Slow Burn Box Set: The Complete Post Apocalyptic Series (Books 1-9)

by Bobby Adair

  “Of course,” Rachel answered.

  Bill stood up, unable to contain his anger over the situation anymore. “They’re infected. They’re both infected.”

  “Shut up, Bill.” Rachel, nearly as tall as Murphy and muscular for a woman, looked ready to make sure that he did.

  Bill looked back at Rachel.

  Rachel said, “Bill, I’m in charge. You know how we do things. Now stop being a stupid ass.”

  Bill dropped to his seat, muttering, “They’re going to infect us all.”

  The guys on the other boat were getting a little nervous with their rifles.

  I called across, “We’re Slow Burns. We got the virus, but we’re okay. We got better. We’re normal.”

  “Normal?” Gretchen smiled broadly. “Were you always an albino?”

  “Mostly normal,” I answered.

  Rachel looked at me with an expression that made it clear that she was indeed in charge and that I should let her do the talking. After that, Rachel conveyed the story about what transpired in the cove, emphasizing that Murphy was indeed her brother.

  When Rachel finished her story, Gretchen thanked both Murphy and me for what we’d done. “Here’s the way it works here. I’m in charge. I’ve got some people who help me. Rachel is one of them.”

  Murphy laughed out loud. “The women are taking over the world.”

  Gretchen looked at him with a stern face. “Is that a problem?”

  With a big grin, Murphy shook his head. “No ma’am. I’m cool with it. I’m just sayin’, is all.”

  Gretchen pointed at a lone houseboat anchored a good distance from the row I’d spotted a few minutes before. “When people come back from scavenging, we quarantine them there for twenty-four hours to make sure they don’t bring the infection onto the island. When new people come, we quarantine them a little longer while we’re deciding whether to let them join us.”

  I looked at Freitag. I didn’t mean to. It just kind of happened. I asked, “Are you picky about who you let in?”

  Freitag scratched her nose with her middle finger while she looked at me.

  I suppressed a laugh.

  Gretchen said, “We’re not trying to build an exclusive country club, if that’s what you’re asking. We’ve taken in everybody who has come so far. We’re trying to do our part.”

  Murphy said, “Cool.”

  Gretchen looked at Murphy. “Don’t get too excited. You guys are the first—what did you call them—Slow Burns?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed.

  “Only normal people have come so far. We’ll all talk about it. I’m not going to make any promises about whether you’ll be accepted to come onto the island.”

  “We’re not contagious,” I protested.

  “We’re not staying, anyway.” Murphy told them.

  Rachel was taken aback. “What?”

  Gretchen said, “The quarantine boat is over there, if you want to get on it.”

  Bill was back on his feet and pointing at Murphy. “I’m not getting on that boat with Them. If I’m not infected already, I don’t want to get that way.”

  Gretchen was clearly disappointed. “Don’t then, Bill. You can stay in a ski boat anchored over there as close as you feel comfortable. They can stay on the quarantine boat if they want to. They saved your life. I think you owe them at least that much.”

  Bill muttered, “We’d ‘a got out.”

  Chapter 8

  It was weird, I mean, it was really weird. I was sitting on the end of a couch in the living room of a houseboat. Murphy sat at the other end, in an apparent talking race with Rachel, who was in a comfy-looking chair near his end of the couch. All of the windows were open and a comfortable breeze was blowing through. Better yet, the screens kept the mosquitoes outside. I felt safe and anachronistically normal.

  Freitag had gone down a narrow hallway and laid claim to one of the bedrooms, probably asleep already. Some fifty yards away from our spacious houseboat, Bill and Karl were in quarantine on their ski boat, discontented and being quite verbose about it. But it was their choice. So fuck ‘em.

  Through the open windows I heard a boat motor up alongside. Talking jumbled to incomprehensibility with the noise of the boat engine and splashing waves. Several pairs of footsteps clomped along the deck outside. I looked at the door that faced that deck and was not surprised when it swung open. I was surprised when Steph came into the living room, followed closely by Dalhover. My mouth probably fell open as I struggled for something witty to say.

