The Scourge (Book 3): Grounded Read online

The girl took a half step to one side but didn’t get closer. “Do you have food? Anything? Water?”

  He looked closer at her. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. She hunched as she stood there, her body trembling. She appeared as though she might topple over at any moment.

  Ralf cursed himself. No matter how sick she was, no matter the risk to himself, he couldn’t in good conscience ignore her pleas. At his core, Ralf was a good man. He held up a finger, suggesting the girl wait in the spot where she stood.

  Without taking his eyes from her, he reached into the bag at his side and withdrew an egg. He held it up like a prized treat. The girl’s eyes widened. She ran her tongue across her lips and she lifted her chin. Swollen nodules appeared on both sides of her neck. It looked like she’d swallowed acorns and they’d stuck in her throat.

  Ralf squatted. He placed the egg on the detritus in front of him. “I’ve got this one egg to give you. Wait to take it until I’ve left. Don’t follow me. It’s all I’ve got to give you. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded. “Thank you, kind sir. Thank you.”

  Ralf stood and stepped to the side of the egg. He pointed to his left. “Give me space. Move that way as I come around.”

  The girl moved to her right and Ralf moved to his. They orbited one another until Ralf was clear of the trees and could navigate his way back to his room without coming closer to her. Once he’d reached the opposite side of the street, he called out to her, “Go ahead. Take the egg.”

  He didn’t look back at her as he hustled toward the boardinghouse. By the time he was safely inside his room, the door closed and locked behind him, he was breathless.

  The shutters to the window were cracked. He’d not latched them before leaving for his mission. He moved to them and snuck a glance through the gap toward the spot where he’d last seen the girl. She was gone. No sign of her.

  Ralf closed the shutters and latched them. He moved to the center of the room and lit a beeswax candle. The wick crackled and burned clean. A dancing strobe of orange-yellow light filled the room and Ralf sank to the floor.

  On his knees, he reached into the pouch and pulled out the remaining eggs. He set them on a bedside table he used for what little dining he did. On the table was a dull knife.

  He picked up an egg and shook it violently between his thumb and forefinger. Using the knife, he poked a pin-sized hole in one end of the egg and pulled the eggs to his lips. He sucked.

  The viscous, bitter-tasting fluid filled his mouth. It was unsatisfying, but it was as good as he could do. Closing his eyes as he sucked from the second egg, he imagined it a hearty lamb stew with potatoes and green peas. He tasted the dense goodness of the soda bread he could use to sop up the remnants of the stew at the end of his meal. When he’d finished the eggs, he pretended he was full.

  With something in his stomach, Ralf slept that night. Several hours of dreamless sleep, something rarer and more precious than eggs in these waning days of the plague. The pounding on his door had awoken him.

  Now he wondered if he would ever sleep like that again. Certainly not tonight. Certainly not with the girl clawing to come inside.

  For most of a day, Ralf sat in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest. His stomach roiled and he couldn’t be sure if it was the anxiety of the dying woman trying to get inside or the eggs from the previous night that fostered the discomfort.

  Despite this, he would not open the door. He would not let her inside.

  Ralf played through all of the possibilities that might have had him avoid this demon. He considered countless things he might have done differently to be in his room sleeping without disturbance. He was resigned to the exercise being pointless. It didn’t matter what had happened. He was here now and he must endure. Each time he began to doze into a place between sleep and consciousness, a groan or shriek from the girl brought him back to the present. He was trapped. More than once he eyed the knife on the table. Using it on the girl would defeat the purpose of avoiding her. Too much of her poison blood would spill. Using it on himself was the better option. It was a last resort. He kept it in the back of his mind.

  It was nightfall when the noises stopped on the other side of the door. Ralf wasn’t sure what this meant.

  It didn’t matter to him; in the moment there was peace. And then there wasn’t.

  A second voice called from the hallway. This one was a man. The call was shrill and pained like the girl’s, but it wasn’t her.

  “Is someone in there? Can you help me? Please help.”

