Colony East (34 page)

He made a strange face, but asked no further questions.

Leaving Macy’s, they headed to a stop that Abby had put on the itinerary, a supermarket on Madison Ave. She hoped to find bottles of bleach or vinegar. Emptied of their contents, the plastic jugs would make good rafts. At the supermarket’s address, though, they found a pile of rubble and ash. The building had burned down long ago.

She spotted an art supply store across the street and suggested they check it out. The windows were broken, but there were no signs of kids ever living in the store. With graffiti a popular art form following the near extermination of the adult population, spray paint was a hot item, evidenced by the empty Krylon and Montana racks. Abby flicked on the penlight as she strolled down an aisle. A bolt of joy rocketed through her at the sight of plastic gallon jugs of acrylic paint lining two shelves.

“Jonzy, we can make two rafts with plastic jugs. Help me pour out the paint.”

“Forget it.”

“The East River has no boats for ten minutes at the shift change.” She removed a cutting board from her pack and demonstrated how it could be used as a paddle.

“You’re crazy.” Jonzy watched as she poured paint from five or six jugs, and then, in an encouraging sign, he pitched in to help. Soon they had sixteen empty jugs which Abby placed in a garbage bag from the Biltmore’s cleaning supply room.

“We need a way to lash them together,” she said.

Jonzy shined the light on a spool of twine. “I guess we could use that.”

“Great idea,” Abby exclaimed, wanting to make him feel part of the plan.

Jonzy pulled off what he thought was enough twine to lash the jugs together to make two rafts.

Abby suggested they take the jugs to the vicinity of Pier 15, tie them together, and then hide the rafts. He agreed reluctantly.

As they were heading toward the river, Jonzy pinched her sleeve to stop her. “I know a place where we can get inflatable life vests. It’s in the Yellow Zone.”

They had to return to the Biltmore before three o’clock, which was when ensigns visited each company leader to drop off the daily memorandum. But so much of their plan depended on Jonzy’s ability to overcome his fear, the added risk of getting the life vests was worth it, she thought.

One hour later, after walking seven blocks out of their way, they stepped into Herb’s Fur and Fin. By then, Abby knew that Lieutenant Dawson had brought Jonzy here before. The moment Jonzy told her that, she thought back to the way the lieutenant had responded to Doctor Droznin in her office. She really believed he hadn’t known that she was being infected with the Pig.

Jonzy removed two life vests from a rack on the wall. “Yank this string, the vest inflates.” The way his eyes lit up, Abby realized the detour had been worth it.

With Jonzy carrying the garbage bag with the paint jugs over his shoulder, and Abby carrying both their packs, they headed toward the river. The Brooklyn Bridge had just come into sight when Abby heard a motor. She turned and spotted headlights rounding the corner two blocks back. They had to hide fast.

Jonzy faced her with wide eyes, frozen in terror. In one quick motion, she planted her shoulder into his chest, wrapped her arms around his waist, and drove him forward with her legs. She threw him on the pavement and landed on top. He grunted on impact. She smothered him until the truck sped by.

“Sorry,” she said, helping Jonzy to his feet. She hoped he wouldn’t freeze like that during their escape attempt.

They resumed walking and she led them along the river through weeds that came up to their chests. She went to the water’s edge and dipped her fingers in. “Feel how warm it is.”

Jonzy kept walking, “I believe you.”

He pointed out Pier 15 ahead of them. Abby eyed the East River, thinking it would be very difficult to paddle a raft made of paint jugs to the Brooklyn shore from the pier in ten minutes, but unless they came up with a better plan, they would have to try.

Jonzy led her to a trash dumpster across the street, half filled with construction materials—broken boards, pails, twisted metal, and a ratty, torn plastic tarp. Given the lateness of the hour, they agreed that he or she or both of them would return the next night to lash the bottles together. He tossed the bag of bottles inside and covered it with the tarp.

Thirty minutes later, at 3:20, Abby pulled the covers up to her chin in her bed. Reveille was three hours away, but the way her heart was racing, she thought sleep was as improbable as escaping Colony East.

ONE DAY LEFT

Perched forty stories above Colony East, Abby shook her head to clear away the image of hot pancakes dripping with butter. She resisted the urge to raid their food supplies.

