Solaris Mortem: The New Patriots (5 page)

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t. I think your horse is gone.”

“Shit,” Terry hissed. “So what is this? Some kinda—church?”

“Yes, this is the basement of the Roman Catholic church. We are Franciscans. Are you a man of faith, Terry?”

“You mean, like religious? No, not exactly.”

“You may wish to reconsider, Terry Burrows. We are in the end times. It would be wise to take the loving hand of our Savior at a time like this. I would like to baptize you if you are willing.”

“Uh—thanks, but I really don’t have time for all of that. I need to get back to my sister and her kids. See if they’re okay.”

“Oh, Terry,” Brother Bach went on, “You really don’t have the time
not to
. No man or woman who has not accepted our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, wants to be walking the earth right now.”

“You’re right,” Terry said. “I’d rather be driving. Listen, thanks for your help, but I really have to be going. I have a long way to go and I’m on foot…again.”

“Very well then. I will pray for you, Terry Burrows.”

Brother Bach walked to the bureau in the corner of the room and pulled out a rolled blanket. Tucked inside was a can of beans, a bottle of water, a pocket Bible and some meager first aid supplies. “Remember, Brother Burrows, if it gets too dark out there, and it probably will, you can always step back into the light. Be well.”

Terry took the bedroll and laughed a little in his head.
Brother Burrows?
“I will keep that in mind. Thank you, James.”

It was going to be a long goddamn walk to Seattle without Blaze. Terry’s head pounded, but three ibuprofen were enough to dull the ache; that and drinking plenty of water. He would need another water filter as soon as possible and he hoped he’d find another. Chances were, everything like that was cleaned out by now. People were beginning to figure out this thing was for real. He doubted he would see any more looters carting off big screen TVs or the like, and he snickered.

After an hour of walking, he began to miss the horse severely. “This just—sucks.” Understatement of the year right there, maybe of his whole life. Yes, this sucked, safe to say, and he trudged on.

Clouds gathered and overcast the sun, for which, Terry was thankful. Walking in the heat would be too much in his sorry condition. He began to wonder how Joe was getting along in his new—colony.
I wonder if he’s killed anybody yet?

More importantly, he wondered about Kat. How was she getting along in all of this? What if he didn’t make it back in time? What if he never found her?

“Stop it. Just stop.” Terry tried to focus his mind elsewhere, like on the little piece of ground he would settle on after he found Katherine and the kids. And how are you going to do
that?
Self-Doubt whispered. Pretty sure all the mortgage houses and lending agencies have closed up shop for the winter....

“Shut up,” Terry whispered, “I’ll figure it out.”
Chances are, a guy won’t need a loan to get property anymore. Chances are, land will be free for the taking.
In some small way, this appealed to him. He was a modern day pioneer, out to tame the Wild West all over again.
Okay, cowboy. You and that fancy head bandage of yours go out and kick some ass
. You do that.

His headache returned with a vengeance a short while later, and Terry decided to take a rest. He popped another three ibuprofen and drank the last of his fresh water.
Shit…now what?

He laid down to rest beneath the boughs of an evergreen, but before he fell to sleep, he remembered something from his long-gone days as a boy scout—charcoal water filter—of course. He could make one. Planning out the design in his head kept him awake for awhile, but he drifted off eventually.
I just need a couple of 2-liter soda bottles and a knife….

Full dark and a starless sky greeted him as he opened his eyes.
Oh shit, what time is it?
That was funny….
Time?
Nighttime,
that’s what time it is
. Time, in the conventional sense, (watch time), was dead.
Old habits die hard, that’s for sure.

Brother Bach had given Terry a couple books of matches in his care package, so Terry set out to build a fire. He scrounged around in the dark for tinder and kindling to start a small blaze.
Blaze
—he missed Blaze. He supposed he’d already be in Seattle by now if he still had Blaze.

Now was not the time to wax emotional, though. Now was the time to focus on survival. Priority number one was water and that meant making some charcoal.

