Generation M (The Toucan Trilogy, Book 3)

by Scott Cramer

Dawson dropped his hands to his sides in shock. Lieutenant Mathews. She raised the barrel of the M-16 rifle and stepped closer, keeping the light trained on his face. He shifted his eyes left and right, looking for any place he could dive for cover. This close to an automatic weapon, only a sudden, unpredictable move would give him even a small chance of escape.

  “Hands up,” she barked as if she could read his mind.

  He wondered how long she’d been watching them from the shadows. She must have seen him cut the fence and seen Jonzy crawl through. Why did she let Jonzy go?

  “This ought to get you a promotion,” he grimaced.

  “Shut up and turn around.”

  He faced forward, pulled his shoulders back, and maintained eye contact. The old Westerns he used to read always said that even a cold-blooded killer wouldn’t shoot someone while looking them in the eye. Mathews would need a heart of ice to shoot him now.

  Fearing that her heart was that cold, he realized he was cornered. His mind whirred. Trashcans sat five meters to her right, but they offered no protection from automatic weapon fire. If he could make it to them and kick or hurl one at her, it might buy him a few precious seconds to sprint away. At the Naval Academy’s target range, he had learned that hitting a moving target was much harder than it looked.

  She brought a two-way radio to her lips. “Doctor Perkins, this is Lieutenant Mathews, over.”

  “Perkins. Over.”

  The scientist had responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for Mathews to radio him.

  “I’ve got Dawson.”

  “What about the cadet?”

  “Escaped,” Mathews said.

  “With the pills?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hearing each new piece of data mystified Dawson as much as it troubled him. How did they know so much? Had he and Jonzy been seen on a security camera? Had Perkins or Mathews monitored the radio communications between Jonzy and Abigail? He was certain of one thing: Mathews could not have seen the pills that were inside the canisters buried inside the packs. His blood turned cold when he thought Mathews might have found the secret note he had written to Sandy.

  “You know what to do,” Perkins’s voice crackled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Perkins out.”

  Dawson gulped. Was Lieutenant Mathews supposed to execute him on the spot?

  “I need to get back to Biltmore,” he told her. “Get the cadets ready for the evacuation.”

  “We’ll tell them you were chasing a cadet who tried to escape and you both fell into a sinkhole.”

  What struck him was her matter-of-fact tone. Mathews was going to kill him in cold blood and had already worked out a story to tell his cadets.

  A vehicle approached on Columbus Avenue. The headlights were out. Dawson saw it was a quarantine van. Was it the same Q-van he and Jonzy had seen? It drove straight for them but at quite a slow speed. The headlights switched on, lighting them up.

  “Don’t move,” she hissed at him, seeming to be just as surprised as he was by the mysterious van.

  The van stopped and Admiral Samuels climbed out. “What’s going on?”

  “Lieutenant Dawson aided a cadet in escaping. The situation is now under control.”

  “I can explain,” Dawson said.

  The admiral cast a hulking figure before the headlights.

  “Stand down, Lieutenant Mathews, I’ve got this.” Samuels started toward them.

  “Admiral, the situation is under control,” she repeated.

  The admiral stopped and planted his hands on his hips.

  “Under control?” From his tone, Dawson knew the admiral was about to unload a full broadside verbal attack. “I said, stand down.” His voice boomed, like the admiral of old.

  Mathews’s eyes darted from him to the admiral and back.

  “Mark, there’s something you need to know,” the admiral said.

  Flames burst from the M-16’s muzzle and the admiral stumbled backward before he could say another word. Fighting to stay on his feet, the old man glared at Mathews.

  Dawson leaped at her just as she squeezed the trigger again. As he was stretching out, in mid-air, he watched the admiral take several jerky steps sideways and crumple to the ground.

  Enraged, Dawson clubbed his fist on Mathews’s forearm and the weapon dropped. She fell to the ground too. He reached for the gun, but she spun around and caught him in the windpipe with her elbow. He gasped and grabbed his neck, expecting to find something ruptured.

