Plague (4 page)

SAM
WOKE UP in the last place he’d have expected: his bedroom.

He hadn’t been to his former house in ages.

He’d hated it when he lived here with his mother. Connie Temple. Nurse Temple.

He barely remembered her. She was from another world.

He sat up on the bed and smelled the sick. He’d thrown up on the bed. “Nice,” he said with thick tongue.

His head exploded in supernovas of pain.

He wiped his mouth on the blanket. This was one house no one had raided or vandalized or moved into. It was still his, he supposed. There might still be drugs in the bathroom.

He staggered there. Leaned against the sink and threw up again. Not much came up.

In the medicine cabinet nothing but a small bottle of generic ibuprofen.

“Oh,” Sam moaned. “Why do people drink?”

Then he remembered. Taylor.

“Oh, no. Oh, no.”

No, no, he hadn’t made a grab for Taylor, had he? He hadn’t kissed her, surely? The memory was so hazy it could almost have been a dream. But pieces of it were too immediate and real. Especially the memory of her fingertips on his chest.

“Oh, no,” he moaned.

He swallowed two ibuprofen dry. They didn’t go down easily.

Holding his head, he went to the kitchen. Sat down at the little table. He’d had meals here with his mom. Not a lot of days, because she’d be up at Coates, working.

And keeping a worried eye on her other son.

Caine.

Caine Soren, not Temple. She had given him up for adoption. They had been born just a few minutes apart, fraternal twins, him and Caine. And their mother had given Caine away and kept Sam.

No explanation. She’d never told either of them. That truth hadn’t come out until after the coming of the FAYZ.

And no real explanation for what had become of their father. He was out of the picture before Sam and Caine were born.

Had it just been too much for their mother? Had she decided she could handle one fatherless boy but not two? Eeny meeny miny moe?

He had a new family now. Astrid and Little Pete. Only now he didn’t have them, either. And now he had to ask himself what he had done to deserve it, his father’s disappearance, his mother’s lies, Astrid’s rejection.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Time for self-pity. Poor me. Poor Sam.”

He meant it to sound ironic, but it came out bitter.

Caine probably had a pretty good case of resentment, too. He’d been rejected by both birth parents: two for two.

And yet, Caine still had Diana, didn’t he?

How was it fair? Caine was a liar, a manipulator, a murderer. And Caine was probably lying in satin sheets with Diana eating actual food and watching a DVD. Clean sheets, candy bars, and a beautiful, willing girl.

Caine who had never done a single good or decent thing was living in luxury.

Sam, who had tried and tried and done everything he could, was sitting in his house with a raging headache, smelling vomit with a pair of ibuprofen burning a hole in his stomach lining.

Alone.

Hunter brought his kills to the gas station any day he had some. Today, bright and early, with the sun just warming the hills behind him, he had walked down from his hillside camp carrying four birds and a badger and two raccoons and a bag of squirrels. He forgot how many squirrels. The bag felt heavy, though.

It was a lot to carry. If you added it up it was probably about as heavy as carrying a kid. Not as heavy as a deer though—those he had to butcher and carry down in pieces.

No deer today. And he had not yet butchered Old Lion. That was a big job. He wanted to keep the skin in one piece, so he had to take his time.

He would wear the lion’s skin over him when he had dried it out. It would be warm and remind him of Old Lion.

Hunter carried the squirrel bag slung over one shoulder. He roped the other animals together and draped the rope over his other shoulder. He had to be careful about that, though, because of the thing on his shoulder.

That kid named Roscoe was coming. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. He didn’t look very happy. Every day Hunter came it was either Roscoe or this girl named Marcie. Marcie was nice. But Hunter knew she was scared of him. Probably because he couldn’t talk well.

“Hey, Hunter,” Roscoe said. “Dude, are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“You’re all clawed up, man. I mean, jeez, that has to hurt.”

Hunter followed the direction of Roscoe’s gaze. His shirt was ripped exposing his stomach. Two claw marks, deep, bloody, just beginning to scab a little, were plowed right across his stomach.

