Those Who Remain (Book 2)

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  “What is it?” Tigh asks.

  I clear my throat and continue, “Tell them the briefcase belonged to Alistair Spencer.”

  Tigh blinks at me. “Do you know this guy?”

  “Tigh… Alistair Spencer won two Nobel prizes for his research on virus and bacterial infections. He managed to create a vaccine for HIV. He’s a genius or was….” I eye his rotting corpse. “His work was years beyond anything we had ever seen.”

  “So?”

  “So, if anyone could make a cure for this disease, it was him.”

  Tigh’s eyes gaze at the body he just dragged out of the car and placed on the pavement. “Are you telling me this guy was a renowned scientist? That he shot himself right here, in the head, after carrying this briefcase around?”

  I place a hand on my neck, “Yes, I guess. It could be a lie, but why would anyone lie about this? He’s famous in the field, yes, but I don’t think the average American citizen is familiar with his name. The odds of someone lying… I don’t know, seems unlikely.”

  “So he’s not American?”

  “No. I think he was British, but after his latest research was seen as controversial and unethical he went to work with the Free Republic of Africa. I have no idea why he would be here, of all places.”

  We stare at the metal case.

  “This… This is weird, right? I mean the odds alone,” I say. “We are going to the same island and this guy is supposed to be on the other side of the planet. Makes no sense.”

  “Makes more sense than you realize,” Tigh says, taking the note from my hands and folding it to place in one of his jacket pockets. “My superior commented on the rumors that this disease wasn’t… Well. It wasn’t natural or random. For years now, we’ve been suspecting and expecting a bio-terrorism attack like this, coming from the Free Republic. If this guy works for them, then it’s no coincidence he knows about Akimi. Spy networks work both ways.”

  It’s my turn to frown. “Why haven’t you said any of this before?”

  “Because….” He sighs. “What difference does it make in the end? We have no way of confirming it, or the forces to retaliate against it. For now at least.”

  We stand in silence, looking at the body. If this was really Spencer and this was his briefcase… Something really important was inside. Why else would he ask for people to protect it?

  “So… What now? Do you think we can open it?” I ask Tigh, placing the metal case on the seats. “This might be… Well, this might be a vaccine. Or at least his studies on the disease.”

  “We need the combination. But I could break the lock.” Tigh’s scowl is deep. “Should I?”

  I chew the inside of my mouth. What if this wasn’t a cure, but a hoax instead? The Universe has a way of toying with my hopes and fears. Could I risk being wrong? More than anything, I don’t think I can withstand not knowing what’s inside.

  “Open it.”

  With practiced movements and ears close to the lock, Tigh tests each dial. After a few minutes the latch clicks open. I reach for it, opening the briefcase wide for easy access to its contents.

  Between pile of papers and a notebook full of sketches and scribbles we find a hermetically sealed glass vial with the label “Z-23”. Unsure what this might be, I flip the pages of the notebook in search of more information. Complicated and long formulas fill the yellowed sheets, interlaced with ramblings and other notes that make little sense to me. On the last pages I finally spot a reference for the label. I read the text aloud for Tigh, while he’s busy looking for more supplies.

  “In anticipation for the indiscriminate use of the Atroposvirus by my employers, I have formulated a cure that can recover any patient affected by my creation. The Z-23 strain of the virus is viable for mass manufacturing. If things don’t go in my favor, I plan to offer the cure in exchange for safe passage and a pardon for my crimes.”

  As my heart pounds against my chest and fills my ears, I flip the page and read the last entry of the journal. “Murabai has lost control of the virus sooner than I expected. My warnings were ignored and now his home country is headed for mass destruction. I have fled into the night, and now find myself without any support or allies. It’s clear I’ll have to flee Africa and Europe to the Americas. This is a race against time. A race I fear I won’t win. My backup plan is my only hope. I should leave, but not without saving my little brother first. After everything, I owe him that. Alistair Spenser, October 31, 2009.”

