Redaction: Extinction Level Event (Part I) (29 page)

Mavis relaxed as everyone shifted their attention to Evan. He fussed with the buckets some more. Guess if the man couldn’t be breaking the ribbon at triathlons, he needed to find another way to be the center of attention. “Well?”

Evan wiped his hands on his shorts. “The workforce will be fazed back in with those who work in shipping, transport, and factories going back first. Actually, they were allowed back to work several weeks ago. The longshoremen have to clear all that cargo from China.”

Mavis nearly dropped her coffee cup. China. Products from China were already moving through the country, potentially spreading the disease. She took a calming breath. Stop it. With the incubation period in days, cases of the influenza would have shown up by now. She would know by now.

Unless someone was keeping it from her—for economic reasons.

She dismissed the thought. The laboratory network fed directly into the CDC and the Surgeon General’s office. There were no filters and no one would ignore the symptoms.

The goods were clean. Time on the docks had seen to that.

Malak rubbed his chin. “Makes sense if we want items for sale in the stores.”

Nani sat on her trike. “There might be plenty of stuff, but who has money to buy things?”

Evan patted the old woman’s hand. “The government is issuing charge cards—an early tax credit to stimulate the economy.”

Malak took his wife’s broom from her hand and rested the handles on his shoulder. “When is this supposed to happen?”

“Two days.” Evan held up two fingers. “They are the first things the mailmen are supposed to deliver, right after the meds.”

Mavis boxed up her thoughts. She needed to focus on the conversation. What were they talking about? The G-cards. “Like food stamps, they’re limited to food and other staples. Medicine will be allowed as well.”

“But no alcohol.” Evan shook his finger at them. “So don’t even think of stocking up on rubbing alcohol.”

A few people chuckled. Mavis giggled. Evan must be a news junkie to have picked up that line from months ago when talk of the G-cards and the alcohol caveat first came to the front.

Nani tapped on the pedals of her trike. “When do the schools reopen?”

Jasmine caressed her stomach.

Mavis stilled at the universal gesture. Good heavens. Could the woman be pregnant? She glanced at the others. Only Rhea seemed to have noticed the motion.

Rhea shrugged.

“Two weeks.” Malak answered before Evan. “We teachers went back today to begin lesson plans. School will be going year round for the next couple years to catch up.”

Mavis had almost forgotten he taught kindergarten at the nearby elementary school. How many students did he expect back?

“And our social security checks?” Standing, Nani applied a little pressure to the pedal and her bike coasted forward. “When can we get them again?”

Evan scooted forward as she drifted by him. “Supposed to be direct deposited or delivered the same day as the G-cards.”

Nani braked behind Jasmine and Malak. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

Celebration? Mavis popped the cap on her mug and tossed the cold coffee onto the bushes in her yard. Hadn’t they heard what she said about the Ash Pneumonia? Maybe she had downplayed it a little too much. “It’s going to be a while before things get back to normal, perhaps we should conserve our supplies.”

“Party pooper.” Nani honked her horn.

Mavis crossed the scorch mark on the street. She wouldn’t put it past Nani to run up on her heels. “I just don’t think we should use up our supplies.”

“Dear, there is a time to be conservative and time to live.” Releasing the handlebars, Nani threw open her arms and turned her face to the sun. “It’s time to live and celebrate those who didn’t.”

And those who might not survive at all. If her simulations were right, that included most of the people in the cul-de-sac. Dammit, Nani was right! What good was surviving if all you did was fear tomorrow? “Then let’s have it tonight.”

Nani honked her horn twice. “I’ll bring the biscuits.”

Evan pulled the index card from his pocket. “I thought I’d try a bit of that cracker apple pie. If the offer of spices still stands?”

“Oh, yes.” Jasmine clasped her hands. “I’ll make the fried rice while Malak brings the spices to you.”

Mr. Quartermain sidled closer to Mavis. “What are you going to bring?”

“If someone has some gas left, I think I can manage SPAM burgers.” She hated the funky meat product, but Jack had loved it. That was why she’d stockpiled cases and cases of it.

