Bedlam

by Susanna Strom

  Who erected a gallows in a city park? Shit, when did the world turn into a horror novel?

  Sunny’s fingers dug into my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Yeah.” I stomped on the gas pedal, racing toward the freeway entrance. A few blocks past the park, out of the corner of my eye, movement. A man stepped out from behind a parked car. He threw something across the roadway, something black that uncoiled across the surface. Before I could react—with the slightest of bumps—the truck passed right over it.

  “What was that?” Sunny cried, turning around to look behind the car.

  At first, nothing seemed wrong, then within about ten seconds, thump-thump-thump. A flat tire. No, four flat tires.

  “Spike strip,” Rocco said grimly.

  I eased the pickup to a stop in the middle of the street, all of my senses on high alert. Pivoting my head, I scanned our surroundings. A liquor store and bank to our left. A pharmacy and grocery store to our right. A thick row of bushes edged the grocery and liquor store parking lots, creating a divider between the parking spaces and the once busy street.

  “What’s happening?” Ever asked.

  “Hush, dearest,” Mrs. B. whispered, wrapping both arms around the girl.

  From behind the bushes on both sides of the street, six people stood, weapons in hand. Stalking toward us from every direction, they converged on the truck. I reached for my Glock. My hand paused, inches away from the grip. We were surrounded and outgunned. People would die if bullets started flying.

  “Everybody raise your hands,” I said. “We’ve got no choice. We’re surrendering.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Sunny

  Part of me wanted to throw myself in front of Ever and Mrs. B., snarling at anybody who threatened them. Another part wanted to duck under the dashboard and hide from the strangers brandishing guns or to burrow into Kyle’s arms. This was not the time to either indulge in heroics or to act like a complete chickenshit. Instead, I lifted both hands in the air, assuming the classic you’re under arrest pose. I glanced into the back seat. All of the adults had raised their arms in a similar fashion. Ever clutched Fitzwilliam against her chest, her freckles standing out against a face bleached of color.

  I smiled at the girl. “You’re going to be okay, sweetie.” Not even the Allsops would hurt a child. Morality had nothing to do with it. As far as I knew, only a handful of children had survived the flu. Children were assets—and like Brody told me—the Allsops never wasted assets.

  I met Kyle’s eyes. “I love you,” I mouthed. If this was it, if the Allsops were dragging us back to Boise, I needed to say the words again before they separated us, or worse.

  “Love you, too, Sunshine.” He reached for my hand and squeezed my fingers reassuringly. His expression revealed neither fear nor despair. Instead, he looked deadly calm, ready for whatever was coming.

  All four truck doors flew open at the same time. “Get out,” a man barked.

  With shaking fingers, I unfastened my seat belt. I climbed out of the truck and stood next to the open door, my arms raised above my head.

  “Move.” With a jerk of his gun, the man closest to me ordered me to walk to the front of the pickup. Mrs. B. and Ever stepped away from the truck the same instant I did.

  Ever gazed wide-eyed at the man with a gun. Her chin trembled. “Sunny,” she cried, hurling herself at me. She threw one arm around my waist and buried her face in my chest, squashing Fitzwilliam between us. I dropped my arms to hold her. I couldn’t stop myself. I glared at the man with the gun.

  “Proud of yourself?” I hissed, almost choking on my anger. “Scaring a little girl?”

  He was young, no more than sixteen. He took a step back, confusion creasing his features.

  “Come along, Fitzwilliam.” Mrs. B. took the cat from Ever. Head held high, betraying not the smallest sign of fear, the tiny, silver-haired woman marched to the front of the truck. Ever’s arms were locked around me as we stumbled along behind her. Sara and Rocco stood side by side, arms raised, expressions sullen and defiant. Ignoring the guns that tracked his every move, Kyle rushed to our side. He touched my cheek, then lifted Ever up into his arms. She clung to him like a monkey, wrapping her legs around his waist and hiding her face in his neck.

  “I got you, sweet pea,” he said, borrowing Finn’s nickname for the child.

