She’d been there overnight, sent there because the assignment desk learned a shipment of water was arriving at the grocery store before sunrise. Phil followed her in his 1970s Ford pickup truck, and they’d met a station photographer, who’d arrived in a microwave live truck.
The luxury of a truck was necessary because Kandy couldn’t use cell technology to go live. Neither the backpack nor her cell phone could find a signal. She tried despite the assignment desk telling her they wouldn’t work.
With Phil waiting in his truck, she and the photographer did a series of live shots as the crowds began to fill the parking lot at the grocery store. Lines snaked through the packed lot, and Kandy worked her way up and down the line, getting interviews.
People were angry. They were afraid. They were skeptical. Many of them wore hospital face masks over their noses and mouths. Some wore gloves on their hands.
“I’m only here to get water,” said one man from behind his mask. “My wife thinks I’m crazy for coming out here, but we’ve got to have water. Can’t last more than a few days without it, and who knows how long this is gonna last.”
That interview mirrored most of them. One of them, though, was what triggered the violence. It set the wheels in motion, and all hell broke loose around her.
“My daughter is sick,” said a man standing in line. “We don’t know if it’s the Scourge or not, but she’s sick. I’m here for water and hopefully some cold medicine. I think—”
A woman standing behind him, facing Kandy from over his shoulder, interrupted the live interview. She wasn’t wearing a mask. Her face was taut with anger. “Wait a minute,” she said, shoving the man in the back. “You’ve got someone sick in your house and you’re here infecting all of us?”
Having fended off hecklers before, Kandy tried to control the interview. “Ma’am, I’m happy to speak with you in a moment, but—”
The woman stepped to the side and stabbed a finger at Kandy. There was fire in her eyes. She spat when she talked. Each word was sharp and pointed. “You’d best shut up, news lady. I’m talking to this man. He’s out here trying to kill us.”
“I don’t think anyone is trying to kill anyone,” Kandy said.
“I don’t care what you think. I care about what this selfish piece of—”
Kandy moved away from the swelling argument and led her cameraman from the line. She kept talking into the camera, describing the scene. Behind her one loud voice became two, then three, then too many to count. She stepped out of the camera’s view, stood next to the photographer, and narrated the unfolding violence from off-screen.
The shouting turned to shoving, which morphed into wrestling and fighting. Men and women engaged each other, neither seeming to care that their contact was dangerous not only because of the physical damage they could do to one another, but that it more easily provided a path for the deadly pathogens to spread from one person to the next.
Through a satellite phone connection, Kandy heard the news anchor in her ear. It was the station’s primary evening anchor, a man named Nigel Robertson. He was an icon in the city and one of the few remaining journalists whose counsel Kandy would seek.
“Kandy,” he said, his deep voice booming through the IFB and into her earpiece, “I’m struck by the sudden violence. From here, it appeared to be escalating. Are you safe there? Should you seek cover?”
Kandy had surveyed her surroundings and was about to say something when, from the corner of her vision, she saw an eighteen-wheeler pulling into the parking lot. It was three hours later than expected, but arrived just as the rising sun was beginning to cast a purple hue in the low horizon.
“I think the truck is here,” she said, ignoring Nigel’s concern. She stepped back into the frame and motioned toward the truck, walking sideways and then backwards.
The photographer stayed with her but didn’t follow. He took Kandy’s direction before zooming in to the truck as it rolled to a stop. Because they were using the microwave truck and not the cellular devices, they were tethered via long cables that connected the camera’s images to the truck’s transmitter. The photographer already had the two hundred feet of cable stretched as far as he could go.
Kandy stopped talking when the line around the grocery store disintegrated into a mob. Like fire ants attacking an intruder on their mound, the people swarmed the truck. The violence escalated. Someone reached into the truck and yanked the hapless driver from his seat. He fell to the ground, his head slapping against the asphalt. The man was unconscious, or worse, and nobody stepped in to help him. Instead someone set off firecrackers.
