Plague Land Series Book 1 Read online

  An hour later, the raindrop was a viscous little bubble as black as ink. Several threadlike strands had emerged from it and stretched along the plastic rim of the window box. Another precious raindrop had been encountered by one of these, and a chemical signal had been fed back along the thread to the “home world” that a nearby satellite, rich in resources, had just been encountered.

  The thread thickened ever so slightly as thousands of cells reinforced it, eager to feast on the new droplet of water and the hapless cells of amoeba floating inside it.

  By the time another full hour had passed, the plastic rim of the window box had been colonized, and a thicker, more adventurous thread had found its way down the plastic rim to the rich, fertile soil in which several stunted geraniums had done their best to flower.

  The dark soil was a veritable buffet of cellular life. Like Victorian-era naturalists on safari, slaughtering the new species they came across, then carefully preserving, stuffing, and sketching the corpses, this colony of the curious encountered, absorbed, deconstructed, and stored the genetic information it was gathering in its growing chemical pool.

  While the soil was becoming a soup, the geraniums remained unaffected. Their cellulose membrane was as impenetrable as the plastic of the window box.

  The conquest of this tiny ecosystem, perched up on the grubby, soot-covered, fifth-floor windowsill, was coming along nicely… Then a much grander prize landed nearby.

  A pigeon.

  The bird studied the windowsill, looking for crumbs. It had learned from experience that ledges populated with clutter like this sometimes yielded interesting morsels. A keen, beady eye surveyed the stone of the sill but found nothing of interest.

  It hopped up on to the green plastic of the window box and looked curiously at the flowering geraniums, slowly drooping as their roots’ hold on the soil softened. It stepped sideways along the box rim. One stunted foot stepped on that first colonized drop of rainwater, home of the founding fathers of this thriving community.

  As the pigeon shuffled along another step, several thousand spores were carried away on the bottom of its claw.

  The pigeon lost interest in this lonely window ledge and instinctively assumed there were richer pickings down in the busy, bustling world below. With a flutter of wings, it was gone, swooping down along the quiet backstreet, over the flatbed truck where half a dozen workmen were dismantling scaffolding poles, toward the hubbub of activity at the far end.

  And, all the while, the several thousand passengers it carried on its foot had already, eagerly started their work.

  Chapter 14

  Grace woke him up when she got home. “And where were you?”

  Leon jerked fully awake on the couch. One hand went up to his still throbbing forehead. “Oh no…”

  “You were supposed to meet me at the school gate!” Grace stared down at him sternly, her good arm crossed with the one in the sling as she tapped a foot impatiently.

  “Sorry, Grace… I just…”

  She sighed, then flapped a hand his way. “Don’t worry about it. I got some useful networking in. I got to walk home with Peter Durst. He’s, like, the popular guy in the year…so, you’re good.” She disappeared into the kitchen to get something out of the fridge.

  “Don’t tell Mom, OK?”

  Her head poked out of the doorway. “That all depends on how nice you are to me.”

  Leon nodded. She had leverage. His mom was paranoid about letting Grace walk home alone through Hammersmith. Surely it was no worse here in London than New York. This place was all leafy alleys and busy streets and sweet old ladies with wheelie carts. Not exactly the projects.

  “I need a favor!” Grace called from the kitchen.

  He pulled himself wearily off the couch and joined her. She was standing at the counter with a bag of sliced white bread and a jar of peanut butter beside her. “Two handed job, bruv, innit?”

  He winced at her mock London accent.

  Sighing, he made her sandwich. He looked at her arm in its sling. “Don’t get too used to me being your servant. That arm’s going to heal one day.”

  She shrugged. “How’s your head today?”

  “Sore. I’m ready for another aspirin.”

  “How many have you had?”

  “One at breakfast,” he lied. “What about you?”

  “Arm’s really aching. Some kid bumped into me in the hallway. Practically knocked me on my ass.” She fluttered her eyelids. “Then Peter, my knight in shining armor, sorted him out for me.”

