Days Since...: Thomas: Day 758 (Almawt Virus Series Book 1)

by Robert Wilson

  James, on the other hand, didn't stir, nor did the stranger. How the hell are they sleeping? He continued to collect thoughts from the darkness around him, reflecting on the day and the lives he had stolen.

  He pictured their faces—that couple in the train yard was simply trying to survive, likely scared because of what may have happened in the past, completely unaware that there were people in the world who wanted to improve it, not solely to take advantage of it. If given the chance to explain, to speak with them and lay out the possibilities of a better life, maybe then they could have been saved.

  But of course it didn't appear that way to them. Thomas and James were well armed, unlike others they may have encountered before. The deceased husband was simply trying to protect his wife, thinking of her first and the horrors that James may have wished to inflict upon her. In his mind, it must have been better to take a shot than to wait and see the intentions of this stranger. Was it a last ditch effort or a false sense of confidence in their abilities? Either way it was an underestimation of their adversaries that left them both dead in the yard—two lives lost that didn't have to be.

  The two of them weighed no more heavily on his mind than James’s actions, perhaps even less so, at least they were dead and would no longer contribute to his stress. It was James, this child in a man's body—selfish and inconsiderate—that would continue on with him. As if there weren't already enough pressures in Thomas’s own trial, but now to babysit James, to hold his hand through his process.

  From the start, Thomas knew that James would be trouble. How he traipsed into the room, tossing his shit about and crashing into his favorite chair. How he walked around the apartment as if he owned the place. No respect for anything, and then to step way past the line and suggest that he give up Joseph. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. His only cares in the world seemed to be for himself. Of course, contradicting that was his lack of regard for his own life. His stupidity in the yard, not listening to Thomas to wait it out, deciding he knew best, that rushing in was the answer. James knew better—patience had worked well in numerous instances for them in Syria.

  Then it hit him. Maybe James was part of this. Maybe attaching him to this mission itself may have been another test involved in the trial. It wasn't a complete secret that Thomas held disdain for James and his antics. Some of those in the Second Alliance had also served with them in Syria. If Thomas could prove that James could be kept in line, effective and loyal to what needed to be done, then—

  His thoughts were interrupted as James’s foot slipped from one of the chairs where he slept. Thomas flashed him with his light. James grumbled something before propping his leg back on the chair and dozing off again. He’s still asleep, lucky bastard. Thomas tiptoed around James and cracked the door to the supply closet. Thomas flashed the prisoner with the light. The mask puffed in and out from the angle of his nose. Of course, this guy’s sleeping like a baby too. Better than him trying something else… I wonder what his story is. This reckless… teenager?

  Thomas couldn't pinpoint the age, and to be honest, it didn't truly matter. Age was mostly trivial. It was experience, courage, and survival instinct that mattered. It was the actions of an individual that made them a man. And the actions of this infiltrator showed every indication of one—clever in his decision to lure them in with the lantern, but a novice in his execution of the opportunity he had made for himself. Although he was not of any significant size, had he prepared his ambush rather than acting brazenly, he may have gotten the better of the two. The fact that he didn't have a gun was astonishing. Luck.

  Thomas sighed, his interest in this personal inquisition began to wane. He secured the door to the supply closet and crept back past James. He leaned back in his chair and flicked his flashlight on and off as he had been most the night. James’s face was still free from expression, eyes closed, enjoying the rest that Thomas deserved. I'm driving myself crazy with this shit. He marched out into the library to grab a book.

  He hadn't noticed that night was now morning. The windows were beginning to allow a trickle of sunlight into the library, but it wouldn't be enough for reading. He decided on the sure thing and went to grab the lantern. He took it and meandered through the stacks, his fingers walking across the tops of the books. Occasionally, he would pull one slightly from the shelf, glance over the cover then nudge it back into its place.

  Eventually, Thomas recognized a book his father used to share with him when he was younger. He held it within his grip while a sense of childhood nostalgia swept over him. Aesop’s Fables. Dad, you always liked to crack this open when I did something stupid. He sat at one of the round tables in the middle of the room. The wooden chair let out a deep groan and crackled a bit more as he scooted himself in. He laid the thick book in front of him and parted the pages. How appropriate. A picture of a hare and tortoise racing—he couldn’t help but think of James. He dimmed the lantern to a comfortable glow and began reading softly to himself.

  It was a quick read, and once finished, he gazed across the room to James—to the hare. He was the hare—cocky and unable to see that his confidence would be his undoing. Nothing was a given. The rules were simple. All they had to do was cross the finish line. It didn't matter how they did it. What mattered was that it was completed. Slow and steady, methodical, and that would get them there. It didn't have to be at a break-neck pace—a pace that would eventually get one of their own killed. Thomas hoped that James was finally seeing that.

  He started the next story, but his eyes were finally becoming heavy enough for sleep. Reading typically had this effect on him. Should’ve done this earlier, damn it. He could already tell it was going to be a long day, periodically checking the minute hand’s crawl toward 10:00 between long blinks and paragraphs.

  His head snapped back from a quick doze—the sound of James’s boots crunching the bits of glass broke the silence.