The two packs, hidden under the table next to the radio equipment, contained rice and potatoes, as well as their tools, maps, flashlights, inflatable life vests, plastic tubs, and two-way radios.

Jonzy had gone to Pier 15 to lash together the empty paint jugs to make two rafts. He’d conceal the rafts in the dumpster. Abby was proud of him for facing his fear head on.

She concentrated on the task-at-hand. Peering through binoculars, she counted the number of patrol boats in the East River closest to the Brooklyn Bridge. She noted the time, 10 PM, and recorded her observation in the notebook. She counted boats in other sections of the river and wrote down those numbers too.

The data in the notebook told a troubling story. The number of patrol boats had increased. She knew her next observation would determine if they should stick with their plan to cross the East River. How many minutes would the river be free of boats during the eleven o’clock shift change?

Abby panicked briefly at the thought of a delay. It might take a week or longer to scout out a new section of the East River or even the Hudson. They’d have to move supplies and make repeated observations. She couldn’t wait that long. It shocked her how the Pig had progressed in her over the past twenty-four hours.

With an hour to wait for the shift change, Abby paced around the perimeter of the restaurant. The airport was quiet, all planes grounded until Hurricane David passed. The light flashed atop the Empire State Building, and heavy cloud cover concealed the moon and stars.

She quietly tuned in The Port.
Purple Rain
was playing. The song ended and DJ Silver came on. “This next song is a shout out to Abby and Toucan. You heard me right. Toucan. That, survivors, is a little girl, not a bird with a big beak. Jordan says all is good. He’s getting better every day. I’ve seen him with my own eyes.” ‘Here Comes the Sun’ started.

Abby breathed so hard and fast she worried she might pass out. Had she imagined that? Some victims of the Pig experienced hallucinations. But that was during the latter stages of the illness. No, she had heard DJ Silver say her name for real. Jordan was sending her a message. He was near The Port. In Mystic, Connecticut. Maybe
Lucky Me
had sailed into a nearby harbor. He, of course, assumed that she and Touk were still on the island. Boy, did they have some catching up to do.

Abby dug the maps out of her backpack and traced a route to Mystic. It was on the way to Castine Island. It made sense to stop there.

She floated back to the window, the hunger pangs getting more painful, but she didn’t care. For the first time, she felt hopeful. Toby was hanging out near the fish market, and Jordan was in Mystic. The packs and rafts were ready.

At eleven o’clock, Abby watched as the patrol boats formed a line and headed for the ferry terminal. Eight minutes later, they were patrolling the section of the river that she and Jonzy planned to cross. With adrenaline as her fuel, Abby figured she could cross the river in five minutes if need be. She was ready to go.

LANDFALL

Lieutenant Dawson stared at the window ledge. M Y S T I C. Someone had traced Mystic in the dust on the ledge. The window overlooked the East River and his former home was beyond that. Someone, he figured, had chosen this time and place, this ledge, for a reason.

He pondered the possibilities as his heart thundered in his chest. Was someone sending him a message? If so, what was it? Why Mystic? Why now?

Only a handful of people knew about his connection to the city. Sandy was in Atlanta. Admiral Samuels? He almost laughed, but the seriousness of the matter doused the faint humor of the old man hoofing up forty flights to write Mystic in the dust.

The CDC knew that he and his family had resided in Mystic. They knew everything about every sailor and officer in the colonies. In fact, the scientists probably knew more about him than he ever imagined. But it was inconceivable that any white coat hush puppy was the mystery scribbler.

Dawson jolted. He had mentioned the town of Mystic to Cadet Leigh, and she might have told others. He exhaled, shaking his head. He refused to accept that Abigail Leigh, or any Biltmore cadet, had come up here. He bristled at the idea of his cadets sneaking around under his nose, but he could think of no better explanation.

Figuring out the 'who' was only half his problem; learning the 'why' was what intrigued and troubled him more.

He eyed the horizon. A vein of dark grey clouds ran between the ocean and pale blue sky above. The leading edge of Hurricane David would block the sun for all of today and much of tomorrow. The storm was at their doorstep. Soon the winds, laden with deadly germs, would lash Colony East, and Mystic, and vast parts beyond.

