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

by JJ Pike

Naomi waved the woman who was seated on top of the water away. There were 20 bottles of water, perhaps more. The bottles were plastic. Christine gasped. “Close the lid. Don’t touch them. Leave them where they are.” She could not allow the bottles to be exposed to MELT. It would cause mass panic. Panic in a small, unstable space would be good for no one. She would make do with the flask.

  The boat threw them all from side to side, but Angelina did little more than tilt to one way and back again as the passengers righted themselves. All eyes were on her and the child. Christine treated the exercise like an experiment. She was calm, precise, in her element. This was where she could shine. The flask had little more than a dribble of whiskey in the bottom. Excellent. She couldn’t be accused of causing a minor to become intoxicated. She opened the pill, tapped half the powder into the flask, and swilled the mixture around so that the drug was evenly distributed. Then came the hard part. Christine slid her hand under Angelina’s head, careful to keep at least two layers of sheet between her own palm and Angelina’s scalp. She tipped the girl’s head back and dripped a little of the solution into her parted lips. Angelina didn’t respond. No coughing or choking. Excellent. It would take time, but she could do this.

  The jet overhead was too low and too loud. Everyone ducked, Christine included. She felt her face touch Angelina’s and drew back. With luck no one saw her horror or the frantic scrubbing that ensued. Their eyes were skyward tracking the belly of a small plane. Christine didn’t know planes, but she knew these little ones weren’t commercial or leisure craft. They had an air of the “military” about them.

  “What are they doing up there?” Frank addressed the captain. Made perfect sense. Men preferred to talk to men.

  “Taking pictures,” said the captain. “They’ve been at it for hours. They have highly sensitive cameras nowadays. They can take a million pictures a second.”

  Christine knew better than to correct the assertion with facts. Facts were not what was called for in this moment. She’d never mastered the art of exaggerating for effect herself, but her guidance counselor had drummed into her the singular importance of not correcting everyone every time they made a declaration that made little or no sense. She checked her hands. There was no blood smear. Perhaps she’d been lucky and not made full contact with any of Angelina’s lesions.

  “But why?” said Frank.

  Good. He was concentrating all his attention on the captain. No one had seen her slip or her panic.

  The question was pertinent to the situation at hand. Christine herself was interested in the answer. The captain didn’t seem like a foolish man. On the contrary, he’d shown much common sense since their escapade had begun. He hadn’t overloaded the boat, he’d agreed to her suggestion—for a fee—that they rescue Angelina, he’d put himself in danger by going back on land to get her. The question of the fees made her want to throw up. What was she going to do when they docked and everyone wanted their five hundred thousand dollars?

  “They need to determine how much damage there is on the ground.”

  “From the air?”

  “No one is going to set foot on Manhattan again,” said the captain. “Not for a good long time.”

  “But there are thousands of people stranded,” said Naomi. “If it hadn’t been for you, we’d still be there.”

  “Mark my words, the CDC isn’t going to go in. Nor is the Red Cross. Or the National Guard. If this is a terror attack, like the lady said, they’re going to send in troops. No one else. God help you if you’re in the line of fire.”

  Christine had to set the record straight. She couldn’t allow them to think there were terrorists in the mix. Michael Rayton had terrorized the city, but that didn’t make him a “terrorist.” Not in the way they were bandying the phrase about. It wasn’t fair to allow them to believe there was a foreign power—or sect or group—attacking their homeland. They’d been traumatized enough. “It’s more of an enzyme than a virus,” she said.

  Naomi propelled herself from her seat to the floor beside Christine. “Let me do the talking, sweetie. You concentrate on your patient.”

  “What did she mean ‘enzyme?’”

  Christine didn’t lift her eyes. She didn’t recognize the speaker’s voice, but then she’d barely spoken to anyone since she’d boarded.

  “There’s more than one agent in play,” said Naomi.

  She was a most accomplished liar. Perhaps fabulist or fantasist was a kinder word given that the woman was helping her.

  “What does that mean? What agents?”

  “You’ve heard of sarin?” said Naomi.

  Christine gasped. Naomi was going overboard. They’d never sleep again.

  “Well, it’s a bit like sarin. But stealthier. This agent takes you down slowly, whereas sarin in large doses takes you down fast.”

  She was garbling all the facts. Sarin could be a slow-acting agent. The reaction in the human body depended on how it had been administered. If anyone in the boat had done even the most basic reading they’d know she was blowing smoke.

  “So, we could be infected and not know it?” The speaker wasn’t an idiot. They’d caught the logic hole in Naomi’s scenario. But they hadn’t commented about sarin, which meant they’d missed the huge lie Naomi had spun for them.

  “No. There’s almost no chance you were infected.” Naomi was calm and business-like. Christine had never seen anyone so at home with bald-faced lies. Even Alice wasn’t this calm under pressure. Then again, Alice never lied. She was as straight as an arrow. Unlike Michael Rayton, who was as crooked as—what was the phrase?—as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Even Christine understood that comparison.