  “Must have been nice,” Thomas said.

  “Huh?” James groaned as he stretched, taking a look around the office, trying to locate Thomas. “What do—” He peered under the conference table. “Where the hell are you?” He finally located him through the broken window in front of him. “What’d you say?”

  “Must’ve been nice sleeping all night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” Thomas closed his book. “Too much on my mind after that dipshit decided to come at us.”

  James gave a light chuckle. “Who? Your boy in there?” He thumbed over his shoulder to the supply closet. “That guy's nothing.”

  Thomas carried the lantern into the office then shut it off before setting it on the table. “I’ll go ahead and get him out of there.”

  “Need some help or do you have it?” Without an answer, James took to rooting through his rucksack as Thomas rounded the corner.

  “Get off me!” Thomas dragged the prisoner from the supply closet. “Just stay here and shut it!” He propped him against the wall, taking a quick check over the man’s bindings to ensure nothing had changed from last night. “Make sure he doesn’t do— James!”

  He looked up from his rucksack.

  “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

  “Got ya.”

  Thomas began sorting through his own belongings in between glances toward James and the prisoner. James pulled the remaining moonshine the medic had given him from his bag. He stripped the old bandage off, sucked in air at the sting of the alcohol, and then covered the wound with the cleanest piece of t-shirt he could manage.

  James’s lips began to move.

  “If you’re talking to me, I can’t hear you.” Thomas spoke up.

  “No…” James stood quickly, the makeshift bandage hanging freely, his face registered guilty. “I was only talking shit to the guy.”

  “Is he you’re buddy now?” He glared at James. “He doesn’t get shit from us, not even conversation.”

  “No big deal. I got you.”

  �
��He gets nothing. Remember when he attacked us? Remember when he tried to kill me?”

  “You’re the boss.” James put his hands out to try and settle Thomas down. “I’m not trying to start shit with you, man. I just want to get this show back on the road.” James averted his eyes from Thomas, changing focus to the prisoner—the black hood slumped into the nook of his shoulder. Strong breaths puffed the hood in and out. “I don’t even know if this guy’s awake. I was just talking shit, seriously.”

  Thomas couldn’t help but feel that he had finally broken James’s spirit. He folded easily now, unwilling to argue or fight back. “Just…” Thomas took a softer tone. “Don't start getting cozy with him.”

  “I'm not. I don't give two shits about this guy.” James applied his boot to the inside of the prisoner’s knee. “Wake up!”

  A muffled grunt and the prisoner thrashed about, kicking at James’s boot with his free leg. James removed his foot and backed away.

  “He can die for all I care.”

  “We’ll see what the higher-ups want to do with him,” Thomas said, “but for now he stays here. It'll be too risky to move him.”

  James dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes.

  “You already know what I’m going to say?”

  “I’ll sit here with him. That’s fine.” James cleared his throat. “I got no problem with that… You give any thought to me going on the camp thing?”

  “Yeah, I thought it over.”

  “And?”

  “Even though, you’ve been pissing me off—”

  “I’m on my best, man. You know I—”

  “Even though, you’ve been pissing me off…” Thomas waited to see if James would cut him off again before continuing. “I can’t do it alone, so you’re in, but you listen to me.”

  “Sounds good. You won’t regret it.” James put his fist out, and Thomas gave him an unenthusiastic tap with his own.

  “I'm going to get the rest of the crew and bring them here for the briefing. Obviously, finding this guy was unexpected, so we have to adjust our plans.”

  James nodded.

  “No surprises for when I get back. That goes for you too.” Thomas tapped the prisoner's shin with his boot. “Roll over!” But he refused to budge. Thomas took him by the shirt and jerked him onto his stomach. He checked the restraint—arms tied—it appeared he had made no effort to remove it. He could feel the cloth gag underneath the hood. “Good. We going to have any more trouble out of you?”

  Muffled laughter. He wriggled himself back to his seated position against the wall.

  “I swear to God, James. You don't need to talk, touch—nothing with this guy.” Thomas said. He took a small revolver and a discrete holster from his bag, checked the gun’s cylinder to ensure it was loaded, and shoved the holster into his waistband. “Just make sure he‘s here in one piece when I get back. They’re going to want to talk with him. Hell, we might need to go at him before we head into camp too. The kid probably knows something useful.”

  …

  Thomas popped the hatch. A gust of wind passed over him, pushing down into the maintenance room. He exhaled the remainder of the stale air from inside his lungs and stole a deep breath of fresh air from the morning. Very few rays of sunshine bent their way through the dull overcast and onto his face. He stepped out onto the roof and scampered off behind the air conditioning units. He looked out across the park as he did the day previous, reassessing the situation, ensuring that nothing substantial had changed.

  Two guards were at the post, both of them spooning something into their mouths from a can, ignoring the line of a few desperate men standing just off the service road. As the last spoonful was finished and the can landed in the grass off to the side, one of the guards shouted, “Alright!” and slapped his hands across his thighs. His partner removed himself from behind the fortification and onto the sidewalk.

