Generation M (24 page)

“Abby Leigh.”

Abby waited for a response. None came. Had she lost the connection? She had forgotten to release the button. “I’m Abby Leigh,” she said and took her finger off the button.

“Abby, thank God. This is Sandy. Where are you?”

“I’m near the bunker. Mark and Toby are at the pill plant.”

“I discovered Mark’s message,” Sandy said. “I have several colleagues who I can trust. We’re preparing to go to Alpharetta. Can you meet us there?”

Abby slumped into the trash pile. “My friend disappeared. Someone chased her, but I’m too sick to look for her. I can’t go very far. I have the Pig.”

“You have AHA-B?”

“I took three antibiotic pills, but they aren’t working. I’m dying.”

“Abby, listen to me very closely, I want you to die.”

Abby’s heart stopped. Then, with the shockwaves of Sandy’s words echoing in her mind, she put the walkie-talkie close to her ear and learned how she was going to die.

“I lived there for about a year after the night of the purple moon,” Low said, pointing her mass of red dreadlocks toward Union Station, a huge granite building that was once the district’s train station. “That’s where I met Bombie and Single Cell.” With a smile, she added, “Two months later, I was sleeping in Abraham Lincoln’s bed in the White House.”

Jordan and Low were parked in a Jeep Cherokee a hundred meters from Union Station. Two trucks of White House Gang guards were parked nearby.

Thousands of kids were milling around the station, and Jordan’s attention was drawn to a fight that had broken out, likely over food.

Inside Union Station, Jonzy, Spike, and a contingent of other White House Gang members were splicing copper wire onto the tracks. Earlier, Low had arranged for her gang members to strip the wire off telephone poles.

Low scrunched her brow. “Do you really think Jonzy can broadcast over the CDC station frequency?”

“Honestly, no,” Jordan said. “But he’s already started up two stations, and when he was at Colony East, he built a radio to eavesdrop on the scientists. Jonzy was born a genius. When he was little, his grandfather taught him how to build a radio using spare parts, so I could be wrong.”

Jonzy’s plan was to start up a local station and set the transmitter’s frequency to the CDC’s channel. To compensate for whatever transmitter he used being weaker than what the government was using, he would make his antennae longer than anything the CDC had — hundreds of miles longer.

He had explained his theory, saying that when he first learned about Doctor Perkins’s secret plan to let the epidemic finish off the survivors, he wanted to find a way to spread the news outside Colony East. At the colony library, Jonzy found an article that described what a small college station in Massachusetts had done. They had connected their transmitter to train tracks, and for the next twenty-four hours, the only station playing in Montreal, Canada — two-hundred miles north — was the college’s station.

Inspired, Jonzy wanted to hook up a radio station inside Colony East to the subway tracks. Train tracks were out of the question because Grand Central Station was being used as the mess hall. In the end, he had faced too many obstacles and had abandoned the idea.

When Jonzy and Spike piled back into the Jeep, Jonzy was bubbling with mad energy.

“We wired it up to tracks that go straight through Atlanta,” he said. “Doctor Perkins will turn on the radio in Atlanta Colony and hear ‘Pig Central.’”

The three-vehicle convoy drove two blocks to M Street, pulling up to a building that housed Radio Free Asia. Jonzy grabbed his tool bag, which Low had obtained for him, and together with Spike, entered the dark lobby, crunching over broken glass.

They quickly returned outside, reporting that survivors had stripped all the knobs from the soundboard.

The convoy made a U-turn, drove a block, and turned left on North Capital Street. The next stop was immediately on the right, National Public Radio. The windows were still intact in the three-story building. Spike used the butt of his shotgun to smash one, and then he and Jonzy entered the building.

Jordan turned on Jeep’s radio, tuning into the CDC station.

“Distribution of the antibiotic to the areas hardest hit has begun,” the robotic voice droned. “We expect to broaden the distribution to other areas as soon as possible. Until then, everyone should seek shelter and stay put. The AHA-B mutation syndrome is lethal, but we fully expect to eradicate it.”

Rather than drive his fist through the windshield in anger at the CDC’s lies, Jordan exercised discipline and lowered the volume.