  Leon shook his head. “Jeez…didn’t take you long to get your claws into this school.”

  She blew a raspberry at him.

  He pulled a glass from the dish drainer, filled it with tepid water, and popped a pill from the bottle.

  “You know, Leon, you really just need to, like, stress less.” She took a hearty bite of her peanut butter sandwich. “That’s what all these headaches and nosebleeds are—it’s you being totally neurotic and stuff.”

  “Neurotic? Where do you pick this stuff up?”

  “Yeah, neurotic! I know…new word. Yay for me. But, seriously, you sulk and worry about, like, everything.”

  “Yeah, well…” He didn’t have an answer better than that. He was saved by the ringtone of his phone. Pulling it out of his jeans, he stared at the screen.

  “That Mom?” asked Grace. “Tell her—”

  He shook his head. He let it ring another couple of times, reluctant to answer.

  “Well? You gonna get it or not?” prompted Grace.

  “Uh…it’s Dad.”

  She tucked her sandwich into her sling, then flipped her middle finger at him. “Tell Dad that’s from me.”

  He tapped the screen and held the phone to his ear. “So, what’s up…Dad?”

  “Leon, don’t hang up on me!”

  “I wasn’t going to. I—”

  “Leon, I need you to listen very carefully to me.” The line was crackly. “This African virus is spreading fast. The media over here is being pressured to downplay the whole story, but I’m telling you the government is rattled. They’re taking action…but they’re doing it quietly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Leon, I need more than a grunt from you.”

  “God, Dad…I’m listening!”

  “What does he want?” sniffed Grace. She turned her back on him, grabbed her sandwich, and left the kitchen.

  “Leon, I need you and Grace and Mom to get out of the city. Go visit your grandparents and stay there! Do it before this thing hits the UK.”

  “Dad, we can’t. Mom’s got a job now. I’ve got school. Grace has to go to school. We can’t just—”

  “Screw that! This thing is already in Europe! Do you know about those migrant ships?”

  “Uh…no. I’ve been at sch—”

  “It was mentioned on the news over here this morning. Then they dropped the story like a goddamned brick. There are thousands of boats adrift on the Mediterranean, fleets of them…hundreds of thousands of people, millions, fleeing Africa. The media are doing their best to link it to an escalation of various conflicts over there—to terrorists, radicals—but they’re not saying what this is really about.”

  “The virus?”

  “For God’s sake, yes!”

  Leon wandered into the living room. Grace was on the couch, flicking through TV channels, texting, and attempting to eat, all one-handed.

  “I don’t know if the BBC or any Euro stations are making much of it yet, but the point is everyone I know over here who has contact with the government is grabbing their kids and heading out of town!”

  “Dad…come on. Just, like, chill—”

  “Leon, don’t you think it’s damned odd that twenty-four hours ago the news was jumping on another exciting virus story…and now they’re hardly ment
ioning it?”

  Leon silently nodded—not that his dad would see that. But maybe he had a point.

  “Look, maybe I’m overreacting, but…I want you guys out of London as soon as possible.”

  Leon grabbed the remote control from Grace’s hand—

  “Hey!”

  —and cycled through the stations until he hit BBC News 24. The volume was down low but on the screen was an armada of bobbing, overladen fishing vessels being circled by Italian navy speedboats.

  “Well…it’s on the news here,” said Leon. He read the tickertape at the bottom. “‘Sudden spike in migrant ships as African unrest escalates.’”

  “OK, so they are reporting it. But unrest? God! Not using the word virus or plague?”

  “No…not those words.”

  “That’s it, Son. That’s the big goddamn warning sign, right there! They’re locking the story down. If they’re doing that already, then this thing is bad, Leo. It’s not good.”

  His dad was beginning to scare him. Leon wanted to hang up but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “What’s going on over there, Leo? Are the Brits doing anything? Are they closing down borders yet? Are they turning them back? Are they taking this thing seriously?”

  “Jeez, Dad…” His voice was cracking and beginning to sound shrill. “Calm down, will you?”

  “Are they taking any action at all?”

