The Scourge (Book 1): Unprepared by Abrahams Tom

Author:Abrahams, Tom [Abrahams, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Post-Apocalyptic | Dystopian | Pandemic
Publisher: Piton Press LLC
Published: 2020-04-27T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

OCTOBER 2, 2032

SCOURGE +/- 0 DAYS

LAKE MARY, FLORIDA

Mike rolled down the Jeep’s driver-side window and tried to lean out through the opening. His seatbelt stopped him short. He cursed and unsnapped the buckle.

“Nice move,” said Brice with a weak laugh.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Mike. He stole a glance at his friend before trying again.

Brice’s eyes were closed. “Nah,” he said. “Trying. But can’t. Head hurts too much.”

Mike tried again. The Jeep was in park. There was no point in having it in gear. They weren’t going anywhere. Traffic hadn’t moved in ten minutes. There was a gust of warm wind that blew into his face. He looked up and saw clouds building in the sky. They were dark clouds, purple with rain.

The flashing lights up ahead told him where the stoppage was. From his new vantage point, he saw three sheriff’s patrol vehicles. Although he couldn’t tell if any of them belonged to the deputy who helped them earlier, there was a good chance.

He also saw a crowd of people standing in between the lanes of traffic. They were far enough back that the cars involved in the holdup were visible, but they were close enough to block his view of anyone who was directly involved in whatever it was that had traffic at a standstill.

“I’m going to take a look,” said Mike.

Brice didn’t open his eyes. His head was resting against the front passenger window, his seatbelt was strapped, and his bare feet were resting on the hard dash. “At what?”

“At whatever’s going on,” said Mike. “I’ll be back in a minute. You good?”

Brice nodded. He folded his arms across his chest and sank a little lower into the seat. The seatbelt strap touched his chin. He didn’t move it.

Mike hopped from the Jeep and shut the door behind him. When he did, the driver in front of him stared at him through the side-view mirror as Mike passed him. Another blast of wind hit his face and blew dust into his eyes. He squinted, his eyes watering, and knuckled the debris from his face. The wind was cooler than before. A front was heading toward them.

As he walked, a myriad of sounds moved with him. There was the mix of talk radio and music coming from the traffic around him. Some of it was loud. Some of it was muffled. There were crying children. There were frustrated adults talking loudly through Bluetooth connections. The occasional person held a phone to his or her ear. Everyone was exasperated. For some reason it was more oppressive than the sensation he’d experienced walking to the station from the clinic. It was worse than the stop-and-go drive to pick up Brice. There was palpable tension. It was like a pot ready to boil.

He approached the outer fringes of the gathered crowd and caught the attention of a woman standing on her tiptoes in flip-flops. She was wearing denim shorts, a tank top, and a Florida Gators ball cap on her head.

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