Generation M (22 page)

“That was brave,” Abby said.

“Looking back, I’d say it was kind of dumb, but when I’m really afraid of something, I pretend I’m brave. I tell myself to face the fear. Every time I take off in Mystic, I think I’m going to crash into the bridge at the end of the runway.”

“Every time?”

Maggie gave a big nod. “I pretend I’m brave, and then I go for it. What do you when something frightens you?”

Abby pressed closer. “I hate fog, and in the summer before seventh grade, we moved to Castine Island, the foggiest place in the world. When the fog rolled in, I’d pull the shades down and stay in my room until it lifted.”

The conversation was dredging up other frightening episodes from the past two years, and Abby had to change the topic. “Do you know my brother?”

“I’ve heard about him,” Maggie replied. “My best friend is the fisherman who found him when his boat got blown up. Your brother had tied himself to an empty gas can. He was barely alive.”

The girls tensed when a group of kids raced by the alley.

Maggie suggested that they take turns sleeping. “You first.”

Abby closed her eyes, but the combination of her cramps, her concern for Jordan, and the lingering adrenaline from the kids running by kept her awake. She gave herself the mental exercise of planning how she, along with friends and family, would prepare for the winter once they reached the cabin in Maine.

Abby described the cabin to Maggie and told her, “You can come live with us. We’ll be a million miles away from all this.”

“I can fly a float plane,” Maggie said with a smile.

When it was Maggie’s turn to nap, she fell asleep instantly, and her head flopped on Abby’s shoulder. One of her pigtails rested on a crumpled can of purple beer.

Careful not to disturb Maggie, Abby whispered into the radio, “Alpha Zulu, do you copy? Alpha Zulu, do you copy?”

After about ten minutes, she turned off the radio.

She heard someone approaching the alley, grunting, cursing, and scuffing their feet. Labored breathing grew louder. Abby thought about waking Maggie, but instead shifted so they settled deeper in the trash pile. A shirtless boy with long stringy hair dragged something past the alley entrance. Abby shuddered when she got a good look. He was pulling a body by its arm.

To provide relief from the pounding headache that had dogged him since he had regained consciousness, Dawson pressed against his temples. He was under a blanket in the back seat. He expected they would arrive at the pill plant within fifteen minutes.

“We’re getting low on gas,” Toby said from behind the wheel.

“Is it safe for me to come out?” Dawson asked.

“Hold on, Lieutenant,” Toby said. The car swerved, sped up, and then swerved again. A crescendo of shouts from outside the car rose and faded. “All good.”

Dawson sat up and peered through the front and side windows, recognizing a former fitness center. At one point, kids had probably used it as a shelter, but the windows were now broken, and it was empty.

“We’re almost there. Another two miles. Keep your eye out for the water tower. It should be that way.” After pointing, he concealed himself under the blanket again.

“Why did the scientist use a brewery?” Toby asked.

“Apparently, brewing beer and making antibiotics both require a fermentation process,” he explained. “During the first epidemic, the scientists needed to make tens of millions of pills. The brewery offered many advantages. It was nearby and had large copper fermentation vats, but it’s misleading to still think of it as a brewery. They brought in very sophisticated pharmaceutical equipment.”

Toby sped up, slowed down, and sometimes drove off the road to get around obstacles. He reported threats, mostly roving gangs of kids.

“The gas light came on,” Toby warned.

Dawson took that as good news. Most cars could travel another ten to fifteen miles once the light came on. After dropping him off at the pill plant, Toby could make it back to Abby and Maggie.

Dawson tried to concentrate on the mission, but he had trouble focusing.
Check the perimeter fence to see if it’s electrified. Check for video cameras and infrared sensors.
He gave up, too mentally exhausted to think about it.

“The water tower,” Toby said. “You can look.”

Peering above the seat, Dawson directed Toby through the side streets and into an industrial park. They parked behind a cupcake factory next door to the pill plant and set out on foot.

Dawson had brought his burglary tool, a hammer to smash the brewery window, and his digging tools, a knife and two empty soup cans. If the fence were electrified, they’d dig under it.

