Generation M (14 page)

For a second, Abby forgot about the ten thousand spinning saw blades chopping up her insides. “Where are you going?”

Lexi took a deep breath. “Nowhere. This is my home. All of my friends are here. I’ll miss Toby, and you. We could have become good friends, but I belong here.”

Abby’s intestines exploded in flames, and she flung herself to the side, cracking her head against the cup holder.

“Hang in there,” Lexi whispered, gently stroking Abby’s head.

After several minutes, Abby sat up. Maybe Lexi actually wanted nothing from them.

“When I escaped from Colony East, some girls saved my life,” Abby began. “I might not be here if it weren’t for them. They found me on the bank of the East River and took me to their house to recover. There are fifty or more girls living there. I don’t think anyone is older than seven.”

Lexi periodically looked out of the back window, but now, Abby could tell she was facing her.

“I’m worried about them,” she continued. “Since you’re staying here, could you check on them?”

Abby knew it was a lot to ask, but she had to try and repay the girls’ kindness.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Lexi said. “Tell me where the tribe of munchkins lives.”

Abby described the house and its proximity to the freighter in the East River that had run aground. When she finished, Abby realized she had narrowed down the location to hundreds of homes.

“A girl named Stacy lives there,” she said, immediately thinking there were probably lots of survivors named Stacy.

Lexi seemed to sense her frustration and quietly asked, “Were you wearing your Colony East uniform?”

“Yes.”

“Kids talk,” Lexi said. “It’s big news when a girl washes ashore in a blue uniform. I’ll find them. I promise. So what’s Jordan like?”

“Caring,” Abby said. “And stubborn. He’s a great brother.”

When a long silence followed, Abby wondered if Lexi had a brother or sister. She wanted to reach out and comfort her in the darkness, but that nagging distrust held her back.

Abby reached instead for a bottle of water in front of the passenger seat and found that putting her head lower than her stomach kept the cramps at bay, at least temporarily. She stayed in this position.

In between scanning for threats, Lexi told her snippets of what life was like in Brooklyn. Her voice sounded more and more distant to Abby, and she knew she was drifting to sleep. Sleep promised momentary relief from the pain.

Abby walked down a path through the woods. Golden pine needles crackled and snapped underfoot, and dirt, silky and fine as powder, worked its way between her toes.

Up ahead was a cabin on a lake that stretched around the bend and maybe went on forever. Touk and Jordan stepped onto the porch and waved for her to hurry up. Touk couldn’t wait any longer, so she leaped off the porch and ran toward Abby through the spears of sunlight. Abby opened her arms wide, ready to catch the giggling bundle of energy approaching her.

Abby grunted and her eyes shot open. Under a pale sky in a confined space of shadows, someone jiggled her shoulder. Several seconds passed before she remembered the bald boy with the diamond-studded ear was Toby.

“Sit up,” he said, carefully lifting her.

The passenger door was open. Toby, with Lexi behind him, unscrewed the cap of a silver thermos and poured small pills into his palm. They formed a little cone, like a pyramid of marbles.

“Jonzy brought hundreds of pills. Maybe thousands,” he said. “Take one. You’ll start to feel better in four hours or so.”

Toby then gave a handful to Lexi.

Abby pinched a pill between her fingers and felt better already, just knowing the antibiotic would soon go to work. She swallowed it. “Where is Jonzy?”

Toby pointed to the street. “Over there.” He sneered. “You’ll never believe who came with him. Lieutenant Dawson.”

In spite of Toby’s feelings toward the lieutenant, their plan was falling into place. Jonzy had made it safely here. The antibiotic was going to work in her system, killing off the AHA-B bacteria. They had a car, gas, food, and an adult.

Lexi made eye contact with her, reading Abby’s mind. “Don’t worry. I’ll give pills to the kids who saved your life,” she said.

Abby blinked back tears. “Thank you.”

“Good luck finding your brother and sister,” Lexi said. Then she gave Toby a kiss on the cheek and jogged out of the alley.

Distrust, like a chilly fog, settled over Abby as she had a sudden, certain sense that Lexi would sell the pills.

Jonzy whistled a block away. “Lieutenant, hurry up.”

Dawson waved back, signaling he noted his urgency.