  Sitting on the ground, she gripped the gunstock and twisted her upper torso to take aim at him. Dawson lunged and managed to get hold of the barrel, pushing it away as bullets whizzed by his ear. The deafening cracks of gunfire followed a split second later. He held on, despite the hot metal searing his hand. She squeezed off fresh rounds that obliterated the van’s headlights, plunging them all into darkness. A blunt object struck his head and stunned him. He received another blow. She was kicking him. He was still holding on to the gun, knowing that whoever held on the longest would most likely win this fight to the death.

  Dawson’s head snapped back from another blow, and he had to let go of the gun. He fought to maintain consciousness. Mathews grabbed the gun, scrambled back a few feet, and went on one knee. He groped the ground, feeling around for a rock, a brick, anything heavy and hard to hurl at her. His fingers curled around the rim of the garbage can lid.

  Mathews cursed at him and connected the butt of the M-16 to her shoulder.

  “Lieutenant Dawson, I got your back.” Jonzy stood on the other side of the fence.

  When Mathews turned her head, Dawson hurled the lid at her and raced for the opening in the fence. He heard it strike her and rattle on the ground. She cursed once again. He rolled through to the other side and hit the ground. Bullets tore through the air and some of them kicked up bits of pavement.

  He felt strangely calm, as if he had punched through the inner wall of a hurricane to find himself in the eye of the storm. His mind was clear and time seemed to slow. He saw Jonzy up ahead, within range of the weapon but relatively safe, peering out from behind an old rusting vehicle.

  He ran toward him, zigzagging, keeping the pattern random. Not until he reached Jonzy did he realize that Mathews had stopped firing. He made sure Jonzy was fully shielded by the car, and then he peered around the front. She was banging the gun with her palm. It had jammed.

  He clenched his fists as sour bile burned the back of his throat. Admiral Samuels wasn’t visible in the dark shadows, but Dawson knew the approximate location of the body. He trembled from the rising waves of anger, ready to charge Mathews.

  “We have to go, Lieutenant. We have to meet Abby and Toby.”

  Every hot fiber of his being wanted to kill Mathews with his bare hands, but cold military logic kept him rooted in place. The goal was to save hundreds of thousands of lives. The goal was to find Sarah. Dawson slung a pack over his shoulder and nodded to Jonzy. Next stop was a fish market in Brooklyn, then Mystic, and then his house at 23 Walpole Ave.

  2.01

  PORTLAND

  Jordan, Eddie, and Spike left the fuel depot in Spike’s red Mini, heading to a place outside of Portland where Jordan hoped to steal a motorcycle. Spike had told them that getting a motorcycle would give them their best chance of reaching Mystic, some two hundred miles away. “The storm caused a lot of road damage,” he’d said. “A car would never make it.”

  From the passenger seat, Jordan turned to check on Eddie, who had started running a fever. Curled in a ball, he clutched his sides and groaned, his face buried against the seat.

  “You good?” Jordan asked.

  “Great,” Eddie said. A tortured cry followed his absurd reply.

  Feeling helpless that he couldn’t do anything for his friend, Jordan faced forward as the headlights lit up the eyes of a pack of feral dogs. The pack bolted away into the night.

  Spike kept one hand on the wheel and the other hand resting on the shotgun cr
adled in his lap. Jordan had mixed feelings about the gun. Abby had it right, he thought. Better to talk and reason rather than threaten. Sometimes, that approach backfired, but she had proved it worked most of the time.

  A log fire burned ahead of them, and they drove by a group of kids who were digging in the soil by the side of the road.

  “They’re looking for worms and grubs to eat,” Spike said. None of the diggers paid attention to the passing Mini.

  The scene repeated itself again and again.

  “What was Toucan like growing up?” Spike asked.

  Spike had asked all sorts of questions about his sisters and Toby, obviously concerned for them, but something about Touk, in particular, had touched him.

  “Our dad was a librarian, so there were always books lying around the house. Abby read to her a lot, and that made her smart. I liked to horse around with her, and that made her tough.”

  Spike smiled sadly. “Well, I sure hope you find her.”

