Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 35
“…so I’ll just say this the best I can and you’ll have to forgive me in advance for anything that comes out sideways. A few minutes ago, Raoul asked Christopher what made him change his mind and decide to help us. Christopher said it was because Raoul said he had no honor. He said he was a former Marine, and that Marines are nothing but honor. That’s your problem, Doctor Sato. You have honor. I’ve seen it. But no one else has. You need a lab, but no one will give you one. You need to rescue your reputation, but no one respects you. You’re your own worst enemy. There’s help out there, but you won’t swallow your pride and ask the right people the right things the right way. I can think of three people right now who would probably help you if you apologized. Doctor Gretchen Davis-Taylor. Doctor Geoffrey Michaelson…”
“Sam, you don’t have to say ‘Doctor’ every time.” She tried to say it lightly, but it came out—as Sam described it—sideways.
“You see? You’re doing it right now. Talking to you like this is so far outside my comfort zone I can’t even see the Earth and you’re humiliating me. That’s what you do to your colleagues, and that’s why you don’t have colleagues anymore.”
A series of faces and events flashed through her mind. Gretchen and the paper without her name on it. Michaelson, whom she’d embarrassed at an international conference. Linda Hudson, to whom she’d done the same. Sam was right. She was a jerk.
“You’ve torn down a lot of academic work, and turned your back on a lot of people because you thought they weren’t good enough to work with you. Like you did to me with the dissections.”
The trees thinned as they ascended. So did the cicada swarm. She didn’t want to hear what Sam was saying. Not now. Not on top of everything else. Maybe it wasn’t really forty feet down. Maybe it was only thirty. People survived thirty-foot drops all the time.
“…but here’s the thing. A lot of those people would work with you if you gave them what they want, and all they want—and what you’ve never given anyone, like, ever—is an apology, and admission that their work mattered, and in some cases acknowledgement that their work informed yours. You’re one of the best, Doctor Sato. Literally billions of people need you right now. But you’re royally screwed without a lab and without help. The only way you’ll get either one—Dr. Diana Stewart taught me this—is if you forget logic and lead with your heart. Then ask yourself who might help you if you let them see your feelings, which I know is hard, trust me.”
She knew the answer before Sam finished his last sentence. Gretchen. She’d call Gretchen one more time and apologize all over the place before she could hang up on her.
“Sam, that was the most humiliating thing anyone has ever said to me. But I want to thank you for being so honest, because you’re right. I’ve been a jerk. I’m going to fix this right now.” She wanted to be quick. There were maybe three minutes left to the top and she didn’t want to issue mea culpas in front of an audience. She took out her mobile… shit, the battery’s at 29%... held her breath and dialed Gretchen.
The phone rang four times before Gretchen picked up. “Keiko, didn’t we have this conversation just a couple of hours ago? Exactly how many languages do I have to speak for you to understand go to hell?” Gretchen ended the call.
Keiko cried as she scrolled through her contacts. There weren’t many, and for the first time it hit home. You don’t have friends, Sato. Gretchen was the only colleague, aside from Adam Progoff, in her phone. There was no one else she could call.
The chair arrived and she stood with Jesse and Sam and stepped away from the lift, her feet crunching on the snow.
“Time for me to do the honorable thing.” Sam looked her square in the face, not flinching when she met his gaze.
“The honorable thing?” It could mean literally anything, coming from Boy Wonder.
“I told Dr. Diana Stewart that I’d keep Jesse safe.”
Keiko nodded, a knot forming in her stomach.
“But…” He gulped but didn’t look away, even though she knew it had to be killing him to look at her for so long. “Respectfully, Dr. Sato, I don’t think this is safe for him. Being with you, it’s dangerous.” He took Jesse’s hand in his and clicked his tongue for Henry. “Good luck. I’ll find a way to communicate with you about the cicadas, once I’ve done my duty.”
Before she found the words to ask him to stay, Dr. Sam Leary—genius entomologist and weirdo extraordinaire—turned and headed back down the mountain.