  Steph hurried across the living room as I stood up. She threw her arms around me and we shared a long hug. She shuddered as she buried her face against my shoulder. Any ambivalence I had about sharing what I knew about her fiancée disappeared. Better to let her think that Jeff Aubrey died at the hospital.

  With red-rimmed eyes, Steph pulled away and stepped over to give Murphy a hug—less affectionate, but a hug just the same.

  Dalhover slapped me on the shoulder. “You made it.”

  Seeing an extra helping of sadness in his eyes, I said, “I’m glad you guys did, too.”

  He leaned in close, “There are some things you need to know.”

  “We saw.”

  Dalhover’s face asked the silent question.

  “We were almost back. We were on the mountain. We saw what happened on the boat.”

  Dalhover slowly shook his head. He had more regret in his voice than I thought possible. “We did what we could.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “I know. I know.”

  Dalhover looked at Murphy and turned back to me. In a just-you-and-me tone, he said, “I’d ’a thought he’d take it harder.”

  Softly, I answered. “You know Murphy. He cries his tears and moves on. He loved her. I mean, he really did.”

  Dalhover nodded, slapped me on the shoulder again, and stepped over to shake Murphy’s hand and pass along his condolences for Mandi.

  Gretchen came in through the still open door. A wiry, tall man with John Lennon glasses followed her in, closing the door behind him. He said, “You don’t want to let the mosquitoes in.”

  Seeing the questions on all of our faces, Gretchen said, “I’m here now, so I’ll have to stay the full twenty four hours. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Steph nudged me in the arm and said, “She’s the boss.”

  Gretchen announced, “I wanted to talk to you about this Slow Burn thing before we decide to let you guys on the island. The people there are afraid of the virus. I need to find a way to ensure them that you won’t be a danger.”

  Murphy, face strangely absent his smile, answered for both of us. “You don’t need to worry about that. Me and Zed, we ain’t stayin’. We just came to make sure our friends were okay.”

  Rachel was not pleased. “I don’t know what you think you’re thinking, Murphy, but we need to talk about this.”

  Murphy said, “Me and Zed got some killin’ to do.”

  Chapter 9

  While Murphy was getting his ear bent by Rachel, I made my way up to the sun deck on the houseboat’s roof. Steph, Gretchen, and Paul all came along.

  As I was taking a seat on one of the long vinyl couch cushions, I asked, “Any news from the outside world?”

  “Some,” Paul answered.

  Gretchen and Paul sat on a couch along the starboard side. Gretchen said, “We had a man with a shortwave radio.”

  I nodded knowingly.

  Paul said, “Walter had a place up the lake a bit.”

  “We talked about disassembling everything and moving it to the island,” Gretchen said.

  “I wish we had,” said Paul. “He had everything set up at his house and had a generator, as well.”

  Gretchen said, “He’d go there once every three or four days, with a few of our people along for protection. They’d fire up the generator and try to contact anyone they could.”

  “It’s much more complicated than you’d guess,” said Paul. “Talking with someone five or
ten miles away is easy, depending on your antenna. But talking to someone in—say—Dallas, or Florida, or South America, that’s a completely different thing.” Paul paused and started to slowly shake his head. “Unfortunately, they got overrun.”

  “The Whites,” I said.

  Paul nodded.

  “Is the equipment still functional?” I asked.

  Gretchen leaned forward. “Do you know how to operate a short wave radio?”

  I shook my head. “I was just curious in case we come across another person who does.”

  “No one has been back there,” said Paul. “We don’t know what state it’s in.”

  Steph joined the conversation. “Tell him what you told me.”

