Colony East (10 page)

Before the night of the purple moon, he might have been a good basketball player, popular, with lots of friends. Or maybe he had grown fast and was gangly and had never had friends. Through no fault of his own, the epidemic had changed the course of his life. He still bore responsibility for his actions, but it was unlikely that he would have turned into a killer under better circumstances.

Abby believed that a kind act sometimes set off ripples that spread out and eventually inspired other kind acts. She held out her life jacket.

In a blur of motion, Mel slammed Brad’s fingers with the rock she had picked up earlier. He screamed, flopped back, and disappeared beneath a swirl of bubbles.

“Hold on,” Jordan shouted at that moment and snipped the mooring line with the jaws of the pliers.
Stargazer
lurched and they started drifting sideways toward the other shore. He scrambled to the tiller and pushed it all the way to the port side. When he pulled in the mainsheet, the sail puffed out.
Stargazer
heeled from the harnessed wind and cut a straight line through the chop.

Abby fixed her gaze on the spot where Brad had gone under and a shiver passed through her when she realized he wasn’t coming up. Mel was staring at the splatter of blood on the rail, and Abby put her arm around her friend. She didn’t think she could ever kill like that, but she understood Mel’s rage and fear. Abby wondered just how far she, herself, would go to protect the people she loved most. Turning to the bow, she hoped she’d never have to find out.

ONE YEAR LATER

CHAPTER ONE
Colony East

Lieutenant Mark Dawson squinted against the rays of morning light streaming through his room at the Biltmore Hotel. After five years of submarine duty, he found it strange waking to sunshine.

A lump formed in his throat as he thought back to that moment on the
USS Seawolf
, two years ago, when Admiral Samuels’ voice had crackled through the squawk box, changing his life forever. “A catastrophic epidemic has swept the planet. We will remain submerged until further notice.”

Dawson had stood next to his bunk, paralyzed with fear, thinking about his wife and baby daughter at home as the admiral delivered the chilling news.

As it passed by the Earth, a comet had deposited bacteria into the atmosphere, which attacked the human hormones testosterone and estrogen. Except for scientists in quarantine in Atlanta and on-duty members of the U.S. Naval submarine fleet, every adult and post-pubescent teen in the country had perished. Other countries had fared worse.

In the months that followed, Dawson struggled with constant anxiety about his daughter, Sarah, as the wait for the handful of remaining scientists to develop an antibiotic to defeat the bacteria dragged on.

Seven months later, the CDC had developed the antibiotic and distributed the pills to Navy personnel, and then the two organizations worked together to distribute the pills to the millions of survivors who were still dying when they entered adolescence. Fighting time, and with little experience in the logistics of such an operation, they had tried to do too much with too few resources and their efforts failed miserably. The fiery tragedy at Logan Airport, in Boston, proved to be the first of many. Now, the CDC, with support from the Navy, had embarked on a new strategy to rebuild society.

Dawson rolled onto his side and fixed his gaze on the picture of Sarah on the table next to his bed. She’d turn three years old next month, on May twenty-third. He fanned the ember of hope that she was alive and an older child who had survived the epidemic was taking care of her.

He shot up in bed when a muffled cry came from down the hallway. Dawson craned his ears but heard only silence. One of the younger cadets must have been having a nightmare.

Doctor Perkins, the colony’s chief scientist, had counseled company leaders to take no action for nightmares. “Horrible memories fester in the subconscious, and dreams help the children process what they experienced during the epidemic. It’s the healthiest way for them to cope with losing loved ones.”

Dawson didn’t always agree with Doctor Perkins, but thought he was probably right about the dreams. Still, every cry and scream he heard in the night felt like a punch in the gut.

He dropped to the floor and stiff as a plank of wood, cranked off one hundred pushups. It was a daily routine since his freshman year at the Naval Academy. He started a second set, knowing he would probably do a third one as well. He would keep going until the ache of oxygen-starved muscles burned away his anguish.

