Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel (13 page)

15

Emergency Kit

The plan was
to move out right away, or close to it.

But plans have a funny way of failing to conform to reality. And the reality of the situation was this: Pierre was in bad shape, and Jackson’s hand was useless. The kid didn’t help matters, either. The group at the homestead figured they had enough firepower to stay put for a bit longer, at least until they could escape.

Maybe a couple of them would die, but they were all going to die anyway. And no one wanted to venture out into the great unknown.

A week passed with little activity, either from the Ambrosia Team, or the local wildlife. The situation could almost be seen as idyllic, except now they
had
to move: their food stores were gone. Breakfast, a cold mash of porridge and other sundries lying about, had been it.

They had water—enough, perhaps, for a couple days. Amanda had a backup, never trusted the water filtration system. But with a half dozen more on the reserve, it dwindled fast.

“It’s starting to smell, anyway,” Pierre said through gritted teeth as he slipped on a shirt. No one had taken a shower in weeks and the cabin wasn’t that big. It wasn’t built for visitors, more for minimalist survival.

Even with his fake French accident, no one laughed.

“Time to go.” Amanda was done waiting. The group looked like a pack of mercenaries, even if they didn’t feel the part. The only one without a weapon strapped to every possible extremity and body part was Clara, whose back was designated for Bobby. Now recovered, he was oblivious to the carnage. He babbled and chortled as they formed a procession.

The group headed out into the bright light, the scenic vistas and blue skies belying the trouble that would soon face them.

Maverick brought the
water glass to his lips, the rim rubbing up against the wiry beard sprouting from his chin. He tipped it back a little too far and choked, coughing up water and blood.

The force sent him to the floor, water spilling on to his chest. He didn’t care, even if it was his only glass of the day. There were a couple others in the room—from people who didn’t need them. The stench, he’d gotten used to that, too. Dragged the bodies to the bathroom, although the last one who’d died—Davey, bless his healthy heart—was still lying on the ground, mouth open.

It’d been a hell of a week. Maverick laughed.

“Davey, what do you think? That’s what you think we should do? The dogs are outside, buddy. The dogs, and then the goons downstairs, and the dresser…”

Maverick had taken to this in the middle of the week—talking to himself—even when a couple of the others were clinging to life. He figured why not—or maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision, just one of those things that happens when a man reaches his breaking point.

But then, he’d began gaining strength back. That was a relative term; he was still as weak as a plastic bag riding the wind, but at least he could stand up. That was an improvement.

“Isn’t it grand, Davey boy? Just all of this, this, this,
life
we’ve been granted?” He staggered over to Davey’s body. “You’re not very good at this conversation thing, old boy,” he continued, slapping a hand on the corpse’s cold shoulder, “but that’s all right. You look tired. We’re all tired. Get some rest.”

Maverick lay on the bed and sprawled out.

“Thank God for small favors,” he called out to the sky, deep down hoping for a miracle.

“He’s still alive?”
Part of Silver was disappointed, the other delighted. Old Maverick was tough, but that just meant he’d get a better education in bitterness and hate. The advanced curriculum was about to begin.

“Yeah.” Bebe looked at Baxter, then back at Silver. This was it: A pair of whackos to lead humanity into the Promised Land or whatever nonsense they were spouting. She’d read the manifestos.

“Interesting. And the others?”

“Still at the homestead, last I checked. I don’t think they’re a threat.” That was a lie—Bebe knew they had guns, could tell from the way they walked that they were a desperate group. Those people wouldn’t die easy. But she didn’t want them to; she’d rather run with them, or alongside them, as the case was, than with Ambrosia chugging mutants.

“You confirm?” This was towards Baxter.

“They got a lot of guns, but I think we can handle it,” the bald man said, like it wouldn’t be any trouble at all. After all, what was hunting down a few stragglers when you’d spent the last four years grappling with the jungle?

“So we head out to the
Emergency Kit
, then.” Bebe regretted filling Silver in on the spare boat. But then, she hadn’t known where it was; only Maverick knew. He’d coughed up the location after a firm beating.

“Where’s it at?”

