Interrupt Page 15

  Two flashlights cut across her body as Emily scrambled onto her feet. She yanked the pepper spray from her front pocket.

  “Whoa,” a man said. “We won’t hurt you.”

  Ten survivors had emerged from the office building’s underground garage, many of them tapping at cell phones and PDAs. Only a few of the devices had lit screens. The other gadgets were dead.

  They were normal people. Their skin color ranged between white, black, and brown, which calmed Emily more than she would have believed.

  Most of the group quickly sorted through the abandoned shoes and shoved on anything that would fit. Others gaped at the burning sky. The few women stayed behind the men except for a black-haired lady in her forties. She pushed in beside their leader, carrying a broken-off mop handle like a spear.

  “Does your helmet work?” she asked.

  “I thought…” Emily made a helpless gesture. “The effect might come back.”

  “No way,” the leader said. “It’s dark.”

  They’ve been having the same argument as Ray and I, she thought.

  His face was bruised at the hairline. Had he been hurt in an accident or a fight? At least two more of his people were wounded. One had a scraped cheek. Another man’s arm was crudely bandaged in a spare shirt. Emily could only guess what they’d been through with no food or water except what they might have found in a few cars inside the garage, no lights except car lights, and no way to look outside. Their hours underground must have been ugly and claustrophobic.

  “I need to get to the hospital,” Emily said, hoping she could convince them to go with her. She also wanted blood samples. She needed a control group.

  “There’ll be a million people at the hospital,” the leader said. “We have to find food before the sun comes up.”

  “I heard a radio broadcast,” Emily said. “The Army is trying to put together emergency stations. The hospital will be one of them. Can you—”

  All of them dropped when a gunshot echoed through the street. Much closer, they heard a rustling noise in the sky that made Emily push herself even closer to the ground until someone said, “Birds. The gun scared up some birds.”

  They stood up again. “Let’s move,” another man said.

  “You can stay with us,” the leader told Emily, openly studying her. “But we’re going for restaurants and stores.”

  He wasn’t looking at her body. He was examining her helmet, lab glasses, and flashlight. If she ran, would he chase her?

  “I’m a scientist,” she said. “I work in gene therapy. I think I know what’s happening and I need to get to a radio, the Army, anyone who’s still organized.”

  “Gene therapy,” he repeated.

  “I think I know why some people can think and talk during the effect—why they attack the rest.” Too late, she realized these people knew nothing about P.J.’s kind. They had been underground, and anyone who ventured outside either hadn’t come back or remembered nothing of what they’d seen. “I’d like to take blood samples from everyone here,” she said.

  “We don’t have time for this,” the leader said, motioning for her to come closer.

  Emily backed away. “I need to get to the hospital,” she said. But before she ran, she tried her best to warn them. “Don’t touch the cars.”

  “She’s crazy,” someone said.

  The leader nodded. “I want that flashlight,” he said an instant before he stopped and looked past her.

  Other survivors had ventured into the street with three flashlights, talking in a loud hush. Emily saw the dynamic change among her smaller group. One man stepped forward, waving his arm, but the rest shrank back as if preparing for a fight.

  Then a flashlight popped in the street, bursting apart with a metallic snap. It cast a searing white arc like lightning before its owner fell. There were screams. Everyone stumbled away from the crackling light, but as they fled, two more survivors spasmed and dropped.

  The cars were deathtraps—people were being electrocuted—and Emily turned and ran from both groups.

  “Wait!” the black-haired lady said. “I’ll come with you.”

  They hurried into the dark. The other woman was short and wore a business suit that couldn’t hide the extra pounds on her waist, but she seemed competent and tough.

  Emily was grateful. “Don’t touch the cars!” she said. “Are you wearing shoes?”

  “What difference does—”

  Emily clutched her arm and looked down. The lady wore mismatched sneakers she’d scavenged from the street. “The insulation could save your life,” Emily said. “I think those people were barefoot.”

