Generation M (23 page)

Toby jogged toward the plant, and Dawson followed him.

Toby pulled the handle of the door, and not surprisingly, discovered it was locked.

He stared up. “It would take a long piece of rope to reach the roof.”

Dawson nodded in agreement.

“If we had dynamite,” Toby continued, “we could blow the door, but we don’t have dynamite.”

Dawson lamented that they had no explosives.

The boy walked in a circle, thinking. “We could smash into the door with the car. That might work! But we’d never make it through the gate.”

Dawson eyed the gate, which was secured with a padlock. Toby was right. A Humvee could smash through it, but not the car that had brought them here.

“Follow me,” Toby said.

They walked around the perimeter of the building. Impenetrable steel doors blocked entry from the opposite end, and all the walls were high and windowless. Dawson had no idea what to do.

“We could wait here, hope that an adult comes, and ambush them,” Toby said. “But we might be waiting a long time.”

“That’s right,” Dawson said, knowing the situation was urgent. They couldn’t afford to wait.

Toby rubbed his chin and exclaimed, “That’s it.” He pointed to the water tower. “What’s in there?”

Dawson shrugged. “At one point, water, though it’s probably empty.”

“What’s beer made out of?”

“Hops.”

Toby threw up his hands, frustrated that his student was failing the quiz. “Water! Lieutenant, this was a brewery before it was a pill plant. They must have made bad batches of beer. I’m guessing they didn’t flush thousands of gallons down the toilet. There must be underground pipes. Big pipes.”

“Yes, there must be a connection to the local sewage system!”

“Mark, look at me!” Toby grabbed his arm. “We can do this! You worked here, right? Do you remember anything?”

Dawson nodded. “There are floor grates inside the plant. We should look for a manhole cover, or a storm grate.”

“Where would it be?”

Dawson paced. “I bet it would be on the property.”

Toby nodded. “Let’s split up and look for it. I’ll take this side, you go over there.”

Dawson’s head was still throbbing as he jogged along the perimeter of the property, looking for a metal plate or grate hidden in the tall weeds, but his headache was nothing, a mild annoyance. More and more, he was feeling like himself. Losing confidence had been terrifying. He thought his head injury in the plane crash could be the cause, but he knew that paralyzing doubt could strike anyone down. He remembered his father describing a panic attack he had experienced during a drill on the battleship he’d commanded.

“I was lucky to have a strong second-in-command,” his father had said, asking him never to repeat the story to anyone because it would have ended his father’s career in the Navy.

Dawson was lucky to have Toby.

A hundred meters away, Toby waved his arms and shouted that he had found something. Five minutes later, they were standing beside a circular, steel cover. Dawson pried the heavy lid up with the claw of his hammer, and together, they flipped it aside.

A ladder descended into the darkness. Dawson gave Toby a flashlight and gestured for him to go first, shining his light as Toby climbed down the ladder.

A cylindrical pipe, twice Dawson’s height, extended both directions from the base of the ladder. His pulse quickened, seeing that the pipe led to the plant.

“The beautiful smell of beer,” Dawson said. “It reminds me of shore leave.”

The odor permeated the tunnel.

“My father used to make me cook dinner for him,” Toby said as they headed toward the plant, dancing their flashlights on the pipe walls. “I’d have to go get him at the tavern. That’s what it reminds me of. Walking home with him, drunk and angry, wondering if he’d throw a punch.”

The light cast on Toby’s face showed him reliving the pain and anger.

Dawson reached out and rested his hand on Toby’s shoulder, keeping it there as they continued.

When they were clearly below the plant, they came to a ladder that ascended to a steel grate.

“After you, Lieutenant,” Toby said.

Dawson scaled the rungs and tried to push aside the grate, but it only moved a fraction of an inch.

Toby climbed up the opposite side of the ladder, and they pushed together, raising it about half an inch.

The grate thudded back in place.

“Are we going to let this thing stand in our way?” Toby asked.

“Hell no, Cadet.”

Toby grinned and asked for the hammer. “When you raise it, I’ll insert the hammer. Then we’ll use the hammer as a lever.”

Dawson pushed up for all he was worth, and Toby inserted the claw.

“When I jack it up, put your fist in the gap,” Toby barked.