He touched the wound gingerly. But it didn’t hurt. In fact he couldn’t feel it at all.

“You’re a tough dude, Hunter,” Roscoe said. “Anyway, looks like you have a good haul today.”

“I do, Roscoe,” Hunter said. He spoke as carefully as he could. But still the words didn’t sound like how he made words back before. He sounded as if his tongue was covered with glue.

Hunter carefully lifted the rope off his shoulder. He was careful not to scrape the thing on his shoulder. He set the animals in the wheelbarrow. Then he upended the squirrel bag and dumped the squirrels on top. They all looked the same. Gray and bushy-tailed. Each cooked inside a little. Enough. Sometimes he cooked their heads and sometimes their body. It wasn’t that easy to aim the invisible stuff that radiated out of his hands.

He forgot what it was called. Astrid had some name for it. But it was a long word.

“You doing okay, Hunter?” Roscoe asked again.

“Yes. I have food. And my sleeping bag is dry after I cleaned it in a stream.”

“You got fresh water to wash in, huh?” Roscoe asked. “I’m jealous. Feel this shirt.” He invited Hunter to feel the stiff saltwater-washed cotton.

“It feels okay,” Hunter said warily.

Roscoe made a rude noise. “Yeah, right. Salt water. Feel your shirt.” And Roscoe reached out to touch Hunter’s shirt. He touched the shoulder of Hunter’s shirt.

The wrong shoulder.

“Aaahh!” Roscoe cried in shock and pain. “What the—”

“I didn’t mean to!” Hunter yelled.

“Something bit me!” He held out his finger for Hunter to examine. There were teeth marks. Blood.

Roscoe stared hard at him. And at his shoulder. “What’s on your shoulder, man? What is that? What’s under there? Is that some kind of animal?”

Hunter swallowed. No one had seen his shoulder. He didn’t know what would happen if anyone did.

“Yes, Roscoe, it’s an animal,” Hunter said, seizing gratefully on the explanation.

“Well, it bit me!”

“Sorry,” Hunter said.

Roscoe grabbed the wheelbarrow handles and hefted it. “I’m not doing this job anymore. Marcie can do it every day, I’m not dealing with this.”

“Okay,” Hunter said. “Bye.”

Jennifer B set out sometime around dawn.

If she stayed in the house she was sure she would die. She’d slept for an unknown period of time—hours? days?—on the floor, with her blankets gathered around her.

The chills came in waves. She would be too hot and would kick off her blankets. Then the fever would start to spike again and she would feel cold, cold all the way down to her bones.

Jennifer H was dead. Jennifer L didn’t answer when Jennifer B moaned to her to join her.

“Jen . . . I’m going to . . . hospital.”

No answer.

“Are you alive?”

Jennifer L coughed, she wasn’t dead, and she coughed normally, not the crazy spasms that had killed Jennifer H. But she didn’t answer.

So Jennifer Boyles set off, on her own. She slid on her butt down the stairs, blankets gathered around her. Shivering, teeth chattering.

She managed to stand long enough to reach the front door and open it. But she sat down again very unexpectedly on the porch. Hard on her butt. She sat there shaking until the chills passed.

She tripped walking down the porch stairs. The fall bruised her left knee badly. This destroyed the last of her will to stand up. But not the last of her will to live.

Jennifer began to crawl. Hands and knees. Down the sidewalk. Impeded by her blankets. Delayed by coughing fits. Pausing whenever the chills rattled her so hard she could only moan and hack and roll onto her side.

“Keep going,” she muttered. “Gotta keep going.”

It took her two hours to crawl as far as Brace Road.

She lay there, facedown. Coughing wracked her chest. But it was not yet the superhuman coughs that had killed Jennifer H.

Not yet.

“LESLIE-ANN,
TRY TO do a little better on cleaning my night pot, okay?” Albert told the cleaning girl. “I know it’s not a fun job, but I like it clean.”

Leslie-Ann nodded and kept her eyes down. She was a little afraid of him, Albert knew. But at least she didn’t seem to hate him.

“There’s not much water,” Leslie-Ann mumbled.

