Generation M (The Toucan Trilogy, Book 3)

by Scott Cramer

  The spike in the death rate at Week Four was a consequence of the AHA-B symptoms. They predicted that food riots would break out, pitting the sick against the healthy, and by Week Eight, the population of survivors outside the colonies would be statistically nonexistent.

  Perkins massaged his temples. “I see this in my dreams.”

  “Look at the X axis,” Droznin said.

  When his eyes fell to the horizontal scale that showed the timeframe of the lethal epidemic’s rise, he sat up with a jolt. “Two weeks!”

  Perkins’s head was spinning. The revelation added to the emergency they faced.

  He tented his fingers and informed her of his decision to evacuate Colony East. “I’ll schedule a meeting with Admiral Samuels and the company leaders as soon as possible. Lieutenant Mathews will work out the logistics for transferring the cadets. Atlanta can accommodate four companies.”

  “What about Colony West?” she asked.

  “I’m working on another plan for them, which I’ll share at an appropriate time.” Perkins glanced at his day calendar. “We have a meeting scheduled with Doctor Hoffer and Doctor Ramanathan today at twelve thirty to review the profile of a prospective Generation M member, ID 944. She’s marginal, at best. I’ll order her to be expelled, and then we can use the time to discuss the evacuation instead.”

  “Lisette Leigh is the candidate,” Droznin said. “She participated in the early drug trials. She’s part of my ongoing study on the effects of the antibiotic.”

  “That’s right. Her older sister was ID 1002, the cadet who shot you.”

  Perkins feared where this conversation was heading. Droznin would argue to keep 944 for research purposes alone.

  “Lisette Leigh is five years old, the youngest subject to receive the antibiotic,” Droznin said.

  Speaking in the patient tone he reserved for the youngest members of Generation M, Perkins leaned forward. “Svetlana, have you seen her profile? Her test scores are abysmal. When we evacuate, we’ll be introducing two hundred new members of Generation M to Atlanta Colony. They won’t know where to put all of us.”

  She insisted they conduct the evaluation.

  He felt strongly that 944 would contribute absolutely nothing to the society of the future. Now was the time to weed out those who drained vital resources.

  “Let’s postpone our decision until later,” he said, and then tried to change the subject. “How is your leg feeling?”

  1.02

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  Abby doubled over in pain, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them as waves of cramps rolled through her stomach. She had the Pig.

  Dawn light came through the window and cast shadows in the upstairs room where she had spent the night after escaping from Colony East.

  The second-floor room had probably been someone’s bedroom before the night of the purple moon. The hurricane had damaged the structure. One corner of the ceiling had collapsed, and water was dripping onto the heap of white chunks on the floor below. Through the window, she could see the dark buildings of Colony East across the East River.

  Food might ease the cramps a little, but the small bag of cooked rice Abby had brought from the colony was the only food she had with her. She had to make it last.

  She balled her fists and crossed her arms. The bag of rice was so close, and the desire to eat so powerful. How could she resist?

  Her mind was playing tricks on her. The AHA-B bacteria attacked the gland that controlled appetite, and in turn, that gland sent a signal to the brain, convincing the body it was starving to death. How could she gain control of her actions when her mind was battling itself?

  As the cramps intensified, Abby cried out repeatedly, bringing her hands to her mouth. When that failed to muffle her grunts and groans, she buried her face in her backpack and bit down on the strap, hoping the rough fabric pressing against her tongue would somehow mimic a mouthful of food.

  As more light entered the room, she could make out the lumpy swell of tarps, blankets, and jackets that served as communal covers for the twenty other girls in the room with her.

  The tribe of five and six-year-old girls had led her to this house after she had washed ashore from the East River. They had saved her life.

  Abby’s head pressed against some part of the girl next to her, and another girl’s hand was draped over her shoulder. Everyone was snuggled close to stay warm.