  Ahead, a third mass of dark shapes filtered through the cars, many of them calling to each other. Others babbled or wept. Everywhere on the block, new people were merging with the distraught survivors who’d spent the day in the sun. That would complicate Emily’s mission. She was also going the wrong way. The majority of these survivors were headed south.

  Walking against the human tide, Emily paused more often than she wanted to, allowing other people through the openings instead of forcing the issue. If someone pushed her into a car… If everyone understood the danger, and men used their weight against her…

  They paused near the bulk of a van. “My name’s Michelle,” the black-haired woman said.

  “Emily.”

  “Are you really a scientist?”

  “Yes.”

  They started walking again. Emily kept her flashlight off and hid it down against her leg. What if someone jumped her for her equipment? Some of the people around them had put on bike helmets. One man wore a Raiders helmet, probably an office trophy. Others had wrapped their heads in tinfoil or strapped pots or mixing bowls to their heads.

  This group was loaded with supplies. They had water jugs from office coolers, briefcases, satchels, and a man on a stretcher. Someone grabbed Emily’s pack and she tried to twist free until she saw it was Michelle.

  As they cleared the mob, Michelle called back to the strangers. “Where are you going?”

  “West,” a man said. “Get away from the fires.”

  If the wind stops, the fires might come back this way, Emily realized. She wasn’t sure if the storms would let up, but new fires could start any time and carry through the city. They would be safest on the coast. Unfortunately, Emily didn’t believe private homes or condos would be sturdy enough to shield them from the effect. The steel structures and parking garages of the business district might be the only places to hide from the sun.

  A body lay in the street. More garbage. Glass. Three stragglers knelt together among the cars, praying. Then a woman lurched out from behind a truck. “Have you seen my daughter?” she cried. “My daughter! Paige Lundgren! She’s twelve years old, brown hair, I think she wore a pink shirt today!”

  Emily’s mouth worked, but the woman was already moving toward someone else in the dark.

  “Oh God,” Emily said.

  Michelle agreed with a sympathetic noise. “Do you have kids?” she asked.

  “Fiancé. You?”

  “Divorced. I hope that bastard is—” Michelle broke off and said, “The fires look like they’re east of us.”

  They’d reached an intersection where the four-story buildings dropped away to smaller shops, parking lots, and a Jiffy Lube. Beyond a line of trees, Emily glimpsed orange flames and heavy smoke.

  “The wind is definitely moving that way,” Michelle said. “The fire must have crossed in front of us. You’re thinking we stay on Union until we get to West 3rd or Beverly?”

  “Wherever there’s a way through,” Emily said, switching on her flashlight. The organized groups were gone. Even the stragglers seemed to have dwindled.

  They made better time with the light until they found out why everyone had disappeared. First there were cars with blistered paint. Next they saw one that had exploded, throwing its doors. Farther on, the vehicles were blackened hulks. Emily didn’t want to enter the debris, but the buil
dings on either side were impassable wreckage. The air reeked of scorched rubber and plastic.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Michelle said.

  “Shh.” Emily cocked her head, listening to the murmur of a lone, repetitive voice.

  “Annie?” the hidden man said. “Annie? Annie?”

  “We could catch up with those groups,” Michelle said as Emily held up one hand to stop her.

  “We need to see who’s over there,” she said.

  Michelle protested. “No! Listen to him.”

  “Annie?” the man said. “Annie?”

  Emily had accepted that finding P.J. and his kind would be next to impossible. They’d disappeared into the crowds of other survivors now that everyone was awake, but if she was right, all of them would exhibit severe forms of ASD. She’d been looking for anyone who fit that description, no matter if everyone was half-insane with trauma. They were all acting strangely. But it might be the loners she wanted.

  “Help me,” she said.

  She couldn’t sneak up on him. Their footsteps crunched in the street. Michelle kicked a small object that banged away in the dark. Emily jumped, and yet the bodiless voice didn’t change.

  “Annie? Annie?”

