The Pandemic Sequence (Book 3): The Tilian Cure (9 page)

Matt had hypothesized correctly. Not only had the phantom gun-fire masked their gasps for air upon resurfacing, but the sound had lured the Mohawk-men. In relative safety on a different ship, they watched as the inflatable filled with five armed men pulled alongside their now-empty boat. Matt had secured it to a larger boat, by its size Michelle assumed it would be called a small yacht. By cutting a small gash into his palm, he had left a “trail” that indicated that he and Michelle had boarded the yacht. But, Michelle wondered, would these guys fall for it?

In response to her silent question, the men rose to stand as they cautiously attempted to board the tethered vessels. With their targets now exposed, Matt settled his rifle along the rail and aimed into the distance. Michelle had to rely on her handgun and her once accurate aim. Firing from a water-tossed boat, at moving targets some hundred yards away, was likely beyond her ability, but Matt assured her he would be able to bring the five men down with his rifle. Whispering a word of encouragement, he lowered his eyes to the gun’s sights. Once he let loose the first shot, Michelle did her best to provide supporting fire. The men, caught off guard as they stepped between boats, dove for cover, but not before Matt was able to remove three of them from the threat.

The return fire was expected and initially far off course. Matt had chosen the vantage point well. In their rush to cover, the men had not seen from which of the many boats nestled together in the marina the attack had come. When one of the remaining men crept into view, Matt smoothly placed a bullet into his head. She could not believe how calm and steady her companion’s hands were. Granted, her hands still shook from the near-drowning, but his movements were decisive and composed. And accurate, she added, as she watched the fifth and final man fall to a shot. Handing her the rifle, Matt dove back into the water. Seeing him now, swimming unencumbered by dragging her along, she realized how embarrassingly awkward her own form had been. His body sliced through the water with measured movements, arms and legs perfectly synced. Far faster than she expected, he reached the boats. Reminding herself to cover him, Michelle angled the rifle and watched for any last moments of life from the felled pursuers.

She felt great relief when he finally returned and she was able to lower the weapon, her strength seemed renewed as she hopped down into their boat. Matt had already seen to the last stage of their escape. Even at this short distance, Michelle could almost believe that the propped-up soldiers sitting in the inflatable were alive – if she ignored the gaping holes in heads and chests.

“Okay,” Matt began, pulling her from her corpse-focused stare. “I’ll give you a fifteen second lead before I come out behind you.”

“Are you sure we need to do this?”

“If they only see our boat, the Mohawk won’t let up. But if they see one of their own chasing, they might not act as quickly.”

The logic in his argument was sound, and Michelle knew it. She worried, however, about the two of them separating. Selfishly, she knew if something happened to Matt, it was unlikely she would be able to navigate her way back to New Cuba. She needed him if she had any hope of reaching Duncan.

“Fifteen seconds,” he said again, his tone clearly an attempt towards reassurance. “And don’t stop until you see me swing back in towards the coast.”

“Got it.” Once Matt detached the inflatable from the boat, Michelle followed his instructions and set the craft into motion. Fear gnawed at the corners of her mind as she imagined finding the Mohawk already having closed the distance. As she cleared the inlet, she stole a quick glance over her shoulder. Though present, the military ship was still some ways off. Steering her boat into the east, she could feel the rush of wind push back her hair and her anxiety. We might actually have made it.

As the Mohawk shrank behind her, the much smaller form of Matt and the inflatable of dead soldiers drew nearer. Within the hour, he darted for the coast. Impressed with her captaining, Michelle was, however, eager to rejoin Matt and hand over the navigation duties to his vastly greater experience. Wasting little time, he had already removed the weapons that had helped stiffen the backs of the limp corpses. After transferring the additional firepower to their boat, he tossed several of the soldiers’ packs onto the deck before leaving the inflatable himself.

Using one of the newly obtained handguns, Matt fired several rounds into the craft’s hull. The rushing and hissing of the escaping air was quickly covered by the roar of their engine. As they sped on ever eastward, Michelle watched the inflatable and its men slip slowly from view.

They had managed to travel well into the night without encountering the Mohawk, even when low fuel once again required Matt to bring the boat in to the coast. That second search had taken longer, but there had still been no sight of the enemy ship as they departed. Before the sun had completely set behind them, Michelle had been able to see the Florida coast inching nearer.

Since they had arrived later than planned, Matt agreed that the relatively short trip south to New Cuba could not wait until the following night. The Mohawk may no longer be a threat, but that would change if they were to wait until the following night to make the crossing. Weary from both stress and physical exertion, the pair set their minds on reaching the island’s shore before sunrise.

During that all too brief year when the world seemed to resume a form of normalcy, Michelle realized she had become quite spoiled with access to certain comforts. Since leaving Havana, she had fought the daily pangs of hunger for food that was more palatable than what could be safely stored for years. As the boat motored through the darkness, she teased herself with thoughts of Tumelo Sardina’s exquisite cooking. Those thoughts, of course, only worsened the cravings.

It had been slightly shy of a month since her old friend and his wife had helped her and the others escape from New Cuba. There had been little time to ponder in the intervening weeks if the couple had suffered any ill consequence for assisting the flight from the island. And if they did? she asked herself. As much as she hated risking their safety, Michelle knew that once she reached Havana, she would be calling on the Sardinas again. I’ll have to tell them about Andrew. God, it will be like reliving it again.

Her thoughts then turned to Senora Sardina. For months Michelle had withered under the imposing woman’s scowl. All attempts to be cordial had been met with stoic indifference. Except on the night of the escape. Senora Maritza Sardina—“Itza” as she told Michelle—had been an indomitable force of strength, an iron fist in a lace glove. She could feel her own resolve returning as she considered the other woman. Having lost all her children, first to a car crash and then the virus, Itza had endured. For the first time since Andrew’s death, Michelle wondered if she too, might have the strength to mourn but not crumble.