  “I don’t know! Look, I just got back from school”—a small white lie—“and I really—”

  “Leon, listen. When does Mom get back home?”

  “About six, usually.”

  “Right…that’s lunchtime for me. I’m calling you back then. I want you to tell Mom to take my call and not hang up on me, OK?”

  “Sure. But she won’t—”

  “Make sure she talks to me!”

  Leon shrugged. “I’ll try…”

  “Good…good boy.” Leon thought for a moment that his dad had hung up. The line crackled and rustled.

  “Dad? You still there?”

  “Leon…I…I’m really sorry you guys are stuck over there and I’m stuck here.”

  “Well…you know, that’s kinda all your doing.”

  “I know, I know. But that doesn’t stop me loving you and Grace…and your mom.”

  Yeah…Mom…sure.

  “Leon, remember that story I used to read you? The wheels on the wagon?”

  It was an old picture book Leon’s dad had grown up with about a wagon train crossing the Wild West. The repeated mantra of their grizzled trail guide had been, Watch them bolts on them wheels, folks! They come off, you’re stuck out here. The wagon train goes on without you…and you’re as good as dead!

  “The wheel’s going to come off, Leon…real soon. I just want to make sure you guys react before the rest… OK? You’ve got to make sure you’re one step ahead… That’s all. Just one step.”

  The call disconnected. He looked down at Grace. Her brows were raised.

  “Well…that sounded pretty intense.”

  • • •

  “I told you! I’m not bloody well speaking to him!”

  “He’s calling back, Mom. He said you have to speak to him.”

  His mom shot a quick glance at Grace, then back at Leon. As far as she was concerned, the cheating bastard was history, someone else’s life. She didn’t care what he was doing, whoever he was with right now, whether he was alive or dead. Her name was no longer Jennifer Friedmann; it was Jennifer Button, the name she’d been born with and every piece of plastic in her handbag—credit cards, loyalty cards, discount cards—said the same thing.

  “I’m not talking to him. You…go right ahead. I can’t stop you. But I’m—”

  “It’s about that virus. The African virus.”

  She shrugged a what-the-hell look at him. “And what’s that got to do with him…or me?”

  Leon looked down at his phone. It was ten after six. Maybe his dad wasn’t going to call after all. “He’s just worried about us.”

  “Worried!” She barked out a humorless laugh. “Well, it would’ve been nice if he’d been worrying about us when he decided to sleep with—” She stopped herself abruptly.

  Grace rolled her eyes and muttered. “I know what he did, Mom. You don’t need to censor yourself for me.”

  “Mom, this thing is getting pretty serious. Dad said the news stations are playing it down…and, if they’re doing that, then things might be worse than we think.”

  Leon’s phone suddenly vibrated in his hand. He looked down at the screen. It was his dad. His mom shook her head. “Don’t answer it. I’m not speaking to him!”

  Leon swiped the screen. “Dad, it’s me… Mom’s right here.”

  “Leon!” She thumped the arm of the couch with her fist and shook her head. Leon held his phone out to her. “Mom!” he snapped. “Take it!”

  She closed her eyes tightly, then after a moment’s hesitation, snatched the phone from him. “What do you want, Tom?” she said icily.

  Leon expected his mom to listen to his dad’s opening few words, then either toss the phone back at him or launch into a shouting match. Instead…she was silent. He studied her face, locked perfectly still except for a frown slowly forming between her brows.

  “When?” she said finally.

  She was listening. Leon turned to look at Grace. She’d put her own phone down for once and was watching their mom’s face too. For the first time in God knows how many months, his little sister actually looked…concerned.

  Another long silence. Leon’s mom’s frown was deepening, and the color seemed to be draining from her face.

  “Seriously?” She wandered out of the living room, into the kitchen, and out of earshot.

  “I guess this must be pretty serious,” said Grace. “They’re actually, like, talking to each other.”

  Leon nodded slowly. “Dad sounded…real twitchy. Scared.”

