Colony East (19 page)

Pop. Pop. Pop.

“Question for you, Billings. How much fishing have you done?”

“My grandfather used to take me fishing in Prospect Park. We used bobbers and worms.”

Having studied Jonzy’s profile, Dawson knew that Jonzy grew up in Brooklyn, close to Prospect Park, and his grandfather’s first name was Lemon. Lemon, who was the first African-American Professor of Physics at Brooklyn College, had lived with Jonzy and his mother at the time of the epidemic.

“Any luck?” he asked.

Jonzy beamed. “I caught a five-pound bass.”

Dawson whistled. “Sounds like a fish story to me.”

They cut through Rockefeller Center. It was Saturday at noon and the plaza was filled with kids biking, skateboarding, roller blading, or just hanging out. The sidewalks were empty of both cadets and adults alike when they entered the Yellow Zone. Cars and buses, on the other hand, clogged the streets of the area that to Dawson seemed like an outdoor museum, memorializing the chaos that followed the night of the purple moon. Someday, the expanding colony would utilize the Yellow Zone, but first the Body Disposal Unit had a ways to go, with thousands of apartments and condominiums to inspect. Only then, would Navy crews focus on clearing the metal graveyard in the streets.

He and Jonzy skirted a police cruiser blocking the sidewalk and stepped around a city bus lying on its side.

Dawson led the cadet toward Herb’s Fin and Fur. “Careful, there’s a lot of glass.” He had discovered the small shop of fly-fishing supplies months ago after he had searched the city’s more prominent sporting goods stores. The empty shelves at those stores hadn’t surprised him. He imagined fishing equipment had helped survivors of the epidemic obtain food, and they had cleared out the big stores. Herb’s had suffered only minimal looting.

The front window of the shop, like every other storefront on the block, was smashed.

“Behold!” Dawson stepped up to the unbroken display case inside that offered a wide assortment of colorful flies. “The art of master craftsmen.”

“Wow!” Jonzy put his face close to the case, fogging the glass when he exhaled. “How do you know which one to use?”

Dawson chuckled at the question. Fly fishermen had been arguing over that since the first Scots wet flies in the 17th century. “It depends on the color of the sky, fish species, time of year, the river current, water temperature, and what insects are hatching. Bottom line, you need to outsmart the fish.”

The corner of Jonzy’s lip curled. “What if the fish is smarter than you?”

“The fish wins. Simple as that.”

He advised Jonzy to select a wasp fly, which should do the trick nicely on a hot day in May. Thirty minutes later, they were on Pier 15, ready for the first cast. Thankfully, the Zodiacs were well down the East River, and the ensigns skippering them were not firing any more warning shots.

Dawson demonstrated the proper casting technique. Thinking it was best to learn by doing, he handed over the gear to Jonzy and retreated a safe distance.

Sitting cross-legged, he watched with a combination of pride and dread as Jonzy landed the fly in the water, one out of every three casts.

Proving his tenacity, Jonzy could eventually place the fly in the river with consistency—not far enough from the pier, but a step in the right direction.

“You know what my father told me, Billings? Never give away your secret fishing spot.”

“Ha. Too late, Lieutenant.” Jonzy winced. “I bet your dad was strict.”

Dawson smiled to himself. “Why do you say that?”

All of a sudden, his star pupil seemed to develop fly-fishing amnesia. He flicked the rod tip side-to-side and caught the pier three casts in a row.

“Say what’s on your mind, Billings.”

Jonzy hemmed and hawed, finally spitting it out, “Sir, you’re super-strict. I figured you learned that from your dad.”

He smiled. Yes, he had learned a lot from his father, Commander Dawson. “Rules are made for a reason.”

“You’ve got to admit, some rules are really dumb.”

Dawson burst out laughing. “You want dumb rules, join the Navy. But we can’t pick and choose which ones to follow. The system would never work.”

Jonzy took a step toward him and looked him in the eye. “What if Martin Luther King had followed the law? If he hadn’t broken the rules, African Americans might not have had the same rights as other people.”

Dawson had to agree. “For all our sakes, we should be thankful that Doctor King wasn’t in the Navy.”

Jonzy took another step. “Would you ever do that? I mean, break a dumb rule. Let’s say the rule might hurt millions of people.”

