Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 39
Gretchen laughed. “Either way, I accept your apology. Fact is—and I must be some kind of masochist for saying this—I actually liked working with you. Until… you know.”
Yes, she knew.
“But setting that aside, there are billions of people who need treatment, if they’re going to beat the toxin, or for someone to put a full stop to this nightmare—which I’m willing to bet is related to the wildfire-smoke thing. You’re on the forefront of the research, but you don’t have a lab. I want to be on the forefront of the research, and I do have a lab. I assume you see the same synergies I see? More importantly, can you get to El Paso?”
She couldn’t believe it. Gretchen was offering a lab!
“Um…like, El Paso in East BFE Texas?”
“West BFE, but yes, that El Paso. I’m a professor at UTEP. I have a fully funded private lab, and it’s on solar generators, which is ultra-important with what’s going on with the power.”
“Wait, what’s going on with the power?”
“Haven’t you heard? The power’s gone out all over the place.”
So that explains what happened at the restaurant. “Define all over the place.”
“Pretty much anywhere there’s been a cicada invasion. Reports aren’t reliable and there are pockets that the cicadas seemed to have passed over, but as far as I can tell, it’s pretty much all over the East Coast and the Midwest, maybe west of the Mississippi now, too.”
“I can confirm a mountaintop restaurant in Breckenridge, Colorado.”
“Okay, so Colorado, too. We’ve got power here though. We’re high desert—not exactly prime cicada real estate. And with the jet stream currently taking the smoke north of here, we’re pretty much out of that scene too. So if you can get here, I can set us…”
Us. Us, us, us… come on, Sato, you can do us.
“...up in the lab and we’ll kick this thing’s ass. So call me at this number…wait, let me find out what the number of this phone is…”
“Never mind the number, Gretch. I’m at…3%…and with the power out, there’s no way for me to recharge.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this. You remember the Periodic Code?”
“The one that went around the community where the lab guys thought they were being clever using an ‘unbreakable’ code based on the table of elements to rate the bodies of their female colleagues?”
“Yeah, the Rategate code.”
“Yes, I remember it. How could I forget my assessment—’”
Gretchen cut her off. “Yeah, well, forget all that. There’s a bulletin board at the café on the quad. Old school, with cork and paper and pushpins. People leave messages there about lost cats and nail salons and bands looking for drummers. I’ll post a coded message telling you where to find me. You’ll know it’s me if you warm the paper and a biohazard symbol appears at the bottom of the page. Got all that?”
“I got all that.”
“Awesome. Now get your ass to El Paso. And watch out for the goons.”
“Goons?”
“Adam… Shoot! I didn’t say that name. Expunge that.”
“I heard nothing.” But she had heard it. Adam Progoff had lifted a finger to help after all. If Bryce Matreus—it had to be him—was sending his thugs out again, then it made sense Adam would want to keep a low profile. She remembered the massive guy who threw her out of the lab building in Boulder and shivered at the thought of the huge gun he carried.
“There are goons running around loose looking for you. Real nasty hombres.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Thugs. There are thugs looking for you. Don’t let them find you, and for goodness sake, don’t lead them…”
And her phone died.
“Did I just hear you apologize to Gretchen Taylor-Davis for being a royal bitch?”
Oh, no! Christopher.
“When do I get my apology? I’ve been waiting three years. GTD only waited two.”
She stormed over to Christopher and pinched him on the bottom of the bicep. He howled and slapped her hand away. “Come with me and stop making a spectacle of yourself.” She barged into the kitchen and waited for Christopher in the near pitch darkness.
She lowered her voice to a whisper, but the words still cut like a shiv. “Listen, I wasn’t the only one being a jerk in our marriage.”
“But you were the only one cheating.” He said it far louder than he needed to. Loud enough for everyone in the dining hall to hear.
“There’s no need to humiliate…”
“There were several guys, as I recall. Hiroku,” he started counting on his fingers. “Damon Richland the English grad student, Ragesh from the physics lab, that guy from Ghana… That Korean guy, Bong…”
“Stop.” Her voice was a low growl. “I get it. I wasn’t good at being faithful.”
