Mark took a quick look around and realized their prospects were grim. The house was in chaos.
Alec was in the dining room, still fighting off a dozen attackers, firing his weapon when he could. Several of the mob gave up on him when they saw Mark, charging him instead. A surge of people also came from the other direction—from the hallway leading to the kitchen—and they came fast, as if they were fleeing something instead of attacking. More infected stood between Mark and the door, blocking any escape. And each one of them looked ready to kill or be killed.
Mark held his arms up to protect Trina and Deedee, backed up and pressed them against the wall by the stairs. The first person to reach him was a mangled old man with scratches and gashes covering his head instead of hair. He leaped into the air, coming straight for Mark, when there was a thumping sound from the kitchen. The man’s body turned into a gray wall and then he was gone in a cloud of mist that washed over Mark.
Mark’s entire body went cold. The sound hadn’t come from Alec’s direction—somebody had figured out how to use the Transvice.
The thought had barely formed in his mind before a bolt of white light shot past him and slammed into the chest of a woman standing in the group by the door.
“Alec!” Mark yelled. “Someone’s shooting the other Transvice!”
The fear that prickled Mark’s skin was like nothing he’d ever felt, even after all the hellacious things they’d experienced since that day when all went dark in the subtrans. A mad person was running around with a weapon that could vaporize a human in an instant. At any second, Mark’s life might vanish before he even realized what had happened.
They had to get out of there.
Even with their diseased minds, the others in the house knew something extraordinary was happening. Panic rippled through the group, and every last person turned and ran for the front door. Screams and hysterical cries for help filled the air. The hallway was a surging river of arms and legs and terrified faces, all pressed together, straining toward the front of the house. More shots rang out from the rogue Transvice; more people disappeared.
Mark felt his sanity crumbling. He spun around and lifted Deedee into his arms, then grabbed Trina’s shoulder and heaved her off the wall, pushed her away from the crowd and into the dining room, where Alec had been fighting. He was surrounded by a mass of people—too many to shoot.
Mark pushed Trina, this time toward the big bay windows—the few in the house that were still intact. He picked up a lamp and tossed it at the glass, shattering it into a million shards. Clasping Deedee tightly in his right arm, he ran forward, catching up with Trina and gripping her elbow with his left hand. Without slowing, he sprinted straight for the opening; then he let go of Trina and dove, turning his body at the last second so that his back went first. He hugged the girl tightly to his body, trying his best to protect her as he thumped against the hard-packed dirt of what had once been a flower bed. The fall knocked the wind out of him.
Gasping for air, he looked up into the bright sky and he saw Alec’s head poke out of the house.
“You really have lost your mind,” the man said, but he was already helping Trina climb out the window before he’d finished the short sentence.
He jumped down after Trina landed safely. Then they were both helping Mark to his feet and Trina took Deedee back into her arms. Some of the infected had seen their escape and were following; others were streaming out the front door. Screams and shouts filled the air. People were already fighting each other outside.
“I’ve had enough of this party,” Alec grumbled.
Mark was finally catching his breath, and the four of them started running across the dusty yard, angling toward the street that would lead them back to the Berg. Alec tried to take Deedee from Trina but she refused, kept moving, her face showing the strain of carrying the burden. As for the little girl, her cries had been replaced at some point by silence. There weren’t even any tears on her face.
Mark looked behind him. A man stood on the front porch, blasting away randomly with the Transvice, sending people to their wispy deaths. He finally noticed the group running away down the street and fired off a couple of shots. They came nowhere close, the white bolts smashing into the pavement, sending up poofs of dust. The guy gave up, returned to killing closer quarry.
Mark and his friends kept running. When they passed the house full of small children, Mark thought of Trina and Deedee and the future. He didn’t stop.
CHAPTER 60
Finally they saw the Berg once again. It rose up in the distance, more beautiful than Mark would’ve ever guessed one of the beat-up old things could look. Though each one of them was heaving like every breath might be their last, they didn’t slow down, and soon the big hunk of scarred metal loomed above their heads.
Mark didn’t know how in the world Trina had done it with Deedee in her arms the entire time. But she’d refused to let anyone else help.
“You … okay?” he asked her between deep breaths.
She collapsed to the ground, spilling the girl next to her as gently as she could. Trina looked up at him, still no recognition in her eyes. “I’m … fine. Thank you for rescuing us.”
Mark knelt next to her, the pain creeping back into his heart now that the craziness of escaping was over. “Trina, do you really not remember me?”
“You seem … familiar. But there’s too much in my head. We just need to get the girl—she’s immune, I know it—we need to get her to people who matter. Before we’re all too insane to try.”
Mark felt something turn in his stomach and leaned back, away from his best friend. The chilling way she’d said those last few words …
He knew that there was something seriously wrong with her. And couldn’t he say the same thing about himself? How long did he have until nothing mattered anymore? A day? Maybe two?
The huge door of the Berg lurched into motion with a thump and a squeal, giving Mark an excuse not to respond. He watched as it lowered to the ground.
Alec spoke loudly over the grinding gears and hydraulics. “Let’s get them on board, get everyone fed. Then we need to figure out what to do with ourselves. We might be like those kooks we just ran away from soon.”
“Not the girl,” Mark said, so quietly he wondered if his friend even heard him.
“What do you mean?” the man replied.
“The scar on her arm. She was hit by a dart months ago. Think about it. Trina’s right. She’s immune somehow. That’s gotta mean something.”
Trina had perked up at the statement, was nodding vigorously. Too vigorously. Mark’s heart sank a little bit more. She just wasn’t quite there.
Alec let out one of his infamous grunts. “Well, unless you wanna swap bodies with her, I reckon it won’t do you a bit of good, now, will it?”