  They had good reason to avoid him. What if there was another event? It had been half an hour since Emily left DNAllied. Throughout the day, there had never been a quiet period longer than ten minutes. If the effect was going to return, it was overdue…

  And if he was like P.J., if he turned violent at the same time Emily and Michelle lost their intelligence, they would be easy targets.

  LOS ANGELES

  Emily walked closer to the hidden man, feeling Michelle tremble beside her. He looked like the boogeyman, a short, distorted shape behind a four-door sedan. Its blue paint gleamed in the halo of her flashlight.

  His voice was raw and monotone. “Annie? Annie?”

  He sat slumped with his legs sprawled out before him, one foot rocking back and forth. His sneakers fit well. He hadn’t found these shoes. They belonged to him. Did that mean he’d been inside until the effect stopped or was he like P.J.?

  Emily shoved her light at him as she moved around the car, needing to see his face.

  A young man in his twenties squinted at her with a mouthful of blood. His forehead was also smashed. Then his eyes rolled like a startled horse, and he leaned away from her. To him, she was the boogeyman. Behind her light, her head must have looked inhumanly thick.

  “Wait!” Emily ripped at her chin strap. “Wait.”

  She knelt to his level and set her helmet on the street. The young man kept his face averted even as his gaze darted almost at random, stealing glances at Emily with his peripheral vision. He held an open cell phone, a pink phone that didn’t look like it belonged to a man.

  His fidgeting and the way he avoided her eyes were typical of autists, but Emily needed more than that to make a diagnosis. He was obviously afraid. He was hurt.

  “My name is Emily and this is Michelle,” she said.

  His voice was too loud. “Can you help me find Annie?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Michelle whispered behind her.

  Taking the young man with them would be a monumental complication. Could he walk? The two of them might barely be able to carry his weight, but Emily wanted people to help P.J., so she would help this young man.

  She gave the flashlight to Michelle. Then she dabbed at the young man’s face with the cuff of her jacket sleeve, covering her scheme with this kindness. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened to your face?”

  “I need to find Annie.”

  Each of her collection kits held thirty VacuCaps, slender, sterile, two-inch vacuum tubes capped with butterfly needles. They were “purple caps” and contained an anti-coagulant called EDTA, which would prevent the blood from clotting.

  Emily took one and removed its plastic sheath. She jabbed the needle into the inside of his elbow. The tube instantly drew itself full and she withdrew it from his arm.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  Emily discarded the butterfly needle, then replaced the self-sealing VacuCap in her kit. Ideally she would refrigerate the blood in order to slow the degradation of its ribonucleic acids. RNA was fragile. If the proteins she wanted to sequence were destroyed, this sample would be useless. But she could only move so fast.

  She helped the young man to his feet. “Let’s find Annie,” she said, relieved that he could walk. “Don’t touch the cars. Are you listening to me? Don’t touch the cars.”

  Before they left, Emily glanced down at her helmet. She wanted to put it on, but hiding in her armor might damage her fragile rapport with him. She doubted the helmet would stop the effect in any case, although it might protect its wearer in combat.

  “Michelle?” she asked. “Do you want the helmet?”

  “Yes.”

  They led him back to the intersection of Union and Beverly, where they turned west. If this fire had swept east, they might be able to navigate around the burn… but two blocks later, they were met with ruins again.

  “We could spend all night backtracking. I think we need to go through,” Emily said, pointing north up Burlington Avenue.

  Michelle was resigned. “All right.”

  Despite her lab glasses, the ash stung Emily’s eyes and made her cough. Exploded cars were a larger problem. A chrome talon slashed Emily’s thigh and she cried out. Moments later, the wind filled with the smell of cooked meat. “Don’t look,” Emily said, shepherding the young man around six or seven bodies.

  Three buildings had fallen into the street, dropping huge, charred dunes of brick and drywall across the motionless traffic. Emily cut both hands scrambling up a loose hill, then hurt her back pulling at the young man. Were these cars also electrified? Most had sagged on melted tires, bringing their frames into contact with the road, and Michelle wasn’t hurt when she slipped and banged against one.

