Lethal Seasons (A Changed World Book 1) (3 page)

“But you felt they were important enough to bring to me.”

“Something got that girl killed.”

“These notations are beyond me. I can’t tell if they are true or as you said mere ramblings. But these are all related. The girl,” Angus gestured to the newest journal, “says that these are her father’s.”

A chill shivered down Nick’s back. “Is it him?”

Angus’s eyes were dark with sorrow. “If these calculations pertain to the original virus, and if they are over a decade old and if the author of this journal turns out to be an insane racist . . . then yes. We could be looking at the source of the illness that killed millions.”

For a raw moment those words hung in the air between them. Angus stacked the books up and pushed them to one side. He rubbed his face then ran hands through his hair making it stand up in unruly tufts. “But...there are many ifs in that sentence.”

“Yes.” Nick chewed on his lip, knowing in his gut that this would bring trouble.

“Will you try to find William and Lily? The fact that their sister was murdered worries me.”

Nick swallowed his first response. He didn’t need to add to Angus’s burdens. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“The origin of the virus is unknown. Many rumors circulated as to who or what might have released such a deadly agent into our world. Foreign governments and terrorists were at the top of the list. As the virus circled the globe, killing indiscriminately, for a while we stopped caring where it came from.”

History of a Changed World,
Angus T. Moss

Wisp could sense the person waiting for him. It was a girl, and she was frightened. Her fear tasted sharp and too long held. She was worn down with the burden of it. He paused in the darkened corridor of his home and pushed his senses out into the surrounding woods. There was no one else in the vicinity of the old factory where he had lived for the past three years. The aging site had been derelict long before the virus hunted his kind. Thick brick walls and steel beams still stood against the ravages of the weather. But it was the cellars and sub-cellars that he called home.

He continued upstairs to ground level. Twilight softened the harsh angles of debris in the yard. Old pallets and piles of stone, a tumble of bricks where a retaining wall had given way, cans and broken glass and the skeletons of weeds made a labyrinth of unsteady steps to his door. The girl waited where she was told, in the potholed remains of a parking lot. Hulking stacks of crumbling sidewalks took up much of the cracked asphalt. It held a certain symbolism for him. Someone had ripped up the sidewalks and piled them here, perhaps to be recycled. But to him it said that pedestrian traffic was no longer possible in this area. He held it as a totem, hoping it would ensure his solitude.

She was small. Not more than ten or twelve years old. A mental shiver wracked her as she stood alone in the fading light waiting for a meeting with a monster. Wisp regretted the charade, but fear was often his only weapon.

“I am here,” he said stepping into her line of sight.

She jumped. A gasp, cut off, shuddered into a whimper. “Are you the finder?”

“I am.”

“Can you find my brother?”

“What do you offer?”

Her fear was suddenly drowned with loss, with desperation and hopelessness. He could taste the ashes of her grief, the spiky pain of regret. “I have nothing.”

She was a refugee, a fugitive. Her pain was something he understood. This close he could smell her unwashed body. A child, hungry and alone and knowing there was no solace. She trembled with exhaustion. He knew he couldn't refuse her.

“I will help.”

She cried then, the relief so great. It pushed back on her burden of grief, and eased his own pain. She swallowed the tears away, stronger than her years. “What should I do?”

Wisp looked up at the clouds scudding in from the west. A storm was approaching. He smelled rain on the rising wind. The child needed food and rest. They couldn't start out until the morning. “Come.” He reached out a hand to her. “We will prepare.”

Her steps were heavy, the fear rising up. In the half-light, he wondered how much she could see. What startled her the most? His thick white hair falling loose below his shoulders, eyes so pale a blue they were almost white, or was it the tattoo down his neck that marked him as not human? As she touched his hand, he had his answer: just a man. She registered his calloused hands and muscled arms. He was a big, strong stranger, and she feared all the things that could come from that.

“I won't hurt you, child.”

“Lily. I'm Lily,” she spoke in a bruised whisper heavy with tears.

“They call me Wisp.”

She looked up at him in the growing shadows. “Is that your name?”

He bit off his response.
My kind have no names.
She was too young to know that story. “It will do,” he said gently. “Come. I have food and water.”

