The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared

by Abrahams, Tom

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s grab what we can and hit the road.”

  Brice and Miriam walked into the place behind him.

  Miriam stopped at the threshold. “Why are we here again?” she asked. Her phone was in her hand, even though she’d not had service for hours and had complained thirty minutes earlier the battery was at twenty percent.

  Mike flicked on the light in the kitchen and turned back to face her. His eyes found Brice first.

  Brice was sitting on the couch, his head back and his eyes closed. He wasted no time in wasting time. Mike cut him some slack. The guy did have a bad concussion.

  He took a couple of steps back into the living room. The front door was still open. “You can close the door if you want.”

  Miriam glanced over her shoulder but didn’t move. She turned back with her eyebrows raised.

  Mike understood. She was a woman with two men she didn’t know. Being in a car was one thing, being in an apartment was something else. He let it go and answered her question.

  “It took us five hours to drive less than three miles,” he said, “and we had to jump curbs, drive the wrong way, and get lucky to accomplish that. New Smyrna is, like, forty miles from here. That could take us a couple of days.”

  “If it takes us a couple of days, my cousin might not be there anymore,” she said. “And I can’t ask him to wait.”

  She lifted her phone and waggled it in front of her. It was true. Without cell service they had no way of asking the cousin to stay put or even to find out if he was still there.

  “I hope it doesn’t take that long,” said Mike, “but you heard the radio. The National Guard is starting to put up checkpoints between what they’re calling sectors. Not just anyone will be able to pass. So I’m only planning for the worst.”

  Without stepping from the entry, Miriam scanned the apartment. She’d brought her suitcase with her. Her cross-body purse was over her shoulder, the bag at her hip. She looked impatient.

  “I’ve got some canned food, some bottles of water, some beer,” said Mike. “I’ll get toiletries from the bathroom, all of the extra toilet paper, and paper towels.” He looked at her suitcase. “If you could open that up, I bet we could fit some stuff in it.”

  “Don’t you have a suitcase?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do. I don’t want to put everything in one bag though. What if that bag gets lost or stolen? What if we have to leave a bag behind? I think it’s best if we put a little bit of everything in as many bags as we can handle.”

  She nodded. “Huh. Good idea. I didn’t think of that.”

  Mike went through the kitchen first. He pulled everything from the cabinets out onto the counters. A quick inventory told him he was totally unprepared.

  He had four cans of food. Two of them were corn, one was tomato soup, and one was refried beans. When had he bought refried beans? Why had he bought refried beans?

  There were several packages of ramen, various flavors, an unopened package of Oreo cookies, Double Stuf, and a jar of smooth peanut butter. He also had a plastic bin filled with leftover sauce packets from Taco Bell, Chick-fil-A, and Burger King.

  He gathered all of it into his arms and carried it to the counter, where he piled his goods next to the sink. Then he pulled open all the drawers, grabbed a couple of steak knives, some spoons, and a manual can opener. He had chopsticks too, the good ones, made of lacquered bamboo. He took those. You never knew.

  In the cabinets he found several water bottles. He unscrewed the tops, setting them on the counter next to the collection of pantry finds and the flatware.

  Mike yanked open the refrigerator and pulled from it a filtered water jug. Carefully he filled each of the bottles until he’d emptied the jug. He filled rest from the faucet.

  There was nothing in the refrigerator worth taking other than the beer. There were four bottles left. In the freezer he had two fifths of vodka and a bag of frozen pizza bites.

  He put the contents on the counter and chuckled. There were cookies, peanut butter, ketchup and barbecue sauce, soup, and microwavable bites. There was no doubt he had the diet of a nine-year-old. Minus the beer and the vodka, and the refried beans. Who kept cans of refried beans?

  Under the sink, he found an unopened six-pack of paper towels, bug spray, a large bottle of hand sanitizer, a couple of unused candles, and a box of kitchen trash bags.

  Mike considered putting his haul in trash bags and then carrying them to the bedroom, decided that was a wasted trip, and left his haul where it was. He went back to the living area, where his guests were unmoved.

  “Does he live here?” asked Miriam, motioning to Brice.

  “No,” Mike replied. “He crashed here last night. He lives a few minutes from here.”

  “We going there next?”

  “Probably not,” said Mike. “It’s the wrong direction. We don’t have time to backtrack.”

  Brice didn’t react. Mike thought he might be asleep. He wasn’t sure if that was okay, given his head injury, but he didn’t want to wake him. They’d be on the move in a few minutes.

  “Hey,” he said to Miriam as he moved toward the short hallway that led to his bedroom, “if you want, you can get some of the stuff from the kitchen and put it in your suitcase. You can take one of the knives if it makes you feel safer.”

  She frowned as if offended, but eyed the kitchen. “What kind of knife?”

  “Steak knife. It’s sharp. It’ll do the trick. I get that you’re uncomfortable being here. That’s cool. But we need to hurry up, right? So if you could help, that would be awesome.”

