SINK - Melt Book 2: (A Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series) Read online

  Aggie wasn’t an idiot. She knew what a drone was. The question didn’t need an answer. What mattered was the footage. “Can you pull it up? Can I see it?”

  Jo hit a couple of keys and tapped in a search. The footage was devastating. There was a massive hole in the middle of the street, right where K&P had been. The drone looped about, getting footage of the cavernous hole from as many angles as possible. After a minute, a thick, oily smear ran down the middle of the picture, obscuring the view.

  “Shoot, there’s something on the lens; debris, maybe or a random bit of schmutz,” said Aggie. The drone banked to the right as the building next to K&P buckled and fell. Then the screen went blank.

  “They’re claiming the drone got caught in the secondary collapse,” said Jo.

  Aggie’s heart was beating so hard she thought she might pass out. “Is that what you think happened?”

  Jo didn’t answer immediately. “From what I’m hearing, whatever chemicals were released into the environment in the primary collapse are corrosive.”

  “Corrosive?”

  Jo nodded. “I think the blur on the lens is a clue. If you watch the footage—and I’ve seen it twice now—it doesn’t come flying at the camera. It comes from above. That was footage of the drone folding in on itself.”

  Aggie held herself together. She had to. Midge was watching and she depended on her to be the strong one. Secretly, any hope she had for her mom, her dad, or Paul crumbled. Now it was all down to her. All hope that they’d be back and she could hand over the responsibility reins and go back to being “Weird Aggie, who loves the horses and invents stuff in her free time” flew out the window. She was going to be the one to keep the family safe and together. Her world cracked and fell in on itself.

  Chapter 11

  “Get him out. Get them all out. The infrastructure as far north as 45th and as far south as 36th is compromised. MELT is eating its way under the city, gorging itself on pipes and wires and whatnot. The floor we’re standing on might not be standing in another half hour. I won’t say it again, get them out.”

  Paul sat up, alert, afraid, disoriented. He knew that voice, but couldn’t place it. The baritone belonged to a man he didn’t like. Why didn’t he like him? His brain was a jumbled mess. He couldn’t piece his day together. The last thing he remembered was sitting beside a fire engine on 38th Street, smoke billowing around him, his dad MIA. How did he get from there to here?

  The room was all white, the floors squeaky-clean, the lights too bright. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t his dorm room. It wasn’t the cabin. Where else could he be? The tart, antiseptic smell said, “hospital.” WTH? Why was he in a hospital? He slid out from between the sheets and padded to the end of the bed in his stocking feet to check his chart. “Always read your chart when the doctor’s out of the room.” His mom was right. They wrote things down they didn’t say out loud to you. One time, he’d found out that the doctor believed he was “prone to exaggerate” because he’d been complaining of a headache for three weeks. Turned out he had whiplash from a harsh fender-bender he’d gotten into with his friends Drake and Sarah.

  There was no chart. That meant the voice he’d heard had to be the doctor reviewing it. They wanted to get him out of there. Did that mean he was getting better or worse? Why was he even in there?

  The door opened and the room was filled with the sound of soft-shoe running, squeaky gurney wheels, elevator dings, and shouted orders piling up, one on top of the other. Paul scanned the room for a way out. The en suite toilet would be a dead end and he was on a high floor; too high to jump. Why the panic? Why the urge to escape? His gut told him a phenomenally bad thing was headed his way.

  Four white coats entered the room, led by the Professor who worked with Mom over at K&P and three of her colleagues. He recognized the Prof right off the bat: short, black bob, and a habit of frowning when she was concentrating. She was frowning now. Then there was Fran, Mom’s assistant, always smiling, always upbeat, super nice girl. She wasn’t smiling. She was doing the opposite. But who were the guys? One was the clean room specialist, Jan van Karpel. Hooray for random facts popping into your consciousness on cue. Who was the other one? Did he work with Mom? Paul dug and dug and dug, willing the memories to stir.

  Then it came back in a rush: the sudden building collapse, the furious explosions, the gagging fumes, the stinging smoke, the pointless quarantine, and finally—he grinned like the biggest Cheshire Cat that ever there was—one very satisfying punch to that loser’s face. Good to see Dr. Stephen McKan was still messed up, his nose all puffy and red. He deserved it. Paul knew he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Didn’t need any further provocation. No one wants to see a deadbeat wannabee hitting on their mom. He locked eyes with Stephen, willing him to open his mouth so he could close it for him with a righteous knuckle sandwich. Didn’t matter that his hand was bruised from round one. He’d go ten rounds to defend his mom’s honor if he had to.

  “You passed out,” said the Professor. “Low blood sugar or electrolyte imbalance, I’m guessing. You’ve been in the wars.” She produced a Twix from one pocket and a Gatorade from the other. “Eat up and we’ll get going.” She was falsely cheerful. Another puzzle piece fell into place. K&P had released their plastic-eating compound, MELT, and it had gone crazy and destroyed half a city block in a matter of hours. That must have been what they were talking about out there. It was getting worse.

