The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure Page 8

  “More than we have seen in one place before,” Derrick answered wearily. “With the storm, we couldn’t see very much, but it looked like the whole area was filled with them.”

  Paul knew the traumatic ordeal might have clouded Derrick’s mind, multiplied a threat not truly there. If it was any other testifying he might have doubted, but he had known the younger man for years. Though he may have retreated to a dark place in dealing with Jenni, he had tended to keep his head about him. Coupled with Hicks’ decision and parting words, Paul chose to accept the tale as accurate truth.

  “All right, go get some food and rest,” he ordered with compassion. Once the command tent emptied, Paul acknowledged his racing heart. Hicks, his mind tried to make sense. We’ve lost Hicks. While the man had not been the most cordial, he had developed a rapport with the former mercenary. Not only was his death a personal blow, the loss had stark consequences for the coming events. More than any other in the encampment, Hicks had the experience and insight needed for the evacuation of the Horde and eventual confrontation with the approaching Tils.

  Too many anecdotes had pointed to what Paul now accepted as fact. Somehow the Tils had managed to evolve, or at the very least enhance, their predatory skills. He had seen firsthand a coordinated assault by the infected during a search and rescue mission. The dozen or so that had ambushed his team had managed to exact more causalities than he preferred to recall. If a force numbering into the thousands fell upon the Horde, even with the substantial arsenal the camp possessed, Paul doubted victory would be easy or even possible. He was beginning to feel woefully ill-equipped to command when one of his guards ducked into the tent.

  “Sir,” the man, a callous-handed former oil rig engineer named Greg Stern, pulled Paul from his dark thoughts. “There’s something you need to see.”

  Hearing the words so ominously spoken, Paul feared the man was about to announce the arrival of the Tilian army. “Is it the Tils?” he asked as he rose from his seat.

  “No, sir, it’s… well, you really should just come see.”

  Paul followed the guard out into the morning, the wet earth grabbing his heels at every step. Stern, walking quickly, led him towards a large gathering of Horde members which were abuzz with conversation as they pointed and stared beyond the northeast corner of the camp. Annoyed with the man’s reticence in explaining the situation, Paul was about to voice a rebuke when his eyes fell upon the cause of the excitement.

  A quarter mile down the dirt road—a road in name only as it had been formed by the constant travel of scouting teams—marched a long line of figures intermingled with a handful of automobiles. Accepting the binoculars Stern handed him, Paul brought the lens to his eyes. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw straight necks. The cars should have been enough to discount the group as Tils, but his mind had already begun to doubt any assumptions on the capabilities of the infected. If they learn to drive, he thought wryly, I’m going to throw myself off the nearest cliff.

  While not Tils, the mass of people slowly winding their way towards the camp looked only slightly healthier. Tattered clothing, mismatched articles oft-mended with rags and other scraps of fabric, hung loosely from weak, frail bodies. Scanning across them, Paul saw that many were armed with crude weapons; spears, axes, pitchforks, and bats, with a few at the group’s head clinging tightly to rifles and shot guns. At the center of the procession, protected on all sides by wary men, walked a throng of women and children. The little ones gripped the hands of their mothers, while others either too young or sick to walk on their own were held aloft, cradled in arms and on shoulders. So many, his mind shouted as he tried to gauge their numbers.

  Mouth agape, Paul’s mind flashed to images of famine stricken lands in Africa where similar desperates walked for days in search of food and hope. Passing the binoculars back to Stern, he began to walk towards the multitude. Without realizing, the walk had turned into a jog and he could hear others of the Horde trailing behind him. As he crossed the distance, he shouted commands over his shoulder for medics and cots to be ready, as well as food and water. Raising his arms to show he meant no harm, Paul reached the first line of men. Initially—and rightfully—tensing, those at the caravan’s head soon relaxed their stances and allowed themselves to be ushered into the camp.

  The next hours were a blurring series of reports and updates regarding the new refugees. An informal triage process had been enacted so that those with the most urgent need received priority care. The Horde had several former doctors and nurses, some forced from a life of dentistry and veterinary medicine into general practice, and they busily worked through the day tending to the influx of patients. Most suffered from expected bouts of dehydration and malnutrition, while others were diagnosed with more common illness. Some, those with low-risk but contagious afflictions such as tuberculosis, were immediately quarantined and treated.

  As more and more refugees passed the physicians’ inspections, members of the Horde erected the many supplemental tents in the camp. Still others opened their own living spaces to as many they could accommodate. Paul even passed Derrick, who should have been recovering from his own ordeal, hammering tent stakes into the ground. What was at first a haphazardly chaotic process, eventually smoothed into something more structured and ordered. After his few initial commands, the Horde had divided the numerous tasks among themselves to the extent that everyone in the camp moved about with purpose and conviction.

  As he watched the day unfold, Paul’s thoughts immediately ran to the first group of refugees discovered in San Antonio. He had rescued them from near death only to fall victim to Drennan and his barbarous version of the Horde. He vowed these refugees would reach a happier fate.