“Use sand,” Albert said patiently—he’d already told her this. “Use sand to scrub it clean.”

She nodded and fled the room.

Not everyone liked Albert. Not everyone was happy that he had become the most important person around. Lots of people were jealous that Albert had a girl to clean his house and the porcelain basin where he did his business at night when he didn’t want to go outside to the only actual outhouse in Per-dido Beach. And that he could afford to send his clothes to be washed in the fresh water of the ironically named Lake Evian.

And there were definitely people who didn’t like working for Albert, having to do what he said or go hungry.

Albert traveled with a bodyguard now. The bodyguard’s name was Jamal. Jamal carried an automatic rifle over his shoulder. He had a massive hunting knife in his belt. And a club that was an oak chair leg with spikes driven through it to make a sort of mace.

Unlike everyone else Albert carried no weapon himself. Jamal was weapon enough.

“Let’s go, Jamal.”

Albert led the way toward the beach. Jamal as usual kept a few paces back, head swiveling left and right, glowering, ready for trouble.

Albert bypassed the plaza—there were always kids there and they always wanted something from Albert: a job, a different job, credit, something.

It didn’t work. Two littles, Harley and Janice, moved right in front of him as he walked briskly.

“Mr. Albert? Mr. Albert?” Harley said.

“Just Albert’s fine,” Albert said tersely.

“Me and Janice are thirsty.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any water on me.” He managed a tight smile and moved on. But now Janice was crying and Harley was pleading.

“We used to live with Mary and she gave us water. But now we have to live with Summer and BeeBee and they said we have to have money.”

“Then I guess you’d better earn some money,” Albert said. He tried to soften it, tried not to sound harsh, but he had a lot on his mind and it came out sounding mean. Now Harley started to cry, too.

“If you’re thirsty, stop crying,” Albert snapped. “What do you think tears are made of?”

Reaching the beach Albert scanned the work site. It looked like a salvage yard. A five-hundred-gallon oval propane tank lay abandoned on the sand. A scorched hole in one side.

A second, slightly smaller tank should have been resting on steel legs right at the water’s edge. Instead it was tipped over. A copper pipe stuck out of the top. This pipe was crimped tightly over a slightly smaller pipe that bent back toward the ground. A third, still narrower pipe was duct-taped heavily in place and this pipe reached the wet sand.

In theory at least, this crude, jury-rigged contraption was a still. The principle was simple enough: boil salt water, let the steam rise into a pipe, then cool the steam. What dribbled out of the end would be drinkable water.

Easy in theory. Almost impossible to do practically. Especially now that some fool had knocked it over.

Albert’s heart sank. Soon Harley and Janice wouldn’t be the only ones begging for water. The gasoline supply was down to a few hundred gallons at the station. No gas: no water truck. No water truck: no water.

Even worse, the tiny Lake Evian in the hills was drying up. There had been no rain since the coming of the FAYZ. Kids knew there was a plan to relocate everyone to Lake Evian when the last of the gas was gone; what they didn’t realize was that things were far worse than that.

The first tank, the burned one, had been an earlier effort to create a still. Albert had tried to get Sam to boil the water using his powers. Unfortunately Sam couldn’t dial it down enough to heat without destroying.

This new effort would require a fire beneath the tank. Which would mean crews of kids to rip lumber from unused houses. Which might make the whole thing more trouble than it was worth.

The crew was lounging. Tossing pebbles at the surf, trying to get them to skip.

Albert marched over to them, his loafers filling with sand. “Hey,” he snapped. “What happened here?”

The four kids—none older than eleven—looked guilty.

“It was like this when we got here. I think the wind knocked it over.”

“There is no wind in the FAYZ, you . . .” He stopped himself from saying, “moron.” Albert had a certain reputation for being in control of himself. He was the closest thing they had to an adult.

“I hired you to dig a hole, not play around,” Albert said.

“It’s hard,” one said. “It keeps filling up.”

“I know it’s hard. It won’t get any easier. And if you want to eat, you work.”

“We were just taking a break.”

“Break’s over. Get on those shovels.”