  Gretchen made herself comfortable in her seat. They’d managed to contact seven other groups of survivors in Texas alone. That sounded like a lot to me, though when one group turned out to have renovated an old titan missile silo out in West Texas, I wasn’t surprised that they’d survived. There could be any number of groups whose doomsday plans actually worked out.

  What did surprise me was the mention that some group was in Fort Hood, an hour north—at least back when we had a highway system—reconstituting a military and claiming to be the new seat of Texas government.

  One group, thirty-six people, were on what they described as a tall ship, an old three-masted sailing vessel used for training some group that nobody seemed to know. At any rate, they’d set themselves up as some kind of census and data group, trying to assess the state of affairs, trying to figure out how many people had survived, who had what, who needed what, and who might need help. No mention was made of how help might be provided.

  The upshot was that although we felt alone in a sea of the infected, we weren’t. Others were finding ways to survive.

  I asked, “So what’s the deal here? Oh, and while I’m thinking about it, Gretchen, why are you in charge? I know why we picked Steph to be our boss, but what’s your deal?”

  Gretchen giggled a little before answering. “First come, first served.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  Paul said, “We were the first here on the island.”

  With genuine admiration, I said, “That was quick thinking, coming up with a safe place to ride this out and getting here first.”

  Paul and Gretchen both laughed, but Gretchen answered, “We were camping on the island when it started.”

  “Really? Camping in the middle of the summer? With the heat that had to be miserable. I thought sane people only camped in the spring and autumn.”

  Paul said, “I’m a geologist. I’ve been working on a speleological study of the Lake Travis area for the Texas Water Development Board all summer.”

  “A speleological survey?” I asked. “You explore caves for the state? I saw something about a UT advertising professor exploring Texas caves in a Southwest Airlines magazine once.”

  Paul shook his head. “Well, not exactly. I study the limestone formations and try to survey the underground structures for stability.”

  That had me curious. “Why here?”

  “Do you remember hearing about what happened at Lake Amistad?”

  “I’m not even sure where that is.”

  Steph piped in, “It’s a man-made lake down on the Rio Grande, by Del Rio.”

  “That’s right,” Paul confirmed. “The limestone structures beneath the lake turned out to be less stable than anyone guessed. A sinkhole formed and pretty much opened a drain valve for the lake.”

  “You’re kidding.” I looked at Steph and then at Gretchen. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Serious as a virus attack,” Paul answered.

  “No shit. What happened?” I asked.

  “The lake level dropped by ninety feet in a single day.”

  “Holy crap.”

  Even unexcitable Steph muttered something to that effect, but put the pieces together faster than I did. “So wait, are you telling me that you’re doing that speleological survey because you think that could happen here?”

  Paul smiled and shook his head. “Nobody at the state—and I share this opinion—thinks there’s any immediate danger of that happening at Lake Travis.”

  I asked, “Did anybody expect it to happen on Lake Amistad?”

  “No.” Paul shook his head. “It came as a complete surprise.”

  “So it could happen here.” Steph asked, looking back over at Monk’s Island, “And this place suddenly becomes open to attack.”

  That was a depressing thought. I’d only just arrived. In fact, I hadn’t even officially arrived yet.

  Paul stood up and paced around a bit. He waved a hand out at the water. “Lake Travis has been here for seventy years. There are one hundred and eighty-eight major reservoirs in Texas, and who knows how many smaller ones. I read one report that there are seventy-five thousand dams in the continental United States.”

  “That many?” Steph asked.

  Paul asked, “And how many have you ever heard of that drained because of a sinkhole?”

  Steph answered, “None.”

  “Exactly. The odds of it happening here are miniscule.”

  Just because I’m a contrary pain in the ass, I asked, “But how many of those dams were built during the Depression, or in the decades after?”

  “I know where you’re going with this.”

  Steph shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “Me neither,” said Gretchen.

  Paul gestured toward me. “He’s wondering if the lakes have aged sufficiently that the problem will start to show up with more frequency.”