  Silence descended as the two groups took each other’s measure. I’d assumed at first that the Allsops had caught up with us, but these people were far too motley a crew to be part of that team. Instead of the official gray security T-shirts, they wore a hodgepodge of colors and styles. Allsop’s men were neatly groomed. Standards must be maintained. Elliot Allsop said that more than once.

  The man who appeared to be in charge here—the one the others kept glancing toward—wore a plaid shirt, faded jeans, and scuffed work boots. A scraggly beard covered half his face, and his salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Not a stylish man bun—there was nothing stylish about this guy—but a plain old, utilitarian ponytail.

  “Who are you people?” he demanded.

  “Stop waving those weapons in our faces, young man,” Mrs. B. snapped, her upright bearing and English accent lending a certain je ne sais quoi to her words. The fluffy purebred cat she held in her arms only added to the confusion.

  The man blinked. He had to be at least sixty. Bet it had been a long time since anybody referred to him as a young man, especially in that tone of voice. “Um...” he said, clearly at a loss.

  Mrs. B. raised a haughty eyebrow. “As I was saying, lower your weapons and we can discuss this unfortunate situation like civilized people.”

  I bet this was the tone of voice she adopted with miscreants back when she was a librarian, putting firmly in their place anyone who dog-eared a page or misshelved a book.

  “We’re on our way to Pendleton,” Kyle said, patting Ever’s back. “We stopped and spent the night in town.”

  “Yeah, we saw you camped out at the Wagon Wheel,” the teenage boy said.

  “Where you coming from?” the bearded man asked.

  “Boise,” Kyle said.

  “Boise?” The man spat on the ground. “You work for that bastard Allsop?”

  “We’re running from that bastard Allsop,” Rocco said, lowering his hands. “We escaped from Boise by the skin of our teeth. We thought you were Allsop’s men, chasing us down.”

  “Well, if that’s not the most insulting thing I ever heard.” The man spat on the ground again. Mrs. B. cleared her throat and fixed him with a steely scowl. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he mumbled, kicking some loose gravel over the gob.

  “How do you know the Allsops?” Kyle asked.

  “They came through town a few weeks ago, talking big about restoring government and maintaining law and order. Larry Schultz—he was a city council member who survived the flu—he started asking some hard questions about how the Allsops planned to do it. What they’d expect from us in return. He didn’t much like their answers.”

  “And then he—” the teenage boy started.

  “Little pitchers have big ears,” Mrs. B. said, interrupting him midsentence.

  “Huh?” The teenage boy looked blankly at Mrs. B. She pointed to Ever, who still held tight to Kyle. The proverb escaped the teenager, but he got her meaning. Not in front of Ever. He nodded.

  “Looks like we have a common enemy,” the bearded man said, signaling his people to lower their weapons. “Don’t make us friends, but it suggests that it might be worthwhile to talk.”

  “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Kyle said, frowning at the four flat tires on the truck.

  “Drew.” The bearded man spoke to the teenager. “You and Charlie head over to the tire place. Look for replacement tires for the truck.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy bobbed his head and jogged toward a red sedan parked next to the liquor store, another young man on his heels.

  The bearded man scratched his head. “My
name’s J.R. Dreyer. I run things around here since we lost Larry. We set up a community center for survivors at the armory, a couple of blocks back.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the park. “How about we go there and swap stories? We got a children’s room with games and puzzles and stuff where the little girl can play while we talk.”

  “Sounds good,” Kyle said.

  “I’ll just get my purse.” Mrs. B. offered her best helpless little-old-lady smile while she fetched her gun from the truck.

  Ever lifted her head. “Are there many kids in town?” she asked hopefully.

  J.R. rubbed his beard while he considered her question. “Let’s see. There’s Tommy Vasquez. He’s seven. And Jayden Fisher. He’s eleven.”

  “No little girls?”

  “Not right now, but Lori Murphy’s going to have a baby in the next couple of weeks. We might get a little girl here someday soon.”