Silver looked at her. “In a cove.” He wouldn’t go further than that. He still didn’t trust her. Not that she blamed him. “Here’s your reward for that, by the way.” Silver drew a long syringe out of his pocket and tossed it to her. The vaccine.

Bebe ripped off her mask. Thank God; it was beginning to stink.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the tip off with her teeth, “if this is fake—”

“Believe me, bitch,” he said with a smile, “you earned it.”

“I’m touched.”

“Take it. You’ll need it, where we’re going.”

She eyed the syringe for a moment before jabbing the long needle into her thigh. She pressed the stopper down, and the contents rushed into her bloodstream. A kick of heat heat washed over her, knocked her on the ground.

“Yeah, it’s a real doozy.” Silver loomed over her as her vision swam. “But you’ll be all right in a couple hours. Or, at least able to walk.”

Bebe vomited and curled up closer to the edge of the wall.

“What do we do now, boss,” Baxter said, “leave her?”

“No, she’ll hunt us down. She’s been a good soldier. Let’s pay our dear CEO a visit. Can’t leave him here by himself, can we?”

“No,” Baxter said, eyes agleam, “no, we can’t.”

Unscented, beautiful air
rushed into Maverick’s lungs as he was prodded down the stairs. The sharp rifle butt in his back didn’t even bother him; nor could the smell of puke as he entered the living room stymie his joy. A big, stupid grin was painted across his face, which, coupled with his appearance, made him look like a train-hopping vagrant drunk on port wine.

“Stop smiling, asshole,” Baxter said, punching him in his soft stomach. Wind rushed out of his pipes, and Maverick felt like he was going to suffocate. Still, the smile stayed. It was better than the morgue he’d been living in. Anything was better.

“This is an upgrade,” he managed to choke out after a couple minutes, glancing at each of his captors. It didn’t matter now if he was insolent. They’d kill him anyway, or torture him. Might as well live a little. “I got another box of cigars behind the fireplace. Hand me one?”

“The balls on this—”

“
Baxter
,” Silver said, “grab the man’s cigars. We’re not savages.”

Baxter’s face said that he didn’t quite believe the last bit, but he rooted around, pulled out a wooden box, and handed it to Silver. Bebe groaned and dry heaved.

“You should put these in a humidor,” Silver said, “not up to snuff.”

“Sometimes you just gotta wing it.”

Silver found this hilarious for some reason. Maverick smiled and exhaled. Any minute he was expecting another shot to the ribs, maybe a burn with the butane torch. But hell, that wouldn’t too bad. Pretty soon, he’d be dead.

“You think we should just hand him over to the others?” Baxter.

The others. Now fear pricked into Maverick’s veins. There were others. Thoughts of survival rushed into his mind, and a wave of anxiety shuddered through his bones. He could live.

“Nah, they’d kill him for being a lying prick.” Relief—which was strange. Hope is a dangerous thing.

The ensuing silence was shattered not by a voice, but by a loud explosion.

Maverick hurtled to the floor, coming within inches of face-planting into the wall. His heart rate rose again. It was happening; he was going to die.

Another blast hit the house, and the sound of wood splintering and bricks turning into carbon dust resonated through the dining room’s cathedral ceilings. Debris choked his lungs, filled the air with smoke. Maverick scrambled to his feet.

He hopped over to a stray assault rifle, shouldering it before thinking to check on the others.

No bodies. Baxter and Silver were gone. Bebe lay on the ground, but the wound on her face looked superficial at best; a small trickle of blood dripped down to the floor. A shock and rumble, coupled with a shower of ceiling drywall dumping onto his head, told Maverick that it was time for him to go, too.

With a final forlorn glance at his once magnificent home, Maverick plunged through a shattered window and started running towards the shoreline.

“Holy shit.” Amanda
peered through the field glasses, chewing her tobacco. The group had made it to the knoll without incident, and now could see much of the island. It was a nice little hill—a copse of trees stood around their position, too, so they were covered from any prying eyes.

“What?” Penelope fidgeted on the ground, straining to look through the jungle. All that she could see was smoke.

“It’s the goddamn military.”

“Give me those.” Penelope pulled the binoculars away from Amanda.