“Keiko! You barely let six months go by without adding someone to your tally!”
“Stop it!” She willed her tears back. There was no way she was going to cry. Not here and not now. “I mean it.”
“How you got custody of Maiko is beyond me.”
“I got custody because I’m her mother, that’s why. A child belongs with its mother. Besides, who gives a three-year-old girl to a drunk?”
“No no no. You’re not shifting the blame on this one. I was a drunk… keyword was… but I was home every night tucking her in, not syncopating my hips to a Megadeth guitar solo in the back of some sleazy dude’s car after a show.”
She remembered that night. That show. That car. It had reeked of pot and, well, grossness, and it was probably the low point of her addiction. Christopher was right. She was an awful wife. Apparently, as she’d lately discovered, she was an awful human being all the way around. But she was a good mother. She’d proven that to the court. “Tell me what you want. Everyone else wants their pound of flesh, so why not you too?”
“Gretchen and I are hardly everyone, Keiko. You haven’t even scratched the surface of people who want their pound of flesh from you. But you know what pound of flesh I want from you? I want an apology. I want an admission that you were a useless wife and an apology for cutting me deeper and harder than any IED in Afghanistan. I loved you, Keiko, and you took that and wadded it up and made a spitball out of it. All I want is you to acknowledge what a horrible person you were for the three years of our marriage.”
“And what do I get?”
Christopher laughed. “What do you get? Baby, you’re the bad guy here. The bad guy doesn’t ‘get’ anything, other than maybe a clear conscience. You have heard of that, haven’t you? A conscience? I realize it’s not empirical and measurable…”
If there was a way to vocalize an eyeroll, she would have done it now. “Yes, Christopher, I’ve heard of a conscience.”
Fine. If she could eat crow and apologize to GTD then she could eat double-crow and apologize to Christopher. Because he was right. She was an awful wife. A good mother, but an awful wife. He didn’t know the half of her cheating. She’d been wrong to hook up with all those guys, just like everything else she ever did was apparently wrong—other than forge groundbreaking discoveries in multiple realms of science over an unbroken streak of ten years. And then fail to acknowledge your contributors. Let’s not forget that. She cringed. Christopher should have heard that voice. He’d know for sure that she had a conscience. One that hated her.
She took a deep breath and held it, then let it all rush out at once. Everything in her body flagged. Her energy, her pride, her self-respect, her sense of worth. When the words came, she just let them spill out—they would fall where they fell. “Christopher, I was a terrible person. I was cruel to you and I betrayed you. Not only that, I betrayed the magic we had—the love story that wrote itself on Okinawa. I betrayed myself, too, but that’s not the person you want to hear about. I was wrong and I admit I was wrong, and I’m so so so sorry.”
Christopher sat silently. At least she thought he was sitting—it was impossible to tell because the kitchen was completely dark. There was a sharp intake of breath, then nothing. No words. Then, finally, something. “I’m stunned. You didn’t try to justify a single thing. That took some guts. And I mean that sincerely. I’m literally stunned.”
“I don’t know what else to say. Just…please don’t say I’m a bad mother. I suck at pretty much everything else, but I work so hard to be a good mother.”
Another long silence. She used to think Christopher’s silences—his brooding—was sexy. Now it was a sword hovering above her head. The Sword of Christophocles.
“You’re a good mother. I’ll give you that. And an elite scientist. I’ll give you that, too. That’s as much as I can give you right now, but I’m willing to give you those.” Christopher made a dry cough. “Now, what’s your plan to stop this?”
She sighed with relief. She didn’t have Christopher’s forgiveness, but she at least had his cooperation, and that was enough for now. She told Christopher about El Paso. About UTEP and Gretchen and her private lab and Bryce Matreus’ thugs.
“So what now?”
“What now is I have to get to El Paso.”
