Eden Rising (24 page)

“We’ll leave it here, then.”

“What do you want me to do with Rick?”

“Let’s put him in Ash’s truck. At least when he comes to, his sister will be there.”

“Sure,” Hiller said. “I’ll get one of the other guys to help.”

“I can do it,” Matt told him.

Hiller looked unconvinced, but he headed back to the plow with Matt limping along behind him. Together they eased Rick out of the passenger seat. With one of the boy’s arms over each of their shoulders, they carried him toward the Humvee Ash and his family had been riding in. They were a little over halfway there when Matt saw Ginny running toward them, her eyes wide.

“Rick? Rick, oh my God!” As she neared, her steps faltered. “Rick?” She looked at Matt. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s sleeping, that’s all.”

“He looks sick. Is he sick?” she asked, panicked. Instead of backing away like most people would, she moved closer to her cousin.

“He’s not sick. He’s asleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he said. “Can you open the back door for us?”

With a nod, she hurried over to the Humvee and did as requested.

After Rick was situated and the doors were closed again, Matt turned to the others standing around. “Everyone load up. I’m hoping we can make it all the way to Denver before we stop for the night.”

He watched them walk off and climb into their vehicles. They were good people—great, even—all willing to do whatever needed to be done.

For how many of them, he wondered, would this be the last call to action?

20

NB219

LAS CRUCES, NEW MEXICO

3:58 PM MST

P
RIMARY DIRECTOR PEREZ
read the report, his displeasure increasing with each word.

In Mumbai, India, someone had taken it upon himself or herself to release the survivors who had already shown up at the survival station by cutting holes in the detention-area fences. Perez’s initial question was why would anyone even consider doing this? The survival stations were places of refuge as far as anyone on the outside was concerned, and those in the holding areas would believe what they’d been told, that their confinement was merely a precaution designed to keep as many people alive as possible. No way any of them would want to leave prior to receiving the promised inoculation.

To Perez, this meant it had been an inside job.

Though not acknowledged to the Project Eden general membership, it had long been known among those in charge that some members were not quite as dedicated to the cause as everyone else. They were sympathetic to those outside the Project, willing to risk everything the Project stood for to avoid what they considered unnecessary deaths. Perez was sure the person who’d cut through the fences was one of these people, and that he or she was part of the Project personnel assigned to Mumbai.

When he finished reading, he called Claudia on the intercom. “Who’s the director in Mumbai?”

“Mr. Dettling.”

“Dettling?” he said. Perez was good with names, and had at least a passing knowledge of most of the people running Project operations around the world, but Dettling didn’t sound familiar.

“That’s Pishon Chem,” she reminded him.

Right. Pishon Chem
.

There had been a problem there on Implementation Day. The previous senior manager, Herr…Schmidt, had died of complications from an injury he’d received. If Perez remembered correctly, the injury had occurred in the semi-chaos of a loading zone being used to distribute KV-27a to the unsuspecting men hired to spray the city with it. Schmitt had been punctured in the shoulder by a loose railing on one of the trucks or something like that. By the time anyone realized what had happened, he’d lost too much blood to be saved. Dettling had been the next man in seniority, and was immediately promoted.

“I want to talk to him. Right now.”

“Right away,” she said.

One minute later Perez’s phone rang.

“I have Mr. Dettling for you,” Claudia announced. “Center screen.”

“Put him through.”

The center monitor filled with a head shot of a tired-looking, middle-aged man with thinning hair.

“Principal Director,” Dettling said. “This is an honor. What is it I can do for you?”

“You can start by telling me what the hell is going on over there.”

Dettling hesitated. “I assume you mean the detainee issue.”

“Yes. The detainee
issue
.”

“Uh, um, most of those who had been housed in the infected enclosure were still within the compound so we’ve been able to round them up.”

“And the uninfected?”

“We’re, um, still looking for them.”

“How many have you reacquired so far?”

Another pause. “None yet, sir.”

“None? As in zero?”

“Yes, sir.”

Perez stared into the camera, letting an oppressive silence grow between them.

After several seconds, Dettling shifted nervously in his chair and said, “Sir, I promise you we will—”

“Have you caught the one responsible?”

“Not yet. I’m sure we’ll find him when we find the others.”

“And what makes you think that?”

Dettling’s eyebrows moved toward each other, his forehead wrinkling. “I’m, uh, not quite…I don’t know—”

“Why would you assume the person who cut through your fences is with the others and not still there in your compound?”

“Our compound? You mean, you think it could be one of the infected detainees?”

“Mr. Dettling, prove to me you’re not an idiot and tell me you are looking into your own personnel.”

“My personnel?” Dettling said. “You mean the Project people here?”

“It certainly wouldn’t be anyone where I am, would it?”

“Of course not. It’s just…I didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t, but now you will. Check them.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

The intercom buzzed. He hit the speaker button

“Sir,” Claudia said. “It’s time for your Madrid call.”

“All right,” Perez said. He hung up and looked back at the camera. “Mr. Dettling?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The next time we talk, you will tell me the mess is cleaned up.”

“Absolu—”

Perez hit the key that terminated the call.

21

PASO ROBLES, CALIFORNIA

8:28 PM PST

A
FTER RETRACING THEIR
path back into the San Joaquin Valley, Martina and her friends headed north again on the I-5 until they reached Highway 58. Because of their experience with the man back on 166, they kept their speed down as they traveled through the mountains, and whenever they came to a blind turn, they slowed to almost a crawl. But there were no roadblocks this time. In fact, they saw very few cars at all.

By the time they reached the 101 freeway, the sun was nearing the horizon. Martina pushed her friends a little farther, but when they crossed into the Paso Robles city limits thirty minutes later, it was too dark to continue.

