Scorch Road (Scorch Series Romance Thriller Book 1)

  Scorch Road

  JT

  Toby Neal

  Emily Kimelman

  Contents

  Launch Bonus

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Cinder Road, Scorch Series, #2

  Launch Bonus

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  © Neal/Kimelman 2017

  nealkimelmanpartners@gmail.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  To get a free copy of Cinder Road three weeks early navigate to the last page in this ebook and follow the link to download.

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth never got into a pool without remembering the man she’d killed. She dove in, a nice clean line with just a little splash. She always tried to get that right, like she tried to get everything right. Her arms sliced through the water as her legs propelled her forward, each breath sharp with the smell of chlorine. She reached the end of the pool and executed a somersault, kicking off the side and shooting back through the water before surfacing and switching to butterfly stroke. Her body arched out of the water and dove back in, creating only a small disturbance—just the way it was supposed to.

  Sound distorted, a rush of bubbles and flow that allowed her mind to go mercifully blank.

  Done with her prescribed number of laps, her fingers gripped the tiled edge as she checked the clock on the wall. Already four a.m. There were usually more people here by now.

  Elizabeth lifted herself out of the pool in a fluid motion, water sluicing down her body to splash on the tiles, loud in the large, empty space. She beat back the fear crawling up her spine.

  She was safe here. There were lights, security cameras, and a staff member at the front desk. She wasn’t alone.

  Elizabeth removed prescription goggles, and the room blurred. She peeled off her swim cap and shook her long blonde hair free as she walked toward the lockers.

  The deep, harsh sound of coughing echoed from the changing room.

  Elizabeth frowned, grabbing her towel off the hook and wrapping it around her body as the wet, muffled sound continued. She put on her glasses, bringing the pool room into focus.

  Elizabeth picked up her phone, the knife she was never without, and her keys from the bench and pushed open the swinging door into the women’s locker room. “Hello?”

  Norah, the employee who’d checked Elizabeth in, leaned against the row of sinks. She tried to breathe, it caught on the exhale and her body bent over the sink from the forceful coughing. Norah’s face was red verging on purple. She wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

  Elizabeth recognized the virus. She’d watched it under her microscope for the last year and seen reports on the news that it was spreading rapidly.

  A/3/H1H3, dubbed “Scorch Flu” by the media, was fatal. The virus weakened the host’s bronchial tubes and lungs, clearing the way for bacterial pneumonia. In about half the cases it caused a fever, leading to rapid death within twenty-four hours. Others died slower, pneumonia suffocating them over the course of weeks. Either way, so far only ten percent of those who contracted the flu survived.

  With each cough, the virus exploded out of Norah: microscopic Trojan horses on the hunt for healthy cells to invade. Once inside, the virus tricked the cells into replicating the deadly disease until they ruptured, releasing more of the virus into the body. A/3/H1H3 survived on most surfaces for days, and now the sink area was coated.

  The chlorine that stung Elizabeth’s nostrils and coated her skin was a layer of protection against the invader. Norah held the edge of the counter, her breath coming easier, though her eyes were bloodshot and her face mottled.

  “I’m okay,” she wheezed. “That coughing fit just came out of nowhere.”

  “You need to go to the hospital,” Elizabeth said. “You’ve got the flu.”

  “There is no one to cover my shift. Everyone is sick.” Norah smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, oh boy, flu season again.

  “It’s very dangerous this year.” Elizabeth’s stomach churned.

  “I heard it was worse than usual. Isn’t that just media hype?” Norah was seized by coughing again, body heaving as her lungs fought to free themselves of phlegm.

  Elizabeth’s phone rang and she glanced at the screen: Dr. Fellerman, her mentor at the virology lab where she worked. Relief washed through her. He would know what to do.

  “Elizabeth.” Fellerman’s voice was hoarse. “You need to come to the lab right now.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m at the gym, so not far away, but there is an employee here . . .”

  He cut her off. “I’ve isolated the virus. Come now. We don’t have much time.” He coughed once, and the line went dead.

  Elizabeth stared at the silent phone in her hand as Norah’s labored breathing continued in the background. Isolating the virus was incredible news and just what she’d wanted to hear. It brought them so close to making a vaccine. But that cough—was Dr. Fellerman sick, too?

  She needed to get to the lab. “I’m calling an ambulance for you. I have to go.”

  Norah spit phlegm tinged with pink into the basin and nodded.

  The streets were empty as a smoky grey dawn lit the sky. Elizabeth kept one hand on her gym bag and the other stuffed into the pocket of her hoodie, wrapped tightly around her antique switchblade. With its mother-of-pearl handle and elegant lines, the knife was a pretty thing, a family heirloom inherited from her grandmother—but it was sharp, and Elizabeth knew how to use it.

  She relaxed her grip as she stepped into the revolving entrance of the lab building, and then paused. The worn, black swivel chair behind the security desk sat empty.

