Colony East (23 page)

Toby held a diamond in his hand. “This should get us through.”

Spike scoffed. “Put it away.” He pulled up to the collector and simply said, “Martha.” The boy waved them through.

Spike patted the shotgun and snared Abby’s eyes in the mirror. “Where Martha’s influence ends, this takes over.”

A pit formed in her stomach. Violence made her sick, but she kept her mouth shut. She would have to deal with whatever got them to Colony East.

Just over the Rhode Island border, Spike turned on the radio. “Listen up y’all, Jamey can’t get enough purple,” DJ Silver intoned. “That’s cool with me, and I’m sure it’s cool with a lot of you out there. Mix a little red and blue, you get purple. No big deal, right? So here you go, Jamey, 'Purple Rain' by Prince.”

Abby shot forward. “Wow. The Port comes in so clear. We can only pick it up at night.”

“This far south it comes in during the day,” Spike said. “The station’s in Mystic, Connecticut.”

“I can’t believe kids figured out how to run a radio station.”

“The adults got it running for them. Martha told me. She knows the fuel king who supplies diesel for the station’s generators.” Spike slapped his hand on the steering wheel to keep the beat and sang along with Prince.

Abby was curious to know more, but she didn’t want to do or say anything that might agitate Spike and cause a delay. The easiest way to minimize agitating him was to keep her mouth shut.

Later, the Providence skyline came into view. Abby had last seen the city three years ago when she’d accompanied her mom on a visit to a friend in Newport, Rhode Island. She remembered her mother pointing out the gold-domed state capitol building, which now looked like it had burned to the ground.

“End of the line.” Spike pulled to the side of the road and stopped in front of a Greyhound Bus. The rubber tires splayed out from the rims, and a pile of empty cans and a metal drum used for cooking indicated the bus had once served as shelter.

Abby shot forward. “What?”

Toby glared. “Abby, I’ll handle this.”

“Your friend only paid for me to bring you to Providence.”

She sat back, gritting her teeth.

Toby turned to Spike. “You want to take us all the way to Colony East? Ten crates of shrimp.”

“Bro, it’s not shrimp season.”

“I’ll owe you.”

“Twenty,” Spike countered.

“Fifteen.”

Abby’s head spun. Twenty crates of shrimp was nothing. The comet had put an end to overfishing and the stocks of fish were rebounding. During shrimp season, February to April, fishing trawlers leaving Castine Harbor routinely harvested hundreds of crates of shrimp in hours.

“No deal,” Spike said.

Toby opened the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride.”

Abby felt like she had entered a bad dream as she watched Toby get out of the car.

“The girl’s got the Pig,” Spike said. “You really want to get out here?”

Toby ignored him and turned to Abby. “Let’s get Touk out feet first.”

Heat flared on her cheeks. She couldn’t believe that five crates of shrimp were all that was keeping them from continuing to Colony East.

“Okay, fifteen crates,” Spike said.

Toby paused, thinking. He studied the bus, the sky, the metal drum. He narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself.

Abby wanted to scream, “Take it”. She managed to keep her mouth shut. She had to trust Toby. And should he prove himself untrustworthy, she would have no choice but to wring his neck.

Toby faced Spike. “Five crates, that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

Abby turned into a pressure cooker of hot steam ready to blow.

Spike jerked his thumb. “Get in.”

They drove on with Abby slowly returning to a solid state, too shocked by what just happened to think. Why had Toby offered such a low number? It was as if he had wanted them to get kicked out. Even stranger, Spike had accepted a low-ball offer after turning down higher offers. Abby told herself she could live with the strange mysteries of boys as long as they were heading to Colony East.

At the New York state border, Spike stopped for gas and filled the tank from the two gas cans stowed in back. Before they started out again, he gently placed his hand on Touk’s head. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

Abby swallowed hard, caught off-guard by the tenderness of his gesture. “Spike, you knew someone who had the Pig?”

“Yep.” He took a deep breath, and his shoulders sagged in defeat as he let the air out. “My cousin Jimmy. I took care of him since the night of the purple moon. He was twelve.” Spike’s voice choked with emotion. Abby reached out and touched his arm.

