“So?”
“So, she is pretty cute, but she’s just lost…” A sudden shift of the sheets slowed Jeff’s comment, and drew his attention to the eyes of a young girl whose heart was about to be broken.
* * *
“Well, that was one hell of a way to spend a night,” Cory grumbled, as he stood amongst friends who had battled the blaze. Like the others, his face was black and hair singed. Christine hugged his side before she slumped to the ground and leaned against his leg for support. “You okay?” he asked, running his darkened fingers through her matted hair.
“I don’t know,” she replied, coughing abruptly.
“You need me to get Remy?” Cory asked.
Another violent cough bent Christine to the ground before she was able to reply. “No…I’ll be okay…just need to get a good breath.”
Clayton stood nearby, also trying to clear his lungs of the smoke’s biting sting. “Where’s Scotty and Niel? I didn’t see them after the fire started.”
Cory looked beyond the small cluster of weary ‘firefighters’ and shook his head. “I don’t know, Man. Last I saw them they were hunting the killer – same as us.”
Another cough echoed at Cory’s ankles, drawing his attention to his exhausted wife. “They’re…they’re with Rod and Clark. I saw them a few minutes ago headed back into the quarters.”
Cory knelt and lifted Christine’s chin with his scarred hand. “You sure you’re okay? You’re getting awfully pale.” She nodded in the affirmative and inhaled deeply, causing tears to stream down her face. “I’m going for Remy…” Cory said, as he tried to pull himself free from her grasp.
“No, really…I just need to get a few good breaths. I’ll be fine. Find one of the guys and see what’s happening.”
“I can do that, Cor. You’ve got your hands full. They must still be looking for who did this,” Clayton suggested.
“Yeah, and if I ever get my hands on the lowlife piece of…” Christine suddenly shook violently, stopping Cory mid-sentence, in what was sure to be an expletive-filled tirade against their attacker.
“Can’t breathe…can’t…” Collapsing to the ground, she forced a last, grating wheeze between her lips before her eyes rolled back and her world went black.
“What now!” Cory shouted, lifting his wife to run for the infirmary.
* * *
“How many?” Clark asked, standing in the main hall where the fire had begun. Water, debris and a thick scent of seared flesh surrounded the small detachment of leaders who had ventured into the building to estimate the damage and loss of life.
“Can’t be sure…at least not yet,” Rod replied.
“He had us at every turn, and we still don’t know who he is,” Clark whispered sadly. The night had taken a toll on everyone, but Clark and Rod took the invasion personally. They knew the culprit was one of theirs – a guard – someone they had trained and trusted.
“It’s one man, Clark. We’ll get him,” Niel chimed in. “Scott’s going over the roster now. It won’t be long before we’ve got an idea of…”
Rod cleared his throat and stopped the younger man from completing his assessment by issuing a further, nagging question, “That’s fine, but…but how many died here…in this fire?” A trail of soot washed from Rod’s cheeks as he gestured to the chaotic mess at his feet.
An obvious, bitter silence hung in the air while each of the men fought with their own inner struggle to understand the wasteful loss of innocent lives. Bodies had been pulled from the flames – some burned but still alive – and yet others were scorched beyond recognition. The flames had been fed with more than just household goods and a cool night’s breeze – the intruder had used an accelerant, which had engulfed some before they had time to react.
“We can’t be sure, but…” Niel said, quietly
“But what? What is it, Niel?” Clark asked, emphatically.
“Well, we can’t be sure, but it appears as though some of the deceased were dead before the flames got to them.”
“They were murdered before the fire was set? Is that what you’re saying?” Rod pressed.
“Yes, and some of our security people are among the dead.”
“Who? Who did we lose?” Rod asked, the tone in his voice taking on a new timber.
“At least two, maybe three. The remains are so badly burned we can’t identify them yet. We’re waiting on Remy to give us a hand, but he’s too busy with the injured,” Niel replied.
“Understandable,” Rod sighed, heavily.
“Do you have any names?” Clark questioned.
