The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure

by Tom Calen

  The Tilian Cure (The Pandemic Sequence Book 3)

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (trade paperback): 978-1-61868-094-5

  ISBN (eBook): 978 1 61868 095 2

  The Tilian Cure copyright © 2013

  by Tom Calen

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Roy Migabon.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  In memory of my grandfather,

  and his lifetime of inspiration.

  He is the hero in all my stories.

  Disease, insanity, and death were the angels that attended my cradle, and since then have followed me throughout my life.

  -Edward Munch

  Prologue

  Saturdays required an early start for Tumelo Sardina. Most merchants set out for the marketplaces far later than him, but he knew a good deal of sales were secured before the official start of the business day. Hours before sunrise, he left his bed and shambled through the small home, organizing for the long day ahead. After a quick shower and latherless shave, Tumi—as he was known by most—set about gathering the various foods he and his wife had spent most of the preceding days preparing. Large pots of frijoles negroes, the seasoned black beans that were a staple of a Cuban diet, were the first to be loaded into the trailer hitched to his car. Several containers of prepared fish, everything from tuna, swordfish, and tilapia, were slid out of the refrigerator that dominated the small kitchen.

  Carrying the trays outside, Tumi felt his age as he struggled with the weight. Sighing with relief, he slid the trays onto the trailer, and placed his hand on the small of his back. As he arched, he could hear the familiar cracking from his spine, a sound that came more frequently now, with or without exertion. A fleeting thought passed as he wondered how many more years, or months, he could manage strenuous activity unaided.

  None of the three children he and his wife Maritza had birthed and raised still lived. Their last surviving son had sickened and been lost to the Tilian Virus over seven years earlier. He could still see the pain of that loss daily in his wife’s haunted eyes. The death of Rodolfo had sent her into a deep depression, and Tumi had feared he might lose her as well. As chaos had swept across the island, with monstruos infectados at every turn, Maritza had withdrawn inside herself. Rarely leaving her bed, he had been forced to become her nurse, bathing and dressing her, feeding her as he would a child. Their little home had become a fortress, windows and doors barred against the horror outside. The only time he left her side was to search for food beyond the safety of those four walls.

  In time, after the American ships had arrived and a semblance of order had been restored to the island, Maritza slowly began to stir from her catatonia. They had never discussed the long months she had spent hidden within her mind, nor did Tumelo care to rehash that painful time. His heart’s love had returned to him and he dared not risk a relapse.

  Shaking off the reminiscence of years past, he returned to the kitchen to collect the remainder of the goods to be sold. Even before he reached the room, he could smell the strong, Cuban coffee his wife had begun to brew. Fully dressed and sorting the boxes of knitted items to bring to market, Maritza Sardina smiled softly at her husband, that same smile that had captured his heart when they first met in their youth.

  “Buenos dias, mi querida, my darling,” he said to her as he brushed her cheek with a kiss.

  She greeted him with a warmth that few would believe she possessed. But he had known his wife a long time—from a carefree young girl to a stern yet tender mother, and then a resilient force that survived through revolution and pandemic. Tumi gratefully accepted the mug of dark coffee, the bitter taste—those foreign to the island found it too strong—was a welcome boost to the energy he needed for a day spent hawking his wares.

  After a quick yet hearty breakfast of eggs and toasted bread, the Sardinas locked up their home and settled into the old car. With a weary groan, the engine responded to Tumi’s turning of the key. It rumbled with hesitation at first, but soon settled with an almost prescient reluctance. Like its owners, the automobile had seen many decades pass, yet still persevered.

  A few people were already on the streets. Several young children, for whom sleep seemed a wasteful time especially when there was playing to be done, kicked a soccer ball in the street. A mother called from a window, pointing to Tumelo’s approaching car. The children stilled the ball’s movement and stepped back to allow the car to pass. He waved to them as he drove by and they responded with smiles of pure innocence. Even Itza, who tended towards the stoic, allowed a grin to cross her face. What heart could not open to the sight of such youth?

  There had been a time early in the virus’ ravaging where Tumelo had thought there would be no more days when children could take to the streets with their imaginations turning. Even after the sad, infected souls had been swept from the island, there had been anxiety over newborns and their potential succumbing to any remnants of the disease in the air. But soon babies did come, each one welcomed by relieved parents to a changed world, the first questions not about gender, but rather the angle of necks.

  The faces of children always brought Tumelo’s memories back to a time when his own still lived. They had been a lively brood, the Sardina children, with a clever knack for staining freshly cleaned clothes and finding lost animals in need of tending. Nightly meals around the kitchen table had often been raucous as each child competed for attention and told of his or her day of adventures. As they grew, so too did Tumelo’s love for them, even though they already held his heart more than he thought possible.