No. It wasn’t firecrackers. It was gunfire. A cascade of pops and muzzle flashes sent people running and screaming.
As she was watching the horror unfold, someone ambushed her photographer. Kandy heard him groan and she snapped around to see him drop the camera and hit the ground. A wide-eyed man with a pocketknife stared at her for what felt like an eternity before he dropped to a knee and fished the live truck’s keys from her photographer’s pocket.
Kandy took a step toward her photographer. The attacker lunged at her from a safe distance. Kandy recoiled. She yanked the earpiece from her ear, dropped the mic, and ran for her SUV. She crawled behind the wheel and was there for less than a minute when someone shattered her window.
Now she stood with Phil, unsure what to do. Her legs were heavy, her feet cemented to the ground. The tips of her fingers tingled, her stomach clenched. She was dizzy. All around her was the basest of man’s instincts.
Kandy looked toward the eighteen-wheeler and saw the back of it was open. Cases of water were strewn on the ground. The broken ones leached into the parking lot, darkening the asphalt. People tried carrying cases, only for someone else stronger to take it from them. It was like a survivor’s version of rugby. Bodies were strewn across the lot. Men and women cowered between vehicles.
Tires screeched and drew her attention to a car as it slammed into a heavyset man carrying two cases of water. The impact sent him arcing into the air like a long jumper, and for a split second he held onto the cases of water. Then his broken body curved forward and, in slow motion, he dropped the cases and flopped awkwardly into the front grille of another car.
The driver who hit him didn’t stop. Whoever it was behind the wheel spun left, accelerated, and sped from the parking lot. Kandy thought of the president and his address from the East Room. She blamed him for this, for inciting panic. If he’d stayed quiet, people might have stayed at home of their own accord. If there was ever a case for blissful ignorance, this was it. It was all around her in screams, shrieks, violence, and blood.
“Kandy,” said Phil, “can you hear me?”
She blinked back to focus and nodded. There was a new intensity in Phil’s expression, as if he sensed her swelling panic and buried his own.
“We need to get out of here,” he said.
Kandy nodded again vacantly and stepped toward her SUV. Her would-be attacker was still on the ground, conscious but groaning. He was in the fetal position, his hands covering his face.
Kandy stepped over him and climbed back into her SUV. She pulled on her seatbelt. The driver’s door was still open. She pushed the ignition and the engine hummed.
Phil was at the door, a gun in his hand. “Kandy,” he said sharply, “what are you doing? We need to go.”
Both of her hands were on the wheel. She looked at the dash and then at Phil. Her brow crinkled. “That’s what I’m doing,” she said. “I’m going.”
“Where?”
“Back to the station,” she said. “I’ve got to—”
“You can’t. You can’t do that.”
Kandy glared at him. There was a fuzziness to the world, like she was in a slow motion dream, but she understood him. He was telling her what to do. She bristled. “I’m a grown ass woman. I can do whatever I want to do. You’re not the boss of me, Phil. You’re—”
“Stop before you say something you regret,” he warned.<
br />
She closed her mouth and clenched her teeth. In the distance, a woman screamed. There was the staccato crack of more gunfire. Phil’s body blocked her view toward the lot. Her eyes fell to the gun. “What is that?” she asked. “Where did you get that?”
Phil looked down at the weapon aimed at the ground. “I keep it in the glove box. I’ve got a license. I—”
“Why do you have it in your hand?”
“It’s not safe here, Kandy. People are getting hurt. You almost got hurt.”
She stared at the matte black metal handgun. Phil held it like it was an extension of his arm. It looked natural, almost weightless, in his grip.
“Kandy, I’m not telling you what to do. Or maybe I am. But I’m saying we can’t go back to the station. We need to get out of here. We should go to my place.”
“Your place?”
“The beach,” he said. “I’ve got friends with boats. We could cast off, get away from the craziness. You—”
At another crack of gunfire, Phil flinched, his shoulders hunching, his knees giving way. He squatted, his body between the door and the side of the SUV. He had his weapon hand on the SUV’s frame and another on her leg.
