Epitaph Road Read online

  EGMONT

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  First published by Egmont USA, 2010

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © David Patneaude, 2010

  All rights reserved

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.patneaude.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Patneaude, David.

  Epitaph Road / David Patneaude

  p. cm.

  Summary: In 2097, men are a small and controlled minority in a utopian world ruled by women, and fourteen-year-old Kellen must fight to save his father from an outbreak of the virus that killed ninety-seven percent of the male population thirty years earlier.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-055-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-60684-070-2

  (reinforced library binding)

  [1. Sex role — Fiction. 2. Virus diseases — Fiction. 3. Fathers and sons — Fiction. 4. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.P2734Ep 2010

  [Fic] — dc22

  2009025118

  Book design by JDRIFT DESIGN

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA tracking label information:

  Random House Production • 1745 Broadway • New York, NY 10019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  To my steadfast writing and running buddy Sydney,

  who only occasionally questioned my judgment.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  After

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My immeasurable thanks go to the mostly unsung but highly talented people — especially agent Elana Roth and editor Greg Ferguson — who were so instrumental in making this book possible. I also couldn’t have written the story without the continued support of my wife, Judy, and the rest of my family, immediate and extended, whose names alone could fill several pages. But you know who you are. And I can’t forget to acknowledge the bad guys and buffoons who were partly responsible for inspiring this tale. Last but not least, I want to thank my mom, a world-class reader, who lived almost long enough to add this book to her collection.

  And then we can fly to the moon.

  — CHARLIE WINTERS, AUGUST 7, 2067

  AFTER

  Charlie frowned as muted sunlight leaked through the ragged umbrella of evergreen boughs overhead. Someone had discarded a red plastic Coke pouch in the middle of the trail. Under his breath, he gave that someone a name: “Pig.” He stomped the pouch flat and stuffed it in his backpack. Two days into the hike and already one big compartment was crammed with trash.

  “What are you gonna do when you run out of room, Charlie?” The loud voice was a clue, but his nose confirmed that his kid sister, Paige — three years younger but constantly mothering him anyway — had closed the gap between them. Her insect repellent was called Morning Coffee; it stank like Midnight Vomit . But antibug concoctions — foul or not — were a necessity now. Mosquitoes and their pesky cousins ruled. Their natural predators — frogs, salamanders, snakes, turtles, native fish, birds — were parading toward extinction. In the right climates, in the right seasons, in the right amounts, warmth was a good thing. But the earth, and a lot of its inhabitants, had overdosed on it.

  “There’s plenty of space in your pack,” he said.

  “I don’t do garbage.” Paige was only eleven — princess age — but when she wasn’t being a mother she was being a queen.

  “Sure you do,” Mom said, glancing back at them without slowing. “But let’s get the litter on our way back. We need to keep moving.” Her voice sounded pinched. She’d seemed stressed ever since daybreak, when she stashed her radio abruptly and announced that they had to break camp right away. Now the radio was out again, clenched in her hand, its earpiece plugged snugly into her ear.

  “What’s the hurry?” Charlie asked. It wasn’t even noon, and no one was waiting for them at the lake campsite. Still covering ground, Mom studied his face. She pressed her hand against his forehead. “Do I look sick?” he said.

  “A little pink. Too much sun.” She accelerated, practically speed-walking. Charlie and Paige hurried after her. The trail emptied them into a clearing of sickly die-hard shrubs and grasses. Here and there, rotting stumps clung to parched dirt. Barely pausing to look up, Mom pointed. In a deep crease in a far-off peak, a skinny splotch of snow remained, the dingy disgusting color of a skull.

  “Can we hike up to it?” Paige said. “Can we touch it?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “And then we can fly to the moon.”

  Paige ignored him. Mom shook her head. They marched on into the next stand of trees, where they came to a lightning downed cedar, its trunk sawed flat to form a long bench.

  “Lunch,” Mom grunted. She let her eyes wander to his face again. He’d caught her at it a half dozen times already. How many had he missed?

  “What?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Paige said. “Why do you keep gawking at Charlie?”

  Mom shrugged off the questions and her backpack. They sat. Charlie and Paige pulled out flatbread, cheese, and trail mix from their packs and began eating. Mom set down her radio. She’d been obsessed with it since last night, but whenever Charlie asked her why, she ignored him or changed the subject.

  The radio sat by her on the log now, earpiece detached, volume low, but he heard what sounded like a newswoman’s voice. And there was something unsettling in that voice.

  Before Mom could react, he snatched the radio and, twisting away to hold it out of her reach, upped the volume. Deaths was the first word he picked out. Plague was next. He stopped chewing.

  “No continent has been spared,” the woman said in a British accent. Her voice sounded hollow, dreamlike. “Nearly overnight, millions of men and boys…have dropped dead. As I speak, millions more are dying. Their bodies…are piling up… everywhere.”