They fumbled their way through the darkness toward the front of the building. It looked like a miner’s convention in the dining hall, with beams of light streaming from everyone’s foreheads, shifting and swinging, crisscrossing each other while people spoke, all of which focused into a single spotlight on her and Christopher when they stumbled into the suddenly silent room.
“I found the headlamps, lady. When we had the light from the sunset. They are useful in this time, don’t you think?”
God bless you, Raoul.
“Okay, listen up.” Christopher’s voice changed. He was morphing into Gunnery Sergeant Christopher Watson, the hunky Marine she’d fallen for. “We’re going to El Paso. Staying here is not an option. The power is out across a chunk of the country, which means the citizenry will begin doing stupid things. Gasoline is about to become an even more precious resource. And finite, you understand? When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
Fingers brushed her elbow, followed by whispered words. “Do you need to talk?” It was Netsy.
She patted her hand and gave it a squeeze. “No, I’m okay. But thank you for asking. And thank you for being you.”
“The reasons we are going to El Paso are threefold. One, Keiko has access to a lab where she can continue her research and save the world, etcetera, etcetera. Two, El Paso is high desert and out of the prevailing jet stream winds, meaning it is expected to be largely free from toxic cicadas and toxic smoke. And three, a mega-rich dumbass has sent thugs out for Keiko.” Netsy groaned. “They likely know she is here in Breck, and if they know she’s in Breck, then they probably know I’m in Breck, and given that the jockstraps we think are running this show are the same that threw you out of the lab in Boulder, then they likely know all of you are in Breck too. To sum that up, it is in none of our best interests to remain here. Conversely, it is in all of our best interests to get the hell out. Questions?”
There were no questions. She had to hand it to Christopher: he knew how to give a sitrep.
“Raoul,” said Christopher, “you and I will leave two hours before dawn. We’ll take my SUV to my house, stock it with fuel, food, and supplies, move your vehicle into my garage, then rendezvous with the others at the chairlift terminal. The rest of you will leave one hour before dawn and descend to the terminal. We’ll meet at dawn. Don’t be late.”
Netsy’s tired, worn-out voice came out of the darkness. “So we’re going back down into the cicadas. Didn’t we just escape that?”
Christopher was unfazed. “Yes and yes. So seal yourselves up tight. And you’ll all need to keep an eye on Netsy and her bum knee. No one gets left behind. Got it?”
A gaggle of headlamps nodded in unison.
“And what then?” she asked.
“What then is we cross our fingers that these goons from Matreustan are slow thinkers and late sleepers, and that we get out of here without being shot or fed to the cicadas.”
Chapter 39
ÉMILE HARRIS. FULLERTON, CALIFORNIA
Émile sat alone at the end of the observation car as the train edged into the Fullerton transportation center a few miles northwest of Anaheim. A smoky haze filled the skyline, making it hard to tell if it was fire, or it was yet another swarm of cicadas they’d have to flee. After a soft jerk, the train stopped and Kevin got out of the cab. He didn’t have his hat on and the wind blew his wispy hair into a comb-over worthy of basketball coach Lou Henson. He crossed the rail line to the station platform and disappeared around the building’s side. David unlocked the observation car’s door and hopped down to the platform to follow Kevin. The rest of his group did the same.
Émile cradled his injured arm and thought about how everything had gone wrong. He’d only wanted to protect his team, to be the leader they needed during this crisis. Instead, he’d managed to divide them into warring factions, caused the deaths of people he’d locked out of the warehouse, alienated a friend, and lost control of his leadership position. He felt like an utter and absolute loser. To ease his physical pain, all he needed to do was keep his right shoulder still and keep from taking a deep breath and he’d be fine. To ease his mental anguish…that was another matter. He didn’t know where to begin healing himself, as well as the damage he’d caused among his team. He stood slowly, made his way to the exit, and poked his head around the edge of the train to get his bearings. Three train tracks ran parallel, boxed in by platforms on either side. A utilitarian walkway spanned the distance high above, with an Amtrak passenger train parked on the other side of its locomotive at the far end of the ticket station. A handful of palm trees lined the platform to the skywalk, and more lined the opposite side, leading toward the building where David and his crew were headed.
