The Last Place on Earth (14 page)

Across the yard, one of the little blond girls slipped on a pair of oversized rubber boots and clomped over to the goats.

Henry said, “My parents and some of the others met Mr. Dunkle at a prepper convention about a year and a half ago. He was in the Special Forces once, which my dad thought was cool. But mostly the families hired him because he's done a lot of construction work. At least he said he had. He and his family are allowed to live here in exchange for renovating the property. But they've been here a year already, and…” He shrugged.

I thought of the paper I'd seen in his parents' office. “This consortium—is it the same as the Shooting Star Society?”

He stared at me. “How do you know about that?”

“Um…” He wouldn't mind that I'd used the security code to get into his house, but breaking into his parents' office might be crossing a line.

He shook his head. “Never mind. It's probably better if I don't know. The Shooting Star Society doesn't exist.”

“But the sun-catcher in your window … at Gwendolyn's house, too.”

“One of the Platt kids made those for everyone a couple of Christmases ago, gave them to everyone in the consortium. And I think it was just because they were so tacky that no one wanted to hang them, but someone suggested we save them to use as a secret signal in the event of a bugout.”

“But the address in Big Bear…”

He stared at me. “You went through my parents' files?”

“Not all of them.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair. “And I told my parents they were being paranoid, believing that anyone would ever take the time to go through their papers. They put the shooting star thing on a bunch of papers to mislead anyone who tried to track us down. The address is for an empty lot.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A smile spread across his face. “You tried pretty hard to find me, huh?”

I refused to smile back. I was still mad.

He said, “My parents own that piece of land. We used to go up to Big Bear a lot, and they were going to build a cabin. But Mr. Waxweiler convinced them that Big Bear was a bad place to bug out—too close to LA. Mostly, I think, he just wanted them to go in on this property because he couldn't afford it on his own, and Mrs. Waxweiler would only agree to buy a bugout location if it looked like a fancy retreat.”

“But how did all the building stuff even get here?” I thought about the scrambling we'd had to do to get here from the bunker.

“A fire road runs in front of the house—connects to the state highway. Goes pretty close to the bunker, too, but it's shorter to cut through the woods.”

On the other side of the yard, chicken wire enclosed a broad patch set aside for farming—which may be a generous term for a whole bunch of random plants crammed together in a few raised beds, but whatever. Another of the little blond girls (I couldn't remember her name, but I think it began with a
K
) crouched at the edge of the garden, pulling weeds.

We tiptoed around animal poop to the very back of the fenced enclosure, where two raised white boxes emitted an almost electrical buzz. Guess I'd been right about those beehives.

I remembered the pamphlet I had read while trapped—no, imprisoned—underground. “Did you know that honey never goes bad?”

He nodded.

“And that honey has antibiotic properties?”

Another nod.

“It's annoying that you always know everything.”

At the far corner of the fence, Henry spun a combination lock around until it popped. He pushed open the gate, and we stepped into the wilderness. White-barked trees reached for the sky, their delicate leaves shimmering in the hot breeze. I took a deep breath: only good smells out here beyond the compound. Above us birds tweeted lovely songs while squirrels leapt among the branches.

Squirrels.

“Are they done hunting yet? Because I don't want to get shot.”

“Hunting only happens on the other side of the property. We're good. Besides, Killer never misses a chance to shoot something, so if he's back at the house, it means fun time is over.”

I wasn't angry at Henry anymore—just baffled that he had fallen for his parents' bizarre tale. After all, he was the one who had always said they were paranoid. But maybe it's easier to tell the difference between sane and batty when you are living in normal society and not holed up in an unfinished McMansion with a tribe of blond conspiracy theorists.

Ahead, gurgling sounds filtered through the dense autumn air. We rounded a prickly bush and took a few careful steps down a hillside, to a clear, shallow stream rimmed with bright green plants.

I dipped my hand into the chilly water. “Is it safe to drink?”

Henry shrugged. “Probably. But we don't take chances. We have a water filtration system back at the compound so advanced that Mr. Waxweiler says it can make urine taste like bottled water.”

“Ew.”

“I know.”

“Good bottled water? Or supermarket brand?”

Henry laughed. It was so good to hear that sound it made me feel like I was with my best friend again.

“I haven't tested it,” he said. “And I don't plan to.”

I crouched down and splashed my face before settling on the bank and leaning back on my hands. “Henry. About this end-of-the-world stuff.”

His face turned grim. “It's true.”

I backed up. “How long has your family been preparing for disaster?”

He shrugged. “My parents? Like, forever. All those camping trips we took were really bugout test runs. We'd pack our bugout bags and time our escape and then compare all the stuff we brought along. I thought it was stupid, but sometimes I got to miss school, so that was cool.”

“But why take off for the wilderness when you have so much survival stuff at home? I mean—ten years' worth of toilet paper?”

“It's always best to get away from population centers in a crisis, but my parents stocked up on supplies in case we had to shelter in place. Like if there was an earthquake and the roads were impassable. And that's only two years' worth of toilet paper, by the way. So—I take it you searched my whole house.”

I nodded. “I didn't know what else to do. I found the note you left me in your room.”

“What note?”

“The one that said ‘Save me.'”

“Oh. That.” He squatted next to the stream, cupped his hands, and splashed his face and hair. Henry's dark hair was on the unruly side when I'd last seen him. Now it was almost long enough to tuck behind his ears.

“It was for me, right?”

He nodded. “I thought my parents were out of their minds when they told me we were bugging out for real. I didn't want to go. At the pond I was going to ask you to hide me. But I chickened out. I knew how ridiculous the whole thing sounded.” He shrugged. “When I got home, I started to write you that note, but I couldn't even figure out what to say beyond ‘Save me.' Then I came to the conclusion that after a week or so, my parents would realize it was a false alarm and we'd come back.”