Albert turned and walked away with Jamal in his wake.

“Those kids are flipping you off, boss,” Jamal reported.

“Are they digging?”

Jamal glanced back and reported that they were.

“As long as they do their work they can flip me off all they like,” Albert said.

It was then that Roscoe came up to report his haul from Hunter. And to tell Albert a crazy story about Hunter’s shoulder biting him.

“Look,” Roscoe said and held out his hand for Albert’s inspection.

Albert sighed. “Save the crazy stories, Roscoe,” he said.

“It’s like, like, green, kind of,” Roscoe said. “I’m not the Healer or Dahra,” Albert said.

But as he walked away something nagged at the edges of Albert’s thoughts: the wound really had looked a bit green.

Someone else’s problem. He had plenty of his own.

It was then that he spotted someone lying on the sand, just lying there like he might be dead. Far down the beach.

He felt in his pocket for the map.

Was it time? He glanced back at the still. The hopeless still.

His insides squirmed a little at what he was about to do. Panic would not be good. Everyone was on edge, weird, freaked since Mary’s dramatic suicide and attempted mass murder.

The people could not take another disaster. But disaster was coming. And when it hit, if there was panic, then Sam would be needed here in town.

But there was no one else Albert could trust with the mission he had in mind. Sam would have to go. And Albert would have to hope that no new disaster arose while he was gone.

Sam felt a shadow.

He squinted one eye open. Someone was standing over him, face blanked by the sun behind him.

“Is that you, Albert?” Sam asked.

“It’s me.”

“I recognize the shoes. I don’t feel good,” Sam said.

“Would you mind sitting up? I have something important to talk to you about.”

“If it’s important, go talk to Edilio. He’s in charge.”

Albert waited, refusing to speak. Finally, with a sigh that became a groan, Sam rolled over and sat up.

“This is just between us, Sam,” Albert said.

“Yeah, that always works out so well when I keep secrets from the council,” Sam said sarcastically. He rubbed his hair vigorously to knock some of the sand out.

“You’re not on the council anymore,” Albert said reasonably. “And this is about a job. I want to hire you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Everyone already works for you, Albert. What’s the problem? Does it bother you that I don’t?”

“You liked it better when no one was working and everyone was starving?”

Sam stared up at him. Then he made an ironic two-finger salute. “Sorry. I’m in a lousy mood. Bad night followed by bad morning. What’s up, Albert?”

“There’s a big problem with the water supply.”

Sam nodded. “I know. As soon as the gas runs out we’re going to have to relocate the whole town up to Evian.”

Albert tugged at his pants, then sat down carefully on the sand. “No. First of all, the water level in Lake Evian is dropping faster than ever. There’s no rain here. And it’s a small lake. You can see where it’s dropped from, like, ten feet deep to half that.”

Albert pulled a folded map from his pocket and opened it. Sam scooted closer to see.

“This isn’t a very good map. It’s too big to show much detail. But see this?” He pointed. “Lake Tramonto. It’s like a hundred times bigger than Evian.”

“Is it inside the FAYZ?”

“I drew this circle with a compass. I think at least part of Lake Tramonto is inside the barrier.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Dude, it’s, like, what, ten miles from here?”

“More like fifteen.”

“Even if it’s there and even if the water is drinkable, how are we going to bring it down to Perdido Beach? I mean, look.” Sam traced lines with his finger. “Going or coming back it’s right through coyote country. And that would take a lot more gas, that drive. I mean, a lot more.”

“I don’t think my saltwater still is going to work,” Albert admitted. He gazed moodily down the beach toward his work crew. “Even if it does, it may not produce enough.”

Sam took the map from him and studied it intently. “You know, it’s weird. I kind of forgot there were such things as paper maps. I always used to use Google maps. Maps dot Google dot com. Remember those days? What’s this?”

Albert peered over the edge of the map. “Oh, that’s the air force base. But look, it’s pretty much all on the other side. The runway, the buildings and all. Why? Were you hoping to find a jet fighter?”