They found a motel just north of what appeared to be the local fairgrounds, and scrounged some food from a place called Margie’s Diner down the street before calling it a night.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Noreen asked, as they lay in their room waiting for sleep to take them.

“Who?” Martina said.

“Jilly and the others. I’ll bet the UN’s put them up in a nice place with hot meals and clean clothes and showers.”

“We’ve got a shower here,” Martina said. “And if you want clean clothes, we can stop at Target in the morning.”

“Not the same.”

Quiet for a moment.

“How many people do you think there are?” Riley asked. She and Martina were sharing a bed tonight.

“I don’t know,” Martina replied. “A hundred? Two hundred?”

“Maybe a thousand,” Riley said. “Can you imagine what it would be like to see a thousand people in one place right now? I’d love that.”

Silence again.

“Do you…do you think my dad and sister are there?” Riley asked.

“I hope so.” It wasn’t really an answer, but Martina didn’t want to tell her friend what she really thought.

This time the silence went on for several minutes, and Martina started to think she was the only one still awake.

Then Noreen whispered, “What’s going to happen?”

“We find Ben,” Martina said.

“No, I mean, you know, what’s going to
happen
? Next year. The year after that. The rest of our lives. What are we going to do?”

Martina was quiet for several moments before giving Noreen the only answer she could come up with.

“We live.”

ISABELLA ISAND, COSTA RICA

10:40 PM CST

W
HEN THE RESORT
had simply been a resort, the bar was where everyone gathered in the evenings. The nights had been filled with laughter and celebrations then—accounts and lawyers and managers in vacation mode, letting loose in ways they never did back home. Since those on the island had become isolated, there was little laughter and no celebrations, but attendance at the bar remained high.

Surprisingly, few abused the new open-bar policy, most choosing to have only a drink or two at most, and many none at all. It was simply the place where some people could pretend everything would be okay, while others could at least feel they weren’t alone. It was where many started their day, and most ended it.

Since the radio contact with the UN plane the day before, the mood of the residents gathered at the bar had turned hopeful. Soon the UN would bring them the vaccine, and everyone might be able to get off the island and look for loved ones who might have survived.

A favorite guessing game at the bar was: When would the UN arrive?

“I’d bet it won’t be more than a couple more days at most. They know we’re here. They can’t leave us unprotected for long.”

“The fact we
are
here is why they won’t be getting to us for a while. We’re contained. Safe. Why waste time on us while there are probably others in more danger?”

“We’re in plenty of danger. Plenty!”

“I don’t think it will be much more than a week. That’s what they said, right? A week? Hey, Robert, they said a week right?”

Robert had been nursing a cold glass of water at a table along the railing of the deck. The conversation had been going on over at the bar. He’d been trying to ignore it, but had known at some point they’d try to pull him in. It had happened with others several times already.

He looked over and said, “They told us it could be a few days, maybe more.”

“Could be,” one of the men in the group pointed out to his friends. “Could be a few weeks, too.”

Just like that, Robert was once more forgotten. He returned his gaze to the dark rolling sea. Of all the people at the bar, he was the only one who seemed to be still worried. Not about the UN and the vaccine, of course. He was happy about that. But until everyone was inoculated and started leaving the island, Robert was in charge of making sure they were all fed and safe. It was a responsibility that seemed to grow heavier every day.

“You should never drink alone.”

He looked up and found Estella standing next to his table.

“Don’t know if this qualifies as drinking,” he said, picking up his glass. “Water.”

“Drinking is drinking.” She pulled out the other chair, scooted it closer to his, and sat down.

Ever since their morning on the beach the day before, he’d begun to notice her around more. He wasn’t sure if she’d always been there, or if her presence around him was something new. He had to admit he didn’t mind.

“So when do
you
think they will come back?” she asked.

“They’ll get here when they get here,” he said.

“A smart answer.”

“Don’t know if it’s smart, but it certainly saves me a lot of grief.”

She cocked her head. “Grief?”

“Uh, keeps me from, let’s see, um, having people get mad at me for no reason.”

“Ah, okay. I understand.”

She raised her glass toward his. As they clinked, he noted she was either drinking a tumbler full of straight vodka or was also having water.

She took a sip, and put her glass down. “You are a busy man.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look busy?”

“You do.” She tapped her temple. “Inside, you thinking very much.”

“Well, hazard of the position, I guess.”

Again, her head cocked.

Before she could ask, he said, “Part of doing my job.”

A nod and a smile.

“What do you do back home?” he asked, wanting to move the spotlight away from him.

Her face clouded. “I do not do anything now, I think.”

“I mean before,” he said.

“I worked at a university. In the library.”

“You’re a librarian?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“You don’t strike me as the librarian type.”

“Strike you as the librarian type?”

“It means—”

“I know what it means. You do not strike me as the bartender type.”

“I’m not a bartender anymore.”

“And I’m not a librarian now, either.”

He smiled and looked back out at the sea.

A minute passed, or two or three—he wasn’t keeping track. When he heard Estella’s chair scrape against the ground, he looked over and watched her rise to her feet.

“Thanks for joining me,” he said. “It was nice.” He meant it. For a few moments as they’d talked, he’d been able to forget about everything else.

She looked down at him, the corner of her mouth turned up ever so slightly, and then held out her hand, palm up.

“Come,” she said.

He smiled, ready to tell her, thanks, but he had too much on his mind. Before he knew what he was doing, though, his hand was in hers and he was on his feet, all thoughts of the island and the others and the vaccine and the UN fading away.

WALSENBURG, COLORADO

9:55 PM MST