Tonight was not the first time she’d struggled to sleep, nor would it be the last. There would be hours and days for rest later, after she’d proven her dominance and taken the West. The Ward was in her sights – she could almost see the victory and taste their blood. What’s missing? What have I forgotten?
Earlier in the day she had gone over the plan of attack with Finn and the others who would lead the assault. They were confident in a sure, overwhelming annihilation of the banded, little community, however, that was not entirely what Juanita wanted. She needed converted followers and warriors, but most of all, what she craved were The Normals. Williams rubbed at her temples, trying to massage away a migraine she knew was imminent. Why can’t they see it? she pondered silently, before she whispered the answer without having to think. “Because they’re morons.”
She chuckled to herself, knowing what she had said was true. Still, she needed them. What good was an army without soldiers? Nevertheless, she sensed it coming: the violence, the aggression, and the wanton bloodlust that would overtake some of her troops once the fighting began. What more can I do? She had talked, warned, and threatened…but to what end? “At least spare the children, you idiots,” she breathed, the request oddly sounding like a prayer.
A sudden swirl of wind sucked the overhanging curtains through a gap in the open window, making them flap for a second outside before dropping against the exterior of the old farmhouse. They were faded, and the hems were uneven and frayed, but they reminded Juanita of herself; weathered but not worn out, moved by the wind but not pulled from their anchors, bantered about and whipped but not damaged in the end. She, like the drapes, would endure the winds of change and remain fixed in her resolve…regardless of who had to pay the ultimate price.
Her thoughts drifted to her mole, and she grinned. He was one who had paid…and paid…and continued to pay. She saw him in her mind’s eye, an image from long ago that further lifted the corners of her mouth into a broad smile. Yet, it did not last. It was quickly replaced with a series of murky, repressed snapshots from several months before. She stood, and walked to the window to pull the curtains back inside, hoping the act would negate her thoughts. It did not. Juanita leaned heavily against the lower frame and thrust her head into the passing breeze. “No, no. It had to be done,” she said, battling the demons that ate at her soul.
For a moment, and without thinking fully, she looked over her shoulder and began to call, “Annie,” but stopped, allowing the name to linger ever so slightly on her lips, before she spat in the mud just outside the house. “I hope you’re dead, you miserable…” The thought of those who had escaped her compound a few days before continued to fester in the pit of her stomach, and she retched in their absence. Their time was coming…if they hadn’t already paid for their stupidity with their lives. Lady Williams suddenly realized her headache was gone, and the barbaric images vanished with it. Ah, she thought, better than aspirin – and she was right – rage always seemed to work wonders for her disposition and general sense of wellbeing.
* * *
Dozens of miles away, Jeff lay awake, his mind reeling from the day’s events. Some painkillers he’d taken shortly before retiring had numbed his thoughts and sent him off to sleep, but a gnawing, throbbing ache had woken him only hours later. Cupping the bandage at his jawline, he quickly recoiled his hand as he felt the spongy gauze ooze under the pressure. “Ooh, that can’t be good,” he whispered, while trying to examine the moisture on his palm.
The teen quickly rubbed his hand clean against his t-shirt and placed both hands behind his head. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, extending his lower jaw to test the limits of the pain that had wrestled him from an awkward dream. What was it? he questioned, pushing his mind to recall the surreal images that his subconscious mind had conjured. Unable to remember, Jeff kicked at the bedding, which loosely held him bound, and swung his legs over the side of the narrow mattress. Again, he dabbed at the bloodstained bandage with a single finger, before standing and walking to a nearby window.
The night air, though still warm, felt good against his damp, sweat-covered skin, and he inhaled deeply. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the shapes and shadows of the familiar landscape below. He had stood at the same window hundreds of times, imagining his future amidst a world of chaos. Exhaling slowly, his mind was suddenly alive with sights and sounds – muzzle flashes arced in his mind’s eye – so real they pushed him to take cover below the window’s ledge.
It’s not happening…it’s not real, he mentally shouted, against a backdrop of whistling bullets and exploding primers. The words played through his mind over and over until the scene was once again calm and he dared to open his eyes. “It’s not real. I knew it. It’s not real,” he finally uttered, with just enough volume to assure himself he was awake.
Boob reflected on the day and his friend, Dude, which caused him to smile. “Ouch!” he barked, as the grin caused the stitches to rub against his tender, swollen flesh. Slowly his thoughts returned to the ditch, and the mayhem. He sniffed the arid, stagnant air of his room; quite sure a remnant of smoke and used gunpowder lingered there. “He’s a good friend…and I almost got him killed.” The words seemed final, resolute, but somehow…someway he knew what they had done was right and necessary.
Why had they lived? he wondered. The odds were certainly against them. They were easily outgunned, outmatched in experience and numbers, but still they had overcome. “But why?” he asked, standing to look back into the night’s sky.
Because you listened, came a hushed, quiet, inaudible voice that sent a shiver up Jeff’s spine.
Try as he might to hear the utterance again, he could not. The moment had passed and his mind returned to the empty room, his sore jaw, and Brandi.
“That’s it!” he grunted quietly. “I knew I was dreaming about somebody.”
