Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 18
Keiko boggled. A compliment? From Jacob Horowitz? Clearly, he wanted something.
Sam stood his ground. “I’m also a genius. At nineteen, I was the youngest recipient of the Physiology, Biochemistry, and Toxicology Award from the Pacific Branch, Entomological Society of America. As geniuses, Dr. Sato and I must do our due diligence and investigate protein mutations triggered by an infectious agent.” There wasn’t a single note of a boast in Sam’s declaration, he was merely relaying facts. Keiko had to hide a smile. So many of her Ph.D. students were the same way, logical to the last letter and charming with it.
Jacob waved off Sam. “Sato, what do you say? I believe your hypothesis about the CO2 carries the most merit.”
This support from Jacob was very, very weird. It was time to take shelter in the lab. “Sam, I’m going to dissect one of the samples.”
“That’s why I brought them, so we could dissect them. I’m excited to examine the tymbals. Magicicada apocalyptus generates sound in flight, which is unique among cicadas of that genus.”
“I’m sorry, but tymbals are not on my critical elements for observation list. I’m focused on CO2-influenced genetic mutations imprinted in specific reproductive organelles.”
Sam’s brow crinkled—he looked as if he were working out a complicated math problem. “Well, yes, it’s true that the tymbals aren’t critical. But I am curious though, and we should definitely look for protein folding deformities…”
“Hey, you should all come look at this.” Netsy turned up the television’s volume.
Everyone except the two children, who ignored the adults, gathered around the couch. A faceless voice narrated a video showing massive, impenetrable swarms of cicadas.
“…have arrived full force in Fort Collins. The cicadas appear to shed a kind of pollen that, if inhaled, causes a gruesome, almost instant, death. Making matters worse, westerly Chinook winds carrying what appears to be toxic smoke from the California wildfires are feeding rotor clouds that are cycling the smoke and wind through the city. The CDC is recommending everyone seal their homes, wear masks, and quarantine inside…”
A montage of images: bodies lying in the streets, women cradling children at temporary shelters, blood trickling from ears, noses, and eyes. A hospital ER overflowing with bloodstained sheets, and harried medical staff in blood-spattered scrubs. Entire blocks of buildings burned. Rioters throwing bricks and Molotov cocktails through shop windows. Looters leaping through flames carrying anything they could. Armored police ducking rocks and stones behind riot-shields. Black paramilitary vehicles swiveling their .50 caliber machine guns.
“At least no one’s drowning.” Sam was fixated on the images, his face pale and his hands clasped in front of him. “The water was so cold.”
“Water?” Keiko didn’t want to get caught up in the kid’s drama, but he looked like he might cry.
Sam smiled. “There’s more than one Frank, but you know what?”
Keiko was lost. What was he talking about? She decided to humor him, if only to keep the conversation to a minimum. “What?”
“I’m not afraid of the Franks of the world, anymore. They can come at me, lock me in my lab, fill the room with water, but I’ll always find a way out.”
Keiko was still solidly in the dark.
“We’ll assume irrotational, incompressible, steady streamline, non-viscous flow…” His eyes had gone glassy and his breath was coming in a jerky rhythm. “But gravity, Dr. Keiko Sato, gravity is your friend.”
The TV broadcast its tale of doom and destruction in the background while Sam relived an experience he obviously hadn’t fully processed.
“I’m glad you’re safe.” It was all she could think of to say.
“Thank you, Dr. Keiko Sato. So am I. Dr. Diana Stewart, who is my friend, would have been disappointed if I’d let anything happen to Jesse.
“Yes. Well.” Keiko struggled to connect with the young scientist. People all over the state had undergone terrible traumas, but there was nothing she could do about that. Her mind had already turned back to the matter at hand. I’ve got to find the reason why the cicadas are hyperbreeding. Now. But I need time…and solitude.
Keiko took the remote from Netsy and lowered the TV’s volume. She pointed both index fingers at the floor. “We can hunker down here. This building is sealed. We have UV-C germicidal lights and high-micron HEPA filters. The water supply is private. There is plenty of food in the break room.”
