Spore Series | Book 3 | Fight

by Soward, Kenny

  “The general gave me military jurisdiction over this mission, so I’ll direct some forces to our location as soon as they’re available.”

  “Wow, that’s some promotion,” she said, impressed.

  “Hardly a promotion,” Bryant scoffed. “They ran out of Lieutenant Colonels.”

  Kim stifled a pained grunt. “Some will be volunteers for the Asphyxia treatment, right?”

  “Well, I’m going to try and get some test subjects,” he replied. “I can’t promise he’ll be warm to the idea after you disobeyed orders and I got, um, sidetracked.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Kim raised an eyebrow. “He thinks we’re way beyond a cure, and he barely had control of the camp.”

  Bryant’s tone dipped. “Morale is not good there in camp. He’s dealing with constant defections and infections. I’m sure that’s why he wanted you to stay.” Bryant chuckled with grim humor. “Though he did mention something about respecting our guts, but we’ll see what he says. If he agrees, and the cure works on our test subjects, the world will catch a break.”

  “It’s got to work.”

  “It’ll work,” Fiona piped up. “You and Paul are too brainy to mess up.”

  “Brainy!” Kim mock scoffed. “Are you calling me a nerd?” Fiona broke down into laughter again, making her sputter laughter of her own. She shook her head. “I can’t wait to bring everyone back to meet you guys.”

  “We’ll be here,” Bryant said. “It’ll be a glorious day. Keep your head down and your heart full.”

  “I will. Good luck.”

  “You, too. Talk to you soon. Bryant, out.”

  “Is the line clear, AMI?”

  “The line is clear.”

  Kim glanced at the security light on the dashboard. All the lights blinked red, showing the bus remained compromised with Asphyxia. “AMI, give me a report on the infection rate inside Mobile Unit XI.”

  “The spore density in the air has increased by 2.3% over the past 24-hours.”

  “What’s the total spore density?”

  “Airborne spore count density is 2,300 spores per cubic meter.”

  “That’s not terrible, but it’s growing, right?”

  “Yes. It is growing.”

  “What if we turn the air filtration units to maximum?” Kim asked, noting the dashboard showing 50% utilization.”

  “With air filtration to maximum, I estimate an increase of only .5% per day. Would you like me to turn the air filtration units to maximum?”

  “Yes, do that. I’ll clean the bus before I bring my family on board.” Kim shook her head. “Though it’s possible I may never achieve a hundred percent sanitation without UV lamps and a full team.”

  Doubt crept into her thoughts, and Kim wondered if she’d made the right choice to rescue Bishop and the kids from Ft. Collins. Without speaking to her husband, she couldn’t assume they were even alive. What if he hadn’t followed her advice to seal their home? What if the spores had gotten them?

  Kim shook her head and gripped the wheel tighter. No, Bishop took the family’s safety seriously, and he would have sealed the house airtight. A workhorse of a man, Bishop wouldn’t have stopped until they’d scavenged enough food and supplies to live for several months.

  During their many camping trips, they’d talked about what to do if Riley or Trevor got lost in the woods. It was important to stay in one spot and wait for someone to find them. Striking out on their own almost guaranteed they’d get more lost. Therefore, she knew he’d force the family to dig in at the house and wait for her to come home. So, duty obligated her to get there as fast as possible.

  Plus, she missed them terribly, and not another day would pass when she wasn’t driving to find them.

  “I’ve done what I can for humanity,” she whispered, “now it’s time for me to save the people I love.”

  Chapter 4

  Burke Birkenhoff, Yellow Springs, Ohio

  Burke rested on a square-shaped couch in the lounge area of his high-tech recreational vehicle, reading a book. His left leg rested over the left arm of the couch, and his book rested on the edge of the table. The front of the RV stood open to include the cabin and lounge, and Burke monitored the center console and the trail cameras they’d put up on Paul Henderson’s property.

  Richtman sat to Burke’s right, tucked into the corner of the couch with his feet kicked out. The man had not recovered well from his gunshot wound, and he hobbled everywhere to the point it annoyed Burke. He couldn’t blame the man. Kim Shields’s bullet remained buried deep in the back of his leg.

