BURN - Melt Book 4: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series)

by JJ Pike

  Frank stepped close to the man, his gun gripped so tight his knuckles almost burst through his skin. Christine wished Alice were with her, to explain what was going on. It was like that time the Chinese delegation had come to perform a snap inspection and Jake had screamed in her face and told her she was going to lose her job if she didn’t show them something explosive and earth-shattering; something that would knock their socks off. She had no clue what he meant. Alice had talked her down, explaining that Jake wanted a show for the guests. Nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t seriously want fireworks and explosions. She’d borrowed an all-glass enclosure with a fume hood from her alma mater’s chemistry lab and set up a small demonstration which showed MELT off to its best advantage. If Jake had just asked for that it would have been so much less stressful. Why did the Normals have to exaggerate so much? What was it with their addiction to adrenaline?

  The shot came out of nowhere. Deafening, shocking, a searing sound that separated her from her thoughts. She threw herself on the deck, her hands over her head, making herself as small as she could. She hadn’t heard the altercation escalate or, if she had, it hadn’t registered as anything out of the ordinary. She’d heard worse on the subway on the way home from work. She kept her eyes closed. Whatever they were doing she didn’t need to see.

  She had a place in her mind. A private place that no one else knew about. It was easily accessible and afforded her complete privacy and total relaxation. She opened the door and slid into the room where there was no strife, no struggle, no strange people demanding impossible things of her.

  “Why can you never trust atoms?” Her dad was driving her to her fourth-grade science fair. They knew she’d win. They were engaged in “meaningless banter” because they’d already spent hours going over her presentation. She kicked the back of the chair, which always made him laugh. “Because they make up everything.” She said. He laughed. She knew what came next, but she didn’t fill the gap. Dad had his lines and she had hers. She need only wait and he’d say the next one. “What do you call an acid with an attitude?” She threw her head back and laughed. The first time he’d told her this joke he’d created a picture to go with it. She still had it, folded and stashed in the back of her chemistry Trapper Keeper. No one would look there. It was safe. “Come on, Chrissy. What do you call an acid with an attitude?” She smiled at him through the rearview mirror and mouthed the answer in hopes he’d say it out loud. It was part of the game. Could you get someone else to say the line you were supposed to say? “A-mean-o acid.” They said it together and laughed all the way to her school gymnasium, where (as predicted) she won the prize for best presentation. The jokes were terrible, she knew that now, but they were from a time when no labels had been affixed to her and her dad still played with her. After she was diagnosed, he stopped telling her chemistry jokes.

  The splash was unmistakable. They’d heaved the dead man overboard. Was it the interloper? Frank? Someone else? Were there more guns on board? Did she need to stay down?

  “Christine?” It was Naomi. “You can get up now.”

  Christine opened her eyes and stood. The dead man floated amongst the rats, the red spooling out of him like a ribbon of lava.

  The captain was at the top of the wall, Paul at his side. Paul still had Angelina over his shoulder.

  Christine pulled Naomi close and whispered. “Don’t let Frank shoot Paul. If there’s not enough room on the boat, I’ll get off and meet you in New Jersey.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Neal, the man in the wheelchair, was a double amputee. He was the first person Barb had met since Flora, the thief (if you didn’t count Mouse, the hot dog eating wiener dog or KC, the champion mountain dog who was currently lugging ten cans of soup and ten cans of dog food in her doggie backpack), and he was a gold mine of information and resources.

  “Give me five and I’ll have my legs on.” Neal spun a wheelie and raced down the corridor.

  Barb parked her stroller outside Charlotte’s apartment and followed Neal to his pad. He was fast, heaving himself out of his wheelchair, folding it and stowing it, retrieving his “blades” from under the bed and giving himself legs.

  “Why use a chair when you’ve got prosthetics?” Barb patted Charlotte’s bottom and rocked her to keep her asleep.

  “I rotate between my chair and legs,” said Neal. “It helps me avoid sores on my stumps and keeps my arms in shape. Never know when you’re going to have a problem with a metal part when you’re a cyborg.” He smiled. “Let’s draw up a list so we can divide tasks and get this mission underway.”

  “Why didn’t you leave the building? You could have walked out of here days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Neal was at his drafting table, pen and ruler in hand.

  “I came looking for food. I don’t live here.”

  “You’re a looter?”

  Barb hesitated. “Not exactly. My friends and I got trapped in the subway. We found water, but not much. There are fires and potholes the size of a football field out there. The stores are empty. I came looking for supplies so we can hole up and wait on the rescue parties.”

  “Holy cow. With a baby? That’s heavy. Good for you, getting out. Kudos. Seriously. There have been some crazy escape and rescue missions this week.”

  Barb didn’t want to tell him that she’d been stuck in the subway with a plastic baby, but she couldn’t lie, either. Getting the story straight so she didn’t sound like a fruitcake was important. People had judged her harshly all her life and she’d become accustomed to “fashioning” the truth so that it fit in with their preconceived ideas of what was and was not acceptable social behavior. Carrying a plastic baby, she knew, was not considered “normal.” She didn’t want to tell Neal about Julia’s death and her need to feel like a mother. He might take Charlotte away from her if he thought she wasn’t “mentally fit.”