  A bang on the door startled Ralf. He curled more tightly into himself as a third voice came from beyond the door.

  “We heard the girl. We know you’re in there and you’ve got food. Let us in.”

  The subsequent pounding rattled the door. Ralf was certain it would come loose from its frame. More voices now. Four of them. Or five. All of them demanding entrance into his room.

  Ralf wanted to tell them he had nothing to offer. No food, no water, no herbs or salves. He wanted them to understand he couldn’t help them, but he knew better than to speak, knowing it would only embolden the growing mob of people at his door.

  It was dark now. Slits of moonlight leaked through the shutters. Nothing else illuminated the room. Ralf couldn’t see the door, but the pounding and ham-fisted attempts to pry it open made it so that he knew where it was.

  “We’re coming in,” said an angry voice. “We’re coming in and taking what you got.”

  The growl was such that Ralf couldn’t tell if the voice was a man’s or a woman’s. But the threat drew a cheer from the would-be intruders. How many were there now?

  Ralf understood he could last some time without food or water. He’d done it before. Outlasting the angry, desperate mob on the other side of the door was something else.

  He covered his ears and rolled onto his knees. He crawled, sweeping in front of himself with a hand to check for obstacles, until he reached the table. First he felt the candle, its dried melt at its base. Then he touched the knife.

  The door to his left rattled. Wood splintered. Voices grew louder and angrier. Wheezes and coughs. Phlegm in the backs of throats. The odor of sweat and blood and rot.

  Ralf took the knife with both hands and held it at his chest. The point dug into the fabric of his shirt beneath his sternum. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness.

  His last thoughts were of the plague; not the disease, but the people left in its wake. They were the true Scourge that would ultimately undo mankind.

  CHAPTER 1

  MARCH 27, 2033

  SCOURGE +176 DAYS

  MARCO ISLAND, FLORIDA

  Mike Crenshaw squinted against the morning sun. The sky to the west was still dark. They were south of Marco Island, but he looked east into the archipelago of small islands that separated Marco from Gullivan Bay. Dickman’s Island’s sparkling narrow band of beach sand was closest to the starboard side of the Rising Star, a sixty-foot Sea Ray Sundancer.

  They’d spent the night anchored a half mile south and now coasted at above idle speed toward Caxambas Pass and the collection of boat slips that rimmed the inlets.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Mike said. “Something is off.”

  Miriam Weber was at his side. She pointed to a hand-painted piece of driftwood jammed into the beach. The red scrawl on the face of the wood looked like something from a pirate-themed amusement park ride. “You mean that?”

  The sign read, “Will trade fuel for food.”

  Mike frowned. “Yeah. That and some other things.”

  Brice Booker was behind them on the aft deck. They hadn’t seen him join them, and both of them jumped when he spoke.

  “How is it different than what we saw in the Keys? People traded all sorts of things for fuel.”

  “Sheesh,” Mike said. “Shouldn’t you be at the helm?”

  Brice shrugged. “Probably, but I figured I should ask where you
want me to head.”

  “True,” Mike replied. “Let’s stay north of that island there and south of Marco. Just split the difference and go slow. That cool?”

  “Sure,” said Brice. “What is it you don’t like, though?”

  Mike put a foot up on the gunnel and placed his hands on his knee. “Not sure. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  Brice laughed and started for the helm. “Women’s intuition?”

  Miriam smirked. “You would know.”

  The trio had spent a week on the water. They were still in good spirits despite the intermittent tension of having to connect with the dysfunctional society on shore. They’d seen firsthand the collapse of normalcy in the aftermath of the Scourge, the mutating plague responsible for killing two-thirds of the world’s population.

  From the confusion and chaos of its early days to the anarchical dystopia in recent weeks, there was a lot about which to worry. But being at sea, the three of them were almost joyful at times. On the water, there weren’t constant reminders of a post-apocalyptic landscape. The acrid odor of smoke and constant crack of gunfire was almost nonexistent. They had power, food and, thanks to a solar desalinator, they could create a virtually endless supply of drinking water. All things considered, life was good aboard the Rising Star.