Night was falling and with it, her sense of self worth. She was a danger to everyone around her, she still had no lab, and Christopher was unlocking the side door of her safe haven which turned out to be little more than a shuttered restaurant 12,000 feet up the side of a mountain a hundred miles from a home that no longer existed.
Chapter 35
ÉMILE HARRIS. SANTA BARBARA, CALIFORNIA
Émile leaned on the seat at the front of the observation car, his eyes fixed on the child who sat in the second chair. “I’m Émile, and the leader of this group. Who’re you?”
The boy twisted in his seat, looking at the rest of the car’s occupants. He zeroed in on Larry, who sat in the seat just behind the carpet covering the window, tape in hand. He was prepared should the tape lose its hold. The big man gave a short wave. The child pointed at Larry. “He’s kinda weird.”
Émile reached out and pressed down on his arm. “It’s not polite to call people names like that. The man over there is Larry.”
The boy scrunched up his face. “I’m Mark.” He pointed at Larry again. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s protecting us.”
“With tape?”
Émile tapped on the window next to his head, its thin rattle a reminder that the glass in the train was fragile. “This is the only thing between us and the cicadas, and we use the tape to seal up the holes we find to keep them out.” He pointed at three other windows that had tape covering portions of the glass.
Mark recoiled, scrunching his body into the corner of the armchair. “Don’t let them hurt me. They got my family.” He buried his head behind his knees and wrapped his arms tight around his legs.
Another lost soul, scarred for life. You’re in charge. Keep him occupied. “How did you know what to do with the track switcher?”
“I play out there with my friends. Dad always had to sweep the rocks out of the track. Especially the green line, it’s always getting stuck. When you tried to move the track, the lever wouldn’t move because of a really big rock being crushed.” He made a circle with his fingers. No doubt to show how big the rock was, but at the same time impossible because the size wouldn’t have fit in the small gap. “I pulled it out, and you pushed the lever.” The boy stuffed his head down by his knees again.
It was a marvel that the child had the strength he did. From the size of him wrapped up in a ball, the boy couldn’t have weighed more than forty pounds.
The boy twisted sideways and squeezed his legs tighter. His stringy arms were covered in scrapes and bruises, and there were several rips in his clothing. The boy’s stomach growled. He must be hungrier than a hippo.
Émile left Mark in his seat and crept to the back of the car, motioning for the rest of the workers to join him. Several people crowded into a half circle in the back, some standing, others seated in the available armchairs, and every head was inclined toward the front door where Émile sat.
At that moment, David was winning the bid for leadership. If Émile didn’t work fast, his control would dissolve. It was a big favor to ask, but he had to try. “David has control of the boxcar with the food. He believes the goods should be divvied up among the crew.” A couple of nods of agreement. Not good. He needed them on his side. “I disagree. Most of our supplies need to be cooked. There’s no kitchen aboard, so we have to rely on the freeze-dried stuff and canned fruit until we find a safe harbor. Who’s going to decide who gets what? The boy we brought on board, his name is Mark. He’s starving and won’t last much longer if he doesn’t get nourishment.” He focused on Nicholas. He and Brooke had been on the verge of being engaged. They’d talked about wanting children. If she were still alive, it would be easy to bring Nic to his side and the votes would come along with him.
As predicted, the comment set Nicholas off, and the group followed suit. The grumblings and threats from the workers grew louder. Émile held up a hand to demand silence. He didn’t need Team David to hear the ruckus and investigate. “Larry, you’re with me. The rest of you, find something heavy and padded to use as weapons.”
Vicky, one of the office workers timidly raised her hand. “Wait a minute. Some of them are my friends. I can’t hurt them.”
Émile removed the crate hammers from his belt and placed them on a chair. “That’s not what I’m asking you to do.”
“Then what do you want from us?” Larry growled.
“I don’t want anyone hurt. None of us do. But the fact is, and I know this because I overheard David talking about it with Mary, is that he and his cohorts plan to keep the food for themselves. I don’t know the details exactly, but as soon as we get this train to safety, they’re going to strike.”
