H10N1 (10 page)

“Impressive.”

“Judith was raised on a kibbutz in Israel. Joined the military when she was, like fourteen. They met during some skirmish in the Middle East. I can’t remember where. It was love at first sight. They were both into high-tech missions. You know, like impossible rescues behind enemy lines. All that gung-ho crap. They can free-fall from sixty thousand feet. Scuba dive to crazy depths.”

“Scale mountains with their bare hands.”

Rick grinned. “How did you know?”

She gripped her bottom lip with her front teeth to squelch her own grin. Rick stared too long and had to force his eyes away. “Then the government, in its infinite wisdom, decided the Geneva Convention was for wusses and adopted a ‘take no prisoners’ policy like every other country. So, Dev bailed. He and Judith came back to the States, and ended up in Arkansas. Just the two of them.”

“When’s the last time you saw them?”

“About three years ago. I went to check out their new farm. Ended up staying for almost a year. They’re really cool.” Rick pulled back. Christ, he was jabbering like a teenager trying to get to first base. He glimpsed over at her. She was waiting to hear more. What the hell.

“They grow their own food, keep goats and chickens. Judith weaves hemp on a loom, makes their clothes. By now, they’re probably growing cotton. They’ve got a good chunk of land.” His heart pounded. Was he that excited to see his friends again?

“Devin even builds furniture. I helped him cut down the trees he used to make a new frame and headboard for their bed.”

The Doc leaned back on her cot and stretched up out of her waist. He wished she wouldn’t do that.

“They sound like pioneers,” she said. “I suppose she churns butter and washes their clothes in a nearby stream.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re totally comfortable living in the nineteenth century. There’s no plumbing or electricity.”

Rick expected her to say that she admired people who lived like that, but it wasn’t her style. She needed the structure and sterility of someplace like the Medical Center. But all she did was stare at the map pages.

“How do you know this couple?” she asked.

“Dev and I went to high school together.”

“In Williamsport?”

Shit. There she went. Picking at that band-aid again.

“Yeah.” He turned off his overhead light and laid back. “Think I’ll get some sleep.”

But would the Doc take the hint? Of course not.

“How did you manage to survive the outbreak?”

The ache started in Rick’s chest and slowly radiated out. The only way he’d ever been able to stop the pain was with anger. “I drove a long-distance rig for Consolidated Foods. I was slamming back beers in some dive in Raleigh when I saw Williamsport on the news.”

He draped an arm over his eyes, fighting back the memories. “I couldn’t even go back, because of the
quarantine
. My wife and son died in some tent. I never got to see them before they were dumped in a mass grave.”

“And you think if only you’d been there—”

Rick shot off his cot like it was on fire.

“Don’t give me your psychological bullshit. I know if I’d been there, I would have died too, okay?” he yelled. “But if I’d had a better job, I wouldn’t have worked so many weekends.” He paced up to the seats in front. “I might have been like Bobby Ray, and got my family out before they locked all the doors.” His head was just too heavy to hold up anymore. He wrung his hands to stop the prickling. “Or we could have packed up the car and taken a vacation, away from the traffic and mobs of people who took over Williamsport every year.”

He stopped in front of the Doc and screamed in her face, “Every day I blame myself for being such a shit father. Okay?”

Staggering backwards, Rick slumped onto his cot and rolled to face the wall.

“What was your son’s name?”

Jesus, Sanchez was like buzzard, pecking at his open wounds. He turned and glared at her.

“What are you, some kind of grief counselor, too?” He slammed the side of his face against his pillow. “Don’t bother.”

The Doc didn’t turn off her light and go to sleep. She lay on her cot wide-awake. But surely not with guilt. Probably with a sense of pride that she’d brought a man to his knees.

After a few minutes, Rick heard her get up and quietly let herself out the passenger door. Now what? Was she going for a moonlight stroll to think up more questions to torture him? He was tempted to start up the van and drive away. Leave her with her mouth gaping open. Maybe she’d think twice next time she felt like psychoanalyzing some poor bastard.

The only thing keeping Rick in that tunnel was the headlights on the van. They cast a beam that would be easily detected by a flying search party.

