The Pandemic Sequence (Book 1): The Tilian Virus (25 page)

Empty businesses and store fronts lined the city blocks. It was difficult to recall the times when people bustled along those streets, wrapped in a contended self-oblivion. Mike acknowledged he had been one of them, once. He could picture those days when he woke in his bed and begrudgingly set about his morning routine. His outlook for the day had often depended on the quality of that first cup of coffee. He wondered how many moments he had missed in a cloud of what he had considered important.

Thinking back to his long journey south to begin his life of independence, he was unable to bring to mind the sights he was sure to have passed. Instead he had been focused on the destination. Well-kept farms had meant nothing to him then, save for the thought that the people who tended them surely were living in the “wild.” Now, even the wild west of early America seemed tame when compared with his reality.

The steady rhythm of the tires soon lulled Mike into a deep sleep. Exhaustion and his injuries kept him unconscious even during the second stop to cool the bus’s engine. It wasn’t until the early hours of dusk, as the convoy rolled to a stop, that he woke to feel the press of the passenger window against his head. A half-remembered dream, a scene from his youth where he had built a fort with his brother in the woods behind their family home, slowly evaporated as he regained his bearings and exited the truck. A dense field of tall grass stood off to the right, while on his left a truck rest stop and disused gas station were beginning to fill with the other refugees. Ahead and behind, the highway stretched interminably.

“You should’ve woke me,” Mike said to Paul as the other man approached.

“Were you asleep? Huh, I didn’t notice,” the ranger replied with a smile.

“Yeah. I’m sure. What’s the status?”

“Lisa took two of the smaller cars and scouted the area. There doesn’t seem to be much around in the way of Tils or human, so we decided this would be a good stopping point for the night.”

Mike was slightly surprised that Lisa had taken part in the scouting herself. He assumed word of his earlier dissatisfaction with the short warning had gotten back to her and she had taken it upon herself to verify the camp’s safety.

“How far?”

Paul handed him a map, indicating with his finger their current location in Florida, just south of the state’s border with Georgia. Mike estimated that the party had exceeded his goal of three hundred miles by another fifty.

“Well, we’re certainly committed to it now, aren’t we?” Mike joked.

“If the road ahead is like what we’ve already seen, we’ll arrive the morning after next,” the man replied, unable to hide the hope from his voice.

“Yea, and in your mind you think we’ll be smoking some Cubans by that night,” he teased.

“Of course,” Paul shot back with a smirk. “And having drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em. Heck, I bet my buddy Fidel even greets us personally.”

“You have a demented little mind. You know that right?”

With a slap to his commander’s back, Paul continued. “This could really be the end of this nightmare, Mike. Even you have to admit you’re hopeful.”

“I am,” he allowed. Mike realized that once the journey began the same infectious optimism that had spread through the camp had reached him, though perhaps to a much lesser degree. His wariness, however, was undiminished. “Maybe once I light that cigar, I’ll relax. Until then, we still have some five hundred miles to cover, and who knows how long of a wait after that.”

“I think the camp is torn between crippling fear and blinding excitement,” Lisa interjected as she joined the two men’s conversation.

“As long as everyone keeps themselves in check,” Mike responded, adding, “Thanks for taking scouting detail before.”

He hoped the mild praise would assuage any further guilt or embarrassment his security chief might feel as a result of the morning’s rant. Lisa’s reply was a simple nod of the head. Her years in the military had prepared her well both in terms of combat training and also in hearing apologies in the masked words of superiors too proud to voice them outright.

With Gazelle eagerly pacing alongside him as he walked along the site, Mike could hear snippets of conversations as the refugees spread out across the truck stop. There was muted talk of what might lay ahead, the hope of an ending to so many years of struggle and sacrifice and loss.
Just once
, he thought,
let there be a light at the end of this tunnel
.

Finding a relatively level patch of ground, Mike gingerly lowered himself down, hoping not to aggravate his many aches. Fishing her bowls and food from his pack, he poured a generous portion of the hard, brown bits into one bowl and filled the other with water from his bottle. The dog buried her head into the food and crunched hungrily before taking several laps of water. When she was finished, Mike picked her up and placed the small canine on his lap, her tongue licking his face to express her gratitude and devotion. He thought back to the first days of the struggle when he risked his life, and those of his students, to rescue Gazelle from the infected that had surrounded his home.

His fingers scratched her soft fur, and he knew his instincts had been correct. She had been a constant companion through his journey, a source of solace and peace in times darker than he had ever imagined possible. It occurred to Mike that perhaps Gazelle was the only one among the camp that was unfazed by the interceding years.

The conversations steadily died down and were replaced by the stillness of the camp members wrapped in sleep. As planned, the council gathered to discuss the plan for the arrival in Miami. Speaking in hushed tones, the topic soon focused on the possibility of treachery.

“As much as the others are going to be impatient to reach the city, I don’t think it is wise to send everyone in without first inspecting the area.” This from the doctor, who shared a rare opinion in camp policy and security.

“Lisa?” Mike asked the security chief.

“I agree with the doctor. It will be early enough when we get there for a small team to go ahead, inspect the site, and return to the convoy. I’d say the rest hang back about a mile while my people secure the area.”

“That’s fine. But, we need enough to remain with the convoy for protection,” Paul added.

“Okay,” Mike said as he brought the debate to an end. “Take eight to scout and the rest stay with the convoy.”

