So where is everyone? Gwen Ling wondered as seven residents ambled through the hospital’s main entrance. Yesterday had been a colossal disappointment with barely a hundred vaccinations administered, nowhere near enough to protect the district.
At forty-two, Gwen could’ve passed for thirty, with almond-shaped brown eyes and silky black hair always swept into a utilitarian bun. Intelligent and assertive, she excelled at handling medical emergencies; and if the dire warnings from the Global Health Organization were accurate, her composure was about to be tested by an outbreak of Alameda fever.
Gwen’s digital tablet, referred to as a Chi-pad since it had been made in China, chimed three times in sync with all the Chi-phones in the lobby. Then a commanding male voice said, “This is a message from the emergency broadcast system.”
She exchanged questioning glances and clueless shrugs with the other nurses, then her attention reverted to the Chi-pad, intending to check her hospital e-mail. The touch screen was not responding. Gwen couldn’t open another window or adjust the volume, couldn’t even turn off the tablet to reboot it. She was locked out.
The face of a gravely ill woman filled the screen. Matted brown hair clung to her forehead. Her eyes reminded Gwen of sunflowers, an unnatural yellow surrounding dark brown irises, and her sallow skin glistened with sweat.
“Governor Taylor is suffering from Alameda fever. Named for its origin, this new, virulent pathogen is antibiotic resistant; and to date, no one who has contracted the disease has survived. It claims the lives of its victims within days, and this scourge is contagious, transmitted through bodily fluids.”
The camera pulled back slowly as Taylor began to convulse.
She vomited an inky, black-looking liquid onto the white bedsheets, the darkest blood Gwen had ever seen. Taylor began to murmur nonsensical words. Her head rocked violently as if a demon had taken possession of her body. The jaundiced yellow of her eyes gave way to a crimson darkness, two empty black holes staring into the camera. And she wasn’t some infected stranger hundreds of miles away; she was known to everyone in the district.
Why weren’t we informed of this? Gwen thought. Nurses are on the front line. We need to know.
Slowly, Taylor’s image faded, the words six hours later appeared, then the video reconstituted with the governor in the throes of a seizure, writhing furiously. Pain warped her face into a slide show of grotesque expressions until her body finally fell limp. A heart monitor in the background flatlined, a high-pitched alarm squealed, then two medical personnel in protective plastic suits raised a sheet over her face.
“Don’t allow this to happen to you or your loved ones. Get your free Alameda fever inoculation at the medical center. Before it’s too late.”
A vague uneasiness was churning inside Gwen.
We’re the only operational medical center within the district, she thought. If we weren’t treating Taylor, who was?
2
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
ANTICIPATION SPURTED through Abby Webber, accumulating, intensifying, until she couldn’t sit still or focus on anything other than Bradley’s impending arrival. Nearly fourteen months had elapsed since they’d said good-bye at Camp Sunshine; 411 days without letters, phone calls, or e-mail since the military refused to allocate resources to nonessential communications.
She had imagined their reunion a thousand times. Their eyes would meet in a loving glance; dopey smiles would overspread their faces; she would run to him, leap into his arms, and kiss him until she had to ship out—nine hours later.
Bradley Webber had been the awkward boy next door until the Marine Corps transformed him into a confident man. Six-foot-three, muscular with dark hair and handsome chiseled features, he exuded an aura of granite toughness. Only his hazel eyes and easygoing, boyish smile revealed glimpses of the real Bradley, the honorable, selfless, caring man beneath the Sniper’s camouflage.
Raucous laughter was wafting up from the floor below, Soldiers celebrating their graduation from the TEradS Course. The Terrorist Eradication Squad was a newly formed branch of the military tasked with weeding out sleeper cells on U.S. soil, a daunting challenge given complex rules of engagement and the enemy’s propensity to favor blue jeans and sneakers over combat uniforms.
The prospect of a real mission inflamed the restlessness already surging through Abby. Sick of training—Marine Corps Boot Camp; Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape; Basic Reconnaissance; Land Navigation; Scout Sniper Course; and TEradS Training, among others—she was eager to assume the role of Sniper for Team 8A in Colorado.