“Hot darn!” Mr. Quartermain rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got gas for my grill and I went crawdad fishing in the canal when they drained it. We’re gonna have us some meat, folks.”

Pearl licked her lips. “I’ve got some canned okra if you want me to make some gumbo.”

Rhea shook her head. “We could just boil them, with a little bit of onion and Old Bay seasoning.”

Pearl jiggled in her white tracksuit. “We could use our fresh milk for rice pudding.”

Mavis whipped around so fast, she heard her neck pop. Milk, fresh milk, not powdered? “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“No.” Pearl held her hands up in front of her.

Rhea mimicked her twin’s actions and the two moved closer together. “The neighborhoods west of us are horse properties. There’s a woman who’s willing to trade and barter her dairy products since she can’t store them.”

“She’s got cows?” Evan licked his lips.

“Goats, horses, donkeys and chickens.” Rhea smoothed her green jacket. “The donkey has been pulling her cart around as she goes through the neighborhood. That’s how we found her.”

“Just this morning.” Her sister confirmed while straightening her white tracksuit.

Animals. They could use animals if they had to bug out. Given the President’s reluctance to admit there could be a problem, Miles might not be able to stock the relocation camps. She’d have to find this woman. Mavis checked her watch. “Let’s meet back here at six.”

Tonight’s block party seemed the best way to pump the sisters for information and plan for life after the next pandemic.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Trent nosed the Jaguar toward the street. His heart pounded and sweat dampened his palms. He had to cross this street. Had to get to his appointment and confirm his alibi, should the police ask him for one.

He smacked the steering wheel. Damn the slut for dying on him. Rolling his head, he felt tension pop up his spine. And where the hell did those kids come from? He’d caught sight of them before they’d spied him. He hoped. But still, dumping the skank over the balcony and cleaning up the bed had cost him time.

He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. And a hundred dollar commission. Well no matter. There were others. Folks lined up to get life insurance thanks to the Redaction. Who knew death could be so good for business? By the time the fools stopped paying their policies, he’d be sitting on a tidy mound of cold, hard cash.

Approaching the intersection, Trent slowed the Jaguar. On one corner, a building smoked. White garbed lumps shuffled around charred remains. Black garbage bags fluttered. One Marine swung the muzzle of the machine gun his way. Another aimed his SAW at Trent.

What the fuck! Petty little tyrants. Once things returned to normal, he’d file a complaint. Imagine an honest businessman like him being harassed in such a manner. Trent lifted his hands off the steering wheel.

The Marine tapped on the window with the tip of his weapon.

Very slowly, Trent lowered his hand to the button. The glass zipped quietly down. “Is there a problem?”

“There was an incident.” The Marine’s voice was muffled through his mask. “We’re currently looking for other insurgents. I suggest you return to your home.”

He’d like to, unfortunately, his home was in Scottsdale. Thanks to the slut’s dying, he wouldn’t be able to go home and clean up. Again. He’d have to hurry to meet his next appointment. “I have to get to work.”

“Then you’ll have to go back the other way.”

Other way? Those ways would take him and his car through places worst than slums. And cost him time. He checked his watch. One hour until his next appointment. The little detour might delay him. “Couldn’t I just drive through that opening?”

He pointed to a dull spot on the street.

“That’s a blood pool, sir. Either drive around or we will use you and your vehicle for target practice.”

Trent twisted his hands on the steering wheel. If he punched the fucker in the mouth, his buddies would probably shoot him. But soon things would get back to normal and they’d returned to their meaningless little lives—nobodies. While he would continue rubbing elbows with the CEOs and government stooges, until he became a power broker in his own right.

He shifted into reverse. “Can I cross at Central?”

“Knock yourself out.” The Marine backed away from him, his finger on the trigger of his SAW.

Trent smiled. The Marine must have sensed the threat. Turning the car, Trent switched on the radio. Soon the soft notes of a Brahms filled the leather interior. Killing had been such a rush. He’d expected it when it had been his ex-wife. The bitch had deserved it.