Then he reached down and gently gripped the wrists of the little boy wrapped around his leg and pried his arms back. The boy’s skin felt piping hot, and he assumed AHA-B bacteria were the root cause. Before the boy could clamp onto his leg again, Dawson went on one knee and produced an MRE from his pack. The kid had already torn into the food pack by the time Dawson held the tiny blue pill in his hand.

“Chew it,” Dawson told him.

The boy stared back warily.

“Go on. It will make you feel better.”

The boy shook his head.

“It’s candy,” Dawson tried, and the boy gobbled it down.

Seeing that more kids were coming for handouts, Dawson sprinted to Jonzy.

“Hop in,” Jonzy said, gesturing to the car that idled just around the corner of the alley.

Dawson opened the driver’s side door and saw Toby behind the wheel. “Move over. I’ll drive.

Toby looked straight ahead. “Get in the back.”

Dawson froze, stunned. “Hurry up, Cadet!”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Toby fired back. “I’m not a cadet. I’m not in Biltmore Company, and we’re not in Colony East. We don’t take orders from you.”

“But I know the way to Mystic,” Dawson said.

“Feel free to walk then,” Toby said.

From across the street, kids spotted him and ran toward the car. Dawson hopped in back.

“Get down,” Toby ordered.

Dawson obeyed, realizing he had entered a different world, a place where adults like him had consistently ignored the plight of survivors. He would have to earn Toby’s trust.

The car lurched forward, and they were soon moving through the streets of Brooklyn.

Resting his head on the back seat, Dawson watched as a dizzying panorama of building tops, many gutted by fire, glided by against the blood-red sky of dawn.

Abigail sat in the front seat, not looking at all well, her face contorting from the constant state of pain, eyes half closed.

“Abigail, did you take a pill?” he asked

“It’s Abby,” Toby corrected.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m feeling better.”

“Oh, my God!”

They all turned to Jonzy, who was pressing his nose against the side window.

“Why are those kids fighting each other?” Jonzy exclaimed.

“Probably fighting over food,” Toby said. “We have the adults to thank for that.”

“We have to tell kids what’s causing the epidemic,” Jonzy said.

“Let’s get to Mystic first.” Abby grunted and doubled over.

“I thought you were getting better,” Toby said in a concerned tone.

“I’m fine,” Abby said. “It just takes time.”

Toby sped up and slowed repeatedly, and rarely drove in a straight line. Dawson felt vibrations coming from the car’s undercarriage. The axle or driveshaft was out of kilter.

“Will this car make it to Mystic?”

“Have you got a better plan, Lieutenant?” Toby asked.

“Call me Mark. No, I don’t have a better plan.”

“We’ll make it to Mystic, Lieutenant,” Toby replied.

Miraculously, the car kept running. The faster they went, the smoother the ride became. The kids spoke to each other in snippets, and Dawson knew when they had crossed the Whitestone Bridge, and when they hit Route 95. If they maintained their current speed, he thought they should arrive in Mystic within the hour.

“Mark, tell them about Atlanta Colony,” Jonzy said.

“There are three primary locations in Atlanta,” Dawson began. “The underground bunkers at CDC headquarters, the campus of Emory University, where most everyone lives, and the pill plant five miles outside the city, in Alpharetta.

“When we get to Atlanta, I need to contact Doctor Hedrick. She’ll help us.” He told them about the message he had left in Tabatha Williams’s medical profile.

“How will we get to Atlanta?” Jonzy asked.

“We’ll trade for gas,” Toby said. “We have food and pills. We’ll find the local fuel king in Mystic, or go to the closest trading zone.”

“Fuel king?” Dawson asked. “Trading zone?”

“Before the Pig came, we found lots of ways to work together,” Toby said. “Kids are smarter than you think.”

Dawson bit his tongue, realizing it was senseless to argue with Toby. They rode in silence for a few minutes.

“Let’s see if we can get The Port.” Abby turned on the radio.

Toby shrugged when they couldn’t pick up the station. “Maybe the antenna blew down in the storm.”

“Maybe DJ Silver has the Pig,” Abby offered.

“The station is a good way to tell kids about the Pig,” Jonzy said.

Toby shouted, “Jonzy, lie on top of the lieutenant, look dead. There’s a gang behind us. Cover him up.”