  “I’m an emergency room doctor,” Sara spoke up. “Rocco is an obstetric nurse.”

  J.R.’s brows shot up. Few people would guess by looking at him that Rocco—a six-foot-four tattooed behemoth—was a highly respected obstetric nurse who taught classes on newborn care before the pandemic.

  “If you don’t have a doctor, we could examine Lori and see how her pregnancy is progressing,” Sara added.

  “Sara and Rocco used to run the survivors support group in Boise, before the Allsops came to town and destroyed it,” I said.

  “We lost all of our doctors to the flu. I can send somebody to Lori’s place to ask her if she wants a checkup,” J.R. said. “Thanks for the offer.”

  Since it was only a couple of blocks away and our truck was grounded, we walked to the armory. We weren’t all buddy-buddy. J.R.’s people followed close behind us with weapons still in their hands, but the tension had eased considerably.

  The Baker City survivors had established their version of the Haven in the armory’s assembly hall, a huge, sunny room with a high vaulted ceiling and a stunning black-and-white patterned floor. Like the Haven, they had set up sorting tables and rows of shelving units full of supplies.

  My chest tightened at the sight, at the reminder of everything we’d lost, of everything the Allsops had taken from us. Of our murdered friends and stolen supplies. Of the Allsops’ plans for their infernal new order. If the Allsops had their eyes on Baker City, would these people stand a chance against them?

  While Kyle and the others took seats around a table, Mrs. B., Ever, and I checked out the children’s play space, a small room right off the assembly hall. Mrs. B. offered to stay with Ever and I didn’t try to dissuade her. We hadn’t told her about the Allsops’ cut-off age for supplies yet, and I didn’t want her to hear such shocking news in front of an audience. I left them putting together a puzzle.

  I took a seat next to Kyle as he was finishing telling the Baker City people about what the Allsops were up to in Boise.

  “That’s twisted, trying to turn survivors against each other like that,” J.R. said.

  “They’re devious and deadly,” I said, taking Kyle’s hand. “And they killed good people.”

  “They killed good people here, too,” a young man with a buzz cut called from the end of the table.

  “That’s Wade,” J.R. said by way of introduction.

  We exchanged nods.

  “What happened here?” Sara asked.

  “The Allsops rode into town with a fleet of black SUVs,” Wade said. “Acted like they were the Second Coming. Your problems are over. We’re here to save the day.” He snorted. “We thought we had problems before they showed up. Food, water, medicine. Making plans for winter. Hah!”

  “What did they do?” Kyle asked, squeezing my hand.

  “At first they made all their requests sound perfectly reasonable, perfectly rational,” J.R. said. “All of the food and water and medicine had to be turned in at a central location. So everybody could get their fair share and nobody could hoard. Then they told us that the penalty for hoarding was death. And, by the by, the Allsop organization would take fifty percent of all of our supplies and everything we grow or produce.”

  “They declared an 8 p.m. curfew,” Wade added. “To protect the good citizens of Baker City against dangerous criminals roaming the streets at night.”

  “And the penalty for breaking curfew?” Rocco asked.

  “You need to ask?” Wade’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Death.”

  “They went door-to-door, making a list of all the survivors’ names and ages,” J.R. said. “Again, at first they said it was to make sure that everybody got what they needed. Then they told us that fifty percent of our people between the ages of eighteen and thirty would be conscripted for the Allsop security forces.”

  “A couple of days ago, I heard Mr. Allsop talk about culling the herd,” I said. “He wasn’t talking about cattle.” I glanced toward the open door to the children’s room. Mrs. B. was bent over the table, chatting with Ever. Still, I dropped my voice. “They plan to starve everybody over the age of sixty-five. Unless you’re a doctor or engineer or somebody especially valuable.”

  Horrified gasps met my words.

  “Well, shit,” J.R. said. “According to the Allsops, I got only a couple of good years left before I’m officially a waste of resources.”