“They can’t do that,” said Pam, one of the flaggers from the dock. “We need that food too!”
Émile hardened his expression and nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Think about that for a minute. Not only are they going to cut us off from the food we need to survive, but they’ll let a little orphan kid starve in the process.” Larry raised an eyebrow and Nic balled his fists. Against all odds, he was getting somewhere.
“Like I said, I don’t want to hurt anyone. We’ve known and worked with these guys for a long time. They’re friends. Or used to be friends. As the good guys, our goal is not to hurt them or kill them, or even to cut them off from the food, but to convince them they have to share. We have to protect ourselves from those who would cause us harm, and that means we need to take bold, decisive action, and take it now.”
Vicky and Sarah were nodding their heads. He was almost home. They just needed one more push.
“Let me spell it out for you. We’re going to go in there armed with almost nothing. Once they are immobilized…” he air quoted ‘immobilized.’ “…we’ll tie them up and have a nice, adult conversation about share and share alike.”
Pam raised her hand. “But then we’ll let them go, right?”
Émile shifted on his feet. His back and legs were sore but he couldn’t give in to pain and exhaustion now. He had to see this thing through. He needed to reconsolidate his power. “Of course we will. As soon as we have control of the situation and the others agree not to divide the supplies, we’ll set them free.” He slapped a hand down on Larry’s shoulder. “I’m not saying this is an us-or-them situation, but it’s kind of an us-or-them situation.” Larry furrowed his brow and nodded vigorously. “What I really want is an us-and-us situation. Now who’s with me?”
The workers thrust their fists in the air and cheered. Sure, it was only half of the group that had originally set out from the docks, but it was his half of the group. And with some luck—and hopefully no bloodshed—it would all be his group again. Maybe he would even be able to find a place in his heart to forgive David. But until then… He gave Larry’s shoulder a firm squeeze and prodded him forward. “You’re with me big guy. Front of the spear. OK, team, let’s do this!”
Now he had to think of a battle plan.
It would be safer to storm David’s car through the connecting door, but that also meant going through one person at a time. He needed to broaden the attack somehow. He thought for a bit, watching out the windows at the objects whipping past in the moonlit night. Streaks of water streamed down the glass without a trace of an insect or hint of toxic goo in sight. If only there was a way to hit David’s group from both sides at once. Then the lightbulb flashed. The roof! The roof would allow them to pass over to the far end of David’s car and surprise them with a pincer movement. The extra seconds it would provide could mean the difference between victory and defeat. He rummaged through the box of goods they’d shoved on board when escaping the cicadas, grabbing a rag and two pairs of gloves. He slipped one pair on and tossed the other to Larry. “I’ve got a crazy idea, my friend, and you’re just the man to execute it with me. We’re playing bandits this evening.” He smiled and pantomimed walking across the roof. Larry laughed.
Émile yanked on the curtain at the far end of the train car. It was too heavy for his purposes. The sash on the other hand was perfect. He ripped it in half, then twined it into a rope, finally attaching it over his shoulders like a rough bandolier that would, he hoped, keep his hammers in place. He weaved his way through into the middle of the team. “Larry and I will leave before you. The rest of you will file through after us, but not until we give the signal. Whoever’s first, make sure you get to the middle of the next car before you start swinging or you’ll all be jammed together and you’ll end up fighting a lot of people one at a time.”
Rhonda had pulled a rod from one of the roof racks. She twirled it like a baton, then tapped Émile on the shoulder with it. “How will we know when to charge?”
Émile headed for the back door. “When you hear me yell, you go in.” He poked his head out of the observation car’s back door and scanned the deck. Still free of insects. So far so good. He turned to Larry. “Follow me.” Émile slipped outside onto the car’s sitting deck.