  When Miguel and Dominga, the two eldest, died together in a horrific car accident, Tumi felt an emptiness carved into his very soul. He had always heard how achingly painful it was for a parent to outlive children and he had believed it, but he had not been prepared for the actual devastating misery. Many long nights he held his sobbing wife, his own tears mixing with those which flowed from her. Somewhere in their grief, an unbending steel had been discovered. There was another child—a living child—who needed his parents more than they needed their grief.

  Time moved on, as it always does, despite the protests of men. Rodolfo moved with it, and the youngest Sardina grew into manhood. Though the vacancy in his heart was ever present, Tumelo felt fatherly pride whenever thoughts turned to his son. Eventually an engagement was announced, and he and his wife spoke excitedly of future grandchildren.

  Then the virus came. And again his heart would know pain.

  It had
been a phone call from a panicked wife, that alerted him to his son’s hospitalization. For two long days and nights, the parents stood beside the sterile, unfamiliar bed and watched as their son fought an unwinnable fight. Perhaps God had seen their pain and had given them a small gift. When Rodolfo had “changed” his parents had already been ushered out of the hospital by men in hazmat suits of blinding yellow brightness.

  * * *

  Pulling alongside to his usual place, Tumelo shifted the car to park and detached the cart from its hitch. Maritza removed their two folding chairs from the rear seat and began to set up as her husband moved the car, free of its burden, to a side street. As the clocked ticked and the sun rose higher, other cars soon arrived and deposited carts. Few of the other sellers offered food. Those that did had long ago given up their locations and moved to other markets. Tumelo and Maritza’s dishes had developed renown with which competitors could not contend.

  Instead, men and women managed carts that offered hand sewn clothing, some shabbily constructed while others had the look of professionals. At the far end of the street was a man who sharpened knives for a nominal fee. Others tendered various cooking needs: pots, pans, dish sets, and utensils. The items had been scavenged from around the city and sold to those too busy or reluctant to search for themselves. Another cart served as a book swap, a free service where people could exchange and return enjoyable reads. Still another cart, one a few spots over from Tumelo’s, sold cleaning supplies.

  His nearest neighbor, Arturo Machado, arrived shortly after the Sardinas. Arturo’s cart was layered with boxes of ripe plums, peaches, oranges, pineapples, and a host of other fruits. As famous as Tumelo had become for his cooking, so too had Arturo and his perfect fruit. The two men had an easy partnership, always referring their customers to the neighboring cart. By the time the street had filled with carts and vendors, Tumelo and Arturo had already enjoyed several sales.

  Assuming her usual place at the rear of the stand, Maritza Sardina had settled into her chair and removed knitting needles from the canvas tote at her feet. Spreading a half-finished blanket across her lap, Itza’s hands soon moved reflexively. The click-click of the needles, busy in creation, sounded a steady rhythm. Tumelo felt her sorrow as she stared out into the increasing traffic of neighborhood buyers.

  He knew for what her eyes searched, his own often scanned the crowd for the same sight. Michelle Lafkin and her fiancé Andrew Weyland. Two weeks had passed since they, accompanied by their friend Mike Allard and boatman Matt Locke, had made a hurried escape from the island. The young couple, their home only a few doors away, had come to mean a great deal to Tumelo and his wife. Though of markedly different coloring and stature, the pair had reminded him of his own children. Itza’s eager gaze told him his wife felt the same.

  He knew it was a foolish hope, expecting to see them walking down the street. At the last market day, Tumelo had spied dangerous-looking men who made continuous circuits through the market. Often—too often to not be noticed by Tumi’s eyes—the men glanced to the door of Michelle and Andrew’s house. He had seen their kind before, seen men with that cold stare, in the days of the revolution. As much as he wished to see the young couple, he knew they would face a dark consequence if they appeared.

  When he had seen the men last week, Tumelo experienced a small thrill of victory. If they were searching, it meant Michelle had escaped successfully. Today he could see no men, however. Had they given up the search, or had Michelle and her friends been captured? He prayed against the latter, knowing the former was unlikely. What Michelle had discovered beneath Guantanamo Bay was certainly too dangerous for her enemies to abandon the search.

  Tumelo and his wife had spoken twice, argued more accurately, of exposing their knowledge. Surely if someone, even a Councilor, was keeping infected on the island, the government would act. Mike Allard, a man whose eyes spoke of internal battles with demons, had instructed the Sardinas to remain silent about the underwater facility which held the monsters. It was too dangerous, he had explained, and genuinely seemed to share Michelle’s concern for the Cuban couple’s safety.

  Still though, Tumelo had broached the subject with his wife. She had argued against it, agreeing with Michelle and her tormented friend. Itza had stared at him with bafflement as he shared his hope of the government intervening. Her voice tinged with ire when she had reminded him of their lifetime stifled under a government which would cross any line to maintain power and control. In the end, after a second round of the same, he had bowed his head in acquiescence.