It didn’t take long before the observation car emptied. No one spoke to Émile, or even gave him as much as a nod or a glance. Not even Larry, who’d been with him on the ill-fated attack on David’s people. Émile took his time, straggling behind the others at a distance. He didn’t want a confrontation with David or any of his bunch, nor did he particularly want to talk to anyone from his own group. Correction, what had been his own group. He mounted the platform and continued following the others. As he rounded the building’s corner, he passed a newsstand adjacent to the Amtrak ticket office. He did a double take at the wall. Someone had shot the stucco full of bullet holes. He reached for the crate hammers in his belt, gritting his teeth against the pain, ready for a fight, then remembered the hammers were gone. Confiscated by David. This was a problem, especially if the person or people who’d damaged the building were still in the area. None of his co-workers had guns. Only he’d had a real weapon, and now that was gone.
He scanned the parking lot. Plenty of cars, but no people. The hair on the back of his neck was stiff as a bottle brush and his sixth sense told him something was off. Still, he followed the group, his head on a swivel just in case.
A café appeared after the newsstand, and David led his people inside. Émile’s former group followed. With everyone crowding inside the café and still not wanting to speak with anyone, Émile explored the ticket office. The place was a mess. Stanchions were skewed in all directions and a dead station employee lay slumped across one of the benches. The ticket booth windows were covered, their tan shades drawn down tight.
The room was sparse and utilitarian. The stench of death was strong and Émile didn’t need to examine the body to know the decaying station employee was the one giving off the odor. He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt and backed out of the office. A bug flew straight at his face—missing, fortunately—and smacked off a door behind him, then skittered across the cement. He smashed it with his boot without bothering to identify the species. He didn’t care what kind of bug it was as long as it was a dead one.
Stomping the bug immediately reminded him of his cracked ribs and partially dislocated shoulder. He spat at the squashed bug. To hell with insects. There was no way he was sparing a single one, even if it wasn’t a cicada. He backtracked out of the ticketing area and entered the café. Half the can lights were off. When his eyes adjusted, he explored.
The building was spotless, with no dust or cobwebs to speak of. The bank of lights was working, and the glass entrance doors and the refrigerators were free of fingerprints. He scuffed his shoe against the textured tile, even the floor was free of dirt and grime. Someone had taken care of the place even after the cicadas came through.
A glint of light coming off of curved glass caught his attention. He weaved through a couple of people and headed toward what looked like display cases. There were donuts inside. He grinned and found the employees entrance, circling back around to the sweets. Picking up a maple-glazed old-fashioned, he checked it for mold. It seemed all clear. He took a bite and pulled it out of his mouth just as quick. Just his luck, it was hard as a rock.
Mary passed by the counter, wiping her hands on her overalls, and he froze, donut still in the air. The cut on her head was covered in dried blood and a welt had formed in front of her ear. Pam had swung for the fences back on the train. Mary leaned against the glass. He wanted to run, but a leader doesn’t run. His work to rebuild himself started right here, right now.
“You’ve looked better,” she said.
Émile dropped the donut on the polished wood counter. If she was trying to lull him into a false sense of security, he wasn’t falling for it. As disarming as she was trying to be, she was still a threat. He desperately wanted something to protect himself with. Leaning down to brush the frosting from his fingers on a towel that hung beside the display cases, he wrapped his fingers around a tube-shaped stainless steel cutter. When he straightened, her eyebrows were raised and mouth was half turned up in a grin.
Mary looked at the cutter, then at Émile. “You planning on making donuts before we head out?”
“A donut sounds pretty tempting right about now, doesn’t it?”
David came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants as he walked to the counter. He glanced at the cutter in Émile’s fist, then shot Émile a look of warning. He kissed Mary on the cheek. “You’d think a place as clean as this would’ve stocked paper towels. I’m going to help Kevin refuel the train. You need any help with this one?” He nodded in Émile’s direction.
