The Pandemic Sequence (Book 2): The Tilian Effect Read online

  I’m going back, he thought to himself.

  Chapter Four

  “…due to your familiarity with the facility. You alone can retrieve the data we need and remove any link we have to the Ira Project.”

  The acoustics of the library were enough to allow the whispered voice to rouse Michelle from her sleep. It took a moment for the dream-state confusion of her mind to dissipate before she realized that she had drifted off during her nightly reading session. Judging by the moon’s arc in the sky through the windows, Michelle guessed the hour to be near dawn.

  “And what of the others?” questioned another hushed voice, the muted tone removing any hint of recognition as to the speaker’s identity.

  “Civilians make mistakes all the time,” responded the first voice, the one that had brought Michelle back to wakefulness.

  Glancing upwards, she assumed the voices came from one of the many balconies that held more volumes of the library’s vast collection. From her current angle, Michelle was unable to see the two speakers, only indistinct dark shadows. It was unusual to find others in the library, most nights she was the chamber’s sole occupant, but at this late hour it was a surprise that anyone was in the building at all.

  “When you retrieve the data, use this.”

  The moon’s fading light glinted briefly on a silver cylinder that was passed between the two figures.

  “I wasn’t aware it was operational,” the second shadow replied, a doubtful tone tinged the whisper.

  “Some adjustments have been made since its last use.”

  The conversation broke off and she could hear retreating footsteps exiting through the second floor doors. Once sure that she was alone, she realized that she had been holding her breath, sitting still in the leather-backed chair. Rising to gather her belongings, her thoughts turned to Andrew and how she would explain her extreme lateness. Of the overheard conversation she thought little; having spent a year working in the Council, Michelle had made sure to avoid any entanglements within the various government factions. Her thoughts did—however briefly—turn to the “Ira Project.” It was a name she had not heard prior to that night, though given her mid-level position she assumed that there existed numerous projects and plans to which she was not privy.

  Instinctively, she peered out through a crack in the double doors before she left the room. The precaution caused her to shake her head with a quiet laugh. You’re becoming as bad as the Councilors, her mind teased, seeing manipulations and danger around every corner! Still, she found herself hurrying out of the government building with mouse-like steps.

  The cool pre-dawn air sent a slight chill up her spine. Early May’s weather had brought a welcome end to the chillier nights of the Cuban winter, a winter far milder than those experienced in the mountains of Tennessee. The first streaks of the rising sun could be seen in the east, as she walked along the paved road, mindful of the small cracks that had not yet been fixed. She could hear the echo of her footsteps off the pastel walls of the buildings to either side.

  Andrew often chastened her for risking the streets alone in the darkness. Though the population of the city was but a fraction of its past, crime still occurred, mostly petty thefts and drunken brawls. She appreciated his concern, yet balked at the thought she was defenseless. We both survived worse, she told herself. I can handle a mugger.

  In truth, she preferred the times when the city was asleep. Perhaps so accustomed to the quiet and relative solitude of the camp, Michelle often found the noise in Havana oppressive and distracting. She assumed that in time the bustle of the thousands now considered neighbors would become commonplace, but until that time came, she allowed herself to enjoy the peaceful silence in the hours before the city sprang to life.

  As a testament to her increasing familiarity of her new life, she found herself in front of her home without recalling the various turns she had taken to get there. It was a marked difference from her first weeks in Havana, when more often than not the journey to work and back took several corrections in direction. It had been easier to explain lateness when she had been an hour simply trying to find the right street.

  Closing the door behind her, Michelle slipped off her shoes and headed up the stairs to the bedroom. Eager to make the house a home, she had tirelessly spent the first weeks of occupancy decorating and furnishing it. The previous owners had clearly had an affinity for white lacquered tables and bookcases and white leather oversized couches—an affinity she did not share.

  The first floor consisted of a living room, now decorated in soft earth tones, which comfortably sat any intermittent guests the couple might be hosting. Several armchairs and a modest couch surrounded a dark oak coffee table, all of which rested on an intricately woven rug. The open floor plan placed the dining area further past the living space, and a small kitchen off of that. As a match to the floors, light blonde wood formed the stairs that led to the two bedrooms of the second story.

  The master bedroom consisted of a queen size bed with a large trunk at its foot, and a set of nightstands. A pair of doors marked the double closet that provided enough space for the couple’s sparse wardrobe.

  Easing into a soft pair of flannel pajamas, Michelle crawled into bed. Though Andrew had acclimated to their new life faster than she, he still woke at even the slightest noise or shift in movement.

  “Where were you?” he asked, sleep causing his voice to scratch.

  Sliding into the nook where his arm met torso, Michelle replied. “I fell asleep in the library.”

  “Did you forget we had a bed here?” The warm grin that broke across his face betrayed any resentment he may have attempted to fake.

  “Hmm, a bed. I must have forgotten what that’s for,” she purred with a tease.

  “Maybe I can help remind you,” he said, pressing his lips to hers.

