Broken Justice

by Ralph Gibbs

  Gunilla looked stricken. “I . . . I.”

  Paris reached over and covered Gunilla’s hand with her own. “It’s okay if you want to stay.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to stay,” Gunilla said, turning to face Carl, “but I need to check on my family. I have to go.” Tears streamed down her face.

  “You don’t have to go,” Carl said. He looked as stricken as Gunilla.

  “You could come with us,” Gunilla pleaded.

  “I can’t,” Carl said. “I may not want to be, but I’m these people’s leader. They need me.”

  “Someone else can lead them,” Gunilla said. Although he said nothing, his look said everything. Gunilla jumped up and ran into the house, crying. Several people exchanged glances, and a few exchanged personal items in payment for losing a bet. Carl started to get up.

  “No,” Paris said. “Let me talk to her. You can fuck it up later.”

  “You still planning on trying to get to the prison?” Franklin asked after Paris went inside. Carl sat in Paris’ spot and opened the lonely bottle of beer.

  “Yeah, I’ve been putting it off until you and Paris left. I will head up there right after I see you two—I guess you three—off.”

  “Four. Tempest is going as well.”

  “That’s a surprise. I know several young men that are going to be mighty disappointed.”

  “Apparently, she feels safe with me. Something about imprinting.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Beats the shit out of me. Hell, I’m just a man and not a particularly smart one at that.” As Carl took a swig of his beer, Franklin pulled a sealed envelope from his pocket. “Take this when you go to the prison.”

  The sheriff took the envelope. “What is it?”

  “A solution, I hope.”

  Carl read the envelope. “It’s addressed to Ammiel.”

  “I believe he’s in charge at the prison. If not, then hand it to whoever is.”

  “I thought you said all the guards were gone.” When Franklin didn’t respond, he said, “Oh, he’s a prisoner. What does it say?”

  “It’s an introduction and says you’ll give the men a fair shake.”

  “I don’t know, Franklin. These men are criminals.”

  “I can promise you there’s no one left you need to worry about.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Believe me, I’m sure. Besides, you will need all the guns you can get in the coming days.”

  “How many men you think are there?” Carl asked.

  “Probably about a dozen, maybe less. My guess is several left for home.”

  “That’s more testosterone,” Carl said, still not convinced. “We’re already out of balance. It’ll take convincing the other townsfolk.”

  “Before I left, he and some of the other men were heading up north to the female prison. They should be back by now, and I’m sure there will be a few women with them. Maybe more women than men. But if not, I might have another solution.” He took a deep breath and then pressed on. “I think you should raid the slaver camp.”

  “I thought Paris wanted to do that.”

  “Paris will understand. Besides, she’s going with me, so it’ll be months before we get around to it, maybe a year if not longer. That place needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. It’s not right leaving anyone in that situation. After you capture the place, you take every woman with you and kill every man over the age of sixteen. Anyone that would do that or let it happen doesn’t deserve to live.”

  Carl shook his head. “I’m not sure I can commit cold-blooded murder.”

  “Get over it,” Franklin said sharply. “You can’t let any of them go. You can’t let someone else suffer because you’re too squeamish to do what needs to be done. It’s a different world now with different rules. You need to keep them from raping or killing anyone else. If it makes you feel better, hold a trial, and then string them up.”

  Carl was silent for a long while but finally came to a decision. “You’re right,” he said.

  “Hey, you, sheriff,” Paris said, coming back to the table. “You’re on deck.”

  “What?” Carl said, confused.

  “She wants to see you,” Paris clarified.

  “Oh, thank you,” Carl said and started up the steps. “Listen, before you leave tomorrow, I have a surprise for you.”

  “What kind of surprise?” Paris asked.

  Carl guzzled the rest of the beer. “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you,” he said jogging to the house. “The rules haven’t changed that much.”

  Paris sat back down across from Franklin and looked around for her bottle. “Did that bastard drink my beer?”

