There were a few stalled vehicles in the westbound lanes toward the city, but clearly, running for the hills had been man’s final play as Medusa had pulled civilization down to its knees. Near an exit ramp, the blackened remains of an Abrams tank bisected the column of traffic, perhaps positioned to stop the exodus from the city. Rachel couldn’t figure out why the tank was there, but relatively little from those last days made any sense. The caravan decelerated as they approached a thicket of stalled cars ahead of them. Priya, currently riding shotgun, turned toward Rachel.
“Well, my dear,” she said. “We are at your mercy now. Time to deliver on your promise.”
“We need to find out more about Penumbra.”
“Well then, we need to find ourselves a good old-fashioned phonebook, don’t we?”
It seemed silly, so ridiculous that Rachel began to laugh. Their fate might rest in a decade-old copy of the goddamn Yellow Pages.
“I say something funny?”
“Nope,” Rachel said. “You’re right. Let’s find a phone book.”
They descended the next exit ramp, which put them on a once-busy thoroughfare in the eastern outskirts of the city. There was a small subdivision north of the artery, connected by a narrow two-lane road. A crumbling sign announced they were entering Wellesley, a Pippert Neighborhood!
The caravan rumbled through the ritzy neighborhood, home to dozens of sprawling McMansions, once-pure green lawns and, in December, dazzling Christmas light arrays, but white lights, Rachel bet, because white lights seemed classier somehow. They pulled into the first driveway, a stone-paved semicircle, and curled around toward the front entrance.
“Let’s go.”
Rachel alighted from the car, with Priya and two of her guys right behind her. There was no thought of escape, not anymore. That had been dumb, a decision built on fantasy, on white-hat thinking, on a belief that because she was in the right, she would find salvation.
The foursome scaled the brick steps and someone kicked in the door. It flew open easily, the door and the jamb both weakened by years of water damage. The tang of mildew and mustiness tickled Rachel’s nose as they breached the threshold.
“Check the kitchen,” Priya said to Kovalewich as they inspected the foyer.
The house was still tidy. Somewhere, a steady drip. There was a small sideboard standing against the wall, a stack of phone books perched on top. Rachel flipped open the slimmest of the three volumes and paged her way over to the P’s. She spent a few moments scanning the tiny print before she found it. There it was. Penumbra Laboratories. 720 18th Street Northwest.
“Here it is,” she said.
“Good. Let’s roll.”
The kitchen scout returned empty-handed.
“Nothing. Place was cleaned out.”
“You mind if I check something?” Rachel asked.
“Be my guest.”
Rachel stepped gingerly down the corridor toward the galley kitchen. It was magnificent, equipped with top-of-the-line appliances, Viking all the way. But there was something specific she wanted to see. She crept toward the sink, simultaneously hoping to see and not see what she was looking for.
It was there.
A pot. A handful of utensils, two spoons, two forks. A butter knife.
One of the last moments of normalcy from the world that was now behind them, frozen in time here. When this person had set these down in the sink, was the trouble already brewing, already at their doorstep? Did she have an ear toward the news, hearing the empty promises that the outbreak was under control, that the death tolls were being wildly exaggerated, that no, ma’am, there is no plan to quarantine the city of Denver because there is no need for a quarantine in the city of Denver.
She didn’t know why she did this to herself. There was nothing she could do about it, and yet sometimes she found herself longing for the past, for those last few idyllic moments before it had all changed. The tacos at the beach. And what made it worse was that Will had never experienced the good things in the world she’d come from. He’d never had the tacos or gone to a Padres game or flown on an airplane or been to the movies, sat in the dark, his fingers slick with popcorn butter. He’d never been to a sleepover, never had a best friend. He’d never woken up on Christmas morning, run downstairs in footie pajamas to see what was waiting for him under the tree. No baseball games, sitting in the stands, feet dangling over the edge of the seat, the ground caked with empty peanut shells and sticky with old soda.
“Something on your mind?”
She turned and saw Priya standing at the long granite counter that did a marvelous job finishing off the kitchen.
“No. We have what we need.”
They were underway a minute later. Back out of the driveway. Back out of the subdivision, along the windy road running by a manmade lake, a playground with equipment so high-tech it still looked brand new. Complete with that extra-safe, extra springy fake mulch that absorbed the impact of little bodies better than the real thing.
The neighborhoods were the worst. Where the children had played outside and the summer air was redolent with the aroma of grilling meat and the throaty growl of lawnmower engines and the electronic chimes of the ice cream truck on warm afternoons. A chapter closed forever, before Will had ever had a chance to do those things.
#
They picked up a map of the city at a gas station about a mile west of the neighborhood. It was brittle and yellowed and, despite her care, the sections came apart in her hand when she tried to unfold it in the cargo area of her Suburban. Carefully, she pieced them back together and studied the best route to Penumbra, using the map index to locate the streets on the grid.
“We’re here,” she said, tapping their location on the map with her index finger.
“And the lab?”
“Here.” She traced a finger diagonally to the upper-left corner of the map, the northwest part of the city, and double-tapped their destination.