  “But…Dad doesn’t do scared,” said Grace. For the first time in a long time, Leon’s younger sister’s normally composed face, prematurely teenaged, all heavy lidded and confident and sooo certain, ever the congresswoman in waiting…began to soften into that of a twelve-year-old girl. “Leo…is this really bad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They could hear the murmur of their mom’s voice, lowered almost to a whisper. Leon got up off the couch and was about to take several light steps toward the kitchen when he heard the last few words of the phone call.

  “…and you too, Tom…you too.”

  Their mom came out of the kitchen, looking as pale as a ghost. “Five minutes.”

  “Mom?”

  “Both of you. You’ve got five minutes to pack some clothes…one bag each. Then we’re leaving.”

  Chapter 15

  The eight thirty out of Liverpool Street to Norwich was one of the last of the rush-hour trains, busy with a mixture of frazzled-looking I stay later than the next guy types and sloppy one or two drinks after work types.

  The train rocked and rattled out of the station. Their car was silent except for a couple of men several seats down noisily breaking down the results of some soccer match. Leon looked around. Pretty much everyone else was staring at a phone or tablet. He could see the red flash of the BBC banner in the reflection of the dark window beside him.

  News…everyone’s checking the news.

  “Mom,” whispered Grace. The same question again. The same one they’d both asked over and over on the subway. “Come on. What did Dad say?”

  “Please…Grace, just give it a rest. I said I’ll tell you when we get to Grandma and Grandad’s.”

  “But I’ve got really important schoolwork to hand in tomorrow!”

  “I’ll call the school and tell them you’re not feeling well. Now just…please, be quiet and let me th
ink.”

  An old man was sitting across the table from them. He looked up from his phone. “Getting out of the city?” he said quietly.

  Leon’s mom flicked a polite, noncommittal smile at him and nodded.

  “Because of…the news?” he added softly.

  The news? Leon inwardly laughed at the term he’d used. No one seemed to want to say the V word, the P word. No one seemed eager to look like a panicking idiot.

  Except us.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  He nodded approvingly. “One step ahead of the herd. Very sensible.” He turned his phone around so she could see his screen. “I go to Reuters for my news. Things look a lot more worrying the way they’re being reported there.”

  Leon leaned forward. “My dad’s really worried.”

  The man cocked his head. “Is that an American accent I detect there?”

  Leon nodded. “But actually I’m British.”

  “His father’s an American,” added Leon’s mom. “He’s in New York.”

  “I see they’re not taking any chances over there. Martial law? Mobilizing the National Guard?”

  “That’s exactly what Dad said. But over here?” Leon shrugged. “It’s, like, hey, no big deal.”

  The man smiled. “I know. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. It’ll all be fine. Just sit tight have a cup of tea and watch EastEnders.”

  Leon’s mom laughed politely. “What about you?” She looked around the car to check if anyone appeared to be listening in on their conversation. “Are you taking, you know, precautionary…steps?”

  “I live in a quiet little village. I’ve got water and canned food and bottled gas central heating. I suppose we’ll be fine to sit tight for a few weeks.” He tapped the screen of his phone. “And I suspect tomorrow… I might just decide to call in sick.” He winked at Leon. “I’d rather look the silly, old fool than be caught at work.”

  • • •

  “Oh, marvelous.” Stewie Delaney spotted the red signal up ahead and sighed. He eased the pressure off the speed-control lever and gradually pulled on the brake handle.

  They’d finally emerged from the stop-start snarl of train signals out of London and left the sickly nighttime glow of endless urban sprawl behind and were now entering the relative darkness of the countryside. An irritating buzz of radio traffic came from the speaker beside him: comments from other train drivers behind him about the tail-end-of-the-day train congestion, inappropriate quips about unlucky passengers racing and gasping to catch the train as it pulled out. (Commuter Bingo: one point for each passenger left stranded; five points if they raise a fist; ten if they hurl their bags to the platform in frustration as the train pulls out.) And there was somebody bitching about today’s news of the vast flotilla of migrant ships: “Just what we need. Looks like they’ve all decided to come over!”