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)
“I could do the job. I could help people.” Juno finishes her neatly-cut food. “Hell, I’ve managed to hold Texas together and kept us in the Union despite the threats from the idiots in the Statehouse. If I can do that—”
“You can do anything.” Candice walks in, her steps slower these days. “I’ve told you that from the get.” She points at me. “I’ve told you that, too, professor.”
Juno swipes a stray black curl, this one laced through with gray, from her forehead. “I’m going to run, and I’m going to win.”
“Here here.” Vince bangs the butt of his knife on the table.
“Huzzah,” Fatima adds.
“Did your visitor help you make up your mind?” I ask.
Juno’s gaze flickers over to Vince. “Somewhat,” she says airily as she stands.
My suspicions kick up a notch. My sister is tough, but she doesn’t have much of a poker face with me. She nearly winced when I mentioned him. “Who was he?”
“Someone who can help us get to Washington, and then—perhaps—help us do a hell of a lot more.”
“Have I mentioned that I’m hating the secrecy?” I wrinkle my nose and keep on chewing.
“I can’t explain it. Not yet. You’re going to have to trust me. But consider the man you saw earlier to be a representative of a foreign government. One with the possibility of helping the US and eventually the world.”
“Okay, that’s big. Huge. Momentous. But also fucking vague. I need more.” Does he have information on a possible treatment or vaccine? “He’s a scientist? A doctor? Where’d he study?” I’m about to get cross with her for having a plague specialist in her office without inviting me to sit in when Vince lets out a grunt. “He’s a threat,” he impales a potato with his fork. “That’s what he is. A kook, too, most likely.”
I croak out an exasperated groan. “Will one of you quit talking around the point and explain who the hell this guy is?”
“The appointment book said Valen Dragonis,” Candice volunteers. She dips her chin at me as if in apology for earlier.
“His name is what?” I snort a laugh, then stop when my sister gives both Candice and me an unusually hard look. I shrug. “Come on, what sort of name is that?”
“An old one.” Juno strides toward the hallway, leaving far sooner than usual, Fatima already at her heels. “I have mayor calls tonight, and I need to go over the food bank allocations for next month.”
“Don’t forget Dr. Dexter at the pharmaceutical bank. They’re having a real problem getting enough insulin,” adds Fatima.
“Right,” Juno says curtly and squares her shoulders. “That, too. I’ll see everyone in the morning.”
Shit. She’s on edge. Badly. The mood in the room goes from mildly combative to uncharacteristically cold as Juno and Fatima disappear. I slump in my seat and finally swallow the lump of steak. It goes down about as smoothly as Juno’s obfuscation. With her, it’s like she says tons of words, but once she’s gone, any real information is also gone with her. Maybe that’s what being a politician is all about.
“She doesn’t tell me much either.” Candice pours herself a tall glass of red. “So don’t feel too bad about it.”
Gunshots puncture the disquiet, and the lights flicker but stay on. The stranger’s visit has put a pall over us. Those dark blue eyes and the way he seemed to look through me—did he see through Juno too? Is that why she’s shaken? In a world that’s in the throes of an apocalypse, somehow his arrival feels like a damnation all on its own.
“Vince, do I need to worry?” I ask quietly.
Scooping up his plate, he stands to leave, but he gives me one of his hawkish glares first, his eyes almost squinted. “With this guy, we all need to worry.”
3
Two months later
Gene is missing. I didn’t notice it until today, but the lunch I brought him last week is still sitting on the breakroom table where I left it. My stomach sinks when I see the familiar plastic container with the sticky note on top.
“Shit.” I wheel my bike to the stairs and carry it up (the elevator died last month, though thankfully no one was in it). When I get into my office, I look through the staff directory for Gene’s phone number. Cell service is never guaranteed despite the government taking over the networks, but if he has a landline, I might be able to reach him.
I flip until I find the custodians, then scan to his name. Only one number. No address.
My desk phone gives me a comforting dial tone, and I punch in his number. It rings once, then gives a “this number is disconnected” recording.
“Doesn’t mean anything,” I tell myself. Plenty of people don’t have working phones anymore.
Returning the receiver to the hook, I sit back and press my palms to my face. Think, dummy, think. The weather has warmed a bit, but it’s still frigid in my office. My breath clouds from my nose as I open my laptop and hope—not for the first time—that the university Internet is still running.