Yes, she knew.
“But setting that aside, there are billions of people who need treatment, if they’re going to beat the toxin, or for someone to put a full stop to this nightmare—which I’m willing to bet is related to the wildfire-smoke thing. You’re on the forefront of the research, but you don’t have a lab. I want to be on the forefront of the research, and I do have a lab. I assume you see the same synergies I see? More importantly, can you get to El Paso?”
She couldn’t believe it. Gretchen was offering a lab!
“Um…like, El Paso in East BFE Texas?”
“West BFE, but yes, that El Paso. I’m a professor at UTEP. I have a fully funded private lab, and it’s on solar generators, which is ultra-important with what’s going on with the power.”
“Wait, what’s going on with the power?”
“Haven’t you heard? The power’s gone out all over the place.”
So that explains what happened at the restaurant. “Define all over the place.”
“Pretty much anywhere there’s been a cicada invasion. Reports aren’t reliable and there are pockets that the cicadas seemed to have passed over, but as far as I can tell, it’s pretty much all over the East Coast and the Midwest, maybe west of the Mississippi now, too.”
“I can confirm a mountaintop restaurant in Breckenridge, Colorado.”
“Okay, so Colorado, too. We’ve got power here though. We’re high desert—not exactly prime cicada real estate. And with the jet stream currently taking the smoke north of here, we’re pretty much out of that scene too. So if you can get here, I can set us…”
Us. Us, us, us… come on, Sato, you can do us.
“...up in the lab and we’ll kick this thing’s ass. So call me at this number…wait, let me find out what the number of this phone is…”
“Never mind the number, Gretch. I’m at…3%…and with the power out, there’s no way for me to recharge.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this. You remember the Periodic Code?”
“The one that went around the community where the lab guys thought they were being clever using an ‘unbreakable’ code based on the table of elements to rate the bodies of their female colleagues?”
“Yeah, the Rategate code.”
“Yes, I remember it. How could I forget my assessment—’”
Gretchen cut her off. “Yeah, well, forget all that. There’s a bulletin board at the café on the quad. Old school, with cork and paper and pushpins. People leave messages there about lost cats and nail salons and bands looking for drummers. I’ll post a coded message telling you where to find me. You’ll know it’s me if you warm the paper and a biohazard symbol appears at the bottom of the page. Got all that?”
“I got all that.”
“Awesome. Now get your ass to El Paso. And watch out for the goons.”
“Goons?”
“Adam… Shoot! I didn’t say that name. Expunge that.”
“I heard nothing.” But she had heard it. Adam Progoff had lifted a finger to help after all. If Bryce Matreus—it had to be him—was sending his thugs out again, then it made sense Adam would want to keep a low profile. She remembered the massive guy who threw her out of the lab building in Boulder and shivered at the thought of the huge gun he carried.
“There are goons running around loose looking for you. Real nasty hombres.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Thugs. There are thugs looking for you. Don’t let them find you, and for goodness sake, don’t lead them…”
And her phone died.
“Did I just hear you apologize to Gretchen Taylor-Davis for being a royal bitch?”
Oh, no! Christopher.
“When do I get my apology? I’ve been waiting three years. GTD only waited two.”
She stormed over to Christopher and pinched him on the bottom of the bicep. He howled and slapped her hand away. “Come with me and stop making a spectacle of yourself.” She barged into the kitchen and waited for Christopher in the near pitch darkness.
She lowered her voice to a whisper, but the words still cut like a shiv. “Listen, I wasn’t the only one being a jerk in our marriage.”
“But you were the only one cheating.” He said it far louder than he needed to. Loud enough for everyone in the dining hall to hear.
“There’s no need to humiliate…”
“There were several guys, as I recall. Hiroku,” he started counting on his fingers. “Damon Richland the English grad student, Ragesh from the physics lab, that guy from Ghana… That Korean guy, Bong…”
“Stop.” Her voice was a low growl. “I get it. I wasn’t good at being faithful.”
