Generation M (17 page)

Dawson tiptoed across the room to get a better view of his daughter, but she screeched in fear when she spotted him, and he backed out of sight again.

Bettina stroked Sarah’s head and his daughter eventually quieted. “Mark’s your daddy.”

Sarah mumbled something, and Bettina put her ear close to her lips.

Bettina smiled sadly, shaking her head. “Not every daddy died during the night of the purple moon. Mark was on a submarine. After that he lived in a special place for adults.”

Guilt turned Dawson’s muscles to butter, and his shoulders sunk forward.

“I was on duty when Sarah was born,” he said and paused to see if his voice would create an outburst. His daughter looked his way, seeming less frightened. “The commander sent me to the communications center where they had set up a live video link to the hospital.”

Dawson smiled at the memory of Sarah’s first, red-faced cry in the world. “My wife told me to sing to her. The first song that came to mind was the Marines’ Hymn. My father used to hum it to me when I was a baby. So, I started humming. Under the ocean, ten thousand miles away, I serenaded my wife and baby daughter.

“When I finally arrived home, Sarah wanted no part of me at first. She was
very
attached to her mom. Who was this strange man? I’d pick her up, and she’d practically break my eardrums with her screams.

“So at night, I’d sit by her crib and hum the tune. One day, she pointed her finger at me. A lot of people have told me that a two-month old baby can’t point. It’s just some random movement of their arm and index finger, but I know that Sarah was pointing at me, because I pointed back, and she giggled. It was the first time she smiled when my wife wasn’t around. After about two weeks of humming and pointing, guess what happened? She squeezed my finger. She wouldn’t let go, and I wasn’t about to leave. That night, my wife found me asleep on the floor with my hand between the rails of the crib.”

“Hum to her,” Bettina said.

Dawson tapped his foot and began to hum, voicing the words in his mind.
From the Halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli. We fight our country's battles in the air, on land, and sea.

Dawson took a step forward as he hummed, then another step.
First to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honor clean.

He moved next to the bed.
We are proud to claim the title of United States Marine.

Bettina gestured for him to have a seat. He wasn’t about to press his luck, so he remained standing. Still humming, he started over.

Sarah had tucked one hand under her leg, but her other one was open beside her face, palm facing up. She gazed up with wide eyes, and the corners of her lips curled slightly up. He held up his index finger, and she slowly reached out, and he gently pressed it against her palm. She curled her fingers around his. Dawson hung his head, trembling in the heat of his melting heart.

Abby gripped her sides and tried to keep from crying out in pain as the fuel king, William, pondered the question of how they could reach Atlanta. Pacing back and forth by the window, the boy reminded her of a slender, shy, fifth grader.

Toby, Mark, Jonzy, and Wenlan were also in the teddy bear wallpaper room. True to Wenlan’s word, William had so far pledged to get everything they had asked for.

Abby was happy with William’s proposal to deliver pills to Castine Island, in case Jordan was there. William had said he’d done a lot of trading with Martha, the fuel king in Portland. In the morning, he would send one of his gang members to Portland on a motorcycle with a supply of antibiotic pills. “Martha can keep half the pills if she agrees to deliver the other half to the island.”

The pills, of course, would come from their dwindling supply. Wenlan had been passing them out as quickly as those infected with the Pig entered the clinic.

In case Jordan had already left the island, Toby was working on a map for her brother, showing the location of the Alpharetta pill plant. They’d leave the map with Wenlan.

Jonzy was still beaming from his conversation with the fuel king.

“Water leaked into The Port’s transmitter and it short-circuited,” Jonzy had explained. “I tried to reset the circuit breaker, but it’s fried. I need a five-amp circuit breaker, wire cutters, solder, and a soldering iron.”

“My gang controls an electrical supply house in Groton,” William had said, adding with a shy smile that the demand for electrical parts had been low since the night of the purple moon.

William stopped pacing. “There are two ways to get to Atlanta: fast or slow.”

The door swung open, and one of Wenlan’s assistants barged in with wide eyes. “Wenlan, come here. You’ll never believe who just came in.”