“Aye aye,” Dawson said.

Toby pulled down on the hammer’s handle. When the grate rose, Dawson inserted his fist, thumb side up, into the gap. Toby released the hammer and Dawson’s hand bones held firm.

After discussing the next step together, Toby inserted the hammer sideways into the gap and hung from the handle, allowing Dawson to insert a second fist on top of the first.

“Do or die time,” Toby said. “I’m going up a rung to push with my back. As soon as it moves, you have to do the same.”

Toby positioned his shoulder against the metal plate and grunted as he drove upward with his legs. The pressure lessened on Dawson’s double-fist tower, and the moment his hands were free, he climbed a rung and applied his shoulder to the effort. He drove upward with his legs until his thigh and lower back muscles trembled and were on the verge of exploding in spasms. Both he and Toby grunted and cried out. Muscles in his back seized, shooting an icy bolt of paralysis between his shoulder blades. Dawson willed his quads, calf muscles, and toes to contract and push harder. The grate started to rise, and he gripped the ledge with both hands and pulled, hoisting himself up another rung.

“Go,” Dawson shouted when the gap had widened enough for Toby to slip through.

Dawson screamed from the increased load as Toby scrambled from the ladder and into the plant. If he let go now, the grate would cut the boy in half.

Once Toby could stand, he braced his feet against something and leaned forward, arms extended, and pushed the grate. Dawson felt the slow release of pressure, and when he saw Toby visibly shaking, he called on his leg muscles to complete one more task. He stepped up and propelled himself forward through the gap as Toby started to collapse. Dawson pulled his foot out of the way just as the grate crashed back into place.

With “what if” scenarios snaking through his brain, Dawson put his arm around Toby as they both trembled and caught their breath.

“Why did you say Mathews was our worst nightmare?” Toby asked.

“She’s a cold-blooded killer. When Jonzy and I were about to leave the colony, she surprised us in the Red Zone. Admiral Samuels showed up, and she shot and killed him.”

“You never told us that,” Toby said.

“I didn’t want to think about it, I guess.”

Toby hung his head. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

Dawson’s jaw dropped. “For what?”

“Acting like a jerk. I guess I’ve never liked adults, or trusted them.”

“I always knew you had to earn someone’s trust, but I guess I never realized how hard it was to do,” Dawson replied. “Barking orders is easy.”

They sat in the stillness. The plant felt like a living entity that held them in her palm of silence.

“You’re all right, as far as adults go,” Toby offered.

The boy said it jokingly, but Dawson heard the undertone of hurt. He stood, gripped Toby’s hand, and helped him to his feet. “If you were my son, I’d be the proudest father in the world.”

Toby shifted uncomfortably, and then he dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A small smile played on his lips, brightening his mask of determination.

“Lieutenant, are you ready to kick some scientist butt?”

Dawson pulled his shoulders back. “I can’t wait.”

He led Toby toward a room that housed the plant’s generators. While the outside of the building had undergone serious renovations, the interior was as he remembered it. The flashlight’s beams revealed gleaming, high-tech machinery, robotic arms, and miles of piping and wires. The large copper fermentation vats were at the other end of the plant.

In the generator room, Dawson checked a fuel gauge.

“We have plenty of diesel,” he said and then punched a start button.

Four massive generators roared to life. Dawson threw on five light switches, illuminating the plant. It was a high-ceilinged cathedral of science, the walls and floors white and spotless, the equipment shiny and bright.

“I want to get back to Abby and Maggie,” Toby said.

They walked the length of the plant. Close to the door, something caught Dawson’s eye – a white substance fixed to the side of a fermentation vat. There were twelve vats in total, each as wide as an elephant, rising three quarters of the way to the ceiling. Sweeping his eyes across the other vats, he saw each one had a similar substance affixed to it.

“Toby, get back,” he barked, his heart contracting into his throat.

Dawson was certain it was C4. The reason for Mathews’s visit was now evident. She had wired the plant with plastic explosives, knowing exactly how to stop the production of antibiotics.

Mathews’s other motivations remained a mystery, though. Why hadn’t she detonated the C4? Given the limited range of a remote, she should have done so before leaving the grounds, unless she had set up a repeater, which would allow her to detonate the explosives remotely from inside the bunker.