Hoping to dispel the excessive energy buzzing through her, Abby changed into her PT uniform: a green T-shirt, gym shorts, and running shoes. From her footlocker, she retrieved a two-inch ceramic knife tip sheathed within an envelope of duct tape. Abby had found the broken sliver near a chow hall trash can during boot camp and had honed the blade to a razor’s edge—an ideal weapon of last resort, concealable, able to pass through metal detectors, and lethal.
She wedged it between her backbone and the clasp of her bra, and tucked in her T-shirt before responding to a knock at her door.
“Abby, I did-int know,” said a drunken Mia Candelori. The seventeen-year-old Private had a flawless olive complexion, framed by wavy hair the color of cinnamon. Her catlike eyes seemed to morph between green and a tawny-brown, and her pouty lips always looked swollen, probably from the nonstop barrage of male traffic.
“I swear, I did-int.” She grasped at Abby’s shoulder to steady herself, missed, then toppled through the open door, spilling her Mason jar of clear liquid.
Grain alcohol from a local still, Abby thought. I wonder what service she bartered for that.
Mia’s legs buckled, and the drunken fool plumped onto her backside, sopping up the mess she’d made. Abby pulled the Private to her feet, half dragging, half carrying her into the hallway, then she closed the door and walked away.
“I wish I neber slept with him,” Mia said, slurring her words. “He said he lov-v-ved me. An-I believed him ... I had no-o-o idea Bradley was married to you.”
3
District Ten, Idaho
HAVING COMPLETED HER shift at the District Ten canning factory in Southern Idaho, Sybil Ludington flexed her sore fingers. Prior to the EMP, she was a typical, spoiled American teenager, obsessed with social media, celebrities, and designer clothing. She used to spend hours gelling and spraying her strawberry-blonde hair into long, graceful curls; applying mascara, liner, and shadow to accent her powder-blue eyes; concealing and blushing until her oval face glowed; culminating with a photo shoot of selfies.
Back then, she had carelessly tossed around words like work, hungry, and scared, ignorant of their true meaning. In just fourteen months, priorities had changed. Survival had usurped vanity and mutated from an innate entitlement into a daily battle.
Her father, a retired Marine Corps Colonel, was waiting at the gate. “We’d better hurry. Chi-Mart will be closing soon.”
The Chinese-run market was the only retail grocery chain in District Ten. Its refrigerated cases were always stocked with tantalizing items—beef, chicken, pork, eggs, milk, and produce—for the benefit of Chinese workers and the UW, the United World peacekeepers. Sybil didn’t know any Americans who could afford those luxuries.
She and her father worked eight hours, six days a week, and regardless of education, skill, or job description, workers earned the same rate of compensation—one UWEC per hour. Pronounced “you-wick,” the acronym stood for United World Electronic Currency, a global medium of exchange that had supplanted the U.S. dollar and existed only in the digital realm. From their combined weekly ninety-six UWECs, sixty were automatically deducted for taxes, health care, rent, and utilities, leaving thirty-six for food and other essentials.
Sybil plucked a chocolate bar from a shelf, sniffed it, savoring the sweet cocoa scent, then rolled her eyes at its ten-UWEC price tag. “I can’t belie
ve they raised the prices again. Look at this, Dad. Four UWECs for a can of beef stew? Two for a cup of rice?”
“Welcome to company town two point oh.”
Puzzled, she pivoted toward him. “What’s a company town?”
“Didn’t they teach you anything in history?”
Seemingly disgusted, he began flinging bags of rice into his handheld shopping cart. “Darlin’, back in the early nineteen hundreds, lumber camps and coal mines were in the middle of nowhere, so workers had to rely on their employer for housing and groceries. Without competition, price gouging became rampant and workers became saddled with debt, which the company used as an excuse to hold them captive. Some folks say it was a form of slavery.”