“Again, we can’t be 100% sure, but we found remains in both Egan’s and Phil’s rooms.”
“What? Egan?” Clark said, finding the loss of such an astute sentry to be beyond belief.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. I’m no medic but I’d say somebody about took his head off before setting him ablaze – same was true of Phil as well,” Niel confirmed.
Just then, a hustling Scotty joined the men, waving a handful of documents. “We’ve narrowed it down to a couple of suspects,” he grunted between gulps of much needed air. “If the dead are who we think they are, there are only two people missing from campus – Dex and Heather.”
“The missing generator guard and a middle aged cook,” Rod quipped.
“Exactly,” Scotty concurred.
“My money’s on the guard, but why would he kill Ben, sabotage the generators, and start a fire? It makes no sense,” Clark said, rhetorically.
“We’re missing something. We have to be,” Rod hissed, while slamming the flat of his palm against a nearby wall.
“Scotty,” Clark said, tapping the young man’s chest, “you and Niel find those two – now! Use every resource and get the doc over here as soon as he’s free. I need to know these men are who we think they are.”
Chapter 33
Seconds reluctantly turned to minutes and then to hours for the hunted assassin. He’d moved from one shelter to the next, staying mere steps ahead of those who would have his head…if only they could find him. From a lofty vantage point he had watched them scour, search, and finally give up. Triumphant, he settled into a nearby house; whiling away the hours until the Harvesters arrived and he joined them.
Sleep, though elusive, arrived as the sun crested in the midday sky, while smoke still twisted its way to the heavens. He dreamt briefly, his thoughts walking him down a razor’s edge, dividing loyalty from deceit. Faces emerged, smiling and eager, against a bloodstained wall, which pulsed with each beat of his merciless heart. One-by-one they appeared, death masks taking their place in the recesses of his guiltless mind.
Suddenly a blond-haired boy appeared before him, his hands outstretched and arms wide. Confusion accompanied the welcoming gesture, causing the dreamer to stumble away from the lad, tripping and falling before he regained his balance to draw a pistol. Undaunted, the youth approached, his hands still yearning for an embrace, which would not come. Smiling, a somewhat knowing grin of understanding and acceptance, the boy continued to plead with his eyes. Forgiveness, the mole wondered, as he leveled his pistol and fired.
The assassin’s body jerked with the recoil of the phantom weapon, but peace would not come. Lead lazily dripped from the pistol’s muzzle, utterly impotent and ineffective. He drew his arm back and shook the useless firearm at the boy; somehow hoping the action would send death on its way. It did not, but the shells fell to the earth as if completely overcome by gravity’s insatiable pull.
Defenseless and unwilling to submit, the killer charged, screaming wildly to conquer and destroy Jeff. The two collided, entangling themselves in a mesh of thrashing arms and kicking legs. The boy’s smile was now fractured, replaced by an intensity the assassin had never seen…or felt. He bucked and fought for his life but there was no overcoming the strange power that held him still. In a final, all-consuming yearning to live, he summoned the courage to plead for his life…but the words would not come. Try as he might, the bi
tter anguish of his soul bound his tongue, even as a knife appeared and penetrated his heart.
Pain, the likes of which he’d rarely known, ripped him from his sleep and threw him to the floor. He gripped his chest, expecting to find ragged flesh and a heart torn asunder. However, not today…at least not yet. The dream was an omen, a sign. The boy, Jeff, must surely die.
* * *
Motorcycles rolled out at dusk, some riding directly south, while others rode east before turning toward Logan and their prize. Not far behind the reconnoitering cycles, the initial wave of barbaric Harvesters moved out, led by Finn. His recruits were well equipped and appropriately painted for the night’s work. Each black face was uniquely drawn, featuring highlights of gray to blend with the cemetery’s motif. The crew, numbering nearly 100, were not unlike disturbed, yet brilliant artists; savagery was their specialty, blood their medium, and fear their brush and blade.