  The young man slowed them down. He was difficult. “My phone should be in my right front pocket,” he said. “This phone isn’t mine. My phone should be in my right front pocket.”

  Emily’s impatience with him made her think of Laura and P.J. Then she felt wistful and sad. Exhaustion threatened to stop her. She wanted to sit and rest.

  They staggered out of the debris at Court Street, a neighborhood of low-income apartments and student housing. The fire hadn’t jumped to the next buildings here. They had only the cars to contend with. There were no refugees, although they heard dogs barking and distant gunfire.

  The gradual rise in the street leveled out. Beyond a series of duplex apartments, the sky glowed. Emily’s chest swelled with emotion when she realized the light was too steady and white to be a fire. The hospital had electricity. The emergency station was real.

  “We’re almost there!” she said with a wild grin at Michelle and the young man. But as they rounded a family restaurant where Chase liked to get BBQ, her elation gave way to hopelessness.

  Silver Lake formed a stout, two-tiered L with the long wing reaching seven stories. The shorter wing was five stories high. The hospital cradled its main entrance and its largest parking lots on its south side within the crook of the L. Smaller outcroppings grew from the west end, including a third-story helicopter pad.

  Yesterday, the structure had been faced in mirrored glass. Tonight, the middle of its pristine surface was bashed apart. Had a rescue chopper missed the pad? Several windows on the lower floors were also cracked or destroyed. They looked as if they’d been shot out.

  The hospital had become a fortress. Its parking lots were ringed with barriers, soldiers, and thousands of people. Somewhere a bullhorn shouted above the noise.

  Emily turned off her flashlight. She did it to hide them from the other refugees, but losing its light was demoralizing.

  “We’ll never get in,” Michelle said. “We should’ve stayed in the parking garage.”

  “They’ll let me in and I need him if I’m g
oing to run more tests,” Emily said. “We’ll say you’re his sister, my sister, whatever they need to hear.”

  The hour they’d spent together felt like a lifetime. Michelle represented the only stability Emily had seen since stepping outside, and Michelle had proved heady and loyal.

  “Please don’t leave me,” Emily said.

  The three of them walked toward the riot. Emily kept one hand on the young man’s arm. She held her flashlight like a club.

  Michelle gasped as four men charged toward them. But the men ran past. More shadows sat on the sidewalk. Other people had broken into the nearest buildings, invading offices and a sandwich shop. Were they making camp or searching for supplies?

  “They’re turning everyone back,” a woman said.

  Emily didn’t answer. Most of the crowds appeared to have formed at the southern face of the hospital where the big red EMERGENCY sign stood above the ER. Elsewhere, the mob was thinner. Emily led her companions toward the west side. She knew the doctors and nursing staff had private parking and a private entrance behind the lower, three-story addition on the west end beneath the helicopter pad.

  The soldiers had used existing fence lines wherever possible. The rest of the barricades consisted of commuter cars, vehicles that men could roll or push from the parking lot after shooting out the tires and allowing the frames to come in contact with the ground. Some of the cars were upside down. The barricades were staggered with gaps, but gunshot bodies sprawled in most of the holes where refugees had attempted to run through and were killed—and the dead refugees made effective barriers of another sort for the soldiers waiting on the other side.

  The crowds would have been an excellent place to gather blood samples. Many people were barefoot or wore mismatched shoes. There were plenty of others in normal footwear, but wearing shoes wasn’t enough of a clue. She would need to look at them, talk to them, and there was no time.

  The young man fought Emily as they pressed into the mob, and she lied to him. “Annie’s here!” she said. “She’s here!”

  Floodlights glared on the far side of the barrier, glinting in the blood and reflecting through fractured windshields. The soldiers standing in the light wore helmets and black vests over their camouflage uniforms. More interesting, Emily noticed two soldiers with ropes tied to their waists. They also held their rifles in a funny way with the shoulder straps looped around their forearms.