Generation M (11 page)

Abby turned on the radio three minutes before midnight. The crackling hiss of white noise reminded her of the sound a wave makes after it crashes on shore and the sheet of water slides back down the sand, churning up air bubbles from buried clams.

Two minutes before midnight, Jonzy’s voice crackled over the radio. “Bossy, this is Lemon. Do you copy? Bossy, this is Lemon. Do you copy?”

Toby pumped his fist. “Yes!”

Abby’s spirit soared as she pressed the button. “Lemon, I copy. I’m with the Trader.”

“You and the Trader are together. I’m fishing at dawn. Do you copy?”

She choked back tears. “Lemon, I copy.”

“Fishing in six hours. Over and out.”

Toby put his arm around her, and Lexi was grinning. Abby glanced up at the night sky and thanked her lucky star for granting one of her wishes.

Ten minutes past midnight, Lieutenant Dawson gazed north from the top floor of the Biltmore. He and Jonzy would venture outside soon, and he was on the lookout for any vehicles or foot patrols. A half-moon outlined the buildings all the way to the Red Zone. The buildings were dark, and he saw no nearby movement. He raised the binoculars and scanned Eighth Avenue. The avenue was empty.

He moved beside Jonzy, who scanned the area east of the Biltmore. A large fire burned in the distance, about ten miles away in Connecticut, and a few barrel fires dotted the Brooklyn side of the East River.

Jonzy lowered the binoculars. “It’s too quiet. Shouldn’t there be patrols out there?”

Dawson shrugged. “The evacuation is a big operation. I guess everyone is consumed with getting ready for it.”

“What will happen after everyone leaves, Lieutenant?”

Dawson had imagined the scenario. The survivors would see four or five jets lift off from the airport and know something was up. They’d discover the rivers were free of patrol boats and the colony was without lights. Then they’d invade.

“We’re leaving a lot of useful items behind,” he said. “Tools. Clothing. Food at Grand Central Station. Potable water. The chickens at the United Nations Coop. The kale crop at the Central Park Farm. I hope the kids can find the leftover food.”

“They need antibiotic pills, Lieutenant, not tools and clothing.”

He clenched his jaw and gave the cadet a quick nod. In approximately twelve hours, he’d be making his case to Admiral Thomas at Colony West, but first he had to make sure Jonzy escaped the colony with a handful of pills.

They moved to a table where they had piled the two backpacks holding supplies and sat on the floor. Dawson unfolded the checklist, cupped his hand over the flashlight, and turned it on to read the list.

“You should come with me, Lieutenant,” Jonzy said.

“Wire cutters?”

“Check,” Jonzy replied.

“Knife?”

“What can you do from Colony West?”

“We have a plan,” Dawson said. “Knife?”

“
You
have a plan.”

Dawson looked at the boy. “Listen, you have to trust me. I understand how the Navy works. From Colony West, I can operate within the system and get a lot more done. Admiral Thomas will support me. I know it. He’ll send resources to Atlanta Colony.”

Jonzy held out his hands in frustration. “What if he doesn’t? What if you get stuck out there? If we all go to Atlanta, you can contact Doctor Hedrick. We can go to the pharmaceutical plant in Alpharetta and help them to start it up.”

Dawson absentmindedly pinched the hem of the tablecloth. The silk cloth had been on the restaurant table, collecting dust since the comet had streaked by Earth three years earlier. Every fiber of his being wanted to go with Jonzy and search for his daughter, then to Atlanta, but he had weighed the pros and cons. The right thing to do was go to Colony West, where he had the best odds of saving hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of lives.

“Cadet, I assume you have a knife?”

Jonzy persisted. “Tomorrow, Doctor Perkins will find out that the pills were stolen, and I’ll be gone. Biltmore Company will have lost two cadets. They’re going to blame you for it.”

“Everyone will be focused on the evacuation,” Dawson said. “When they notice you’re gone, it will be too late.”

Before Jonzy could argue with him, Dawson quickly ran through the remainder of the checklist. Knife. Maps. Rope. MREs. Two-way radios. Flashlight. Hammer. Blanket. And finally, the map of Mystic with Dawson’s home address.

“What’s my address?” Dawson asked.

“Twenty-three Walpole Ave,” Jonzy said. “It’s near the intersection of Freemont Ave and Berkley Street. Your house is green. It’s the only green house on the entire street. There’s a pancake restaurant on the corner.”