  The night watchman, Harry, should be there.

  Elizabeth glanced out the plate glass window where dawn hued the puddles with pink. “Harry?”

  Her voice echoed in the emptiness and a chill raised goose bumps on her skin that her wet hair didn’t help.

  Elizabeth couldn’t go looking for Harry. He must be in the bathroom or something. But she gripped her knife again as she crossed to the elevators.

  Once inside, Elizabeth swiped her key card. When the doors opened, the entryway to the lab was dark and the reception desk empty.

  “Dr. Fellerman?” Elizabeth crossed the small space and opened the frosted glass door into the work area. A single light glowed at the end of the hall.
She passed rows of lab modules—microscopes covered in clear plastic like seated ghosts, stools stowed neatly under worktables. The place smelled of ozone and vibrated with the hum of computers.

  When she reached her primary investigator’s office, Elizabeth knocked and the door swung open. Her mentor sat behind his desk, a CryoFreeze cylinder in front of him, head resting in his hands.

  “Dr. Fellerman?”

  He raised his head, meeting her gaze. His eyes were bloodshot and pouched in dark circles. A flush of fever colored Dr. Fellerman’s cheeks. Nausea curled in Elizabeth’s gut and she swallowed, fighting the bile that tightened her jaw as Dr. Fellerman coughed and held his hand up to keep her back.

  As a second-year Ph.D. student, Elizabeth was lucky to be working on such a high-profile disease. Dr. Fellerman’s tireless support had got her this far.

  “Elizabeth.” The doctor smiled, looking much older than his fifty-three years. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m afraid I won’t be able to function much longer. The virus has surged and we’re about to be quarantined. The whole of Washington state, Oregon, and parts of Idaho are being closed to movement in or out. I’ve been monitoring all the major hospitals—they’re overwhelmed already.”

  “We need to get you medical help.” Elizabeth’s heart was pounding—everything was happening so fast.

  He shook his head. “You know it won’t do any good. I need you to wait for the cold chain transport company.” He motioned to the cryocase on his desk. “I’ve isolated the virus so we are closer to a vaccine—it’s just got to get to the CDC in Washington.” He coughed again and Elizabeth dug her nails into her palms to keep from approaching him. When his breath returned, Dr. Fellerman continued. “I called the company we normally use over two hours ago. I’m starting to worry that they’ve been compromised. If they don’t get here before the quarantine closes, I’m not sure what will happen.”

  “I can take them.” The words popped out.

  Dr. Fellerman cocked his head.

  “I spoke to my father last night.” Dr. Fellerman knew her father, Senator John Johnson. “He tried to convince me to get on a military flight.” Elizabeth checked her phone: quarter to five. Dad had used all his powers of persuasion to try to get her on a seven a.m. flight, reminding her that she was their only child, that she couldn’t help anyone if she was dead. Finally he’d resorted to yelling, which is when her mom got on the line and cried. Elizabeth had stayed strong, convinced that her work at the lab was more important than her parent’s wishes. But now, maybe she could use her father’s meddling for good.

  “Really?” Dr. Fellerman said. “That would be wonderful.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, I’m sure I can arrange it.”

  Dr. Fellerman stood, swaying slightly. “That is a relief.” He came around the desk and held out the cryocase to her.

  Elizabeth took it, her hand slipping into the handle. The steel container weighed only a couple of pounds. Ten inches high and five inches in diameter, this case might hold the fate of humanity within its icy walls.

  “You’re the whole cold transport chain, Elizabeth. Don’t take your eyes off that thing until you get it to the CDC in Washington.” Dr. Fellerman stepped away, returning to his side of the big wooden desk. “There are ten vials of the isolated virus in there. And that case will keep it cold for at least three days.” He flopped into his chair and it rolled back a few inches. Dr. Fellerman closed his eyes. “It’s too late for me, but there are still a lot of people to save.”

  Elizabeth stepped forward, wanting to hug him or say something to mark this parting. Dr. Fellerman had offered her guidance without pushing, and he’d been a great teacher—one of the rare people she trusted.

  He frowned at her approach. “Don’t get too close. You’re not sick now, but you know how contagious this thing is.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for everything.”

  Dr. Fellerman gave her a weak smile. “Thank you, Elizabeth. And Godspeed.”

  Elizabeth left his office and retraced her steps through the lab. As she waited for the elevator, Elizabeth looked down at the cryocase. Inside the insulated screw top, a smaller metal cylinder held the vials of cells. Liquid nitrogen filled the larger container, keeping the isolated virus at the optimum temperature, well below freezing. It had to stay that way or vaccine production would be set back by months.

  What if she failed? The thought chilled her to her bones.