Their sendoff had appeared nearly heroic, as Lady Williams and her forces cheered them to victory. For many of the bloodthirsty Harvesters it would prove to be the last clap of applause and adulation they would ever hear.
Juanita’s troops departed shortly thereafter, knowing they would need to be in place well before dawn. The first of The Ward’s perimeter blockades would need to fall before first light. She watched as truck, after beat-up truck, passed her position, loaded with her most faithful followers. Weapons bristled, while shouts of exhilaration filled the late night sky, and then she saw it, the means to The Ward’s destructive end…the Bradley Fighting Vehicle, mounted atop an eighteen-wheeler, which was moving south.
A shiver ran down Williams’ spine and goose bumps arose along her coarse, sunbaked skin. She imagined nothing but total victory in the next 24 hours. The mole had paved the way and her forces were truly ‘hungry’. She nodded at the crew of the Bradley as it rumbled by. They would be her spear; the unstoppable tip of an assault that would pierce and mutilate until there were none left to destroy. Confident that all were on their way, Juanita climbed into an open jeep and moved out. She brought up the rear with a loaded pistol in her hand – deserters would be punished with a harsh finality the leader knew how to deliver all too well.
Tonight, Lady Williams’ men and women were fighting for more than her. They were fighting for a chance…a chance to heal. Death and a bevy of fresh meat would satisfy many, but for those with an extended perspective, they knew the real prize was The Normals. Rumors had grown from twisted notions to absolute, fanciful fact over the past weeks and each warrior was determined to get their ‘pound of curative flesh’, even though Juanita had warned against such selfish behavior. However, she was sure she could control the carnage and retain enough Normals to breed her own steady supply of untainted victuals.
The thought brought a snarled grin to her upturned lips and she growled a surly order to her driver, “It begins. Get me there in one piece, you idiot.”
* * *
“What are we missing?” Clark asked the leaders surrounding a large table on the upper floor of Old Main. He paused, taking note of the candles, which had been hastily arrayed about the room. They danced and flickered, creating a tapestry of ever-changing shadows across the walls. Each annoying shift in illumination was a nagging reminder of their current, dismal situation, and he grunted something inaudible as a sign of his discouragement.
The day had been hectic, with little rest for any of those seated at the meeting. The hunt for the missing Ward members had gone on for hours, and there was still no finite resolution to the quandary. Dex and Heather were still unaccounted for, perplexing Rod, Clark, and the rest.
“We’ve looked at this from every possible angle…haven’t we?” Allison chimed in.
“Yes, I’m sure we have, but why? Why would one of our own do this?” Cory blurted out, unable to control his frustration, as fatigue and worry tempted to fray his remaining ounce of rational calm.
“To weaken us,” Rod quipped. “I think we can all agree that it’s part of a bigger plan. These are not the actions of a serial killer, but are the deliberate moves of someone trying to subvert our security and undermine our freedom.”
Clark stood and circled the table, all the while tapping his thumb atop the butt of his hip-slung pistol. “Rod’s quite right, but how does Dex…I mean we’re talking about Dex here. I can’t see him being the mastermind behind such an elaborate plot. Can any of you?” he asked, incredulously.
Heads shook around the table but ultimately everyone’s eyes fell on Remy. The doctor appeared nothing shy of bone-tired. His eyes were red, seated deeply against dark lids and gaunt features. The day had almost killed him, running from one chaotic disaster to the next, as he desperately tried to minimize the loss of life and comfort the dying. Oft times, Godfrey was there to assist with the medical relay of information but he couldn’t be bothered tonight. His mind had been awhirl of fresh ideas and he had worked feverishly throughout the day to concoct a more simplified, hormonal-based solution to their vitamin deficiency and health-related concerns.
When it became obvious the others were expecting him to speak, Remy cleared his voice and tried to vocalize his thoughts. He stammered, only letting loose a cough-laced string of inaudible syllables. He deftly apologized, taking a moment to point at his throat as the source of his dilemma. The tissue had been so adversely affected by all the yelling and smoke that each word elicited its own unique brand of searing torture and pain. Yet, he pushed on, describing the results of his body count and hospital internment.