  I close the notebook and look at the vial. Such a simple, fragile thing holds the last hope for humanity. The future is in this briefcase and now I have it in my hands.

  “You think this is real?” Tigh whispers with surprising reverence in his tone. “This is really a cure?”

  Something clogs my insides, filling it with joy mixed with a terrible sense of purpose. I can’t believe it, but I want to. I need to. Perhaps, even, I should. I don’t know if fate, unseen forces or high powers are responsible for this, but it feels right. It feels real.

  “Yes. I do. And we need to take it with us. And protect it at all costs.”

  The Hunter's Daughter VIII

  January 8th, Friday, 8 am

  My first weeks back in the town have their share of problems. Despite Roger’s best efforts, my decision to stay causes long debates and raises questions I make no attempt to answer. Father’s past actions are brought up by Linda Fords multiple times and her finger always ends up in my face, demanding I promise I’ll never do anything similar. No walking around armed (even if everyone else does it now), no keeping all the guns stored in my house armory (even if it is the safest place for them), no punching or threatening people with violence (especially if it’s her being at the receiving end). She also accuses me of stealing her bright yellow eco-friendly car. As if I could ever want to ride in that little toy.

  I say nothing. I deny nothing. I promise nothing. If anyone tries to arrest me, I can always punch them. If someone tries to send me away, I can always laugh in their face, and let them consider themselves lucky I do only that.

  The town is no longer tied to an all-encompassing governmental power. No men in black suits will arrive and interrogate me on potential terrorist activities or intimidate me with veiled suggestions that I should call a lawyer soon. Linda Ford’s profession is obsolete.

  I am free to be myself, and all thanks to zombies. Where Father saw an excuse to abandon people once and for all, I see the opportunity to not feel guilty or wrong over who I am.

  Linda Fords or not, I missed being around Roger, and even Danny. Starting community college, Roger becoming the sheriff, and my bad attempt at confessing all served as excuses to avoid each other. Now that we are together, there’s no pressure anymore.

  Even not being part of the Council, I try my best to help the town. I train volunteers how to shoot, and work on fixing holes in their fences when I’m not patrolling. The size of the town worries me, and not one day passes without Father’s voice nagging me about our lack of discipline and lax security. Roger tries his best, but few townies want to put themselves at risk. In a way, Danny and Roger’s idea of protecting Redwood made its residents complacent and unwilling to see the danger of our situation. Yet, living alone in a cabin isn’t perfect either.

  Teaching Roger how to hunt becomes my favorite pastime. Every morning, before the sun comes up completely, we grab our gear and patrol the town’s borders. After, we go into the woods and I teach him tracking skills. The days are getting shorter and colder, but my cheeks stay warm. Today is no different, and as we sit on the trunk of a fallen tree to get some rest, I huddle close to him, almost taking off my gloves to intertwine his hand in mine. Somehow, being around him is enough to make me smile. It feels like peace, real peace. It also distracts me from worrying too much about Father and what he might be doing alone.

  Sadly, Roger fiddles and paces all morning, clearly not sharing my tranquility. It’s not that hard to imagine why he’s having trouble resting. Between Danny’s a
lmost catatonic state, the generators starting to fail from the lack of fuel, and a surge of flu spreading fast in Redwood, he has his hands full. I hoped our trips would help him as much they help me.

  I offer him my advice and encouragement about the last two issues the best I can. There must still be plenty of usable gas in abandoned cars on the road as well as stations. Or we can send search parties for it on longer trips to more distant towns. If we store it properly, it can last a year or so, after that… People will have to start to loot for candles. I volunteer myself to do it, but he decides it’s less risky going with his two deputies and the police car.

  As for the flu, people are getting antsy about medication. Danny’s mother left a list of everything, as well a quota to make them last for a year or so, but the council is pressing Roger to give out more right now. After Mrs. Cohen died of pneumonia, everyone’s worried about themselves. Nurse Felicity has developed an eye twitch over last week and doesn’t miss a chance to mention she’s not a doctor. About that issue, I can only rub Roger’s back and tell him things will get better.

