Survivors (9 page)

“Like a cure—”

“No!” Anna said, cutting Becky off. “That’s not what I mean. What I’m working on today is a virucide. If I can’t figure out a vaccine, maybe I can make a weapon. A drug to treat an infected person with after they’ve been bitten, but before they’ve turned feral.”

“Ah,” Becky mused, leaning closer. “So what’s in the test tubes?”

“The red ones are Morningstar samples. The green ones are my virucides. So far, I haven’t had shit for luck. Morningstar is one resilient little bastard. It lives through just about anything I throw at it,” Anna explained, using her dropper as a pointer. “Except for the usual killers, like bleach, or ultraviolet light. But those are a little tough to inject and expect a healthy response.”

Becky furrowed her brow behind her faceplate and exhaled slowly, considering. Her breath formed a mist on the faceplate, which was quickly whisked away by the cool air flow in the suit.

“Mind if I ask one more question?” Becky said.

“As long as you ask it without blocking my light,” replied Anna, pointing up at the fluorescent lamp that Rebecca was standing under.

Becky took a step back. “Where are you getting all these samples of Morningstar? I know for a fact Sherman said no to the idea of capturing test subjects when Thomas brought it up.”

“It’s easy enough,” Anna said, setting down her dropper and turning to face Becky. She leaned against the countertop and folded her arms, looking intently at the pretty young woman. “I have the help of an old friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been with us since the very beginning. One of the very first victims of Morningstar, as a matter of fact. We had him shipped here once we’d finished our tests at USAMRIID so the Deucalion folks could take a look at him. He’s just in the other room, there. Want to meet him?”

Anna pointed at a small, windowless metal door in the corner of the laboratory. Becky frowned. The thought of one of the infected in the same building in which she lived, worked, and slept disturbed her. At the same time, curiosity was rearing its ugly head.

“Yeah,” Becky said, somewhat reluctantly. “If you’re sure it’s safe.”

“Oh, it’s safe enough,” Anna said, moving off toward the door. “He’s strapped down tight. And he’s been very helpful so far.”

Anna unhooked her air hose, which let off a puff of pressurized atmosphere, and reattached herself to a hose closer to the door. Rebecca followed suit.

“Remember,” Anna said, staring at Rebecca, “he can’t get at you, so don’t freak out or try to run. You’ll rip your suit and then you’ll be in a world of shit.”

Rebecca didn’t need the reminder. “I’m ready. Let’s see this volunteer of yours.”

Anna unlatched the door and pulled it open. It didn’t squeak or groan, turning on well-oiled and maintained hinges. Within was a small space reserved for the observation of viral victims. A single gurney was inside, flanked by banks of monitoring equipment. Most of it was dark. There was no need for a heart monitor.

Strapped down on the gurney was a graying husk of a carrier. He appeared to have been in his early thirties, and was wearing a strait-jacket. Further restraints crisscrossed his body, strapping him down to the gurney and rendering him nearly motionless. His head was free, however, and when the door opened, he turned to investigate the noise.

His cracked, dry eyes widened slightly at the sight of Anna and Rebecca, and he let out a low, mournful moan. He opened his mouth and snapped at them over and over, in an almost hypnotic, rhythmic motion.

“Rebecca, may I introduce you to Dr. Klaus Mayer, formerly of Antwerp, late of Mombasa, and the closest thing the world has to a Patient Zero. How are we doing today, Doctor?”

Mayer moaned and rocked his head back and forth by way of reply, jaws still snapping uselessly.

“I’ll be back in an hour for some more samples, Dr. Mayer,” Anna said, speaking as though he were just another patient. “In the meantime, get some rest. You look a little feverish.”

She let the door swing shut as she moved away, affording Rebecca one last slack-jawed stare at the long-undead infected, before her view was cut off by the cold steel of the door.