A cocktail of alarm and dread rattled through her. “Is that gonna happen to us?”
“No. Because we’re getting out of here.” He snatched the candy from her hand and deposited it atop the bags of rice.
“Dad, don’t,” she stammered. “We can’t afford that.”
“Consider it an early birthday present.” Angst glimmered in his brown eyes, the pain of a father grappling to provide for his only child, then he strode toward the checkout.
Sybil watched the clerk scan the chocolate bar. Would it taste as amazing as she remembered? Was it worth ten hours of work? And how was she supposed to enjoy something that might enslave her father?
He tapped his Chi-phone against the magnetic reader to tender payment, but the transaction was declined. He made three more attempts, jaw tensing with each failed effort.
“Let me try.” Sybil removed her Chi-phone from her back pocket and pressed it against the reader.
Declined.
“What the hell is going on?” her father bellowed.
The clerk typed feverishly then skimmed the monitor with her finger. “Account frozen,” she said in heavily accented English.
“What? That’s ridiculous. Why?”
The clerk swiveled the monitor and indicated a notation.
Contempt oozed from her father’s expression. “Noncompliance with public health policy? If I don’t submit to a vaccination, I can’t purchase food?”
“Por-ricy protect district,” the clerk said. “You go medic center. I keep grocery.”
Stowing her phone, Sybil chased after her father, stunned to see that he was headed home. She had never seen him so angry, but the possibility of starving frightened her more.
“Why don’t we just get the vaccination?” she asked tentatively.
He looked away, hands clenching and unclenching. “The Chinese have a track record of shipping counterfeit, poorly made, and toxic items to the United States ... Like dog treats.”
The realization felt like icy worms wriggling in her stomach. “Is that why Bullet died?” she asked, referring to her childhood love, a yellow Labrador retriever. “Because of the jerky treats I fed him?”
“It’s not your fault, Sybil. There’s no way you could have known.” Her father draped an arm around her, and she leaned into him, tears spilling over her lashes. “So I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow some germ culture from China to be injected under your skin.”
“But how will we survive?” she asked in a tremulous whisper.
“When we get home, we’ll pack up for a fishing-hunting-camping adventure. And we’ll even bring Star.”
The mention of her mother’s Arabian horse unleashed a fresh deluge of tears. Gabrielle Ludington had been flying at 35,000 feet somewhere above Illinois when the EMP short-circuited the American way of life.
Sybil swallowed the tangled knot of grief and fear that had lodged in her throat. “But where will we go?”
“To Uncle Kevin’s in Salt Lake City. Then we’ll spread the word about Chinese price gouging and the UW’s oppressive laws.”
“Do you think that’ll make a difference?”
“Absolutely! Once a majority of Americans realize what’s happening, they’ll be mad as hell and fight back. Freedom is in our DNA; we’re endowed by our Creator and empowered by our Constitution.”
“You know what?” Sybil said, reaching for her phone. “I can spread the word faster with text messages.”
“No, Darlin’, you can’t. The Chinese are censoring the cellular network. If they don’t like what you’re saying, the message won’t go through. We have to rely on good old-fashioned word of mouth, which is why I need to stop by and talk to Mrs. Bissel. You go home and start packing. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Sybil walked the remaining two blocks alone, hating the thought of leaving the only home she had ever known. The rusty-red, Prairie-style house stretched wide across the landscape with a low-hipped roof and overhanging eaves. Her gaze swept past mature fruit trees and evergreens to the small barn that stabled Star.
Dad and I will be like a modern-day Paul Revere, she thought, grinning as she plodded up the steps onto the front porch. The Chinese are gouging! The Chinese are gouging!
Sybil wrestled with the stubborn lock, pushed open the front door, and uncorked a despondent scream.
4
TEradS West Headquarters
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
THE WORDS WERE A white-hot branding iron, searing Abby’s stomach and radiating outward.
Mia and Bradley?
A hoarse sound escaped her, something between a gag and a gasp. She stomped out of the barracks, trying to stifle emotion with logic. Bradley was a man of character. He never would have slept with the “Whore of Langden.” Abby was sure of it; or at least ninety percent certain.