  “Were you in Midtown when the first building went down?” said Naomi.

  The answers came like an avalanche of anguish. I was in Central Park. Is that Midtown? I was at the Museum of Natural History. I was in Chinatown. Naomi knocked them all back with assurances that they were fine.

  When that round of panic was under control the original questioner was back with more. She’d had time to think while everyone else was gabbing about where they’d been and what their personal exposure might be. “Is it airborne?”

  Naomi looked at Christine. Christine shook her head.

  “Soluble? Could it be in the water?”

  It could. Not the original MELT, but this? What was it? She couldn’t rightly say how it was being transmitted. What should she say? Should she flat out lie? Were they far enough from Manhattan? Could she speak to where they were now and what their exposure was this very minute? The pressure was too much to bear. She was in danger of shutting down again. She needed a neutral point to focus her anxiety and give her room to think.

  She could see the Statue of Liberty, the famous torch raised high above her head. She was a beacon of hope. She was steel, so she at least would make it. Christine’s churning thoughts calmed themselves and then magically reorganized themselves into neat, manageable lines. She smiled. It was genuine this time. MELT would never make it as far as Liberty Island. If it had made it into the water, it would dissipate and be neutralized. They were free and clear. They’d made it. They were around the tip of Manhattan and headed for New Jersey, where there would be clean clothes, hot baths, good food (or at least plentiful food, depending on where they went to eat), and best of all no MELT.

  “We’re fine,” she said. She looked around the semicircle of concerned faces. She wanted them to feel better, not because she was lying, but because she was telling the truth. “We’re safe. It’s not in the water.”

  “Your lip’s bleeding,” said Naomi. “Here, let me dab it for you.”

  Christine jerked her head back. “Don’t touch me. I’m infected.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Carrying a stroke victim who has no control of her limbs down six flights of stairs proved to be a nightmare. By the time they reached the underground parking lot, Barb was sweating, her arms ready to snap at the shoulders.

  Neal had been working t
he building for days and had a couple of vans lined up. One had to be his or Suze’s because it already had a wheelchair installed in the back. “I’m going to lock you and Mr. Peterson in the van for your own safety, Suze, okay?”

  “I’ll stay with them if you like.” Deirdre had managed to coax Mr. Peterson all the way down the stairwell with a constant stream of promises about the decadent delectability of cigarettes. She steered the old man to the far end of the parking lot where the two of them lit up. Mr. Peterson blew smoke rings that rolled inside larger smoke rings. He was a pro. Deirdre tried, but failed, which prompted him to blow a series of rings that trailed away like jellyfish clouds, then another series that formed the five-ring Olympic symbol.

  Manhattan was collapsing, but in an underground parking lot in midtown north an old man made a young woman laugh and Barb knew in her heart that it was going to be okay. Humans would do what was necessary to make one another safe and happy. A double amputee saved a stroke victim. A terrified woman rescued an old man. She had Charlotte. She bounced the baby in time with her own overactive heartbeat.

  Neal carried Suze into the van. He barely seemed winded, while Barb was having trouble getting her heartrate down. They were going to do more stairs, not less. The penthouse was a long way up. According to Deirdre, Charles Sullivan III would not come willingly. She needed to feed the baby, check on the dogs, and get herself ready for a fight.

  “Neal, I’m going to start the climb. I’ll meet you outside the penthouse.” She checked her watch. Alice would be wondering where she’d disappeared to and what was taking her so long. Once she explained that she’d been part of an epic rescue mission, all would be forgiven. Especially when she delivered food and water.

  When she finally reached Charlotte’s apartment, Mouse and KC met them with barkalicious enthusiasm. She put a couple of bowls of dog food down for them while she fed, burped, and changed the baby. If this Sullivan fellow was going to meet them with violence, as Deirdre predicted, she was going to have to put Charlotte in a stroller. Carrying her in the front carrier once they made it to Sullivan’s apartment, which would put her directly in the line of fire, was not an option.

  Barb experimented with “ways to attach a lightweight stroller to your body, while carrying an infant.” She was going to need the stroller once they got to the penthouse.

  KC thought it was a test of her ability to be underfoot at every step, so Barb shooed the dogs into the bedroom. Twenty minutes later, she settled on an arrangement that involved bungee cords and a couple of wheels hitting the backs of her knees each time she took a step. She’d only made it up three flights when Neal’s blades came clacking up behind her.

  “Need a hand?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He spun her around a couple of times, unwinding the cord and detaching the stroller.

  “It’s so I can have her close by, but help you to secure Mr. Sullivan. Deirdre said he’s a weirdo.”

  “Charles Sullivan is a character, but he’s harmless. So, he loses his temper? Don’t we all? The money has enabled him to do as he pleases, when he pleases. He bought the top five floors of this high rise and had internal staircases built, so he can visit his wives…” Neal nodded, “You heard that right, wives with an ‘s.’ He can visit any one of them without technically leaving his house. Last I heard, he has three wives and a floor between each of their domiciles.”