“Get out of the car,” he said. “Please. Come with me. We’ll take my truck. I’ve got a full tank of gas. I’ll drive you there. We’ll be safe.”
She checked the gauge on the SUV’s dash. There was less than a quarter of a tank. They wouldn’t make it to the beach, but they could get back to the station.
Kandy looked at his pleading expression. He was serious and sincere. She bit her lower lip. This wasn’t an easy decision. If she abandoned her post, she’d lose her job. If she didn’t, she’d lose Phil. If this was the end of the world, which mattered more?
“Okay,” she said. “Look. I can’t leave the news unit here. Let’s take it back to the station. I’ll leave it there and we’ll take your truck to your place.”
Phil considered it. He sighed. “Okay. But don’t change your mind on me.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I’m with you.”
CHAPTER 22
OCTOBER 3, 2032
SCOURGE + 1 DAY
INDIAN SPRINGS, FLORIDA
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the soldier. “We’re only allowing residents to pass into this sector. Everyone else needs to turn around.”
The soldier handed Mike’s driver’s license back to him. His young face was weary. There were dark circles under his dull gray eyes, patchy stubble on his face. His name was Bruno.
Above them, a chopper zipped past. Its motor and the whip of its rotors was loud even three hundred feet above the ground. It was flying west.
“Mr. Bruno,” Mike said above the din, “I—”
“It’s Private Bruno,” said the soldier.
Mike knew he was a private. His father had taught him to use rank. Men with rank worked for a living. They deserved for people to address them by the title they earned every day.
“Sorry, Private Bruno. What about those people over there?” He jutted his chin out, motioning toward the gathered crowd at the gas station across the street. Men and women stood in the lot against their cars, drinking coffee. Kids chased each other around parked SUVs and minivans.
Bruno glanced over his shoulder. “What about ’em?”
“What are they doing?” asked Mike. “Why didn’t they turn around?”
“They did,” said Bruno. “They turned around and parked. They think we’ll change our minds. We won’t, but we can’t make them move from private property, and the owner over there doesn’t care. He’s got a captive audience paying five bucks for bottled water and candy bars.”
“That’s price gouging,” Miriam said from the passenger’s seat.
Bruno raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Report it. I’m sure the attorney general will get right on that. Listen, I’ve got a line of cars here. We’ve got permanent barricades to move in like two minutes. I need you to move along. You’re holding up the process.”
Mike apologized and pointed to the convenience store. “Okay, I’m just going to go over there and park.”
“Suit yourself,” Bruno said. “Have a nice day.”
Mike rolled up the Jeep’s window and swung the wheel to the left. He accelerated around Bruno toward the temporary barricades and made a U-turn toward the edge of the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” asked Miriam. “We can’t sit here. We need to figure out another way toward the beach.”
“I know what I’m doing,” said Mike.
He eased the Jeep onto the shoulder and then slid it into reverse. He backed up, spun the wheel, and swung the Jeep around so it was facing north again. Then he found a narrow opening at the edge of the parking lot next to a Honda Accord pulling a U-Haul trailer. He put the Jeep in park and left it idling.
Almost directly ahead of him on 44 there was a soldier facing west. He stood in the middle of the road. His arms were above his head and he was waving something, or someone, forward like an airport ground crew on the tarmac.
Mike steeled himself in his seat and twisted his hands on the steering wheel. He looked like he was about to blow through the chute on a bull.
“What is your plan?” Miriam asked.
“Put on your seatbelt.”
“What?”
“Your seatbelt,” said Mike. “Make sure it’s buckled.”
He checked the rearview. “You too, Brice.”
“I’m buckled,” said Brice.
