Harry rolled painfully from his bunk, his stomach threatening, the worst hangover he’d had in years pounding away at his forehead like a sledgehammer. “What’s going on?”
Ann raised a hand to silence him, murmured a few more words, and hung up.
“It’s inside,” she said bluntly. “They’ve already taken the precaution of halting all person to person interactions, which I think is wise. I’ve also suggested daily testing of food workers, water handlers, and to halt any remaining interaction with the outside world. And of course, strict handwashing precautions for everyone.”
She pushed a hand through her unbrushed hair.
“It won’t do a damn bit of good, Ann,” Harry said quietly.
“It might buy us a few days.”
Harry laughed softly. “Yes, inside of here.” Without the natural cues of daylight and darkness, his sense of time had disappeared in the underground bunker. “Where’d they put the infected person?”
“In the hospital in a negative-pressure room.” Mount Weather had a full-service hospital in one of its tunnels, complete with operating room and ICU.
Harry regarded his ex-wife somberly. “I guarantee he or she has already infected others.”
“I know.”
He stood up, fighting the nausea the position change elicited, and crossed the room to stand by her. He had known her twenty-five years. He knew the implications of the breach were glaringly apparent to her, that even now, with all the damning evidence they had, she was still looking for a solution, still looking for a way out of the mess. It was the key to human nature, wasn’t it? To hope until the end?
Harry wondered at this tenacity of existence, this power of will. The drive to prevail had led the human species to rule the planet, to a population of seven billion individuals, so dominant over other life forms that nothing could destroy them except themselves.
Seven billion people, he thought mournfully. A man-made Category Six pandemic, something he’d once dismissed as hysteria, unimaginable, now true.
He felt Ann’s gaze on him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He grasped her hand and ran his thumb gently along the top of it.
“I think we should go outside,” he said.
John Harr looked off to the distant Steens Mountain and wondered where his cattle were. In the last cataclysmic days, he’d lost track of them, and now he imagined they were scattered across BLM land, grazing in small groups on the high desert grasses.
He felt a moment’s regret at leaving them, not only because he had invested his entire life’s savings in the herd, but also because they were animals, and like many cowboys, Harr held a deeply ingrained fondness for his livestock. They were unlikely to survive a brutal eastern-Oregon winter without him, but he couldn’t stay with them, because he wasn’t sure he could survive a brutal eastern-Oregon winter, either. There was the tricky issue of water, for one thing. The ranch was far from any natural source, and though he could, if he were smart, figure out a way to capture the small amount of rain that fell over his ranch each year, it wasn’t enough to live on.
No, he had to leave. He took one last look at his house and barn, trying to burn into his memory his life there, and turned to the hangar. The Cessna 180 stood at the foot of the gravel runway with its cargo door still open.
He wondered if there was anything else he should bring. The Cessna couldn’t carry much, so he’d packed a few changes of clothing, a Coleman lantern, his rifle and shotgun, a camping stove, and a picture of his mother. Now as he looked it all over one last time, he found himself choked by the unsettling feeling that he was leaving behind everything he’d ever known.
He climbed into the cockpit. He had a full tank of gas, only enough to take him about 400 miles, but that was far enough. He thought he would head south, to California. He’d never been a fan of the Golden State, but it had more hospitable weather and lots of people. There had to be some survivors there. He wouldn’t be alone.
But as he did a final run up and checked the windsock, he was uncharacteristically unsure. Images of Burns floated through his head: the endless dead, the silent houses. Would California, with its millions of people, be any different?
There was only one way to find out. With one last glance out the window, John Harr pushed the throttle lever forward and took off.
Liberty Valley was still green. Century-old oaks dotted verdant pastureland. Walnut trees grew in thick, luxuriant rows. For a second, Susan allowed herself to feel optimism. The late spring sun hadn’t yet dried out the valley’s farmland.
Susan turned to Etta. “His name is Alan Wheeler.”
Etta blinked. “The Alan Wheeler?”
“The very same. I didn’t recognize him at first, but now that I know, I can see it’s him.” She remembered the melancholy man she’d seen gazing at the pool at Chairman Matson’s house and how oddly her heart had skipped in his presence. It was hard to reconcile that handsome man with the ragged, half-dead man in back.
Etta looked perplexed. “I don’t understand why Wheeler Corporation didn’t evacuate him. People that wealthy and powerful don’t get left behind. Do you think they have any idea where he is?”
Susan doubted it. She knew she should try to contact Wheeler Corporation but didn’t know how she’d do it. Without communications, she felt cut off from the world.
It was nearing noon when Susan finally turned onto the quarter-mile paved road that marked the entrance to her parents’ place. She stifled the urge to floor the pedal, knowing that if she barreled down the driveway, she would scare her parents to death. Instead, she peered out the windshield intently, hoping against hope that her mother and father would emerge from the yellow Victorian house to greet them.
But no one appeared. The front door remained closed, the windows dark. Susan pulled the truck to a halt under a row of olive trees in front.
“Stay here.” She hopped out of the truck’s cab. She crossed to the wide front porch, stopping at the front door only long enough to knock and call out, “Mom! Dad!”