“IHOP,” Dawson interjected. “International House of Pancakes.”

“Sarah is three and a half years old,” Jonzy continued. “She has a birthmark on her right elbow. We’ll find her.”

Dawson stood and picked up his pack. “Thank you.”

Jonzy popped up and slung a pack over his shoulder. Together, they entered the stairwell and started down the forty-three flights in the dark.

“Hold on to the rail.” Dawson kept his voice low. The stairwell was like an echo chamber.

Jonzy chuckled. “You know how many times I’ve gone down these stairs in the middle of the night?”

“More than I want to know?”

“Way more.”

A rollercoaster of emotions interrupted Dawson’s concentration, and he quickly lost count of the landings. Jonzy was right. He should go to Mystic. No, a sense of duty and logic told him to go to Colony West.
What about the duty of fatherhood?

Telling himself to stick to his plan, Dawson cupped the flashlight and turned it on. They were halfway down. Jonzy took the lead.

On the ground floor, they exited the stairwell, slipped through the dark lobby, and were soon outside the Biltmore.

Dawson looked left, right and listened. The drumbeat of his heart sent ripples into a sea of silence. Moving on, they hugged the edges of the buildings where the shadows were the darkest. Moonlight revealed most obstacles, but they occasionally stubbed their toes on hunks of concrete, bricks, and other debris.

At intersections, one of them would creep to the corner and peer in all directions, while the other stayed twenty or thirty meters back, keeping an eye on the flank. The lead scout would dash across street. The other would wait to receive an all-clear hand signal before making his dash.

Two blocks from Medical Clinic 17, they heard a vehicle approaching. Jonzy dashed behind a building column and plastered himself on the ground. Dawson dove into an alcove. A quarantine van drove by, heading north, with its headlights out. Dawson couldn’t see the driver.

After the van was out of sight, he crawled up to Jonzy. “It’s heading toward the Red Zone.”

“It came from the direction of Medical Clinic 17,” Jonzy said.

Dawson chided himself for not considering a second escape route. The idea of passing through the Red Zone had appealed to him because Jonzy couldn’t swim.

“If we come across a patrol in the Red Zone, you can disappear into one of the apartment buildings and wait until the colony has been evacuated,” he told the cadet.

“Abby expects me to meet her at dawn.”

“Better to be safe than sorry, Cadet.”

“Why was the van driving without lights?” Jonzy’s eyes widened. “What if someone else is escaping too?”

He gave Jonzy a friendly cuff. “‘What ifs.’”

He checked the time. They were still ahead of schedule, but he had to get back to the Biltmore no later than zero-four-hundred hours, when he was supposed to rouse the cadets so they would be ready for the convoy to the airport.

On the move again, Jonzy’s comment burned in his mind: was someone else escaping the colony?

Five minutes later, they huddled in an alley across the street from Medical Clinic 17. The clinic was dark, but the hum of a nearby diesel generator informed Dawson that the building had power. One or more scientists were possibly working inside their labs, wrapping up experiments and preparing for the evacuation. Doctor Levine might be camped out in Doctor Perkins’s office, ready to deliver antibiotics to any cadet who needed an emergency second dose.

The thick artery in Dawson’s neck throbbed against the collar of his Colony East uniform. He was about to pass the point of no return. Once he and Jonzy broke into the clinic, he had to be prepared to subdue anyone who stood in the way.

On hyper alert from the adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream, he sprinted across the street in a crouching position and took shelter behind a row of shrubs next to the base of the clinic. The scent of pine rising from the bed of wood chips spread around the bushes took his mind far from the colony. He shook his head and focused on the task at hand. He scanned the area and waved to Jonzy, signaling it was safe for him to cross the street. He removed the hammer and blanket from his pack. Jonzy crawled up next to him.

The video camera trained a cold, dead eye on them from the front door. The lobby, as seen through the glass door, was dark. Dawson handed the blanket to Jonzy and gripped the hammer in his right hand, ready to smash the glass. Jonzy pulled the door handle. To their surprise, it opened.

Dawson returned the blanket to the pack and kept hold of the hammer as they entered the lobby. Swimming through the pungent odors of alcohol and lab chemicals, they headed for the stairwell door. In pure blackness, Dawson pinched Jonzy’s uniform to make sure they stayed together and held his other arm straight out as a probe. He made contact with the wall and followed it left until he came to the stairwell door.