The ten-foot-wide sitting area at the back of the observation car served as the perfect look out post. Its short, wide platform was surrounded by a three-foot-high rail with a steel awning covering the open space. He grabbed hold of the railing on the right side and with a firm grip leaned over the side of the car. The train clunked along at its steady speed, and with much trepidation he rose up on the balls of his feet and hauled himself toward the roof, Larry following after.
The handrails ran along both sides of the car, up the back, along the roof, and down the front in one continuous line. Made of tubular steel and bolted to the exterior, the supports were more like a ladder and ideal for climbing. He grabbed the rail and placed his foot into the crevice where the bottom of the rail bent toward the train. With one foot fixed, he pushed up and grabbed for the next support. Halfway up, his leg muscles cramped and went stiff. The one time he decided to climb the narrowest ladder ever made and his body had to freak out.
As he hung there, buffeted back and forth by the wind, Larry ventured out on the other side and grabbed onto the railing. Instead of using the supports like a ladder, he climbed the tube like he would a rope in gym class—hand over hand, while his feet supported his weight. Every eight inches he was able to lock his feet onto another vertical support. Within minutes of exiting the car, he was on top where Émile needed to be. Of course, he would make it look easy. He was all muscle while Émile hadn’t been to a gym in six months. Not that he wasn’t strong enough to handle a tough task, he just needed to plan his moves.
Émile grimaced and extended his leg. A stinging sensation shot through his thigh and down his calf. He clamped his teeth to hold back a scream and lost his grip. Scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal, he swung his leg around and hooked his foot like Larry. Keeping the weight on his uninjured leg, he shimmied up another eight inches. He wanted to stop and rest, but the wind threatened to blow him off the train.
Less than an inch from the top, his hands seized, fixing him to the observation car. He rose up onto his tiptoes. “Larry, help!” The wind buffeted him and tore his words away as the train sped on. There was no way Larry had heard him. It was up to him to get out of trouble. He stayed raised on the balls of his feet, doing his best to alleviate the weight on his hands. If he could get one hand to unclench, he might be able to latch it to the top of the train. His leg cramped again and he dropped, flat footed on the support, hands still clasped to the rail. His fingers burned and the tendons in his hand strained to the breaking point.
Time passed in an eternity, his body draining of energy as he held on for dear life. It was torture. There was no way he’d get to the top without help. His legs gave way, and he sank, his feet slipped from their perch, his entire mass pulling on his locked fists. He had seconds before they gave way. Émile screamed but only managed a squeak, yet somehow Larry appeared at the edge. He grabbed hold of Émile’s arms and hauled, breaking his death grip on the post. Émile scrambled with his feet, doing his best to assist, but only hindering Larry’s efforts as his feet caught against the railing.
The big man’s frustrated expression grew to anger and Émile stopped kicking. Émile went limp as a fish and Larry hauled him upwards. With three jerks, Émile was kneeling on top of the train, head bowed against the wind, trembling at the expenditure of energy. He needed strength for the fight, and already he’d worn himself out. Things were not going to plan.
Larry got close enough to be heard over the rushing wind. “Crawling is best. Stay low and keep hold of the railing with your arms close to your chest. Too far out and you’ll become a kite.” He demonstrated his technique.
Émile copied Larry, fighting the wind and the pain in his hands and legs as he reached the halfway mark of the car. The train jogged left around a grove of trees, then headed down a slope, picking up speed. The wind raged and he clamped his eyes shut to block the dust flying through the air. Tree branches whipped by perilously close to his face. Émile ducked his head and flattened himself on the roof. All he had to do was hang on for another minute or so until the track flattened out and it was safe to continue crawling. It wouldn’t do to have the wind catch him and pull him off the roof. The squeal of breaks pierced the windy night and the cars jerked again. The motion sent him off balance. Émile tumbled over the edge.
Shrieking, fingers grasping for purchase, he swung down, jerked to a stop, then slammed into a window, shattering it. As he hung from the side of the train, wondering why he hadn’t fallen to his death, David’s train car erupted with shouts. Émile’s group must have mistaken his yell for the cue to charge.