He felt her wariness lose ground beneath her hunger. She was too young to be out in the world alone. Too sweet, too innocent. He'd find her brother and send them somewhere safe. Then perhaps it was time for him to move on.

“Children born in Year One showed signs of DNA manipulation. The virus had changed them. Eye color was the first change documented. The most common was an orange-brown, close enough to normal that most people didn’t notice it.”

History of a Changed World
, Angus T. Moss

“Tell me about your brother,” Wisp said as he led her into the old brick building.

“William,” she said.

He saw the boy in her memory, brawny and angry, dark hair and eyes. There was another girl, almost woman. And hunters. Through her eyes he saw gigantic men in black with screaming weapons that sprayed bullets. William took her hand, and they ran. Through streets and alleys and backyards. They ran until they had to stop. William did not let go of her hand. He hid her and promised to return.

“The rule is,” she said, watching as Wisp lit a small candle lantern, “wait a day, then walk north for a day.”

“Whose rule?” Wisp led them down a level in the musty darkness. Lily’s anxiety level rose as they descended.

“Iris. She said if we get separated. Wait a day, go north a day. That way we always know which direction to look.” He saw the young woman again in her mind, but wavering. A curtain went down. Lily would not ask about Iris. There was a question she didn't want the answer to. Pain forced the curtain in place, solid and aching.

“Logical. And did you wait a day?”

“Of course. I waited all night and ‘til the sun came up. William didn't come back. So I walked north all day.” Her confidence crumbled into sniffles. “It's been three days.”

They arrived at his den. The bright light scattered her uneasiness. He'd rigged the solar generator for only this room. No one would see the lights from two floors below the surface.

“You have train food.” Lily skipped over to stand before his larder. The white packets of Crunch and soft pouches of Stew-goo were stacked on some shelving he’d appropriated. He could feel her ache to snatch, but she looked back to him for permission. Good. She'd learned some lessons in the world. Food was money, power, survival.

“I have fresh food, too.” He opened the cold locker and showed her the forest's bounty: strawberries, asparagus and cress. The look on her face said she had no experience of food that wasn't packaged. She had been too young when the world changed. She knew nothing else. Looking at her, Wisp realized that she was part of the change, too. Her eyes were the color of ripe cherries.

He let her eat what was familiar. A small comfort in a trying time. Her eyes wandered the room, took in his books and blankets and stockpile of food. “This is a safe place,” she announced.

“For the moment.” Even two levels down, he heard the storm when it arrived. A crack of thunder penetrated the brick and steel.

Lily looked up. “Still safe?”

“It's not the weather that would make this place unsafe.”

The shadows in her eyes said she understood. Wisp felt sadness for her. It was a lesson he'd learned in his first year of existence. But human children shouldn't have to know that danger so soon.

“How will we find William?”

“Do you have anything of his?”

She pulled a compass out of her pocket. Held it up to show him. He put out his hand. Lily froze. He saw the suspicion in her eyes. She wanted to trust, but doubted strongly. He felt her need, and the ache for resolution but the compass was precious. Too dear to share, unbearable to lose. And he was an adult, unreliable and dangerous in her estimation.

Wisp spoke softly to soothe her. “I can sense him through things he has carried. Did he carry this all the time?”

She nodded, eyes wide and glistening with tears. She believed him without question. A child of the new world where the unlikely could be normal.

“I won't keep it. I just need to hold it for a minute.”

Her eyes lingered on the scars on his hands that criss-crossed his palms and ran up his arms. Did she understand the source of them, or just see a difficult path walked? Her fingers brushed his palm as she carefully placed the compass in his hand. She saw his trials with a child's mind: rough and tumble sparring or investigating in abandoned places—skinned knees, splinters and bruised shins. She knew nothing of torture, and he was glad for her.

He let the cold metal of the compass warm in his hand. He got a stronger sense of William. A half-grown man with responsibilities beyond his years. An anchor for a small girl, an ally for the older one. He was a tumble of anger, resentment and devotion to his sisters. William had carried the compass every day because it was a gift from his father. The only thing left to secure a fragile memory of brown hair and a hearty laugh. Wisp followed the thread out into the world searching until he felt the tug to the boy’s spirit. “William is alive.”

Lily laughed. She clapped her hands together and squeezed them tight. “I knew it.” But Wisp knew she lied as that dreadful knot inside her frayed away.