Maiko whispered to Jesse. “Unlimited candy bars.” Jesse almost smiled.
“Miss Keiko, that’s great and all, but I need to go home. I’ve not been able to get hold of my parents or my sibs.”
Keiko set the remote on the couch. “Of course. And I’m sorry for not thinking of that sooner. I’ve got the number of a Zoomshare driver. Are you OK riding with him?” Given what had just happened to Netsy, she wasn’t sure. “If so, I’ll call him.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.”
Keiko dialed Raoul, the Zoomshare driver, and arranged the pickup. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Netsy shouldered her knapsack. “I’ll wait outside so I don’t miss him. And yes, yes, yes, I’ll be fine by myself.” Netsy said her goodbyes and left.
Keiko made sure Netsy got out of the building okay, then returned to the lounge. She turned to Sam. “Sam, I’m grateful for the samples, but I work alone. I need you and Jacob to stay here with the children while I dissect.”
“What am I supposed to do with kids?”
Keiko forced a smile. “I don’t know. Play with them? You’ll think of something. And Jacob, before you throw a conniption, I’ll be investigating the CO2. But please, for the sake of humanity’s survival, stay out of the lab.” She strode to the door.
“Hey, it’s your lab, sister.”
Keiko let the door slam behind her.
Chapter 18
ÉMILE HARRIS. PORT OF REDWOOD CITY, CALIFORNIA
Suspended in a scissor lift high above the ground, Émile balanced against the safety bars. The south facing, second story window wasn’t at the best angle, and there were too many obstacles on the floor to drive the lift up against the wall. But it was high enough, and still provided him with some sense of what was happening in the world around them. He adjusted his stance, placing one foot against the railing and pushing up so he was higher.
Outside the building, bodies lay strewn across the asphalt below, most of them face down. They must have been running away when they succumbed to whatever poison those damn bugs carried. He scanned the water ways for new traffic.
He used the joystick and lowered the basket to floor level and with a loud beeping, rolled the tank-like vehicle forward until the lift was in reach of its charging port. Ignoring safety procedures, he slipped through bars, flipped the key to the off position, and connected the battery’s pig tail to the extension cord. A light hum emanated from the battery and a red light pulsed on the lift’s control panel.
He sequestered himself in the corner behind the lift, planning out his next announcement to the crew. Not only had he lost several workers by keeping the doors shut to keep the cicadas out, but the entire group knew about Brandy’s death before he could tell them the next morning. It hadn’t been a peaceful time, and now that the food had run out, the hungry were calling for blood. These were the times when it didn’t pay to be king.
With a determined step, he marched into the circle of punishment and addressed the ranks. “I’ve decided to go out to get the essentials. The market a block away should have bread, meat, cheese, and the like. And before any of you ask, no, you can’t go with me.” Plus, he didn’t want anyone to see how many co-workers had been lost in the last couple of days. He slid a sweatshirt over his head. “I’ll need lots of clothing, so please pass up anything you don’t absolutely need at this moment.” Twelve pairs of eyes glared at him. “The cicadas passed through here not long ago, which means the area is toxic. We can all go out and die, or we can layer on all the protection we have available onto one person and let them risk their life. Any takers?” No one raised a hand and the twelve shuffled away from the meeting. “I’ll take that as a no. Anyone wanting to bail, now’s your chance, I can’t stop you. Just remember, you take your life in your own hands out there.”
David stepped up with a rain slicker. It was hard to tell whether it was grudging admiration or disdain that emanated from his friend. “Good luck.” As he walked away, a couple of sweaters, a jacket, and leather gloves were piled at Émile’s feet.
Larry placed a pair of hip waders down and lingered. “If you could manage, some chowder or fish would be appreciated.”
Émile waited for a wink or hint of humor. There was none. Right. Catholics. No meat on Fridays. Even in a disaster zone. Go figure! “I’ll see what’s out there.”