“It's been more than a week,” I said.

He hesitated. “It wasn't till I got up here that I realized this thing really could wipe out civilization—or kill a lot of people, at the very least. That's when I sent you the coordinates. I wanted to save you. Help you escape before things turn bad.”

He sat down next to me on the bank, pulled off his sneakers and socks, and dipped his pale, narrow feet into the water. Immediately, the hems of his jeans turned dark. He either didn't notice or didn't care. Remembering his swim in the murky pond, I guessed the latter.

He said, “Madagascar is an island off of the southeast coast of Africa. It's where lemurs come from.”

“Yes, I saw the movie. With you, as I recall.”

“Yeah, well, real lemurs can't talk, but they're still pretty cute, which means some people want them as pets. They are also primates, like humans, which means they can get us sick more easily than other animals. It's illegal to export them, but of course people smuggle them out. There's a network in Eastern Europe. They pretend to be breeders, but all their animals were actually poached from the island.”

“And some of the lemurs had the plague.”

He nodded. “Last month, six lemurs were brought into Texas, and at least two of them were infected.”

He held my eyes. Clearly, this was my moment to express shock and fear and to thank him for saving me from the dangers posed by two lemurs in Texas.

“This is fascinating,” I said. “And it would make a great movie. But here's the thing: There is no Madagascar plague epidemic. No one is dying. And there was no good reason to lure me up here and imprison me underground.”

“I didn't want to put you into quarantine,” he said.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “You let them.”

“It was the only way they'd let you come. It was the only way I could save you.”

I shook my head. “Everything you're saying—I know you believe it. But it's crazy, Henry.”

He spun around on the rock and slipped his socks and shoes back on over his wet feet. “I need to show you something.”

 

Twenty

HENRY'S ROOM WAS
upstairs, beyond the bonus room. It was surprisingly small for a house this size, plus, like most of the house, it was unfinished: The floors were plywood, and the one smallish window had yet to be trimmed.

Instead of a real bed, a single mattress had been shoved into the corner. No baseball-themed comforter here, just a bottom sheet and a few rumpled beige blankets. A cardboard carton, turned upside down, served as a night table. There was no reading lamp, no desk, no chair, no rug. At least his guitar was here now. Since he didn't have a stand, he left the instrument in its case and propped it up in the corner.

The walls were plain except for a photograph of us tacked above his bed. It was from the summer. We had taken a box of orange Popsicles to the pond, but most of them melted before we got around to eating them. That seemed like a long time ago.

“Did you decorate the room yourself?” I forced a note of cheer into my voice. “You have a real eye for design.”

“There's a room next door the same size as this,” he told me. “It's for one of the other families, the Wards, but you can stay there till they arrive. There's a couch—looks pretty comfortable.”

“Are you sure the Wards are coming? Why aren't they here yet?”

He shrugged. “My dad sent them a message before we left. No one's been able to make contact with them or the Platts for a couple of weeks, but this is where they'll come. Unless they're sick already.”

I felt the need to state the obvious. “Or … maybe they haven't shown up because there was no reason to leave.” I sat down on Henry's mattress. It was so much harder than his bed at home, and the dust tickled my nose.

“You don't believe me about the plague.”

I considered. “I believe that this Madagascar thing exists. I just don't believe it's a serious threat.”

He stood over me for a moment before speaking. “Wait here.”

He went into the room next door and returned with a couple of sheets of paper. The first one he showed me was a statement of some kind. At the top, it said
Forever Friends Pet Insurance: Benefit Statement.

“Your mom's company?”

He nodded.

Underneath the heading were names of a pet owner, Catherine Williams, and her insured animal, a male cat named Jeronimo. The payable benefits list included a whole lot of drug names, medical procedures, and codes.

I looked up from the paper. “So?”

Henry sat on the mattress next to me and pointed to a notation:
Yersinia malagasi
. “See the diagnosis? That's the bacteria that causes the Mad Plague—that's what the press is calling it. The cat was never anywhere near a lemur. They think the disease was transmitted by a flea.”

“Is the cat okay?”

Henry shook his head.

“Poor kitty.”

“The owner died, too. They tried all kinds of antibiotics, but nothing worked.” He handed me the second sheet of paper. “This is a memo from the president of my mom's company.”

CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION MEMORANDUM

TO: All Claims Managers

FROM: Richard Baracov

RE:
Yersinia malagasi

We are all understandably shaken by the news of a human death resulting from bacterial infection with
Yersinia malagasi (YM)
, which medical professionals are assuming was transmitted by her companion feline. Unfortunately, this case was not isolated. There have been reports of five other pet infections in the past week, two of which have been transmitted to humans. Please note that there have been no human-to-human contact cases confirmed.

We remain confident that an effective treatment will be identified shortly and urge your discretion regarding the case. Please remember that you have all signed privacy agreements in regards to our clients and that any contact with the press is prohibited.

I handed back the paper.

“This is real, Daisy. We are on the verge of a pandemic.”

“I never understood the difference between a pandemic and an epidemic.”

“A pandemic is bigger. More people get sick. More die.”

“Three people doesn't sound like a pandemic. Or even an epidemic.”

He shook his head. “That was just the beginning. The day after that memo was written, that woman's boyfriend got sick. He was dead within days. It was all over the Internet. Didn't you see it?”

I shook my head.

“That was back when the CDC was insisting the Mad Plague wasn't very contagious. But in most of the human cases, the bacteria has infected the lungs. Once that happens, it goes airborne. You can catch it in a classroom, on an airplane, in a store—anywhere. The disease can travel between humans, between animals and humans, or through fleas. There are antibiotics to treat the bubonic plague, but if there is anything that cures the Madagascar plague, no one has found it yet.