  CHAPTER 30

  “This is Round Hill’s air force,” Carl said with a grand sweep of his arm. The surprise Carl promised the group turned out to be a small single-engine aircraft. As they approached the craft, a man dressed in a dirty blue-collared Polo shirt and brown plaid golf shorts emerged from a nearby shed. “This is Vincent Fisher, our pilot.”

  “Your only pilot,” Vincent said, coming over and offering his hand.

  “I thought we met everyone in town,” Franklin said, taking Vincent’s hand.

  “I’ve been out-of-town picking up a new fuel pump for my girl,” Vincent said, pointing to the plane. “I just got back three days ago. I slept for the first few days. Probably wouldn’t have mattered though. I’m not the mingling type. I prefer keeping to myself and guarding the second most valuable thing we own.”

  “What tops the list?” Paris asked.

  “Me,” he answered without hesitation. “Not being conceited. Okay, maybe a little, but I’m the only one that can fly that baby. If the plane stops working, I’ll either fix it or find another one. If I stop working. . . Well, unless one of you is a pilot that makes me the most valuable thing here. In case you’re wondering, my golf clubs round out the top three.”

  “I was a pilot,” Tempest said.

  “Well, young lady, in that case, because you’re a beautiful young lady, that automatically makes you more valuable than me,” Vincent said, smiling broadly. “My golf clubs just dropped to number four.”

  “You went alone?” Paris asked, deciding not to tell him she was also a licensed pilot. She wasn’t sure his ego could take dropping to number three. Unless he thought she wasn’t pretty. If that was the case, she might have to shoot him.

  “Why not?” he answered. “It’s not like it’s a zombie apocalypse.”

  “I could argue its worse,” Paris said and then more softly, “zombies just eat you.”

  “We were using the plane to find fuel tankers, but, ironically, the fuel pump went out six weeks ago,” Carl said.

  “Lucky for me the plane was still on the ground or I wouldn’t be here talking to you now,” Vincent said.

  “You were on the road for six weeks?” Franklin said.

  “There’s not an aviation parts store in Round Hill,” Vincent said. “And it might not be a zombie apocalypse, but it’s still a mess out there. I ended up having to go to three different airports before I found the part I needed. If the roads weren’t such a fucking mess, I’d have hauled that plane back here for spare parts.”

  “How bad was it?” Franklin asked.

  “It’s hit or miss,” Vincent said. “From what people I’ve run into have said, in and out of the cities are the worst. But from what I’ve seen personally, traffic jams are crazy everywhere. One minute I’m driving for ten miles, the next I’m hitting a traffic jam, only to drive again for two miles and then hit another parking lot.” Vincent lowered his voice. “It’s the water. It draws them in.”

  “Them?” Tempest asked.

  “The infected,” Vincent said. “It’s like when Cortez finally conquered the Aztecs. When he entered the city, he found thousands of the Aztec people lying dead or dying in the waters surrounding the city.”

  “That’s awful,” Gunilla said.

>   “They were burning up, you see, and they didn’t know any better,” Vincent said. “So, they jumped in the water and either drowned or died of the disease.” He turned and pointed to nowhere in particular. “It’s the same out there. As people start to burn up, they found the first body of water they could to cool off in, and just like the Aztecs, they either drowned or died of the disease.”

  “That’s awful,” Gunilla said again, this time more softly.

  “That’s what it is, doc,” Vincent said. “It’s awful out there. There is no better description. If I didn’t need to go anywhere for the next several years, I wouldn’t. I’m guessing by then the stink will be gone. Let me tell you, that’s the worst part.”

  “Did you find fuel?” Carl asked.

  “I found fuel at every airport, but it’s not like I can carry it on my back. When I get back from this little sightseeing trip, I’d like to take a small group and go get the aviation fuel truck I found. Some traffic jams I can get around, but there are a few I will need help with. After that, I want to tow that plane I found back here for parts.”