He got his fire going without much fanfare, using the pages from the pocket Bible, then sat and enjoyed its warmth.
God would understand.
The flames swirled and licked the wood, devouring it eagerly and Terry’s mind went to his plan beyond Seattle.
What exactly was the plan?
He was all for one-day-at-a-time, but what happens the day after he finds Kat and the kids?
Might be a pretty good time to start thinking about that….

Maybe they would head east over the Pass; that might be good. Fewer people, more game and more resources. He was going to need firepower again. That little son of a bitch in Olympia had fucked him over pretty good.
I guess the horse played a part, too
…. A rifle would be nice—
no
—necessary. And a pistol, I’ll need another pistol, Terry thought.

The fire waned and coals formed, casting a soft, infrared glow. Here in the dark, beside a low fire, he could pretend all was well.

Terry smothered the coals with dirt. Tomorrow he would scoop them up and wrap them in a t-shirt to smash into powder and small bits for his improvised water filter. For now, he would catch a few more winks.

CHAPTER FIVE

H
e was still two days away from Seattle, by foot, which was depressing as all hell. Terry gathered up his coals, ate some blackberries he found growing wild and set off again. His water supply would best be described as unsatisfactory, so he kept his eyes open for plastic bottles for the new filter.

Up the road, he saw a small group approaching, which gave his heart momentary pause. He was unarmed after all. They didn’t look too menacing, but he picked up a big stick nonetheless. The closer they got, the more he could tell that they were more afraid of him than he was of them.
Good….

When they got to within fifty feet or so, one of them, a younger fella, raised his hand and offered an apprehensive wave. It sort of reminded Terry of when a dog approached low with his tail tucked between its legs.
Oh God; please don’t hurt me. I just wanna be your friend.

Terry raised his hand and returned the salute, then both parties continued their advance toward one another. There were four of them: the young man who had waved, an older man and woman, and a young girl who was maybe twelve. The woman wasn’t doing well. Her arm was draped around the man’s neck, and his arm slung around her waist to help keep her upright. He looked dead tired, and she looked ill.

“Hello,” Terry offered cautiously and clutched his impromptu club a little tighter.

“Hi,” the older man said, trying to catch his breath. “We’re the Gilberts. I’m Dean, this is my wife, Amy, and these are my children. Sam and Cassie. Dean looked relieved to be stopping.

Terry held out his left hand to shake Dean’s free hand. “I’m Terry Burrows. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Dean, and Amy lifted her head for the first time, but only briefly. Her complexion was blotchy and red, her eyes drooped, and her neck looked to be slightly swollen. Actually, they all looked sick now that they were close enough to see. Pallid faces and woozy eyes told the story.

“Dean,” she moaned, with a sense of urgency. Dean turned her around, knowing just what was needed, and she vomited on the asphalt. She vomited quite a bit actually…. Terry found it doubtful that she had eaten anywhere near as much as she had just deposited on the interstate. She cried and shuddered a bit, and Dean produced a red hankie to wipe her mouth clean. The handkerchief wasn’t the only thing that was red either. There were streaks of blood in her vomit.
Not a good sign…back up, Terry
, but he resisted.

“Is—she all right?” Terry asked. A foolish question, he realized, but it was more of a courtesy than an actual query.

Dean said, ‘yes,’ but he shook his head,
no.
“She’s got the flu, and it’s a bad one.” Sam and Cassie looked anxious—no—scared. Their eyes said they knew they were losing their mother.

“I’m sorry to hear it. It’s a lousy time to be sick, that’s for sure…. Where are you all headed?” Terry asked. This time, it was a real question.

Dean offered up a small, exasperated laugh and said, “That’s a great question…. I don’t know. Away from Seattle, I guess.”

Terry’s brow wrinkled, and he repeated, “Away from Seattle?”

“Yes—don’t tell me that’s where you’re going.”

“What do you mean?” Terry said. “Why? What’s happening in Seattle?”

