The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (7 page)

Derrick could hear Hicks fumbling with the improvised bolt that locked the doors from inside. He almost laughed when he thought how quickly those doors could be ripped from their hinges, a poor defense against the determination he could all but feel emanating from the infected.

“Where are they?” Hicks called out.

Not waiting for more lightning, he pressed his flashlight against the glass and clicked it quickly on and off. There was no concern that the action would have any effect on the Tils. Something inside him told Derrick that the infected knew they had been spotted—knew and did not care.

“They haven’t moved,” he told Hicks, surprised that his voice sounded more level than a moment ago. “They’re just watching… waiting.”

“Waiting for what, though?”

“I don’t know.” Over the cacophony of rain pelting the roof, Derrick could hear one of the Tils shouting in a series of grunts and growls. A second voice responded, just as guttural, but softer, somehow meeker than the first.

“Well, I’m not much for waiting,” Hicks said as he pressed in beside him and peered out the window. “The thunder will cover our shots. I’ll take the two on the left, you do the one on the right. Shine some light on ‘em so we can get ready.”

Derrick again brought the flashlight up to the window and splashed a second of light to more accurately target their quarry. A moment later lightning broke the dark, but neither man fired his weapon. The statues had moved, vanished into the night, yet every few minutes their grating cries shattered the silence.

“What the hell are they doing?” Hicks spat rhetorically.

Derrick turned to the other man’s voice and knew without even a hint of uncertainty, understood in the deep places of the mind where one hides the worst of fears, he knew and simply said, “They’re planning.”

Far earlier than he had hoped, Paul had been fielding questions about Derrick and Hicks’ disappearance from the Horde camp well before noon. Most were willing to accept the ambiguous “They’re out scouting” explanation, but some pressed him further, intuitively linking the departure with the events of the previous night. During those inquisitions, he did his best to steer the conversation away from the truth. The story of a possible Til entering the camp had spread wide and magnified with each retelling. The newest additions to the community still held onto the insecurities that had plagued them over the past years. Yet, even the most stalwart veterans of the Horde could not hide their unease. Though he was now the technical head of the group, Derrick’s orchestration of the coup d’etat which removed Drennan from power had earned him an irreproachable reverence from the Horde’s denizens.

As much as he disliked it, secluding himself within the command tent was proving to be the best method of avoiding the onslaught of inquiries. With only a few days until the scheduled exodus south, Paul had originally believed his time would be better spent overseeing the preparations. He had abandoned that idea after realizing his presence slowed work to a near standstill. Everyone, it seemed, had questions. For the two hours since noon, he had sat at his desk staring at the few maps in the camp’s possession. He had already decided on the route the Horde would navigate to the Mohawk, but idleness had proved to be as frustrating as avoiding questions. Only when the sound of thunder sounded in the distance did he push the maps aside. I can probably draw them from memory now. Easing himself from the chair, he walked around the desk and pushed back the flap of the large tent.

Ominous clouds had already blocked out the daylight, and the camp was busy preparing for the approaching bad weather. With sardonic gratitude, Paul was relieved to find his emergence from the tent had gone unnoticed as people bustled along, pulling drying laundry off clotheslines, gathering children and possessions, before seeking the dry protection of tents and huts. On further reflection, he realized that fewer children had been running about today. “Because of the Til,” he said aloud to no one, as a firework crackle of thunder boomed above. He would have preferred to sequester the eyewitness mother and child, but the gossip had already begun before he could stem its fast moving tide.

As the first of the sky’s moisture began to drizzle down, he decided to check in with the armory before the storm prevented outdoor movement. Unbidden, the two guards that were stationed at the command tent fell into step behind him. He had initially been irked by the constant presence of guards, a measure Derrick had put into place without Paul’s knowledge. Though he was their commander, they obeyed every order except for leaving his side. Over the past three weeks, he learned to ignore their ever present attendance, much as one accepts a fly buzzing just out of reach.

Though most had already sought shelter, the men of the armory were still at their task. While everyone in the camp was allowed the possession of small firearms, one of Paul’s first orders was the collection and inventory of automatic weapons and heavy artillery. The Horde’s followers grumbled but eventually acquiesced to the command and turned over a trove of weapons. His public logic to the camp was that those detached for security required the firepower. It was Hicks, however, who had pointed out in private that if there were any still loyal to Drennan who wished to exact revenge, those weapons remaining at large was too great a risk, and Paul had seen firsthand how easy it had been to arm the coup that toppled the brutal leader. He was beginning to see how heavily the role of leader had pressed upon Mike. Politics and decisions at every turn, he often mumbled in his thoughts.

He spoke quickly with the armory men, men Derrick had selected personally, assuring their loyalty. Within a week of the weapons collection, the men had requested a second trailer in which to store the vast arsenal. Whatever Drennan’s faults—and they were many, Paul knew—the man had amassed a seemingly limitless supply of weapons and ammunition. Even with the expanding population, the weaponry outnumbered residents ten to one. Though he intended to give them the choice, he secretly hoped most of the Horde’s followers opted to remain with him. What I could do with an armed force in the hundreds!

During the few moments at the armory, both rain and wind increased, and the lightning was dancing ever nearer to the camp. Parting from the men, Paul and his twin shadows cut a fast trot back to the command tent. Until the storm abated, all preparations would have to be suspended. The camp’s security teams, surely soaked through now, were the only souls moving about in the tempest. Reassuming positions under the awning of the command tent, Paul’s guards offered him respectful nods as he ducked into the structure.