  “Why are we going to rescue him? He sounds like a creep.”

  “He paid for my prostheses. These are custom-made. Buying a leg is like buying a car. You’re going to be paying for it for an eternity. And they wear out so, just like a car, you’re going to need to buy more.”

  “Doesn’t the VA cover that?”

  “They do, but these blades are the gold standard in amputechnology. They’d cost upwards of seventy thousand dollars apiece.”

  Barb stopped. “You’re kidding. Seventy thousand dollars? For one leg?”

  “Charles may be a bit off the wall, but he’s generous with his friends. Leave no one behind.”

  Barb could get on board with that. “Leave no one behind.” If she had walked away from Alice, she’d never have come looking for supplies in a high rise and never have found this beautiful baby. She checked on Charlotte. Her breathing brought Barb such peace. If she let herself drift into that happiness, she could almost forget the world outside, the stroke victim in the van, the octogenarian with Alzheimer’s, the madman in the attic, her friends on the street waiting on supplies. Almost. There was still the issue of what they were going to do once they had everyone assembled. She’d found one abandoned baby, she had to go looking for the others.

  The lobby outside Charles Sullivan’s penthouse was bigger than Barb’s apartment. Either side of the door were Balinese statues, with wild eyes and sharp fangs and freakishly long nails. Barb had read somewhere that they depicted the unending battle between good and evil. Why you’d want something so terrifying in front of your house was baffling. He could have gone for whacky topiaries or corkscrew-shaped laurel bushes. He had the money. Why not install a nice image, rather than a threatening one? It signaled that he was the “in your face” type. She already didn’t like him.

  “You still with me?” said Neal. “Because I need to brief you on what to expect and how to handle him.”

  They unfolded the stroller and found a quiet corner to stash Charlotte. Neal assured her over and over again that she’d be safe. “If this goes according to plan, we’re only going to be in there for a few minutes.”

  She wrapped her treasured bundle papoose-style and nestled her down under the blankets, kissing her forehead again and again and whispering endearments. She didn’t want to leave her, not even for a moment. “Can I stay here? Guard the door and keep her safe at the same time?”

  “There are entrances on every floor. If he wants to evade capture, he can. I’ve been working on him for a couple of days, but he might dig his heels in, in which case we’re going to tranquilize him and remove him by force.”

  “This is stupid,” said Barb. “I don’t get it at all. Saving Suze, I understand. Getting Mr. Peterson out, I’m on board with. But going into a rich man’s multi-story home, just because he bought your legs doesn’t add up for me.”

  “Spend a year in a hospital and another two in a wheelchair, then come back and talk to me about what you would and wouldn’t do for legs.” Neal swiped a card key and pushed the door open with his shoulder. “Also, he has access to a helicopter.”

  “Why didn’t you say that before?”

  “Chuck? It’s Nealo. Time to head out, buddy.” He had a Taser in each hand. He wasn’t kidding. He would subdue the guy by force.

  Barb hung back. Her derringer was stashed in her ankle holster. She would use it, even though Neal had asked her to promise she wouldn’t kill his friend. Now she understood why. He was their ticket off Manhattan. The van could only get them so far. She gripped the can of mace Neal had armed her with, her finger ready to blast anyone who tried to get past her, to the door, and then darling Charlotte.

  The air conditioning was on. No one in Manhattan had power, but some weirdo in a penthouse had a generator that had kept his place icy cold. That closed the deal, as far as Barb was concerned. They had to stay. She could convince Neal that this was the best option available to them. He’d only been as far as the front door of this building. He didn’t know what the roads were like. He was planning to get to the helipad on the West Side in a van? No way.

  The rug was thick and plush, her footsteps silenced. The inside of the apartment didn’t match the outside. There were “homey” touches: candy and flowers on the sidetables; a gas fireplace, complete with useless copper hardware and a decorative coal scuttle. The couches were deep and wide, the colors warm and inviting. The place had none of the aggression she’d seen in the statuary outside the front door.

  “Charles? Bud? We need to get you out of here. It’s not safe anymore.” Neal was already through the living room doors and into the dining
room.

  The floor to ceiling windows looked downtown. The destruction was far more widespread than when she’d last looked. Charlotte’s apartment faced north, where there was severe damage but not gaping chasms that had swallowed entire city blocks. The hole in Midtown West, where the disaster had started, was several blocks wide. The fire over on the east side—that mushroomed into the firmament, throwing sparks far and wide when they’d first exited the subway—still burned bright, and there was another huge blaze further south. The blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. They weren’t going to be able to drive anywhere.

  A short man with a mop of ginger hair rounded the corner. “Hands where I can see them.”

  “Easy, Charles. I’m here to help.” Neal had his hands up, but he hadn’t dropped his weapons.

  Charles Sullivan wasn’t what she’d expected, though she’d never been face to face with a billionaire before, so she didn’t have much to draw on. He was in a pair of baggy sweatpants and in need of a shave. The circles under his eyes said he hadn’t slept well for a long time. “Who’s she?”