  I suspect these problems wouldn’t weigh on him so much, if Danny was by his side, offering his usual snide remarks.

  “I’m worried about Danny,” Roger says the obvious, watching the tree line with narrowed eyes. “I think he’s getting worse.”

  After we knocked down his house’s front door and moved him to Roger’s, Danny hasn’t done much beside stare at the walls and play with Roger’s cats. He also managed to drink all the beer in house, even the warm ones.

  “He lost his mother. Let him be for now,” I say, because that seems to be the kind of thing I’m supposed to say. I don’t know if it’s actually good advice. “He needs time.”

  “When his dad died… It… I don’t know. It changed him. I thought it was for the better, but now I’m not really sure.”

  “What you mean?”

  My memory of that time is a little fuzzy, since it happened when I was dealing with my own troubles. I was sixteen and mother decided she wanted to marry her boyfriend, Paul. The same man she had an affair with behind Father’s back. I was furious, to say the least. I still wince at the memory. I marched down to her new house, banging at her front door and screaming in the middle of the night for her to explain herself. Linda Fords was Mom’s closest neighbor and, of course, she called the police on me out of embarrassment instead of actually coming out to talk. Sheriff Benny came, adjusted his hat and told me to go back to bed or spend the rest of the night in a cell.

  “Well, Danny just kept going like nothing really happened. Back then, I thought he was trying to appear strong, but now… I think he just doesn’t know how to deal with reality, you know?”

  “When reality sucks, it’s not easy dealing with it,” I argue back, crunching snow against my boots and staring at the ground.

  “Yeah, but Danny is… He’s just very intense. He shuts down entirely or doesn’t shut up at all. There’s no middle ground with him.” He sighs. “Truth is I’m afraid he’s going to do something really stupid.”

  I look at him with eyebrows upwards. “Like what?”

  “Like... I don’t know. Something bad,” Roger takes a twig from the ground and breaks into smaller pieces. “I tried comic books. I tried making him watch his favorite movies. I tried talking to him, sharing some beers. Nothing. I gave him tasks, like telling people what to do and criticizing them. He used to love that. Nothing. I don’t think he’s gotten up from that couch in days. What am I doing wrong?”

  For a few minutes, I do nothing but place a hand on his shoulder. My mind races for the right words to console and help him, but I got nothing. What do people say when your boyfriend (is he my boyfriend?) thinks his best friend is going to kill himself over the death of his mother?

  “Let me try a different, more… Bad cop approach. Maybe if I talk to him it will help. I could do that today, while you go out of town with Gutierrez and O’Neil, to look for fuel.”

  He stares at me, completely dumbfounded.

  I frown at his surprise. “What? Are you worried I’m going to make things worse?”

  “No. Not at all.” He smiles and places his hand above mine. “I just didn’t think you would feel comfortable enough to tackle that.”

  “Well, we are friends too. Sometimes. When he allows us to be.”

  “Story of my life.”

  We both laugh, faces close and our foreheads touching. His free hand feels my cheek, warmth spreading throughout my body.

  “How about you?” He asks, as I close my eyes to feel his touch even more. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay,” I say, then shake my head and open my eyes. “No, I’m better than okay. I’m happy.”

  We kiss again and it still feels like the first time.

  After Roger goes out on a supply run for gas, Danny accepts my invitation to hunt. He stares vacantly at the trees and trails behind, like an injured puppy. His left sock is different from his right one, and he’s wearing the same T-shirt for five days straight now. He smells like cat piss, but I figure is not a good idea to point that out to a grieving son.

  Exercise helps me avoid lingering too much on bad memories and I’m hoping it’s the same thing with him, so I push him hard, forcing him to keep up with my pace. A human trail at the border of the town take us deeper into the woods. The snow forces me to look for clues more closely, and eventually we slow down, making our shared silence all the more evident.