“But maybe it could help others. If they don’t already have a treatment …”
Alec gave him a doubtful look. “Let’s just get on board before some of them crazies catch up to us.”
And blast us with my Transvice, Mark thought grimly. He appreciated Alec’s not giving him a hard time about it.
Alec headed for the ramp, which was almost all the way down, leaving Mark to deal with the two girls. Mark reached for Trina’s hand.
“Come on. It’ll be nice and safe on board. And there’s food, somewhere to rest. Don’t worry. You … can trust me.” It hurt to even have to say such a thing.
Deedee stood up, her face still set in stone, and took Mark’s hand before Trina could. The little girl looked at him, and even though her features didn’t change, something in her eyes almost made him think she had a smile hidden inside somewhere. Trina got to her feet.
“I just hope the boogie man doesn’t live on that thing,” she said in a distant, haunted voice. Then she started walking toward the ramp.
Mark sighed and followed, Deedee in tow.
The next few hours passed quietly as the sun sped toward the horizon and darkness fell on the land outside the Berg. Alec flew the ship to the neighborhood where they’d parked before—it still seemed deserted. Then they ate and prepared bunks for Trina and Deedee to get some sleep. Trina mumbled a lot, and Mark even caught her with a line of drool on her chin at one point. As he wiped it off, sadness once again welled up in his heart.
As for him, sleeping seemed utterly impossible.
He planned to talk to Alec, figure out exactly what their next move should be, but when he found him, the old bear was snoring in the pilot’s chair, sitting straight up with his head lolling to one side. Mark was half tempted to throw a chunk of food in his mouth, and giggled at the thought of it.
Giggled.
I really am starting to slip, he thought. And his mood sank into a low and dark place. He desperately needed to do something to take his mind off things.
He suddenly remembered the workpads he’d seen in the cargo room—the ones he’d secured against the shelf with the straps. His spirits rose a bit at the hope that maybe something within those devices would shed some light on what they should do. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get rid of the virus somehow. Maybe there was a chance.
He banged his knee twice—and his head once—running through the dimly lit Berg toward the cargo room. He remembered halfway there that he’d need a flashlight and went back to get it out of his backpack. Then, finally, he was standing in front of the shelf. He quickly removed the workpads and sat down to read through them.
There were three. The first was dead. A password prevented him from getting into the second, but it flickered and would probably die soon anyway. Mark’s excitement almost crashed to a halt. But the third came to life, its glow illuminating the large room so brightly that Mark turned off his flashlight. The owner—evidently a guy named Randall Spilker—had felt no need for a password, and the home station popped up immediately.
He spent the next half hour perusing useless information. Mr. Spilker loved games and chat rooms. Mark was almost ready to give up, thinking the guy had merely used the device as a toy, when he finally discovered some hidden work files.
Folder after folder revealed nothing. But Mark finally hit the jackpot in a place most people would never have had the patience to find. It was a folder, marked as plainly as the rest, practically lost within a list of a hundred others that were empty.
It was titled KILL ORDER.
CHAPTER 61
There were so many documents that Mark didn’t know where to start. Each file had a number assigned to it and seemed to have been saved in random order. Mark knew he didn’t have time to read every single file, so he decided to just start opening and see what he could see.
There was file after file of saved correspondence, memorandums and official announcements. Most numerous were the personal exchanges—all copied into a few files—between Mr. Spilker and his friends, particularly one named Ladena Lichliter. The two of them worked for the Post-Flares Coalition, an entity people in the settlements had heard of but knew almost nothing about. From what Mark could gather, the group had brought together as many government agencies as they could from around the world. They’d gathered in Alaska—a location rumored to have been only mildly affected by the sun flares—and they were trying to put the world back together again.
It all seemed very noble—and frustrating to those involved—until Mark came across an exchange between Mr. Spilker and Ladena Lichliter, who seemed to be his closest confidant, that sent an icy chill along his arms. He’d been skimming text after text, but he read this one twice:
To: Randall Spilker
From: Ladena Lichliter
Subject:
I’m still sick from the meeting today. I just can’t believe it. I can’t accept that the PCC actually looked us in the eyes and presented that proposal. Seriously. I was stunned.
And then more than half the room AGREED WITH THEM! They supported it! What the hell is going on? Randall, tell me what the HELL is going on? How can we even THINK about doing something like that? How?
I’ve spent the afternoon trying to make sense of it all.
I can’t take it. I can’t.
How did we get here?
Come see me tonight. Please.
—LL
What in the world? Mark wondered. The PCC … The man named Bruce had mentioned them as part of the people behind the virus attack. Or had that been the PFC—the Post-Flares Coalition? Maybe the former was a division of the latter. Headquartered somewhere in Alaska. He kept digging.
A few minutes later, he found a series of correspondence spliced together into one file that almost made his heart stop. The icy chills from before turned into a cold sweat.
Post-Flares Coalition Memorandum
Date 217.11.28, Time 21:46
TO: All board members
FROM: Chancellor John Michael
RE: Population concerns
The report presented to us today, copies of which were sent to all members of the coalition, certainly left no room for doubt as to the problems that face this already crippled world. I am certain that all of you, like me, went to your shelters in stunned silence. It is my hope that the harsh reality described in this report is now clear enough that we can begin talking about solutions.
The problem is simple: the world has too many people and not enough resources.
We have scheduled our next meeting for a week from tomorrow. I expect all members to come prepared to present a solution, no matter how extraordinary it seems. You may be familiar with an old business saying, “think outside the box.” I believe it is time we do just that.
I look forward to hearing your ideas.
To: John Michael
From: Katie McVoy
Subject: Potential
John,
I looked into the matter we discussed over dinner last night. AMRIID barely survived the flares, but they’re confident that the underground containment system for the most dangerous viruses, bacteria and biological weapons didn’t fail.