“He's not far. We might be able to reach him tomorrow.”

“Good.” Her response was simple, practical and made Wisp smile.

He gave her the compass back. She pushed it deep into her pocket, clutching it tight. He piled some blankets into a nest for her and dimmed the lights. She sank into slumber immediately. He started packing. This was not a simple finding. There was a great deal more going on here than the child understood. Her innocence might be tarnished with doubt and distrust, but William's was gone now. Wisp had established a link to William. Her brother was learning about pain.

“Violence was widespread. Looting in the cities became so bad that the army was deployed. Some government officials tried to block the use of the army based on existing laws, but there was too great a need. Police, fire and emergency services were overwhelmed. The dead lay in the streets outside hospitals and clinics. At the very least, the army was needed to dig mass graves.”

History of a Changed World
, Angus T. Moss

Nick visited the armory before he went back out on the road. It was a locked display case for the school’s trophies that Martin had moved into his ready room. They had collected some shotguns and hand weapons over the years. Nick knew that a few of the residents had kept their guns rather than share them with the community. Once new people settled in, sometimes they changed their minds. Every now and then the inventory would turn up something extra. Martin would make a new page in the notebook, no questions asked.

He stared at the weapons, trying to make his decisions before Martin showed up with the keys. Long guns were out of the question, too obvious. He'd like the power of one of the automatics, but not the bulk. This was the first trip in a while where he felt he needed more than stealth and wit to stay safe. It would be foolish to track armed men without a weapon of his own, but he would be outgunned regardless of his choice. High Meadow didn’t have that kind of firepower.

“Window shopping?” Martin asked.

Nick chuckled. They were both old enough to remember what that meant. To remember money and spending it on things you didn't need. “Yes. I'd like to see something small and powerful, please.”

Martin grinned at him. “Yes, sir. I'll see what I can find in your size.” He unlocked the cabinet and took out the inventory notebook. A long, heavy minute passed as Martin stared at the first page, unseeing. “Think we'll ever get back to that?” he asked. His voice was low and thick with emotion.

“We can hope,” Nick said. But he knew his words were hollow. Whatever the future held, it wouldn't look like the past they pined for. And as he thought about it, the past probably wasn't the way they remembered it either.

Martin gave him a compact pistol that would fit in his pocket, a pair of spare clips and a long, notched knife. With these weapons, he was as heavily armed as he'd ever been on his travels, but he still felt vulnerable.

“You good with hand-to-hand?”

Nick nodded. “I think I remember a thing or two.”

“You should come to our sparring practices.”

“I suppose,” he admitted. He tucked the weapons away, patting them down to get used to their placement. He and Martin tended to rub rough edges against each other. Aside from reporting to him about his travels, he tried to steer clear of the man. Nick thought maybe they were just too much alike. He might not like the man, but he did respect him.

“You were a cop right?” Martin asked.

Nick hefted his pack. “FBI.” He gave Martin a sloppy salute, which put a smile back on the man's face.

“Be careful,” Martin said, returning the salute.

“Always am.” Nick walked away with that feeling again. Like Martin had told him to tie his shoes and button his shirt. It wasn't said to annoy him, but it always did.

*    *    *

Nick spent the hour's walk to the train station formulating a plan. He would go back to Clarkeston with questions about anything but the murder. If the armed men were hunting the missing siblings, asking would only draw attention. He would chat with anyone willing to listen, somewhere along the way he’d find the lead he needed. Angus told him that the children were younger than the dead girl, he estimated that Lily should be about twelve and William about fourteen. That was old enough to know how to run and hide. Which left Nick wondering how he was going to find two kids that did not want to be found.

He picked up a few packets of food at the stock-up on the train platform. Even though he carried enough food from the med center for a few days on the road, he liked to be prepared. He noticed that the shelves had been refilled. That always gave him a good feeling. As long as things kept arriving in an orderly fashion, he could pretend that the government was operating normally.

He always checked through the stock-up room. Sometimes there were things other than food available. Once he'd found stacks of clothing, simple pants and t-shirts. Another time it was first aid kits. Today there were just the usual packets of Crunch and Stew-goo. They were always available, so that no one could use them as currency, although in the early days several people had tried. There was a fine layer of dust on a stack of food packets. He ran his finger through it and a fine red powder stained his skin. He'd seen dust like that before. It took a minute for him to remember where. Missawaug. It sat at the edge of the new badlands, miles of drought-starved red earth. The raging winds that scoured that land dry coated everything in red dust.