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  “That is one of the reasons for the survey. More importantly, we want to examine the rock that the dam is built on. Having a sinkhole open up and drain the lake would be bad, considering how many people depend on Lake Travis for their drinking water. To have the dam fail would be catastrophic.”

  “And that could happen?” Steph asked.

  “If the limestone under the dam was structurally unsound, yes. It could happen.”

  “What did you find?”

  Gretchen said, “We’re not anywhere near finishing our survey. So, no answers yet.”

  “Nope.” Paul confirmed and sat back down.

  “You know,” I said, “That sounds like super interesting stuff.”

  Paul nodded. “But pretty much pointless now, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I think there will be little room in the days ahead for geological work. We’ll all be farmers, or hunters, or soldiers, I guess.”

  “Or doctors,” Steph added. “And nurses.”

  “Just the essentials,” I agreed. “Getting back to the beginning, so you guys were camping on the island and when people started showing up after the virus hit, they voted you in charge?”

  Gretchen shrugged, “It just kind of happened. The first arrivals just deferred to me on decisions.”

  Paul chuckled, “She’s a take-charge type.”

  I looked at Steph, “Sounds like somebody I know.”

  Steph punched me in the arm.

  “Hey, that’s a compliment,” I protested.

  “Eventually, we voted,” said Gretchen. “It seemed like the smart thing to do, having somebody in charge. And I won.”

  “By a landslide.” Paul smiled at Gretchen.

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  With a formal nod, Gretchen said, “Thank you. I owe it all to the little people.”

  We all laughed.

  I asked, “So people just kind of trickled in as things got bad in town?”

  Becoming more serious, Gretchen said, “Yes. We got six that first night after the riot at the jail downtown.”

  I was thinking about my escape from that riot with Murphy when I noticed Paul looked down at his feet and shaking his head. I asked, “What happened?”

  Gretchen had a little difficulty with it. “There were six of them, a family
with four children. The oldest of the kids was fifteen, the youngest was eight.” Gretchen seemed to run out of words at that point.

  I looked over at Steph. She was looking at Gretchen. I guessed she hadn’t heard the story yet.

  Gretchen took a big gulp of air as though that might make the story more palatable. “It was the fifteen-year-old that turned first. It happened late that night.” Steph pointed at the silhouette of the old chapel at the top of the hill. “We were all sleeping in the church then. I was keeping guard. The family was exhausted. It seemed like the right thing to do to let them rest. I was outside, keeping an eye out for danger. Paul was inside.”

  Another long pause. It was Gretchen’s and Paul’s first one-on-one experience with the infected, and it had scarred them more deeply than subsequent experiences.

  Paul stuck his arm out. He had a nasty, bite-shaped scar. “The fifteen-year-old attacked me.”

  Steph took hold of Paul’s arm and examined the nearly healed wound. “You’re lucky.”

  “That I wasn’t infected?” Paul nodded. “Yes. I guess I’m immune.”

  I looked at Gretchen. “And you think you’re immune, too.”

  She nodded. “I have to be, or I’d have caught it by now.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Paul had to kill the boy to save his own life,” she said.

  “The parents got angry,” Gretchen said. “They didn’t behave rationally.”

  “I guess that’s to be expected,” I said. “That early on in the infection, I mean.”

  Gretchen looked at Paul. “The father had a gun, and he threatened Paul with it. Even though his son was there, with pale skin and blood all over his face from biting Paul. His father—”

  “—Jim,” said Paul. “His name was Jim.”

  “I’d forgotten.” Gretchen admitted. “Jim was livid. He couldn’t accept that his son had turned. Even though he was frightened enough about everything going on to bring his family out to the island, he couldn’t accept the reality.” Gretchen shrugged. “Maybe none of us could, at first.” She pulled her hands together in front of her mouth, almost as though she were going to pray, as she thought about what to say next. “I thought Jim was going to shoot Paul. But I had a gun, too. We always have one when we’re out camping—not that we ever needed it before—but just in case, you know.”