There was no smell! Relief flooded her, so powerful it made her knees go momentarily weak. She pushed the door open and cried out again, “Mom! Dad!”
Silence, heavy and heartbreaking, hung in the air.
Later, she would have no recollection of crossing the house to the kitchen. She would only remember the careful, even handwriting on the note. The solitary sheet read:
Susan:
Your father is sick. I’m taking him to the medical center in Sacramento. We’ll be back as soon as we can.
Love,
Mom
It was dated three days earlier. Susan sank down onto one of the chairs and wept.
Sixty-Three
The military officer let them out, which was a glaring violation of his orders, but Harry thought he saw the flicker of something like understanding in the soldier’s eyes. Perhaps he believes in the right to determine how we live our last remaining hours, he thought, and no orders are important enough to violate this basic human right.
The soldier’s own decision had been to remain behind. When Harry and Ann emerged from the gated entrance of Mount Weather, they were alone. The sun shone brightly, and they walked down a deserted road beneath skies dotted with harmless puffy clouds.
They didn’t have a destination or a plan, which Harry figured was a first for them both. Now that there was no future, he felt curiously weightless, able to see, in the trees around him, a beauty he had never allowed himself the time to appreciate.
He took her hand and felt the pressure of her fingers. He felt many things: the weight of his feet against the pavement, the slight swaying of his arms as they walked along together, the whisper of the breeze against his neck, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
She must have been feeling the same, because she didn’t speak. Her face was composed but not unhappy. They’d made a choice together, and he felt united with her in this moment, that he was a lu
cky man after all, because they were together without the past, united without a future, able to live this fleeting moment of perfection, right now.
Once Alan Wheeler was tucked into the guest bedroom and Etta was resting safely in the kitchen, Susan left the house. She walked down the back steps to the gravel road that led to the lower orchard. The walnut trees rustled in the breeze, green and orderly, not yet dry from lack of irrigation.
The afternoon sun was warm, but not hot. Susan contemplated how to start irrigating again. She was a doctor and not a farmer, but she knew she needed to get the river water to the trees and other crops if she hoped to have anything to eat. Her father had stocked the Victorian’s large basement with an astounding array of canned goods, flour, bottled water and wine. After the last foodless days, the quick meal she and Etta had pulled together had seemed like a feast.
But the food would not last, and Susan knew it. They needed an ongoing supply, and the farm, with its small fruit orchard and melon patch, offered the promise of food for the future if she could only figure out how to irrigate. Susan was pretty sure the backup generator in her father’s barn was not powerful enough to operate the industrial pumps that transported river water to the fields.
She pulled the farmer’s cap from her head and wiped her sleeve against her forehead. And then there was the matter of Alan Wheeler. He needed further medical care, and the medical supplies she had taken from the stock farm would not last. She weighed how to get more, if she could get more.
There were so many things to do, each need as pressing as the others. If she could get the man healthy, he could help her. She needed someone to help her farm. She needed someone to help her get fuel. She needed someone to help her find food while they waited for the fruit and other crops to ripen.
Most of all, she needed someone to help her find other survivors, because if the three of them had survived, Susan was certain that there were other survivors, too. With more people, they could begin the rebuilding process to recreate some semblance of the life they’d once had.
A loud flapping startled her. From the depths of a brush pile nearby, a flock of quail erupted, their wings beating furiously as they took flight. Susan watched them in awe. They were so beautiful.
She thought they might taste good, too.
A Note from the Author
I hope you enjoyed DRYP: The Final Pandemic!
When I first started writing this tale of a modern day Black Death, I always envisioned the story to be more than just the recounting of a catastrophic pandemic. The aftermath and the challenges faced by survivors facing extinction struck me as just as rich in drama and adventure. I invite you to stay in touch as I continue the story of Susan, Alan, Harr, and Carson in the next installments of the DRYP Trilogy.
You can drop me a line and sign up for my email newsletter at www.rascheuring.com.
Or you can follow me on Facebook to keep up with the latest news and release dates. facebook.com/rascheuring
And of course, if you feel inclined, please leave DRYP: The Final Pandemic a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Your feedback and support is very much appreciated.
Best Regards,
R.A. Scheuring
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is never a solo endeavor. I want to extend a big thanks to Dr. Jane Davis for patiently answering my lengthy questions about veterinary medicine. I’d also like to thank B.B. Blevins for sharing his thoughtful insight into how a pandemic might impact energy delivery systems.
Much gratitude to all my beta readers and to Lexi Pandell, in particular, for soldiering through early drafts. And of course, heartfelt appreciation to Maria Dong for her excellent copy editing.
Finally, there are not enough words to express my profound gratitude to my family. Dad, you’ve stuck by me and this story for a very long time. Thank you! Likewise, Arron, Carly and Jack, your bottomless support and encouragement have meant the world to me.
About the Author
R.A. Scheuring practiced medicine for twelve years before hanging up her white coat to pursue her lifelong dream of writing fiction. DRYP: The Final Pandemic is her debut novel. It is the first installment of the DRYP Trilogy.
You can find out more about R.A. and sign up for her email newsletter at www.rascheuring.com.
DRYP Trilogy | Book 1 | DRYP [The Final Pandemic] Page 43