  --

  Full morning broke soon after, and Michelle stood brushing her teeth before the bathroom sink, while Andrew tried his best to serenade her from the shower. The hours dozing in the library had compensated for those lost at home, and she felt refreshed enough for the day’s tasks. A weekend ritual had quickly developed upon moving in together; laundry, groceries, and other mundane items were dealt with first, allowing the afternoon and evening for much needed time to relax together.

  Rinsing the last evidence of toothpaste from her mouth, Michelle said, “Babe, have you ever heard of the Ira Project?”

  “The what?” he replied in between his rendition of Miss American Pie.

  “The Ira Project. Someone mentioned it at work yesterday, but I have never heard of it before.”

  “But the levy was dry…Ira Project? Nah, never heard of it either. What did they say it was?”

  “They didn’t. I just heard it in passing,” she answered. Feeling foolish for asking, Michelle let it drop and Andrew returned to his singing. She could not even say why she had brought it up in the first place, but her inquisitive mind rarely liked the idea of not knowing.

  As he turned the water off, Andrew slid the curtain back slightly to reach for his towel on the hook beside the shower. Wrapping the cloth around his waist, he stepped out. “Probably something they’re doing on the East Side. Erik says they’re really building the area up.”

  What residents now called the “East Side” of the island, was once known as the infamous Guantanamo Bay military facility that had housed some the largest threats to American security. Much of the military on the island were the remnants of units stationed in the vast network of prisons in “Gitmo.” What became of the inmates after the outbreak, Michelle could only guess.

  “Was Erik drunk when he told you this?” she replied caustically as she moved aside to allow Andrew access to the small sink.

  “Good point,” he laughed.

  When the pair were dressed and groomed, they set out for the market square. Each neighborhood which had developed in Havana had an open air market, a bazaar of produce, meats, and various goods, teeming with life
on Saturdays. Vendors and their carts crowded next to each other, creating a maze of mouthwatering smells along the narrow streets. Samples were readily offered in hopes that shoppers would pause long enough to be enticed to buy that particular week’s offerings. While there was an international mix, the market in Michelle and Andrew’s neighborhood was dominated by American cuisine.

  In some ways, the residents of Havana had formed ethnic tribes upon arrival to New Cuba. Several streets to the east, the Jamaican refugees settled together, bordered by a neighborhood of Mexicans and another of Bahamians. The sounds and delicacies shifted drastically the further through the city one walked, from Colombian to Venezuelan, to Haitian and Puerto Rican. Though so many nationalities had been forced to share the small island, each population had brought with them the borders that once divided their homelands. While there were no open hostilities, one could easily sense the distrust between each group of “foreigners.”

  One of the most difficult and important roles of the National Council was to create a functioning government that represented the diverse populace. Each neighborhood—districts as the Council referred to them—had representatives on the Council. There had been some discontent, prior to the arrival of Michelle and the other mountain survivors, regarding the disproportionate American influence on the council. Survivors from the United States numbered more than the other nations combined, and acted as the sole military force on the island. Understandably, many of the native Cubans resented what they saw as an occupying force.

  American military leaders had refused to relinquish operational control of their troops. Even though the superpower nation no longer existed as it once had, a sense of national pride and dominance still carried over into this new world order. In the end, a series of high level negotiations resulted in military control remaining with the American generals, though an international panel was established to provide “advice.” Michelle doubted that the panel held any sway over decisions, but the outcome seemed to pacify the critics.

  Walking hand in hand through the market, Michelle and Andrew stopped frequently to greet the familiar faces from the neighborhood. With few exceptions, those that arrived from the mountain camp had chosen to settle in the same neighborhood. Even among the Americans, survivors tended to feel more comfortable with those from their home regions. While the volume and congestion unsettled her, Michelle could not help but smile widely when small children, engaged in adolescent games, scampered across their path. Some were too young to recall the first days of the outbreak, while others had barely been off their mothers’ apron strings seven years ago. Much like the documentaries she had watched of the animal kingdom, the young humans had suffered many casualties during the Tilian onslaught. In fact the youth population was so dangerously sparse, the Council had offered various incentives for citizens to bear children.

  Michelle understood that the survival of their species required a vast increase in reproduction, but her continued unease made it difficult to contemplate conception. Her visits with Abby Jarvis had only served to increase her doubts about raising a child in what Michelle still believed to be an unsettled world. Thankfully, Andrew had not broached the subject, whether out of his own unease or sensing hers she did not know, but she was grateful nonetheless.

  Tanned bodies meandered among the vendors’ carts, sampling, buying, or simply enjoying the weather. Even the warmth of the Tennessee summers had not prepared Michelle for the considerable heat of Cuba. While the spring nights still held a chill, the days baked in temperatures that had already inched above eighty degrees. Her pale skin stood out sharply compared to those who did not spend their days inside an office. Even Andrew, normally fair of complexion, had the beginnings of a dark tan.

  “Senorita Michelle!” a vendor called out to her. With a sincere smile, she approached the man’s cart. Tumelo Sardina was a robust man, though short of stature, with a welcoming smile that often spread across his brown skin. Michelle had met the man soon after settling into the neighborhood, during her first visit to the Saturday market. His grandfatherly warmth continued to be a source of serenity to Michelle and, she assumed, any who knew him.

  “Hola, Tumi,” she said as she neared him. The man embraced her and gave a soft kiss to her cheek.