Brandi had been among the people they had rescued. At the time he had paid her little attention, and she him, as they both dealt with the pain of their unique injuries, but now, in the quiet of his room, Jeff remembered her sweet face and large, oval eyes. Conversation between the two had been limited, yet Jeff had felt something…a genuine connection that mystically bound his life to hers. Perhaps it was tied to the fact they were both hurt, or that fate had thrown them together against all odds, but still, regardless of the reasons, Jeff sensed a degree of responsibility for Brandi’s wellbeing.
While in the infirmary, he had listened to the girl’s suffering, catching a glimpse of her through a parted sheet that separated her from where he was having his jaw stitched and dressed. Her leg looked bad; not like anything he’d seen, and even now, as he reflected on her condition, it made him feel faint.
Inhaling, he filled his lungs with oxygen and then blew it out slowly. It was a technique Allison had taught him to avoid passing out. Boob was scared of very little, but the sight of seeing someone else hurt always made him a bit wobbly in the knees. I wonder how she’s doing, he thought, angling his view through the window to see if he could make out the ground floor of the ‘hospital’.
On tiptoes, he lifted himself to visibly catch the corner of the building across the grassy expanse. “Crap.” He dragged a chair to the opening and stood upon it for a better look. “That’s more like it,” he quipped, now having a less obstructed view of the moonlit surroundings. A single light, mounted high on a pole near Old Main, shone on the flat, sun-scorched grass, casting shadows up the yellow-bricked walls of the makeshift infirmary. The glass of the entry doors reflected a dull yellow from the overhead light, which glimmered ever so slightly from its lofty perch.
What appeared to be a single candle flickered behind a drawn set of near-opaque, window curtains, which flanked the entrance to the left. She’s there, he imagined, pressing his face closer to the window. Suddenly, a fleeting shadow obscured the meager light, forcing Jeff to nearly topple from the chair. “What was that?” he stammered, noting the moving figure now blocking a portion of the reflecti
ve light coming from the surgery’s entrance. “There’s somebody there. A sentry?” he questioned, trying to imagine who might be prowling the grounds at such a late hour.
No…no…can’t be a sentry. There’d be two of ’em. Jeff tussled with the quandary for only a moment before the unknown intruder slipped through the door and vanished from sight. “Now, what do I do?” He wanted to burst from his room and run screaming across The Quad, but was held back by the thought that perhaps it was only Remy returning to check on his patient. Still, the boy could not draw his eyes from the dim candle, dancing and flickering so far away…and then it was gone…extinguished.
* * *
Inching his way along the north side of the library, the mole stayed to the shadows, his senses alert and knife poised to strike. He suddenly crouched and strained to overhear the conversation of two passing security personnel. They talked in hushed tones, but it was obvious they were discussing Ben and his small band. As their voices grew louder, the killer’s muscles tightened, preparing to burst forth and strike the first deadly blow. However, the dialogue continued uninterrupted, the guards oblivious to a threat that would have easily taken their lives.
The mole lingered until he was sure the sentries had rounded the corner and continued on their way. Twenty minutes…I’ve got twenty minutes. He knew it was plenty of time to complete his task but wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. Following one last look for assurance, he hastened from the dim cover and bolted for the infirmary’s entrance. At the doors he panted lightly, calming his nerves before he dared enter. He peered through the thick glass door and looked for movement, but could see none. He imagined where she would be. He was more than familiar with the layout, having spent some time there himself.
She’ll be to the left, he thought, knowing he could be in and out in seconds if fate would hold out for just another minute. His heart beat a steady rhythm against his thick chest wall, the sound pumping and thumping in his head and ears. He sucked a deep breath into his expansive lungs and eased it out, thus helping him to focus. Gripping the knife tightly with his right hand, he pulled at the door’s handle and quickly darted inside.
The air reeked of disinfectant, which stopped the intruder momentarily, sending his mind into a tailspin of repressed memories and unforgotten pain. He shook his head and squinted into the darkness, compelling himself to shake it off and complete his mission.
The idea of stalking and killing the injured girl had come to him shortly after exiting his apartment. She was the perfect…logical target. What would create a sense of distrust among the newcomers like a well-orchestrated bloodbath at his hands? There would be panic, immediate loss, and uncertainty instilled in the hearts of those who had just arrived. They would certainly not be eager to stay or fight for The Ward’s cause.
He slid from the main entry to the first doorway to his left. A candle’s flame stood sentinel over a single sleeping form in the nearby bed. Two quick, quiet steps brought him to within striking distance of Brandi, who slumbered well beyond a sense of reality, thanks to a couple of very strong painkillers. The mole leaned in, placing his cheek a finger’s width from the sleeping girl’s nose. He recoiled quickly when he felt a warm, moist puff of air exit Brandi’s nostrils. Good, she’s alive. The irony of that thought was not lost on the assassin, as he fought the urge to wake his victim before severing her head. The look in her eyes would be memorable; one he could recall later as he relived the murder and licked the blood from his knife.
Seconds ticked by, and then a full minute as he formulated his escape route and cover story. The killing would cause a greater commotion than Kirk’s murder and he had to be prepared. Take her life, methodically move with stealth back to his room and wait for the human outcry and emotional explosion. The idea brought a broad grin to his blackened face.