  During his time in New Cuba and leading search and rescue operations, Paul had commanded similar ministrations, if on a much smaller scale. Initial counts, from both his own people and some of the new arrivals, placed their number at over twelve hundred. Twelve hundred! Paul still felt staggered when he contemplated the size of the group. Pushing his mind beyond the immediate, he knew that the Horde had a comfortable amount of food and water, but feeding these refugees would place a detrimental strain on resources. And there’s an army of Tils out there, his mind reminded.

  Before he knew it though, his thinking had already strained towards exhaustion, and the sun started its descent in the western sky. Several of the refugees, those Paul assumed to be the group’s leader had been invited to his tent to share the evening meal. Conversation was at first suspended as the three men and two women before him shyly lifted heavy forkfuls to their mouths. Though a feast by no means, the steaming bowls of spiced vegetable soup, followed by an assortment of grilled fish, and finally sweet bread, were clearly an enjoyable departure from their previous meals. Initially declining second helpings, Paul insisted they cast off fears of gluttony and personally added more to each of their quickly-emptied dishes.

  With stomachs full and spirits lifted, discourse soon progressed to a conversation that enthralled him as he listened. Dan Seldis, a New York native of middle height and middle years, with a hairline just beginning to retreat, took the lead in relaying how the group had come to reach the Horde.

  “It was tougher in the city,” he explained to Paul. “Everything fell into immediate chaos when the virus hit. I was there for 9/11, in the middle of that madness, but at least then we had each other to turn to for support. With the virus, it was different. No one knew how the infection worked, if people who looked healthy were actually going to be sick, or what. People just turned on each other.

  “Law enforcement, or what was left of it, tried to keep some order. But there were just so many of those things running around that the cops couldn’t keep a handle on it. That’s when we started to see the military moving in and we thought things might get better. All over the city people were on rooftops trying to signal for help. Eventually, helicopters started picking us up, and we were moved to a military camp in Jersey. They didn’t tell us a
whole lot, really. Just that the virus had reached pandemic levels and we were being held until a permanent facility could be secured.

  “Three or four days later, I can’t really remember anymore, the place was overrun by the infected. It happened in the middle of the night, I woke up to people screaming and shots being fired. I knew it was bad when I started seeing soldiers running away. They were getting into whatever vehicles were around and just smashing through the fences, like they knew something worse was about to happen. A few stopped and let us pile in, looked like overstuffed clown cars with arms and legs sticking out of the windows, and all.”

  The man paused to take a long drink from the water glass at his hand. Paul urgently wanted the man to continue, he had never spoken to survivors from the Northeast. Even though better sense told him otherwise, he had always hoped that other parts of the country had fared better.

  As he placed the glass back down, Dan continued. “The guys driving had the engines maxing out and that’s when I heard the jets. Three of ‘em, flying low towards the refugee camp. Those things lit up the night like you wouldn’t believe. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! I don’t know how many missiles they dropped but it was “shock and awe” all the way.

  “When we finally stopped, the driver, a young kid named Johnson, told us that we were lucky. He said there had been reports of cities getting nuked once the virus got too out of control. I don’t know if it’s true or not, least I haven’t seen any signs of that.”

  “Me either,” Paul supplied as he eased back into his chair stunned. A country’s decision to use nuclear weapons against its own cities was one he could not bring himself to fathom. Though, if it had a chance to contain the outbreak, would a leader hesitate long to order such an action?

  “From there we mostly wandered,” Dan continued. “We had a few permanent settlements, or we hoped they would be,, but eventually infected would move in, and we’d move out. Over time, we met up with other groups, joined our resources, etcetera. Though we felt more secure with greater numbers, it began to get tougher to feed everyone. A couple years ago we made the move out west hoping to find farms large enough to hold and feed us.”

  “Did you?” Paul asked. Though their start had been vastly different, he felt a kinship with these refugees. In the end, those that had survived had been forced into nomadic existences, lifestyles long abandoned through time and convenience.

  “We did. Mostly because we had to,” Dan added with a laugh. “There were over four thousand of us that made the trek. We had our own little city in a way. Houses were built, solar panels gave us power, set up schools for the kids. The whole deal.” When he spoke again, the man’s voice was edged with dark sorrow. “And then about a month ago, they came again. But this time… this time there were so many of them. And they were smarter, tested our defenses, knew our weaknesses. It was only a matter of days before we were overrun from all sides. The few soldiers we had still standing cut us an exit before being swallowed up again. Since then it, it’s been back to wandering, until some of our scouts saw your campfires. We knew it was a risk approaching, you know friend or foe and all, but we were too weak to last more than a few more days without help.”

  “You did the right thing,” Paul told him. “We don’t have the kind of system you had, but we have food and water.” Let’s hope we can figure out a way to make it last, he thought. “One of our scouts came in this morning reporting a large band of Tils… that’s what we call the infected. They’re northwest of our camp, so chances are it’s the same group that attacked your town.”

  Hoping the man would feel a desire of vengeance, he added: “We have a fairly full arsenal, but our numbers were a bit low. With the help of your people, I think we can take the Tils down. Our guy wasn’t able to get a clear count, but he estimates them at around five to eight thousand strong.”

  Laughing, Dan looked to his fellow refugees. “Eight thousand? We weren’t defenseless, friend. We had military men and women with a ‘fairly full arsenal’ as well.”