There was no further need to discuss the possible eventuality of a prolonged wait for rescue. The council had spent several hours planning in detail the establishment of a temporary perimeter to secure the refugees. Mike wanted to take no chances thus the plan had been hashed out to allow for as many potentialities as the council could imagine. Confident that the camp’s leaders were working in strict cohesion, he disbanded the meeting. Though the others left and sought sleep before the morning journey, Michelle stayed behind.

“What’s on your mind?” Mike asked as he studied the girl. Any shadow of the shy, naïve girl he had taught years ago were gone when he looked at her. Twenty-three years old now, Michelle’s face revealed the maturity and experience few should ever have had to carry. Her blonde hair, once long and flowing, was now cut short, the disheveled strands framing her face. Many women in the camp had adopted the shorter cuts due to ease of maintenance and diminishing supplies of shampoo.

Michelle had, as a result of Sarah’s death, quickly taken on the role of the nurturer among the survivors of the early days. Mike knew the other refugees looked to her as a strong leader and caretaker. To him, as hard as it was with the figure before him, Mike still was able to see her as the girl who had once so timidly asked for extra homework.

“Nothing, really. But…I can’t help but think what happens next,” she replied.

“Is there something about our plans that worries you?”

“
No, it’s not that. I mean
after
all that. If Cuba works out, what do we do? Do we just go back to living normally? Do we get jobs, live in houses, start families like we would have done before all this?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” he asked her.

She sat quietly for a minute before responding, “Can it really be that easy? After everything we have seen, all we have been through, all the people we lost…can we really just go back to…life?”

Michelle had been the first to learn that members of her family had been infected and what infection meant. Even in the chaos of those last televised moments, she had been taken aside and told of her father’s death. Like so many others in the camp, she rarely spoke of loved ones that were forever lost. Mike understood the reasoning. He had spent many isolated moments in those first weeks tormenting himself with wonderings of what had become of his own family. Eventually time and events forced him to bury those thoughts deep, survival demanded the sacrifice of mourning.

“I suppose it will take time to adjust,” he told her. “But we’re used to that I think.”

Michelle looked up from tracing lines in the dirt in front of her. “Everyone else seems to think it will be just picking up where we left off.”

“We know better, don’t we?” he smiled.

She returned the smile in kind, and in her eyes Mike could see it was sincere.

“So…you and Andrew, huh?” Mike teased.

“Shut up,” she laughed, tossing a small pebble at him.

* * *

The rest of the night passed without incident and by the early light of dawn, the refugees once again assumed their seats in the convoy’s vehicles and began the long drive through Florida. Mike recalled a handful of family vacations he spent in the state. Following the lead of many retirees, his grandmother had lived out the remaining years of her life in the warm sea air. His parents had made the obligatory trip to Disneyworld and the Epcot Center for which he and his brother had begged relentlessly. As a late teen, Mike had joined his friends on a spring break excursion to Miami. During this drive, he reflected on how vastly different this trip would be from the one with college kids eager to try out their fake IDs.

Several hours into the trip, one of the cars in the convoy suffered from a flat tire which forced an unscheduled stop. Two of the refugees worked feverishly to change the tire. Several passengers used the stop to relieve themselves, while others patrolled the perimeter against any intruders. One of the men signaled to Mike and Paul, both of whom were looking over the map. Upon reaching the guard, Mike could already see the cause for his beckoning gesture. Scattered some distance off the highway’s shoulder was a rotting heap of carcasses. Mostly animal, but he identified several pieces of human bodies. With flesh and muscle still clinging to some bones, it was clear that the deaths had been recent. The discovery of the tell-tale signs of nearby Tils spread quickly through the refugees, and propelled even greater haste in replacing the tire and reloading the convoy. Only once the vehicles were moving again did Mike relax slightly.

The further south they went, more indications of the Tils presence became evident. Mangled corpses littered the highway at every turn of the head. Even the bodies of Tils, weak from starvation, could be seen crawling across the hot black surface of the road. An anxious vigilance could be felt at the two subsequent stops to prevent the bus’s engine from overheating. As the sun was setting, the hunt for a secure place to make camp for the night began.

Eventually, the council settled on a long stretch of an overpass. The decision was supported by the limited number of possible entries for any attack. Before letting the refugees exit the vehicles, several members of the security team undertook the regrettable task of removing any corpses from the area. Once the sound of bodies hitting the water below ceased, Mike allowed the passengers to begin setting up for the night. The football field-sized section of road was heavily guarded at both the northern and southern ends. With every capable member taking up arms, Mike hoped the guards had slept well the night before, since there would be no shifts to relieve them that night.

Refugees sat in huddled masses, the scent of fear over their exposure to the trials of darkness filled the evening air.
I doubt anyone gets sleep tonight
, Mike suspected. Too restless to sit idly, he alternated between the two guarded ends of the overpass. Paul joined him as he spoke with the men and women protecting the southern exit. The conversation was trivial, a result of the participants only half-focusing on the whispered chatter. All eyes peered into the darkness, focusing and refocusing on each shadow and piece of debris the soft wind moved.

As Mike began to take his leave and return to the northern front, a faint scuffling sounded from the darkness. Immediately, guns were raised, cocked, and aimed in the direction of the noise.

“Easy,” he said. Worried that the sound was benign, he did not want any itchy trigger fingers giving away their position. With the moon only a sliver in the sky, Mike agreed to let one of the men use his flashlight to scan the area beyond.

As the soft glow fanned out over the highway, it came to rest on one lone, still figure standing a few dozen yards away. With its head bent severely to one side, it was clear that it was a Til before them. Instead of rushing towards them, the infected continued in its unmoving stance. The stand-off resembled an old film save for tumbleweeds blowing across the ground.