Generation M (13 page)

Spike turned down the road, carefully squeaked around a toppled tree, and took the first right. The Mini lurched as a front wheel dipped into a pothole, eliciting a tortured cry from Eddie. Thirty meters down the road, Spike parked at a street barricade constructed of washing machines, refrigerators, and televisions with a gap just wide enough for a motorcycle to pass through. A similar barricade prevented cars from entering the other end of the street. The gang’s compound, a three-story house, was halfway between the two makeshift appliance barriers on the right side of the street.

Jordan didn’t know what to make of the fact that no kids were guarding either entrance, but he felt a measure of relief when he spotted five motorcycles parked in front of the compound.

Spike handed Jordan a flashlight, killed the headlights, and climbed out. Gripping the shotgun, Spike raised the Mini’s hatch and grabbed a gas can. Jordan told Eddie to wait for him in the car. Eddie mumbled something in response.

Jordan took the pack of food with him, worried Eddie would eat everything while he and Spike were away. From here on, he’d treat the food as medicine, doling out tiny bites to his friend in the same way you spooned out cough syrup.

Navigating by moonlight, Jordan and Spike slipped through the barricade and approached the compound. Speaking in hushed voices, they pointed out fat oaks and a rusty washing machine that could serve as a hiding place if they came under attack.

They reached the motorcycles without seeing anyone. Each bike had a key in the ignition, which made sense. Anyone would be crazy to walk up and steal a motorcycle within spitting distance of the compound like they were about to do.

Spike popped a tank cap. Bone dry inside. He checked two more motorcycles with the same results.

“Take your pick,” Spike whispered.

If Eddie were stronger, Jordan would have preferred to take two bikes.

“Whichever one starts,” he said and set his pack on the ground. “I’m going inside.”

Spike held out the gun, offering to let him take it. Jordan’s brain said yes, but he listened to his heart.

“No thanks.” His brain informed him that listening to his heart was risky business.

“Shout if you need help,” Spike said. Then he started dribbling gas into a tank.

Jordan stopped before the steps and looked up at the house, which was perched against a field of stars. Two years had passed since he was here last, but it felt like a hundred. Maybe survivor years were like dog years. Multiply the dog’s age by seven to get its real age. Multiply every year after the night of the purple moon by fifty for all the horrors and tragedies the survivors had endured.

The glass in the front door was broken and a rank odor greeted him. The air inside was a swamp of decay and urine, sweat and body odor, and mold and mildew.

The flashlight lit up spider webs that crisscrossed the hallway and draped the doorway to the kitchen. It appeared as if Kenny’s gang had evacuated the compound. He figured they had been unable to find any fuel and had simply left their motorcycles behind. Were they out digging worms? Maybe they had fallen prey to a bigger, more ruthless gang? That’s how things often worked on the mainland.

On one hand, Jordan was relieved to find the house empty. For two years, he had harbored a thousand fantasies of coming face to face with Kenny. In the majority of those fantasies, he had seriously hurt Kenny.

Jordan knew the best course of action was to focus all of his energy on reaching Mystic, but something deep inside pushed for a confrontation with the boy who had left him and Abby on the side of the road to die, and who had indirectly been responsible for Mandy’s death.

Jordan entered Kenny’s lair and headed for the stairs, tiptoeing around piles of trash and trying to be quiet to preserve the element of surprise in case gang members were sleeping upstairs.

He remembered little of the compound’s interior, mostly because he had been delirious with fever his last time here.

He recalled one incident in detail: Abby struggling to get him up the stairs. Nobody offered to help her. Weak and feverish herself, she had cajoled, poked, prodded, and half dragged him to the second floor where she had found a ratty mattress for him to collapse on.

Jordan started up the stairs but froze on the first step when he heard rustling in the shadows. His heart sent thumps into the darkness like sonar pings. Wishing he had accepted Spike’s offer of the gun, he turned on the flashlight and swept the area where the sound had come from.

A small, pale face came into focus. A boy, sitting on his haunches, stared back at him.

The boy followed Jordan’s every step with his eyes as he approached him. Jordan guessed he was eight or nine years old. The boy wore jeans that were free from rips or stains, and his collared shirt had a price tag on it. The tag triggered a memory. After the night of the purple moon, Kenny’s gang had raided a nearby Target department store, squirreling away thousands of articles of clothing.