  One by one the line of travelers lurched forward. Each man had their turn. Their tributes inspected—their bodies patted down—any weapons they had were taken from them and pitched into a pile on a cart behind the barricade. This group presented nothing more than a trail of desperate men willing to give up whatever imperative goods they had for a few minutes of pleasure—a fool’s march for primal desires—the reason for their wicked pilgrimage.

  Through his observations of the park, it seemed most of the travelers were barely armed—a few pistols and one shotgun were confiscated by the guard. He felt comfortable with what he saw. The Butcher’s men were doing a thorough job of clearing them of their weapons. It would only make the scouting operation inside the camp safer. The likelihood of something getting out of control and deteriorating into gunplay would be significantly reduced. If the Butcher was a shrewd enough businessman, he’d recognize the need to keep his own men under control. Not that Thomas would underestimate the risk, but this venture may not be as parlous as first imagined.

  Time still remained before the morning rendezvous. He squared his back against the large A/C unit and stared out away from the madness behind him—taking in this portion of the world that appeared unchanged. Peaceful. A perfect view of the world he knew before. Some of his best years were spent here. Mournful thoughts entered his mind, upset that he had never really taken the time to appreciate how good he had it. How many things were taken for granted and never truly enjoyed and respected? I have to stop doing this. There’s no changing any of it. It’s all a waste of time. Focus… Get this damn mission finished.

  He eased himself from the roof and into the courtyard before letting his mind wandered too far off into hypotheticals. He rounded the corner, choosing the stairs along the south end of the building where his movements would be shielded from the camp. His hand slid the banister as he descended into the lowest level of the parking garage adjacent to the college.

  What cars remained within the structure were beat up, windows busted, their contents spilled. Things deemed useless lay across the concrete—book bags, clothing, a few empty cans of beer and a baseball cap—a trail of items dropped in thieves' haste led toward the stairwell. His feet moved adeptly through this minefield of trash, then quietly up a few flights until he reached the ground level exit.

  The doorway led to an outdoor corridor. One lined with trees and mulch beds—the fresh smell of manure long since gone. He pressed his back against the wall, taking his time, confirming as best he could that he was alone before exiting the garage. Nothing alerted Thomas. He could hear the wind ripping through the narrow passageway—a can clanking along the pavement—a sharp call from a bird chirping and the rustling of trees being shoved around.

  One quick glance and he began to take the corner, but the smacking of bare feet against pavement stopped him. A gasp of air—the huffing of a person running out of steam. It passed then carried off toward the far end.

  Who in the hell? Thomas poked his head into the corridor, his eye catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a small child—a girl, short and petite, with a ponytail of brown hair. The way she came appeared free from any threat. No one's chasing her? What the hell's a child doing out here. The wind began to push at his back, encouraging him to go, to give chase as she rounded the corner. A child left alone out here. What if it was Joseph and no one went for him? Someone has to be looking for this little girl.

  But the mission... It would be best to stay hidden—to move slowly enough that he could guarantee himself safe passage to the EPA building—to ensure the mission against the Butcher was completed. Obviously torn, he had to make a choice. The girl had already made hers. She was getting as far as she could from whatever it was that haunted her.

  Here we go! He broke into a sprint, boots pounding away, his hand grazed the pistol as he ran, taking in this subtle reminder that it was there if he needed it. This whole thing being a trap was buried somewhere in the back of his mind, but he couldn't help himself. There wasn't a choice. At the end of the corridor, he took the same hard right, bounding up several sets of stairs toward
the child. The flash of a brown shirt and blue jeans cut sharply out of view behind a row of rusting bikes and bushes.

  The urge to shout for her to stop rose within Thomas—to tell her it was okay—but James’s taunting popped into his head. Run! Little girl, run! Run! He needed to catch her, but any elevated words could attract others. Could bring her initial pursuer right here.

  Even without all the usual equipment weighing him down, Thomas was having a difficult time. No matter what, it seemed that he would never catch her. Around the next corner, he saw her, doubled over in the midst of a coughing fit. Her face turned toward Thomas, and she started again, this time up the slope of a hill toward the main plaza.

  Thomas crashed through deep hedges, angling across the hill, trying anything to nab the child as her feet slipped in the wet grass. Now I got you! But his boots were unable to find the traction that he hoped for. He fell further behind—her tiny frame pulling further away.

  He came into the plaza—the wastebaskets recently toppled, rain-soaked leaves pasted to the marble, plastic candy wrappers swirling across the girl’s feet as she stood on the far side just within his view. She stared at him like a deer in an open meadow. When he moved, she responded, taking matched steps. She attempted to take this time to rest, and Thomas was no different as he followed her lead. As long as she was right there, he felt he might be able to protect her. Then she might realize that he was one of the good guys.

  Thomas threw his head back, looking to the sky, his chest heaving, hoping that finally she would give in. He took several breaths and attempted to compose himself. “Would you just stop!” The words were forced, loud and quick between his breathing, echoing against the surrounding building—his voice rising from the shadows—from the nooks and crannies of this dense mass of buildings. He had not meant for his words to be so obtrusive. He tried a less offensive tone. “I’m serious. I don't want to hurt you.”