  He ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to make himself look half way presentable. He stopped. There was a tiny cut all the way in the back of his head. Straight face, straight face. Never let them see you sweat. Dang. Another puzzle piece. He’d been directly in the line of fire. Perhaps not as lucky as he’d hoped. Keep your cards close to your chest. Don’t play your hand until you must. No need for them to know. Not yet. Might be nothing. He felt fine. Well, mostly fine. Well, not mostly fine, but he didn’t get the sense that MELT was burrowing into his brain. He was a little disoriented, nothing more. He’d passed out because he hadn’t eaten for hours, the Professor had said so herself. Shoot, why couldn’t he remember her name?

  McKan hovered behind the Professor. Coward. He was using her as a shield. Step up, buddy and let’s finish this. “Perhaps eat on the way…” Really? McKan thought he could tell him what to do?

  The Professor nodded, her hand on the door. “He’s right. Get your shoes, but leave everything else and eat on the go.”

  Paul glanced at the chair, expecting a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes. Duh. He didn’t have shoes. Everything had been taken from him on intake. Even the paper coverall he’d been wearing was gone. He was in one of those stupid hospital gowns that opened in the back. He rummaged through his bedside table, found a pair of booties and slipped them on. He’d grab a pair of scrubs as soon as he got the chance. No way he was going into the corridor with his ass hanging out of his gown. “Where are we going?”

  “The East Side.”

  “Of the hospital?” said Paul. Nothing was making much sense.

  “Of Manhattan,” said Fran. “I know you probably have a ton of questions, but we need to get moving. We can talk when we’re out of here. Cool?”

  Paul nodded. His brain was catching up to his reality. They needed to get out of the building. Pronto.

  The wards went by in a blur. Everyone was on the move. Patients who couldn’t evacuate under their own steam were being wheeled in chairs and beds and gurneys. Those who could sort of walk were being helped along by orderlies and nurses. Paul didn’t see many doctors; they were probably all in the ER, taking care of the massive influx of wounded. Doors were unlocked, posts abandoned, rooms emptied. He ducked behind nurses’ station and searched the drawers until he found a pair of standard issue green scrubs. He hunkered down and changed from his gown to the scrubs, then popped back into the corridor. The Professor and her entourage were close to the elevators.

  He was supposed to do something. He dug through his memories. Right. He was supposed to
report everything he’d seen and heard since this nightmare had kicked off.

  “Hey…” He jogged to catch up with the Professor and van Karpel. “I saw one of Mom’s colleagues back on 38th Street.”

  The Professor had bionic ankles and took short, decisive steps at warp speed. “Uh-huh.” She didn’t slow down.

  “Michael got into the cab of the fire engine with me and showed me how to dress in layers to keep the ash off my skin.”

  She skidded to a stop. Van Karpel almost ran into her.

  “Michael? Michael Rayton?” She squinted at him. Not good. Not friendly. She wasn’t messing. She didn’t like Michael Rayton. Still, Paul had to tell her everything. That was what his mom would want him to do.

  “I was stuck over on 38th Street. He came out of the debris field. Walked right out of the smoke.”

  The Professor nodded. “He knew how to protect himself? Figures.”

  “Yeah. He showed me how to layer up and protect myself. He’s the reason I made it out. But that’s not the point. The point is, he said that I was to let you know that you’re getting it all wrong.”

  The Professor folded her arms. “Go ahead. Astound me. What nonsense did he lay on you?”

  “He said you need to feed MELT, not starve it.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “He will stop at nothing. Seriously, if I ever see that monster again, I’m going to personally end him.”

  The vehemence with which she spat the words out sent a chill up and down Paul’s spine and left him reeling. Nothing was what it seemed. The man who’d helped him was supposedly a “monster?”

  The Professor turned and strode away, van Karpel scurrying along behind her.

  “Christine? You good to go?” Stephen shouted after the Professor, who was already way past the bank of elevators. Paul dug deep into his brain to connect her first name to her last. Christine…Christine…Christine Baxter. Yes!

  He remembered his mom presenting the Professor to the room, like a prize turkey on Thanksgiving. “People, I would like you to give a warm round of applause for the brains behind MELT. This is Professor Christine Baxter. Mark the name down because one day you’ll be able to say you ‘knew her back when.’”

  Professor Baxter had blushed and waved his mom away with one hand, while clutching at her arm with the other. “You’re too kind, Alice. But we all know,” she had raised her glass, “that MELT would be nothing without you. You championed this project, even though it wasn’t your job to do so.” She turned to the room. “You’ve never met anyone like her.” Now it was Mom’s turn to blush. “It’s not just the hours she puts in, the unstinting dedication to the firm, but the sheer strength of her will. If Alice Everlee wants something to come to fruition, nothing on God’s Green Earth is going to stop her. She says I am the brains behind MELT, but she’s the engine. Ladies and Gentlemen, if you will raise your glasses. I give you the true powerhouse behind MELT. I give you Alice.”

  The room had responded with genuine warmth and feeling. There was applause and laughter and the chinking of glasses.

  He was glad of the memory. Not just because he had her name now, but because it reinforced his gut feeling that Professor Baxter was someone he could trust. Any fan of his mother’s had to be all right.