But the adrenaline and the high... He motioned his hand through the air, conducting the music. Raw flesh caught his eye. Even taking it out on the slut had felt exhilarating. Sure it had almost ruined his alibi but... He inhaled deeply. Energy and power surged through his veins like he’d touched a high voltage line. God, if beating the shit out of deserving women was a drug, he’d bottle it. Within a year, he’d have amassed a fortune to rival Bill fucking Gates.

And the male population would be a lot more satisfied.

Trent slowed as the Marine in the next intersection waved him through. Turning, he guided the Jag down Central Avenue. The new housing developments disappeared, giving way to dilapidated shacks and rivers of garbage. The burnt out husks of buildings were improvements on the landscape. He slowed at yet another intersection. People hunched in layers of rags and shuffled toward a convenience store. A white banner proclaimed its grand re-opening.

“Damn.” He should have invested in a sign business. Someone had to be making money off all this re-opening bullshit. And money was important.

The Marine on the corner scanned the area, while the machine-gunners faced opposite directions.

With the military’s permission, he coasted through the intersection. As he approached the unbridged Salt River crossing, the road dipped and orange construction signs appeared. When had construction started up? And where were the workers? One moved out from behind a dump truck, a slow sign in his hands.

Trent tapped the brakes and his car obeyed.

The construction worker adjusted his orange vest, looked over his shoulder then switched the sign to stop.

Great. Just great! Now he was going to be late for his nine o’clock. He eyed the opposite side of the street. Two lanes, with nobody on them. He could just cut across the double yellow lines and drive away. He drifted to the inner lane and then stopped. Best not to draw attention to himself. The last thing he needed was the cops tracking him down. They might notice his knuckles.

Even if the slut deserved what she’d got, he doubted those do-gooders would see it that way.

Pansies, the lot of them.

Sighing, he tugged his cell out of his pocket. Better text his nine o’clock and let him know he’d been delayed. He wouldn’t mention the roadwork. Who’d believe that the day after the public gathering ban had been lifted, there’d be travel delays? Two text messages. His thumb settled on his Smartphone when motion in the corner of his eye snagged his attention.

Two women rushed his car. The Goth one aimed a gun at him; the other hurled a large boulder through his passenger window. Glass tinkled as it bounced twice on the leather seat cover. The cell slipped through his numb fingers. The fuckers were going to rob him? Hell no. He wasn’t about to be shaken down by a damn woman.

“Get out of the car.” The gun-toting Goth jerked her chin. “Now!”

The hell he would. He lifted his foot off the brake just as a shot rang out. His ears rang. A hole appeared in his windshield. Cracks radiated it like a spider web. What the— Pain blitzed his brain, shattering his thought. He looked down. Red spread from the hole in his white shirt. He blinked. The hole in his shoulder meant something.

Before he could puzzle it out, the driver’s side door opened.

Hands reached in, shifted the engine into park. The car lurched to a stop.

Trent jerked forward hitting the steering wheel and his thoughts broke loose from the shock. He’d been shot. The bitch had shot him. Blackness crowded his vision. “Fuck.”

“The mother fucker was trying to leave us, Candy.” After the man spoke a fist slammed against Trent’s temple. Once. Twice.

Trent tried to clear his mind. He must not let them have the Jag. It cost him a year’s salary.

“Just get the bastard out. That shot might alert the Marines.”

He willed his arm to move, to push aside the fingers gripping his shirt. His hundred and twelve dollar silk shirt. He glanced up, caught sight of the orange vest before his head dropped back. Why was the world spinning?

“What do you want me to do with him?” The construction worker lifted him up.

His head collided with the top of the Jag’s interior. Trent tried to focus through the stars dancing on the fringes of his vision. He was bodily dragged out of the car.

“Toss him in trash with the other one.” Candy-the-Goth scrambled around to the side. Her torn fishnet stockings appeared in his line of sight.

Nails dug into his scalp before her knee smashed against his nose. Warmth gushed down his chin. Trent fought against the darkness. He couldn’t let them win. His head bobbed forward. As he watched the asphalt roll by, his feet dangled behind him. A burning sensation traveled up his legs. One shoe popped off. The bitch had ruined his favorite Berlutis.

“Finish him off.” Candy’s orders drifted through the buzzing in his ears. “Double tap. One to the head, and the other to his... dick.”