When they were both inside the stairwell, he turned on the flashlight. If Jonzy were nervous or frightened, he wasn’t showing it. They climbed to the third floor, heading for Perkins’s lab.

Dawson had visited the lab once, in the early days of the colony when Perkins had wanted to show the company leaders the proper way to jab an Epipen in case a member of Generation M experienced an allergic reaction.

Before they stepped out of the stairwell, Dawson wiped his sweaty hand across his uniform and adjusted his grip on the hammer, ready to bring it down on someone’s head.

“Hold on,” he whispered as he turned out the flashlight and quietly opened the door.

Dawson made sure the door closed behind them without making a sound and moved to the opposite wall, tugging Jonzy behind him as he felt his way down the hallway. He stopped when he came to the third door, Perkins’s lab. No light leaked out under the jamb, but that told him nothing. The labs had been securely built to contain fumes and biological agents. Right now, someone could be inside the lab with every light on, and they wouldn’t know it.

Dawson thought the best approach was for him to go in alone and fast.

“Stand here,” he whispered in Jonzy’s ear.

Dawson turned the knob with a hand slick with fresh sweat. He pushed open the door one millimeter at a time. The lab was dark. He slipped all the way in, closed the door, and flicked on the flashlight. Seeing he was alone in the lab, he guided Jonzy inside and turned on the overhead light.

On a desk in the middle of the lab were three metal canisters, each the size and shape of a tall thermos bottle. They carried a warning: DANGER - CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. He instructed Jonzy to begin searching for the pills in the drawers.

“Look for an amber-colored bottle,” he said. “The pills are blue or white.”

Dawson searched a shelving unit along the wall.

After Jonzy had gone through every drawer, he sorted through bottles of chemicals and glassware on a bench. Continuing his own search, Dawson inspected every nook and cranny that might hold bottles of tiny pills, including the pockets of two lab coats hanging on hooks.

Five minutes later, they met up at the desk.

“Nothing,” Jonzy whispered. “Now what?”

“Maybe Doctor Levine took them with him. I don’t know where his lab is. Droznin’s office is on the second floor. There might be some in there.” Dawson checked the time. They were ten minutes behind the schedule he had set for them.

“Go to Doctor Droznin’s office,” Jonzy said. “I’ll keep looking here.”

“We should stick together.”

Jonzy grinned. “Sure, Lieutenant. We’ll stick together all the way to Mystic and then to Atlanta.”

Dawson grabbed the flashlight. “We’ll go to Droznin’s office first.”

Ignoring him, Jonzy picked up one of the silver canisters from the desk and started to unscrew the cap.

“Hey, hold it away from your face,” Dawson sputtered, thinking it held liquid nitrogen or some other gas.

Jonzy followed his advice and removed the cap. He poured tiny blue pills into his hand.

Dawson inspected a pill up close. “It’s the antibiotic. Perkins tried to hide them right under our noses.”

Jonzy checked the other canisters; they also held pills. “Something’s not right, Lieutenant. This is too easy.”

Dawson was grateful it was easy. He shivered at the magnitude of their find. They had hundreds of pills. Each one could save a life. A ticking clock and an awareness of the dangers Jonzy would face quickly put him back on task. He placed two of the canisters in Jonzy’s pack.

“We’ll leave one just in case any cadets need a second dose.”

Once they exited the clinic, they slipped behind the bushes. They were still a few minutes behind schedule, but Dawson’s spirits soared nonetheless. The mission had gone flawlessly. They’d make up the time.

“I’m worried,” Jonzy said.

“Everything is fine, Cadet. Let’s hope getting you through the Red Zone is just as easy. Keep your eye out for that Q-van.”

Jonzy persisted. “I have a bad feeling, Lieutenant. The door was unlocked. Someone wanted us to find the pills.”

Dawson cuffed Jonzy’s arm. “If you’re worried, you can find a place to hide. By noon tomorrow, the colony will be a deserted ghost town. I’m sure Abigail and Toby will stay at the fish market.”

“I’m just saying, Lieutenant. Something is not right.”

They scurried across the street and followed the route they had plotted beforehand that took them along the west side of the colony. The shadowy silhouettes of windmills stood silent in the Hudson River, and a few campfires burned on the opposite bank. Farther on, the George Washington Bridge, both ends blocked with cement, looked like a monstrous etching against the starry sky.