Their next stop was the weapons storage area. It, too, had been cleared out. Pax was starting to understand what had happened, at least a little bit.
“Comm room,” Pax ordered.
As they stepped inside the Bunker’s nerve center, Tom said, “Oh, my God.”
Most of the computers were gone, but the monitors and all other equipment still in the room had been destroyed. Chunks of glass and metal and plastic littered the floor. Pax stepped carefully through the mess and over to the communication director’s desk.
Standard operating procedure: upon abandoning a facility, the location of the next destination was to be left, when possible, in one of three specific places around the communication director’s workstation.
Pax found what he was looking for in position number two. Etched along the upper lip of the electrical socket cover were seven characters: 113-S78.
The number eight meant nothing, as did the three and the second one. They were decoy numbers. The real message was: 1-S7.
Nevada. They’d gone to Nevada.
Pax closed his eyes and said a prayer of thanks that his friends were apparently still alive. When he opened them again, he said, “Let’s get back to the plane. There’s nothing else here to see.”
18
After twenty minutes of looking for Iris, Ben began to wonder if maybe he should have left. If the girl didn’t want to be found, she wouldn’t be. There were a million places where she could hide. He could search for a month and never come within a block of her.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact she was alone out there, even more so than he was. As terrifying and gut wrenching and mind numbing as living through the outbreak had been, at least he had known what was going on. Iris had clearly been unaware the world was dying around her.
He continued on for a few more blocks before finally deciding it was time to use his Jeep to cover more ground. The walk back took him thirty minutes. When he reached his vehicle, the first thing he did was pull a bottle of water out of the back and down the whole thing in one long gulp. Out of habit, he walked toward a recycling bin sitting at the curb, and had the lid open before he realized what he was doing. No one would ever collect the contents of the can. He tossed the bottle in anyway, figuring it was still better than dropping it on the street.
Instead of returning to his Jeep, however, he detoured to the Cape Cod house. Iris had all but said she’d been held captive there by this Mr. Carlson guy, but something about it — her actions, the whole setup — didn’t quite fit. Maybe if Ben could figure out what had happened, he’d have some clue about where she had gone. It was a long shot, but he thought it worth a try.
He headed down to the basement first, wanting to get a better look at the room she’d been trapped in. After blocking the door with a chair so he wouldn’t trap himself down there, he went inside. His impressions from earlier had been dead on. A lot of money had been spent in this room. Whoever had paid for it really wanted the person living there to be comfortable. He looked around for any personal items that might tell him a little more about Iris, but other than clothes and some simple jewelry, he came up empty.
Upstairs, he returned to the bedroom of the man he assumed was Mr. Carlson. He retrieved the wallet he’d seen earlier in the dresser and flipped it open. A driver’s license with a picture of the dead man indicated his name was Marvin Bernard Carlson, age forty-seven, with an address matching that of the house. There were a few business cards with the same name. Apparently Mr. Carlson worked as a manager for H&R Block. Insurance card, AAA card, a couple of credit cards, and a wallet-sized copy of one of the portraits on the wall. It was the one with the girl at her youngest.
Ben walked over to the portraits. He hadn’t realized it before, but in none of the pictures was the girl truly smiling. He noticed something else this time, too. Yes, she was a few years older now, but the girl was Iris.
A trip to the other bedroom confirmed it had been Iris’s room. PROPERTY OF IRIS CARLSON was written inside the covers of several books on the shelves. He wondered what was going on here, but then decided he probably didn’t want to know.
He exited the house and walked over to the Jeep.
“Where did everybody go?”
Iris stood half hidden behind a tree in the yard directly across from her house, her gaze firmly planted on the Cape Cod. Had she been there when he first came back? Probably, he thought.
“It’s like I told you before,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “They’re gone. There was a massive flu outbreak, and almost everyone is dead.”
“You’re not dead.”
“No.”
“I’m not dead.”
“No,” he said.
“And…Mr. Carlson?”
Ben decided now was probably not the time to call her on her deception. “He’s dead.”
She looked at the house. “In his bedroom.”
“Yes.”
Her lower lip began to tremble. She sucked it between her teeth until the shaking passed. “I need to see.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
She tore her eyes from the house and looked at Ben. “I need to. Don’t you understand?”
He nodded. “Sure. I understand.” When she didn’t move, he said, “Would you like me to go with you?”
“Yes, please. I don’t think I can go alone. ”
Staying a few paces in front of her, he led Iris into the house and down the hallway. When they passed the first bedroom, he sensed her hesitate behind him, and thought she might go inside. But Iris apparently decided against visiting her old room, and soon joined him at the door to the master.
Ben covered his nose and mouth with his shirt. “You might want to do the same.”
As soon as she did, he opened the door.
“It’s not pretty,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“You want to go in first?”
She shook her head.
Ben walked into the room and stepped to the side. Iris remained in the hallway for a few seconds before finally entering the room.
“That is Mr. Carlson, isn’t it?” he asked.
Only a nod as she stared at the corpse.
They stood there in silence for over a minute, before Iris abruptly turned and walked out. Ben started to follow her, but stopped and returned to the dresser. He hesitated, feeling guilty for what he considered doing. But he thought it might help him figure out Iris, so he opened the drawer, retrieved Mr. Carlson’s wallet, and slipped it into his pocket.
He found Iris outside, sitting on the curb.
“I’m heading south,” he said. “If you want to come with me, you’re welcome.”
At first he didn’t think she had heard him, but then she looked up. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
Martina knew there had to be some unwritten rule about driving hung over. At first she thought it would be a good thing — the fresh air rushing past her, the bright morning sun keeping her warm. What she hadn’t taken into consideration was the helmet pressing in on her head, keeping that fresh air away and intensifying the heat to the point she could feel sweat dripping down her neck. From the looks on her friends’ faces, they weren’t doing much better. She was pretty certain none of them would be drinking again anytime soon.
She had purposely set a slower pace today, worried that in their diminished capacity they might not see a pothole or a branch in the road. Turned out the reduced speed was a good thing.