Generation M (20 page)

“Now do you believe it’s loaded?” she heard him say.

“Abby,” Maggie cried.

Mark had opened his eyes.

On motorcycles that William had provided, the boys left Mystic on Route 95. Jordan, riding alongside Spike, frequently checked his mirror to keep an eye on Jonzy, who was twenty meters behind them. It was Jonzy’s first time on a motorcycle, and he was prone to wobbling.

Jordan wished Eddie could have joined them, but that was not possible. He felt good about Eddie’s chances of making a full recovery. Wenlan had set his broken ankle, cleaned all his puncture wounds, and most importantly, given Eddie a pill to cure the Pig.

Jordan hoped they’d arrive in Newark and meet with Leo, the leader of the Ponytail Gang, before dark. Each boy carried a spare can of gas, water, a small ration of food, and antibiotic pills for trading. Jordan had Toby’s map, showing the way to the pill plant in Georgia.

They kept their speed around twenty miles per hour, and at midmorning, crossed the New York state border. The plan was to continue until Exit 19, where they’d turn onto Route 44.

They had to find a way to cross the Hudson River. Jonzy had reported the shortest route to Newark, The George Washington Bridge, spanning from Colony East to the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, was impassable, blocked at both ends with cement that the adults had poured.

Consequently, they were headed toward the Tappan Zee Bridge, forty miles upriver. At Exit 19, they turned onto Route 44. Wary of an ambush, Jordan constantly looked for nails in their path.

A few kids on bicycles were the only signs of life. The absence of kids gave him the same uneasy feeling he had experienced in the empty streets of Portland.

Jordan breathed a sigh of relief when the Tappan Zee Bridge came into view. A steel cable dangled from its midsection, reminding him of a giant guitar string that had snapped.

They pulled into a rest area about a mile from the entrance and filled their tanks. Continuing, they crossed the bridge and headed south on Route 9, hugging the Hudson River. About two hours later, Spike pointed excitedly when Colony East appeared on their left. Jordan reacted quite differently to the sight of the tall, dark buildings. The first and only time he had set his eyes on the colony’s skyline was when he had sailed by on
Lucky Me
, three miles out at sea, only hours before the pirates had attacked. The colony was a reminder of lost friends.

They turned onto Route 107, heading west, and after five miles, approached a “Welcome to Newark” sign covered with purple graffiti.

Jordan’s motorcycle sputtered, and he turned into a gas station. The gas needle had been bouncing on empty for the past five miles. The boys followed him, and they all killed their engines.

To get out of sight, they pushed their bikes into a mechanic’s bay, where plastic forks and fine, needle-thin bones on the floor informed them that kids had sought shelter here at one point.

“I’ll take the gas in Jonzy’s tank and look for Leo,” Spike said.

“I can go,” Jordan said.

Spike shook his head. “You’re not ready.”

Jordan smirked. “Says who?”

“The look in your eyes, that’s who.”

Rather than waste time arguing, Jordan used a rubber tube he was carrying to siphon what remained in Jonzy’s tank into Spike’s, about a liter or two.

When the throb of Spike’s motorcycle faded into silence, he and Jonzy split up to investigate the rest of the gas station. Around back, Jordan stepped into a small bathroom. He pumped the soap dispenser above the sink and ants crawled out. He pinched some between his fingers and ate them as though they were chocolate sprinkles.

In the mechanic’s bay, he and Jonzy settled in to share ants, water, and stories.

“What did you think of Abby when you first met her?” Jordan asked.

“Bossy,” Jonzy said with a smile. “But after I got to know her, I thought she was really nice, not bossy, just
very stubborn
.”

“That’s her, all right. Abby is bossy and stubborn, but she’s also the most caring person you’ll ever meet, and she’s
way
too trusting.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jonzy said. “Maybe she’s changed since you saw her last.”

Jordan chuckled. “Impossible. Abby trusts everyone. She taught me to be more trusting.”

“Lemon taught me a lot of things,” Jonzy said.

“Lemon? Who’s that?”

“My grandfather.” Jonzy had a big smile on his face as he spoke about his grandfather, Lemon Billings, who had lived with Jonzy and his mother before the night of the purple moon.