Sam smiled. “That might be useful if it came with a pilot. It’s one thing for Sanjit to crash-land a helicopter. It’s a whole different thing flying a Mach two jet around inside a twenty-mile-wide fishbowl. No. I don’t know what I was hoping for. Maybe a magic ray gun that could blow holes through the barrier.”

“You know,” Albert said, trying to sound casual, but sounding instead like he was delivering a well-rehearsed speech. “I read in a book where in the old days—I mean, really old days—businessmen would hire explorers to go search out new territory. You know, to find gold or oil or spices. Of course these explorers would have to be tough and be able to deal with all kinds of problems.”

Sam had no trouble grasping Albert’s meaning. “You want to hire me to explore this lake.”

“Yes.”

Sam looked around at the sand. “Well, as you can see, I’m very busy.”

Albert said nothing. Just waited and watched Sam like a lizard watching a fly.

“You don’t want the council to know about this. Why?”

Albert shrugged. “Anything the council hears about, the whole town knows ten seconds later. You want panic? Anyway, it’s not about them. It’s me doing it. Me and you. And a couple of other kids to back you up.”

“Why not just send Brianna? She’d get there fast.”

“I don’t trust her. Not for something like this. I mean, Sam, we could be in trouble on water really soon. I mean, soon. I’ve got a truck going later, after that, maybe half a dozen more runs.”

Sam fell silent. He drew little abstract shapes in the sand, thinking.

“I’ll do it,” Sam said. “I’m not happy about keeping it secret from Edilio.”

Albert pressed his lips into a line. Like he was thinking. But Sam could see Albert had an answer ready. “Look, secrets don’t last long in this place. For example, Taylor’s been telling an interesting story all over town.”

Sam groaned. Had to be Taylor, he reproached himself. What was he going to tell Astrid? Not that it was really her business. They’d never said he couldn’t see anyone else, make out with anyone else. In fact once, in a flash of anger, Astrid had told him to do just that. Only she hadn’t said “make out.” She’d used a phrase he’d been a little shocked to hear coming from Astrid.

“Sam, Edilio’s a good guy,” Albert said, breaking in on Sam’s gloomy thoughts. “But like I said, he’ll tell the rest of them. Once the council knows, everyone knows. If everyone knows how desperate things are, what do you think will happen?”

Sam smiled without humor. “About half the people will be great. The other half will freak.”

“And people will end up getting killed,” Albert said. He cocked his head sideways, trying his best to look like the idea had just occurred to him. “And who is going to end up kicking butts? Who will end up playing Daddy and then be resented and blamed and finally told to go away?”

“You’ve gained new skills,” Sam said bitterly. “You used to just be about working harder than anyone else and being ambitious. You’re learning how to manipulate people.”

Albert’s mouth twitched and his eyes flashed angrily. “You’re not the only one walking around with a big load of responsibility on your shoulders, Sam. You play the big mean daddy who won’t let anyone have any fun, and I play the greedy businessman who is just looking out for himself. But don’t be stupid: maybe I am greedy, but without me no one eats. Or drinks. We need water. You see anyone else in this town that’s going to make that happen?”

Sam laughed softly. “Yeah, you’ve gotten good at using people, Albert. I mean you offer me a chance to go off and save everyone’s butt, right? Be important and necessary again. You have me all figured out.”

“We need water, Sam,” Albert said simply. “If you find water up at this Lake Tramonto and come back and tell people they have to move up there, they’ll do it. You tell them it’s going to be okay and they’ll believe you.”

“Because I’m so widely loved and admired,” Sam said sarcastically.

“It’s not a popularity contest, Sam. People love you when they need you, and then ten minutes later they’re tired of you. In a very short while they’re going to realize we’re very close to all dying of thirst. And there you’ll be with the solution.”

“And they’ll love me. For ten minutes, until they’ve had enough to drink.”

“Exactly,” Albert said. He stood up. “We have a deal?” He extended his hand down for Sam to shake.

Sam stood up. “And the lake? I mean, if it’s there?”

“If it’s there, it’s my lake,” Albert said coolly. “I’ll sell the water and control access. Maybe then we won’t end up in the same bind all over again.”