  “Where you headed this time,” Paris said.

  “I’ve asked Vincent to fly all of you as close to the North Carolina border as possible,” Carl said. “He would fly you the entire way, but he’s already low on fuel. He can only take you as far as half a tank.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Gunilla said. “But you shouldn’t waste your fuel on us.”

  Carl took her hand. “It’s not wasting gas if it keeps you just a little safe. It’s dangerous out there,” he said to her. “Vincent is making it sound like his little excursion was easy, but it wasn’t. He was almost killed half a dozen times and needed to kill nearly as many as that.”

  “Only five. No need to exaggerate.”

  “He saw some terrible things, and I’m not talking about the people that died in the plague,” Carl said.

  “What kind of terrible things,” Paris asked, looking at Vincent.

  “I’ve seen people hung from trees, shot, stabbed, bludgeoned and a few burned beyond recognition, and I’m not entirely sure all of them were dead at the time they were set on fire,” Vincent said.

  “If I can save you from half that, the loss of fuel will be worth it,” Carl said.

  “Why can’t you just fly to an airport and get more gas?” Gunilla asked.

  “The airports are as much a mess as the roads,” Vincent said. The ones I visited will take a few weeks to clear.”

  “So how close are you going to get us?” Franklin asked.

  “There’s an airport I know about sixty miles from the border. It’s more of a field used by crop dusters, but it’ll serve.”

  “Won’t the field be overgrown?” Franklin asked.

  “Most likely, but the road leading to it won’t be,” Vincent said. “At least not yet.”

  “If you can’t land, what’s the plan?” Paris asked. “Crash with us aboard?”

  “It’s not as dramatic as all that,” Carl said. “There are long stretches of roads that he can use. Early pilots use to do that all the time. From what I hear Alaska Bush pilots still do . . . or did.”

  “Can’t we just have a horse?” Paris said.

  “You ever ridden a horse?” Carl asked.

  “No.”

  “If you want to stay another week, I can teach you how to ride,” Carl said.

  “Why a week? It doesn’t look that hard,” Paris said.

  “Spoken like a true city slicker,” Carl said, nearly laughing. “I can teach you to ride in a day, two more days to teach you to ride correctly and the rest of the week for you to get over the pain in your ass.”

  Vincent walked toward the plane and said, “Time to say your goodbyes. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get back before dark. I’ve slept enough on the road. I want to sleep in my bed tonight. Besides, it’s not just a sightseeing trip. I’m going to check to see if there’s any aviation fuel there. If there is, I’ll load the plane and come back happy.”

  “And if there isn’t?” Franklin asked.

  “I’ll still come back, just not as happy,” Vincent said, getting into the plane. “And then plan my next trip.”

  Paris, with Tempest in tow, and Franklin headed to the plane leaving, Gunilla and Carl to say their goodbyes.

  “Tempest, you sit up here next to me, and I’ll check you out on the plane once we get airborne,” Vincent said. “Maybe let you fly a little bit.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “It’s been years.”

  “Meh, it’s like riding a bike,” Vincent said. “Maybe the bug will bite you again, and once you get to wherever your destination takes you, you’ll find your own plane and start flying again.”

  “I can’t afford a . . .” Tempest started to say and then smiled.

  Vincent smiled back, showing all his teeth. “Exactly,” he said. Vincent looked over to where Carl and Gunilla were hugging tightly. “Can one of you open the window and make some honking noises? I mean, I hate to be a killjoy, but we need to get going. If we don’t get going soon, I’ll have to spend the night in my plane. I have no landing lights here.”

  “Why doesn’t she just stay?” Tempest asked.

  “A sense of responsibility,” Franklin said.

  Tempest turned to him and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “They sent Paris to find her for a reason,” Franklin said. “With her being a virologist . . .”

  “A what?” Vincent asked.

