“Brandi, are you bitten?” Ben barked, frustration completely overtaking him.
“Yes, Daddy. What do we do?” she bawled, while pushing herself forward to fall into his arms. “Am I gonna die?” she cried, hysterically.
“No, no…let me take a look.”
Ben inspected the bite, which was already swelling and turning red. “She needs help, Lena. We have to get her to a doctor.”
“Yup, ’ere’s no tellin’ how much venom she got pumped into her. Big snake like ’at can do ’lot of damage,” Ray said, clueless he was not helping.
“Come on, we’ve got to go,” Ben ordered, already pushing ahead at a slow trot. However, the group did not immediately move, being somewhat stunned at the morning’s events.
Lena fell in behind Ben and motioned for the others to join them. Reluctantly they followed, matching the pace, only fully realizing their situation when Lena shouted, “Annie is already dead, we can’t lose another – catch up or die!”
Chapter 18
Christine’s long, blonde tresses had darkened over the years, turning brown at the roots while faintly hinting at the original color near the silken tips. Late in the afternoon she still wore the knee-length dress she’d chosen for Boyd’s funeral that morning. She and Cory walked along one of the many sidewalks, which ran from building-to-building, connecting friends and providing order. Though she was beyond thirty, her face suggested she was somewhat older. The past two years had been especially hard: her father’s health, vacillating between death and recovery, had nearly crushed her spirit and been a source of constant fatigue and stress.
For a time, they walked without speaking. More often than not they knew what the other was thinking, making words an unnecessary formality. Christine looked between them where their hands were clasped and smiled. “Do you miss them?” she asked.
“Who?” Cory replied, not realizing she was referring to his phantom digits.
“You know,” she said, nodding at their hands.
“Oh…sometimes, I guess. I’ve been so long without them I have a hard time remembering what it was like to have them. Does it bother you?” he questioned, stopping and lifting their knotted hands for closer inspection.
“Don’t be silly. Of course not, especially when we’re holding hands. It kind of reminds me of that horrible day,” she said, thinking back to the frightful events that led to Cory’s disfigurement, “but it also reminds me how you fought to save my dad and me.”
“Funny, I somehow remember you being the hero of that little battle.”
“Not hardly, in any case, I’m afraid there’s a bit of each of us buried in the past: for you it just happens to be fingers.”
Cory wrapped her in his arms and kissed her sweetly, before whispering how much he loved her. They parted and resumed their leisurely stroll, Christine reaching again to take his hand.
“Did you happen to see Dude and Holly this morning at the service?” she asked, matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I saw them. Why?”
Christine was surprised Cory had no more to say. “You didn’t notice?”
“Notice what? What are you getting at?” Cory replied, his voice rising to the challenge.
“Who do they remind you of? Anybody you know?” she teased.
“Why am I feeling like I’m being set up? Yes, I saw Dude and Holly and all The Normals. It was a hard day for them as well, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary. However, I suspect you’re going to point it out for me, right?”
“I can’t believe they don’t remind you of us.”
Cory slowed their pace, bewilderment setting in and confused by the direction the discussion had gone. “Us? How so?”
“You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking? You haven’t noticed the banter between those two? It’s so cute,” Christine said, smiling.
“What are you talking about – Dude and Holly are…are involved?”
“No, they’re not ‘involved’ in the way you’re thinking,” she said, shifting her smile to a quick frown. “They’re just exploring the whole boy-girl thing, and they reminded me of us, a decade ago.”
“I’m sorry, I guess I missed it. Are they old enough to…you know, be checking each other out?’
“Well, I for one find it refreshing to see a little romance around here,” Christine said, sarcastically.
“Oh, I’ll give you romance, Baby. Come here,” he said, bending her over and planting a wet kiss across her lips.
“Will you knock it off? I just thought it was sweet, that’s all.”
“Anything Dude, or Jeff for that matter, is up to wouldn’t surprise me. Have you seen what they’re doing in their spare time?”