Abraham, KS
27 June 2007
0900 hrs_

A
ROUNDTABLE DISCUSSION WAS
taking place at Eileen’s Pub in Abraham. The fire had been dealt with, the town had calmed down, and the citizenry had returned to whatever their normal routines were these days—all except for Keaton, Wes, Hal, Stiles, and the ragged group of sailors. They had sat around the candlelit interior of the pub through the night, nursing lukewarm, bitter beer and discussing their options.

“Omaha, Omaha, Omaha,” said Keaton, repeating the word like a Buddhist mantra, emphasizing by thumping a mug on the table. “Feels like the new Jerusalem. Or Mecca. Everyone seems to want to get there.”

“And for good reason,” said Commander Harris, sipping at his pint. The bitter taste didn’t seem to bother him a bit. “If we’re ever going to get rid of the Morningstar strain, we need what’s there.”

“Dr. Demilio, you mean,” said Wes. His beer was untouched. “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. We’ve got a good thing going here in Abraham. We can ride out the storm here.”

“Yeah,” agreed Hillyard, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “But what’s a town to do, surrounded by nothing but the dead and the infected? Just sit here and wait to die yourself?”

“At least we won’t get infected. We’re pretty well protected,” Wes said, a touch defensively.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Allen said. “You’ve already got a bombed-up clinic, and from what Keaton said, you had yourself some problems with bandits in the past. Who’s to say another group won’t be along in the future? Infection might not get you—but a bullet does the job just as well.”

“Well, I, for one, am not going anywhere,” Keaton said. “I can’t leave. These people are my responsibility.”

“Me, neither,” said Wes. “I’m sticking it out here.”

Hal Dorne sighed. The conversation had been going on for the better part of an hour, and was leading nowhere. He tipped his glass back and drained it, slammed it upside down on the tabletop, and folded his arms in front of him. “Well, I’m definitely going to Omaha.”

His statement drew a few looks of surprise.

“Do you even think you can make it alone?” Keaton asked. “It’s a two-hundred-mile no-man’s-land between here and there, at least.”

“Oh, he won’t be going alone,” said Stiles, staring at the floor. His new crutch was leaning against his chair. “I have to go, too.”

“Why? It’s safer here.”

“I know, I know,” Stiles said. “I didn’t say I
wanted
to go. I said I
have
to go.”

Hal shot Stiles a warning look.
Don’t tell them,
it said.
Don’t say a word
. Conversation around the table died down as the sailors saw what was coming next. Allen was shaking his head slowly.

“They’re looking for a vaccine for Morningstar there,” Stiles said. “I could help. You see, I—”

Stiles was interrupted as the door to Eileen’s creaked open and two people entered. One was a toughly built young man with a bum leg; it looked as though it had sustained an injury that was still healing. The other was a perky, pretty young woman who wore her hair tied up in a topknot. The pair seemed to be together, as they never moved more than a few feet away from one another.

The male spoke first. “Eileen! It’s Miller time. Katie and I are thirsty.”

Eileen, a heavyset woman and the proprietor of the establishment that bore her name, looked up from behind the bar. “I’ve told you already. No tabs.”

“Relax,” said the man. “I come bearing gifts.” The pair approached the bar and heaved a thick plastic bag onto the polished oak surface. “See? Katie and I found a patch of potatoes when we were out scouting. Figured you could make a stew out of them. Or maybe brew some vodka.”

“Well, well,” said Eileen, eyeing the sack. “Maybe I misjudged you, Ron. All right . . . a pint per pound.”

Ron shook his head. “Two pints per pound.”

“One and a half.”

“Done,” Ron said, and shook Eileen’s hand on it.

The roundtable discussion continued as Ron and Katie bartered with Eileen—except for Stiles. He stared, slack-jawed, at the newcomers.

“It can’t be,” Stiles said after a long moment, his gaze locked on the couple at the bar. The conversation at the table ceased again, and all eyes turned to him.

“What can’t be?” asked Commander Harris.

“It can’t be,” repeated Stiles, still staring at Ron and Katie. “It’s not possible.”

The newcomers, meanwhile, had noticed the silence at the large table and turned away from the bar to see what the fuss was about.