  “She studies viruses,” Paris said. She started to say something else when she saw Gunilla pull away from Carl and run toward the plane.

  “Oh joy,” Vincent said. “Maybe I’ll get to sleep in my bed tonight after all.”

  The trip down to the border was uneventful, except when Tempest took control of the plane. There was a moment when everyone thought they would die, but she righted the plane quickly, and Vincent let her fly the rest of the way. It was a short trip of only a few hours, and when it came time to land, Vincent took over. He did a flyby of the road, worried about potholes, but determined it was safe.

  “You did good up there,” Vincent said to Tempest when they landed. “If you come back, we’ll practice takeoffs and landing. Then we’ll really have an air force.” A short time later, they thanked Vincent, and he left with no fuel to take back with him.

  Ten miles from the airport, the group ran into their first traffic jam. It wasn’t the pileup they had imagined it was going to be after listening to Vincent, but if they’d been driving in one of the hundred vehicles, they passed it would have been impossible to continue. Vincent made it seem as if mangled cars were piled five to six high for miles in every direction. Instead, hundreds of cars and trucks seemed to be parked haphazardly, most with doors still open and a few with open trunks. By the look of things, Franklin figured the emergency lanes were the first to fill up as people, still respectful of the police, attempted to remain on the right side of the law. However, as room near the bridge disappeared, people parked in whatever space remained, including the center of the road.

  “Is that a dead skunk?” Tempest asked, holding a hand over her mouth and nose as they approached the bridge.

  “Afraid not,” Paris said.

  “That’s the smell of rotting bodies,” Franklin said, moving to the edge of the bridge and peering into the creek. Gunilla and Paris followed suit. Tempest held back.

  “Oh my god,” Gunilla said, the only one capable of giving voice to what they all felt.

  Franklin studied the scene. In the creek, twenty feet below, hundreds of naked bodies, the owners, and passengers of the abandoned vehicles, lay in and around the water, bloated and decaying. Just like their cars, there seemed to be no logical reason for how they were arrayed. Why were some in the water and others on the bank? If there were only one or two, he could imagine they had passed out just short of their goal, but it looked like several dozen missed the mark.

  As part of his military special forces
training and as a way of trying to understand his enemy, he’d taken a class at the local university on fanaticism in religious terrorist organizations. To prove religious fanaticism wasn’t invented by people living in the Middle East, the first lesson was on the People’s Temple. In 1978, Jim Jones, a self-styled American religious leader, ordered his members to kill themselves. Nine hundred and thirteen people, 276 of which were children, drank cyanide-laced Kool-Aid. As part of the lecture, the professor showed a series of aftermath photos. The most memorable was an aerial photograph of a large metal white-roofed building that, at first, looked to be surrounded by a cascade of debris, the type of which you might find on a beach following a tsunami. When his mind finally accepted what his eyes were telling him, he realized the debris was several hundred dead bodies. The scene below reminded him of that photo.

  Like before, it was only when his mind accepted what his eyes were showing him, he puzzled out why so many never made it to the water hoping to quell the fire raging inside them. The corpses were not just lying near the bridge but as far up the creek as the summer foliage allowed the group to see. If the fall season ruled the land, he guessed he would see several hundred more bodies littering the forest floor.”

  “There must be another bridge upstream,” Franklin said.

  “What makes you say that?” Paris asked.

  “I think most of the bodies floated downstream from another bridge, maybe even from a bridge further upstream than that one,” he said. “It would account for why many of them are lying in the woods, half-buried in mud.”

  “It’s not deep enough,” Gunilla said. “It can’t be more than ankle deep.”

  “Not after a rainstorm,” Paris supplied.

  “I’m going,” Gunilla said. “This is too much.”

  “Vincent was wrong,” Paris said. “It wasn’t the fever that sent them to the water. That was part of it, but what really drove them was the thirst. I’ve seen people drinking sewer water. That’s how bad the thirst hits you.”