  While she paused, Charlie’s imagination broke loose. Pictures swirled in his head. On the radio, in the background, a gentle female voice said, “Go on.”

  “Old men, young men…

  “…babies.”

  Hesitation. Throat clearing.

  “Privates and generals, clerics of every stripe, doctors and lawyers and scientists and writers and musicians…

  “…pilots…their passengers.”

  Dead air. A paralyzing chill held Charlie in place while his mind flew. This must be some kind of hoax. A radio play, maybe. War of the Worlds, a hundred-and-something years later. But Mom’s stricken face told him it was no hoax, no play. Paige’s had lost its freckled color; her eyes overflowed.

  “The horror is indescr
ibable…,” the woman said. “The British prime minister is dead, as are most of the members of Parliament. The exception: women. The American president is dead. His cabinet is skeletal.”

  Long delay. Deep breath. Charlie tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

  “Most of the U.S. Congress are gone…except for female legislators. In nearly every nation…leadership has been decimated.” She sighed and went on. “Anarchy flares…but flames out. Looters, murderers, barbarians don’t live long enough for sustained individual assaults. But the overall effect is unrelenting chaos.”

  The woman’s words accelerated. “Worldwide, males have tried to flee cities, but highways are impassable. Airports, seaports, railroad stations, bus depots are all shut down. Deadly fights erupt over bicycles and motorcycles and boats. Men have barricaded themselves in their houses and gunned down anyone who gets close to them or their sons.”

  “What about Dad?” Charlie asked. Dad had put off leaving home for an extra day so he could finish up a work project, but Seattle — home — would be one of those cities where the ways out would be impassable or shut down.

  Mom left his question hanging in the still air, and the newscaster continued. “In every country, emergency services are scarcely limping along. To a large degree they have relied on men, and now there simply aren’t any….”

  Mom and Paige bookended Charlie on the log bench. He felt Paige’s tears spill warm onto his shoulder; he heard more words spill from the newswoman. “Medical officials have crucial words of warning: If you’re a male…and you’re showing any sign of respiratory distress — coughing, shortness of breath — do not expose anyone, particularly males, to your symptoms. No one knows how this plague is spread…but it appears to be airborne, highly virulent…

  “…and horrifyingly quick.”

  Charlie managed a breath. In. Out. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  The newscaster went on. “If you’re a symptom-free male, isolate yourself. Females apparently aren’t dying…but they could be carrying. Avoid anyone you see just as you’d avoid a man with a bomb…and a wild gleam in his eye. This epidemic seems hellish, but its genesis is organic — a bacteria or virus or —

  “Oh, God!” the woman cried.

  A faint ominous hum crawled out of the radio. The surrounding forest was hushed, as if even the branches of the trees were listening.

  The woman’s voice returned, a haggard hoarse murmur. “I’m signing off…for now. My producer has collapsed on the control-room floor. Two coworkers are trying to help him….” The station went silent.

  A moment later, music — something classical, piano and strings — replaced words. Senses numbed, Charlie didn’t recognize the melancholy notes at first.

  Then he did. “Brahms’s Lullaby.” Go to sleep.

  The music faded away. It died. Silence, unbroken, followed.

  “That’s not real,” Paige said as Charlie searched for other broadcasts. He couldn’t get even a whisper on any band — satellite, AM, FM, shortwave.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Mom said. She knelt in front of them, grasping their hands. In Charlie’s hand, hers felt cold and clammy and small. But strong. Willing him to stay put. She must have seen in his eyes what he felt inside — an urge to take off back down the trail, to see for himself what was happening at home, to find Dad.

  “How?” Paige said.

  Mom shrugged. “We may know soon.”

  Charlie repeated his question, previously left dangling: “What about Dad?”

  “I’ve been praying he got out before everything went crazy,” Mom said.

  “He was supposed to leave home Sunday,” Charlie said. “This morning.”

  “Wasn’t everything crazy this morning?” Paige said.

  “Yes.” Mom gave a bare nod of acknowledgment. “Yes.”

  “What about Charlie?” Paige said, putting words to his worry.

  “Charlie’s safe here, sweetie.” Mom’s eyes didn’t leave him.

  “How do you know?” Paige moaned.

  “I don’t believe we’re infected,” Mom said. “And no one is likely to catch up with us. If we meet people heading back, they won’t have been exposed, but we’ll avoid them anyway. If necessary, we can survive for a year up here. Or longer. For as long as we have to stay.”

  A year, Charlie thought. A year was forever. No, dying was forever. Would a year even be enough?

  MONDAY, AUGUST 8, 2067:

  VOICES ON THE RADIO REPORTED A BILLION DEAD.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 9, 2067:

  TWO BILLION.

  Charlie knew Dad could have arrived at the lake Monday night if he’d hurried. He didn’t arrive. He could have appeared Tuesday. He didn’t appear.

  Wednesday morning, Charlie found the big paw prints of a bear crisscrossing the dirt near the remains of the fire, and he chose to consider the bear a good omen, a stealthy advance scout for Dad. But good omen or not, Dad didn’t come.