Jordan kneeled and aimed the light beside the boy. “I’m Jordan. What’s your name?”

The boy stared through him.

“Are you alone?”

The boy kept his lips sealed, remaining as motionless as an owl.

Jordan moved closer. “Is Kenny here?”

Fear curdled the boy’s brow.

Jordan tensed. The boy’s body language had shouted, “Yes, Kenny is here.” Blood rushed to his head as his heart pounded in his throat.

“Where is he? Upstairs?” The boy’s eyes remained wide with fear. “Is anyone else here?”

The boy shook his head.

“Just you and Kenny?”

“I’m taking care of him,” the boy whispered. “He’s got the Pig.”

Jordan inhaled sharply. The fact the person he hated most in the world was suffering from the Pig saddened him. He thought it a strange response.

“Are you hungry?” Jordan asked.

The boy nodded vigorously.

Worried the boy might also have the Pig, Jordan slowly reached out and rested his hand on boy’s shoulder, startled by the sharpness of the bone, and then he moved his hand to the boy’s head. Under the tangled matt of hair, his scalp felt cool to Jordan’s touch. If the boy did have the Pig, he was in the very early stage.

“My friend is outside. His name is Spike. Go see him and tell him I want you to have some of our food.”

“Henry.”

Jordan smiled. “Your name is Henry?”

The boy nodded.

“Hurry up, Henry.”

As Jordan shined the light, Henry skipped through the room, vaulted over a trash pile, and was soon out the door in search of food. The pattering of feet down the front steps and Spike trying to kick-start the motorcycle broke the heavy silence.

Jordan climbed to the second floor and opened a bedroom door. A bombshell of chills exploded in his chest, and he jumped back as a branch whipped out and smacked the floor by his feet. He danced the light across the oak tree that had crashed through the roof, crowding the room with leafy branches.

The hunt continued, and three doors down, Jordan found the monster lying in bed with his eyes closed and a blanket pulled up to his bare chest. Were it not for the long, stringy blonde hair, he might not have recognized him. Kenny had gained thirty or forty pounds.

Fearing Kenny might pose a threat regardless of his condition, Jordan looked for weapons, scanning the floor and the two tabletops beside the bed. Seeing none, he walked over and stood beside the bed.

Kenny’s pale, puffy cheeks drooped, and folds of skin formed an accordion under his chin. Dark rings cradled his eyes. They were the telltale shadows of death. Kenny did not have long to live.

A motorcycle fired up. The engine revved several times before settling into a low-throated purr.

Kenny’s eyes shot open. He stared straight up as confusion flashed across spidery blood vessels on the surface of his eyes.

“Who’s on my bike? Who has gas?” His voice was raspy. “We traded all of our gas for food. What I’d give to ride one more time.”

He shifted his head side to side.

Kenny spotted Jordan and blinked in disbelief.

Then his look deepened and he parted his lips. “You. You. Jordan, right? Abby and Jordan. That’s it. The sailors from Castine Island.”

A second motorcycle fired up, and the two engines burbled harmoniously.

Kenny coughed and coughed. “If you’re not going to kill me, get me some water.”

A bottle of greenish liquid sat on the table beside the bed.

Jordan pointed the flashlight to the table and slipped his hand under Kenny’s head. The pillow was wet from perspiration. Jordan’s fingers sunk into hot, sweaty folds of flesh as he gently lifted Kenny’s head and brought the bottle to his lips.

Kenny slurped. “More.”

Jordan gave him a second drink.

“That was good,” Kenny said with a sigh.

Another motorcycle fired up. Jordan felt the throbbing vibration of the three bikes surging through his bones.

“Do you want to know what happened to Mandy?” Jordan asked. The words blurted out. All of a sudden, he realized this was what had driven him to enter the house. He had never intended to harm Kenny. He wanted Kenny to know that Mandy had sacrificed her life to save others.

Kenny looked up through two slits. “I bet she’s at her grandparents’ cabin. We were supposed to go there together someday. A lake in northern Maine. That’s where she went. She always said it was so peaceful and beautiful there. I know Mandy better than anyone else.”