  “Christine!” Stephen was impatient. The elevators dinged and opened, filled and left. The ward was almost empty. “We’ve got to go. Things are only going to get worse.”

  Professor Baxter shook her head. “I can’t leave her.”

  “Who?” Paul turned to Fran. “Who is she talking about?”

  “Patient Zero,” said Fran.

  Paul waited. That didn’t mean anything to him. Fran didn’t fill the silence the way she was supposed to. She stared at the Professor, then back at Stephen, then ducked her head and slunk after the Professor and van Karpel. Where the heck were they going? He didn’t want to get on an elevator with McKan, but he didn’t want to go deeper into the hospital after “Patient Zero.” That didn’t sound good.

  The building shuddered. No. It stuttered. There was no other word for it. It was as if the entire structure had been humming along on one static note, when all of a sudden, three staccato beats hit the foundation.

  The color drained from Stephen’s face. “Now, Christine. We have to go now.” He jogged away from the elevators and towards the stairwell. Good idea not to use the elevators.

  Paul was torn. Stephen stood by the open door to the stairs, but the Professor was almost at the end of corridor. He weighed his options: leave with the traitor or follow his mom’s friends? Even in a building that was not doing what buildings in Manhattan were supposed to do, there was no real contest. Paul set off running as hard as he could. He heard the stairwell door ease shut behind him. Coward. Well, McKan would have to face himself in the mirror in the morning and know he’d left them stranded and that would be his punishment.

  Christine—heck, The Professor, what was he supposed to call her?—stood by the doors to an isolation unit with van Karpel and Fran. Paul came to a stop right behind them.

  “She’s crucial to our research,” said Christine.

  “I know it,” said van Karpel. He had a heavy accent. Mom had said he was a brainiac of the highest order. Number one in his field. He was in charge of keeping the lab sterilized. If it wasn’t for him and his team, all their products would be contaminated. She’d made a big deal about that.

  “Let me play devil’s advocate,” he said. “She’s contagious…”

  “I hear you,” said the Professor, “and that’s why I believe she’s so important. How has MELT survived on her skin? What mechanism is at play?”

  Fran stepped up. “She might not make it if we move her again.”

  Paul was confused. If she was so important, why didn’t they wheel her out and be done with it? He took a look around her door.

  She was…he fumbled, searching for the right word to describe what he was seeing…she was amazorama-ding-dong. That was what Midge would say. Something so out of this world that it rang all his bells. She was draped in scales. Like a creature who had slithered out from the lagoon or the deep or been beamed down from another planet. He tiptoed towards her to get a better view.

  “Get out of the isolation unit right now, young man.” It was Jan. He was pissed.

  “She’s incredible,” said Paul.

  Christine nodded. “She was the first to be burned by MELT. That she has survived this long is nothing short of a miracle.” She turned to her colleagues. “We don’t know how she has survived this long, which is why we have to take her with us.”

  Jan van Karpel shook his head. “She just had her tilapia dressings and her drip changed, so she’s as protected as she is ever going to be. We can’t risk taking her out of this unit and having her infect others.” He rested his hand on his boss’ arm. “We’ll be back. As soon as we get the all clear, we’ll come right back.”

  The bag hanging over the scale-covered patient was on a majorly ancient stand. Paul did a quick survey of the room. He wasn’t imagining it. Everything in the room was a million years old. The room itself was brand-spanking new, but the equipment was World War I-style steel and chrome and coolness.

  Christine was agitated, frustrated, red in the face and moving towards Patient Zero, who he’d already dubbed “Fishgirl” in his mind. “You felt the tremors, Jan. We can’t bank on this building being safe. We’re five blocks south, but that was before everything started folding in on itself. We’re totally dependent on which way the wind blows. Metaphorically speaking. We’re actually dependent on the density of plastic that runs under the building. The more there is, the faster MELT seems to move.”

  The building did that thing again, shivering on its foundation. Paul wanted to get out in the worst way. He grabbed the gurney and pushed the Fishgirl towards the doors.

  “Stop.” Jan was getting to be a major pain. He needed to fish or cut bait. Literally. “You don’t understand. We can’t just wheel her out o
f here like a regular patient. Tell him, Christine.”

  The Professor shrugged. “I say we take her.”

  “I am going to say it again, she’s contagious. We don’t know what MELT does. We have no data, no statistics, you’re not behaving like a rational person. Decide with your head, Christine, not your heart.”

  “Dude,” said Paul, “I bet a hundred people in this hospital have a communicable disease. That doesn’t mean we should leave her here.”

  Christine and Jan looked at each other. The look was long enough and weird enough that they knew something they weren’t saying.

  “We have no way of treating this. We don’t know what we’re up against. We can’t chance it.” Jan delivered the news as if he was talking about the weather, completely devoid of all feeling.

  “You moved her before. You said so yourselves.” Paul had a harder time keeping his feelings under wraps. He turned to the Professor. She was the boss. She was the one he needed to convince. He needed to up his game. “If she stays here, she could go down with the building.”