Gone Series: Plague Part 23

Then they stared at one another.

"Well," Sam said, "I do believe we can get them open."

Approximately eight seconds later Sam had burned the lock from the nearest container. Jack then pushed the door open.

The contents of the container were wrapped in plastic but still unmistakable.

"Toilets?" Dekka said.

Many of the porcelain fixtures were cracked from derailing, the shards held in place by the shrink-wrap.

A second container revealed more toilets.

The third container held what had to be thousands of medium-sized cartons. The cartons contained baseball caps. Dodgers caps.

"One size fits all," Dekka said, disgustedly. "But I'm an Angels fan."

"This is going to take us a while to go through everything," Sam said. "But I think it's probably worth it."

The fourth held wicker lawn furniture.

"Or not," Sam said, disgusted.

The fifth container was wicker flowerpots and cracked terra-cotta pots as well as two pallets of plaster yard pretties: cherubs, gnomes, and the Virgin Mary.

The sixth was house paint and deck stain.

The seventh was better, a mixed load, pallets of shrimp-flavored Cup-a-Noodles, chicken-flavored ramen, coffee filters and coffee makers, and boxes of mixed teas.

"I wish I'd had some of those noodles," Toto said wistfully. "It would have been nice to have noodles."

"Noodles are fine," Sam agreed.

"I wouldn't say no to some noodles," Jack said.

"True, true statement! He would not say no to noodles," Toto babbled.

The eighth container was empty. Nothing.

The ninth was two big pieces of industrial machinery. "Whatchamacallits," Jack said. He searched for the words. "You know. Like industrial lathes or whatever."

"Yeah, great," Dekka said. "All we need is two hundred and twenty volts and we can set up a machine shop."

Sam was starting to feel anxious. Nutella and noodles were fine. Great, in fact. Miraculous. But he'd been hoping for more food, more water, more medicine, something. It was absurdly like Christmas morning when he was little: hoping for something he couldn't even put a name to. A game-changer. Something ... amazing.

When Jack opened the tenth container he just stood, staring.

Sam said, "Okay, what is it?"

No answer.

Sam leaned over Jack's shoulders to look. Pallet after pallet of heavy cartons. Each carton was emblazoned with the Apple logo.

"Computers?" Sam wondered. "Or iPods?" Neither would be of any use.

At last Jack moved. He rushed to the nearest pallet, then hesitated. He carefully wiped his hands on his pants. Then he tore away the shrink-wrap and gently, cautiously, opened the first carton.

It was with trembling fingers that he lifted out a white box. On the box was a photo of a laptop.

"That would be great if we had internet," Sam said. "Or electricity."

"They s.h.i.+p them fully charged," Jack snapped, angry at Sam's interruption. Like Sam had started talking in church. "It's been so long but ... but they may still have some charge."

"Okay," Sam said. "So you can play some games. Let's move on to the next-"

"No!" Jack cried, his voice somewhere between anguish and rapture. "No. I have to ... I have to see."

He spent five full minutes carefully opening the box, lifting out Styrofoam packing pieces like they were fragile works of art.

It was like watching some unfamiliar but profound religious ritual. Sam found it almost moving. He'd never seen Jack so emotional.

He picked patiently at the small piece of tape that held the laptop's thin foam sheath in place.

And finally he held up the silver laptop as if holding a baby in his trembling hands.

He turned it over. By now the suspense was even getting to Sam.

Jack closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, turned the laptop over, and pressed the battery indicator light. Two tiny green lights blazed.

"Two!" Jack exulted. "Two! I was afraid it'd be one blinking light." Then, in a whisper. "Two. That's maybe an hour and a half. Maybe two hours even."

"Dude. Are you crying?"

Jack wiped his eyes. "No. Jeez."

"He's lying, he's crying," Toto called out unhelpfully.

"You need some time?" Sam asked. He doubted any power on earth could convince Jack to move on yet.

Jack nodded.

"Okay. Dekka and I will get the next one."

The eleventh container was more lawn furniture.

The twelfth container was filled from bottom to top with the greatest sight Sam and Dekka had ever seen in their lives.