Dean paused and then looked to Sam and Cassie. “Kids—take your mother over there by that tree and let her sit in the shade, okay?”

Sam nodded, and they helped their poor mother over to the shade. It’s not that it was really hot outside, or even particularly sunny; Dean just wanted them all out of earshot, and he waited to speak until they were.

“What do you know about what’s happening, Terry?” Dean said.

“Well—I know it’s bad. I know it was solar flares that knocked out the power, and I’ve got a pretty good idea it’s not just here, either.”

“I think you’re right about that. What do you know about the flu?”

“The flu? Uh…that it makes you sick? What do you mean?”

Dean turned again toward his family, then back to Terry. “This flu is no ordinary flu. If you get it, then you are dead. And think for a minute about the timing of it all. Someone turned this flu out on us
on purpose.
Do you have any idea how many people are dying from it? It’s countless…probably tens of thousands already, then it will be hundreds of thousands and then in the millions.”

Terry had seen quite a few sick people of late, but he didn’t subscribe to conspiracy theories. “Do you think it’s possible that people are getting sick because of the stress of it all—or the unsanitary conditions?”

“Well, yes, of course, but that’s not all. Not by a long shot.” Dean ran his hands through his thinning hair, stretching his face tight for a moment and went on. “Did you know they have the cure for this flu up in Seattle?”

“They do? That’s great news then….. So, why are you running
away
from Seattle?”

“Because the price is too high…”

“The price?” Terry looked puzzled. “What do you mean—the price?””

“Do you read the Bible, Terry? Revelations—the mark of the beast. They will only give you the vaccine if you accept the mark of the beast.”

Terry almost laughed, but thought that would be in very poor taste indeed.
Somebody call the sanitarium; one of your patients got loose.

“Are you—serious, Dean? I mean, c’mon; the mark of the beast?” Terry couldn’t help the little grin that crept up, and Dean’s face suggested he didn’t appreciate the subtle mockery.

“Don’t go to Seattle, Terry. I’m warning you…you’ll see.”

“No, wait…I’m sorry, go on.” Terry didn’t believe any of this mumbo jumbo, but he certainly wanted to hear anything Dean had to say on Seattle.

“You may not be a religious man, but for me and mine, well…it’s just too blatantly obvious to ignore.”

Much to Terry’s displeasure, the next thing Dean did, was begin quoting scripture.

“And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads: And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding, count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.”

“What are you saying, Dean? That people are tattooing
666
on their heads to get the vaccine or something?”

“Literally, no, but in a matter of speaking—yes. The mark of the beast is figurative, I believe. What people are doing is accepting a microchip implant in their foreheads. That chip tells big brother everything about them. Where they are, what they’re doing, what they’re
supposed
to be doing. Not only is the vaccine withheld if you refuse the chip, but you also can't buy or sell without it.”

Terry thought this was one of the best conspiracy plots he’d ever heard.

“Money is dead, Terry. Do you even realize the implications here? It is the end of free enterprise. Without that chip, you can’t buy food, you can’t have a job. Without that chip, you don’t get the vaccine. The USA is dead, and they are using this disaster to push their agenda. You take that chip, and you're accepting the devil’s economy.”

Terry stood slack-jawed for a moment. “And who is this,
they?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admitted. “All I know is this is work of the devil’s agents.”

“And if the sun were to flare again…well, wouldn’t that just fry all the chips?” Terry said.

Dean looked thoughtful for a spell. He hadn’t considered that scenario. “I guess I don’t know, but for all I know, they caused it all to begin with.”

Terry shook his head subtlety. This was all too much.
Got some serious, sci-fi bullshit flowing now.

“It’s not important that you believe the truth for the truth to be true. One is not dependent on the other.
This
is what is happening. You know the power is back on in Seattle? It is.”

“Well that’s great news, isn’t it?”

“No, Terry. It’s not. The power is back on in their FEMA camps. They look like disaster relief centers, but what they really are, is re-education camps.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to take your word on it then…. What else is going on, I mean are people—all right?”