Holding the knife high above his head with both hands, he prepared to strike, knowing it would take tremendous energy and force to take her head cleanly, without having to saw it off. There would be a great deal of blood and he wanted to do it right. He shifted his weight a few inches to get the exact angle needed, and looked one last time from the blade to the young girl’s neck. Inhaling deeply he…
“Yeah, yeah…I’ll make sure she’s okay. Give me a sec,” Ben called behind him, as he tried to find his way in the dark to Brandi’s room. He used the faint, yellow hue coming from the candle to guide his steps, but suddenly it bent against an unseen wind and vanished.
“Who’s there?” he shrieked blindly, but the eyes of evil could not be shrouded by the pitch of night and they were coming for Ben.
* * *
Jeff held his breath, transfixed on a series of unseen images that flashed through his mind. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed his being, freezing him in place while holding his imagination captive. Run…get help, his mind shouted, but he could not move. Suddenly, the point of his fixation burst open, regurgitating two fighting figures from the belly of the infirmary. “I knew it,” Jeff screamed, as he scrambled away from the window and ran for his father’s room.
“Dad, Dad…the infirmary…they need help,” he repeated more than once, before bolting down a darkened stairway, intent on catching a killer before another life was taken. The young man gripped his pistol tightly, as he bounded from step-to-step, hurriedly working his way to the ground floor. Once there, he slammed his weight against the metal bar that held the door secure and ran for The Quad.
Each step brought Jeff closer to the altercation, yet faint shouts and muffled grunts were all that connected him to the scene. Reaching the edge of the library, he drew the 9mm’s action back, bringing a live round into the chamber. His heart beat wildly against his ribs and he struggled to regain his composure…but there was no time…no time to be afraid.
It was then he noticed something had changed – it was quiet. “I’m too late,” Jeff gasped, as he turned the corner and ran for the hospital. Captured in a ghostly haze of moonlight and dim, incandescent lighting, a figure was bent over another, savagely thrusting and stabbing with a large knife.
At 100 feet, Jeff halted, raised his weapon and shouted a command, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” The figure raised its head, and in a single motion stood, jerking the blade from where it was lodged in the man’s chest. Jeff reiterated his command, “Do not move – I will shoot you.” Unfazed by the lad’s threat, the mole took two deliberate but slow sidesteps, bringing him in direct line between Rod’s son and the girl’s room. “Halt!” Jeff repeated, while pointing his pistol skyward and firing a single shot.
Like a starting pistol beginning a race, the blast pushed the assailant to action and he ran for his life. Jeff leveled the pistol but dared not shoot, at least not until there was no chance of a stray bullet hitting Brandi or anyone else in the hospital. He aimed carefully, releasing a volley of well-placed shots in the general direction of the attacker’s path, but knew they were unlikely to score a direct hit – too dark and too far for any certainty.
Seconds later The Quad was alive with sights and sounds. Rod hovered over Jeff, who had made his way to Ben, just in time to hear the final, gross gurgle of life fade from his lungs.
“Dad…I saw him. I saw him do it…but I couldn’t…I couldn’t stop him.”
Rod knelt at his boy’s side. “You did what you could. We’ll get him. What can you tell me? Did you recognize him?”
Jeff sat back on his haunches and closed his eyes, trying to replay the character’s face and figure. “It’s so dark and he was painted.”
“Painted? You mean his face was blackened?”
“Yeah, but it was a guy. I’m sure of that. He was too big to be a woman.”
The clatter of a door swinging wildly open diverted the pair’s attention away from Ben, as Lena ran crying through the doorway, wailing Ben’s name. “He was checking on Brandi,” she shrieked. “Who? Why? Who would do this to my Ben?”
Chapter 30
A single gunshot roused Whitcomb from a recurrent dream of mashed
potatoes, accompanied by a thick, juicy porterhouse. He could almost taste the distant memory, and contemplated trying to get back to sleep to savor it more fully, but was jolted to the harsh reality of his circumstances by a volley of uninterrupted blasts from a small caliber weapon. He dove from the warm comfort of his bedding, grabbed his own revolver and ran for The Quad. The noise had no doubt come from the open area, which was very close to the lab he maintained and the small makeshift apartment he called home.
Running from the building, his white boxers flapped in the wind against thighs that were taut but thin. His gangly, almost awkward gait was exaggerated by the lack of clothing and hurried nature of his charge. The British scientist generally avoided conflict, but with gunshots so close to home he felt compelled to protect what he saw as his…his turf so to speak.
Over a period of years, more than he wanted to count, he had lived in the laboratory he had created with his own hands. He knew every beaker, vial, and testing instrument he had scavenged from the surrounding university and community. Many of the menial pieces of equipment he had named, making his work more personal, as most days he was the only one engaged in searching for a cure to their most pressing malady. In recent days he had focused on The Normals and the blood and tissue samples he had collected with Dr. Reynolds’ help. The two were fast friends and shared a love of science and discovery. They understood one another, sharing a common mindset and goal; giving their all to save their friends.
The Lasting Hunger Page 20