  The three of them still had worries. They’d left behind the boat’s owner, his family and a good friend to search for Brice’s mother and brother in Naples, Florida, and Miriam’s father in Texas. It was a dangerous gambit, traveling from Florida’s central Atlantic coast without the safety of greater numbers or the knowledge of what they’d find on their quest. But neither Brice nor Miriam wanted to continue living their post-Scourge lives without knowing what had become of their loved ones. Fortunately, they’d run into few issues on the journey so far. But now, for the second time since leaving Cocoa Beach, they needed fuel. It was getting more and more difficult to find.

  With Brice back at the helm, Miriam stepped to the gunnel next to Mike. She put her hand on his shoulder. “You don’t think we could get to Naples and find fuel there? If you’ve got a bad feeling about this, you should listen to it.”

  “I don’t think we can make it,” said Mike. “Maybe, but if we didn’t, it would cause all kinds of problems. The fuel guy in Marathon told us to try Marco. He was a good dude. I don’t think he’d steer us wrong.”

  “I trust you,” she said. “I’m just telling you to trust yourself.”

  He put an arm around her and pulled her hip against his, running his hand up and down along the curve that ran from her hip to her waist. “I’m wondering if we should port here. Leave the boat and hike north to Naples. Brice said his mom was on the south side. Might be just as easy to walk from here as it would be to navigate up into Naples Bay and then into the harbor there.”

  “It’s a twenty-mile walk,” said Miriam. “I don’t think that’s easier.”

  Mike sighed. “Yeah. Probably not. Let’s just refuel and head out.”

  The two of them joined Brice at the helm. He navigated the narrow waters between the strips of land and turned north at a secondhand painted sign promising fuel in exchange for food.

  Brice took a hand from the wheel and pointed at the sign. “You think they’ll take fish?”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” asked Miriam. “It’s food.”

  With both hands back on the wheel, Brice shrugged. “True enough. But can’t they get their own fish? Why would they trade for fish? I’m thinking they want something else. Red meat or canned food.”

  “Good point,” Miriam said. “Didn’t think of it that way. I hope you’re wrong. We don’t have much else.”

  “We have a few lobsters left from those traps we found diving in Key Largo,” said Mike. “That might do the trick if they don’t want dolphin or kingfish.”

  The yacht pushed into the canal, causing a small wake as they followed the directions of another hand-painted sign, a jagged piece of metal jammed into the earth at the tip of the canal.

  Impressive homes lined the waterway on both sides. It wasn’t the size of the houses as much as it was their obvious quality construction, their tile roofs, the large swimming pools between their lanais, and the aquamarine-colored water of the shallows. Although some of the properties had boat slips that housed Jet Skis or small watercraft, many of the slips were empty.

  Miriam wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t see any people.”

  In the Keys clusters of people had greeted them as they puttered along the shoreline.

  Some waved and smiled. They reminded Mike of the island locals who happily greeted cruise ships. He’d once taken a cheap, mostly drunken vacation to the western Caribbean. He liked watching the locals as they pulled into or out of port as much as he imagined the locals enjoyed seeing the enormous seafaring beasts.

  Others in the Keys eyed them with weapons raised. Mothers held tight to their children, tucking them against their legs. Men scowled and muttered what Mike imagined were secreted warnings or plans of attack.

  There was no trouble in the Keys, though, aside from the lack of fuel. Despite the hospitality, they’d tried to refuel three times. The last of them, in Marathon, had suggested they avoid Key West altogether. No fuel there and nothing left of the pre-Scourge carefree lifestyle the southernmost Key once afforded. Now it was an interchange point for a growing number of pirates and black-market shipments. The island was replete with bars and whorehouses.

  Even Hemingway’s historic home on Whitehead Street was now a place where men and women traded goods for the company of other men or women. The Spanish colonial no longer featured the famed extra-toed mitten cats. The animals were long ago used as the protein in stew, or so the story went, according to the man running the empty fuel station in Marathon. His name was Willie Dixon. He and his wife, Dorothy, had offered maps, the use of clean bathrooms, and a chance to stretch their legs.

