Finally they saw the Berg once again. It rose up in the distance, more beautiful than Mark would’ve ever guessed one of the beat-up old things could look. Though each one of them was heaving like every breath might be their last, they didn’t slow down, and soon the big hunk of scarred metal loomed above their heads.
Mark didn’t know how in the world Trina had done it with Deedee in her arms the entire time. But she’d refused to let anyone else help.
“You… okay?” he asked her between deep breaths.
She collapsed to the ground, spilling the girl next to her as gently as she could. Trina looked up at him, still no recognition in her eyes. “I’m… fine. Thank you for rescuing us.”
Mark knelt next to her, the pain creeping back into his heart now that the craziness of escaping was over. “Trina, do you really not remember me?”
“You seem… familiar. But there’s too much in my head. We just need to get the girl-she’s immune, I know it-we need to get her to people who matter. Before we’re all too insane to try.”
Mark felt something turn in his stomach and leaned back, away from his best friend. The chilling way she’d said those last few words…
He knew that there was something seriously wrong with her. And couldn’t he say the same thing about himself? How long did he have until nothing mattered anymore? A day? Maybe two?
The huge door of the Berg lurched into motion with a thump and a squeal, giving Mark an excuse not to respond. He watched as it lowered to the ground.
Alec spoke loudly over the grinding gears and hydraulics. “Let’s get them on board, get everyone fed. Then we need to figure out what to do with ourselves. We might be like those kooks we just ran away from soon.”
“Not the girl,” Mark said, so quietly he wondered if his friend even heard him.
“What do you mean?” the man replied.
“The scar on her arm. She was hit by a dart months ago. Think about it. Trina’s right. She’s immune somehow. That’s gotta mean something.”
Trina had perked up at the statement, was nodding vigorously. Too vigorously. Mark’s heart sank a little bit more. She just wasn’t quite there.
Alec let out one of his infamous grunts. “Well, unless you wanna swap bodies with her, I reckon it won’t do you a bit of good, now, will it?”
“But maybe it could help others. If they don’t already have a treatment…”
Alec gave him a doubtful look. “Let’s just get on board before some of them crazies catch up to us.”
And blast us with my Transvice, Mark thought grimly. He appreciated Alec’s not giving him a hard time about it.
Alec headed for the ramp, which was almost all the way down, leaving Mark to deal with the two girls. Mark reached for Trina’s hand.
“Come on. It’ll be nice and safe on board. And there’s food, somewhere to rest. Don’t worry. You… can trust me.” It hurt to even have to say such a thing.
Deedee stood up, her face still set in stone, and took Mark’s hand before Trina could. The little girl looked at him, and even though her features didn’t change, something in her eyes almost made him think she had a smile hidden inside somewhere. Trina got to her feet.
“I just hope the boogie man doesn’t live on that thing,” she said in a distant, haunted voice. Then she started walking toward the ramp.
Mark sighed and followed, Deedee in tow.
The next few hours passed quietly as the sun sped toward the horizon and darkness fell on the land outside the Berg. Alec flew the ship to the neighborhood where they’d parked before-it still seemed deserted. Then they ate and prepared bunks for Trina and Deedee to get some sleep. Trina mumbled a lot, and Mark even caught her with a line of drool on her chin at one point. As he wiped it off, sadness once again welled up in his heart.
As for him, sleeping seemed utterly impossible.
He planned to talk to Alec, figure out exactly what their next move should be, but when he found him, the old bear was snoring in the pilot’s chair, sitting straight up with his head lolling to one side. Mark was half tempted to throw a chunk of food in his mouth, and giggled at the thought of it.
Giggled.
I really am starting to slip, he thought. And his mood sank into a low and dark place. He desperately needed to do something to take his mind off things.
He suddenly remembered the workpads he’d seen in the cargo room-the ones he’d secured against the shelf with the straps. His spirits rose a bit at the hope that maybe something within those devices would shed some light on what they should do. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get rid of the virus somehow. Maybe there was a chance.
He banged his knee twice-and his head once-running through the dimly lit Berg toward the cargo room. He remembered halfway there that he’d need a flashlight and went back to get it out of his backpack. Then, finally, he was standing in front of the shelf. He quickly removed the workpads and sat down to read through them.
There were three. The first was dead. A password prevented him from getting into the second, but it flickered and would probably die soon anyway. Mark’s excitement almost crashed to a halt. But the third came to life, its glow illuminating the large room so brightly that Mark turned off his flashlight. The owner-evidently a guy named Randall Spilker-had felt no need for a password, and the home station popped up immediately.
He spent the next half hour perusing useless information. Mr. Spilker loved games and chat rooms. Mark was almost ready to give up, thinking the guy had merely used the device as a toy, when he finally discovered some hidden work files.
Folder after folder revealed nothing. But Mark finally hit the jackpot in a place most people would never have had the patience to find. It was a folder, marked as plainly as the rest, practically lost within a list of a hundred others that were empty.
It was titled KILL ORDER.
CHAPTER 61
There were so many documents that Mark didn’t know where to start. Each file had a number assigned to it and seemed to have been saved in random order. Mark knew he didn’t have time to read every single file, so he decided to just start opening and see what he could see.
There was file after file of saved correspondence, memorandums and official announcements. Most numerous were the personal exchanges-all copied into a few files-between Mr. Spilker and his friends, particularly one named Ladena Lichliter. The two of them worked for the Post-Flares Coalition, an entity people in the settlements had heard of but knew almost nothing about. From what Mark could gather, the group had brought together as many government agencies as they could from around the world. They’d gathered in Alaska-a location rumored to have been only mildly affected by the sun flares-and they were trying to put the world back together again.
It all seemed very noble-and frustrating to those involved-until Mark came across an exchange between Mr. Spilker and Ladena Lichliter, who seemed to be his closest confidant, that sent an icy chill along his arms. He’d been skimming text after text, but he read this one twice:
To: Randall Spilker
From: Ladena Lichliter
Subject:
I’m still sick from the meeting today. I just can’t believe it. I can’t accept that the PCC actually looked us in the eyes and presented that proposal. Seriously. I was stunned.
And then more than half the room AGREED WITH THEM! They supported it! What the hell is going on? Randall, tell me what the HELL is going on? How can we even THINK about doing something like that? How?
I’ve spent the afternoon trying to make sense of it all.
I can’t take it. I can’t.
How did we get here?
Come see me tonight. Please.