Nick went out to the lobby to check the system map. Taking up an entire wall, a large board showed the railway superimposed over a map of the United States. Over the years the train lines had shrunken away from areas that were no longer livable. Open stations were indicated with a green light. The ones along the coast were all dark, endangered by rising sea levels. Some places had been claimed by storms years ago. A couple of lines that ran through the plains were dark also. Decades of drought, windstorms and wildfires made that part of the country too dangerous to live in. When Nick traced out the northern branch he saw that Missawaug was dark. It could mean bandits or a closed settlement. Disease and weather were the main reasons that settlements were closed. He hadn’t heard anything, and made a note to check when he got home.

Seeing the food from Missawaug had him wondering where it was produced. There was a factory somewhere churning out these meals. And farmers delivering produce to them. And truckers packing it all up to cart away. But it wasn’t anywhere nearby. And no one he’d spoken to knew where those factories might be. Or didn’t care to share that information. Another secret that the government was keeping.

A bright metal box, sticking out from the wall caught his attention, shaking him out of his morbid musings. It was new. He went over to inspect it. Blue letters stenciled across the shiny surface read
US Mail
. His throat tightened when he read the words. Hanging below it was a water-proof sack marked
High Meadow Med Center
. He looked inside. There was a letter for Angus and the first piece of junk mail he'd seen in a decade. It was a hand-lettered sheet for cheese orders coming from a settlement on the southern branch track. He laughed out loud. “We're making progress,” he said to the empty station.

He left the bag hanging there, planning to pick it up on his return. It buoyed his spirits to see things like that. Another sliver of normalcy. Not just mail, but the possibility of cheese. The Hoofed Flu in Year Four decimated the cattle industry. Anybody with milk kept it for themselves. It became a precious commodity. Goat, sheep and other sources for milks were just as badly hit. Cheese went scarce; a common household staple gone from the marketplace. He wrote the location in his journal. If he came home empty-handed, he might run by that settlement. Sometimes people would barter for labor. It’d be worth a day of mucking out stalls to bring a wheel of cheese home to High Meadow.

Nick went down to the platform. Frank waved from the observation window of the control tower high over the tracks. Nick acknowledged him with a nod. Not every station was manned. From what Frank had told him, Nick knew the trains could run pretty much on their own. A human being was mostly a safety officer. And the eyes and ears of the train company.

The train shushed into the station, right on time. Sleek and silver. The doors opened to empty cars. Nick entered and took a seat. A clock over the door counted down minutes to departure. He took out the breakfast Susan had packed for him. The first of the spring wheat was finally in, and she'd made bread. She’d met him at the kitchen door with food that she’d packed up early this morning, giving him a sweet smile that had him wishing he wasn’t back on the road so soon. He bit into a thick egg sandwich, relishing the taste of the bread. They were still sorting out the garden to table ratio. The first year the crop of wheat barely lasted a few days, but the amaranth had lasted for months. Not the best flour for bread, but it could also be eaten as hot cereal. The chime sounded a warning and the doors slid closed. He wondered if they could trade some amaranth to the cheese folks. That would have made this sandwich just about perfect.

The train came up to speed and the windows darkened. Looking out at cruising speed would cause vertigo. It was only minutes before they decelerated for the first stop. Nick hoped to be at Clarkeston by lunch.

He went over his plan. Now that he knew about the mail and the flyer for cheese, he could use that. Ask people about it. Distract them from his actual goal. Ask if anyone had traded with them. People were always happy to give their opinions. He took out his journal and made a few notes about things to discuss with Angus and Susan. The train slowed, rising toward the Clarkeston station. There was a river to cross, one of the few bridges on this old line. The train would go above ground here and proceed at speeds under 100mph. Nick liked the view out over the water.

The train burst out of the tunnel into murky sunlight. The windows cleared showing roiling gray clouds. Nick lurched forward to see more clearly, something was terribly wrong. Then the scene came clear. The train didn't stop. Clarkeston was burning.