He tensed, wondering if Jonzy knew. No, he thought, that was impossible. Admiral Samuels, of course, knew, and he was certain the CDC with its penchant for keeping profiles on everyone, had documented the nitty-gritty details of his failure. Should he tell the boy? He couldn’t think of a reason for keeping it a secret.

“I disobeyed an order once that I thought was dumb, and I regret it to this day.”

Jonzy put the fly rod aside and sat down before him to listen to the story about an event that would likely haunt Dawson forever.

“When the CDC developed the antibiotic, they gave it to us first, the surviving adults in the Navy, so we could help distribute the pills. My first assignment was to work at a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant in Atlanta where they made millions of pills. Then I received orders to drive a shipment of pills to Washington, D.C.

“My commanding officer, Captain Tanner, told me that if I couldn’t get through on the highway, I should turn around and come back, they’d find a new route for me. I didn't take him seriously. The whole time I was thinking, nothing is going to stop me.

“So, we set off. I drove a postal service truck, and Ensign Foster took a jeep. I was carrying the pills and drums of gasoline for both vehicles. The jeep had a winch. Foster’s job was to pull away any wrecks blocking the lane.

“The trip was six-hundred miles, and the first two-hundred miles were easy. Then we hit a stretch with a ton of wrecks. It took us three days to go twenty miles. Every hour of delay burned in my gut because I knew more kids were dying.

“We came to one spot that had an eighteen-wheeler on its side. The highway beyond it was clear, and there was almost enough room for the truck to pass, but one slip and you’d tumble into a ravine. Foster and I talked it over. I told him I wanted to try to get the truck through.”

Dawson raised his shirt, and Jonzy’s eyes widened at the sight of mottled scar tissue covering his chest.

“The shoulder of the road collapsed,” he continued with a growing tremble in his voice. “I rolled the truck into the ravine. The gasoline exploded. Foster somehow managed to get me out and back to Atlanta. I woke up in the hospital.

“Because I disobeyed an order, fifty thousand kids never received the antibiotic.”

He paused, staring at the Brooklyn Bridge. There was nothing more to the episode than that. Children had died because of his insubordination. He’d carry the burden to his grave.

“You did the right thing, Lieutenant,” Jonzy said. “You tried.”

How he would love to believe that. Only he couldn’t. He had acted irresponsibly and thousands died as a result. All he could do was go forward and obey the orders of his superiors, trusting they operated with greater wisdom.

Just then, a burst of gunfire erupted across the river. “C’mon, Cadet. Let’s pack up. Lesson’s over. The fish will live to swim another day.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Castine Island

Jordan slammed his bedroom door shut. He figured Monty, Stone, and the captain should all be back on the boat by now. He’d said good-bye to them half an hour ago.
Lucky Me
would sail in the morning without him.

Feeling as empty as his duffel bag, which he had just unpacked, Jordan flopped on his bed. Abby’s reaction hadn’t come as a total surprise. He never expected she’d lead a marching band as he sailed out of Castine Harbor, but after all they had been through together since the night of the purple moon, he wished she had given him her blessing instead of making him feel guilty. She just didn't understand.

Angry heat flushed through his body. His bossy sister stuck her nose into everyone’s business. Maybe Abby should start worrying about her own life.

Jordan cringed at what he had said about Mandy. He didn’t believe that Abby had caused Mandy’s death. He had said it to hurt her.

Someone knocked on the door. Not wanting to see anyone, especially Abby, he glanced at the window, thinking he could open it, step onto the porch roof, and climb down the trellis.

Rap, rap, rap.

“I’m busy,” he shouted.

“Jordie, I have something for you.” It was Touk.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Give it to me later.”

The door opened. When he saw both his sisters, he shot up and headed for the door. They blocked his escape. “Get out!” he snapped angrily.

They refused to step aside.

Toucan held out a music CD. “It’s for you. From me and Abby.”

Seeing the crazy colors, he knew right away it was “Sgt. Pepper” by the Beatles, but he kept his hands by his sides.

“You’re going to be at sea a lot,” Abby said. “We thought you’d want something to listen to.”

He swallowed hard and took the CD. Was this a joke? No, he realized they were coming to say good-bye. The adventure was on and that frightened him. Then he felt a sudden sadness. He wanted to jump in bed and pull the covers over his head.