Removing the drenched jacket from his shoulders, he stooped to the free-standing wood stove that stood at the tent’s center. A rather unsteady-looking assemblage of metal tubing stretched towards the canvas roof which provided an escape for smoke. Rain-slick and cold hands proved difficult in igniting the split logs, but on the fourth attempt a thin tendril of gray rose from the wood. As the kindling caught, Paul rested on the backs of his calves, holding his hands to the emerging warmth. Only when his body ceased its damp shivering, did he cross to the desk.

Frustration kept him from returning to his study of the maps that covered the once-polished wood. Not only had the storm prevented further progress on much needed preparations, Paul’s mind now worried about the whereabouts of Derrick and Hicks. True, they were not due back until the following morning, but he could not rest easy now that the storm had moved in. If, for some reason, the pair did not return when scheduled, the heavy rain would make tracking them all but impossible. As it was, the two he had sent out were the most proficient trackers available to him.

Long hours passed as he sat and waited. Having failed to light the hurricane lamps strategically placed around the tent, Paul’s eyes strained to see in the faint glow of the wood stove. Twice he had called out to the guards to inquire of word of Hicks and Derrick. Both times Cole, one of the two guards that had reported for night duty, informed him that neither had returned yet. He hoped he’d imagined the anxious concern he had seen on the man’s face.

At several points during the night, his head tipped and a few shallow minutes of sleep stole over him. Waking with a start each time, Paul would immediately look to the tent entrance but the canvas flaps, clasped shut, only rippled in the driving wind. The thought of retiring to his bed had been quickly dismissed. He doubted he would rest any easier there. He could not explain, even to himself, why such worried agitation plagued him. He had watched men and women leave and return dozens of times on missions, both in the mountain camp and back on New Cuba.

Whatever the cause for his unease, either a result of the storm or simply already frayed nerves, Paul knew the night would be long and restless. The full force of the weather collided with the encampment. Thunder followed quickly on the heels of lightning strikes, both compounding his anxiety.

His mind wandered back to New Cuba, and the house and times he had shared with Lisa. Many nights they had sat on the second floor balcony, gazing into the night sky. His grandfather had instilled in him a keen interest in astronomy, and during those quiet moments in Havana, Lisa would lean against his chest as Paul pointed out various constellations his long-gone grandfather had taught him.

Missing her, the hollow pain in his heart created by her death made feeling anything else all but impossible. That same sorrow provided the injection of purpose he needed as the Horde’s leader, however. Lisa had accompanied the mission in part at his request. Her sacrifice would not be wasted. She had expected him to find survivors and deliver them to safety. Meeting that goal was all that kept him from collapsing into misery.

Rising to his feet, Paul paced the interior edge of the command tent. He had voluntarily spent much of the day secluded there, and the night’s storm forced him to languish for additional hours in the canvas headquarters. Now, he found the isolation grating.

He had long grown used to the company of others. Whether the inner circle of the mountain camp, Lisa and his friends in New Cuba, the men of his search and rescue teams, or more recently Hicks and Derrick, Paul enjoyed the distractions amiable conversations offered him. I really must be getting cabin fever if I’d look forward to a conversation with Hicks, he mused.

The former mercenary and the Horde leader had developed a collegial relationship over the past several weeks. Though the man still possessed his harsh and jaded views, Paul could not dismiss Hicks’ insights in managing the expanding community. Derrick too, supplied much needed suggestions and details regarding the Horde’s members. While Paul was at the helm, the other two men greatly aided his navigation of these uncharted waters.

Thinking of water turned his mind back to the maelstrom outside. He had agreed to a set time frame to wait for Hicks and Derrick’s return, but his desire for action prompted him to call out to one of the guards at his tent entrance.

“Sir?”

“Pick three or four of our best trackers,” Paul issued. Our best trackers are out in the storm, he sourly thought again. “I want them to leave at first light.”

“Yes, sir!” the guard replied with near martial formality before exiting the tent.

Knowing how well the two men enjoyed roaming in the wild, Paul spoke to himself. “Sorry, guys. Fun time is over.”

The palpable tension made the drive all the more grueling. Settled uncomfortably into the backseat of the Humvee, Lisa stared out of the small window on her right. Much like the last three weeks, Mike made no attempt to include her in the conversation in which he was currently engaged with Erik. As their voices faded into a dull murmur at the rear of her consciousness, Lisa stared out at the empty landscape, contemplating the decisions that had placed her in this situation. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to fault Mike for his anger towards her. That someone would discover her involvement in the Ira Project, and her subsequent hiding of that truth, had plagued her relentlessly over the years.

Though he may have secluded himself on New Cuba, she knew Mike held loyalty and friendship as prized virtues. That one so close to him—part of his inner circle—had committed an act of destructive treason was certain to cut deeply. Would I have received such news any differently? She knew the answer easily. As much as she sought forgiveness and redemption in the eyes of those whom she loved, Lisa could admit she would have been just as unlikely to grant it if roles had been reversed.

Losing Andrew had only further hardened Mike’s feelings against her, but his reaction was not all that troubled her as the Humvee navigated the sloped bank of the parkway. No, it was the fear that the loathing in Mike’s eyes would be identical to Paul’s when he learned the truth.

The scenery beyond the Humvee had changed little over the past few hours. Abandoned automobiles, an all too familiar sight, littered the expansive roadway, restricting speed to little more than a steady crawl. Skeletons, some whole but most dismembered, crunched under the vehicle’s heavy tires. From time to time she would see an emaciated form rise briefly into view. Either too weak to pursue or fearing the hulking steel prey, the few Tils spotted refrained from attack. Only once, when the Humvee was forced to a near stop as Mike maneuvered it through a congestion of cars, did a Til pose a fleeting threat. The figure, eyes bulging from a skull thinly covered in flesh, and limbs deathly thin, stumbled against the truck in an attempt to feed. Weak as it was, the Til did not fall until Erik fired a second round in its ribs-visible chest.