Several minutes later, Spike raced from the building and reported that Jonzy had everything he needed, which started a chain of events. Low chatted on her walkie-talkie, organizing the move of a generator. It was on a flatbed truck, and she told her team where to bring it. Then she instructed her other team where to string the wire that was connected to the tracks.

Jordan remained with Low because he still held out a sliver of hope that he could convince her to send gang members to Atlanta with them.

“Why are you so afraid of the Grits?” he asked.

“They’re ruthless.”

”A lot of kids say the White House Gang is ruthless,” Jordan said.

Above her germ mask, Jordan could tell Low was blushing.

“Thank you,” she said, “but we don’t ride over our enemies. You know about Pale Rider?”

Jordan nodded. “I heard she’s the leader. She rides a green Harley.”

“Her eyes glow,” Low warned. “Her gang took over all of Georgia, and they’re moving north. Before the Pig hit us, the Grits were our biggest concern.”

“They’re not immune to the Pig,” Jordan said.

Nodding slowly, Low replied, “The Grits don’t care if they die.”

Jordan understood how a rumor started and took on a life of its own. Pale Rider’s eyes did not glow, and the members of the Grits wanted to live as much as the other survivors did. Rumor or not, though, he realized he would never change Low’s mind about Pale Rider and the Grits. Then he had an idea.

He found a pencil and envelope in the glove compartment and wrote a message to the Grits. If Jonzy’s crazy, railroad-track idea worked and the signal traveled all the way to Atlanta, he would ask the White House Gang DJ to read it on the air. It might give them a chance.

Jordan showed the note to Low. “What if Pale Rider hears this on the radio?”

Low chuckled coldly. “When Pale Rider puts her front wheel on your chest, I hope you die quickly so you won’t suffer much.”

As Jordan entertained that image, Jonzy’s voice came over the radio. “Test, test, test. Hello, Washington DC.”

Jonzy Billings, boy genius, had commandeered the CDC station frequency. “Test, test test. Lemon, I’m dedicating Pig Central to you.”

Lemon Billings had shown his grandson how to build a radio, and now his grandson hoped to hook up the world’s longest antennae and broadcast the truth all the way to Atlanta Colony. Lemon must be smiling down on them from above.

In honor of Lemon, Jordan slightly altered his message to the Grits.

Shivering, Abby shuffled through the dark alley. The night swept through her the way icy fog sifts through bare tree branches.

“Maggie,” she called in a raspy voice, fearful of giving herself away.

An odor slithered up her nostrils and left an oily, metallic taste in the back of her throat. She covered her nose with her hand, fighting the urge to gag, and stumbled out of the alley.

A half-moon provided some light in the street. The horrible stench was stronger here, and she doubled over, choking and spitting. Taking tiny sips of air through her mouth, she headed right, the direction to the CDC bunker, and the way she thought Maggie had run.

Two blocks farther on, she came to a corner. The bunker was to the right, and halfway down the street, in the middle of the road, a bonfire blazed. Black smoke billowed up from the flames, blotting out the moon.

Abby crept forward and stopped cold when four kids appeared. They seemed to step out of the fire. From thirty meters away, their stares sent chills rippling down her spine.

She had nothing of value. No pills, no food, and no weapon. The two-way radio was back in the alley. With Sandy’s instructions swimming in her head, Abby had forgotten to bring it. She was just another sick kid.

Sensing someone behind her, Abby spun around. The fire’s glow was putting on a freakish show of giant shadow puppets. Seeing no one, she turned back and shuddered. A boy had moved within ten feet of her. She rocked back on her heels when she identified him as the shirtless boy with long, straggly hair she’d seen earlier.

Feverish and on the verge of dry heaving from the stench, her insides churning with pain, Abby retreated to a tiny outpost in her mind and concluded the situation was dire. She was too weak to fight and too sick to run away.

With an expression blank as stone, Bare-chested Boy took a step toward her. Her eyes fell to his hand, and to the charred human foot he held.

Revulsion filled her and fueled her rage. She charged the boy, flailing her arms and shouting. His eyes widened in shock as her hand scraped his face.

Abby took aim at the others, and when they stood their ground, she had no choice but to veer and run through the perimeter of the flames. Blistering heat scorched her as she willed a heavy right leg forward, a heavy left leg forward, right leg, left leg, right, left and she broke through to cool air.