Three hundred and sixty-two pushups later, Dawson popped to his feet and entered the bathroom. Looking at himself in the mirror, he realized a visit to the barber was in order to keep his wavy, black hair within grooming standards. The crook on the bridge of his nose triggered a memory of John Collins, his roommate at the Academy. JC had accidentally spiked a ball in his face, in a game of volleyball. Sadly, Collins had accepted an assignment in a carrier group and died during the epidemic. He always wondered if Collins had done him a favor, though. Dawson’s wife had told him that his broken nose made him look handsome.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, trying to put loved ones and his former roommate out of his mind.

After a week-long interruption, the water was running again. The repair crew, who made daily descents into New York City’s underground labyrinth of pipes and cabling, had finally found the leaky pipe that fed Biltmore Company. He didn’t envy the sewer crew. One chief petty officer claimed to have seen rats the size of raccoons.

Dawson exited the bathroom and picked up the envelope stamped CONFIDENTIAL from the floor where an ensign had slipped it under the door in the early morning hours. The other company leaders at the Hilton, the Sheraton, and the Four Seasons, would also have received the daily memorandum.

He committed the day’s activities and items of interest to memory:

Lecture on the lifecycle of the honeybee at Carnegie Hall, 1500 hours … Two-way traffic on Broadway … Power out in sectors 2 and 7 … Local area network access restored at the Chrysler Building … Subway operational from Wall Street to Times Square … Seeking volunteers at the United Nations chicken coop.

He tensed when he saw the Code 4.

Code 4: Stay alert for children who experience any combination of the following symptoms: Increased appetite, fever above 101 degrees, breathing disorders, hallucinations. Report cases to Medical Clinic 17.

He read the section a second time and then filed the memorandum.

He had forty-five minutes of unscheduled time before reveille. He put on his running shorts and shirt and laced up his sneakers. He walked down the plush red-and-gold carpet and entered the stairwell through the fire-exit door. He sprinted up forty flights to the top floor and stepped into what was formerly the restaurant at the Biltmore Hotel. He couldn’t help but imagine the scene that had taken place here a little more than two years ago.

He’d gleaned from a menu that
coq au vin with sautéed asparagus
was the special on the night of the purple moon. Earth had entered the comet’s tail on April twentieth, a Friday night, at 11:30 p.m., and every guest received a complimentary glass of pomegranate juice. The streaking comet, which had turned the stars and moon purple, must have been a spectacular sight to the diners—dinner, a show, and then silent death.

The Body Disposal Unit (BDU) had cleared the restaurant months earlier, and the only mementos of the gala event remaining were a few tables with white linens draped over them.

The top floor offered a stunning 360-degree view of Colony East through the restaurant’s tall windows. Looking to the east, Dawson faced the red orb of the rising sun, five degrees above the horizon. He didn’t see any sails on the sparkling ocean this morning. The sailboats that he spotted on occasion were a source of intrigue. Some of the larger sloops were up to thirty feet in length, and once he’d seen a schooner with two masts. He thought that if he were fifteen years old and outside the colony he’d want to be at sea sailing on a schooner too.

He moved to the other side of the restaurant and eyed the Hudson River. Standing in the middle of the river, huge windmills generated electricity for Colony East. Their blades rotated slowly in the dawn breeze. Along the bank, razor wire, coiled on top of the perimeter fence, glinted in the sunlight. Abandoned cars and trucks clogged the George Washington Bridge, and a concrete barrier sealed off the Colony East side.

He took a deep breath and pivoted northward. The twisted steel beams of the Brooklyn Bridge splayed out like some sort of abstract modern sculpture; artwork fashioned courtesy of Navy demolition experts. Their handiwork had also taken down the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges. He often wondered what the kids on the Brooklyn side of the East River thought about the extensive measures taken to keep them from entering the colony.

He placed his fingertips on the glass. The town of Mystic, Connecticut, where he had lived with his wife and daughter, was somewhere off in the horizon.

“Permission denied.” The words echoed heavily in his heart.

Dawson had twice asked Admiral Samuels if he could take a few days to return home to find out what had happened to his daughter and to bury his wife, and possibly his daughter, too.

Samuels was now the colony’s highest-ranking officer, the third highest in the nation behind Admiral Wilson in the Atlanta Colony, and Admiral Thomas stationed in Colony West.