  “Come with us to Colony East. Help us find her.”

  Spike stared straight ahead for a long moment before he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  It was the second time Jordan had invited Spike to join them. Earlier, Spike had immediately declined, saying Martha had entrusted him with the fuel depot while she was in Canada. This time, he had hesitated. Was Spike having second thoughts?

  As they neared their destination, Jordan’s stomach twisted as memories of two years ago flooded his mind. He and Abby, both deathly sick from the illness that claimed kids when they hit puberty, had sailed to Portland from Castine Island, on their way to Boston where the CDC was passing out antibiotic pills. Their greeting party in Portland had been a motorcycle gang led by Kenny. Mandy, a tough member of the gang, had tried to rob them.

  Jordan recognized a landmark in the headlights. A gas station sign had melted into a cone of black, hard plastic. Two years of rain and snow, deep freezes, and the blistering heat of summer had not changed the fiery sculpture.

  “That way,” he said, pointing out the road that led to Kenny’s compound.

  Spike turned down the road, carefully squeaked around a toppled tree, and took the first right. The Mini lurched as a front wheel dipped into a pothole, eliciting a tortured cry from Eddie. Thirty meters down the road, Spike parked at a street barricade constructed of washing machines, refrigerators, and televisions with a gap just wide enough for a motorcycle to pass through. A similar barricade prevented cars from entering the other end of the street. The gang’s compound, a three-story house, was halfway between the two makeshift appliance barriers on the right side of the street.

  Jordan didn’t know what to make of the fact that no kids were guarding either entrance, but he felt a measure of relief when he spotted five motorcycles parked in front of the compound.

  Spike handed Jordan a flashlight, killed the headlights, and climbed out. Gripping the shotgun, Spike raised the Mini’s hatch and grabbed a gas can. Jordan told Eddie to wait for him in the car. Eddie mumbled something in response.

  Jordan took the pack of food with him, worried Eddie would eat everything while he and Spike were away. From here on, he’d treat the food as medicine, doling out tiny bites to his friend in the same way you spooned out cough syrup.

  Navigating by moonlight, Jordan and Spike slipped through the barricade and approached the compound. Speaking in hushed voices, they pointed out fat oaks and a rusty washing machine that could serve as a hiding place if they came under attack.

  They reached the motorcycles without seeing anyone. Each bike had a key in the ignition, which made sense. Anyone would be crazy to walk up and steal a motorcycle within spitting distance of the compound like they were about to do.

  Spike popped a tank cap. Bone dry inside. He checked two more motorcycles with the same results.

  “Take your pick,” Spike whispered.

  If Eddie were stronger, Jordan would have preferred to take two bikes.

  “Whichever one starts,” he said and set his pack on the ground. “I’m going inside.”

  Spike held out the gun, offering to let him take it. Jordan’s brain said yes, but he listened to his heart.

  “No thanks.” His brain informed him that listening to his heart was risky business.

  “Shout if you need help,” Spike said. Then he started dribbling gas into a tank.

  Jordan stopped before the steps and looked up at the house, which was perched against a field of stars. Two years had passed since he was here last, but it felt like a hundred. Maybe survivor years were like dog years. Multiply the dog’s age by seven to get its real age. Multiply every year after the night of the purple moon by fifty for all the horrors and tragedies the survivors had endured.

  The glass in the front door was broken and a rank odor greeted him. The air inside was a swamp of decay and urine, sweat and body odor, and mold and mildew.

  The flashlight lit up spider webs that crisscrossed the hallway and draped the doorway to the kitchen. It appeared as if Kenny’s gang had evacuated the compound. He figured they had been unable to find any fuel and had simply left their motorcycles behind. Were they out digging worms? Maybe they had fallen prey to a bigger, more ruthless gang? That’s how things often worked on the mainland.

  On one hand, Jordan was relieved to find the house empty. For two years, he had harbored a thousand fantasies of coming face to face with Kenny. In the majority of those fantasies, he had seriously hurt Kenny.