Lemon had taught physics at Brooklyn College, the first African-American to head the department.

“Lemon taught me how to build a radio from spare parts we bought at Radio Shack,” Jonzy said.

“How did he get his nickname?”

Jonzy laughed. “Lemon is his real name. When he was born, his head was the shape of a lemon.”

“When my sister, Lisette, was born, she had a really big nose. Abby said she looked like a toucan. After that, everyone called her Toucan.”

The frequency of their yawning increased, and they decided to alternate catnaps. Jonzy went first, and despite sporadic bursts of gunfire in the distance, he fell asleep within seconds of resting his head on a big truck tire.

About thirty minutes later, an ambulance pulled into the gas station. Jordan jostled Jonzy to wake him. The boys peered around the corner and were relieved to see Spike hop out the passenger side.

Spike entered the bay, carrying a full can of gas. As he filled their tanks, he described his meeting with Leo.

“I told him everything. I gave him a few pills. We listened to DJ Silver. Leo couldn’t believe The Port was back on the air.” That got a grin from Jonzy. “Then Leo talked about himself for an hour straight. A lot of fuel kings have big egos, and trust me, Leo wins the prize for having the biggest.”

“Is he going to help us?” Jordan asked.

Spike shrugged. “He’s thinking it over. He’s worried about the White House Gang and the Grits. He said it would be a bloody battle to get past both gangs.”

“Did you tell him I know the White House Gang leaders?” Jordan asked.

Spike nodded. “He’s more worried about the Grits.”

“We’ll talk the Grits into joining us,” Jordan said.

Finished gassing up the bikes, Spike popped the top on Jonzy’s tank. “Like I said, Leo’s thinking it over.”

Spike told them to follow the ambulance to Leo’s compound before climbing into the passenger seat.

Jordan and Jonzy fired up their bikes and pulled up behind the ambulance. The driver squealed the tires as she drove onto the street

The boys barely managed to keep the ambulance in their sight as it swerved left and right, and sped up and slowed down repeatedly, as if taking evasive maneuvers. The driver would creep down one road, then make a sharp U-turn and accelerate past Jordan and Jonzy.

The ambulance stopped before a brown, package delivery truck blocking a street. A girl with a long ponytail poked her head out the door, and a moment later, she backed up the truck so they could drive pass.

On the next block, the ambulance stopped and parked, and the boys parked beside it and dismounted their bikes. They followed Spike up steep steps to the front porch of a three-story house. A lanky boy, hair tied in a ponytail, patted them down for weapons before they entered. The boy confiscated Jordan’s Swiss Army knife.

They entered the house and climbed the stairs to the third floor where Leo required no introduction. Tall and muscular, he wore thick gold chains around his neck, and his purple ponytail fell below his waste.

Crushed pokeberries made rich, long-lasting hair dye.

Leo wasted no time in showing his support for their mission. “I want to go to Georgia with you. We’ll bring an army. If my gang members are healthy, they’re coming. We’ll need an army to make it past Pale Rider.”

“Who’s Pale Rider?” Jordan asked.

“The leader of the Grits. Her three lieutenants are just as ruthless. There’s only one thing I want from you.”

Sure of what Leo was about to demand, Jordan prepared to give him the rest of their pills. His secret fantasy was to roll into Atlanta with an army of kids; giving up the rest of their pills was a small price to pay for Leo’s support.

“What do you want?” Jordan asked.

Leo ran his hand through his ponytail. “My own radio station.”

Doctor Perkins eyed the unfolding scene with concern. Security monitor number four showed survivors amassing outside the front gate of the CDC bunker.

Clearly, the word of the exodus from Emory Campus had spread, and children arrived with the false hope that the CDC would provide care.

All four monitors affixed to Perkins’s office wall were streaming live feeds from outside the bunker. The mob featured on number four swelled by the minute. Half the children sprawled over the ground and most had blank, vacant stares. Curses directed at adults mixed with desperate cries of pain. Perkins muted the microphone.

What troubled him most was not the growing number of children, but rather a specific boy who stood out in the crowd. He appeared to be ten or eleven years old, though the nutritional deficiencies outside the colonies made it difficult to judge ages. The boy stared at Perkins right through the camera. His eyes were wide and brimming with sadness, absent of all hope.

