Barry emerged from the door through which he’d entered the house. He waved his hands, a broad grin stretching across his tanned face. “We’re all good. C’mon in. It’s like we left it.”
Kandy patted Phil’s chest and moved to walk toward the house. “To be continued?”
He sighed. “To be continued.”
She took his hand and led him along the dock toward the side of the house. They followed the children, who skipped ahead of their mother and then sprinted into their home.
The house was musty and dank. It smelled like dust with a hint of mildew and Kandy couldn’t help but cough as she moved into the kitchen.
Sally had her nose pinched and had a sour look on her face. “It stinks in here.”
Her brother, Jimmy, waved his hand in front of his sour face. Then he coughed out a question to nobody in particular. “Why does it smell so bad in here?”
Betsy put her hand on her daughter’s head. “We don’t have any electricity. The power went out, so there’s no air conditioning. We’ll get it working, okay?”
“How?” asked Jimmy. “If there’s no power, how will we get rid of the smell?”
Barry was standing on the stairs. “We have a natural gas generator. I’ll get it going and we’ll be as good as new.”
Mike was standing at the windows, looking out at the boat. He held a rifle in his right hand. Without turning from the glass, he said to Barry, “Is that a good idea? Should we turn on the generator, assuming it works?”
Barry shrugged and descended to the main floor of the house. “Why wouldn’t we? We can’t live in here with the way it smells. We’ll all get sick.”
Mike turned around, careful to aim the rifle’s barrel toward the ground. He leaned on his good foot. His hand was nowhere near the trigger guard. “That’s not what I mean. If you turn on the generator, we call attention to this place. People with…intentions…will show up.”
“Intentions?” asked Betsy. “You mean bad intentions?”
Kandy didn’t wait for Mike to clarify. She understood him. “He means any intentions. Good or bad. Bad people will intentionally try to hurt us. Good people will do it unintentionally.”
Mike nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. We’re only marginally better off if good people show up here looking for help. We don’t have the resources.”
Barry took another couple of steps toward Mike. His posture changed. There was an aggression Kandy hadn’t noticed before. Barry jabbed his finger at Mike. “You mean like you? Like Brice? Both of you were good people looking for help. Should we have turned you away despite the drain on our resources? On my family’s resources?”
Betsy moved toward her husband. “Hon—”
He shot up a hand like a traffic cop to stop her. “Wait, Betsy. I want to understand why Mike is suddenly telling me how to run my house.”
Mike laughed nervously and scanned the room. “Where is this coming from, Barry? I’m not telling you anything. I’m only suggesting we not turn on the generator. That’s all. It’s like a big red strobe light inviting people—”
“The Rising Star is a strobe light too,” said Barry. “How many times did bad people come looking for us out on the water? I wanted to come ashore weeks ago. You said no. You talked everyone else into staying out there. Then a shark nearly eats you and we putter around for almost another month. We should have left you for chum, Mike.”
There was a collective admonishment from the other adults in the room. Instead of forcing him to withdraw, it only strengthened Barry’s resolve. “We’re turning on the generator,” he said. “If you don’t like it, you know where the door is. That goes for all of you.”
Mike pressed his lips into a straight line and nodded in resignation.
Barry stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his shoulders pulled back. “All right then. While I do that, I’m sure there are other things the rest of you can do. There are supplies on the boat that need to come inside. The house could use a good scrubbing.”
Betsy moved to her husband and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was soft, like a parent trying to calm an upset child. “It’s okay, honey. There’s no need to get upset. Everyone is tired and on edge. Mike is just—”
He shrugged her off. “Don’t defend him to me. I’m your husband. The offer to leave extends to you as well.”
Betsy gasped, a quick intake of air that almost sounded like a squeak. Her brow furrowed and tears glistened in her eyes. Saying nothing, she spun around and marched across the space, shouldering past Brice and through the door. She stopped once she reached the dock. Her back was to the house. Hands drawn to her face, she cried, her shoulders shuddering.