  He disappeared down the dark hall and into his bedroom. Flipping on the light, he worked his way to the back of the room to the walk-in closet. From the top shelf he pulled down a suitcase and a duffel bag. He didn’t have a backpack.

  Mike tossed the suitcase onto the bed and took the duffel into the bathroom. He filled it with various toiletries, sunblock, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, what was left of a package of toilet paper, some bars of soap, and a bottle of skin lotion. He grabbed a box of extra razor blades and took his hand razor from the shower.

  It was a haphazard effort, no rhyme or reason to why he took what he did, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was as unprepared as a person could be, and he worried that the one thing he left behind might become the one thing that would save his life.

  He took everything from the medicine cabinet, not taking the time to read the prescription labels or distinguish between a box of laxatives and a box of cold medicine.

  The duffel was so full he couldn’t zip it, so he carried it by the handles, its top open like a split baked potato, and put it on his bed. Then he went back into his closet and emptied the T-shirt and shorts drawer into his suitcase. He took sweatshirts and hoodies, a couple of pairs of boots, and some drawstring sweatpants. These were clothes that might fit Brice and even Miriam if necessary.

  He hauled both bags back into the living area and left them on the floor. From the kitchen he could hear Miriam working with the supplies. She was cursing under her breath as she tried to fit too much into her suitcase.

  Mike walked to the kitchen but stayed a few feet away from Miriam. He didn’t want to make her nervous, especially since she likely had a knife now. When she saw him, she glanced up from the suitcase and offered a frustrated smile.

  “I’ve got some clothing and some toiletries out there,” he said. “If you want to take some of it and put it in your suitcase, that’s cool. Like I said, I think we should spread stuff out, you know?”

  Miriam looked past him into the living room. She nodded. Then she grabbed her bag and squeezed past him. He backed away when she did.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Helping me out. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “We’re helping each other, remember?”

  Twenty minutes later they were back in the Jeep. Mike was behind the wheel, Miriam was in the front pass
enger’s seat, Brice was sprawled out in the back seat, and the bags filled the rear compartment.

  “How are you on gas?” asked Miriam.

  Mike checked the gauge. “Three-quarters of a tank. We should be good to get to New Smyrna.”

  “Even if it takes a couple of days?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Mike put the Jeep in gear and accelerated from the apartment complex parking lot. He was struck by the darkness. Sure, it was three thirty in the morning on a Sunday. He didn’t expect people to be awake. But given the seriousness of what they were facing, what they were all facing, he wondered how anyone could sleep.

  He eased the Jeep past the last of the large buildings and onto the road. He turned right, avoiding the gridlock through which they’d maneuvered earlier. This was the long way around, but a likely shortcut given the circumstances.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” asked Miriam.

  “Go for it.”

  The radio was already tuned to the news. They’d listened to it intently, and with building concern, as they’d driven to the apartment. The news wasn’t any better. It was worse.

  “…address from the White House tonight appears to have had the opposite effect. Instead of calming nerves, it frayed them. Riots and looting are devastating several cities as worried people both rebel against martial law and grab what they can to sustain themselves for the coming days and weeks. It is a dangerous cocktail of intentions that has San Francisco, Los Angeles, Portland, and Seattle burning on the West Coast. In the Midwest, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Minneapolis are reporting mob-like groups of people marching from pharmacy to pharmacy, looking for whatever drugs and supplies they can take. On the East Coast, every major city up and down the seaboard is in some state of chaos.”

  In Charlotte, North Carolina, two people were shot outside a convenience store. They were robbed of diapers and baby wipes.

  Outside Miami, seven people were critically injured when the driver of a large pickup truck drove it through the entrance of a grocery store.

  “This isn’t getting better, is it?” asked Miriam. “I’m not getting home this week, am I?”

  Mike accelerated, relishing the open road. He glanced over at her and then looked ahead. “I don’t think so. If anything, it’s going to get a lot worse, and none of us is going home anytime soon.”

  CHAPTER 19

  OCTOBER 3, 2032

  SCOURGE + 1 DAY

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  Gwendolyn stared out the window at her seat and into the darkness. She was reclined in a nearly empty aircraft. The whoosh and hiss of the pressurized cabin was enough to lull her to sleep, and her body was heavy on the cushioned blue leather, but she was too anxious to close her eyes.

  She was aboard a C-40C, the United States Air Force equivalent of a civilian Boeing 737-700C. At a top speed of 615 miles per hour, the trip from Kiev to an airbase north of London took them a little more than three and a half hours.

  She’d gotten off the plane with the seven other passengers and six crew members aboard to stretch her legs on the tarmac while they refueled. The place was called Lakenheath and the night was moonless. It was cold and dark. There was a mist that reflected the spotlights on the refueling trucks. It almost looked like a dusting of snow dancing in the light. Her breath clouded when she exhaled, and the air smelled like a mixture of jet fuel and the decay under the canopy of a dense forest when she breathed in through her nose.

  Gwendolyn had stood alone, rubbing the toe of her boot against the weeds growing from a thin crack on the tarmac. She didn’t want to go home. Not like this.