“Keiko! You barely let six months go by without adding someone to your tally!”
“Stop it!” She willed her tears back. There was no way she was going to cry. Not here and not now. “I mean it.”
“How you got custody of Maiko is beyond me.”
“I got custody because I’m her mother, that’s why. A child belongs with its mother. Besides, who gives a three-year-old girl to a drunk?”
“No no no. You’re not shifting the blame on this one. I was a drunk… keyword was… but I was home every night tucking her in, not syncopating my hips to a Megadeth guitar solo in the back of some sleazy dude’s car after a show.”
She remembered that night. That show. That car. It had reeked of pot and, well, grossness, and it was probably the low point of her addiction. Christopher was right. She was an awful wife. Apparently, as she’d lately discovered, she was an awful human being all the way around. But she was a good mother. She’d proven that to the court. “Tell me what you want. Everyone else wants their pound of flesh, so why not you too?”
“Gretchen and I are hardly everyone, Keiko. You haven’t even scratched the surface of people who want their pound of flesh from you. But you know what pound of flesh I want from you? I want an apology. I want an admission that you were a useless wife and an apology for cutting me deeper and harder than any IED in Afghanistan. I loved you, Keiko, and you took that and wadded it up and made a spitball out of it. All I want is you to acknowledge what a horrible person you were for the three years of our marriage.”
“And what do I get?”
Christopher laughed. “What do you get? Baby, you’re the bad guy here. The bad guy doesn’t ‘get’ anything, other than maybe a clear conscience. You have heard of that, haven’t you? A conscience? I realize it’s not empirical and measurable…”
If there was a way to vocalize an eyeroll, she would have done it now. “Yes, Christopher, I’ve heard of a conscience.”
Fine. If she could eat crow and apologize to GTD then she could eat double-crow and apologize to Christopher. Because he was right. She was an awful wife. A good mother, but an awful wife. He didn’t know the half of her cheating. She’d been wrong to hook up with all those guys, just like everything else she ever did was apparently wrong—other than forge groundbreaking discoveries in multiple realms of science over an unbroken streak of ten years. And then fail to acknowledge your contributors. Let’s not forget that. She cringed. Christopher should have heard that voice. He’d know for sure that she had a conscience. One that hated her.
She took a deep breath and held it, then let it all rush out at once. Everything in her body flagged. Her energy, her pride, her self-respect, her sense of worth. When the words came, she just let them spill out—they would fall where they fell. “Christopher, I was a terrible person. I was cruel to you and I betrayed you. Not only that, I betrayed the magic we had—the love story that wrote itself on Okinawa. I betrayed myself, too, but that’s not the person you want to hear about. I was wrong and I admit I was wrong, and I’m so so so sorry.”
Christopher sat silently. At least she thought he was sitting—it was impossible to tell because the kitchen was completely dark. There was a sharp intake of breath, then nothing. No words. Then, finally, something. “I’m stunned. You didn’t try to justify a single thing. That took some guts. And I mean that sincerely. I’m literally stunned.”
“I don’t know what else to say. Just…please don’t say I’m a bad mother. I suck at pretty much everything else, but I work so hard to be a good mother.”
Another long silence. She used to think Christopher’s silences—his brooding—was sexy. Now it was a sword hovering above her head. The Sword of Christophocles.
“You’re a good mother. I’ll give you that. And an elite scientist. I’ll give you that, too. That’s as much as I can give you right now, but I’m willing to give you those.” Christopher made a dry cough. “Now, what’s your plan to stop this?”
She sighed with relief. She didn’t have Christopher’s forgiveness, but she at least had his cooperation, and that was enough for now. She told Christopher about El Paso. About UTEP and Gretchen and her private lab and Bryce Matreus’ thugs.
“So what now?”
“What now is I have to get to El Paso.”