  Neal tapped the paper with the end of his pencil. He’d made a list: names on one side, numbers on the other. “There are three remaining shut-ins in this building. I’ve been working to get them out, but we have some challenges on the horizon. I see you got the master key. Good thinking. I’ve been knocking on doors and chopping them down as necessary. In addition to the shut-ins I know about, I’m guessing some people closed their doors and hoped for the best. And why not? It’s a zoo out there. If you didn’t get out on the first day of the Domino Disaster—like the name? that’s what I’ve been calling it, one tragedy after the other, all lined up one minute so they can be knocked down the next—if you didn’t get out on day one, you’re screwed.”

  “So, you’ve been here all this time, getting people out?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We should start with Mr. Peterson. Two reasons, he’s ambulatory so once we convince him he has to leave it will go easier on us, but he hasn’t left his place in ten years. His wife died and that was the end for him. His place stinks, there are newspapers stacked so high they would kill him if they toppled over, and he won’t talk to any men. I figure we can set you on him—young woman, good looking, nice voice—while I work on Suze, who lives on the same floor as him. Ready?” Neal marched to the door.

  Barb didn’t budge. “Are we sure we want to get people out?”

  “I don’t follow.” Neal rummaged in his coat closet.

  “Like you said, it’s a zoo out there. Wouldn’t we be safer in here? There’s food. There are basic supplies. I’m sure no one will mind if we help ourselves. It’s an emergency, after all.”

  Neal had a backpack in one hand and an axe in the other. “This building is a high-end coffin, nothing more. Stay here and you’re dead. Not today or tomorrow, but eventually, you’re dead. The supplies run out—water first, then medications, then food—and then what are you going to do?”

  “But there are only a dozen or so of us.” Barb had to think on her feet. She’d been looking for supplies for her little band of survivors. Now she had to add in the shut-ins Neal said were in the building. “We could move
floors as we ran out of supplies.”

  “There’s no electricity. No plumbing. The place already stinks. It’s going to get worse, become toxic, probably a health hazard.”

  Barb had resolutely refused to think about the infectious agent that had scored Bill’s face, Flora’s face, Pete’s arm, and Al’s hand. Finding Charlotte had allowed her to move from “death and destruction” to “sunshine and roses” for a few, blissful hours. Neal’s assertion that they should head out onto the streets brought it back. She had to think about all the bad things, while enjoying the good. She had a child now. A gorgeous girl who relied on her for food, safety, everything. She was and wasn’t a mother. She had to do this right.

  “Anyone home?” Neal waved his hand in front of her face.

  Barb shook herself. She couldn’t put Charlotte in harm’s way. It was her job to protect the innocent. She had to speak up.

  “You have trouble staying in the present?” Neal meant it kindly. His voice lacked the edge she heard so often when she’d spaced out for a while.

  “I need time to think, is all.”

  “Sure. Take all the time you need. I’ll be one floor up. I’ve told Suze in Apartment 611 that I’m going to be breaking doors down on her corridor.” He brandished the axe. “She’s been holding it together since this all kicked off. I have no clue whether any of her neighbors are still hunkered down. I’ve got two more places to check. If they won’t come out, I’ll go in.”

  “You can use the master key.”

  “Not if they’ve bolted themselves in and don’t want to open the door. I don’t want to leave anyone behind. It’s not what we do. We’re going to get out of this building, then off this island.”

  “We can’t go,” said Barb. “It’s toxic out there.”

  Neal nodded. “You can’t have this many buildings collapse and not be exposed to toxins. We’ve been breathing in some serious chemicals. Whoever was responsible for this is going to have the lawsuit of the century to deal with.”

  “Not those,” said Barb. How could she make him understand that there was a flesh-eating “something” in the air? She had no clue what it was. Charlotte’s little face, her perfect fingers and toes, she would not permit those to be marred in any way.

  “Earth to Barb. Come in please.”

  “Hospitals were destroyed.”

  “Yes…and? I feel there’s an ‘and’ coming.”

  “We don’t know what germs are out there.”

  “Yup.” Neal bounced from one blade to the other. “This is New York City, germ central.”

  “No, I mean…” What did she mean? Was she making a federal case when there was barely enough evidence to bring the matter to trial? People had scrapes and cuts. She was scared that those cuts were symptoms of an underlying malignancy. Then again, her imagination ran wild when she was upset. She’d added two and two and gotten ten. She’d done it before. “I’ve seen things…”

  Neal rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure. There are horrific things out there. People were crushed, trapped, burned. Here’s the thing, though, we can make sure that doesn’t happen to a handful of survivors. I can’t get these three out on my own. Are you with me?”