  Closing her eyes, Abby returned to the fantasy that had comforted her throughout the long night. She pictured herself walking down a dirt road with tall pine trees on both sides. Traces of purple dust bled into the bed of golden needles at the edges of the road. She could smell the lake in a fresh wind through the trees before she came to it. The opposite shore was two miles away, and the body of water extended to her right and left beyond her view.

  The image of the cabin was clear in Abby’s mind. Mandy, a girl who had saved Abby and Jordan’s lives two years earlier, had described the cabin on the lake in Maine to Abby and given her directions. Mandy’s grandparents had lived there.

  The cabin sat thirty yards away from the water, with a chimney and a wide window that faced the lake. As Abby imagined herself stepping past the stack of firewood, Toucan burst through the door and raced to greet her, a blur of legs and curly red hair. Abby bent her knees and opened her arms wide, bracing herself for the impact.

  She snatched Touk in mid-air, and while hugging her tightly, she carried her inside, where Jordan, Toby, and Jonzy were laughing and joking with each other. Jordan and Toby both had shaggy heads of hair and were lean and muscular from the day-to-day efforts to survive. Jonzy, who had spent the last two years at Colony East, wore thick glasses and looked like he had just stepped out of an exclusive prep school.

  A stew of some sort was cooking on the wood stove. Inhaling the aroma, she put Touk down and went over to the pot, trying to guess the ingredients. She lifted the lid.

  Abby shrieked from a painful cramp, which interrupted her fantasy. Nobody in the room stirred from the outburst. She figured the other girls, like many survivors, were used to cries in the night.

  She sat up and her eyes blurred from the scent of Pink Sugar perfume mingling with the stink of dirty clothes and mildew. Grimacing, she tested her limbs and checked her fingers and toes. Nothing was broken or sprained from tumbling in the raging East River; there were only scrapes and bruises. Her wristwatch had also survived. It was 5:30.

  She reached into her backpack and wrapped her fingers around the two-way radio. The rush of relief gave way to apprehension as she brought it to her ear. Were the batteries still good? She turned on the radio, heard the satisfying static in answer, turned it off, and returned it to the pack.

  The walkie-talkie was the only way to communicate with Jonzy, who remained inside Colony East.

  Abby stood and trembled in the chilly air. The communal blanket and collective body heat of the slumbering girls had kept her toasty throughout the night, but now her damp blue jeans pressed cold and clammy against her skin.

  She slung her pack over her shoulder and made her way to the door, stepping next to heads and in between legs.

  Reaching the doorway, she was about to look back at the tribe of sleeping girls, but instead continued into the hallway and down the steps. She could do nothing for them. Many would get the Pig, if they didn’t have it already. She had to put the girls out of her mind. Move on.

  In the kitchen, she fixed her eyes on a bounty of potatoes, dried fish, some other type of dried meat, and bottles of water on the counter. She slipped three potatoes into her pack, aware that she was stealing, yet unable to resist the pull of the food. She unscrewed a bottle cap and took a long drink of water.

  On the front porch, she groaned as a fresh wave of cramps twisted her gut. No matter how hungry she was, she could not steal from the girls who had saved her life. She returned the potatoes to the counter, considering it a small victory for her willpower.

  Then, unable to contro
l her hand, she picked up a potato, brought it to her lips, and wolfed it down, completely raw.

  Outside, she walked down the porch steps and stopped, feeling guilty about what she had done, yet relieved that the tiny chunks of potato sitting in her stomach were finally settling her cramps.

  Under different circumstances, she would have said it was a beautiful morning. The sky was pale blue and the temperature was mild. The slight hint of a breeze carried a tang of saltiness. Beyond the broken skeletons of two bridges, Colony East rose in the distance, and The East River, thick with floating debris, moved along swiftly. She marveled at the towering hull of the freighter beached on the bank, knowing it had saved her life. Were it not for the freighter diverting a channel of water, the rapids would have swept her farther down river.

  She had to make it to the Ribbentrop Fish Market today, where she planned to meet Toby. The fish market was across from the gate where she had caught her very first glimpse of Colony East in a section of Brooklyn she guessed was at least several miles away.

