Billy bagged some of the cans and put them in his safe spot, a deserted grassy hideaway several yards from the underpass. If he hurried back to the park, he might be able to grab more cans before the cleanup crew arrived. He couldn’t go to the recycling kiosk until tomorrow. It’d take a whole day.
His cart rattled even more now with only half the crushed cans to jump around. Billy liked the jingle-jangle. It reminded him of the sound of loose change in his daddy’s trouser pocket. “Ice-cream money,” he’d call it and the two of them would laugh at their secret code so Billy’s mama wouldn’t know they were really going out to buy and share a cheap bottle of vodka.
Billy had just gotten to the park when he heard another vehicle pull in behind him. He moved out of the way but the van stopped alongside him.
“Hey,” a man called out.
Billy kept going, glancing back at the van. The man wore dark sunglasses and rested his arm out the window. Billy noticed a patch on the shoulder. A uniform. Like a cop. Had they sent someone to get him already? He stopped and looked up into the clear-blue sky then turned toward the water of the bay. The waves churned over the ledge but it didn’t look like a hurricane was coming.
“You need to come with me,” the man said to him. “I know it looks like a nice day, but there’s a hurricane on the way.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.” Billy stayed on the curb. “They told me I could bring my shopping cart.”
The man stared at him. Billy decided he wouldn’t go if they didn’t let him take the shopping cart.
“Sure, I’ve got room.” The man climbed out of the van and slid open the side door, ready to help Billy. “You probably should climb in beside it and keep it from tipping.”
As Billy started to crawl inside, stepping over all the bags of ice, he tried to remember if any of the other cops wore khaki shorts and really nice deck shoes. That was his last thought as the rock cracked the back of his skull.
CHAPTER 11
NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Benjamin Platt cut himself again as the tiny bathroom fixtures shook and clattered from the vibration. Overhead, the steady buzz of airplanes and helicopters taking off continued. There would be no break anytime soon, and Platt’s attempt at shaving was leaving him with enough nicks and scars that he considered growing a beard.
The latest weather reports had the eye of Hurricane Isaac heading straight for the Florida Panhandle even though the storm hadn’t entered the Gulf of Mexico yet. The base wasn’t taking any chances. The naval flight school had called in pilots, flight instructors, and even students to fly aircraft to safer ground. And this morning the admiral was adamant about moving the quarantined soldiers to safer ground as well.
Platt had escaped late last night to get a couple hours’ rest, though sleep didn’t come easily. He couldn’t get the image of the young soldier out of his mind. By the time Platt found Captain Ganz, the admiral had already called. Platt only witnessed the aftermath.
Ganz had been unnerved about losing yet another patient, but the admiral’s insistence on an evacuation of the makeshift isolation ward left the captain angry and frustrated. He was depending on Platt to find some answers and find them quickly.
Now as Platt headed over to the lab to participate in the autopsy, he felt a new weight on his shoulders. He hadn’t even had a chance to look at the blood samples. Ganz was in a hurry, not just to come up with answers before another soldier collapsed but also to beat the storm. Platt wanted to tell him to slow down. He wanted to tell him that sometimes these things took weeks, months to figure out. But he knew that was exactly why Ganz had requested his presence. The captain was placing all his bets on Platt discovering some hidden virus, some new deadly strain of bacteria. He expected a miracle. And from what Platt had seen in the short amount of time since his arrival, he knew—barring a miracle—there would be no immediate answers.
He kept thinking about the young soldier who died last night. They said he had vomited green liquid just before falling into a coma. By the time Platt saw him, he looked remarkably peaceful. A single groan escaped his lips while his body struggled to get enough oxygen. There had been no swelling around his incision. No fever, though it was apparent from the wet bedsheets that he had perspired immensely in the preceding hours. The pupils of his eyes were not dilated nor had the blood vessels burst. Only in the last hour had his heart rate slowed and his blood pressure plummeted. He never regained consciousness. Whatever had infected these young soldiers was deceitful, clever, and lethal.
CHAPTER 11
NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA