The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure

by Tom Calen

  “Listen to me. You go to her. Be with Jenni, Derrick.”

  Turning his head with the last of his strength, the boy who once dreamed of playing college ball looked at Mike. “Is it over?”

  The only words he could find were ones that had once been told to him. Hearing them then had brought him peace. Mike knew that that memory would be the last one he would know of peace. “Yes. It’s over, Derrick. We’re safe.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The first days after the victory were marked with a continuing stream of celebrations. Comparisons were naturally made to previous epic battles waged throughout the course of human history. Marathon. Hastings. Waterloo. Gettysburg. D-Day. Even the mythical battle of Troy failed to shine brighter in the hearts and minds of the survivors than what they dubbed “The Horde’s Stand.”

  Their losses had been great and painful. It had taken days to gather the fallen members of the camp and perform the basic rituals of burial. Both Erik and Mike shared stories and thoughts as they laid Derrick Chancer to rest in a freshly dug grave. Weakened from the amputation, Paul had argued vehemently to leave his bed and attend that ceremony. He studied the shadows in Mike’s eyes as the one-time teacher spoke. He knew his friend fought feelings of failure, another in his charge whose life was cut too short.

  The Horde remained at the battle site for more than a week performing the rites. Ever-watchful eyes glanced furtively towards the field of catatonic Tils. Once starvation and dehydration assured the enemy would never rise again, Paul ordered a departure to Fort Polk. The survivors made the long march with little complaint, eager to slumber in the barracks of the military base.

  On their arrival, the now-operational ARC was restored to the broadcast tower—Weyland’s Tower as Mike had named it. It was there that Michelle and Matt had joined them, explaining the seeming miracle of the sudden downfall of the Tils. Paul marveled at the pair’s tale of infiltrating the National Council building, aided by Tumelo and Maritza Sardina. Mike and Erik were pleased to hear the elderly couple had survived.

  Control of the satellite, as well as several others Duncan had possessed, was now held at Fort Polk, the facility that had given birth to the virus. Communication with bands of survivors spanning the globe that the councilor had ignored, were restored. The secret of the ARC and the power of its frequency had been freely shared with every voice that came through the control room’s system.

  Another goal of Duncan’s sinister vision shattered.

  Paul’s arm was healing well, or so the doctors claimed. He still struggled with the habit of reaching for items with the non-existent right hand. The sensation of phantom fingers cramping and flexing were jarring and if he did not look, he would have sworn the limb was still there.

  Their wedding was held three weeks after the battle. He had found a minister among the survivors to perform the ceremony. He doubted the event fully realized the girlhood dreams of Lisa’s perfect wedding, but she swore to him it was all that she had desired. In a simple dress borrowed from a stranger, Paul thought she had never looked more beautiful than when she walked towards him. Mike stood at his side, while Michelle attended Lisa. The maid of honor hid well the pain of reversing roles with his bride.

  A proper honeymoon must wait, of course, in large part due to Mike’s momentary intervening in political affairs. When radio contact with foreign governments had been established, his friend had been present.

  “Who leads the American survivors?” a distinctly British voice had asked. Mike had been the one to reply. “Our leader is Paul Jenson.”

  If he thought leading the Horde had been a trial, Paul quickly found himself barely treading water once foreign countries began clamoring to speak with the “American leader.” Atoning slightly for thrusting him into the role, Mike provided vital information stored away in his memories of history. Lisa’s steel-trap grasp of all things military complemented Mike’s wealth of historical teachings. In the weeks that followed, he relied heavily on their counsel.

  His first concern, however, had been the Mohawk. An armed battleship manned by Duncan loyalists could not continue to freely roam the waters. Radio-borne negotiations—Paul still marveled at the return of the much missed technology—ensued before resulting in the sailors agreeing to stand down and return to New Cuba. In return, the men on the ship would face no consequence for their role in supporting the deceased councilor. Michelle and Matt, having fallen under a bombardment from the ship, rankled at the deal, but eventually expressed their understanding.

  For Paul, it seemed that once again the world was spinning faster than his thoughts could maintain. He had not expected to outlive the night-shrouded battle with the Tils, and now, little more than a month later, he was speaking with foreign heads of state as the American representative. His only solace lay in the hope that the men and women from abroad were also struggling with the demands of an unexpected title.

  By the second month, the population swelled. Satellite imagery located various bands of survivors across the states, teams had been dispatched to make contact, and most returned with droves of new refugees. Over three thousand men, women, and children were sheltered at the base. As the threat of any lingering Tils subsided, many began to establish residences in the neighboring township.

  At the half-year anniversary, over ten thousand called the area home, and Fort Polk served as the epicenter of national recovery. Engineers had worked tirelessly to return the nearest power plant to operational status. Children, born after the outbreak, stared in wonder at the glowing street lamps of their quickly populating neighborhoods. With the threat of Tils removed, plans of permanency were finally possible after seven arduous years.

  * * *

  One morning, a short time before dawn, Paul stood outside and leaned against the brick building of the command center. The night’s air was crisp, a soft breeze chilled it further. Autumn was approaching, though the days still baked in the sun. A soft, metallic click caught his ears, and Paul spoke into the darkness.

  “Didn’t think you’d stay this long.”

  Bringing a flashlight to life, Mike Allard illuminated the few feet separating the two men. He was dressed in his usual uniform of dark jeans and black shirt, with a short black leather jacket zipped half-way up his torso. A stuffed pack looped across his shoulders. Gazelle’s eyes shined in the shadows at his feet.

  “How’d you know it’d be today?” Mike asked.

  “I wouldn’t be much of a second if I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  Mike laughed softly. “You haven’t been my second in command in a while, Paul.”

  He simply shrugged and fell into step alongside his friend. The two walked quietly for some time towards the eastern edge of the base. “You’re leaving me to deal with a mess you got me into,” Paul said finally, breaking the stillness. “I’ve got a shouting German, an angry Russian, and a pushy Brit all wanting different things.”

  “I was never cut out for administration and paperwork. That’s all you now, buddy,” Mike joked amiably. His voice leveled to seriousness. “You’re the right one for this, Paul.”

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  Mike extinguished the flashlight, the coming dawn provided just enough light by which to see. “There’s a place in the mountains I kinda like,” he said with a smile.

  Paul nodded. “Maybe once the baby’s born and things settle down, Lisa and I will make a trip up.”

  His old friend did not reply, and again they walked in silence. Coming to the end of the path, Mike turned to Paul and extended his left hand. “Take care of them for me, okay?”

  Paul grasped the outstretched hand and pulled him into a brief embrace. Gazelle pawed at his thigh, demanding an attentive parting. Breaking the hold, he reached down and scratched the dog’s chin. “And you take care of him. Okay, girl?” She barked once in reply.

  The gaze of both men locked for a moment. Years of friendship and brotherhood, victory and defeat, went unspoken in
the stare. Finally, Paul spoke. “Thank you. It’s been an honor.”

  “Same here.”

  With those words, Mike turned back into the direction of the rising sun. Paul watched as dog and man shrank from view, disappearing into the red and orange hues of a new day. He’s going back to the only place he can call home, his mind decided. Paul could not fault the man. The world had demanded too great a price, one which Mike Allard had paid dearly. He knew The Horde’s Stand would never have occurred if not for a history teacher from Tennessee. He knew, too, he would never see the man again. The loss of those for whom he felt the responsibility of protection had wounded him too deeply. Mike Allard would return to the mountains, isolated from reminders of pain and loss. There would be no healing for him, for some things have no cure.

  Epilogue

  “…and so it is my honor to introduce my husband, Paul Jenson,” Lisa said to thunderous applause. Rising from his chair, he walked across the dais, bones and joints shouting their anger at the passage of time. Paul kissed his wife, her once lustrous black hair now faded to a dusky gray, before placing himself behind the podium.

  The crowd continued its cheers, ignoring his gestures for quiet. Finally the assemblage returned to their seats, a collection of rows and columns that stretched far into the distance. Paul was over-awed by the hundreds, if not thousands, that had crossed the country to mark the occasion. To his left and right, mobile crews from local and national news outlets operated cameras that broadcasted the event across the vastness of the globe.

  There had been worries, mostly from his staff, that the weather might work against the outdoor venue. It was the South, after all, however a warming sun shone through a cloudless sky. Even if it had stormed, Paul had adamantly argued for the dedication’s location.

  “Thank you. Thank you,” he spoke into the microphone and addressed the crowd. He turned to Lisa, who sat to his right, before continuing to address the crowd. “Thank you, Lisa, for that truly touching introduction. I want to welcome our friends from around that world that have travelled great distances to commemorate this day. It was thirty years ago, on this day, that mankind pulled itself back from the brink of extinction. We celebrate today not just one man’s efforts, but rather the collective sacrifices of so many who…”

  He had rehearsed the speech repeatedly in the weeks leading up to the day, and though his mouth spoke the words clearly, his mind wandered. Faces watched him, men and women he had known for decades, stirring memories of both horror and happiness. Paul looked to the front row were Michelle and Matt Locke sat, their children and a recently arrived grandchild gathered near them. The two had married a year after the war’s end, a small ceremony attended by a circle of friends. Paul had chuckled to see Erik Lasdale, the quintessential rebel, dressed smartly in a classic tuxedo as he walked Michelle down the aisle.

  Michelle had moved to DC, and served as Paul’s Secretary of Agriculture during both his terms. She had been his first choice for the position and he had been relieved when she readily accepted. Matt owned a large marina on Chesapeake Bay, with the hope of turning the business over to one of the couple’s daughters, Jenni or Sarah. As she sat, smiling at him from her seat, Paul silently celebrated the happiness Michelle had created after so much loss had clouded her life.

  Further along the row, past the Locke brood, Erik—not one for sitting through long speeches—fidgeted in his chair. Remaining a bachelor until his forties, the man had spent the years directly following the war travelling around the country. Paul often wondered if Erik knew for what he searched. For a time, his laughter had fallen away, and though not returning to the drink, he did turn inward as he roamed. Erik was much like Mike in that way, searching for something undefinable. It seemed though, that the former had found it in Becca Harwood, a nurse from Wyoming. The two dated briefly before marrying and welcoming their son, Derrick Andrew Lasdale. The boy’s birth brought back the father’s cheer. Now a teenager, Paul could see the unmistakable resemblance.

  For himself, Paul cherished the memories the years had provided as he and Lisa watched their own family grow. Michael Jenson, their eldest son, came into the world several weeks premature. Long nights and many tears had passed as the child clung to life. But like his namesake, Michael proved to be a fighter. Now with an expanding family of his own, Paul believed his eldest son would follow in his father’s political footsteps.

  Twin daughters, born three years after Michael, shared their mother’s beauty. Paul had thought many times, when the girls were teens, that they would send him to an early grave. Where Michael had been disciplined and obedient, his twin sisters seemed born with an innate tendency for pushing boundaries and testing limits. In the end though, the pair had grown into fine women.

  Later, years after Paul had left office, husband and wife received shocking news. Brett Jenson, their fourth child, was quite unplanned and Paul had secretly wondered if he still had the strength to rear another child. When he heard the baby’s first cry, however, he remembered all the blessings of an infant in his home.

  Before the families had come along, the “old gang,” as Erik called them, had often sought each other’s company. Holidays, birthdays, and Sunday dinners were frequently shared together. But as the families did start, and new members were added, the gatherings became more sporadic. Paul had at first mourned the loosening of the bonds of friendship. They would always be connected, he knew, yet he still regretted the inevitable distances that time and space created.

