Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Gene and I are the only ones left in my building, the university barely holding together now. The core systems are still working, though. Maybe the squatters realize it’s in their best interests to have power and Internet access, so they’ve left those bits of infrastructure alone. The Internet itself is sketchy, though. Plenty of domains unavailable because of missing servers. Some places have no power, others have damaged infrastructure, so the former connectivity of the world wide web is gone. The only sites that have a decent track record of being available are government ones.
“All right, Gene. Where do you live?” I do a quick search on his name, then add his phone number to the terms. A few more clicks and then I find a cached page from a defunct people search site. If it’s correct, Gene lives on Maple about a mile from the school. Based on the street map (and assuming they’re still accurate) I could make it there and back home before dark easily.
I chew my lip as I consider my options. I’d intended to run a few blood samples I’d received from the hospital and get them started on testing. But the centrifuge will take half an hour to set up and then another twenty minutes or so for its first run. If I don’t run the vials now, I’ll have to hope the specimen refrigeration stays cold enough despite power blips for me to run them tomorrow. It’s rolling the dice on whether the samples will be viable overnight. Maybe I should listen to Juno and move my lab to the governor’s mansion where the power is steadier, but I’ve been staying at the university out of sheer will. A foolish desire for the feeling of my life from before. And more than just a little bit for Gene. Everyone else has abandoned ship but us. I couldn’t leave him.
I can’t leave him now, either. It’s already two o’clock, my morning filled with election briefings and planning with Juno and her core team. Though glad to be included, I was fidgeting so much that Juno told me to go ahead and get to my lab before I levitated out of my chair from sheer impatience.
I glance out the window at the sunny sky, the blue reassuring me that this is a good day, a fine day to visit a friend. Besides, Maple Avenue isn’t far at all. I can make it there and back. It’s not reckless if I keep my head down and go straight to his address. I’m not helpless—no matter what National Guardsman Mike thinks. I mean, I do have weapons.
I have to go. What if Gene’s hurt? He wouldn’t stop showing up without leaving a note or saying goodbye. If I tried to call in a welfare check, I’m certain the dispatcher would laugh me right off the line—if I could even get anyone in the first place.
I stand and wheel my bike out of my office, then lock the door behind me. I’m going to check on Gene and get back here to work up my samples. Easy peasy. When I return to the capitol, I’ll ask Juno if there’s any possible way we can get him a position there. Maybe I’ll finally cave and set up a makeshift lab in the basement and Gene can be my assistant.
With that bit of hopefulness, I set out from campus. More makeshift villages have popped up along the streets, and they only grow thicker the closer I get to the hospital. Hanging a left to avoid the tents and barricade at the entrance to the plague triage unit, I pedal hard and cruise along the sidewalk past the silent stadium as a few cars and cyclists pass. A man yells at me from somewhere at my back, but I don’t stop. These days, curiosity is dangerous.
I slow when I reach I-35. The interstate runs overhead, and the underpass has become a more permanent city where dozens if not hundreds of people have taken up living. The entire street is closed off with bits of tent and plywood and even a huge green road sign that used to mark the on-ramp. Only one lane remains open, the shadowy area just wide enough for a single car to pass beneath the bridge.
Glancing around, I make sure the street is clear as I slow and stop. The makeshift structures keep going on either side, showing no signs of a way across. I can either ride along the service road and hope for a bigger opening or try to pedal up onto the Interstate and cross there. I wouldn’t have to worry so much about car traffic, but the Interstates have become a thoroughfare for people walking and biking—and with that comes danger. A river of people is bound to have more than a few alligators lurking to pick off stragglers and take whatever items they might have. No, I’m safer making a break for it on the surface street.