  * * *

  The day wore on as a continuous stream of customers stopped by the cart. Most he knew by sight if not name, and shared amiable words with them as he packaged their purchases. Arturo had already begun to prepare to close his stand for the day. Taking a quick inventory of his own trays, the majority empty save for a few remnants he and his wife would use for dinner, Tumelo decided to end their day as well. Itza stood and folded the nearly-complete blanket and replaced her instruments in her bag.

  While his wife sealed and stacked trays, Tumelo walked to retrieve the car. If his bones had felt aged at day’s start, dusk found them beyond ancient. As eager as he was to sit at the kitchen table and rest his weary body, he could not quicken his pace to the vehicle. Finally turning the corner of the side street, he pleaded with his legs for a few more minutes of service.

  “Monstruos!”

  As the word screamed with fearful urgency reached his ears, Tumelo’s breath caught and a chill ran down his aching back.

  Again the cry was shouted, followed by unintelligible screams from a dozen different voices. And howls. Turning on his heel, car keys in hand, Tumelo moved with dwindling speed towards the main street. No… no… no, his mind repeating the pleading mantra as he tried to run. Before he reached the intersection, he could see several people crashing through the few remaining carts, their actions desperate, caring little for what obstacles were before them. If they even saw the obstacles at all. Most had heads turned to the rear, eyes wide with fear and revulsion as death raced at their heels.

  The first of the creatures came into view with a lumbering surge, bringing a victim to the ground. Delivering only a bite, the monster moved on to another as more of its damned brethren coursed into view. Tumelo’s thoughts screamed for his wife as he ran, tumbling over discarded belongings. Angling around the corner, his heart sank as he saw his love backing away from an infected.

  The two forms slipped from his view as he neared them. Reaching the cart, the food trays clumsily knocked about the ground, Tumelo saw his wife crouched and trembling against the wall. At her feet, the body of her attacker twitched with death. A long, thin knitting needle driven deep into its eye socket.

  Chapter One

  “Hicks, just give me a simple answer,” Paul Jenson demanded with clear irritation in his voice. “Are we on schedule or not?”

  “Of course we are, but—”

  “Thank you.” Paul said the words with finality. It had been three weeks since he assumed leadership of the large band of survivors commonly known as the Horde. The name was not to his liking but attempts to change it had fallen flat. Three weeks and even in that brief time, their numbers had risen sharply. Well-armed searches dispatched immediately after the coup returned daily with more refugees. Coaxing the refugees out of hiding continued to be a challenge as the Horde’s reputation had spread across the surrounding lands, but with deliberate care, the men and women Paul supervised had added well over a hundred members to the group’s ranks.

  “If you think it is that easy to shut me up,” Hicks continued in a growl, ignoring Paul’s refusal to re-engage in the debate. “Then you’ve got your head up your—”

  “Assuming we reach the rendezvous on time, Hicks is still right,” Derrick Chancer jumped in. “Most of these people don’t want to leave.”

  With a sigh, Paul realized that he was once again going to have to debate his plans with the two men before him. In his mi
nd, it was simple. He had been sent—with a search and rescue team—to America to round up as many survivors as possible, escorting them to a scheduled rendezvous with the USS Mohawk for transport back to New Cuba. Though circumstances had certainly changed, having lost the majority of his first team and now leading the Horde, he still saw his duty clearly. In one month’s time, the several hundred members of the Horde would meet with the ship and set sail for the safety of the island. As Derrick and Hicks had often pointed out however, few of those members actually wanted to accept the rescue.

  “They just don’t understand what it’s like there,” Paul began with his usual counter-argument. “They’d be in a city, with power, government, thousands of other survivors. Pitching tents in a field is not a long-term lifestyle.”

  “We all know they have more than that,” Hicks replied. “Livestock, farming, water purification, gasifier systems. We lived in the mountains for years without any of that.”

  In truth, Paul had been justifiably shocked to learn how advanced the camp truly was, despite its rag-tag appearance. Beyond the basic need of food supply, something of constant worry in the mountains, this community had been producing its own fuel and clean water for the past three years. Drennan, the Horde’s previous leader, may have been a sadistic monster, but he had indeed created a rather successful encampment. If not for Lisa’s death, and the deaths of countless others, he might have felt a bit of admiration for the man’s accomplishments.

  “Even so,” he answered. “I have my orders. We are to meet with the ship…”

  “To hell with your damn orders!” Hicks exploded.

  “Paul, why not just send a small security team with those that want to go to New Cuba?” Derrick asked. Having turned down the offer of rescue once already, Paul doubted if Derrick counted himself among those wanting to leave America now. With Lisa lost to him, he realized he, too, had no intention of returning to New Cuba.