Punching his thin pillow, Rick dropped his head and tried again to sleep. But how was he supposed to do that with Sanchez out there wandering around. What if she drifted off the edge of the pavement and tumbled down one of those ravines? Or intentionally left the road for a late night latrine stop? She could easily get disoriented and lose her way back to the van.

That would serve her right, though, for going out alone. Women were famous for acting without thinking. Then, of course they expected some dump schlub like him to bail them out when they got in over their heads.

Rick was still debating on whether he should go after her when the Doc popped her head back in the passenger door. “I think you should take a look at this.”

Grudgingly, he eased off his cot, rubbing his face like she’d just disrupted his sleep. Anxiety caused his heart to pick up the tempo a few beats though, as he crawled over the seat and stepped out into the darkness.

Instead of leading Rick to the near end of the tunnel, the Doc shuffled through the pitch black to the far end. They came out on the side of a ridge. By the light of the moon, Rick could see down and across a wide valley to the northeast. He scanned from left to right and back again, looking for trouble. When he didn’t see anything, he turned to Sanchez.

She held up a finger, like women do when they don’t want to be interrupted.

“There!” she said.

In the distance, Rick saw a faint dot of light, like a star, but close to the ground—and moving.

“Do you think that’s a helicopter?” she asked.

“Could be.”

Rick wasn’t sure how far away—fifty miles? One hundred? The light intensified for a moment. “He’s sweeping in a search pattern, but it looks like he’s flying in a westerly direction.”

“When I saw him, he was flying east. He must have turned around.” After a hesitation, she added. “The light seems closer now.”

After clicking his tongue in what he hoped was a cavalier tisk, Rick mumbled, “whatever,” and headed back for the van. His mind whirled with his next contingency plan.

If the chopper got close enough that Rick thought he was in trouble, he’d pack up the hand-truck with rations, slip on the rigged harness, and haul ass for the woods.

He was quite proud of his ingenuity. He’d added a second set of wheels for stability on rough terrain, and the harness straps were double-padded so his shoulders and chest wouldn’t get rubbed raw. It might take a day or two to hike out of the mountains, especially towing a hand-truck loaded with a couple hundred pounds of supplies.

There was no sense making it tough for the military guys. If they found the van, Rick’s best bet was to leave the key card on the dash. Let one of the fly-boys drive it away and get out of Rick’s hair so he could move on.

As a precaution, he turned on a monitor built into the dash. A small camera was mounted on the van’s roof. He’d used that camera more than once to check out his surroundings before leaving the security of the van. Another flashback on Sanchez’ husband, getting ambushed zipped through his head.

He didn’t plan on staying awake all night, watching the screen, but he turned the volume up all the way. If the choppers got close, hopefully he’d hear them soon enough to make his escape.

Now was that with, or without the Doc?

* * *

Rick woke with a start and pressed the button to illuminate his watch. Six a.m. He rolled onto his stomach to check the camera monitor. It was dawn outside, but he didn’t see a helicopter sitting in the road, or soldiers with weapons creeping up on the van.

Lurching off the cot, he grabbed the toggle on the camera and panned to the back of the van and the far tunnel entrance. Clear.

Sanchez wobbled to sitting, but Rick raised a finger to cut her off before she could ask any questions. Then he slipped outside for a quick reconnoiter. Nothing was shaking. He’d dodged a bullet.

As he gazed out over the valley below, he inhaled deeply and stretched. It was kind of strange. He felt like he’d had surgery last night, and a huge tumor had been removed from his gut. The heaviness was almost gone. He didn’t feel the familiar ache when he breathed too hard. That pain hadn’t just developed since he’d lit out of New York with a stolen van. He’d been living with the added weight a long time.

But last night, he’d had a dream about Richie. Michelle had gone to work so Rick was staying home to babysit. Richie sat in his high chair while Rick fed him a jar of strained peaches. Each time Richie took a bite, his arms jerked like the sweet fruit was giving him an electric charge. The sun shone through the kitchen window. A little mirror hanging from a red and blue and yellow mobile glimmered as it spun in a circle.

