The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (2 page)

Instead, men and women managed carts that offered hand sewn clothing, some shabbily constructed while others had the look of professionals. At the far end of the street was a man who sharpened knives for a nominal fee. Others tendered various cooking needs: pots, pans, dish sets, and utensils. The items had been scavenged from around the city and sold to those too busy or reluctant to search for themselves. Another cart served as a book swap, a free service where people could exchange and return enjoyable reads. Still another cart, one a few spots over from Tumelo’s, sold cleaning supplies.

His nearest neighbor, Arturo Machado, arrived shortly after the Sardinas. Arturo’s cart was layered with boxes of ripe plums, peaches, oranges, pineapples, and a host of other fruits. As famous as Tumelo had become for his cooking, so too had Arturo and his perfect fruit. The two men had an easy partnership, always referring their customers to the neighboring cart. By the time the street had filled with carts and vendors, Tumelo and Arturo had already enjoyed several sales.

Assuming her usual place at the rear of the stand, Maritza Sardina had settled into her chair and removed knitting needles from the canvas tote at her feet. Spreading a half-finished blanket across her lap, Itza’s hands soon moved reflexively. The click-click of the needles, busy in creation, sounded a steady rhythm. Tumelo felt her sorrow as she stared out into the increasing traffic of neighborhood buyers.

He knew for what her eyes searched, his own often scanned the crowd for the same sight. Michelle Lafkin and her fiancé Andrew Weyland. Two weeks had passed since they, accompanied by their friend Mike Allard and boatman Matt Locke, had made a hurried escape from the island. The young couple, their home only a few doors away, had come to mean a great deal to Tumelo and his wife. Though of markedly different coloring and stature, the pair had reminded him of his own children. Itza’s eager gaze told him his wife felt the same.

He knew it was a foolish hope, expecting to see them walking down the street. At the last market day, Tumelo had spied dangerous-looking men who made continuous circuits through the market. Often—too often to not be noticed by Tumi’s eyes—the men glanced to the door of Michelle and Andrew’s house. He had seen their kind before, seen men with that cold stare, in the days of the revolution. As much as he wished to see the young couple, he knew they would face a dark consequence if they appeared.

When he had seen the men last week, Tumelo experienced a small thrill of victory. If they were searching, it meant Michelle had escaped successfully. Today he could see no men, however. Had they given up the search, or had Michelle and her friends been captured? He prayed against the latter, knowing the former was unlikely. What Michelle had discovered beneath Guantanamo Bay was certainly too dangerous for her enemies to abandon the search.

Tumelo and his wife had spoken twice, argued more accurately, of exposing their knowledge. Surely if someone, even a Councilor, was keeping infected on the island, the government would act. Mike Allard, a man whose eyes spoke of internal battles with demons, had instructed the Sardinas to remain silent about the underwater facility which held the monsters. It was too dangerous, he had explained, and genuinely seemed to share Michelle’s concern for the Cuban couple’s safety.

Still though, Tumelo had broached the subject with his wife. She had argued against it, agreeing with Michelle and her tormented friend. Itza had stared at him with bafflement as he shared his hope of the government intervening. Her voice tinged with ire when she had reminded him of their lifetime stifled under a government which would cross any line to maintain power and control. In the end, after a second round of the same, he had bowed his head in acquiescence.

The day wore on as a continuous stream of customers stopped by the cart. Most he knew by sight if not name, and shared amiable words with them as he packaged their purchases. Arturo had already begun to prepare to close his stand for the day. Taking a quick inventory of his own trays, the majority empty save for a few remnants he and his wife would use for dinner, Tumelo decided to end their day as well. Itza stood and folded the nearly-complete blanket and replaced her instruments in her bag.

While his wife sealed and stacked trays, Tumelo walked to retrieve the car. If his bones had felt aged at day’s start, dusk found them beyond ancient. As eager as he was to sit at the kitchen table and rest his weary body, he could not quicken his pace to the vehicle. Finally turning the corner of the side street, he pleaded with his legs for a few more minutes of service.

“Monstruos!”

As the word screamed with fearful urgency reached his ears, Tumelo’s breath caught and a chill ran down his aching back.

Again the cry was shouted, followed by unintelligible screams from a dozen different voices. And howls. Turning on his heel, car keys in hand, Tumelo moved with dwindling speed towards the main street. No… no… no, his mind repeating the pleading mantra as he tried to run. Before he reached the intersection, he could see several people crashing through the few remaining carts, their actions desperate, caring little for what obstacles were before them. If they even saw the obstacles at all. Most had heads turned to the rear, eyes wide with fear and revulsion as death raced at their heels.

The first of the creatures came into view with a lumbering surge, bringing a victim to the ground. Delivering only a bite, the monster moved on to another as more of its damned brethren coursed into view. Tumelo’s thoughts screamed for his wife as he ran, tumbling over discarded belongings. Angling around the corner, his heart sank as he saw his love backing away from an infected.

The two forms slipped from his view as he neared them. Reaching the cart, the food trays clumsily knocked about the ground, Tumelo saw his wife crouched and trembling against the wall. At her feet, the body of her attacker twitched with death. A long, thin knitting needle driven deep into its eye socket.

“Hicks, just give me a simple answer,” Paul Jenson demanded with clear irritation in his voice. “Are we on schedule or not?”

“Of course we are, but—”

“Thank you.” Paul said the words with finality. It had been three weeks since he assumed leadership of the large band of survivors commonly known as the Horde. The name was not to his liking but attempts to change it had fallen flat. Three weeks and even in that brief time, their numbers had risen sharply. Well-armed searches dispatched immediately after the coup returned daily with more refugees. Coaxing the refugees out of hiding continued to be a challenge as the Horde’s reputation had spread across the surrounding lands, but with deliberate care, the men and women Paul supervised had added well over a hundred members to the group’s ranks.