  A soft alarm rang out in the center console, and Burke raised his eyes to a blinking light.

  “I got it.” Richtman got up, lurched forward, and stared at the monitors, his eyes settling on one. “She’s up.”

  “Kim Shields?”

  “That’s right. She’s on the trail, making her way back to her bus.”

  “Interesting,” Burke said. He stood beside Richtman, looking down where the CDC field agent walked in her bulky protective suit and respirator.

  Upon arriving in Yellow Springs, Burke and Richtman had scouted Paul’s facility. Paul had upgraded the place and getting in wouldn’t be easy. So, he and Richtman had set up two trail cameras on the path and two on Henderson’s entrance, out of sight of the mycologist’s own cameras. Then they’d sat back and waited for help to arrive.

  To Burke’s surprise, Kim Shields had arrived in her big blue bus, only to leave and return with that soldier, Bryant, and two others he didn’t recognize, including a girl no older than five, wearing no protective gear. Was she an outlier? A potential cure?

  Burke could have pressed the issue. He had C4 charges, though he couldn’t see himself and Richtman blowing up the entrance and taking on the four people inside alone. Especially not with the soldier, Bryant, back on site.

  Cursing his luck and bad timing, Burke noted that burning down an entire facility didn’t guarantee everyone inside died. Next time, he’d line them up in the road and empty two magazines into each of them. Still, he had to give credit where credit was due. His enemies fought hard for themselves and the miserable human race.

  He watched as Kim moved out of one camera’s range only to show up on another. Once she’d passed the last camera, Burke plopped down in the driver’s seat while Richtman eased down on the passenger side. Kim’s survival wasn’t such a surprise. She was a scrappy woman, and the big blue bus had been another ace up Tom Flannery’s sleeve—an ace from the grave.

  “You want me to go after her?”

  “No, I think...” Burke turned his head and stared out into the shady grove they’d found to park in. It would have been the perfect day for a stroll aside from the fungal growth waiting to get inside their lungs.

  There would be no fungus at his bunker in the mountains. First, he had to wipe out any trace of his connection to the fungal infection. That meant destroying Paul Henderson’s lab and Kim Shields’s bus, and any computer records connecting him to any wrongdoing. Bonus points for slaughtering them both.

  “Go after her,” Burke said, changing his mind. “Stay close and try not to arouse her suspicions. Find out where she’s going and only engage her if you see a golden opportunity.”

  “Got it, boss,” Richtman said. The mercenary stiffened and turned to go.

  “And, Richtman,” Burke said, causing the man to pause. “Take some extra Percocet with you. We’ll get that bullet taken out soon, you have my word.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Richtman nodded.

  The mercenary relied on Burke’s word as a point of loyalty, and that hinged on Burke’s prospects of getting them to California soon. The longer Burke kept them in Yellow Springs and delayed getting Richtman proper care, the easier it would be for the man to put a bullet in Burke’s head and take his bus. And it was another reason to keep Richtman at arm’s length until the others arrived.

  After Richtman passed through the door to the staff quarters, Pauline hobbled
into view and stood there holding the door frame’s sides with shaking arms. Her cheekbones pressed out above her sunken face, and her hair fell dull over her shoulders. Still, she looked sharper than she’d had in days.

  “It’s good to see you doing better, Pauline.”

  “Hardly better,” she said with a grimace. “I feel barely alive.”

  Burke got up and went to her aid, taking one of her arms and guiding her to the couch. “You should stay lying down.”

  “Tired of lying there.” Pauline’s voice shuddered with pain and determination as she sat, settling into the cushions with a sigh. “I heard you talking to Richtman about going after Kim Shields. Why don’t you let her go? Why aren’t we in California?”

  “Because we’ve still got work to do here, Pauline.” Burke walked to the mini fridge, opened the door, and selected two bottled waters. He popped the caps off both and placed one on the table in front of Pauline. “There’s still a hope needing to be squashed. A last gasp of humanity unwilling to die and reform.”