She jogged along Kennet Drive, annoyed with herself for letting Mia rattle her, letting apprehension and doubt leech away at her faith in Bradley. He deserved better. Especially since the only evidence was the word of an inebriated tramp.
At Leona Creek, Abby turned north and followed a meandering greenish ribbon of water into a lush tract of trees. The dirt trail was uneven. Encroaching vines and branches licked at her calves, and she hastened her stride as if speed and distance could squelch the tumult inside her.
Abby’s mind kept regressing to that ten percent chance. That inkling of doubt was swelling inside her, eating at her. What if Bradley changed his mind? After all, they weren’t legally married. It was a ruse, perpetrated so that the military would keep them apprised of each other’s status.
His feelings could have changed since then. When he arrived tomorrow morning, would he say that it was over? That he’d fallen in love with someone else?
The prospect of being dumped for Mia was like inhaling acid. Her throat felt raw; her lungs ached with every breath. Then she stumbled.
Something snagged Abby’s right foot, and she belly flopped onto the dirt pathway. Behind her, through a tangle of leaves, she glimpsed a pair of dingy white high-tops.
She wasn’t alone.
A knee burrowed into her back.
A black hood covered her head, then her attacker’s weight sank down, compressing her chest, driving air from her lungs.
Hands gripped her throat.
Unable to access the ceramic blade and knowing she would soon lose consciousness—or worse—Abby clawed at the man’s face.
Two additional hands restrained her wrists.
Damn it! There’s more than one.
Strength waning from lack of oxygen, she stopped resisting and feigned unconsciousness to dupe her attackers into relaxing their grip.
They weren’t fooled.
The last sound Abby heard was a deep warbling voice saying, “Allahu Akbar!”
5
Moffat Tunnel, Utah
CHEN HU SOUNDED THE horn repeatedly as the train approached the western portal of Moffat Tunnel. The 6.2-mile-long passageway bored through the Rocky Mountains beneath James Peak and had been constructed in the 1920s, a shortcut between Salt Lake City, Utah, and Denver, Colorado.
Hu shook his head, uneasy as his diesel locomotive plunged headlong beneath the mountain. The single track, eighteen-foot-wide tunnel felt claustrophobi
c, pitch black except for the train’s headlight, which only managed to illuminate a web of patched stress cracks.
In addition to its typical cargo—fuel tankers and bulkhead cars stuffed with food, medical supplies, and electronic equipment—the train was hauling a thousand Chinese peacekeepers, along with their weapons and support vehicles. The thought enraged Hu.
Why is the Chinese Communist Party devoting immense resources to the reconstruction of an immoral and untrustworthy nation?
Millions of indigent Chinese needed the resources being squandered on Americans. The same people who had attacked the Motherland; first with SARS, a bio-psychological weapon designed to create turmoil while the U.S. waged war in Iraq; then with a strain of avian flu that didn’t kill infected birds, making it even more difficult to detect. Meanwhile, those same hypocritical Americans preached morality to the world, yet refused to acknowledge the epidemic of gun ownership as a violation of human rights. They elevated the right to bear arms above the protection and security of human beings.
And they’re reaping as they have sown, Hu thought, his teeth grating. America allowed terrorists to amass an arsenal of AK-47s. Let them flounder in the consequences of their stupidity.
China should cease all humanitarian aid, withdraw all its workers, and let the Western, democratic countries supply the UW peacekeeping force. In District Eight alone, six Chinese electrical workers had been gunned down by the Terror Fox, an exceptionally clever and elusive terrorist cell. How much Chinese blood and treasure would have to be lost before the Communist Party ended this insane attempt at nation building?
Hu sighed, staring at a faint splotch of light, the eastern portal speeding toward him like a white bullet, growing in size and brightness.
A tremor jostled the train, and he shuffled his feet to regain balance. Two dark patches fell, silhouetted against the light, then an avalanche of black obscured the opening.
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