Read Online Wormwood by Michael James McFarland - Free Book Online Page A

nose.
    Aimee looked doubtfully at the loose jumble of medications on the table.
    It only made them laugh all the harder.

 
    5
     
    Shane Dawley put down the binoculars and turned on the radio.  There was a slight breeze over the rooftops that sang with a seashell whisper against his earphones, but the stations were still broadcasting, still pleading with people to stay inside their houses and not participate in the wholesale looting that was occurring in some of the downtown areas.  Troops from Camp Walter, a nearby army base, had been alerted and would be patrolling the streets and anyone caught looting would be shot on sight.  The cycling message went on to give a list of phone numbers that listeners could call to report incidents or get help with various problems, most of them of a medical or psychological nature, though the station warned of long waits to get through.  Two or three hours in some cases.
    “As of yet there are no confirmed cases of the Yellowseed virus in this county,” a calm, recorded voice assured its listeners.  “I repeat, there are no confirmed cases at this time in Bayard County.”
    Shane switched off the radio as the message began to repeat itself.  It was much the same up and down the dial: calm assurances, yet with a sense that there was no one behind the taped announcements; at least no one but a squad of armed soldiers ordered to secure the station and keep the messages rolling.  For the past two days there had been very little variation: stay inside, don’t loot, troops are coming, shot on sight, no Yellowseed confirmed, and call these helpful numbers.  Shane was beginning to wonder if any of it was true or simply designed to keep the population docile and off the streets, their doors locked tight as they sat and listened to a prerecorded message or a busy signal on the phone.
    A stealthy movement caught his eye, down and to the right, something moving in the grassy shadows underneath the Quail Creek bridge.  Shane brought up the rifle and peered through the scope.
    A man in camouflage was gazing back at him.

 
    6
     
    Mike and Keith were just finishing the front of the Sturling’s house when Shane shouted out on the rooftop above.  With a sudden sour feeling in his gut, Mike trotted out to the middle of the yard (still holding his hammer), glanced left and right down Kennedy Street, then looked up at his son.
    The boy was lying flat on the eastward slope of the roof, the rifle up to his eye and the business end pointed down toward the Sturling’s back yard.
    “What is it, son?” Mike called up.
    Shane cast a quick glance down at his father.  “There’s a couple of men sneaking around underneath the bridge,” he answered, his voice almost a whisper, snatched away on the breeze.
    Keith had joined Mike out on the lawn.  “Are they armed?” he asked.
    “I don’t know.”  Another glance down, as if to assure himself they were still there.  “As soon as I saw the first one, he ducked back into the shadows.  The other just poked his head out a second ago.”
    Rudy and Bud came trotting across the street.  “What’s happening?” Bud asked, his voice sharp and gruff, as one who’s accustomed to giving commands and having them followed.  Despite the frailness of his age, something in his blue-gray eyes looked twenty years younger.
    “The kid says there’s a couple of men under the creek bridge,” Keith answered, “acting like unfriendlies, but he’s not sure if they’re armed or not.”
    Bud nodded and squinted up at Shane.  “Listen up, son,” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth to make himself heard.  “If they start advancing toward the houses, fire a warning shot into the creek bed.  If it takes more than one shot, then aim to kill .  Is that understood?”
    Shane opened his mouth to say something, then apparently changed his mind and let it go with a nod.
    “Now hold on a minute!” Mike objected.  “Shane’s only sixteen years