“The captain told me there’s a boom box on
Lucky Me
.” Abby handed him a paper bag with batteries. “You can thank Toby. Be safe.”

Toucan wrapped her arms around his leg and squeezed. The top of her head came just above his waist. “Be safe, Jordie.”

As his eyes filled with tears, Jordan looked away, but with Touk holding on tight, he couldn’t escape. He trembled all over as a fountain of sounds gushed up from deep inside. It was a strange mixture of sobs and giddy laughter.

After a moment, he sat on the bed and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. “Abby, I didn’t mean what I said. I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “I didn’t mean what I said, either.”

Touk sat on his left, Abby on his right, and they each inched closer. It was a Leigh-family sandwich and he was the bologna. Nobody spoke, as if words might break the magic of their precious last minutes together.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
Colony East

Waiting for Sandy at Rockefeller Center, Lieutenant Dawson sat at the edge of the reflecting pool. He unfolded the aluminum package to reveal carrot sticks, french fries, and Swedish meatballs. There was not a cloud in the sky, and warm alpine gusts whistled through the broken windows high above. In the pool, ducks paddled by, dipping beaks to munch on algae.

Dawson pinched off pieces of a meatball and absentmindedly fed them to the ducks, thinking his first picnic with Sandy had everything but ants and a blanket. The fantasy of them enjoying a real picnic together without a care in the world tugged at him, but the reality of the moment jerked him back.

Earlier that morning, in the officer’s mess, she had told him with a deeply furrowed brow that she had news from Doctor Droznin about the mutated germs. She had whispered, “Highly confidential.”

He had suggested they meet later to talk in private, nobody would think twice about two company leaders sharing a late afternoon snack in the colony’s most public setting.

The second free period had just begun and the sidewalks were clear of cadets, most of whom were attending a lecture on amphibian life cycles at Carnegie Hall. A scientist, identifiable by his Hush Puppies, walked across the plaza, deep in thought.

Ten minutes later, Sandy arrived. “Sorry I’m late. When I went to medical school, I never imagined I’d be training sailors to be doctors.” Tension filled her voice.

“Go Navy,” he said, trying to lighten her mood. She smiled, but her eyes showed grave concern. He held out a fry. “Better than Mickey D’s.” She waved it off.

Taking a seat beside him, she lowered her voice. “Most of what I’m about to tell you we’ll get in tomorrow’s memorandum. We’re going to Code 9.”

“Nine!” That meant every cadet must carry a germ mask, and the scientists would position quarantine vans around the colony. He’d review the manual later to refresh his memory on the other required measures. “What happened to Codes 5, 6, 7 and 8?”

She inched closer. “Their theory was correct. Solar energy is accelerating the mutation of AHA. The new strain, AHA-B, is widespread near the equator.”

A chill rippled through Dawson, knowing what an epidemic meant for regions in Africa and South America. Developing nations lacked the resources to staff advanced infection labs, such as the Max Planck Institute for Infection Biology in Germany
,
the Pasteur Institute in France, and, of course, the CDC. “What about the kids who live near the equator?”

Sandy’s face turned pale before his eyes. “Doctor Droznin told me that about thirty to forty percent of the people exposed to the new strain will contract the illness and die.”

Strangely, this news bolstered his spirits. He had assumed the percentage would have been much greater. He chose to view the statistic as a survival rate of sixty percent, a figure that was still numbing, but ever since the night of the purple moon, the way the survivors considered the mortality rates of epidemics had changed.

“They made a shocking discovery,” she continued after a long pause. “They took infrared images of several areas and determined a population decrease of ninety five percent.”

Dawson tasted bile in the back of his throat. “Why so high? You said thirty percent.”

“They think that food riots broke out. The hypothalamus gland becomes so stimulated that victims will do anything for food.”

He dropped his head. “And the other survivors will do anything to stop them. The germs kill thirty percent and the rest… ”

They sat in stony silence, each of them dwelling on the widespread suffering that was occurring thousands of miles away. A strand of thinking, unforgiving as barbed wire, wended through his mind. Maybe AHA-B had run its course and the final fight to the death for diminishing food supplies had put an end to the suffering for many.