  Barb nodded. She had the biggest sense of “ugh” ever, but no evidence to back it up. She left her stocked stroller outside Charlotte’s apartment and followed Neal up the stairwell. He told her about his time in the Forces, how he’d lost his legs, what it meant to compete in the Special Olympics. Charlotte fussed, so Barb was only half-listening. Having a baby of her own was a thrill a minute. No sarcasm. She was in heaven. She wasn’t going to let anything distract her from being the best substitute mother ever.

  “Mr. Peterson is in 618. He’s in his eighties or nineties. He’s partially deaf. If he hasn’t put his hearing aids in, you may need to shout to get his attention. Once you’re sure he’s heard you, talk softly. He used to come out to meet the lady from Meals on Wheels. If you can’t get him to make an appearance…” Neal brandished his axe, “…we’ll go in.”

  Barb leaned against the wall outside Mr. Peterson’s apartment, eyes on the baby, but ears on the door.

  “I’ll let you know when Suze is ready to move.” Neal opened Suze’s door and announced himself with a cheery, “Hey ho!”

  Barb rapped on Mr. Peterson’s door. “Hello? Mr. Peterson? I’m Barbara. I’m here to help.” Someone was shuffling the other side of the door. Had he been waiting? Hoping? Was he hungry? She could run down and get him a can of spaghetti and meatballs.

  Neal hacked at a front door down the corridor, yelling all the while. He told Suze that he was “almost inside your neighbor’s place” and she had “no need to worry about the sound” and “I’ll be over to your place and have you out in no time.” He made chopping a door down sound positively cheerful.

  Barb turned her back on the commotion. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Peterson?”

  “What’s that racket?” Not only was he behind the door, he had his hearing aids in, which was great. He was ready to engage.

  “My friend Neal is helping Suze and her neighbors get out of their apartments. We’re going to head down to the street together. Would you like to come with us?”

  Mr. Peterson cracked his door. “They didn’t bring my food again today.”

  That was going to be the key. Food. She could do something about that. “If you come with me, I can get you something.”

  “No. You come with me.” Mr. Peterson left the door ajar and shuffled into his apartment.

  Neal had warned Barb, but she hadn’t expected to walk into an episode of Hoarders. She pulled the burping cloth off her shoulder and lay it over Charlotte’s head, covering it with her hand. “Mr. Peterson, I have food down in my apartment.”

  “The dirty dishes are there.” He pointed, but Barb couldn’t see which dishes he meant. “Gloria normally takes them, but she hasn’t been here for a while. I think perhaps it’s that son of hers. He’s in trouble with the law, you know.”

  The sink was overflowing with trash, dishes, roaches, ants. Charlotte could not be exposed to that. He probably had mice, too. They carried viruses that could kill you. She backed out of the apartment, careful not to brush against the ceiling-scraping piles of newspapers.

  Neal was in the corridor, though Suze’s door was open. “What’s the story?”

  “It’s too dangerous in there for Charlotte. I need to find a safe place for her, then go in again.”

  “Good. Before you go, come help me with Suze.”

  Suze was in bed. Neal had to have been helping her, because the apartment was clean and the sheets unsullied. Suze’s face was slack, her mouth open, her eyelids drooping. She moaned. They weren’t full words coming out of her mouth, but Neal paid close attention and seemed to follow her meaning.

  “She’s a friend, Suze. She’s going to help us get out of here. If you’d roll the hoist over here, Barb, we can get started.”

  There was a contraption in the corner which Barb took to be a hoist. She rolled it to the side of the bed. “Tell me how to help.”

  “You gather her supplies together, while I roll her. Then we’ll move her from the bed to her chair and the chair to a sling and we’ll carry her downstairs together.”

  Barb couldn’t imagine carrying a paralyzed woman down five flights of stairs, but she followed Neal’s instructions and put a bag together for Suze. Adult diapers filled the cabinet under the bathroom sink, while scores of medications crowded the counter. Barb swept them into the duffel bag she’d found in the bedroom closet, but then thought better of it. Someone needed to carry the bag. It couldn’t be her; she needed to carry Charlotte. It would have to be a backpack or a suitcase on wheels. She could find neither. She returned to the bedroom and watched Neal carefully roll Suze to one side, slide the flattened hoist under her, then roll her back.

  “I need a backpack,” she whispered.

  “Mr. Peterson has one of everything. Ask him.”

  Barb
wasn’t sure Mr. Peterson had his wits about him and she didn’t want to expose Charlotte to the millions of pathogens that called his apartment “home.” She hustled into the corridor and tried a few doors with her master key. Five keyholes later she had a winner. “Hello? Anyone home?” No answer, so she let herself in.

  In a chair, directly the other side of the door sat a young woman with a shotgun.

  Barb’s hands flew up. “I’m a friend.” She turned her back on the shooter. She didn’t care if the woman shot her in the back, Charlotte was strapped to her chest. “I’m here with Neal, from 315. He’s the ex-Marine with the running blades for legs. Do you know him?”

  “He’s a nice man. They’re few and far between.”

  “True enough. I’m Barb. What’s your name?”