Linda Andrews - Extinction Level Event

Lump hunched deeper into the width of his shoulders. “What do you want?”

What did he want? Jiggling the lighter in his pocket, Trent took a step to the left. Pain zig-zagged up his thigh to burst inside his brain. He wanted to turn back the clock. Instead of stopping his Jag, he wanted to floor the sports car, plow into the gangbangers who had done this to him, and leave them a bloody smear on his hood.

That’s what he wanted.

And he would get it. Eventually. Because he was smart. And patient. But in the meantime…

Lump shifted before hacking again.

Trent’s nails bit into his palm as he stepped over the body, moving away from the loser. He’d already gotten the Redaction once and the government said you couldn’t get it again. This would be fine, if Lump carried the illness. But the bums of the world carried plenty of other diseases.

Bending at the waist, Lump spat again. The moonlight highlighted the tiny puddle. “You want me to take you to the soldiers?”

He nodded before shaking his head. The motion sent aftershocks through his skull. Damn whores.

“Don’t you worry about them shooting us.” Straightening, Lump adjusted his bulk before peeling off his outer layer and shaking out a wad of newspapers. The man shrunk at least two sizes. “They know Ol’ Thomas and they’ll make sure you get some help and get you back where you belong.”

Where he belonged? The two-story house, the big screen TV, the Jag. Before the dream was half-formed, it fell apart. The Jag had his murder kit in it. Cold sweat slicked Trent’s skin. The soldiers would call the cops, the cops would use his GPS system to locate his car, and then they’d find his kit.

He couldn’t go to the soldiers.

He couldn’t go to the cops.

So where did that leave him? In the middle of a dry river with a bum for company, pain in the thigh and a throbbing head. But only until he located the bitches. They wouldn’t have gone far. Their kind was too stupid.

Lump turned away and stared shuffling toward the street, shining like a black ribbon in the moonlight.

“Wait!” Trent swatted at a fly circling his head and accidentally brushed his temple. Firecrackers exploded inside his head. He doubled over and vomited. Sour chunks tumbled off his tongue, over and over again, until finally his stomach clenched nothing. Slowly, the cramps eased. Spit pooled in his mouth. He used it to wash out the bitterness.

“You sick, too?” Lump shuffled closer. “Well, that rules out the soldiers then. They’re getting real jumpy lately. Heard tell, they’ve even shot some folks last night.”

Trent wiped his mouth on his sleeve, tasted the dirt rubbed into the fabric. He’d pretend to be sick, if it bought him time. He’d even hang out with losers until he found out the gang’s hiding spot. “Where can we go then?”

“I know a place.” Instead of turning around, Lump headed further into the dry river bed. “They’ll take us in and feed us.”

His stomach cramped. Food wasn’t high on his priorities right now. But staying alive was. Besides the losers would know the gang’s turf, probably even recognize the bitch who’d stolen his Jag. And once he found her, he’d make her pay.

And there would be no bum to help her.

He’d make sure she was beyond help by the time he finished.

Mavis opened one eye. The blurry, red numbers of the alarm clock bled into the darkness. Two-thirty-five AM. No good news ever came at half past two in the morning. Ever.

It could only mean one thing: Patient Zero had finally turned up.

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She wasn’t ready. Nothing had been prepared. There was nowhere for the survivors to go. The phone kept ringing.

Maybe if she didn’t answer it the dying wouldn’t begin. Maybe she would have longer to prepare, to find a plan that would save Sunnie. And David. And…

The peppy refrain started again, louder this time, chiding her cowardice. Rubbing the grit from her eyes, she rolled closer to the cell phone on her dresser. The mystery novel she’d attempted to read over the last six months plopped to the floor. Her fingers closed around the plastic while her thumb worked between the two pieces to flip it open.

The ringtone died, leaving only the wind to mourn its loss. The cell chilled her ear. “Hello?”

“Dammit, Mavis!” Surgeon General Miles Arnez snapped into the phone. “I thought I told you to keep news of the Redaction’s return to yourself.”

Mavis blinked. Her brain slogged through the fog of sleep, trying to figure out the conversation. “Patient Zero…”

“Yes, Patient Zero!” Miles sputtered. “You of all people should know that the government follows you and your niece’s every move, especially in so public a forum as the Redaction in Action website.”

Mavis sat up in bed. But that had been days ago. Why was he having a snit-fit about it now? And the Chinese government had denied everything. Of course, that hadn’t stopped reporter Catherine Sinclair. “Miles, I—”

“And to use your own niece. Honestly, Mavis!” Miles sighed. She could practically hear him running his fingers through his hair.

She latched onto the one thing that mattered most. “Sunnie?”

“You do know that the government will check on her. And then, well, I don’t think I will be able to protect you from the President’s, no, all of Washington’s wrath.”

Mavis licked her lips. She’d missed something. “Slow down, Miles. It’s two-thirty in the morning here, and I’m having trouble keeping up.”

“What?” Miles chuffed and then he did something she dreaded hearing again. He coughed.

A watery, wheezing kind of sound that momentarily stopped her heart.

“Are you alright?”

“No, dammit.” He coughed again. “Some idiot left the vents open, and we pulled in days’ worth of ash before anyone noticed.”

She pushed off the covers. Her cold toes sank into the area rug. “You have the Ash Pneumonia.”

What would she do now? Without Miles’s help, no one stood a chance of survival.

“Don’t worry.” He cleared his throat. In the background she heard the tinkle of ice cubes. “Everyone here is on a strict regime of anti-virals. We’ll recover.”

Tucking her phone between her ear and her shoulder, she slipped her arms through her sleeves and tied the sash of her robe. God knew if she’d be able to sleep anymore today. There was so much to do, so much to accomplish. Fortunately, the inevitable had been delayed one more day. “I’m glad you’ll be well, Miles. But I don’t understand. If everyone is infected why doesn’t the President make an announcement?”

“He might have if you hadn’t made that stupid post.” Miles sighed. “Now, he has people heading to your house and—”

Mavis recoiled to stare at the phone. “My house? What does he plan to do here?”

“Check on your niece.” Miles swore under his breath. “And so help you, if she doesn’t have a case of the sniffles, you will be arrested and possibly shot.”

“Give me a minute.” Biting the inside of her lip, Mavis tore down the hall. Soft white light eked out around the door frame. Sunnie was up. Yet, her niece wouldn’t have done anything stupid, would she? They’d been together when Mavis had used the commandeered computer to make the leak. The reporter had followed up. Of course, China had denied everything.

Sunnie had slept through that part.

She also didn’t know there were other things they would do to get the word out. Mavis shoved the brass handle down and the door swung open. Out crept the smell of moist air and peppermint.

Turning to look at her, Sunnie held her blanket over her mouth. Fever painted dots of color in her pale cheeks and she coughed. “You shouldn’t be in here.”