  “You sound like a prophet of doom,” Pauline’s voice sunk even as a grin touched Burke’s lips.

  “That’s not bad, actually.” Burke nodded, and his grin widened the more he thought about it. “The Prophet of Doom. That’s a good one, Pauline.”

  Pauline coughed softly. “Just tell me one thing, Burke. As soon as we’re done here, we’re leaving. We’re going to Cali, right?”

  “To be with our people,” Burke nodded, fading his smile so she wouldn’t think it too maniacal. “Believe me, I want to get out of this godforsaken place more than you.”

  “Good, because I need something to do.” Pauline’s tone struck sharply. “I’m so bored. I want to go where there’s sun, and we don’t have to wear protective gear just to get a breath of fresh air. I want to work.”

  Pauline’s pale blue eyes flashed with a hint of their old brightness, and Burke’s heart skipped a beat. He admitted there were times over the past few days he considered shooting Pauline and dropping her into a ditch. Her usefulness in a world that didn’t rely on computers and logistics remained negligible. Yet, maybe hope remained. Perhaps he could give her purpose.

  “When will the help arrive?”

  “Very soon, my beauty.” Burke said, feeling better. “And then we’ll hit them with everything we have.”

  Chapter 5

  Randy and Jenny Tucker, Indianapolis, Indiana

  Randy stared hard through the black hood draped over his head. The light filtered through the thin material, shifting on his visor as he twisted back and forth to find a gap.

  He felt Jenny on his right, and Tricia’s bulkier form resting against him on his left. His sister fidgeted while Tricia remained as still as a stone. The militia folks had tied their hands behind their backs, dropped hoods over their heads, and placed them into the back of a waiting SUV.

  Randy shifted in his seat and tugged at his bonds. The thin plastic cuffs only dug deeper into the duct tape around his wrists, so he stopped to avoid breaking the protective seal. The SUV shifted around a curve, throwing his weight into Tricia, and he used his feet to push back in the seat and relieve the pressure against her injured right leg.

  She sat without complaint. She didn’t even squirm, and Randy couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking. A soldier of the Colony, the militia folk would be hard on her. Would they torture her or kill her outright?

  Anger flared in Randy’s belly, surprising him with its voracity. The militia folk better not harm her, or he would make them pay. He gave the corporal a nudge with his shoulder to assure her, and she nudged him back.

  Smiling behind his covered visor, Randy’s nervousness settled into something manageable. He took a deep breath and sighed, allowing his body to relax and sway to the movements of the truck. Finally, the truck pulled into an enclosed space, and everything went black behind the hood.

  The SUV engine died, and the sounds of an industrial-sized garage door closed with the rattle of chains. The SUV doors popped open, and hands reached in to guide them out of the vehicle. Being in the middle, Randy waited until a hand tapped his right shoulder, indicating he should exit on his right.

  Randy wiggled out of the truck and turned his body to place his feet on the floor. Someone took his arm and helped him out while another person whipped the hood off his head. They stood in a massive garage with concrete floors and white lights dangling from the ceiling.

  Three big SUVs were lined up with a dozen or more militia folk milling around. Three dock doors sat closed on Randy’s right, and a militia person locked the one they’d just passed through before striding over to join them.

  Stacks of broken skids rested against the far wall, along with scraps of packing tape and bubble wrap. Someone had shoved a desk against the wall, its surface laden with a scattering of paper, scanning equipment, and an old computer.

  The militia folk cut their bonds and guided them to a set of doors opposite the docks. Randy spotted Jenny standing nearby, and she glanced over her shoulder at him as someone pushed her. He couldn’t read her expression, though her eyes held no fear. Tricia hobbled in their direction after shrugging off help from one of the militia people. Her pained hazel eyes found Randy in the darkness. He nodded at her, and she returned the gesture.