Barry stood near the stairs. He swallowed hard and took in a deep breath. Then he steeled himself and issued orders. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do. Jimmy, come with me.”
Kandy folded her arms across her chest, offering Barry her best disapproving glare. He caught it and immediately averted his eyes. She left the house to join Betsy on the dock.
Phil started after her. “I’ll start moving bags from the boat.”
Phil loved the boat. With Barry’s tutelage, he’d absorbed as much as he could about its mechanisms and its shortcomings. He’d worked like a first mate. When something needed fixing, Phil wanted to help or do it himself. He’d maintained their gear, cleaning it and repairing it. He was a good man. It was more evident to Kandy now than in the days before the Scourge. She wanted to tell him this. There’d be time later. Now there was work to do.
Kandy reached Betsy and tried comforting her with reason. “He’s stressed, Betsy. He didn’t mean it.”
Betsy used her pinkies to dab away the moisture from the corners of her eyes. She looked up at the sky. “I know,” she said, her voice shaky. “It’s no excuse though. He’s been this way for weeks. He snaps at me, at Sally, at you. He’s not the same person. It’s like I’m losing him to the Scourge in a different way.”
Kandy focused on her friend. The best way to get people to talk was to remain silent. The best sound bites often came from interview subjects becoming uncomfortable with the pauses in conversation. They invariably filled the gap with something unrehearsed and natural.
Between awkward silences and the question, “Is there anything else you’d like to add?” Kandy didn’t need any other questions. Those two tools alone provided the bulk of great sound bites from interviews with people in power on Orange Avenue or grieving widows in the poor community of Eatonville.
“I try,” said Betsy. “I give him a wide berth. You know? When he’s upset, which is all the time now, I don’t bother him. I listen if he talks to me. I’m positive. I’m understanding. That only makes it worse.”
Kandy waited a beat. Then two. “How so?”
Betsy wiped her nose with the back of her index finger and sniffed. “He tells me I’m being foolish. It’s like he wants me to wallow in the negativity. I think the reality of this is getting to him. It doesn’t help that everyone rallies around Mike, looks to him for advice.”
Kandy ran a hand through her hair. She put a hand on Betsy’s arm and rubbed up and down.
“It’s not Mike’s fault,” said Betsy. “He’s a good guy. I don’t even think he wants to be a leader. You know?”
Her eyes narrowed and locked on Kandy’s. She was looking for a response. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.
In the periphery of her vision, Kandy saw Phil stepping from the boat. His arms were full. He was struggling under the weight of trying to carry too much in a single trip.
“Hang on,” Brice called out. “I got you. Let me help.”
Brice brushed past Kandy. A wash of woodsy scent followed his wake. It was a mostly pleasant cologne Brice wore every day and whose aroma was only slightly more appealing than pine-scented cleaner.
The women exchanged a knowing smirk. They’d talked about Brice before. He was a well-intentioned, less reliable version of Mike. Where Mike led, Brice followed. Always aware of
himself, Brice was rarely self-aware. Still, he was likable and pulled his own weight in between grooming sessions. Kandy used the opportunity to lighten the conversation.
“I think he wants to make sure Phil doesn’t drop his hair gel.”
Betsy laughed through her tears. A spit bubble popped in her mouth. “I’m sorry to unload on you,” she apologized. “It’s not fair to you. I know you’ve got your own issues.”
Kandy mocked offense. “Gee, thanks. A girl always likes hearing she has issues.”
Betsy rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. It’s not easy to come back here.”
In the distance, as if on cue, the staccato pop of semiautomatic gunfire cracked in the air and echoed. Both women glanced in different directions, neither of them certain where the shots had originated.
“I’m not sure this was the right move,” said Kandy, “and to be honest, I think Mike was right about the generator. It’s not my call though.”