  “I don’t understand…” Paul admitted honestly, confused by the change in tone.

  “Our town didn’t get overrun by five or even eight thousand of the infected, or Tils. That’s just the tip of the iceberg, man. What we faced, what we had to run from… it was hundreds of thousands of those monsters.”

  Chapter Ten

  He was not completely unaffected by Lisa’s pregnancy, if anything the news had warmed some of the iciness he had felt towards her, which of course was all the more frustrating. No, the direction of his foul mood ran directly to Erik. For the better part of the afternoon drive, his former student rattled through questions about the pregnancy, and all but offered to birth the child if it would ease any potential discomfort Lisa might have been feeling at any given moment. It was unclear if Lisa was bothered by the unending litany, though over the hours her answers were getting briefer. How could she not be? Mike asked with silent incredulity. He was willing to bet that the drive had covered more baby topics than miles.

  “When will you be due,” led to “Do you think it is a boy or girl,” which inevitably moved into baby names, “if it’s a boy, you can name him Erik,” before hitting on several other pregnancy-related areas. At one point Mike thought the younger man had finally exhausted all questions, but the ever-resourceful Erik segued into another branch of baby-rearing discourse. When Gazelle had lapped at Erik’s face, he could not help but believe the dog’s instinct had been to silence the interrogation.

  As he drove, Mike could feel the interior of the Humvee getting smaller. Or maybe it is getting overfilled with Erik’s damn questions! No, focus on the drive, happy thoughts, Mike, happy thoughts of quiet times. Quiet times… like when Erik was wounded… and feverish… and so quiet. No, stop it!

  An hour earlier Lisa had offered to take over some of the driving so he could rest, likely so she could have the welcome distraction of navigating the road. He had politely declined, more politely than he expected, which surprised him, after coming to the conclusion that Erik’s ceaseless droning would certainly prevent sleep. Thus it was with great relief that Mike spied a suitable place to make camp for the night.

  Angled up from the roadway, a small cottage was visible in the fading daylight. From his current view, Mike estimated the home to be small enough to properly secure while affording the three of them a relative amount of personal privacy. Oh, to put a door between his voice and my ears!

  Erik took a brief reprieve from his interrogation to help Mike strategically place branches to camouflage the armored vehicle that was now parked in the tall grass. Once he was satisfied the truck would be hidden from a cursory inspection, he set the pace up the incline towards the cottage.

  Strips of dried white paint covered more of the untended bushes than the wooden boards of the structure. Upon closer review, the cottage, if it could still be called that, was significantly smaller than Mike had originally believed. I was so desperate to get out of the car, I miraged-up an actual cottage, he thought with a laugh.

  It took more than a few minutes to force their way through the only door, which had long ago been barricaded with lumber from the inside. With a wet creak of rotting wood splintering, the blockade gave way and he stepped into the building. Beyond the door’s threshold, two rooms, one to either side and both equally small, branched off. One window in each allowed the waning natural light in, as did several holes in the structure’s roof. For Mike, that explained the rotted wood that had failed to keep him out.

  A heavy smell hung in the dank air, not of death, Mike was thankful, but rather the staleness of time’s passage. It took little time to explore the two rooms and their respective contents. The room to the left held a small desk and chair, and a mess of old newspapers, most showing the chewed evidence of small rodents. The walls were decorated with a variety of mounted heads and smaller stuffed bodies of local game. A door at the room’s rear led to a kitchen of such a small size that oven, sink, and mini-fridge could all be reached from
the same standing point. The room at the right of the entrance consisted of an exposed pole from which moth-eaten clothes hung, and a small mattress on a spring frame. The skeletal remains of the former occupant lay atop the bed. Flesh and muscles had long since departed so that the bones were draped in the jeans and t-shirt in which the man had died. A truly naked arm angled outward to the floor where Mike found the gun the poor fellow had used to take his life.

  Unwilling to disturb the man’s final rest, and doubting any of his party would want to sleep in the tomb-bed, Mike pulled a blanket from a shelf and draped it over the corpse. As he did, a few mice scurried from their burrowed tunnels in the thin mattress. There had been a time in his life that the darting little creatures would have given him a start. Now, he simply smiled, warmed to see signs of life, however small.

  “I’m going to grab some batteries from the truck,” Lisa’s voice broke through his study of the rodents.

  “I can grab them,” Erik replied as he moved back towards the door.

  With a tone that showed she had expected the offer, Lisa gently yet forcefully to Mike’s ears, explained. “No, I’m going to get them, Erik.” Before another protest could be voiced, Lisa moved out the door and worked her way back down the small hill.

  “She shouldn’t be running around like that,” Erik said to Mike, with more than a trace of accusation.

  Feeling the camel’s back final crumble, he turned to Erik. “First off, she thinks she is pregnant. Her nausea and weakness could still be from the dehydration. Second, if she is pregnant she is still capable of walking back to the truck. At least for the next few months. And finally, what is your deal with this? You’ve been going on all day about it. You’d think the kid was yours!” The relief from the outburst was so refreshing that Mike almost missed Erik’s reply.