  “Where are you going?”

  Abby turned. A girl stood on the porch. She wore an oversized man’s shirt and a pair of rubber boots that rose to her knees. She had ratty hair, smudged cheeks, and a bright smile. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

  Abby looked down. “I’m going to meet a friend.”

  “Are you coming back?” the girl asked.

  “Sure,” Abby said. It was a lie.

  “What’s your name?”

  Abby paused, thinking that if she told her, this girl might tell her what her name was. Abby didn’t want to know her name. She didn’t want to know her age. She didn’t want to know anything about her. Survival demanded a cold heart.

  Abby turned and started to walk. “I have to hurry.”

  “My name is Stacy.”

  Abby pretended she hadn’t heard.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Stacy called out.

  Abby’s chest hitched sharply, confused by the way she was acting, but she kept walking.

  1.03

  CASTINE ISLAND, MAINE

  Jordan paced through the dark empty house on Castine Island, clutching Abby’s note and balling his fist in guilt. When his sisters had needed him the most, he had not been there for them.

  He strode from the kitchen that his supposed friends had stripped bare to the memory room, where his eyes fell on the shelf of photos — loved ones who had died during the night of the purple moon — the glass catching the flickering candlelight.

  He read the note again.

  Joining the crew of news gypsies was the best thing you ever did. We are so proud of you.

  Love,

  Abby and Touk

  Neighbors had told Jordan what had happened while he was away from the island, sailing on the news gypsy vessel, Lucky Me. He had bartered news along the east coast. Touk had been so sick with the Pig that Abby and Toby had taken her to Colony East, where they had hoped an adult doctor would treat her. Prior to that, Toby was the only one who had helped Abby and Toucan on the island. Everyone else, including Jordan’s best friend, Eddie, and Abby’s friend, Mel, had avoided them, afraid of catching the Pig. From the Portland Trading Zone, Abby, Touk, and Toby had gotten a ride to Colony East from a boy, Spike, who worked for the fuel king, Martha.

  Jordan had to find Spike.

  At first light, he picked up his bag of supplies and stepped outside. He stopped on Melrose Street and considered which way to go. The harbor was to the left. If Mary Queen of Scots, the boat he had sailed to the island just before the hurricane struck, was still in one piece, he’d sail to the Portland Trading Zone. To the right lived Eddie. Jordan wanted to look Eddie in the eye and ask why he hadn’t helped his sisters, but he headed for the harbor instead.

  The strong winds of the storm had deposited mountains of seaweed on Front Street and damaged many of the buildings and storefronts. The big window at Sal’s barbershop was broken. He prayed that Mary Queen of Scots had fared better.

  He feared the worst at his first view of the harbor. Not one boat was moored in the half-mile stretch between the docks and the jetty.

  Jordan stepped onto the dock and headed to the spot where he'd lashed the boat to two pilings, but there was no sign of her mast. What had happened? He peered over the side of the dock. She was there. Barely afloat, her hull filling with water, but she was there. The mast, though, had snapped in half. He figured he could still rig the sail in such a way as to harness the power of the wind. It might take six days to reach Portland, but it was better than being stranded on the island.

  He considered another option. A small sailing skiff was moored on the eastern side of the island. He and Eddie had used the boat to teach the little kids how to sail. With some help, he’d be able to carry the skiff across the road and launch from the rocky shore. At the very least, he could take the skiff’s mast and use it on Mary Queen of Scots.

  He bailed Mary's hull, secured new lines, and stowed his backpack in the stern. Then, he started out on the two-hour walk to the eastern shore.

  He saw a few kids along the way. All were strangers to him.

  A boy who appeared to be about ten ran up to him and pleaded, “Do you have any food? My stomach is killing me.” His eyes were misty from pain.

  Jordan’s heart demanded he help. “Sure, I have something for you.”