With that as a possibility, Dawson wanted Toby out of the building as quickly as possible. He explained the situation, omitting the terrifying fact that the C4 could go off any second. He played up the fact that it was safe to handle, as long as you left the wireless fuse intact.

“I’ll help you get it,” Toby said.

“There are twelve vats. It will only take me a few minutes to clear them. Sandy needs to know about this. You need to get back to Abby and Maggie.”

Toby argued briefly, but eventually gave in and raced out the door.

As Dawson peeled off the first wad of C4, he wondered if the scientists knew he was in the area. No, that was impossible. Kids had seen him, “the adult,” but they would not have communicated with scientists in the bunker.

Convinced he still enjoyed the element of surprise, he got to work on ridding the plant of explosives.

When Maggie awoke, Abby told her about the boy she’d seen dragging a body.

“Don’t be afraid,” Maggie said and took hold of her hand. “We have each other.”

Maggie brought the radio to her lips and tried to contact Sandy. “Alpha Zulu, do you copy? Alpha Zulu, do you copy?”

Dusk had fallen, and Abby wondered how long they should keep trying. With no other options, the answer was obvious: for as long as they had voices.

“If something happens to me, you have to keep trying to contact Sandy,” Abby said.

“I will,” Maggie replied with sadness filling her eyes.

Abby’s heart contracted from the swiftness of Maggie’s response.

After a long pause, Maggie added, “You’re going to make it. Hang in there.”

Abby realized she must look as sick as she felt. She was dying. Exhausted, she rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder and closed her eyes, thinking about Touk and Jordan, then Toby and Mark. Had they safely reached the pill plant? She hoped Toby would return before dark and press against her, but quickly a sense of dread cuddled up next to her when she wondered if she would ever see him again.

“Alpha Zulu, do you copy? Alpha Zulu ….”

Maggie’s voice grew fainter as Abby felt herself approaching sleep, sinking deeper into a quicksand of strange, fever-induced images and disconnected thoughts.

“Wake up! Abby, wake up! Abby!” Maggie said in an urgent tone, tugging her arm. “Abby, wake up.”

Abby blinked and the night pressed against her eyeballs like sandpaper. It was completely dark. She glanced at the glowing hands on her watch and realized she’d been asleep for hours. “What’s wrong?”

“Shhhh.” Maggie was inches away, but Abby couldn’t see her. “Some kids are just outside the alley,” she whispered. “They know we’re here. I heard them talking.”

Abby heard only the thudding of her heart, but a voice screamed a warning in her mind, and she squeezed Maggie’s hand harder when she felt her pulling away.

“Stay,” Abby pleaded. “We’re safe here.”

Maggie easily broke the grip and placed the radio in Abby’s hand. “Keep trying to get Sandy.”

Maggie started a little avalanche of cans when she stood and shuffled toward the front of the alley.

Maybe the kids had moved on, Abby thought, or maybe Maggie had been mistaken, or they were just a bunch of survivors sick with the Pig, trying to endure the pain, not wanting to cause any trouble.

“Oh my God,” Maggie cried out. “The smell is so awful.”

A bloom of icy shivers started down Abby’s neck, and before they had reached the base of her spine, Maggie screamed. The jagged grunts and cries of a violent struggle followed, Maggie’s voice mixing with those of strangers, both boys and girls. To help her friend, Abby tried to stand, but she immediately folded over from a cramp.

Frantic footsteps informed her that Maggie had broken free. She was running and her attackers were chasing her. The sounds faded into the night.

A startling truth struck Abby. Maggie had wanted to engage the strangers to lure them away from the alley, giving Abby a chance to contact Sandy.

With tears trickling down her cheeks, she anchored the radio against her lips. “Alpha Zulu, do you copy?”

She hung her head and wept, too choked with sadness to go on.

The brave pilot would lose her attackers and return to the alley. Toby, too, would arrive at any minute.
Her positive thoughts did little to flush the despair from her heart.

An hour later, Abby turned on the radio and pressed the button. “Alpha Zulu. Please, do you copy?”

A voice crackled in the heavy silence. “This is Alpha Zulu. Who are you?”