Wenlan followed her assistant out of the room.

“Because of all the wrecks, only a motorcycle can navigate the roads,” William continued. “I can get you motorcycles and enough fuel to make it to Newark, New Jersey. I know the leader of the Ponytail Gang in Newark. Leo owes me a favor. He’ll give you gas and food, but then you’re on your own. You’ll have to deal with the White House Gang, and even if you make it past them, there are the Grits in Georgia. Have you heard about the Grits?”

“You eat them for breakfast,” Toby said.

“The Grits will eat you for breakfast,” William said. “They’re a super gang. The leader rides a green Harley Davidson. From the stories I’ve heard, she’s pure evil.”

The Grits and a girl on a green motorcycle were of little concern to Abby as the cramping intensified. She worried more about her ability to ride a mile on a motorcycle, let alone a thousand miles. She hardly had the strength to stand. Even sitting on the back of a bike would be difficult. They’d have to lash her to the rider.

She imagined the slow way was to sail down the east coast. The idea of being stuck in a boat for three-to-five days was not very appealing either. How many kids would fall victim to the Pig while they were on the way? What if the wind died?

“Are sailing and riding the only options?” she asked William.

Wenlan returned.

“Who mentioned sailing?” the fuel king asked.

“That’s the slow way, right?” Abby said.

“Going by motorcycle is the slow way. Your other choice is to fly, but there’s only room for three of you in the plane.”

Even though Jordan had lugged Eddie for two hours and he had no sleep and little to eat over the past two days, he felt energized. His legs felt strong and fresh. Figuring he was about four miles from Wenlan’s clinic, he broke into an easy jog.

Jordan wondered if the Pig was only widespread on the island and in Portland, but that hope deflated when he came across more survivors catching insects in a meadow, while other kids, armed with bats and rocks, guarded the field. They eyed him warily as he passed by.

Jordan spotted The Port’s antennae a mile away. He remembered his last visit to the station. DJ Silver owned a bicycle. The Port was half a mile out of his way, but he decided the time he could save on a bike would make it worth checking out.

He reached the station in less than an hour and pumped his fist when he saw a bicycle. One tire was flat, but most bike owners had repair kits. The generator next to the building was running, leading him to believe that DJ Silver was inside.

He stepped inside, greeted by DJ Silver’s voice crackling over the speaker mounted in the reception area. He stopped to listen.

“For real, dudes and dudettes. Call it what you want, the Pig or AHA-B, the germs are everywhere. The adults have known about it for months. They’ve developed an antibiotic and are only giving it to their precious seeds for a new society. You heard me, seeds for a new society. Those are the kids who live in the colonies. What about us? I’m afraid we’re out of luck, big time.”

Jordan shook his head to make sure he was awake. DJ Silver only dedicated songs. The Port only played music. Now, the DJ was talking about the Pig?

Jordan moved to the window to look into the control room. DJ Silver, kicked back in a chair with his feet propped up on the desk, had the mic to his lips.

“We can do something about it. They can make pills in Atlanta. I want every single one of you to go to Atlanta. Tell your family and friends to go there. Demand that the adults make pills for us.”

A boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, stood next to him, scribbling on a piece of paper. He handed the paper to DJ Silver.

“Late breaking news,” DJ Silver said into the microphone. “The Pig doesn’t kill everyone, but if everyone riots, everyone will be killed. Share your food.”

Jordan stepped inside the control room. Immediately, DJ Silver sat forward and put the mic down. He stared at Jordan. The other boy also stared, giving him a funny look.

DJ Silver grinned and shook his head. “Cool. We’re having a Leigh family reunion here.”

An ember of agitation burned in Doctor Perkins’s chest as he peered out his second-story office window, surveying the grounds of what was once part of Emory University.

Perkins could not pull his eyes from the perimeter fence. Some type of green material was affixed to it. A section had ripped, and he could see ragged-looking survivors gawking at them. Did guards even patrol the area along the colony perimeter? Under normal circumstances, a six-foot high fence topped with razor wire would serve as a deterrent, but the desperation of the survivors increased by the day.