  Jordan gave him directions to Mary Queen of Scots. “There are potatoes and smoked fish in a canvas bag. There’s a knife in the pack. Only take half a potato, okay?”

  The boy sprinted away, holding his sides.

  Jordan continued walking on the road that was soon matted with seaweed and shells. Farther on, he saw a large group of kids gathered at a rocky inlet. The eastern side of the island faced the open ocean, and large waves pounded the shore.

  As he drew closer to the group, he saw that they were collecting clams. He had gathered shellfish along this shore many times himself, but he never ate them on the spot, raw, as these kids were doing. Kids were whacking clams on the rocks to crack the shells.

  All of a sudden, a fight broke out between two girls. It seemed they had both seen a clam at the same time. Others moved in to separate them.

  He arrived at the mansion thirty minutes later. The large rambling house on the hill would always hold a special place in his heart. He had lived here with Abby and Touk and others right after the night of the purple moon. After the Leighs moved out, the mansion had seen many different inhabitants come and go.

  Behind the house, resting on its side against a row of rain barrels, was the skiff. The mast was still intact and it would work on Mary Queen of Scots, though he could have kicked himself for forgetting to bring pliers. He needed them to remove cotter pins and unbolt the chainplate.

  To see if anyone inside the mansion had pliers, he stepped through the front door and came face to face with Eddie. He almost didn’t recognize him. Eddie’s head was shaved, and he had grown a few inches taller.

  Eddie raised his hand to give Jordan a high-five. “When did you get back?”

  Clenching his fists, Jordan took quick breaths to settle himself. “I need pliers.”

  “I’ll get ‘em.”

  When Eddie returned with the pliers, Jordan took them without uttering a word, and then turned and headed for the skiff. Eddie tagged along.

  “I heard DJ Silver mention you on the radio,” Eddie said. “He played Here Comes the Sun. That was your mom’s favorite song, right?”

  DJ Silver was in charge of “The Port,” a kid-operated radio station in Mystic, Connecticut. Jordan, recovering nearby at Wenlan’s clinic after his brush with death at the hands of the pirates who sank Lucky Me, had wanted to get word to Abby that he was all right. Kids on Castine Island listened to The Port at night when the signal was its clearest. DJ Silver, however, only played music. He never delivered news, but he would do song dedications. So Jordan had asked him to play the Beatles song and dedicate it to Abby and Toucan.

  “I
t’s was my dad’s favorite song,” Jordan said, simmering with anger.

  “You need help?” Eddie asked.

  Jordan walked around Eddie and yanked the cotter pin from the other stay.

  “You leaving again?” Eddie asked.

  “Listen, I got it, okay. You can …” Jordan’s voice trailed off because he had nothing else to say to Eddie.

  “I can what?” Eddie asked.

  Jordan loosened the bolts that secured the chainplate, and then unscrewed each one using his fingers. That freed the mast. Next, he wrapped the stays around the mast and balanced it on his shoulder.

  “Let me help you,” Eddie said.

  Jordan started walking. The mast was heavy and a rivet cut into his shoulder. His anger erupted, and he flung the mast. It hit the ground and bounced up. Blood pounded in his ears.

  “What’s your problem?” Eddie asked.

  A knot in Jordan’s chest threw off hot sparks. “My problem! Abby and Touk needed you.”

  “They needed you. You’re the one who left them to be a news gypsy.”

  Breathing fast and shallow, Jordan felt his neck pulsing heavily at a different drumbeat from that in his ears.

  He cocked his fist back, lunged, and struck Eddie squarely on the nose.

  Following a brief moment of confusion, Eddie clenched his jaw and charged, wildly swinging his fists. One connected with Jordan’s cheek.

  Eddie was still coming, and Jordan met the ball of fury head on, both boys grabbing and punching, delivering just as many blows as they received.

  Eddie’s eye puffed up and blood streamed from his nose, splattering on both of them. Jordan felt his lip bulging fat, and when he tasted warm, salty liquid, he realized his nose was bleeding too.