After fifteen minutes of strapping on the extra clothes, it was all he could do to bend a knee to push himself into the forklift. It must have looked humorous, because an audience of seven had gathered around to watch him scramble into the seat. Larry looked at David, grinning, and pointed at the seat cushion while Mary covered her mouth and turned way. Émile was sure she was hiding a smile. The wrinkles around her eyes told him as much. As he made contact with the seat he glanced at the others. Kevin’s wizened face beamed up at him, his smile of confidence reassuring. If the crew got a laugh at his expense and was less angry with him, the humiliation was worth it.
Nicholas joined him on the side step giving Émile a refresher course. “Steering is pretty standard, it’s this big circle thing in front of you.” He ran through which levers lifted and tilted the forks and what the pedals were for. “There’s your emergency brake. And this banana-like one is your forward and reverse.” He pressed the top and bottom to show how it worked both ways. “It goes faster the farther you press, so watch yourself. You’re not going to be able to feel how hard or which direction you’re pressing on because of those enormous boots.” He stepped off the forklift and saluted with two fingers. “I’d leave the other levers alone since you’re already carrying a box.” He turned the knob on the propane tank, flipped the key, and the engine chugged to life.
Émile pressed on the banana-like pedal, and the lift scooted backward. “Hey Nic! Where’s the brake?”
Nic yelled over the puttering engine. “This baby’s hydrostatic. Let off the pedal and you’ll slow down.”
Émile let up on the reverse, and the wheels slowed to a stop. So in other words, don’t go faster than you can steer. Piece of cake. He’d already removed the chains, so all he had to do was motion for the garage door to go up, and he was on his way. David pressed the green button on the hanging control box. The ten-foot-wide sheet of steel rolled upwards and Émile crept out of the building and onto the road. Half of the occupants of the warehouse gathered around the entrance rubbernecking. An office worker craned her neck out farther than the rest. She set a foot outside the warehouse. The urge to escape must have been strong, but it was clear that she was second guessing her decision. There was no way she hadn’t seen the bodies of her coworkers at the corner of the building. As soon as Émile was clear of the pathway, the office worker shrank back inside and the door descended, the mechanical whine of the door grating on his ears as it closed. He’d have to oil the pulley when he got back. Cicadas only lasted for the summer, if that; they’d be back to business as usual in no time and he was determined to be ready.
He rotated in his chair in all four directions of the compass to check for cicadas. To the northeast, the small peninsula housed a business park and upscale houses, where specks of light beamed from windows. They’d also survived the swarm. He focused on the road he was to take. Nothing but bodies. As he pressed down on the forward controls, he held his breath. It was as if he was learning to drive a manual transmission all over again. Like Nicholas said, he couldn’t feel how much pressure he was putting on the forward portion of the pedal, and the lift jerked into high speed. He let off and jerked into slow motion and stopped. It was going to be one hell of a trip.
After getting the newbie jitters out of the way and being able to keep the vehicle at a steady speed, the obstacle course began. He passed the first body and swerved too sharp. Making a course correction, he gassed it and ran over a dead person’s leg. The hump was a little less speed bump and more like running over a cardboard box. He stopped to check. Black, wide tread marks painted themselves over blue denim. Just keep moving. They’re dead. They’re not people anymore. There were living people relying on him and he was the only one who could keep them safe. Besides, everyone inside the warehouse was too emotional to handle what he was experiencing at that moment. The forklift wound through the bodies in spurts as Émile did his best to avoid running over his former employees.
Two turns later he was on the main road that led to the city proper. He floored it. The propane fumes smelled of rotten eggs—or brimstone. The machine needed new engine seals or something. He bounced along the potholes and ruts that were formed when semi-trucks drove on too hot tar. It made for a rough ride. Two blocks down, he turned right and down a long stretch of road until coming to a strip mall. The parking lot was packed with cars. Bodies lay on the ground. They weren’t swollen or grotesque. They’d deflated just like the dead longshoremen. There was no way to avoid all of them, and there was no way in hell he was going to run over that many people on purpose. But he wasn’t going to walk to the store, either.