They fumbled their way through the darkness toward the front of the building. It looked like a miner’s convention in the dining hall, with beams of light streaming from everyone’s foreheads, shifting and swinging, crisscrossing each other while people spoke, all of which focused into a single spotlight on her and Christopher when they stumbled into the suddenly silent room.
“I found the headlamps, lady. When we had the light from the sunset. They are useful in this time, don’t you think?”
God bless you, Raoul.
“Okay, listen up.” Christopher’s voice changed. He was morphing into Gunnery Sergeant Christopher Watson, the hunky Marine she’d fallen for. “We’re going to El Paso. Staying here is not an option. The power is out across a chunk of the country, which means the citizenry will begin doing stupid things. Gasoline is about to become an even more precious resource. And finite, you understand? When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
Fingers brushed her elbow, followed by whispered words. “Do you need to talk?” It was Netsy.
She patted her hand and gave it a squeeze. “No, I’m okay. But thank you for asking. And thank you for being you.”
“The reasons we are going to El Paso are threefold. One, Keiko has access to a lab where she can continue her research and save the world, etcetera, etcetera. Two, El Paso is high desert and out of the prevailing jet stream winds, meaning it is expected to be largely free from toxic cicadas and toxic smoke. And three, a mega-rich dumbass has sent thugs out for Keiko.” Netsy groaned. “They likely know she is here in Breck, and if they know she’s in Breck, then they probably know I’m in Breck, and given that the jockstraps we think are running this show are the same that threw you out of the lab in Boulder, then they likely know all of you are in Breck too. To sum that up, it is in none of our best interests to remain here. Conversely, it is in all of our best interests to get the hell out. Questions?”
There were no questions. She had to hand it to Christopher: he knew how to give a sitrep.
“Raoul,” said Christopher, “you and I will leave two hours before dawn. We’ll take my SUV to my house, stock it with fuel, food, and supplies, move your vehicle into my garage, then rendezvous with the others at the chairlift terminal. The rest of you will leave one hour before dawn and descend to the terminal. We’ll meet at dawn. Don’t be late.”
Netsy’s tired, worn-out voice came out of the darkness. “So we’re going back down into the cicadas. Didn’t we just escape that?”
Christopher was unfazed. “Yes and yes. So seal yourselves up tight. And you’ll all need to keep an eye on Netsy and her bum knee. No one gets left behind. Got it?”
A gaggle of headlamps nodded in unison.
“And what then?” she asked.
“What then is we cross our fingers that these goons from Matreustan are slow thinkers and late sleepers, and that we get out of here without being shot or fed to the cicadas.”
Chapter 39
ÉMILE HARRIS. FULLERTON, CALIFORNIA
Émile sat alone at the end of the observation car as the train edged into the Fullerton transportation center a few miles northwest of Anaheim. A smoky haze filled the skyline, making it hard to tell if it was fire, or it was yet another swarm of cicadas they’d have to flee. After a soft jerk, the train stopped and Kevin got out of the cab. He didn’t have his hat on and the wind blew his wispy hair into a comb-over worthy of basketball coach Lou Henson. He crossed the rail line to the station platform and disappeared around the building’s side. David unlocked the observation car’s door and hopped down to the platform to follow Kevin. The rest of his group did the same.
Émile cradled his injured arm and thought about how everything had gone wrong. He’d only wanted to protect his team, to be the leader they needed during this crisis. Instead, he’d managed to divide them into warring factions, caused the deaths of people he’d locked out of the warehouse, alienated a friend, and lost control of his leadership position. He felt like an utter and absolute loser. To ease his physical pain, all he needed to do was keep his right shoulder still and keep from taking a deep breath and he’d be fine. To ease his mental anguish…that was another matter. He didn’t know where to begin healing himself, as well as the damage he’d caused among his team. He stood slowly, made his way to the exit, and poked his head around the edge of the train to get his bearings. Three train tracks ran parallel, boxed in by platforms on either side. A utilitarian walkway spanned the distance high above, with an Amtrak passenger train parked on the other side of its locomotive at the far end of the ticket station. A handful of palm trees lined the platform to the skywalk, and more lined the opposite side, leading toward the building where David and his crew were headed.