“Let me guess – making pipe bombs,” she answered, placing an index finger alongside her temple.
“No, it’s not pipe…but wait, that’s what they should be doing. Good thinkin’, I’ll have them talk to Godfrey.”
Suddenly Christine was waving both hands frantically between them. “Hold up – you’re going to get me in big trouble with Allison. Don’t give those boys any ideas, especially if it involves Whitcomb.”
“Okay, alright, but what they are doing is building a miniature golf course. Can you believe that, of all things?”
“A miniature golf course – huh, that sounds like fun,” she suggested, returning her face to a gleeful grin.
Cory looked at her, unfazed by her enthusiasm. “Don’t you think they could find better things to do?”
“You mean like water, mow and tend a baseball field that gets used twice a year?”
“That’s different…that’s…ah…”
“That’s yours.”
“Precisely, and it…oh, crap, you win. Anyway, I wish I had as much energy as those two. They do make me laugh. Did you see Jeff at the game a week or two ago?” Cory asked.
“You mean the singing?” she replied.
Cory nodded before breaking into his own version of Sherry Baby, lifting his voice into an ear-splitting falsetto and dancing while he sang, “Sherry, Sherry Baby – Sherry, Sherry Baby – She-e-e-erry Ba-a-by – She-e-rry, can you come out tonight.”
“You’ve lost it,” Christine gushed, laughing loudly.
He continued for another moment, concluding with, “I’m gonna make you-a mi-yi-yi-yine.” He scooped Christine up and twirled her around before dipping in for a kiss.
“Now, I know you’ve lost it.”
“What’s lost was the game, and it’s no wonder, with that idiot singing and dancing around third base while we’re trying to bat. Where’d he learn that, anyway?”
“I think it’s a safe bet it wasn’t from Rod,” she replied, sending them both into a tither of laughter.
“Can you just imagine Rod singin’ that? Makes my side ache just thinkin’ about it,” Cory squeaked, between chuckles.
“Yup, you just never know what to expect from those boys. I hear they’ve started a motorcycle club,” she said, furthering a discussion of the youth’s exploits.
“Oh, you heard about that. Not so much a club as a gang,” Cory replied, snickering at his own joke. “Apparently Clayton was behind it – he’s Boss Hog or Hog Boss – something like that. Anyway, you know they’ve all been learning to ride over the past year or so. We’ve got them practicing a couple times a week at the stadium.”
“And how are they?” Christine inquired.
Taking a more serious tone, Cory replied, “Not bad. Some of them, including the girls, have got some real skills. It’s not often I agree with Clayton…”
Christine suddenly burst out laughing, again. “What? Not often you agree with Clayton? Did you just hear yourself?” she blurted out, the very idea breaking her up.
“Come on, I’m trying to be serious here for a minute,” Cory encouraged.
“Cory, you and Clayton finish each other’s sentences, and you practically live together when you’re not on duty. To suggest you don’t often agree is beyond funny.”
“Okay, I was just trying to give the poor guy some credit.”
“Well, then…proceed,” she finally said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“As I was saying, before you so rudely cut me off…” Cory continued, with sarcasm dripping thickly from his lips. “Having them learn to ride was a masterful idea and the club thing has cemented some comradery among the kids. It’s been fun to watch. When it comes down to…you know…the end, and they need to fend for themselves, they’ll have a way to escape.”
The mood suddenly turned much more serious, as the words took Christine by surprise. “Escape? What are you saying, Cory? This is the first I’ve heard of anything like this.”
Cory took his wife by the elbow and they began back down the sidewalk. “Have you got another few minutes before your dad wakes up?” Cory asked.
“I’m sure I do, the service this morning really wiped him out. What’s going on? Is there something I should know?” The joyful timbre in Christine’s voice was suddenly gone, replaced by sincere interest and concern.