Wait, he was driving a glorified snow plow. He pushed the first lever, and the forks lifted skyward. No, no, stop. Go the other way. He pulled on the same lever and the forks started down. Newton’s Third Law of Motion took over as the metal tines connected with the earth and the forklift raised itself in the air. He let go of the lever before the front tires were an inch off the ground. It was a sensitive machine and took micro movements to get the tines level with the road.
Émile stared at the broken bodies strewn across the asphalt and sidewalk. It wasn’t too different from the employees he’d let die outside the warehouse. He needed to get a grip, he didn’t know these people. The best he could do was to imagine that the dead were mannequins. He pressed on the gas and surged forward, the forks and box pushing bodies out of the way as he bulldozed his way to the market.
Turning off the lift, he removed the key and hopped out. The entrance was clear of bodies. When the automatic doors wouldn’t open, he kicked the last of the broken glass in the window frame and crawled into the store. The market was empty. Shelves were ransacked with nothing to show but the occasional box of cereal or bag of chips spilling its innards, and a couple cans of evaporated milk lying on the tiled floor. He walked up and down each aisle. It was as if a tornado had ripped through and blown everything miles away. Strolling past the freezer section, he spotted one blue box. He reached in to grab it and groaned. Talk about irony. It was an empty box of fish sticks. He crushed the cardboard under his heel and exited the store.
As his rubber boots ground the shards of glass into the sidewalk, he stomped across to the forklift and fired it up. Bulldozing his way through the bodies in the parking lot, he swerved to miss a shopping basket and stopped. There had to be food in the cars. The dead certainly wouldn’t need it. He hopped between the bare spots on the road between the bodies until he reached a black SUV. Getting as close as he could to the windows without touching them, he peered inside. It was immaculate. Not a hint of dirt or wrappers. The owners must have gone shopping and were now lying among the dead in the parking lot. He tried the yellow corvette parked in front of the SUV. It was empty as well.
He went from car to car, keeping the lift as close to the bumpers as he dared so that he could view their contents without crashing into them. He winced as he scraped against the chrome bumper of a 1963 Corvette Stingray. It was his dream car, and he would’ve burned himself at the stake if he had been the owner of such a fine vehicle and then clawed it up like that. He sped past, glancing over his shoulder as if the owner’s ghost was following him. It wasn’t like he could leave a note saying he was sorry.
Halfway through the lot, Émile stopped and threw his hands in the air in frustration. “I can’t believe this. Did no one stock their car before the cicadas got to them?” A breeze wafted over his face. Rain clouds were forming again. He didn’t want to be caught out in the open if the weather washed the cicadas back into the port. But he couldn’t go back empty handed either. He rushed—in a measured way, given that he was driving a massive forklift—through the rows, glancing into each car as he passed. As he thought, every car left in the lot was empty and there was no other grocery store within a mile that he could get to before the storm hit. He’d have to try again after the storm blew through. The wind picked up and he swerved onto the side road. Lifting the tines higher so he could travel faster, he stomped on the gas. The tires bumped over several limbs on his way to the main road, but he ignored them. “They are mannequins, not real people,” he muttered. Yeah, keep telling yourself that and you might not lose your mind.
He rushed through the streets, pedal to the metal, racing the rain to the warehouse. With the tines higher than they should be, the lift rocked back and forth as he hit the potholes and ridges. Swerving left and right as he kept the speed up, the box shifted, blocking his view. He swerved around another hole, jammed the lever to make the tines drop. By the time the box lowered enough to see, it was too late. The lift was inches away from smashing into a power pole. Jamming on the bottom of the pedal, the entire vehicle jounced before skewering the post.
Émile blinked. He must have blacked out and hit the steering wheel during the impact. His nose was a swollen ball and his skin hurt like the bee sting from hell. Sticky drops rolled down the side of his face and he rubbed the wet spot. His gloved hand came away covered in bright scarlet. He was bleeding. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. The engine was still running, so he eased back on the pedal. Wooden pops echoed from the pole. The tine had severed its structural integrity and the forklift was the only thing holding it up. He’d need to be quick or the power lines would fall on him. He straightened the wheel and mashed down on the front of the pedal. As the pole crashed to the ground, sparks flew from the power cables.