“Mark, I understand what you’re going through,” Samuels had told him. “I’m a grandfather. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of my five grandkids, but I can’t afford to let you go, not even for a day. I have three officers and one hundred and two sailors. Those are my resources to care for five hundred children and fifteen scientists. I’m sorry.”

Two months later, he had asked again, making a vein pop out in the admiral’s neck.

“Permission denied. Dismissed.”

Dawson understood the admiral’s hard-line. Military commanders had asked the men and women serving under them to make sacrifices since the dawn of time. He also understood the importance of his own crucial role in the mission. The restoration of society was at stake. Much was riding on his ability to obey orders and serve as company leader with distinction.

The sun had shucked its red husk for a direct yellow glare. Sighing, Dawson did what his father had taught him to do during times of adversity and inner turmoil. He pulled his shoulders back, stiffened his spine, and raised his chin.

He was ready for another day at Colony East.

CHAPTER TWO
Castine Island

Flashlight beams danced in the harbor playground as a merry band of five- and six-year-olds scurried about. The kids giggled and chattered as they untangled lines and tapped stakes into the rocky soil. Derek Ladd, the camp leader, was attempting to teach them how to pitch tents. Even in the early evening light, Abby could see the scar on Derek’s left ear from his fishing accident.

She shivered in the east wind and zipped her jacket all the way up. Surrounded by the waters of the North Atlantic, Castine Island had two seasons: icy damp and damp. It was April, the start of damp.

Waiting to pick up Toucan from survival camp, Abby walked over to the swing set where other teens were also waiting to pick up younger siblings or kids they had adopted.

“Hey, Abby, you going to Toby’s?” It was Eddie, Jordan’s best friend. He swept away the long blonde hair covering his eyes. Streaks of grease covered his wiry, strong arms. Eddie could fix anything. He’d hold a broken part in his hand and let his fingers do the thinking. If there had been no epidemic, Abby was certain that he would have worked as a mechanic someday. The comet had simply accelerated his career path, as it had forced every kid to grow up overnight. Eddie was the island’s boat mechanic. Toby Jones was their lead negotiator, the only one who had a radio that received The Port, the teen radio station. Many island residents gathered evenings at Toby’s house to listen to The Port.

Abby shook her head. “We’re going home. Jordan’s monitoring the two-way. I want to know if any gypsies are coming. See what they’ve heard about the Pig.”

Gypsies sailed from trading zone to trading zone, bartering information in return for food, water, and batteries to power their shortwave radios. The last three crews to visit the island had spoken about a strange, new illness, which they called the Pig. Victims gorged for weeks and then suddenly developed a high fever. Several had died from the illness.

“Jordan will tell you if he hears anything.” Eddie paused a moment. “Are you worried about him?”

“No,” she blurted, maybe a little too quickly.

Eddie raised his eyebrows. “He doesn’t need you holding his hand. He’s going to snap out of it.”

Just then, Derek dismissed camp. “Good job, everyone.” The kids scattered.

Glad for the interruption, Abby again told Eddie she was going straight home and then braced herself for the impact.

Toucan was running straight at her. The wind pushed back her sister’s curly, red hair, showing a face beaming with excitement. Ounce for ounce, Touk was just as stubborn as Jordan, but she possessed twice the energy and three times the enthusiasm of Abby and Jordan combined. Toucan launched herself.

Abby caught the bundle of flying arms and legs.

“Abby, want to see my tent?”

“I’ll see it tomorrow. We have to go home.” Abby found Touk’s hand and grimaced with concern as she felt her sister’s bony fingers. Because of food rationing, everyone on the island ate less during the winter months, but Toucan was a fussy eater to begin with.

Heading home, they took a shortcut through an alley behind the hardware store and the bowling alley. Moonlight outlined the shape of garbage cans but refused to reveal potholes and other small tripping hazards. Flicking on her flashlight, Abby shook her head at the flecks of purple space dust sparkling where rains had sluiced sand and dirt into a mound. Even after two years, there was no escaping the horrible reminders of the comet. She picked out a route, memorizing the layout in her mind, and turned off the light to save batteries.