“I don’t know, at least, not for sure. Just with Boyd dying and your dad being so sick, it’s got me thinking about us…the future…stuff like that.”
The inflection in his voice was different, and in an instant Christine knew something was wrong. “Cory, tell me if I’m crazy, but you sound…afraid, and that’s not like you.”
“Chris, this morning your dad said he knew Boyd was being welcomed into heaven by family and friends – how does he know that? How can anybody know that?”
“This really is troubling you isn’t it?” she asked, very concerned.
“It always has, but there’s something bad coming, Christine. I can feel it…and it’s not the battles or the fighting that scares me. I can handle myself and I’ll take care of you, but it’s the uncertainty.”
“Cory, listen to yourself. You just answered your own question.”
He stopped and looked at her, his puzzled expression searching for a further explanation.
“Okay, think about it. You said, you know something bad is coming. You don’t have any specific knowledge but you have a feeling. Right?”
“Exactly.”
“How sure are you?”
“I’d bet my last nickel we’re in for it,” he confirmed.
“It’s the same for dad and me. I don’t have anything specific that I can point to that tells me about heaven, but I’ve got a feeling, like you, that assures me it’s there, and we have loved ones waiting for us.”
“Simple as that?”
“No, I don’t think it’s simple at all. Although, I guess it starts out simple, like a seed, growing into something greater as you give yourself to God and it takes root, sprouts, and grows to fill your soul.”
“But I wish I could, like you say, feel it…know it. The uncertainty really does scare the crap out of me,” he expressed openly.
“It doesn’t have to be so, Cory. I know you’re not churchy, and I’ve never expected you to be, but you have a spirituality about you that is deep and abiding. Why do you think I fell for you so completely?”
“I thought it was my rugged good looks and overly positive impression I made on your father,” Cory mused.
“Not hardly,” she said, a narrow grin marking her pretty face. But seriously, the answers are there…if you’ll just tap into it,” she encouraged.
“You mean prayer?”
“Of course. It’s easier than you might think.”
“I’ve prayed,” he replied.
“I know, but I’m talking about times other than when somebody is shooting at you.”
“Well, it’s surprising how often that is. Sometimes I’m talking to the good Lord on a regular basis.”
She feigned a swift kick to his calf, before kissing his cheek gently. “The answers are there, my love, listen with your heart and not your mind and you’ll find peace. Come on now, let’s finish this walk and check on Dad.”
Chapter 19
Dry, gusting winds swept down the canyon and over The Ward’s compound. Trees that had survived the man-made destruction of the planet, arched against the onslaught, bending and then snapping to attention, as the gales ebbed and flowed. Sitting in a squared turret atop Old Main, a lone fighter braced himself against the tepid flurries, scanning the horizon for a single, telling landmark. Through a scoped rifle he peered north, down the street, over the stadium to a point well beyond The Alamo’s perimeter.
The sign he was looking for was there. “That was quick,” he muttered. He pulled his face away from the scope and blinked, rewetting his eyes against the wind’s assault. Cranking his neck to reposition himself behind the scope, he squinted to confirm that a drop had been made. Centered in the crosshairs was an innocuous street sign, angled and positioned, thus allowing him to read the black-on-white text – 700 East. Now what? he questioned, imagining his handlers were calling for another murder or an escalation against The Ward.
The evening before, just at sunset, he’d casually wound his way to the same spot in the pretense of needing a friendly word with the male sentry on duty. They’d laughed and talked about some of the local women before the mole borrowed the rifle and surveyed the surroundings. He did a complete 360, before resting the reticle on the same sign, which at the time read – 800 North. Sometime during the night the sapper had paid a visit, delivered a message and spun the street marker. Over his time with the people of Logan, the ploy had worked well, but a ‘drop’ always brought an element of danger and detection. However, he was up to the task.