The plant came into view. The huge building, surrounded by a large parking area, stretched for nearly half a mile. Tall weeds grew between the parking lot and the perimeter fence. A section of the fence opposite them appeared to be missing. A forest of tall Georgia Pines was beyond the gap.

Dawson’s blood turned cold. Though a Humvee was parked near the door, a far bigger problem loomed. Last time he was here, the entrance to the plant was through the brewery lobby, which had wall-to-wall windows. Now, a door stood at the base of a windowless, towering, cement wall, and all the windows had been sealed. The plant was a fortress.

He and Toby crawled up to the fence on their bellies. Dawson gripped his head, unsure of what to do next. His throbbing headache seemed to bludgeon his thoughts into senseless fragments.
Test the fence
, Dawson somehow remembered.

He tossed the metal hammer against the wires and no sparks erupted. No sparks.
Good.
“The fence is safe to touch,” he said.

“If there’s no electricity, that means the cameras probably aren’t working,” Toby said.

“You’re right,” Dawson replied.

The door opened and Lieutenant Mathews exited the building. Carrying an assault rifle, she climbed into the Humvee. Dawson couldn’t escape her.

“Who’s that?” Toby asked.

“Our worst nightmare. Lieutenant Mathews.”

Mathews drove to the gate, got out, unlocked the padlock, and swung it open. After driving through, she closed and locked the gate, and then drove off.

Head throbbing, Dawson stared into space as a cocktail of rage further jumbled his thoughts. The walls of the plant seemed to grow thicker and taller. Befuddled, he was at a loss about what to do next.

The boys, riding abreast, continued their hard push south. They were an army of three. The only kids Jordan spotted were those guarding fields of corn, potatoes, and kale, armed with baseball bats and crowbars.

The river of tar streaming under his handlebars was hypnotic, and he wondered if they were doing the right thing. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe the adults were planning to help the survivors. The robotic voice on the CDC station was telling the truth.

Lurking danger snapped him back to the present. They had entered a stretch of swampland with tall elephant grass growing next to the road, an ideal spot for an ambush.

They made it through ambush alley without incident, and soon crossed into Delaware, a vast, deserted wasteland of concrete and abandoned factories.

An hour later, they stopped outside Baltimore. They had made it one hundred and eighty miles.

Jordan shared his concerns. “Maybe the adults are telling the truth for once.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jonzy blurted. “The CDC doesn’t want to help us. There’s only one reason the scientists put their station back on the air: they feel threatened.”

“By the three of us?” Jordan said with a chuckle.

“Lieutenant Dawson, Toby, and your sister,” Jonzy said. “They’ve probably already taken over the pill plant. They still need our help. We have to fight back.” A small smile played on Jonzy’s lips. “We have to take over the CDC radio frequency. We’ll own the airwaves. We’ll tell the truth.”

He pursed his lips, brooding. “The only way to do that is to either get a more powerful transmitter, or a bigger antenna, but the CDC probably has the biggest transmitter made and a very tall antenna. There has to be something we can do.”

With Jonzy racking his brain and Spike appearing his usual calm self, the three boys gassed up their bikes and headed off for their unannounced rendezvous with the White House Gang.

Five miles outside of Washington DC, the boys cut pine saplings, stripped off the branches, and tied short lengths of gauze bandages to the ends. They lashed these poles to their backs with rope.

Flying white flags, they exited Route 195, entered a neighborhood of brick houses, and stopped twenty yards from a barricade made of tires and refrigerators.

Two guards, both wearing germ masks, were on duty, a boy with dreadlocks, and a girl, who despite the heat and humidity, wore a leather jacket.

Jordan and Spike dismounted and leaned their white flags against the bikes. Jonzy stayed on his bike, deep in thought. He seemed completely focused on finding a way to broadcast his own message over the CDC radio frequency.

The girl produced a long, curved sword, which Jordan thought had probably come from a museum, perhaps once the property of a Civil War general or a Samurai.

“That’s close enough,” she warned.

“We want to see Bombie, Single Cell, and Low,” Jordan said. “I know them.”

The girl scoffed. “Get lost.”

Jordan took a step forward. “I have news about the Pig and about what the adults are doing to us.”