  Willie had wiped the sweat from his mahogany brow with a blue terrycloth towel. He tucked the cloth back into the deep pocket of the cargo shorts he wore with a bright orange Florida Gators T-shirt. “If you’re headed to Naples,” he said, “I’d stop at Marco Island first. I’ve heard they’ve still got gas. Not sure they’ll fill up the nine hundred gallons your boat holds, but they’ll take care of you if they got any.”

  Dixon checked the hydraulics for the steering, changed out a fuse, and commented on the boat’s refinement. Standing on the aft deck, he motioned toward the salon with the terrycloth towel and took another swipe at his brow. “This is a two-and-a-half-million-dollar boat. Y’all must come from some good fortune.”

  Mike had admitted they did. He thanked Willie with a pair of lobsters, which he accepted graciously.

  “Dorothy and I will enjoy these, no doubt. Y’all be safe. There’s more bad than good in the world, I’m sorry to say. The Scourge took a liking to good people. No doubt.”

  Mike thought about this as they motored past one empty house after another. More bad than good might be the case. But what did it mean when there was none of either?

  “Did you hear me?” asked Miriam. “I said I don’t see anyone.”

  Mike flashed a fake smile. “I heard you. Sorry. I was thinking about Willie.”

  “Who?”

  “The fuel guy in Marathon. The one who suggested we try Marco first.”

  Miriam nodded with recognition. “So what do we do?”

  “We keep going,” Brice answered. “A lack of people doesn’t mean anything.”

  The waterway narrowed as they moved north. Ahead, the channel widened again and ended. A wide dock with two fuel pumps ran the length of the dead-end.

  “I guess that’s the spot,” said Mike. He withdrew the Browning Hi-Power Standard nine-millimeter from the nylon thigh holster he wore strapped to his leg.

  His constant carry was a newer development, something he’d decided to do when they reboarded the Rising Star after a violent week ashore. The nine-millimeter wa
s blued steel on its receiver and frame, the grip checkered walnut. The Hi-Power Standard held fifteen rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition. It had a single-action trigger with a thumb safety. The safety took some getting used to for Mike. He wasn’t much of a gun enthusiast before the Scourge, and in the early days he’d used a Glock 19, which had a safety built into the trigger, no thumb lever.. He hoped the extra step wouldn’t be a problem when he needed the weapon in a pinch. More so, Mike hoped that now wouldn’t be a time when he needed it.

  Miriam glanced at his hand. “Why do you need that?”

  “Just in case.”

  “In case of what?” she pressed. “Do you know something you’re not telling us? Did Willie say something to you about—”

  “Of course not,” Mike cut in. “Why would you ever think I’d keep something from you? We’re in this together. I’d be stupid to—”

  “Hey,” Brice interrupted, pointing to the dock ahead of them. “Sorry to break up this lovers’ spat or whatever, but, dudes, we’ve got company.”

  As if apparitions materializing from nowhere, three people stood on the fueling dock. An older couple and a middle-aged man stood shoulder to shoulder. They were too far to gauge their intentions. The younger one wore a long beard popular with hipsters when Mike was a kid. The trio reminded him of a post-apocalyptic variation of the famous American Gothic painting. The only thing missing was the three-tined pitchfork.

  The older man wore denim overalls atop a tab-collar shirt. The woman was in a long, shapeless dress that hid her figure. Both were barefoot, as was the bearded younger man who, as they drew closer, bore a strong resemblance to Ma and Pa.

  The dark purple of sunrise had given way to the clear blue of early morning. The air was crisp but not cold. The trio was overdressed for the heat that would surely arrive later in the day and bring with it bouts of thunderstorms.

  The trio was unmoved as they approached. No smiles or waving hands. No weapons either. It was impossible to gauge where they fell on the spectrum of friend or foe.

  Miriam kept her eyes ahead but addressed Mike. “Maybe you should put away the gun. It might escalate things unnecessarily.”