His devotion never swayed, never compromised. He was loyal to Juanita Williams and none else, and if that meant dying to sustain her life and her vision, then so be it. The night’s venture was already taking shape in his mind: black face, black attire, combat knife and unshakable resolve. As always, he would wait for everyone but the sentries to be asleep, and then slip away from the campus to a remote mailbox. Getting out always seemed easier than returning. In his mind they should have been the same but random chance seemed to be against him when coming home. No matter, he’d deal with that as it arose. For now, he completed his shift, smiled, shook hands at the appropriate times and blended in. Fools, he thought, trusting fools.
Two grueling hours of waiting, with little to do, played with his mind and he was pulled back to Boyd’s face in death. The image was burned into his psyche: the pathetic cry for help, and then the light-of-understanding a millisecond before his life was forever extinguished. The mole, try as he might to conjure up some real emotion, had difficulty getting beyond the act as anything more than a job-well-done. He was a soldier in Juanita’s army and had fulfilled an order like any faithful soldier would do. He was pleased and proud of what he’d done but the image haunted him still.
Finally, as the time approached to retrieve his orders, he greased his face with black shoe polish and crept from his room. As he had done before, he moved with stealth and ease through the darkened buildings, pathways, and streets to his destination. Action at The Alamo was nearly unheard of, the peripheral roadblocks doing most of the fighting and the local sentries knew it. Over time, some had grown complacent and lackadaisical about their assignment, making the operative’s nightly missions more routine than dangerous. He expected tonight would be the same, but there was more in play than he realized.
At the mailbox, he withdrew a somewhat crumbled envelope and opened it quickly, ripping the end away and tossing it to the ground. He slipped out a folded sheet of paper and examined the text, having to tip it oddly to catch enough light to read. ’Good work – we’re preparing to attack the ward. Do what you can to make trouble. Coming from the north with heavy firepower but team of harvesters will need your help at campus outposts. Plan on 1 week from now – watch for flare as signal.’ It was initialed ‘W’, but with a strange arrowed circle drawn around the letter, the significance of which only the mole understood.
He grinned, before hastily chewing the note and swallowing
it down. That’s the last of those, he imagined, gagging the final piece over his tongue while wishing for a glass of water.
Staying well in the shadows, he glided from house to house, working his way back to his room. The reverberating, gentle hum of The Ward’s generators were now easily within range, as well as the lights they powered. Suddenly a backlit image hastened from one place of concealment to another, running hunched over with an obvious long-barreled weapon in his hands. Only a couple of possibilities existed in the mole’s mind, none played to his advantage. He bolted in pursuit, giving little thought for anything less than overcoming and neutralizing the threat.
They followed me, they know – it was the only logical answer and it spurred him on. As he ran, he slipped the sharpened blade from its hiding place; unafraid a random glint would give him away. It was too late for that, too late for anything but blunting the knowledge that would be his undoing. Unlike Boyd’s demise, one that he did without relish, he would enjoy this killing – he would enjoy it a lot.
He paused, his prey momentarily disappearing from view – but there he was, running the last, uphill leg before he’d be in the lights of the security post. He’s getting tired, he observed, picking up his own pace to close the distance. The two men charged up the steepening slope; Kirk losing ground and finally giving up. He spun, dropped on his behind and brought his blond-stocked rifle to bear on the spy. A gray backdrop of harsh shadows filled the view as the aggressor surged on.
Kirk fired an errant, misplaced round and scrambled for his side arm. He attempted to raise the pistol but it was too late – the mole’s knife easily penetrated Kirk’s shoulder until it struck bone. The injured Ward member wailed and called for help, not knowing if the warning shot was enough to save his life. The assailant straddled Kirk’s chest, pinning his back to the road.
“How?” he grunted, pressing his lips very close to Kirk’s face.
Kirk spat at him defiantly, further enraging the killer as he glanced up the road.
“Tell me,” he said, twisting the blade and grinding the tip against Kirk’s shoulder blade.
The Lasting Hunger Page 14
