“I just hope the boogie man doesn’t live on that thing,” she said in a distant, haunted voice. Then she started walking toward the ramp.
Mark sighed and followed, Deedee in tow.
The next few hours passed quietly as the sun sped toward the horizon and darkness fell on the land outside the Berg. Alec flew the ship to the neighborhood where they’d parked before—it still seemed deserted. Then they ate and prepared bunks for Trina and Deedee to get some sleep. Trina mumbled a lot, and Mark even caught her with a line of drool on her chin at one point. As he wiped it off, sadness once again welled up in his heart.
As for him, sleeping seemed utterly impossible.
He planned to talk to Alec, figure out exactly what their next move should be, but when he found him, the old bear was snoring in the pilot’s chair, sitting straight up with his head lolling to one side. Mark was half tempted to throw a chunk of food in his mouth, and giggled at the thought of it.
Giggled.
I really am starting to slip, he thought. And his mood sank into a low and dark place. He desperately needed to do something to take his mind off things.
He suddenly remembered the workpads he’d seen in the cargo room—the ones he’d secured against the shelf with the straps. His spirits rose a bit at the hope that maybe something within those devices would shed some light on what they should do. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get rid of the virus somehow. Maybe there was a chance.
He banged his knee twice—and his head once—running through the dimly lit Berg toward the cargo room. He remembered halfway there that he’d need a flashlight and went back to get it out of his backpack. Then, finally, he was standing in front of the shelf. He quickly removed the workpads and sat down to read through them.
There were three. The first was dead. A password prevented him from getting into the second, but it flickered and would probably die soon anyway. Mark’s excitement almost crashed to a halt. But the third came to life, its glow illuminating the large room so brightly that Mark turned off his flashlight. The owner—evidently a guy named Randall Spilker—had felt no need for a password, and the home station popped up immediately.
He spent the next half hour perusing useless information. Mr. Spilker loved games and chat rooms. Mark was almost ready to give up, thinking the guy had merely used the device as a toy, when he finally discovered some hidden work files.
Folder after folder revealed nothing. But Mark finally hit the jackpot in a place most people would never have had the patience to find. It was a folder, marked as plainly as the rest, practically lost within a list of a hundred others that were empty.
It was titled KILL ORDER.
CHAPTER 61
There were so many documents that Mark didn’t know where to start. Each file had a number assigned to it and seemed to have been saved in random order. Mark knew he didn’t have time to read every single file, so he decided to just start opening and see what he could see.
There was file after file of saved correspondence, memorandums and official announcements. Most numerous were the personal exchanges—all copied into a few files—between Mr. Spilker and his friends, particularly one named Ladena Lichliter. The two of them worked for the Post-Flares Coalition, an entity people in the settlements had heard of but knew almost nothing about. From what Mark could gather, the group had brought together as many government agencies as they could from around the world. They’d gathered in Alaska—a location rumored to have been only mildly affected by the sun flares—and they were trying to put the world back together again.
It all seemed very noble—and frustrating to those involved—until Mark came across an exchange between Mr. Spilker and Ladena Lichliter, who seemed to be his closest confidant, that sent an icy chill along his arms. He’d been skimming text after text, but he read this one twice:
To: Randall Spilker
From: Ladena Lichliter
Subject:
I’m still sick from the meeting today. I just can’t believe it. I can’t accept that the PCC actually looked us in the eyes and presented that proposal. Seriously. I was stunned.
And then more than half the room AGREED WITH THEM! They supported it! What the hell is going on? Randall, tell me what the HELL is going on? How can we even THINK about doing something like that? How?
I’ve spent the afternoon trying to make sense of it all.
I can’t take it. I can’t.
How did we get here?
Come see me tonight. Please.
—LL
What in the world? Mark wondered. The PCC … The man named Bruce had mentioned them as part of the people behind the virus attack. Or had that been the PFC—the Post-Flares Coalition? Maybe the former was a division of the latter. Headquartered somewhere in Alaska. He kept digging.
A few minutes later, he found a series of correspondence spliced together into one file that almost made his heart stop. The icy chills from before turned into a cold sweat.
Post-Flares Coalition Memorandum
Date 217.11.28, Time 21:46
TO: All board members
FROM: Chancellor John Michael
RE: Population concerns
The report presented to us today, copies of which were sent to all members of the coalition, certainly left no room for doubt as to the problems that face this already crippled world. I am certain that all of you, like me, went to your shelters in stunned silence. It is my hope that the harsh reality described in this report is now clear enough that we can begin talking about solutions.
The problem is simple: the world has too many people and not enough resources.
We have scheduled our next meeting for a week from tomorrow. I expect all members to come prepared to present a solution, no matter how extraordinary it seems. You may be familiar with an old business saying, “think outside the box.” I believe it is time we do just that.