  JT

  JT’s chainsaw roared into life, the sound muffled by plastic ear protection. He brought the saw down on the log, enjoying the weight and power, the smell of exhaust mixed with the tang of fresh pine, and the buck of the heavy tool in his hands. It took all his concentration and for a little while his busy mind was silenced, filled with nothing but the roar of a good piece of steel biting into a solid chunk of wood.

  Life at the Haven was simple—and his own. JT bought the hundred-acre place, built on a former military survival training complex that was decommissioned in the eighties, for pennies on the dollar due to its isolation, nestled in a valley between large, snow-peaked mountains in the wilds of Idaho.

  JT finished the cut, separating off a large piece of future firewood to get him through the approaching Idaho winter. He revved the saw, clearing the debris, then moved over a few feet. Chips and sawdust sprayed his bare chest, but the heat of the sun on his back and the exertion made going shirtless worth it. Pitting himself against a clear challenge felt good.

  The saw hit a knot and stuck, stalling out, the blade sunk three feet deep in the log. JT flicked the saw off, wiping a forearm across his sweating brow. He scanned the compound, ever vigilant, but as usual there was nothing to see but wilderness bordering his peaceful fields. Sitting in the shade by the pile of stacked log sections, his dog Pinocchio whined.

  “Thirsty, boy?” JT picked up his old tee and mopped his face. He strode to the heavy-duty all-terrain vehicle he’d used to haul the log out of the forest, and opened the cooler strapped to the back. He took out a thermos, poured water into the shiny metal cup lid, and set it down for the Catahoula, who lapped thirstily as JT drank cool well water straight from the container.

  Pinocchio was patched in shades of brown with a dark nose and a white circle around one eye. The dog was silly-looking, but trained to herd and hunt.

  He was also a friend.

  JT had been renovating and working on the Haven for two years now, and he still got a tiny thrill over every bond he severed with the grid. Drilling his own well and diverting water for irrigation and livestock had been big, as had the completion of independent solar and wind power sources. The infrastructure the military originally installed was a great place to start, but the bomb shelter’s vintage 1970s systems had eroded. It had taken every dime he’d made with the soil contamination detection program and app he’d developed with his brother, Dante, to upgrade and replace everything.

  JT sat on the log for a moment, observing the smooth, efficient turning of the windmill’s silvery blades, producing more power than he currently needed at the modest but comfortable log home that hid the underground complex. A single Adirondack chair he’d made last winter decorated the homestead’s wide porch.

  JT reached into his pocket and fingered the two plain gold rings he kept on his key chain. One fit his ring finger, but the other would barely squeeze onto his pinky. He rubbed the smooth surface and felt an easing. He wasn’t as lonely when he touched those rings.

  JT finished the water and pushed a handful of rumpled hair off his forehead. His mother would scold if she saw him, naked to the waist in nothing but sweat-stained jeans, his Italian heritage evident in olive skin and long black curls he hadn’t bothered cutting in a year, now past his bristly jawline.

  No sense fussing over his appearance, though, when there wasn’t another soul around for miles but his buddy Roan Winters. Roan was a hunter and trapper, a survivalist of no fixed address, and he sometimes swung by to trade meat for other supplies and spend an ev
ening playing cards.

  JT smiled at the thought of his mother meeting Roan. She’d probably have him wearing collared shirts and helping lay noodles in her lasagna before the man realized what had happened. Wasn’t that always the way with domestication? A short struggle that eased into the comfort of working alongside someone else.

  That had happened with his marriage, short as it was. He’d loved Mary—and they’d made a great team.

  JT thrust away the unwanted memory with its burden of old sorrow and lifted the long, heavy axe off the back of the quad, returning to the log.

  Hefting the axe high, he let the weight of it fall. The sharp steel sliced deep into the wood with a jarring thunk that vibrated through the heavy leather gauntlets he wore.

  JT wrenched the axe free and lifted it again, loving the strength required, the agility, the simplicity and timelessness of his task. He hewed down to the trapped chainsaw blade, opening the tree until he was able to free it, and then resumed cutting with the roaring machine.

  Hours later, the sections of log neatly stacked in the woodshed, he strode down the knoll with Pinocchio at his side and a threadbare towel over his shoulder. He pushed the button at the locked gate of his compound and the ten foot, heavy-duty gate section, topped with razor wire, retracted.

  The people of North Fork, the village ten miles away, thought JT was paranoid—one of those possible Unabomber types with his fences and walls, huge antenna and even a small sniper nest on top of the house.

  But JT wasn’t paranoid. He was prepared. And what others could see was only a fraction of the fortifications and preparations he really possessed. He and up to fifty people could live on this property, completely self-sustaining, indefinitely.

  He walked through the gate and down the road, still on his own fenced property, passing through corn, potato, and soybean fields. Pinocchio startled a covey of quail that flew up from the field, emitting their odd, beeping cries, their wings beating with a sound like conga drums. Used to hunting with JT, Pinocchio pointed, waiting for JT to fire on the birds.