This time it was they who stood, awestruck. Overcome by emotion.

There was no mistaking that logo.

"Can you put Pepsi in Cup-a-Noodles?" Dekka wondered.

They leaped at the shrink-wrapped pallets and ripped cans free.

Crack psst!

Crack psst!

Crack psst!

The sound that had not been heard in the FAYZ for months was heard once again. Pop-tops were popped, and Sam, Dekka, and Toto drank deep.

"Oh," Dekka said.

"So good," Toto said.

"It's ... It's like life is all right again. Like the universe has finally decided to smile at us," Sam said with a huge smile.

Burp.

"Oh, yeah," Dekka said. "Soda burp."

The three of them were grinning. "Jack!" Sam yelled.

"I'm busy!" he called back.

"Get over here. Now!"

Jack came running like he was expecting trouble. A grinning Sam held a can out for him.

"Is that ... ?"

"It is," Sam a.s.sured him.

Crack psst!

Burp.

Jack started crying then, sobbing and drinking and burping and laughing.

"You going crazy on us, Jack?" Dekka asked.

"It's just ..." He couldn't seem to find the words.

Sam put his arm around Jack's shoulders. "Yeah, dude. It's too much, isn't it? I mean too much like the world before."

"I eat rats," Jack said through his tears.

"We all eat rats," Dekka said. "And glad to get a good juicy one, too."

"True," Toto muttered with some concern. "They eat rats. They didn't mention rats before, Spidey."

The sun was well past noon. Sam said, "We need to check the last containers. Then get moving. Just because we're living large doesn't mean people at home are."

"We don't need to find water, we have Pepsi!" Jack said.

"Which is great," Sam said. "Might last a few days. If we could get it back to town."

That sobered Jack. He nodded briskly and said, "Yes, you're right. Sorry. I was just ... I don't know. For a few minutes there it was like maybe it was all over."

Just to do something different they went to the boxcar. The instant they rolled back the door they were a.s.sailed by a sickly sweet smell.

The boxcar had been full of oranges. But this was only obvious because of the perky labels on the flats. The oranges themselves had long since rotted in the heat. A sticky liquid covered the floor of the car. Some of the crates sprouted fantastic growths of furry mold.

"A little late on this one," Sam said regretfully.

"Oranges would have been good," Toto said.

The very last container was a mixed load: Stanley brand screwdrivers and saws and a.s.sorted hand tools, and exercise equipment of various types.

But by then no one cared, because it was the next-to-last container that weighed on their minds.

The thirteenth container had been loaded with shoulder-fired missiles.

The so-called hospital had sounded even worse after the fire. Because then kids had been screaming. Screaming Lana's name.

No screams this time, Lana noted. Coughs. Lots of deep, rasping coughs. Like kids were trying to cough their lungs right out.

Dahra was standing over one of the cots, laying a wet cloth on a kid's head. She hadn't noticed Lana walk in with Sanjit.

Lana did a quick count. Twenty? Twenty-one? Some of them were on cots, some were on mattresses covered in piled-high blankets from a dozen homes, a dozen beds. Some were lying with very little clothing on the cool tile floor.

And most were coughing, coughing, coughing.

Dahra looked up at the sound of their voices. "Lana. Thank G.o.d. You want to try again?"

Lana spread her hands helplessly. "I'll do whatever. But the magic isn't working on this thing."

Dahra wiped sweat from her brow. She looked like she hadn't slept. Maybe ever. "Look, secondary infections, they're called. Someone gets a virus and then something else moves in, too. A lot of times that's what kills people."

"You're the boss," Lana said. She meant it, and she meant it only for Dahra.

"Her." Dahra pointed. "Start with her. One hundred and six fever. That's what Pookie was before ..."

Lana went to the girl. She looked familiar; Lana thought her name might be Judith, but it was hard to recognize someone whose face was red from coughing, drenched in sweat, hair plastered down, eyes scared, bleary, and defeated.

Lana laid her hand on the girl's head and almost yanked it away. She was hot to the touch. Like touching a plate fresh from the dishwasher.