Then suddenly, Richie was a year old, and Rick was pushing him in a stroller. Mister Franken’s fat beagle waddled up to Richie and pressed his cold nose against the boy’s bare foot. He squealed, reaching out to try and touch the old dog. Then, zip, Rick was at the small park behind the church, and Richie was two years old. Leaning back in a molded plastic seat, the boy’s curly brown hair fluttered each time Rick pushed the swing.

God, how he loved that little guy. Why had Rick let Michelle drive him away? Once it was too late—when it was all over and Richie was gone—Rick wished he’d just taken the boy and moved out.

For a while in the van last night, Rick thought Sanchez wasn’t going to let up until she had him crying. Fat chance. Tightening his lips, Rick set his jaw and marched back to the van. He’d done all of that he was ever going to do.

He cranked the van and pulled out of the tunnel so he could get a better look at the wheel covers. But as soon as he got out, here came Sanchez, tagging along instead of doing something constructive like fixing breakfast.

Just as he thought, the right rear shield was stuck halfway. Shit. Should he take the time to get that sucker retracted or just drive with it down?

Miss Know-It-All hunched next to him. “Can’t we drive with it in that position?”

Oh, she must have been in a real hurry to get to Asheville and her own car. Well, too bad. He was going to get that shield back up if it took all morning.

He lay on his back and scooted under the carriage. It looked like he’d have to get the housing cover off the shield spool first, then see what the problem was.

Sanchez squatted to get a look, too. What, like she’d be able to fix it?

“Look, Doc, why don’t you get my tool box out of the van? It’s under my cot.”

After she left, he crawled all the way under the van to get a look at the housing. He’d need a twelve-millimeter socket to get the bolts off. The shield had to run on a track, hopefully pulled by a chain or cable. Maybe one of the teeth on a sprocket had just gotten out of synch. Could he get that lucky?

He heard Sanchez at his feet and told her to find him a socket wrench.

A low growl answered. He looked toward his boots and saw a mangy shepherd staring back. One eye was dark brown, but the other was a creepy pale blue. The dog bared his teeth. Rick heard a second growl and tilted his head to look above him. He saw another dog crouched on its front legs. This one was built like a friggin’ pit bull, but the nose was smashed in like a boxer. A big glob of drool sagged from its jowls.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

The dog at his feet danced on his front paws, waiting for a signal to attack.

Rick ran through his options. He could get the Glock out of his waistband and blast the dog at his feet. But Rick was far enough under the van that all the shepherd could latch onto was his boot, or maybe his pant leg. Better to save his face first and go for the pit bull.

There actually was a third option. Wait for Sanchez. She’d distract the dogs long enough for him to crawl out and shoot. Now was that before or after one of the dogs ripped out her throat? No, he didn’t need her help. He had this under control.

He rolled his eyes back to the dog at his feet.

That miniscule move turned all hell loose. Rick heard the dog scrabbling on the dirt near his head, crawling closer.

Fumbling for the gun in his waistband, Rick raised his arm towards the pit bull. But before Rick even got his hand past his shoulder, the pit bull clamped onto his wrist, sinking his teeth to the bone. Rick gritted against pain so intense it made his eyes water. The shepherd at his feet latched onto his boot and tried to drag Rick out from under the van.

He kicked at the shepherd with his free leg, but his pant cuff caught on a bolt, and he raked a layer of skin off all the way up his shin. It felt like his leg had been flayed open with a dull hunting knife.

Then when he tried twisting the wrist in the pit bull’s mouth to get the Glock aimed in the right direction, all he accomplished was widening the tooth gashes in his skin. He swore he could hear his bones crunching.

Okay, now he needed help. He screamed for Sanchez.

The pit bull evidently didn’t like that because he used those beefy shoulders to tug harder. Rick felt his arm pop out of the socket. At first, he thought he might barf from the pain, but then everything just went numb. His ears started ringing, and he couldn’t focus.

A disturbing image flashed through his mind. Sanchez grinning as she peered under the van, seeing him helpless. He watched her feet as she dashed to the driver’s door, heard her cackle as she started the van and hauled ass.