Mike scanned the intersection. There were twelve soldiers on foot. Together they manned each direction of traffic. Two took the eastbound lanes of 44, two took the west, two took the southbound lanes of 415. Two, one of them being Bruno, took the 415 northbound lanes. All of them were armed. One in each pair held a rifle. The others, the ones checking identification, had sidearms on their hips.
There were two military green Humvees positioned at the center of the intersection providing the bulk of the current blockade. Large telescoping orange and white traffic barrels surrounded the Humvees. There was enough space between the barrels to allow traffic should the lone armed guard in each direction move from his position. Mike imagined this was for residents or emergency personnel. The Humvees were unmanned. While it was an intimidating setup, it was not impenetrable.
From beyond the edge of the convenience store, the front end of a forklift inched into view. Aboard it was a wide concrete barrier. It was the kind of barrier used at military checkpoints. Mike had seen them in news footage from the war in Syria. Soldiers would use a maze of these barriers to slow oncoming traffic. They would have to slowly navigate them, weaving back and forth, to clear checkpoints. They were far more effective than the orange and white traffic cones blocking the intersection.
Mike watched intently as the forklift lumbered forward. He regripped the wheel, the sweat on his palms greasing it. Sweat beaded at his temples and near his hairline. His heartbeat was solid and fast. He felt it in his chest and in the side of his neck.
He might only have one shot at this. If he missed it or miscalculated, it could be disastrous.
The forklift rumbled to the edge of the barricaded intersection, and the soldier guiding it along held up his hands to stop it. The lift stopped, its momentum swinging the heavy concrete barricade. The machine’s engine whined. Its brakes hissed. Three more soldiers lowered their rifles and moved to the side of the barricade where the forklift stood. The operator lowered the lift, but kept it off the ground. He was ready to put it in position as the soldiers made room for him.
Miriam, apparently sensing what was coming, turned her body toward Mike. “You’re not thinking of doing what I think you are, are you? You can’t do that. You’ll get us killed.”
Mike stared straight ahead. He didn’t respond.
“Don’t do this,” she implored. “We can find another way.”
“Dude,” said Brice. “Mike, she’s right. We can’t—”
Mike slammed the Jeep into gear and
pressed the gas. The Jeep lurched and then accelerated quickly. Its large off-road tires screeched on the rough asphalt shoulder, and Mike drove straight for the soldier on the western edge of the barricade right as the man moved to shift a traffic barrel to one side. His hands occupied and his back turned, he couldn’t react to Mike’s advance. The other soldiers were occupied as well. None of them could react quickly enough to swing up their rifles and shoulder them.
Apparently thinking Mike was going to hit them, they dove for safety. Mike then swung to the right. The rear wheels of the Jeep spun, smoke poured from the burning rubber, and for an instant he thought he might spin out and hit one of the parked Humvees.
The wheels caught at the last moment and he accelerated forward, running into one of the barrels. It ricocheted off the front of the Jeep’s grille and hit Bruno’s partner on the southern side of the intersection.
Even above the noise of the Jeep’s engine and the screaming tires, Mike heard shouting from the soldiers. In his rearview, he saw Bruno take aim with his sidearm. There was a flash and then the pop of his rear window shattering.
“Get down!” Mike shouted. “Get down!”
Miriam shrank in her seat. Brice collapsed onto his side. Both of them had their eyes squeezed shut and their hands over their ears. Miriam’s face was bright red. Brice’s was green.
Mike’s eyes left the mirror and found the road in front of him as the two remaining soldiers, those positioned on the east side of the 415 and 44 intersection, dove out of his path. He hit another barrel, and this one bounced up onto the hood of the Jeep before glancing off the driver’s side.
From behind them, Mike heard automatic gunfire. He checked his side-view mirror in time to see it obliterated. Instinctually, he swerved and pressed the accelerator. The Jeep’s engine roared and Mike white-knuckled the steering wheel. For another twenty seconds he drove as fast as he could manage on 44. The eastbound lanes were empty as he zipped past the long line of vehicles in line ahead of the now-battered checkpoint.
The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared Page 22