They did a double take when they spotted Stiles.

“Mark? Mark Stiles?” asked Ron.

“Ron! Katie!” Stiles shouted, leaping up out of his chair and stumbling a bit on his bad wheel. “I can’t believe it!”

“A lot of that going around,” murmured Harris, taking another swig of his beer.

Ron’s look of elation quickly faded. He backed up against the bar, holding an arm across Katie’s chest to prevent her from getting any closer to Stiles. His expression became unreadable. “You’re supposed to be dead. We saw you die.”

Stiles sighed. “No, you didn’t. You saw me lead the crowd of infected off on a side street so you could get away clean.”

“But you were—” Ron began.

“Yeah. I was bitten.”

At this, every occupant of the pub backed away, some knocking over chairs in their haste. Only the sailors, Hal, and Harris remained seated.

Stiles caught the patrons’ reaction and let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m
infected
. I’m a carrier of Morningstar. But keep those weapons holstered. I might be contagious, but I’m not going to turn on you.”

“I don’t understand,” Katie said, a confused look on her face. “How. . .?”

“I guess I’m immune,” Stiles said, speaking slowly and clearly. “I don’t know why. Or how. But I never turned.”

“What happened to you?” Ron asked, reaching behind himself for the pint glass of beer Eileen had offered him. He downed it quickly.

“That,” said Stiles, “is a long story. After I led the infected away from you—which was not easy, let me tell you—I found an old shop and barricaded myself inside. And I waited to die.”

The pub was silent, intent on Stiles’s story.

“For a while I thought about suicide. I didn’t want to turn. I found an infected in the building with me and I thought,
That’s not going to be me. I’d do anything for that to not be me.
But I couldn’t do it. I sat there and put the barrel in my mouth and almost pulled the trigger, but I just couldn’t. Over and over, like it was some kind of ritual. But something wouldn’t let me. So I sat and waited. After the first week passed, I realized I wasn’t getting sick. Then I thought that maybe it would just take longer for it to affect me, so I sat and waited some more. Can you imagine . . . can you even
imagine
what it’s like to sit and
know
that you’re going to die? That it’s only a matter of time before you become what you’ve been fighting for months?”

The pub patrons couldn’t meet Stiles’s roving gaze. They fixed their looks on their beers and pub food and pretended they didn’t hear what the soldier was saying, but they were listening intently to every word.

“No fever. No delirium. Nothing. Just a nasty bite that wouldn’t heal up properly,” Stiles said, gesturing at his bandaged leg. “So I barricaded myself inside the store, hoarded some food, and hunkered down. Then I realized something just as depressing . . . when I thought I was going to turn, I was just waiting to die. And then, once I didn’t,” Stiles said with a sad laugh, “I realized that I was in the
exact same situation
. Just sitting, and waiting to die.”

“How did you get here, then?” Ron asked.

Stiles hooked a finger in Harris’s direction. “The cavalry found me. We had a little bit of a shoot-out, but once we realized neither of us was infected, we sort of joined up.”

Hal cleared his throat, and the patrons looked in his direction. “That’s why Stiles needs to go to Omaha. The rest of us can stay here, if we wanted to—but not him. He’s the only one we know of who’s naturally immune to the Morningstar strain. His blood is the key. This could save us from extinction. And I’m going with him. I may be retired, but I ain’t dead. Not by a long shot.”

“Shit, I’m with you,” said Rico, standing up from the table. “You know it.”

“Me, too,” said Hillyard. “From here to hell and back.” Allen thumped him on the shoulder in agreement.

Wendell said nothing, but folded his arms across his chest and nodded his assent. His crew of deckhands did the same.

“I’m on to Omaha, too,” said Harris. “Never planned otherwise. You’ve got my sub and all the ammo I can carry.”

Ron and Katie exchanged glances. They looked over at the round table and its occupants. “We’re in. Abraham gave us a breather. We love it here. But we can’t let this chance slip away. Keaton?”

The Sheriff looked over at Ron, an inquisitive expression on his face. “Yeah?”