  Time to talk about the real issue, no matter how much I’m dreading approaching the subject. While Roger’s tactics are well intentioned, I think what Danny really needs is a dose of bitter reality to wake up, though I am afraid of making things worse.

  “So, how long until you stop moping around?”

  He stares at me. “Sorry?”

  “You heard me.”

  His reaction is to shrug at me. I guess I need to be even more direct.

  “Do you plan to drink all of the remaining beer in the world and stare at the walls ‘til the day you die from doing nothing at all?”

  He blinks, hands still in his pockets. “Excuse me for not being chipper.”

  “Danny, your mother was tough as nails. She was a warrior. Better than anyone else in this shitty town. If she saw you now she would lecture you until you stopped being an idiot.”

  “But she’s not here to do that. That’s the point. Aren’t you paying attention? My mother fucking died. She died.”

  His eyes are red now, but he finally said it out loud, so I know, deep down, I’m reaching him.

  We stop walking. I place two hands on his shoulders. “I know. But enough is enough. You moped around for one month, Danny. You can’t keep doing this. It won’t change anything. She died, but you didn’t. You need to get yourself together and survive.”

  He stares back at me, expressionless again. “Easy for you to say, your mother is still alive.”

  Many things come to my mind. Many arguments and counter-arguments. Mostly consisting on how great Mrs. Terrence was, and how awful my own mother is, and how he was lucky to have such a great mother even if she died too early, but I know Danny. He knows me too. We both are well aware whose mother is better, so that won’t help.

  He needs to hear something real. No cuddling, no false comforts. Standard advice on life and death won’t work on him. I know this because it doesn’t work on me either.

  So it’s time to talk about feelings. I can only hope I don’t mess this up.

  “Yeah, she is. But she left me, like it was the easiest thing to do. It made me feel horrible. Like I wasn’t good enough, and it was my fault. I know what it feels like to have a deep black hole inside your chest. Sometimes I think I’m just….” I sigh while trying to find the right word. “Wrong. But I kept going, still am. Bad things stay with us forever, but that doesn’t mean we get to mope around and be useless.”

  He blinks, adjusting his coat. “You are not very good at this.”

  Tell me about it
.

  “I know. But we figured it was time to bring out the bad cop.”

  He smiles at my reference. The first real one in a long time.

  “So suck it up. There are zombies to be killed.” I point at the ground to show him the set of human tracks in front of us.

  “I don’t think I have the stomach to do that anymore.”

  “Then you can be the bait.” I smile at him. “Let’s move.”

  Conversation flows easily after that. We find some common ground by making small talk about the town. Danny seems to be in a better mood and I’m not really in a hurry to find our wandering zombie. The weather is nice for once and the exercise is good for both of us.

  “You know, I would never guess you, of all people, would try to save the town,” I say, crouching to inspect a shrub in search of dried blood or crushed leaves. “If I remember right, you kept saying you were the new George Lucas, and were going to move to Hollywood. And never, ever, come back.”

  I like teasing him about staying to help Redwood. Unlike Roger, we do share a mutual dislike of the town, and I expected he would be anxious to use the zombies as an opportunity to get the hell out. I guess we both have a weak spot for the place.

  “I used to say lots of stuff. Really dumb stuff.” His answer still reveals some sadness, so I decide to tease him some more. I can’t have him shutting himself again.

  I turn with a smile. “Come on, Danny. It’s okay to admit you like Redwood.”

  He sighs and avoids my eyes for a few seconds. “I guess you like the town now, since are staying for good. You are staying for good, right?”

  His words make me pause. The answer should come out quickly enough, since I’m still in Redwood after all this time, but something stops me from just saying ‘yes’.

  I get up and clean the snow off my pants. “Why? Do you want me to leave too? You should sign Linda Fords’ petition then.”

  When he laughs over the news, I feel a little bit proud of being the one responsible for that. Maybe my people skills don’t suck so much after all.