  There was another member of the “old gang” which time and space seemed to remove from their circle. Paul had not seen Mike Allard again after the man and his dog had walked into the sunrise. Many times over the years, he thought a glimpse of Mike had caught his eyes, but it had always resulted in the discovery that memory and hope had been playing their tricks.

  So few that had known him still lived, and Paul sometimes questioned if the man had ever truly existed. Perhaps he was simply the creation of our minds, our desperation for a hero, he’d wondered. Like all great men, the tales of him grew and augmented to such extents that he had trouble recalling the true experiences at their core. He had laughed when, as a child, his son Brett had asked if it was true that Mike Allard had fought a hundred Tils, all by himself.

  “More than that,” Paul had told him, kissing his forehead and tucking the boy into bed.

  “Wow!” Brett had exclaimed in adolescent wonder. “And you really knew him, Daddy?”

  “I think so.”

  * * *

  “Great speech, Paul,” Michelle told him during the reception.

  “Thanks,” he replied. “It wasn’t too long?”

  “Not at all,” Matt assured.

  “Speak for yourself. I think my ass is asleep,” rejoined Erik as he shook his hand.

  “Honey…” Becca Lasdale admonished her husband, tilting her head towards their son.

  “Oh, right… don’t use words like that, Derrick,” father cautioned son without much sincerity. The empty warning elicited a playful rolling of the eyes from Becca, his wife. “So, we doing this?”

  The idea had been Paul’s, and he had thought Lisa would object when he first shared it with her. Instead, she had simply kissed him and smiled with agreement.

  “I’m ready when you guys are,” Paul answered. Placing their drinks and small plates of hors d’oeuvres upon a nearby table, Erik, Michelle, Paul and Lisa moved inconspicuously behind the empty dais from which he had delivered his speech an hour earlier. Approaching a black sedan, Paul waved to one of the Secret Servicemen that stood at the vehicle’s trunk.

  “Wanting your packs, sir?” the man asked from behind dark sunglasses.

  “That we do, Bill,” he told him.

  Within minutes, and after a quick change of clothes, the four old friends found themselves walking along a steadily rising wooded path. Each step rang with memory as they navigated the first phase of the hike.

  “This seems a lot steeper than I remember,” E
rik moaned after the second hour.

  “It only feels that way cause you’re old and out of shape,” Michelle teased.

  “Out of shape!” the graying man sounded with comical insult. “Look who’s talking, Grandma.”

  “We’ve all seen better days,” Lisa acknowledged her own struggling trek. Paul smiled at the comment and squeezed her hand. In truth, his body was questioning loudly his decision to hike up a mountain. When the idea first struck, he had briefly considered that being in his sixties might prevent him from making the journey. His resolve, however, had won out.

  Well after nightfall, they reached one of the midway points they had cleared decades before. The area was almost unrecognizable. Mere seedlings had aged into taller versions of their former selves, wind and rain had altered the landscape, and time, of course, had blurred human memory.

  A meal was shared, the fare far superior to what they had once consumed when the mountain was their home. Erik muttered a complaint about a rock pinching into his back, but eventually all four fell into an easy sleep.

  * * *

  Sometime after noon the following day, the site of the camp from their memories surrounded them. Most of the structures they once knew were gone. As Paul turned and stared, past and present blended seamlessly. There, that was where his tent had been. Down there was Dr. Marena’s wilderness hospital. Here, the hut that once held the meetings of the camp’s leaders. Gone now. All gone, Paul thought sadly.

  A newer creation stood out from the remembrances of time past. A squat cabin had been erected at the camp’s center. With irrational anticipation, Paul walked quickly to the building’s door. Pushing inward, it creaked on unoiled hinge pins. Thick accumulations of dust stirred gently as he stepped across the leveled wood floor. To the right, a small bed, crudely cut and carved, sat against the wall. At the cabin’s other end stood a table and chairs, equally lacking craftsmanship.