With her hands on her hips, Betsy checked over one shoulder and then the other. She scanned the area behind Kandy and bit her lip before agreeing in a hushed tone. “I’m going to talk to Barry about it. Hopefully I can talk some sense into him. We could run the generator long enough to cool off the house, get the air circulating. Long enough to chill the fridge. That’ll save some of the fish we have left on board.”
Kandy didn’t want to tell her friend and host, what to do. How Betsy handled her husband was none of her business, even if the woman was confiding in her. If five months in cramped quarters had taught her anything, it was to stay out of other people’s messes.
Phil had made the mistake of trying to play referee in a lovers’ spat between Mike and Miriam. It hadn’t ended well. Now Miriam referred to Phil as “counselor.” It wasn’t as endearing as it sounded.
Betsy reached out and embraced Kandy. The two women held each other while Phil and Brice moved past them on the dock. Kandy patted Betsy on the back, signaling the end to the prolonged hug.
“We should help them,” she said. “There’s a lot to do.”
Betsy moved toward the Rising Star. “Better to keep moving, right?”
Kandy climbed back aboard the boat. She wanted to descend below deck and crawl into her berth. Instead, she opened the cooler to survey the stored fish. There was enough kingfish for the next two or three days. On shore, the rumble of the natural gas generator elicited a profanity-laced cheer from Barry.
CHAPTER 6
MARCH 11, 2033
SCOURGE +161 DAYS
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA
The noise woke Rufus Buck from his nap. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was loud enough to get his attention. He heard it again. Someone was coming. Footfalls on detritus were unmistakable. They were close to his tent. He closed his eyes again and listened. Two people, one larger than the other.
The footsteps stopped. There was whispering and the sound of someone checking the magazine in a semiautomatic handgun. Buck reached to his right and grabbed his shotgun.
Although he had a rifle and a .45 ACP inside the tent, the shotgun was good for close range. Maximum damage. And it would scare away anyone else who wasn’t close enough to get hit.
In the moment, he cursed himself for having picked this spot. It was too close to the freeway and he’d been tired enough that he hadn’t done a good enough job of camouflaging his truck. The freeways were littered with looters, gangs and sometimes good people with bad luck.
Most hadn’t figured out yet that the best bet was to stay put. The end of the world had them searching for a normalcy that didn’t exist anymore. Nowhere was better than anywhere else.
It was an eight-hundred-mile trip from Houston to Buck’s destination. What would have taken less than twelve hours seven months ago was now a weeklong journey. He had to sleep along the way. But he’d gone too long without a rest and it had led to this. He was in Columbus, Georgia, a place he never intended on visiting. He certainly wasn’t going to die here. The Chattahoochee River was nice and all, but he’d just as soon listen to Alan Jackson sing about it than see the muddy water in person. It had been months since he’d heard any music, let alone an old country crooner from the last century. His heart raced, not yet recovering from the jolt of interrupted sleep.
He sat up and lifted the shotgun. He’d already pumped it. It was ready to go. Buck focused and ran through his options. Should he stay in the tent and wait for one of the morons to open it, or should he unzip the flap enough to peek through, getting better intelligence?
Both options had their merits. Both had their risks. Diffused light leaked through the tent’s red vinyl walls but gave no hint as to where the intruders were. Buck stayed put. Trying to hear past the pulse in his hears, he listened for clues. Why had they stopped moving?
A twig snapped to his left, but he remained motionless. Dead palm leaves and needles crunched to his right. Neither of them was coming for the flap directly in front of him.
Buck swallowed hard, taking deep breaths through his nose. Beads of sweat bloomed at his graying temples and on his neck.
A shadow moved across the tent from his left. Nothing to his right.
The old soldier was hyperaware now. The fog of sleep was gone. And now there were three people outside his tent as the light darkened at the tent’s flap.
Buck moved his finger to the trigger and waited. He licked his lips and watched the zipper slowly open from the top.
The instant the whites of two eyes appeared in the opening, he squeezed the trigger. The deafening blast kicked the shotgun against his shoulder. A three-inch slug burrowed a wide hole in between the eyes. A fan of red sprayed from the back of the man’s head.