  “They ordered us to turn in all our weapons. Gave us one week to comply,” Wade said. “Again, for our protection. To make sure no criminals broke in and got their hands on them. They said we could check out a hunting rifle for a day or two—which I suspect was totally a bullshit offer—but all the weapons needed to be kept safely at a central location.”

  “You can imagine how that went over,” J.R. put in. “We got a lot of second amendment enthusiasts around these parts. Our councilman Larry Schultz, along with two other good men—a high school coach and a local rancher—went to talk to Mr. Allsop.”

  “What happened?” Kyle asked, his hand tightening on mine.

  Three men went to talk to Elliot Allsop. A gallows with three ropes stood in the city park. It wasn’t hard to imagine what happened.

  “You saw.” J.R. waved a hand in the direction of the park.

  “I’m sorry.” Kyle shook his head.

  “Where are the Allsop people now?” Rocco asked. “Did they just pack up and leave town?”

  “Oh, they’re coming back,” Wade answered. “They said they’d give us time to think about the error of our ways. Told us they had business to attend to in Boise, but once things were settled there, we could expect to see them again. It’s like living with a ticking bomb that could go off any second.”

  “And they said if they didn’t get one hundred percent cooperation when they returned, they’d string up more people,” J.R. added.

  “They must be planning to do in Boise what they did here,” Rocco muttered. “Centralizing supplies. Conscription. Curfew. Seizing weapons. Then once they stabilize their hold over the big city, they’ll mop up problems in the smaller towns.”

  “Makes sense,” Kyle agreed.

  “We thought you might be spying for them.” J.R. leaned forward. “That’s why we stopped your truck.”

  Throwing a spike strip in the path of an Allsop vehicle would be a declaration of war.

  “Are you saying that you decided not to cooperate?” I asked. “You plan to take on the Allsop organization, with all of their resources, their weapons, and their soldiers? They chased us out of Boise with a freaking helicopter.”

  “Talk about David versus Goliath,” Sara muttered.

  “Let me remind you who came out on top in that battle,” J.R. said. “Baker City won’t roll over and play dead for nobody.”

  Brave words, but I couldn’t imagine a scenario where this turned out well for the townspeople. What were they going to do? Take to the hills and engage in guerilla warfare against the invaders? With winter coming in a couple of months? Their only hope was outside help. I glanced at Kyle and lifted my brows in a silent question.

&n
bsp; He inclined his head, catching my drift. “Have you guys heard about Major Marcus Havoc in Pendleton?”

  “He’s organizing a resistance to the Allsops,” I said. “We’re on our way to talk to him.”

  J.R. leaned back in his chair. “A guy passed through town last week. Told us somebody new was setting up shop in Pendleton, but he didn’t know who or why. How sure are you about this?”

  “Completely sure,” Kyle said. “Havoc sent a spy to infiltrate Allsop’s organization. A damned good man. He blew his cover to help us escape and got caught for his troubles.”

  J.R. drummed his fingers on the table, clearly deep in thought. “Would you folks give us the room, so I can talk to my people in private?”

  “Of course,” Kyle said. Our group stood and filed into the children’s playroom, shutting the door behind us.

  “Come look at my puzzle,” Ever called. I sat beside her and admired her handiwork while Kyle drew Mrs. B. aside and quietly filled her in on our conversation with the Baker City people. After about ten minutes, Wade called us back into the hall.

  We took our places around the table. “I’m coming to Pendleton with you,” J.R. announced. “To meet this major and find out what he’s up to. Maybe we can work together, maybe not. In any case, I need to hear the man out.”

  “Good,” I said. “After the most inauspicious introduction ever, maybe we’ll end up allies.”

  “Maybe,” J.R. agreed.

  “I’m curious about one thing.” Kyle scrubbed a hand across his jaw.

  “What’s that?” J.R. asked.

  “A couple of months back, I helped defeat a group of neo-Nazis. They planned to take over an armory in central Oregon. They wanted the weapons and equipment for their white army.” Kyle rolled his eyes in disgust. “Makes me wonder. What happened to all the weapons and equipment stored here, in this armory? Did the Allsops clear it out?”