~ ~ ~

Abby had never experienced such hunger. Her mouth watered at the slightest thought of food. She had faced starvation before, but her mind had allowed her to turn off its cravings. She’d read later that her response was a design of nature, a trait carried forward from the early days of man, when survival required clear and focused thinking during times of famine. Now, she could think of nothing but food. Foamy saliva dribbled down her chin from her endless fantasies of cake, burgers, hot buttery popcorn…

In her dark living quarters, she pulled the covers up to her chin and tried to pay attention to Lieutenant Dawson delivering his final messages of the day over the intercom. “Expect the storm to worsen. If any windows blow out, report them to me immediately. You are the seeds of a new society. Tomorrow…”

The lieutenant’s voice suddenly cut out as the hallway lights went out. Abby flipped her lamp switch. Nothing. She realized the power must be out in the building. As she crept to the window, gusts bowed the glass in and out and raindrops struck like a round of buckshot. Peering out, she saw that the streetlights and traffic lights on Lexington Ave were out. She tingled with excitement. If the power outage extended throughout the colony, it would give them an incredible opportunity. She and Jonzy must leave—tonight. Doctor Droznin had the first shipment of antibiotic pills in her office. There weren’t enough pills for everyone Abby knew, but probably enough for the people she loved. She had to believe that.

She jumped back in bed and waited. After six weeks in Colony East, she could predict what the lieutenant would do next. He’d pay a visit to every cadet to explain what happened.

Five minutes later, right on schedule, she heard his voice and saw the dancing flashlight beam as he worked his way down the wing.

He stuck his head in her room. “Batten down the hatches. We’ve lost power.”

“Just Biltmore Company, sir?”

“Everyone.”

Not wanting her curiosity to spark any suspicion, she asked meekly, “Are we safe, sir?”

“A little wind and water never hurt anyone.”

Wind, water, and billions of germs, she thought.

“Cadet Leigh?”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant paused for a long moment, and she began to wonder if something was wrong. Had he sensed something in her voice? “Good night,” he said finally, and moved on.

When she was certain he was on the second floor, she got dressed and arranged the wig on the pillow. “Sleep tight,” she whispered to the bed dummy. “When you wake up, I’ll be outta here.” Then Abby laced up her sneakers and went to Jonzy’s room.

“Jonzy, let’s go now.”

“No way!”

She led him into the bathroom, shut the door, and they debated in low voices, his filled with fear, hers with desperate hope.

Jonzy worried about the dangers of the hurricane. Flooding. Flying debris. The East River. “Abby, we’ll drown.”

She understood his concerns. Hurricane David was dropping a trillion tons of water on them, and Jonzy had a fear of even wading up to his ankles. She hoped that her logic would help him gain an upper hand on his fear.

“How many boats will be in the river? Zero. Will the security cameras be working at Medical Clinic 17? No. Will anyone hear us breaking glass? No. Have all the pills arrived? No. But Doctor Droznin has enough in her office for you, me, Jordan and, Toby, with some left over. The storm is a gift, Jonzy. Colony East has no power. Come on, we have inflatable life jackets and rafts. We’ll bob like corks.”

“Abby, I can’t.”

She found his hand in the dark and held it. “Jonzy, I need to take a pill. The dose of Pig that Doctor Droznin gave me must have been very strong.”

She held her breath in the silence. She felt that her ears were about to pop from the low pressure of the storm. She was moving her finger to the flashlight button when he squeezed her hand.

“OK, let’s do it, Cadet,” he said.

When she snapped on the penlight, she saw craziness in his eyes. It was the type of daring look, Abby thought, well suited to someone who couldn’t swim… who was about to jump into a river during a hurricane.

~ ~ ~

Lieutenant Dawson lit a candle and opened
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.
He stared at the page, unable to concentrate on the words.

In the flickering light, his eyes fell to the photo of his daughter beside him. He blew out the candle, but Sarah’s image still burned brightly in his mind. Even if she were dead, there were thousands more her age being exposed to AHA-B. And if she were alive, she would be one of the millions of children the CDC seemed willing to ignore.