The girl waved the sword. “Single Cell and Bombie don’t care about your news. They died from the Pig.”

Jordan’s blood chilled. He remembered Low as being the toughest of the three leaders.

“Then I want to talk to Low.” His voice trembled.

The girl pulled a gun from behind her back and aimed it at him. “I said get lost.”

Spike stepped next to Jordan.

“Wait ‘til she finds out you didn’t let us through.” Spike cracked a smile and kept walking. “We’ll sell our information to someone else.”

His tone was calm as the girl held the gun at arm’s length, aiming it at his chest. Spike shrugged, turned, and headed for his bike.

“Wait,” the girl barked. To Dreadlocks, she said, “Contact Low.”

“Low hates being bothered.”

“Do it,” she snapped. “What’s your name?”

“We’re friends of Captain Jenny,” Jordan said.

Dreadlocks stepped away and spoke into a walkie-talkie, listened, spoke again, and then listened some more. He walked over to the girl and whispered in her ear.

She returned the pistol to her waistband behind her back, and Dreadlocks approached them. “Follow me.”

The boys rode behind Dreadlocks, who pedaled a BMX bike. They passed massive government buildings made of marble and granite, and then arrived at The White House. In front of the mansion, what had once been a great expanse of manicured lawns and rose gardens was now a field of tall grass and weeds.

Dreadlocks led them through a heavily guarded gate and down a long driveway. They parked by the white columns and followed Dreadlocks inside.

Incredibly, the White House had air-conditioning. Boxes lined the walls, two and three deep. Every box had the same logo: USDA FOOD.

They walked down a corridor, dodging kids on skateboards who all wore germ masks, and they passed paintings of former presidents. Jordan wondered what had become of the President and her husband right after the night of the purple moon.

At the end of the corridor, Dreadlocks swung open a door and said, “The Oval Office.”

Jordan recognized Low from the red dreads that fell well below her shoulders. She and an opponent, both wearing germ masks, played Ping-Pong on a shiny wooden desk, with a row of food cans serving as the net.

Low set down her paddle and walked up to them. She studied Jordan. “Yeah, I remember you. How’s Jenny?”

Jordan told her what had happened to
Lucky Me
— the pirate attack and the ship catching fire and sinking. “I was the only survivor,” he told her.

“I hope you got the pirates and made ‘em suffer.” Low’s eyes, uncovered by her mask, burned with rage.

Jordan had tracked the pirates and come within seconds of cutting the throat of the twelve-year-old boy who had murdered his crewmates, but he had let the boy live, learning something important in that moment: he was not a cold-blooded killer.

“Yeah, I got ‘em,” he told Low and then launched into the story of the adults, Jonzy’s escape from Colony East, the epidemic, and the reason they were going to Atlanta. Something about the trip to Atlanta rattled the hardened gang leader. He gave her a pill.

“What do you want from me?” Low asked.

“Food, fuel, and healthy kids to ride with us.” Jordan’s voice was steady, his tone firm.

Low chuckled coldly. “The Grits will never let you pass through their turf. Because you were a friend of Captain Jenny, I’ll give you food, gas, and weapons, but I’m not sacrificing any of my gang.”

“I need something else!” Jonzy interrupted. His eyes widened and his face glowed through the grit and grime of the road. “I need a radio station that’s near railroad tracks.”

Drowning in doubt, Dawson got to his knees and gazed at the pill plant through the fence.

“What should we do?” he asked in a shaky voice.

Toby jerked his head and stared at him in shock.

Dawson, unable to meet the boy’s gaze, dropped his chin to his chest.

“First, we should get our asses on the other side of the fence,” Toby said and started up the fence. He stopped at the top. “C’mon, Lieutenant. Move it!”

Dawson stood and looked up. The fence appeared too high to climb.
What a time for a dizzy spell
. He positioned his left foot on the lowest strand of wire and then grabbed a strand higher up with his right hand. He stepped on the next lowest strand with his right foot and pulled himself up.
One step at a time.
He could handle that. When he reached the top, he swung one leg over, then the other, and slowly worked his way down.

“Jump,” Toby said.

Dawson let go and landed beside the boy.