He wiped his eyes, cleared his throat, and his mischievous smile returned as if he needed to change the topic. “Toby must really like you. He traded your Boston Whaler for this trip.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. She had always assumed that Eddie or someone else from the island would hitch a ride on the fishing trawler and drive the boat back. When she saw Toby squirming in his seat, she knew what Spike said was true.

Spike read her expression. “You didn’t know? This is a one-way trip for your lead negotiator. He gave the boat to Martha in return for a ride to Providence. Toby knew if he offered me too many crates of shrimp to go to Colony East, I’d never believe him. So he held his ground.” Spike faced Toby. “You’re good dude. I just hope you can negotiate your way into Colony East.”

Spike turned on the radio and drove on. DJ Silver dedicated songs that played and ended, but the words and the music sounded distant through the thick fog of Abby’s swirling emotions. Toby had traded away more than a boat to help Touk. He had sacrificed his life on Castine Island. The boy whose father had beaten him, whom nobody loved growing up, whom Abby had tried to avoid a thousand times, humbled her.

She looked at him in the front seat and he avoided looking back. She kept looking and he finally turned. Even if she knew what to say, it was too soon to say anything. She made eye contact and gave a tiny nod. She saw his eyes grow glassy, knowing her eyes were already that way. Toby gave her a slight nod and looked away.

They crossed the White Stone Bridge into Brooklyn, paying the toll with one of Toby’s rubies. The toll collector, a girl wearing a New York Giants cap, and missing a few front teeth, had scoffed at the offer of a diamond. Spike stopped at the first gas station they came to. Kids using pick axes and shovels had dug a hole to reach the underground tank long ago, but he was after a map.

“Bingo,” Spike said, holding out a street map of Brooklyn he found in the office.

With Toby reading the map and giving directions, they got plenty of stares in the red Mini from the local kids who predominately walked, bladed, or boarded.

They decided the base of the Brooklyn Bridge would be the best drop-off spot, but six blocks away Spike had to stop because buildings on both sides of the avenue had collapsed and deposited a mountain of bricks in the way. Then they discovered the side streets were also obstructed by downed power poles, crumbling buildings, and makeshift encampments.

Spike turned in his seat. “End of the line.” Abby recoiled in shock when he tried to hand her the shotgun. “Take it,” he implored. “If your sister steals food, people are going to want to hurt her. They tend to back off when you aim a double-barrel at them.”

She shook her head and spoke through jaw muscles cramping with tension, “She’ll be with us.”

Spike balanced the gun on his palm, as if serving it to her on a platter. “My cousin, Jimmy, snuck off and nearly got himself beaten up when he stole apples.”

“Spike, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t shoot anyone.”

He broke open the shotgun. “Me neither. Look, it’s empty.”

“Abby, take the gun,” Toby said.

Spike grinned. “Spoken like a true negotiator. You can trade it.”

Abby put her hand on Spike’s arm. “Keep the gun. Thank you for everything.”

Spike reached out and gently squeezed Touk’s hand. “Lizette. I really like your name.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
Colony East

Too anxious to sleep, Lieutenant Dawson climbed out of bed and paced in his living quarters. His excitement had started when Admiral Samuels had put out a request for volunteers to accompany scientists outside the fence. “They’re looking for children infected with AHA-B.” Of course, Dawson had volunteered immediately, and now he couldn’t wait to get the daily memorandum to see if the admiral had honored his request.

At three o’clock, he heard footsteps padding down the carpeted hallway. He knelt and grabbed the memorandum as soon as the ensign fed it under the door.

Dawson’s heart thumped as he read his orders: Report to Ferry Terminal 7 at 0900. Chief Petty Officer O’Brien will assume command of Biltmore Company until 1700.

He arrived at the terminal building ten minutes early. It was located on the East River, two blocks south of Pier 15. Here, Navy mechanics tended the fleet of Zodiacs. The building also housed a ferry that, prior to the epidemic, had transported pedestrians across the river. Dawson had heard a rumor the admiral wanted to return the vessel to active service for moving supplies. He believed the rumor. The old man had a sense of nostalgia for things that were once a normal part of life.

The corner of Dawson’s lip curled at the sight of Sandy standing in a group assembled on the dock. She, too, had volunteered to accompany the scientists. He harbored a wish that someone higher up the food chain, above Admiral Samuels and Doctor Perkins, might decide to transfer one of the medical doctors from Colony West to Atlanta instead of Sandy.