  “Ah, young Andres, so good to see you,” Tumelo said, grasping her fiancé’s outstretched hand, the Cuban accent adding a lyrical effect to the words.

  “Hola, Tumi,” Andrew repeated Michelle’s greeting. “How is business today?”

  “Mas o menos. Some buy, some do not. But the American barrio is always better than most. Come, come, have some tostones.”

  Quickly filling a bag with the twice-fried plantains, Tumelo handed it to Michelle. She had long since given up offering to pay Tumi for the treats, and his refusal to accept her money was a battle he always won, much to the disapproval of his wife.

  Senora Sardina sat in a wooden chair behind the cart ostensibly ignoring her husband’s gift-giving. Yet, Michelle could hear the muttered “tsk…tsk” as the woman went about her knitting. Where Tumelo’s personality was exuberant and welcoming, his wife’s permanent dour expression evened out the couple. Of a size comparable to her husband, Senora Sardina had never smiled or spoken a word to Michelle in all the time she knew the pair. Initially, she assumed the distaste stemmed from the Americans taking over the neighborhood, or barrio, but Michelle had witnessed the woman, gray hair kept tightly in a bun, frown at even the island’s natives. Nevertheless, Michelle and Andrew both offered greetings to the woman, who only mumbled in return as her needles clicked away.

  Just old enough to recall the Cuban Revolution with clarity, the Sardinas had weathered much tumult over the years as Castro solidified his hold on the island nation. Several of their family members had escaped for the States before the rise of El Comandante, but Tumelo and his wife remained stalwart and refused to leave their ancestral home. Of their three children, Tumelo rarely spoke, but Michelle had learned that the two eldest, son Miguel and daughter Dominga, had passed in an automobile accident sometime in the early nineties. The youngest and only surviving child, Rodolfo, had been one of the first in the area to develop the Tilian Virus’ symptoms.

  Tumelo conversed amiably with the couple as Michelle selected several items to purchase from his cart. Everyone in the neighborhood raved about his empanadas, often declaring them the best on the island, which was a source of pride for the man. But even those paled in comparison to the chicken for which Tumi was truly famous. The tender meat was marinated in a traditional Cuban sauce, mojo, which tickled the palate with hints of citrus, pepper, and garlic. Michelle could feel her stomach rumble just watching the man wrap the pieces in wax paper before placing them in her bag. There were, perhaps, other vendors who priced the meat lower, but none could match Tumi’s savory blend. Hug, kiss, and handshake were repeated as Michelle and Andrew took their leave and moved further down the seemingly endless line of carts.

  Several hours later, with their canvas bags heavily laden with purchases, the young couple returned home to find Erik lounging on the stone steps leading to the front door. Michelle got no closer than ten feet before smelling the cloud of alcohol that surrounded him. As his fogged-vision recognized them, he stumbled, rather ungracefully, to his feet.

  “Where you guys been?” he asked, the drunkenness and his thick southern accent made his words all but unintelligible.

  For not the first time, Andrew explained the couple’s usual Saturday routine. Erik shrugged off the explanation and followed them into the house. Their old friend collapsed unceremoniously into the over-sized chair in the living room and asked for a drink. A sharp look from Michelle urged Andrew to claim that they had no alcohol. As she stored the groceries, and hid the bottle of wine the couple had planned on having with dinner, Michelle could hear Erik struggling to converse.

  “Have you guys seen Paul?” he asked.

  “Not since he’s been back…” Andrew began, but Erik continued on withou
t noticing.

  “I went to see him when I heard, and do you know what he said? He told me no, he said, ‘No, Erik.’ Like I’m some kinda kid. Do you know what he said, he said no!”

  “Heard what? Said no to what?” Andrew asked, hoping to fill in the gaps of Erik’s drunken ramble.

  “The mission. But he said no. Said I wasn’t gonna be a help, or something.” The agitation in Erik’s voice was increasing. Michelle had grown used to seeing Erik in his current state, a fact that immediately saddened her. However, the vehemence with which he now spoke was out of character, at least when he was in their company.

  “But I’ve helped. I helped a lot. He knows it, I know it. How many times did I save his ass over there? How can he say I’m not a help? Sure, I drink, but I don’t drink all the time. I can help find Derrick.”

  Hearing the name caused Michelle to lose her grip on the bag of rice she was lifting into the cupboard. Derrick Chancer had been the one casualty suffered that could not be buried. Last seen helping Mike and his dog Gazelle onto the Cuba-bound ship, Derrick had refused to make the journey with the other survivors. Instead he returned to the wild, to the land overrun with infected, to the darkness in which he battled his anguish over the loss of his girlfriend, Jenni.

  Andrew turned his head at the sound of the rice falling, but Michelle waved him off as she stooped to retrieve the bag.

  “Paul’s going back to find Derrick?” Andrew asked. Michelle heard in his tone the same doubt that filled her mind. It had been over a year since their escape and she had long since forced acceptance of Derrick’s death as inevitable.

  “He’s going back on some mission. Bunch of his guys got killed in Turks. He’s been recruiting replacements and I heard about it and went to him, but he said no.”