“Any comments? Or you just going to stare like a 12 year old boy on his first porn site?”

Penelope handed the glasses back. Amanda passed them to Jackson.

“Army,” he said. “Marines, too. Got to be a couple hundred of them out there.”

“What the hell’s the military doing out there,” Melina said. She didn’t need to see; the smoke dotting the horizon was proof enough that they were telling the truth.

“Snuffing out Ambrosia Team, I guess.” Jackson wiped his brow and sat down on the soft grass. “They’re all outfitted like they’re doing a hazmat sweep. Full gas masks, suits.”

“It’s like a SWAT team coupled with the CDC,” Amanda explained to the rest of the group. Everyone nodded. There was an infection on the mainland; that much had been confirmed.

Somehow, the government had survived it.

“Things never change, do they?” Pierre said. He’d dropped the accent; that part of his life, far as he could tell, was gone. Might as well embrace the new world, no matter who was running it.

“Guess not.” Amanda’s thoughts, however, were focused on the troops surrounding the burning mansion. Her eyes zoomed in on the general, who was gesturing for various troops to head in all sorts of directions. Men fanned out like ants dispersing from a colony. “They’re coming. They’re going to search the island.”

“So we’ll be safe,” Melina said, though that was more of a question than a confident statement.

Amanda shook her head.

“They didn’t ask too many questions about that house, did they?”

“But…”

“What’s a few more bodies to stop a mass genocide?”

The group was silent. The knoll was cozy; free of roars and other frightening sounds, at least for the most part. It felt safe, like a new sort of home. No one knew where they’d end up once they left. Dead, maybe, or in some mainland slum, begging for food rations, fighting with other squalid, dirty people for tainted water.

“We got to move, guys,” Jackson said, his eyes still fixated on the smoky horizon, “we’re dead otherwise.”

Resigned to their fate, the group started walking down the hill to the getaway craft—and, beyond that, into the unknown.

The yacht rocked
in the surf. It was still abandoned, far as Maverick could tell. Useless to get off the island, sure, but maybe the field radios were on there, the spare ones. He could contact someone.

Maverick scrambled up the slick side and tumbled on to the deck. Captain Cooper was nowhere to be found; Maverick had a hunch what that meant. That man wouldn’t have abandoned ship unless something bad had happened to him. Maverick shook the thought off with a twitch of the shoulder, and rushed below deck.

Stocks of unopened wine, fine foodstuffs and other party provisions were stacked almost to the proverbial rafters, and for a moment, Maverick thought of sitting down, cracking a bottle and just
living
until he died. After all, even if he survived, it didn’t seem like there’d be much life in his future days. But survival, the thrill of being alive, that won out, and he ran past the stockpile to the corner of the room. He threw pallet after pallet down, the room filling with the scent of chardonnay, until a small compartment revealed itself.

No one knew about it besides him, Cole and Captain Cooper. He hoped one of those bastards hadn’t gotten to it first. One thing could be said about Maverick; despite his freewheeling nature, he was a man of contingencies. And why not, when you have the millions to spare?

He tugged on the old ring-style handle, and the hinges groaned. No dice. They were rusty, sealed shut with dirt and the passage of time. It’d been years—whenever he first bought this thing—since anyone had opened the hatch. He leaned back, his muscles shuddering from the strange mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.

The door flung open, and Maverick flew back, colliding with an expensive case of rare Bordeaux. The wine showered down on him, and even though it was sticky and a little hot—not to mention the glass scratching his face—it felt good.

Feeling anything felt good.

He dragged a tired forearm across his face and crouched down. A flashlight would’ve been nice, but then, a plunge into the darkness didn’t seem so bad now. He squeezed through the hole and felt around. Nothing. Wood paneling, the slick varnish of the floor. And then…

His hands grasped an object. He dragged it towards him, out of the hole, and then dove back in. Another, and another. Three or four trips, they all seemed to blur together, but when he was done, he sat down and stared.

This, this was better than he could have hoped for. Maybe he wasn’t screwed at all.

“Rodriguez,” a brusque voice shouted, “climb up to the bow, and check the whole damn boat. Finish it up, and maybe you’ll get back in time for a private jerk session.”