Doctor Droznin hobbled into his office and placed a report on his desk.

“The latest analysis of AHA-B concentrations,” she said in her typical, cold tone.

He gestured to the chair before his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

She remained standing.

He glanced at the sheet of data.
More statistics
. “Anything I should be aware of?”

She glared at him. “The aggregate mean is what we expected.”

Perkins studied her. Were Svetlana’s feelings hurt because he relied more and more on Captain Mathews? No, that couldn’t be it; Droznin didn’t have feelings for anything other than the mountains of data she produced. They had disagreed sharply over how to handle ID 944, but she’d won that argument, at least for the time being. Of course, everyone’s patience suffered from confinement in the bunker.

Not wishing to play nursemaid to the Russian scientist, Perkins concluded that he didn’t care what was bothering her.

He stood and walked to Monitor number four. “I’m reminded of a saying attributed to one of your comrades, Joseph Stalin. It goes something like this: ‘The death of thousands is a statistic, the death of one man is a tragedy.’”

He pointed out the boy with the sad eyes. “See that face. It jumps out, right? “That ratty, unkempt survivor puts a face on the epidemic. He makes it a tragedy. People respond to tragedies in spontaneous, irrational ways. It’s best we nip it in the bud.”

Perkins returned to his desk, and in a few keystrokes, killed the video feed to monitor number four. A few more keystrokes switched the monitor to an internal feed that showed a chess tournament underway in the Generation M living quarters.

Doctor Droznin gave him a long, hard stare that unnerved him. “My great-grandfather lived in Moscow. He was not a scientist or a professor. He was a baker. He wore glasses so he could read recipes. Joseph Stalin thought that anyone who wore glasses was an intellectual, an enemy of the state. One day, Stalin’s henchmen murdered my great-grandfather.”

She hobbled away.

Murdering someone just because he wore glasses was tragic, and Perkins decided he would be smart to no longer reference Stalin in his lectures. Settling back in his chair, he returned his attention to the chess tournament, happy that in this environment intellectuals received accolades and an opportunity to flourish, not the axe.

In Olympic Park, Abby had found that by lying on her side and drawing one knee to her chin, the pain in her midsection eased to excruciating from unbearable.

Over the past five hours, she had thought a lot about her family and closest friends living at the cabin on the lake in Maine, and that provided a few moments of relief.

Toby lay next to her in the tall grass, gripping the gun he hoped to trade for a car. He kept sitting up to see if the girl he had negotiated with had returned.

A crowd of gawkers had swelled to nearly a hundred, though the crumpled airplane was not the source of their curiosity. Mark was. Abby worried their anger toward adults in general might boil over, leading them to attack Mark.

Maggie jostled Mark, as she had been doing every fifteen minutes. Because of the concussion he had suffered, Abby knew it was best to keep him awake, but that had proved impossible. So Maggie would agitate him just enough to make him open his eyes. Mark would groan, curse, and roll onto his stomach in response. He seemed to be growing stronger by the fact his groans grew louder and his curses more varied.

In the late afternoon, a car horn beeped twice, and Toby sat up. “It’s her.”

He and Maggie helped Abby to her feet, and then prodded and cajoled Mark until he stood. Abby thought he looked half descent for someone, who a few hours ago, she feared would die.

Toby huddled them and said in a low voice, “I’m the lead negotiator. Nobody should say anything, okay?”

Mark clutched his head. “We shouldn’t trade the gun. Let’s give her something else.”

Toby narrowed his eyes. “Like what, Lieutenant? Antibiotic pills? What good have they done Abby? The radio is too important. We have a hammer and two flashlights, but nobody would want them. You can’t eat a hammer. The gun is valuable because someone can use it to take food. We need a car to get to Atlanta Colony.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Mark said.

Abby started to say that Toby knew what he was doing, but a violent cramp stole her breath.

“No, you won’t,” Toby told him. “Keep your mouth shut. Let’s move before the trader changes her mind.”

They all headed toward the graffiti-covered red Toyota. The trader was a girl with spiky blonde hair.

Toby ran the negotiation, but the deal almost imploded when he saw how little gas was in the tank.