“She died.” Watching Kenny’s expression closely, Jordan told him the story of how Mandy had fought off a gang at the water’s edge so that he, Abby, and Timmy could escape and safely sail to Castine Island. “Timmy was the boy you almost shot at Logan Airport. Mandy was his protector.”

Kenny clenched and unclenched his fist. “Did she put up a good fight?”

Jordan nodded as the violent grunts and shouts of that fight echoed in his memory and sadness solidified in his chest like cement. “She fought four of them.”

A small smile played on Kenny’s lips, and the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes glistened in the light.

“Mandy was special. I miss her.” His expression turned somber. “After the night of the purple moon, we had little kids living with us who couldn’t pull their own weight. One of them was Mandy’s little brother, Sammy.”

He paused, staring up at the ceiling, as if watching a movie.

Jordan knew the story, knew how the movie ended; bitter anger flooded his heart.

“I told her she had to leave Sammy in the woods,” Kenny continued. “Mandy was as tough as they came, but that broke her up. She was never the same again. I’m so sorry I made her do that.”

Jordan swirled the green liquid in the bottle as his anger morphed to despair. “Do you want another drink?”

Kenny’s eyes fluttered as he struggled to keep them open, finally surrendering to the weight of the lids. “One more ride on my bike. That’s all I want.”

Jordan dribbled a few drops onto Kenny’s lips and gently dabbed the corners of his mouth with the blanket.

Spike charged into the room. “I’ve decided to go with you. I want to help find Toucan.”

In the swirling sadness, Jordan felt a tiny flicker of hope. The odds of them finding Abby, Touk, and Toby, however slim, had just increased a thousand fold by Spike joining them. Spike knew how to survive.

“One more ride,” Kenny mumbled to himself as the boys left the room.

Outside, Jordan let the fresh air wash over him and scrub his lungs clean of the foul odors festering inside the house.

Henry stood by the motorcycles, munching on a piece of potato.

Jordan stepped closer to Spike and lowered his voice. “Can we take him to your fuel depot?”

“Yeah, they’ll look after him there.”

“Eddie can ride with me,” Jordan said.

“I got the little man,” Spike said. “Henry, hop on a bike.”

Something stopped Jordan from following Spike down the steps.

“I’ll be right there,” he said and reentered the house to give Kenny a small slice of potato to ease his pain during his final hours.

Abby would be proud.

Abby leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. She and Lexi were alone in the car, parked in an alley five blocks from where Lexi had first taken Abby to meet Toby. They waited for Toby and Jonzy to arrive.

Imagining the car could conduct pain the way copper wire conducted electricity, Abby willed the terrible cramps in her stomach to travel up to her head and then enter the steering wheel where the pain would spread out and disappear through the tires.

The cramps resisted the power of her mind and remained anchored in her gut. Frustrated, she sunk her teeth into the steering wheel, biting down until her jaw muscles burned. She lifted her eyes and searched the sky overhead for the North Star, but she would need more than a lucky star to survive. Where were the boys?

Lexi kept an eye on the street through the back window. Abby remained suspicious of her, so much so she wondered if the bacteria had infected the part of her that generated trust and belief in others. AHA-B had killed her old self, leaving in its place someone who was untrusting and paranoid.
Paranoia can be a lifesaver
, Abby thought. Lexi wanted something from them. Sooner or later, the girl from Brooklyn would make her intentions known.

She turned the key in the ignition one click to power the radio and tabbed to FM 101, The Port, which returned only static. She tried FM 98.5 next. The CDC station was also off-the-air.

“We could pick up The Port from Castine Island at night,” Abby whispered.

“What makes you so sure that your brother’s at the station?” Lexi asked.

“DJ Silver played a Beatle’s song,
Here Comes the Sun
, and dedicated it to Abby and Toucan. Jordan knows that was our dad’s favorite song. How many Toucan’s are out there?”

“What’s Jordan like?”

Why did Lexi care? Would that information give her an edge when she finally made her move? The less Lexi knew about her family, the better. “You’ll meet him soon enough,” Abby said.

“I’m not going with you to Mystic.”