  Jordan knew the best course of action was to focus all of his energy on reaching Mystic, but something deep inside pushed for a confrontation with the boy who had left him and Abby on the side of the road to die, and who had indirectly been responsible for Mandy’s death.

  Jordan entered Kenny’s lair and headed for the stairs, tiptoeing around piles of trash and trying to be quiet to preserve the element of surprise in case gang members were sleeping upstairs.

  He remembered little of the compound’s interior, mostly because he had been delirious with fever his last time here.

  He recalled one incident in detail: Abby struggling to get him up the stairs. Nobody offered to help her. Weak and feverish herself, she had cajoled, poked, prodded, and half dragged him to the second floor where she had found a ratty mattress for him to collapse on.

  Jordan started up the stairs but froze on the first step when he heard rustling in the shadows. His heart sent thumps into the darkness like sonar pings. Wishing he had accepted Spike’s offer of the gun, he turned on the flashlight and swept the area where the sound had come from.

  A small, pale face came into focus. A boy, sitting on his haunches, stared back at him.

  The boy followed Jordan’s every step with his eyes as he approached him. Jordan guessed he was eight or nine years old. The boy wore jeans that were free from rips or stains, and his collared shirt had a price tag on it. The tag triggered a memory. After the night of the purple moon, Kenny’s gang had raided a nearby Target department store, squirreling away thousands of articles of clothing.

  Jordan kneeled and aimed the light beside the boy. “I’m Jordan. What’s your name?”

  The boy stared through him.

  “Are you alone?”

  The boy kept his lips sealed, remaining as motionless as an owl.

  Jordan moved closer. “Is Kenny here?”

  Fear curdled the boy’s brow.

  Jordan tensed. The boy’s body language had shouted, “Yes, Kenny is here.” Blood rushed to his head as his heart pounded in his throat.

  “Where is he? Upstairs?” The boy’s eyes remained wide with fear. “Is anyone else here?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Just you and Kenny?”

  “I’m taking care of him,” the boy whispered. “He’s got the Pig.”

  Jordan inhaled sharply. The fact the person he hated most in the world was suffering from the Pig saddened him. He thought it a strange response.

  “Are you hungry?” Jordan asked.

 
The boy nodded vigorously.

  Worried the boy might also have the Pig, Jordan slowly reached out and rested his hand on boy’s shoulder, startled by the sharpness of the bone, and then he moved his hand to the boy’s head. Under the tangled matt of hair, his scalp felt cool to Jordan’s touch. If the boy did have the Pig, he was in the very early stage.

  “My friend is outside. His name is Spike. Go see him and tell him I want you to have some of our food.”

  “Henry.”

  Jordan smiled. “Your name is Henry?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Hurry up, Henry.”

  As Jordan shined the light, Henry skipped through the room, vaulted over a trash pile, and was soon out the door in search of food. The pattering of feet down the front steps and Spike trying to kick-start the motorcycle broke the heavy silence.

  Jordan climbed to the second floor and opened a bedroom door. A bombshell of chills exploded in his chest, and he jumped back as a branch whipped out and smacked the floor by his feet. He danced the light across the oak tree that had crashed through the roof, crowding the room with leafy branches.

  The hunt continued, and three doors down, Jordan found the monster lying in bed with his eyes closed and a blanket pulled up to his bare chest. Were it not for the long, stringy blonde hair, he might not have recognized him. Kenny had gained thirty or forty pounds.

  Fearing Kenny might pose a threat regardless of his condition, Jordan looked for weapons, scanning the floor and the two tabletops beside the bed. Seeing none, he walked over and stood beside the bed.

  Kenny’s pale, puffy cheeks drooped, and folds of skin formed an accordion under his chin. Dark rings cradled his eyes. They were the telltale shadows of death. Kenny did not have long to live.

  A motorcycle fired up. The engine revved several times before settling into a low-throated purr.

  Kenny’s eyes shot open. He stared straight up as confusion flashed across spidery blood vessels on the surface of his eyes.

  “Who’s on my bike? Who has gas?” His voice was raspy. “We traded all of our gas for food. What I’d give to ride one more time.”

  He shifted his head side to side.