  She’d heard the collective laughter of men and looked up toward the half dozen Air Force brass talking and smoking near the mobile stairs pulled against the fuselage of the large plane. One of them stood taller than the others and appeared to hold court. The other men nodded in approval, and the tall man gesticulated as if onstage. The wisps of cigarette smoke swirled with his broad movements. Gwendolyn imagined he was the highest rank of the men aboard the flight.

  She scanned the darkness beyond the nose of the white and blue plane and saw the shadowy figure of Dr. Charles Morel standing alone. He wore a tan overcoat, the kind she’d seen spies or reporters wear in old movies. It had epaulettes on the shoulders and a belt that cinched around the waist.

  Even from this distance, and in the darkness, she’d seen his hands were stuffed into his pockets. His back was to her and his head was tilted back. She’d followed his line of sight and wondered what it was he saw in the black sky. There was nothing to see.

  Now back on the plane, another hour closer to their destination, she searched the darkness too, looking for something that wasn’t there. In her mind, she replayed her time in Kiev. She thought about the incremental steps forward and the leaps backward they’d made over the past several months. Was there something she could have done differently? Something she should have done differently?

  Her reverie was interrupted by Morel. He slid into the aisle next to her. There was an empty middle seat between them.

  “Mind if I sit here?” he asked.

  She sighed and waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a free country.”

  “Is it?”

  She turned away from the window, her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  His elbow on the armrest between his seat and the one in the middle, Morel spoke above a whisper, the resonance in his voice the only thing that made his words audible above the aircraft’s twin CFM International turbofan engines.

  “The president declared martial law,” he said. “He exercised the exclusion clause.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head in disbelief. “He can’t do that without Congress,” she said, her tone almost dismissive, “can he?”

  Morel’s expression tightened, his jaw flexed, and he nodded. “He can and he did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Although Gwendolyn knew the definition of martial law, she didn’t understand its practical application or why the president would turn to such an extreme.

  Morel shifted his weight. He checked over his shoulder, into the aisle, and then leaned in again. He was close enough that Gwendolyn could smell his sour coffee breath only partially masked by the cool scent of mint. “It means that he’s taking the advice of his security council. He’s having reserve troops deployed in pretty much every state. They’ll establish sectors where people can and can’t go.”

  She loosened her seatbelt and shifted so that she could look over her seatback toward the airmen at the back of the aircraft. They were busy talking and laughing. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they weren’t paying any attention to her conversation with Morel.

  Lowering her head, she moved toward Morel so that their faces were inches apart. Like Morel had done, she lowered her voice. “Why would they…?”

  She knew the answer to her question before she finished asking it. It made sense. If the government could control movement, contain infected or potentially infected people to their home areas, it might slow or stop the spread of the disease. It was a way to compartmentalize it.

  Morel must have seen the recognition in her eyes. He nodded at her.

  “Why reserves?” she asked.

  “The president does need congressional approval to suspend habeas corpus,” said Morel. “He can’t sic the military on American citizens without permission. But governors can deploy their National Guard troops. They’ll get things set up until the active troops move into place.”

  Gwendolyn studied Morel for a moment. He didn’t appear as concerned about this as she did. Was he not putting things together?

  “They’ve already done this in France, the UK, and in Germany,” said Morel. “Russia too. All of them have their military setting up restricted zones, limiting travel, playing police.”

  She turned to the window and stared into the darkness. In the distance she saw the flashing lights of another aircraft bu
t didn’t register it. She was too busy piecing together the puzzle for herself.

  First they were called back from Kiev. Their work, while plodding, was making progress. That stopped. Now the government was suspending civil rights and sending in troops to herd the masses or keep them corralled. And it was more than one government. What did it mean?

  Morel nudged her and she looked at him. “There’s one exception.”

  “To what?”

  “To the National Guard troops,” he said. “One state isn’t playing ball. At least not right now.”

  “Which one?”

  “Texas.”

  Gwendolyn almost laughed. “That makes sense. It’s always sorta been its own country anyhow, hasn’t it?”

  Morel shrugged. He pulled a mint from his pocket and untwisted the wrapper, popped a starlight mint into his mouth, and offered her one. She declined.

  “How do you know this?” she asked. “About the president and the military?”

  Morel jerked a thumb over his shoulder “Those guys. I overheard them talking about it.”

  “Should they be doing that?” she asked. “Talking about military strategy in front of a civilian scientist?”

  “They didn’t say anything classified, if that’s what you mean. The president gave a televised address tonight, so it’s not a secret. Everybody knows.”

  “Everybody who was watching television,” she said.

  “Or listening to the radio,” he added.

  “Or getting alerts on their phones,” she said. “Mine’s been on airplane mode since we took off from Kiev. I wouldn’t have seen it.”

  Morel raised a finger. “That’s one thing they said that was surprising.”

  Gwendolyn’s eyes widened. “As if martial law wasn’t surprising enough?”

  “Touché,” he said. “I guess another thing that’s surprising.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cell towers are down. All over the country people are having trouble connecting.”

  “Why? The infrastructure shouldn’t have any problems yet.”