Jonzy sprawled on top of Dawson as a roar of motorcycles grew louder until it reached a peak, and then it remained at that decibel. Dawson guessed the bikers were cruising on both sides of the car.

“Stay still,” Toby commanded. “They’re looking in. A big dude with an axe is checking us out. Abby, look sick.”

The roar spiked as the bikers accelerated.

Jonzy sat up when the sound had faded. Dawson raised his head to peek out the window. The riders were speeding off, far ahead of them.

Dawson lay back on the seat, thinking about the potential for violence outside the colony and that which he had experienced in the Red Zone. A corrosive stream of questions ate away at him. What had Admiral Samuels wanted to tell him? What was the old man even doing in the Red Zone? How had Mathews known he would be there?

“A sign for Mystic,” Jonzy cried.

Dawson felt an icicle pierce his heart. For the past two years, Sarah had lived in his imagination, happy and safe. Now, he was about to learn what had happened to his daughter.

Keeping their speed under twenty miles per hour to save fuel, Jordan, Spike, and Eddie headed south on Route 95. The highway ran the entire length of the east coast, from Maine to the tip of Florida, and passed within a mile of Mystic, Connecticut.

Jordan carried a shoulder pack and a full can of gas on the seat in front of him. Spike had his gun and a pack and also carried a gas can. They hadn’t given Eddie anything to carry, so he could focus all his energy on riding.

Assuming Eddie found the strength to survive the rigors of the trip, Jordan thought they could reach Mystic by sundown.

They crossed the border into New Hampshire and passed through the state without incident. The three-lane highway was as deserted as the majority of streets in Portland. They saw a few kids on foot, several pedaling around on bicycles, and four on motorcycles that roared by on the opposite side of the highway. The lead rider had an axe slung across his back.

Approaching the bridge that separated Massachusetts from New Hampshire, Jordan shook his head at the irony. He was riding a motorcycle that belonged to Kenny’s gang, passing by the spot where, three years earlier, Kenny had left him and Abby stranded.

When they were halfway through Massachusetts, still making steady progress, he realized they might arrive in Mystic several hours earlier than he had estimated.

Jordan kept his mind busy by focusing on the objects in his path, including the occasional sinkhole.

During brief stretches of smooth, unobstructed road, Jordan turned his thoughts to Abby and Touk. When that made him too anxious, he calmed himself with daydreams of Wenlan.

They stopped to gas up and take leaks within sight of the Rhode Island border, which was announced by a graffiti-covered sign. They chose to keep the empty gas cans with them, thinking they might come in handy later. The boys caught grasshoppers. Jordan and Spike stomped the insects with their feet before eating them. Eddie scarfed his down live.

About to roll on, Jordan held up his hand to stop them when he heard a horn blasting in the distance. Two trucks zoomed by on their side of the road, kicking up dust. Blinking in the gritty wind, Jordan guessed the trucks were going seventy or eighty miles per hour. The white pickup truck in the lead had a large, dead animal in the bed, evidenced by four bony legs with hooves sticking up. The boys continued on, and when the city of Providence first came into view, Jordan pointed out a crowd about a mile ahead of them. Kids were blocking all three of the southbound lanes.

They slowed and came to a stop about a quarter mile away. The crowd swelled as kids raced toward its center.

They crossed the median strip, revving their engines to power through the tall grass. On the wrong side of the highway, they traveled in single file down the breakdown lane, wary of vehicles that might come in the opposite direction. Jordan’s eyes widened as they neared the mob. The white pickup truck seen earlier had flipped on its side. The other truck had flipped over too; its nose poked over the embankment. Kids were tearing into the animal carcass.

A quarter mile farther, the boys returned to the southbound side of the highway. The gruesome sight of the feeding frenzy stayed with Jordan.

About halfway between Providence and the Connecticut border, kids appeared from the tree line and raced to the edge of the road. Fearing they might collide with him, Jordan veered left, but the kids stopped at the last second. In his mirror, he saw them form a line. Were they playing a game?

The locals played “scare the biker” twice more in Rhode Island. Each time, Jordan swerved and experienced the same heart-pounding surge of adrenaline.

A mile into Connecticut, what appeared like a solid black carpet rippled across the road. They were crows. Jordan had hated crows ever since the night of the purple moon. The birds feasted on remains, and to see the birds gathered around an object on the ground always filled him with dread.