“Good,” Priya said, a softness in her tone Rachel hadn’t detected before. It was almost hopeful.
“How are we on fuel?” Rachel asked.
“We’re fine.”
She patted Rachel on the shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She found the friendly touch revolting. This woman was a killer. This woman had her own agenda. The fact their interests were currently aligned meant nothing. Just because she wanted the same thing as Rachel did not make them the same. She would still be a mass murderer, someone who had crossed a line you could not uncross. The enemy of your enemy was not necessarily your friend. At some point, their paths would diverge, and after that, all bets would be off.
“I’m going to make it count,” she said. “Am I going to have your help? I don’t have any idea what I’m going to find out there. You know everything I know.”
“You’ll have my help.”
“Do you know much about Denver?”
Priya pointed to the northeast part of the city.
“The airport is here,” she said. “I’ve heard that’s dangerous.”
“Anything else?”
“Some areas in the west and south can be dicey.”
“So we steer clear of those areas.”
She pointed back down at the map and traced a route from their current location to the northwest corner of the city.
“This is how we’ll do it.”
Priya nodded.
It felt good to take charge. If they were going to do this, then might as well do it her way. No regrets. If it all went to hell, at least she wouldn’t have to sit back and wonder if her way would have been better.
“Are your people going to be ready?” Rachel asked. “I need to know Will is going to be safe. Anything happens to him, and we’re done.”
“My people are very skilled.”
“They better be,” Rachel said, sighing.
Priya drove, Rachel riding shotgun. Priya had agreed to let Will ride in their vehicle. They ran west along East 38th Street, a major collector road carrying t
hem deeper and deeper into the city. The first ten minutes took them through older neighborhoods. The streets were quiet, but there were obvious signs of life around here. Smoldering fires burning in old oil drums. The lingering smell of food being cooked. The sense of being watched.
“Does anyone else know about Will?” Rachel asked.
Priya and the driver exchanged a glance.
“I need to know,” Rachel said.
“Maybe,” Priya replied.
“Here in Denver?”
“Possibly.”
They turned north at Quebec Street, more industrial. Past a metalworks building, a cardboard recycling facility and a nondescript warehouse. The buildings were a bit taller and bigger here, a sense of claustrophobia slipping around her like a blanket. As Priya drove, Rachel’s eyes were locked on the rooftops, looking for any movement, anything out of the ordinary. They rolled on. She checked her map; the lab was still a good six miles away.
When the attack came, it came fast.
A whistling sound filled the air.
Then the Suburban behind them exploded.
31
Priya turned the wheel hard, sending them skittering out of control. The truck bounced up and over the median before landing hard in the southbound lanes. She spun the wheel in the opposite direction, tipping the heavy vehicle up on two tires. Rachel’s heart froze as she waited for the centrifugal forces to finish the job, to flip them over and leave them wounded prey for their unseen attackers.
But the SUV bounced back down on all fours, giving Priya a chance to retain control. Rachel turned awkwardly in her seat, wrenching her back to check on Will. He looked fine, still upright and buckled in; he too had turned his body, his eye on the conflagration behind them. The second vehicle in the caravan had forked off the roadway and up into a building, where it was burning like holy hell, engulfed in flames. The third and fourth vehicles had stopped, seemingly unsure of their next move. The street was nondescript, nothing remarkable about it. A handful of broken-down vehicles lined the north side of the street. At the end of the block, a large Dumpster, brown with rust, big holes eaten away in it.
Kovalewich was the first in their vehicle to act. He shot out the rear window and sprayed the street with a hail of bullets. They didn’t hit anyone, but the very act of reacting made Rachel feel better. Priya mashed her foot against the gas, throwing everyone back in their seats as she accelerated them out of the killing zone.
A flicker of light in the corner of Rachel’s eye, this one from the right. Another bloom of fire as the trail vehicle, the one carrying their fuel reserves, ate a shoulder-launched missile and exploded, illuminating the gloomy street in an orange-red glow. This was all the invitation the third vehicle needed; it punched forward from its dormancy, so quickly it nearly rear-ended Rachel’s rig. A rifle muzzle emerged from its passenger-side window, firing haphazardly.
Ahead of them, a large brown box truck had burst through from the cross street, blocking the road. It was an old UPS truck, the famous logo badly faded on its rusted exterior. A quartet of shooters poured out from the cargo area, armed with heavy weaponry. They immediately began firing, the guns’ massive bullets pinging hard against the Suburban’s front grill.
“We’ve got company,” Priya hissed as she turned the wheel hard again, fishtailing to a stop in the middle of the street.
“Got’em.”
He flung open the rear passenger door and took cover behind it, readying a shoulder-mounted rocket-propelled grenade launcher. He fired once, the projectile screaming through the air before it pierced the cargo truck’s engine block. It exploded in a fireball, the rapidly expanding bloom of fire engulfing three of the shooters. The surviving shooter ran for cover at the curb, taking refuge behind a burned-out sedan.
