As soon as the door closed, the DOP said, “He needs to be replaced.”
The third man, the Director of Survival, rose to his feet. He was smaller than the others by a foot, and one of the most dedicated members of the project. “Yes, he does. But he also has a point about the mistakes.”
“I know.” The mistakes
“What about the KV-27a safeguards? Any word?” the DOS asked.
“I’m told everything is on schedule.”
“Excellent.” Changing the subject, the DOS said, “Where are we on the vaccine?”
“Almost there. We should have a working batch within a few weeks.”
“Then we’re on to the next phase.”
The Director of Preparation smiled. “Yes, we are.”
By late afternoon it was clear to Martina and the others in the segregated group at Cryer’s Corner that Paul Unger was not just suffering from his wounds, but was also ill.
Coach Delger had said that if he only had the increased fever, then it could have been explained by his injuries. But there was the cough, too, and the growing congestion, all symptoms that had been previously reported in connection with the Sage Flu.
Martina was a smart girl. She knew if things played out the way they had everywhere else, she and the others in the segregated group would all be dead within a day or so. It scared her more than she wanted to admit, but she tried to stay calm because a few of the others were totally freaking out already, and someone had to keep their head.
It didn’t help that the news reported the virus had spread throughout the entire quarantine zone, including their hometown of Ridgecrest. And even though the correspondent had said the new outbreaks seemed to have been contained to a handful of people here and there, the sense of doom that hung over the cafe was stifling.
There was no report, though, on the fact that the quarantine roadblock had been moved from ten miles west of Cryer’s Corner to ten miles east. Perhaps they were the only ones who knew about that. And given the fact that the phones, and therefore the Internet, had stopped working not long after Martina uploaded Paul’s video, there was no way they could share that information.
The only good news as far as she was concerned was Ben. That was the name of the cute college boy. He was from San Mateo in the Bay Area and had been driving home from a skiing trip in Colorado. Luckily for Martina, he wasn’t one of the people flipping out so, naturally, they had gravitated toward each other.
At that moment, they were sitting in a booth at the far corner of the cafe, absently watching the TV. The reporter was a woman who’d been caught inside the zone, and was now at Fort Irwin near Barstow with several other members of the media. Martina wasn’t paying her much attention, though. The woman had pretty much been saying the same thing over and over all day.
“This sucks,” Martina blurted out.
“The news?” Ben asked.
She glanced at the screen. “Well, yeah. That, too. But all of this. It completely sucks. We can’t even call our families to see how they’re doing. It’s like we’re in prison.”
“At least this prison has cushioned seats,” he said, smiling.
“Ha ha.” She turned her attention back to the TV, but could only take it for another minute before she said, “I wish I’d just start coughing and get it over with, you know?”
Ben didn’t say anything.
“Did you hear me?”
She looked at him. He was staring out the window at something in the distance. Finally, as if on delay, he said, “Sorry.” Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he scooted out of the booth. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, but he was already halfway toward the front of the cafe, so she got up and followed him.
He stopped at the counter near the register and looked around.
“What are you doing?” she asked, walking up.
“Have you seen Molly?”
Molly Cryer was the older woman who, it turned out, owned the cafe.
“Maybe in back?” Martina suggested.
With a nod, Ben passed through the opening in the counter and back into the kitchen. More curious than ever, Martina continued to follow him.
Molly was sitting on a little stool in back, watching a DVD of some old black and white movie on a small TV set on a desk. She had a soda in one hand, and an unlit cigarette in the other.
“The gas station across the street,” Ben said. “There’s a big rig behind it.”
“Yeah,” Molly said without taking her eyes off the screen.
“Whose is it?”
“The rig? That’d be Eddie Jackson’s truck.”
“Is he around?”
“Nah. He’s in…” She paused for a moment. “Reno, I think.”
“Who has the keys?”
“I assume Lance does over at the station.”
“Great. Thanks.”
As Ben headed back out, Martina said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“About what?”
He said nothing.
“Whoa! Where are you two going?” Coach Driscoll asked as Ben and Martina reached the front door.
“I need to check something,” Ben said.
“Well, just stick around right out front. Don’t want to expose anyone else.”
Most of the unexposed group had been hanging out at the mini-market just down from the cafe. No one had really laid claim to the gas station on the other side of the road yet, because there really wasn’t much to claim other than a couple of pumps and a greasy garage.
Once he was outside, Ben started jogging straight for the station.
Before he reached the road, Martina said, “I don’t think we’re supposed to go across.”
“Then you don’t have to come.”
Though she’d bent one or two rules in her life, she wasn’t a big one for breaking them, but given the fact that by this time tomorrow she’d probably be dead, what did it matter? She picked up her speed and caught up to him midway across the asphalt of the empty highway.
“Still not going to tell me what you’re doing?” she asked.
“Still not.”
No one seemed to be around as he led her into the gas station’s small office. He then started pulling desk drawers open, and slamming them closed when he didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for.
After a few minutes, he moved into the garage and took a quick scan around. His gaze locked onto a black cabinet on the wall.
He pulled the door open, then let out a yelp of triumph.
Martina moved around so she could look inside. There were several rows of hooks. Most were empty, but a few had keys hanging from them. Ben moved his finger along the sets that were there, pulling off several.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see if I’m right.”
As they stepped out of the garage, a voice yelled out, “What are you doing in there?”
Lance Cryer, the guy who ran the gas station, was standing near the highway looking at them. He’d been in the group deemed unexposed.
“Just borrowing some keys,” Ben said.
“Dammit. You shouldn’t have gone in there. That’s my place. Now I can’t use it until someone washes it all down.”
Ben grimaced. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that.”