“We lost too…too many fine people today,” he squeaked. “The remains, as you all know, are beyond recognition for some and it’ll take me a few days to sort…”
“But doctor, we need to know who we’re dealing with. We need to know…” Clark interjected, before others around the table began talking over one another, while Dr. Reynolds remained hushed and reserved.
“Remy, don’t you grasp the seriousness of our situation? We’ve a madman…”
Suddenly the doctor stood and slammed his hand down on the table, silencing all those who were within earshot. “Nobody knows the precarious nature of our position more than me. Cory, you more than any other person at this table, should know what my day has been like. I’m sorry, but I’ve concentrated on the living and not the dead!” As if finally overcome by fatigue, Remy slumped back in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.
Peace once again filled the space while only the doctor’s muted sobs rose above the restored quiet. Cory was the first to move, sliding from his own chair to kneel at Remy’s side and beg his forgiveness. He owed Remy his all, coming to his aid when Christine had succumbed, and he was not alone. There were too many to count who had sought out Remy’s compassionate care and not been turned away. His day had been full and his spirit was now spent.
“Dr. Reynolds – Remy, I…we are sorry. It’s been a bleak day for all of us, but for none more than you. What can we do to help you? Surely, there are some needs we can meet.”
Remy raised his tear-stained face and whispered a noiseless thank you, nodding to those around the table. “I’ll be fine,” he confirmed. “After a few hours of rest, I’ll be okay…and I’ll take a closer look at the corpses in question.”
“That’s all we can ask,” Rod concurred. “Clark, do you have anything further for Remy?”
“Nope. I think we can send him back to the infirmary,” Clark replied.
Allison stood to meet the doctor on his way from the room. “Remy, get some sleep. I’ll get a few women to rotate through the hospital to give you a break and I’ll stop by after we’re done here.”
The kind words were enough to crack the masked façade Reynolds had harbored all day. He pulled Allison into a tight hug and wept openly. Too tired to be ashamed and too weak to care, his body shook and the tears flowed.
Such anguish was not new to any of those in the room, but it was unlike Remy to display his grief so freely. He was uniquely acquainted with death and at times seemed imm
une to the heartbreak and anxiety that destroyed those around him. However, his pillow and bedroom walls knew better. They had been the silent observers of a man’s inner struggle to cope, overcome, and carry on. His tears had come often and in abundance; thousands shed for every, single life lost to disease and cruel, unwarranted violence.
Slowly, Remy came to himself, excused his display of unabashed emotion and shuffled from the room. The scene had caught nearly everyone by surprise, wetting eyes while reminding everyone of the connections they shared and the commitment they had to one another.
“There’s little more we can do tonight,” Rod said, looking directly at Clark. “We’ve doubled the guards, put every living soul on alert, and tended to the injured. We need some sleep.”
“Agreed. I’ll drop by and see how the mechanics are making out with the generators. Hopefully, they have some good news. Get to your rooms and follow through with your assignments. Let’s meet tomorrow morning for a quick chat and see what a new day brings,” Clark suggested.
All heads nodded in the affirmative and the meeting was adjourned.
“They’re coming. You’ve got to know that,” Cory said, pulling both Clark and Rod aside before they had a chance to leave the room.
“Of course they are,” Rod agreed. “But who, and how many…heaven only knows. We’ll do what we’ve always done. We’ll batten down the hatches, rely on our defenses and pray God is watching.”
“I hope that’s enough,” Cory said, before shaking his friends’ hands and leaving to check on Christine.
Clayton had waited on the grass, just outside Old Main, for Cory to emerge. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I think we’re in a world of hurt. You?”
“Same thing.”
“I’m gonna check on the bishop and my wife – then we head out,” Cory whispered, leaning close to his friend’s ear. “Get your stuff, paint your face, and meet me on the north wall near the pens. Whoever is out there…I think we need to pay them a little visit.”
The Lasting Hunger Page 22