  A door flew open, and everyone filed in. It took him two seconds to see they stood in a decontamination chamber with plastic-covered walls. The room was spacious, allowing ten or fifteen people to stand inside at once. They’d strung up four sets of hoses marked with colored tape—red, yellow, and blue—with the blue hoses positioned near the opposite door.

  The leader gestured for Tricia and the twins to stand together beneath a red nozzle in the center of the room while the others gathered at different stations. Then he turned to address Tricia and the twins. “Stand beneath the red hose first. Wait for the spray to finish, then move to the yellow. The last hose is regular water. After a final rinse, we’ll move into the next room, strip off our protective clothing, and stand beneath the white hose. It’s a gentler solution.”

  “We did a similar thing at our house,” Randy spoke loudly. “And at the Colony.”

  The leader half-turned with a nod. “We’ll also be taking a swab of your nasal passage to test for infection.”

  The spray from the red nozzle shot out and washed over them. It ran down his visor with a mysterious copper tone, and he imagined the pain of getting the red spray in his eyes. They should probably avoid getting it on their skin, too, though Randy would have to trust the militia folks knew what they were doing.

  When the red spray finished, they moved to the yellow before rinsing off at the blue. The leader gestured for them to move into the next room where they stood beneath the white hose and stripped off their clothes.

  “Take it all off but your masks,” the leader said. “No time to be shy. We’re all in this together.”

  Randy was more than a little aware of Tricia standing next to him as she stripped off her white T-shirt and undergarments. He glanced over to see no one helping her with her wounded leg, making it difficult to remove her boots and pants.

  He ditched his boots, jeans, and underclothes. With an uncomfortable expression, he got to one knee next to Tricia and offered his hands. There was a pause before Tricia rested her hand on his shoulder and held out her boot.

  Her hand burned like fire on his skin, and he was certain his ginger-paleness flushed red with emotion. He untied her laces and removed her boot, revealing a thick pair of socks. He slid those off and balanced her as she removed her fatigue bottoms.

  The bandage they’d wrapped around her wound fell away, and Tricia cried out as she tried to put weight on her foot. Randy turned, watching blood run down the back of her knee and calf. Tears stinging his eyes, he picked up the bandage and held it over the small hole in her hamstring. He wanted to stop the blood flow, but he didn’t want to burn her with the chemical-soaked bandage.

  “Let her rinse.” The leader leaned
toward the two. “We’ll see to getting her medical attention afterward.”

  Randy dropped the bandage and stood with his arm around her waist. Her suffering angered him, yet the smoothness of her skin and heat from her body made his blood race.

  Half embarrassed and half terrified, Randy turned his visor close to her ear. “Some first date, huh?”

  Tricia turned her face up, the pain in her eyes melting as she cocked an amused eyebrow. She gave him a brief grin before a cold soapy wash blasted from the hose to douse their exposed skin. Randy gasped but drew Tricia closer for the warmth. Then he remembered the purpose of them standing beneath the spray, and he stood away so she could wash.

  They removed their masks and used a gel dispenser to scrub their faces and hair. They filed through the last door, and someone handed each of them a towel. Randy held Tricia until two militia nurses dressed in street clothes with red cross bands around their upper arms came to take her away.

  He caught a glance of her as they left the room, and he turned his eyes away despite wanting to look longer.

  “I’ve never seen you turn so many shades of red.” Jenny wrapped her towel around her beneath her arms. “I mean, I didn’t know there were so many shades of red. You might have discovered some new ones—”

  “Hush, Sis,” Randy hissed, though inside he wore a mile-wide grin.

  “Now he’s defensive,” Jenny quipped.

  “I’m not being defensive,” he said, wrapping his towel around his waist. “I’m just being—”

  The leader raised his hand to get their attention at the front of the room. Tendons and muscles stood out everywhere on his thin frame as he moved, and Randy noticed a half-dozen wounds across his stomach and chest, including two sets of fresh stitches.

  The man’s brown hair hung stringy to his shoulders, and his green eyes traced over the group. “Okay, people, take your breaks and grab some chow, except for the two new folks.” His eyes shifted to the twins. “I have questions for them.”