  As dawn broke on Thursday, Charlie propped himself up on an elbow and peered through wisps of mist across the lake, still faintly hoping to catch sight of a familiar hiker coming up the trail.

  Something moved on the opposite shoreline. Charlie got up and crept to the water, keeping his eyes on the small opening in the trees two hundred yards away. Again, he saw a blur of motion, dark. But it wasn’t a man. Not even a person. It was a bear. Big, blackish-brown, lumbering.

  A cool wind snuck through the trees. It slipped past Charlie and across the lake, stirring up the surface fog. A few moments later, the bear rose on two legs and turned in Charlie’s direction, raising its big cartoonish head.

  Charlie waved. He hoped the bear would wave back. A raised paw, at least. He wanted another sign. But the bear stood immobile, using its nose to check out Charlie and maybe Mom and Paige, too. Friend? Foe? Breakfast?

  Finally, the bear dropped back to all fours. It moved nonchalantly along the shoreline, away from the trail, and disappeared.

  News had continued to dribble in from the radio. As of last night, two-thirds of the world’s male population was dead. Three billion souls gone. And the plague was continuing to worm into every pocket of humanity. No kind of medical intervention had any effect on the disease, which seemed to run its lethal course in less than twenty-four hours, from the first symptoms to the final tortured breath.

  In many countries, disorder reigned. In others, new governments were forming as the constitutional orders of succession spiraled down to the first woman. In the United States, that was Secretary of State Candace Bloom.

  President Candace Bloom, now.

  President Bloom and what was left of the executive branch were working tirelessly to keep the country from disintegrating — propping up what remained of the three branches of federal government; cooperating with foreign countries; going forward with individual states to make sure courts and law enforcement agencies still functioned; triaging and handling all crises; coordinating medical care; activating what was left of the National Guard and other military units; initiating and orchestrating the mass cremation and disposal of tens of millions of bodies; bringing together medical researchers to solve the mystery of the contagion before every male in the country and on the face of the planet was wiped out.

  Charlie returned to the campsite and got his fishing rod. He waded out, over the rocks and sand, through the mud, and began casting. Mosquitoes buzzed his head, but his repellent was still working.

  In the quiet, in the solitude, his imagination ran wild, to places dark and borderless. He tried not to imagine where Dad might be.

  That day, he caught seven cutthroat trout, fat on bugs. That night, he circled the lake and left three on the opposite shoreline for his friend the bear.

  Ten more days crept by. In the mountains, little changed. Morning wind spoke in the trees, morning clouds gathered, then dispersed in afternoon sunshine, night came, a little earlier each time, stars shone and faded, rain fell, morning arrived again. Hearts ached, day after day.
>
  Dad didn’t come. No one came.

  Around the globe, cautious reports surfaced that deaths had halted. But the male of the human species had come face-to-face with extinction. The estimate of the dead: more than four billion, or 97 percent of the male population.

  Most of the survivors lived in remote backcountry. Others were on the move — nomads, refugees, passengers and crews on ships at sea, space station occupants, moon colonists — while some lived in cities but were forgotten enough or resourceful enough or ruthless enough to avoid human contact.

  A handful of males had been exposed but had not fallen ill. A small number turned out to be transgender — female by birth. Others either dodged the disease or were immune. If so, no one knew why.

  A few survivors had happened to choose this time to backpack into the wilderness. Lucky, the newswomen called them. Charlie wasn’t so sure. He felt grateful to be alive, but to him, lucky would be Dad walking into the campsite, thin and unshaven and bedraggled from two weeks of avoiding a monster, but alive.

  Alive. That would have been lucky.

  On the far side of the sturdy branch-and-bough lean-to that Charlie and Paige had painstakingly woven together after the first night of rain overwhelmed their tent, Mom and Paige still slept, if fitfully. Paige’s nightmare-fueled whimpering had awakened Charlie. Sunrise wouldn’t happen for a while, but there was enough light for him to locate the radio.

  As he switched it on, he foolishly half hoped for music, but this morning, as always, news filled the airwaves and the plague was all the news. No crime sprees, no crooked politicians, no environmental disasters, no weather, no sports. He imagined empty stadiums. No players. No fans.

  Because no plague-related deaths had been reported in almost two days, scientists believed the disease had run its course. For now. Newborn boys were no longer dying. Ships were returning to port. Within hours of one another, the Americas, Europe, Africa, Asia, Australia, and New Zealand all officially noted the cessation of deaths.

  Charlie’s stomach rumbled. Their rations of food had dwindled. They were all sick of trout, although no one said anything. It was fifteen days, now, since the first deaths occurred. Sixteen days since they’d left home. They wouldn’t have to survive here for the year or more he and his mother and sister had feared, but it seemed like they already had. He turned off the radio and rolled onto his back, waiting for Mom and Paige to wake up.