Loud voices cried out from both sides of the tent, cursing as they scattered. The pops of return small-arms fire echoed in the woods. Buck didn’t flinch, even when one of the shots punctured the tent and let in a bright cone of light.
He dropped the twelve gauge and picked up his rifle. Rolling forward and climbing through the opening, he kicked past the fresh corpse in front of him, dropped to a knee and lifted the rifle, pressing it tight against his shoulder. Using the iron sights, he swept the weapon until he found the target running away. Buck exhaled and pulled.
The rifle cracked and the .300 Winchester Magnum round drilled into the target’s back, hitting his spine. The man dropped like a rag doll. A pistol dropped from his left hand. A pile of leaves blew into the air around his body as he hit the ground. He grunted rhythmically as if voice boxing the beat to a hip-hop song.
Buck missed music. He regretted not installing a sound system in the Humvee. Now it was too late.
He pivoted onto his other knee, cleared the spent round and chambered another. He scanned left and right, not locating the target at first. Then he saw him hiding behind a tree thirty yards away.
Buck stood, the rifle leveled at the target’s cover. He marched confidently toward the man. His heavy steps crushed the deadfall. The canopy of trees above him played with shadows and shafts of sunlight. He zeroed in on the target. The man was hiding, but his profile was visible. He whimpered like a child.
Twenty yards out, Buck called, “Step out. Raise your hands.”
The target’s body trembled violently behind the slim protection of a tall pine.
Buck stepped over a fallen trunk. He was fifteen yards away now. “Do it. You’re dead if you don’t.”
The man raised his hands and faced Buck. He was gaunt, his deep-set eyes wide with fear. His hands trembled and his gray sweatpants were stained dark from crotch to knee. “Please. Don’t shoot me,” he quivered. “We just wanted food. We ain’t had nothin’ to eat in a week.”
Buck marched. He was five yards away. “So you were going to steal from me? Then what? Kill me? Take my truck? Sell my weapons?”
Drool snaked from the man’s open mouth. The stain on his pants had spread to his ankle.
Buck stopped in front of the coward and pressed the hot muzzle against his forehe
ad. The man cried out and winced. When he recoiled, Buck growled, “Don’t move.”
Tears streaked down the man’s face, finding paths among the splotchy beard that peppered his face like mange.
“Please. Please don’t,” he whimpered. “You done already killed my brothers.”
Buck tilted his head to the side. “Apologize.”
“What?”
“Apologize.”
The man’s eyes darted nervously. A spark of hope flickered. “I’m so—”
He never finished his sentence. Buck pulled the trigger. The man’s head snapped back. Eyes open, he crumpled to the forest floor.
Buck lowered the rifle and stood over the body. As the color drained from the dead man’s face, Buck saw how young he was. He’d thought the whimpering and crying had given the appearance of youth, but it was more than that. The desperate thief wasn’t twenty.
He marched back to the first kill and picked up the handgun, a Smith & Wesson nine millimeter. Nothing special but it was in good shape. He tucked it in his waistband and turned to leave, when he realized its previous owner was not quite dead yet.
Squeaks of air leaked from his lungs. He was on his stomach, his head turned to one side, his hands awkwardly positioned next to his body. Buck figured the spine shot had paralyzed him on impact. The dying man’s glistening eyes blinked.
Buck squatted, using the butt of the rifle to balance himself and faced the dying man. This one was older, definitely in his twenties. Early thirties even. There were the beginnings of crow’s feet fanning out from his eye. The flesh at his jawline sagged despite how thin the man was.
“Was it worth it?” Buck asked.
The man blinked again but was otherwise motionless.
“You coulda asked,” said Buck. “Been polite. Come in peace. I might have offered you some beans and a swig of whiskey. I’m not heartless. But I don’t abide thieves.”
The Scourge (Book 2): Adrift Page 6