It didn’t take long before the observation car emptied. No one spoke to Émile, or even gave him as much as a nod or a glance. Not even Larry, who’d been with him on the ill-fated attack on David’s people. Émile took his time, straggling behind the others at a distance. He didn’t want a confrontation with David or any of his bunch, nor did he particularly want to talk to anyone from his own group. Correction, what had been his own group. He mounted the platform and continued following the others. As he rounded the building’s corner, he passed a newsstand adjacent to the Amtrak ticket office. He did a double take at the wall. Someone had shot the stucco full of bullet holes. He reached for the crate hammers in his belt, gritting his teeth against the pain, ready for a fight, then remembered the hammers were gone. Confiscated by David. This was a problem, especially if the person or people who’d damaged the building were still in the area. None of his co-workers had guns. Only he’d had a real weapon, and now that was gone.
He scanned the parking lot. Plenty of cars, but no people. The hair on the back of his neck was stiff as a bottle brush and his sixth sense told him something was off. Still, he followed the group, his head on a swivel just in case.
A café appeared after the newsstand, and David led his people inside. Émile’s former group followed. With everyone crowding inside the café and still not wanting to speak with anyone, Émile explored the ticket office. The place was a mess. Stanchions were skewed in all directions and a dead station employee lay slumped across one of the benches. The ticket booth windows were covered, their tan shades drawn down tight.
The room was sparse and utilitarian. The stench of death was strong and Émile didn’t need to examine the body to know the decaying station employee was the one giving off the odor. He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt and backed out of the office. A bug flew straight at his face—missing, fortunately—and smacked off a door behind him, then skittered across the cement. He smashed it with his boot without bothering to identify the species. He didn’t care what kind of bug it was as long as it was a dead one.
Stomping the bug immediately reminded him of his cracked ribs and partially dislocated shoulder. He spat at the squashed bug. To hell with insects. There was no way he was sparing a single one, even if it wasn’t a cicada. He backtracked out of the ticketing area and entered the café. Half the can lights were off. When his eyes adjusted, he explored.
The building was spotless, with no dust or cobwebs to speak of. The bank of lights was working, and the glass entrance doors and the refrigerators were free of fingerprints. He scuffed his shoe against the textured tile, even the floor was free of dirt and grime. Someone had taken care of the place even after the cicadas came through.
A glint of light coming off of curved glass caught his attention. He weaved through a couple of people and headed toward what looked like display cases. There were donuts inside. He grinned and found the employees entrance, circling back around to the sweets. Picking up a maple-glazed old-fashioned, he checked it for mold. It seemed all clear. He took a bite and pulled it out of his mouth just as quick. Just his luck, it was hard as a rock.
Mary passed by the counter, wiping her hands on her overalls, and he froze, donut still in the air. The cut on her head was covered in dried blood and a welt had formed in front of her ear. Pam had swung for the fences back on the train. Mary leaned against the glass. He wanted to run, but a leader doesn’t run. His work to rebuild himself started right here, right now.
“You’ve looked better,” she said.
Émile dropped the donut on the polished wood counter. If she was trying to lull him into a false sense of security, he wasn’t falling for it. As disarming as she was trying to be, she was still a threat. He desperately wanted something to protect himself with. Leaning down to brush the frosting from his fingers on a towel that hung beside the display cases, he wrapped his fingers around a tube-shaped stainless steel cutter. When he straightened, her eyebrows were raised and mouth was half turned up in a grin.
Mary looked at the cutter, then at Émile. “You planning on making donuts before we head out?”
“A donut sounds pretty tempting right about now, doesn’t it?”
David came out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants as he walked to the counter. He glanced at the cutter in Émile’s fist, then shot Émile a look of warning. He kissed Mary on the cheek. “You’d think a place as clean as this would’ve stocked paper towels. I’m going to help Kevin refuel the train. You need any help with this one?” He nodded in Émile’s direction.