Priya hitched forward, and the surviving vehicles continued down the block. Rachel held her breath, waiting for the shockwave of fire and heat that would mean the end for them, for her, for Will. Every second stretched like putty into an eternity. A third launch flew wide, striking the road behind them and splintering the roadway into a shower of hot chunks of asphalt. Bits of broken roadway pinged the vehicle.
More gunfire, but she couldn’t tell from where.
Rachel’s head turned from side to side as she looked for their attackers. Were they ahead of them? Behind them?
“Hang on,” Priya said.
She made a hard left, the Suburban’s back end fishtailing wide before she spun the wheel the other way to tame the beast. Rachel watched the other vehicle follow suit, still unscathed. Thirty seconds went by without another attack, then another thirty seconds. They were running east now, in an undeveloped area of east Denver.
“How much farther?” Priya asked.
Her hands trembling, Rachel stretched out the map across her lap and tried to focus, but she was having a hard time wrangling her wits to the ground. The map was a swirl of unformed shapes and colors that made no sense. How had she read this not even an hour ago?
“Give me a second.”
“Now, Rachel, I need to know now.”
“Give me a goddamn second!”
She inhaled a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Time slowed around her. The sound of the tires thrumming over the road. The heavy breathing of the other occupants of the car. The engine revving. These calmed her. The map began to make sense. She pressed her thumb against the key to measure the distance then made a rough guess of the remaining distance to Penumbra.
“Three miles. Give or take. We’re going to run west to Martin Luther King Boulevard and then head north. The lab is in an industrial corridor.”
“Everyone keep your eyes open,” Priya said
They rode in silence for a bit, Rachel trying to process what had happened. Once again, circumstances had dictated strange bedfellows. She tried to feel bad about the people who had died in the other vehicles, but she couldn’t. They were coldblooded killers. She didn’t care that they were dead.
A burst of static from the CB radio. Priya keyed the mic.
“Yes?”
“Everyone OK?” came a shell-shocked voice.
“All OK. You?”
“Michele took a bit of shrapnel in the arm. Bleeding, but should be OK. Should we go back for the others?”
“Wish we could. Too dangerous.”
A bit of static before the CB clicked off.
“Roger that.”
Regular people checking on each other. Regular people, like herself and her dad and Harry, trying to do the best they could, play the cards they were dealt. No one was innocent. They all had blood on their hands.
“You know who they are?”
Priya didn’t reply.
“Who were they?”
“Religious group,” she said. “They believe in Will’s divinity.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Kind of.”
“You knew, and you took us right through there.”
“I wanted to flush them out,” Priya said. “They’re known to be a bit rash.”
Rachel wanted to strangle the woman, but she counted to ten, keeping her eyes on the prize. This was not the hill to die on. If they could figure out why Will had survived, what it would take for the babies to live, then maybe they could figure out their other problems. Maybe a big old injection of hope would fire up humanity’s engine, make the problems they had seem a little more manageable. Make no mistake, the problems were not insignificant. But they were not impossible. They could solve the food problem. Hell, hadn’t Priya had her hands on those seeds? Life would find a way, as long as they kept fighting. Then they could all let go of the past together, absolved of their sins, baptized in the blood of new life.
The sound of new life. Perhaps someday, the sound of children again.
She glanced back at Will, who sat with his arms crossed. A quick thumbs up. He returned the gesture. It would have to do for now.
Sure, one could argue they were better off without children,
because what were they going to feed them anyway? But maybe they hadn’t come up with a solution to the food shortage because they weren’t properly motivated. If you had nothing to live for, then what was the point of trying to keep living? In some very real way, they had all given up. Maybe if the babies lived, they would think of things they hadn’t yet. Their minds would be open to new ideas, to new connections, new approaches they hadn’t yet considered.
The idea that the answers to all their questions might be tucked away in her own body, in the body of her little boy was a bit hard to deal with. Even now, with the evidence laid out before her, she didn’t want to believe something about her, about her family, had cast a long and terrible shadow over the world.
What if it didn’t work?
So what if it didn’t work? The trying was the important thing. Not sitting around and waiting to die. That’s all they were doing really. Killing each other while waiting to die. Hell had come to earth.
She was going to find the truth if it killed her.
#
They ran unmolested for another half hour, Rachel navigating, Priya following the route but frequently doubling back to ensure they weren’t being followed. They stayed out in the open, away from tall buildings, away from spaces that closed up around them. Rachel pressed her hand to the window; it was cold, the coldest it had been yet this season. It was early spring, probably April, best as Rachel could guess. Much of the winter snow had melted, but there was still plenty lying about. They didn’t use the heat in the truck, as it was too much of a drag on their fuel efficiency, which was bad enough as it was.
Eventually, they made it to 18th Street, a long and winding road cutting through alternating tracts of commercial development and undeveloped real estate that would bear nothing but unrealized potential.
“This is it,” Rachel said. “Up on the left.”
There was a sign at the corner of the intersection reading PenLabs. Underneath that, the following inscription: A Proud Subsidiary of the Penumbra Corporation! A thin range of trees flanked either side of the access road. Priya pulled to the side of the main road without turning; the second vehicle lay in behind them.
The Immune Box Set [Books 1-5] Page 82