Lieutenant Mathews’s voice crackled on his walkie-talkie. “Doctor Perkins.”

Perkins brought the radio to his lips. “I was about to contact you.”

“There’s something you should see, sir. A communication we picked up from a radio station in Mystic.”

After signing off, Perkins retreated to his desk and reminded himself that compared to the day’s biggest event, all these problems were minor. Earlier, four planes had safely transported the seeds of the new society to Atlanta from Colony East.

Mathews entered his office five minutes later and passed him a transcript.

DJ Silver says be cool. Dudes, the adults are giving us the shaft. They have a cure for the Pig, but they don’t want you to know it. They want us to die or kill each other over food. Are we gonna let that happen? No way. Dudes, listen to Silvy. The adults have gone to Atlanta.

Perkins crumpled the paper and dropped it into the trash. “Dawson?”

“It has to be,” Mathews said.

“What’s the range of the station?”

Mathews maintained a steely expression. “About a sixty-mile radius during the day. At night, someone could pick it up from several hundred miles away.”

Perkins drummed his fingers, pleased with the idea that popped into his mind. “Start up the CDC station. Inform the survivors that we are making progress on the development of an antibiotic, and we expect to begin distribution soon. Tell them to stay indoors and wait for further updates.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t call it the Pig. It’s the AHA-B mutation syndrome. I abhor sloppy scientific terminology.”

Mathews nodded. “Don’t worry about Dawson.”

Perkins tented his fingers. “He’s a thousand miles away, and he has three thousand useless sugar pills, but he’s proven he can still be a thorn in our sides. It’s prudent to remain wary.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I can handle him.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now, for more important matters. The security here is appalling. I want you to prepare the bunker to house everyone on campus. We should plan to stay there for up to two months.”

“When do you want to make the move?”

“ASAP.”

Mathews saluted and headed for the door.

“Lieutenant,” he called before she exited. “I told Doctor Hoffer to inform the staff that Admiral Samuels had a massive heart attack. Hoffer asked if I was planning to hold a memorial service. I thought you should know.”

“A memorial service is an excellent idea, sir.”

Perkins studied her face. It was a mask of pure composure. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she had gunned down her commanding officer, and she seemed pleased to hold a memorial service for him.

“Have a seat,” he said, wanting to find out what made Mathews tick. “I bet you didn’t know I had an identical twin brother? His name was Donald. We were inseparable. We played chess together. Our parents gave us an ant farm.”

In the chair, Mathews sat ramrod straight with the cold eyes of an assassin.

“Sadly, we were born with a heart condition known as Wolff-Parkinson-White Syndrome. Our hearts had an extra circuit. For those with the syndrome, electrical signals sometimes travel down an abnormal pathway that stimulates the ventricles to contract prematurely. The heart races, pumping less and less blood. Three hundred beats per minute are not uncommon.

“Donald went into cardiac arrest and died at the age of ten. The year after his death, medical researchers at Princeton developed a procedure to burn the extra circuit. I had the procedure performed on me, and my heart has beaten steadily ever since. My grief has never left me. It ages like wine.

“I came away from that experience with a revelation. Science can end suffering. The greatest crime of humanity would be to sit idly by as we lose the foundation of our knowledge. That’s what drives me to ensure the success of Generation M. Lieutenant, do you believe in God?”

“Yes, I do believe in God.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Perkins said, “but if there is a higher power, I’ve fancied that He created the Perkins twins for a reason. If one of us failed, the other could carry on and complete the mission. We were a redundant system, so to speak. What about you, Lieutenant? Has a life event shaped your direction? What motivates you?”

“I like to win.”

Perkins waited for more, but her stare unnerved him. “Very well, then. Both Generation M and I are counting on your winning ways,
Captain
Mathews.
”

That got a grin out of the assassin.

Abby trembled in fear as she stood before the red and white airplane. The wing was above the cockpit. There were two seats up front and two in the back.