She plodded on for what felt like hours, but was probably less than thirty seconds. Ahead of her were the lights of the CDC bunker.

Survivors had gathered out front, and Abby wondered if Maggie was among them. She tapped into her last ounce of energy to keep on her feet until she reached the crowd. She pitched forward and caught a face-full of weeds between the sidewalk and street.

Abby clenched fistfuls of dirt. The adults were doing more than withholding a cure for the Pig. They were responsible for turning kids against each other, for killing the human spirit. She had to stop the scientists from inflicting more evil. She was not ready to die.

As Doctor Hedrick stood before him, Doctor Perkins noted her bloodshot eyes and sallow skin and recalled how much more vibrant she’d been at Colony East. He must look just as worn out to her.

She had entered his office unannounced, saying she wanted to discuss an urgent matter relating to Generation M.

Mulling another thought, Perkins considered the mutual fondness that Lieutenant Dawson and Hedrick had for one another. A conspiracy between those two was not out of the question.

“What is the issue, Doctor?” he asked.

“Ensign Royce and I conducted an autopsy on an AHA-B victim and discovered extreme kidney damage,” she said.

This concerned him. “The victim died of renal failure?”

Hedrick pondered the question. “It’s possible. My concern is a secondary infection. Even those of us who’ve taken the antibiotic might be at risk.”

“Have you heard from Lieutenant Dawson?” he asked, focusing on her eyes, watching for a flicker of fear, a split second of mental calculation.

“Excuse me?”

“The lieutenant is a dear friend, is he not?”

She crinkled her tired eyes and smiled sadly. “Yes, I have a great deal of respect for Lieutenant Dawson. I miss him as a colleague and a friend.”

“Has he contacted you?”

Doctor Hedrick appeared confused.

“Last time I checked,” she said, “Ensign Ryan couldn’t establish communications with Colony West.” She brightened. “Do you have an update?”

“I’ll look into it,” he said, sensing her optimism was genuine. Satisfied that Hedrick was here with a legitimate concern, he added, “How would you like to proceed?”

“We need to conduct more autopsies.”

“Indeed.” He nodded. “I suggest a minimum of five corpses.”

“Perhaps we can collect victims in the city?”

Perkins typed a command on his keyboard and Monitor number four came to life, showing the mob of children outside the front gate.

“Low hanging fruit right at our doorstep,” he said. “See Captain Mathews. She’ll arrange security for your team.”

Her brow crinkled. “Captain?”

“Mathews received her promotion for outstanding service to the colony.”

“I’ll contact her immediately,” Hedrick said.

“Sandra,” he called as she was heading for the door. He reserved first names for moments of paternalistic advice. “You could use some rest. We all need some.”

“Sorry, Doctor Perkins, but now is not the time to rest.”

“Generation M thanks you,” he trilled in a tone that spoke of his delight. Such dedication brightened his morning.

Abby let herself go limp, yet remained on her feet, propped up by the crush of surrounding survivors. Hundreds crowded the area in front of the CDC bunker. Most had the Pig, evidenced by the nonstop groans and cries for food. Abby added her voice to the chorus.

She was within twenty meters of the perimeter fence. Another fifty meters beyond the fence, four doors, each large enough to drive a big truck through, were built into a concrete wall.

It had taken her hours to reach this position so close to the fence. Using her hand as a crowbar, she had wedged it between kids to pry them apart, quickly moving into the gap she had created.

“The adults have tacos,” a girl shouted.

The crowd surged toward the fence, producing an enormous force that squeezed Abby’s chest. She took rapid, tiny sips of air, praying she would not pass out. As the taco rumor slowly died out, the pressure released and she could breathe again normally.

About thirty minutes later, the large door on the right lifted and a truck drove out. The taller kids in the crowd shouted out what was happening.

“Six adults wearing hazmat suits.”

“They have food.”

“They’re coming to help us.”

An adult voice boomed from a speaker on top of the truck. “Move back from the gate. Everyone move back. Back up immediately.”

Just the opposite happened. The predominant force of the crowd took aim at the gate. With her ribcage near its breaking point from the crush of bodies around her, Abby started to black out from the lack of oxygen. Colors leeched from her vision, and soon the world was cast in shades of gray. She tried to breathe with the rapidity of a hummingbird.