot more skeptical about his ideas than this—which makes me think she’s worried. And if Mom’s worried, then this is real bad, and now I'm really worried too.

  So back to the notebooks….we each have different areas of the house to inventory. Mom gets the fridge and freezers (we have one in the garage but it’s mostly just full of that nasty beer dad likes). Dad is going through our pantry with a fine-toothed comb, and Seb has to inventory all the stuff in the upstairs closet—that’s where Mom and Dad keep the first aid supplies and any extra shampoo, things like that. Not me, though, I keep my extra shampoo in my closet (it's hidden you little weasel, you'll never find it). I don’t want Seb wasting that stuff, it’s like $20 a bottle! Sucks for him, he’s got to check out the little first aid kit that Dad keeps in the kitchen for "cooking mishaps".

  So what’s my exciting task in all this bean-counting?

  Dad wants me to check everything in the emergency kits he keeps in our cars. Yay. So I have to go out in that arctic garage of ours and drag those dusty, nasty duffel bags inside, then dump everything on the floor—and he packs a ton of stuff in those things—and make sure everything is up to date and still good (like the travel-size aspirin packs).

  Dad says the emergency kits in the cars were never meant to help us survive forever, just long enough to make it home—he calls them "76 hour kits" or something like that. He’s pretty proud of them, so I took a cue from Mom and made sure I said nice things about all the junk I found inside each bag. I don't know if Dad appreciated the sentiment, but Mom laughed.

  Parents are so weird.

  So anyway, then I realized that’s not all I was supposed to do. Taskmaster Dad put me in charge of the “readiness committee”. Get this: I’m supposed to check the tires on our bikes—yeah, all four bikes!—and make sure they’re properly inflated in case we have to leave and scavenge for food or gas or something.