Final Epidemic (42 page)
“It’s all right, ma’am,” a soft Southern voice had said. “This here’s a hangar at Eglin we fixed up special. You’re pretty sick right now, but it’s gonna be okay soon.”
It was the voice of an angel, and she had believed it without question. She had drifted away again, this time with a sense of peace.
Carol opened her eyes again, drinking in the panorama and feeling the same peace flood into her now. The angel had spoken the truth, though as a physician Carol knew it would be some time before her recovery would be complete. Someday, even the memories that regularly plagued her dreams might begin to fade.
So many had died—the figures were still uncertain, she had read, but in Florida they were sure to exceed twenty thousand persons. New York had escaped the worst of it; but before the vaccine and the VIX treatment facilities had stemmed the virus, more than eleven thousand deaths had occurred on the densely packed island of Manhattan.
As for Russia—well, nobody knew the mortality figures. The Russian government simply would not release the numbers, though that had not stopped the commentators in the Western press from speculating in the mid-six-figure range.
That, not including those who had been killed in the nerve-gas cauterization of the outbreak.
It was a ghastly tally, the most devastating terrorist attack in history. What made it all the more horrifying was a knowledge all the world now shared: it could happen again at any time.
The thought made Carol shiver, and she fought it down to the deepest recesses of her mind.
What was it Scarlett O’Hara said?
she mused.
Oh yes—“I’ll think about that tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.”
She waited, willing herself calm again. After a moment, she looked once more at the vastness of the Choctawatchee.
A fresh swirl of breeze skipped across the waters of her bay, and the reflected disk of the morning sun exploded into a kaleidoscope of glittering jewels.
Carol Mayer leaned back again, and let the warmth of life wash over her.
Arlington, Virginia
July 30
Beck sat in his car, watching for the figure that occasionally moved behind the sheer draperies that covered the picture window.
He had been there when Deborah pulled her car into the driveway. She had taken the turn too quickly, the way she always did, and the wheels bottomed out on the steep incline with a scraping thud. When they were married, living in this house, the sound had been an ongoing source of irritation to Beck. He hadn’t known how much he would miss it, would miss knowing each time Deborah came home.
Beck did not know how long he sat in his car. He did know that he almost drove away several times, once even touching the key that hung from the ignition. Finally, he found himself standing on the porch, his finger pressed against the bell.
The door opened, and she stood there as if she had expected him. Beck hesitated on the doorstep, for a moment unable to find words for what he wanted to say.
Then he spoke.
“I made the first move, this time.”
She must have read something in his face, because she smiled briefly before she responded.
“You better come in,” she said. “Katie’s still down at the mall, with J. L.” She looked at him closely, as if looking for something deep inside him that she alone could see. Her eyes were serious, almost solemn; but they were not without welcome. “We don’t have much time before dinner.”
Beck Casey stepped through the door she held wide, home at last.