Marking the hours by the stars’ steady procession across the night sky, Michelle and Matt took turns piloting the boat. Unfamiliar with the route and its dangers, she was relieved that Matt did not stray too far from the helm. As they crossed the sea, the two talked idly of things of little consequence, sharing stories of their respective youths and families. she could sense that they both were avoiding any topic that touched on the outbreak and all that followed it. It was in that way they were able to pass the time in good humor, as simply two friends on a night cruise. The horrors behind and before them, both in time and distance, could be forgotten, if only for those brief hours.

Approximating their location relative to New Cuba, Matt cut the boat’s lights and navigated by memory. Even travelling at nearly top speed, the eastern sky was brightening by fractional degrees. If stopped by any coastal guards, Matt hoped the fabrication of two lovers out for the night would be enough to pass a cursory questioning.

New Cuba soon became visible as the sun seemed to be racing the boat, the sky above the island rapidly increasing the red glow of morning. Checking to make sure the weapons were stowed out of sight, Michelle returned to stand beside Matt as he brought them closer to port. With a start, she now noticed that the sky in the east had not changed much. In fact it was only the air above New Cuba that was glowing. As the distance closed, the thick black clouds that blanketed the sky confirmed her worry. Havana was burning.

Unconsciously, Michelle grabbed Matt’s arm as they wordlessly stared at the endless line of buildings aflame. Sections that had not been populated since before the outbreak now gushed with billowing fire. So too, did sections she knew to be inhabited. There were no fire crews, no evidence of rescue or emergency vehicles, simply a burning torch of a city.

“What could have happened?” she said, though it was unlikely any explanation would be sufficient for the carnage before her eyes.

Except for one.

Her eyes followed the direction of Matt’s outstretched arm. Silhouetted against the flames, Michelle could see several figures scurrying to hide from the light now beaming from the boat. Their faces could not been seen at that distance, but it was not faces that provided the answer.

“The Tils are loose,” Michelle muttered, feeling both dread and anger.

“It’s too dangerous,” Derrick exclaimed once again, though the words seemed to fall short of Hicks’ selective hearing. During the last five minutes, amidst the bone-chilling keening of the Tils, he had tried to dissuade Hicks from what could only be considered a suicide mission. In truth, though, he knew the other man had the right of it. If the Tils had advanced enough to coordinate and plan, then the next logical conclusion was that the cries that split the night’s storm were signals to other infected.

“We don’t even know where they are out there,” he tried the second argument against the plan.

“If we wait much longer, we could be facing dozens, maybe hundreds, of Tils. This shed isn’t going to offer a minute of protection against a force that size. We come out now, guns blazing, and make a run for the camp. We might have a chance. I know you’re scared, kid, but—”

“I’m not scared,” Derrick snapped. Hicks’ nickname for him was one thing, but he would not accept actually being treated like one. He did wish his tone had not sounded quite so peevish when he cut the other man off.

“No? Well hell, I am,” Hicks said with a grunting laugh. “So, we doing this?”

Not seeing any alternative, at least not one with the potential for a better outcome, Derrick replied affirmatively with as much courage as he could reasonably muster. The Tils that stalked in the raging storm outside were clearly unlike any he had faced before. The feeling of being hunted and observed he likened to being tracked by a wolf pack. Predators not rushing in for a sloppy kill, but rather moving and manipulating their prey to the moment and location of the pack’s choosing. The fear in his head reminded him: Never run from a wolf.

Moving through the darkness, which was broken less frequently by lightning than when the storm first moved in, he joined Hicks by the shed’s thin metal doors. Breathing deeply failed to still his racing pulse, but the pistol in his left hand provided a small gain in confidence. Easing his thumb along the power button on the flashlight in his right hand, Derrick whispered his readiness to the mercenary at his side.

“Remember keep the light to a minimum, and run like hell.”

Derrick had hoped for words slightly more encouraging from the more experienced man, though he knew Hicks was a man of practicality, not inspiration.

“3…2…1.” When Hicks finished the countdown, both men raised a leg, though one would have sufficed, and smashed open the doors. In less than a heartbeat, the pair was racing east through the heavy rain. Just as quickly the inhuman shouts of the Tils changed in pitch and tone to something more panicked, more immediate.

The chase begins, Derrick thought as he ran.

Through flickers of their flashlights, they pounded across the land. Nature seemed against them as the rain bit at their vision and the muddied ground clung and sucked at their boots in an attempt to force a stumble. After the Tils had sounded their alarm, they once again resumed a deathly silence. Derrick did not doubt the infected were in pursuit, he could only hope to outrun them.

Flashing a bar of light ahead briefly, he saw a blur of movement to his right. Swinging his arm across his chest, he fired several rounds into the distance, knowing only luck would guide the bullets to his target. The echoing shots were answered by a vicious chorus of bestial howls. Though unseen, he knew that well more than three Tils trailed behind. Cracks of lightning split the sky in front of him, and he used the momentary light to check his flanks as he ran. Fast moving shapes were cutting a parallel course on either side. Once the rolls of thunder ceased, he could only hear the drumming rhythm of the footfalls and breathing of himself and Hicks.

Again using the flashlight, the pair had to veer quickly as a storm-cloaked tree obstructed the path. Rain and wind lashed at his face, but they caused no lessening of the fiery adrenaline that coursed thought his veins. In the few moments of illumination, Derrick scanned desperately for some type of shelter, yet he knew they were committed to their current action. Stopping now would only allow the Tils to surround them and attack. Running, out-running, was the only option now. He had had impressive times running the forty on his high school football team, but he feared the outcome of a long distance race. Especially one in near total darkness.