Approaching the group, Dawson lost the bounce in his step when he spotted Doctor Droznin. The Russian scientist didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual. Despite his issues with Doctor Droznin, he told himself he would never let his personal feelings get in the way of the mission.

He noted that a second scientist, whom he didn’t recognize, was also part of the group. The woman, in her thirties, wore a white lab coat with short sleeves, revealing the sinewy arms of a rock climber. Most of the scientists at the colony looked like the heaviest thing they lifted was a box of beakers, but every now and then an athlete slipped in among the white coats. The sailors included patrol boat skippers, Ensign Pickering and Ensign Jackson. They had both served with him on the
USS Seawolf
. Pickering, a sonar technician, was into online gaming. From Pickering’s perpetually long face, Dawson wondered if the ensign found a world minus online games almost as bleak as one minus adults. Pickering was the one who, on Admiral Samuels’ orders, had modified the room radios, ensuring the cadets could only pick up the boring drone of the CDC robot. Ensign Jackson, a machinist mate, was a member of the Hopi Tribe, the only Native American at Colony East, and, at age twenty-six, the oldest Native American in the country. How Jackson had managed the transition to a claustrophobic sub from the expansive vistas of the Arizona desert he would never know. Dawson knew that both ensigns enjoyed the respect of the admiral, which was likely the reason they were escorts today.

Doctor Droznin introduced her colleague, the athletic Doctor Gowan, as a microbiologist with the CDC field team. “We’re looking for cases of AHA-B,” Droznin told the group. “We want to procure an infected subject who has a healthy sibling. We’ll break into two teams. Doctor Gowan and I will split up, so we can assess symptoms and make a decision on who to bring back to Medical Clinic 17.”

Ensign Pickering gave pointers on what they could expect after passing through the gate into Brooklyn. “We received quite the welcome yesterday, and we should see bigger crowds today. All of you will have a radio and a Taser, and you’ll be accompanied by either me or Ensign Jackson. We’re both armed. If you become separated, call in your location and stay put.”

“How long do we have?” Dawson asked.

Droznin stepped forward. “Get in. Get out. We’re not tourists, Lieutenant.”

Sandy inquired about the request for siblings. “Do you want brothers, sisters, or both? Does age matter? Should the younger one or older one be infected?”

Doctor Gowan replied, “We’re conducting Phase IV antibiotic trials, and we need to establish a control group with DNA matches. Age doesn’t matter. We can have any combination, they just have to be siblings.”

Doctor Droznin sighed impatiently. “Anything else?” Nobody spoke up. “Good. Let’s get going.”

Ensign Pickering broke them into teams, Alpha and Bravo. The bad news for Dawson was that Sandy was on the other team. The good news was that Doctor Droznin was also on the other team.

They suited up and piled into two Zodiacs. Close to the Brooklyn shore, Ensign Jackson, seated beside him, said, “Lieutenant, smell that?” The hazmat face shield muffled her voice.

Dawson drew in a breath, mostly smelling the plastic of the suit, but also detecting a faint odor of roasting meat. “A barbecue,” he exclaimed.

“Rat barbecue,” she said. “You won’t see a lot of pigeons flying around, either.”

Dawson pulled his shoulders back, trying to prepare himself mentally for the desperate conditions they would encounter.

Alpha team beached ahead of them. Ensign Pickering punched the security code at the gate and shouted at the throng of children on the other side, “Back up. Clear out.” Pushing with both hands and then putting his shoulder into the effort, he managed to open the gate wide enough for the Colony East party to squeeze through.

Dawson stepped through it and stared in wonder. Kids played soccer, using the open door of a police cruiser as one of the nets. Child vendors sold water, fish, and bicycle parts. Meat roasted on spits over coals in metal drums. Rat? Pigeon? Whatever it was, it sure smelled good. Purple cabbages grew in rows of raised garden beds. Those cabbages, he noticed, were growing faster than the ones planted in Central Park Farm. He marveled at the resilience of the human spirit.

Led by Doctor Gowan, Bravo team headed north, the crowd swelling around them. Rather than shrink away from the tall people wearing white suits, the kids crushed closer. Pickering’s flustered voice crackled over the radio. “Create a perimeter as you move.” Dawson saw the reason for the ensign’s frustration. Alpha team had become bogged down to a standstill in a quicksand of heads coming up to their chests.