“If you think it is that easy to shut me up,” Hicks continued in a growl, ignoring Paul’s refusal to re-engage in the debate. “Then you’ve got your head up your—”

“Assuming we reach the rendezvous on time, Hicks is still right,” Derrick Chancer jumped in. “Most of these people don’t want to leave.”

With a sigh, Paul realized that he was once again going to have to debate his plans with the two men before him. In his mind, it was simple. He had been sent—with a search and rescue team—to America to round up as many survivors as possible, escorting them to a scheduled rendezvous with the USS Mohawk for transport back to New Cuba. Though circumstances had certainly changed, having lost the majority of his first team and now leading the Horde, he still saw his duty clearly. In one month’s time, the several hundred members of the Horde would meet with the ship and set sail for the safety of the island. As Derrick and Hicks had often pointed out however, few of those members actually wanted to accept the rescue.

“They just don’t understand what it’s like there,” Paul began with his usual counter-argument. “They’d be in a city, with power, government, thousands of other survivors. Pitching tents in a field is not a long-term lifestyle.”

“We all know they have more than that,” Hicks replied. “Livestock, farming, water purification, gasifier systems. We lived in the mountains for years without any of that.”

In truth, Paul had been justifiably shocked to learn how advanced the camp truly was, despite its rag-tag appearance. Beyond the basic need of food supply, something of constant worry in the mountains, this community had been producing its own fuel and clean water for the past three years. Drennan, the Horde’s previous leader, may have been a sadistic monster, but he had indeed created a rather successful encampment. If not for Lisa’s death, and the deaths of countless others, he might have felt a bit of admiration for the man’s accomplishments.

“Even so,” he answered. “I have my orders. We are to meet with the ship…”

“To hell with your damn orders!” Hicks exploded.

“Paul, why not just send a small security team with those that want to go to New Cuba?” Derrick asked. Having turned down the offer of rescue once already, Paul doubted if Derrick counted himself among those wanting to leave America now. With Lisa lost to him, he realized he, too, had no intention of returning to New Cuba.

“I don’t want to split our forces. Besides, with the exception of the crops, everything else is portable.” He knew men had been working day and night to rig suitable transports for the water and gas systems. The livestock would be herded, of course, though the animals’ pace would certainly be cumbersome. He begrudgingly accepted the idea that many, if not most, of the Horde would opt to remain in America. But Paul had no intention of staying stationary. With the numbers he commanded now, with the arms and munitions available to him, he intended to expand the parameters of his search. In his mind, he could see the numbers swell until a vast mobile city had covered the many miles of the country. Lofty, he knew, but it was his goal nonetheless.

With a forced calmness to his tone, Hicks leaned forward in his chair and spoke. “Paul, if you asked them now, no one would vote to leave.”

“That might change once there is a ship in front of them,” Paul replied, the comment was one that usually ended the debate. “If we really are going to sweep out the remaining Tils in this county, I don’t want any half-hearted soldiers. The road ahead is far too dangerous for that. Any that agree to stay after turning down the immediate rescue… well, at least we know they won’t break easily.”

“That still leaves the Strykers and Bradleys. I doubt your superiors are going to give them to you as a parting gift,” Derrick reminded him.

Before setting out on the initial mission, the governing council in New Cuba had outfitted Paul’s team with two Bradley tanks and several varying Stryker armored vehicles. Drennan and the Horde had destroyed two of the Strykers, and Paul was not willing to surrender any more of the powerful machines. “We’ll think of something.”

The remainder of the afternoon was spent surveying the preparations for departure and trying to ignore the oppressive heat. A child of the South, Paul had spent all but a few of his summers baking in high temperatures. Texan summers were decidedly different and far more draining. The heat seemed to leech into the body and sap it of all energy. The lack of humidity, though making breathing easier, left him feeling dry and parched. And it’s still technically spring, he reminded himself, wiping sweat from his brow with the top of his forearm.

“What d’ya think?” asked James Hingurth, one of the first members of the Horde Paul had met. The question referred to the flatbed truck that now carried three large cisterns of the camp’s water supply. Contraptions beyond Paul’s expectations were affixed atop two of the containers, purifying the water to levels acceptable for human consumption, while the third was rigged to collect rain and dew. At capacity, the large jugs would hold a combined three thousand gallons of water. Paul had thought the cisterns would need to be emptied before being lifted onto the flatbed. Instead, engineers combined the power of the Strykers with a usable crane and managed to place all three safely onto the truck without losing a drop of the precious liquid.

“Looks good,” Paul commended. “How is the stability?”

“We have a few more supports to finish, but she should hold up fine as long as we don’t decide to go off-roading,” the other man replied with a laugh.

Paul returned the laugh. “The Bradleys are pretty good at clearing obstacles.” He was about to say more when the conversation was interrupted by a high-pitched scream from the western section of the camp. Though the hair on his arms rose with goose-bumped flesh, it was not until the scream was repeated that he and those with him broke into a run toward the sound.

The running party grew as it raced through the camp. The screaming, and he assumed the voice belonged to a woman, ripped through the air several more times beforehe reached a small crowd of people. When a few of the distraught faces recognized him, they parted to allow him to move through the huddle. At the center of the human circle, a middle-aged woman clung desperately to a small girl, both faces red with tears.

“What happened?” Paul asked the nearest person.

“Says there was one of the infected in her tent,” the man answered.

“A Til? In the camp?” Paul forced the hint of panic from his voice. Judging by the pale faces and the darting eyes, the crowd around him was already fearful that the woman’s story was true. Kneeling down, he laid his hand on the woman’s shoulder gently, though she still flinched at the first moment of contact. From fear of the Til? he could not help but wonder.