Resurrection

by Mark Kelly

  “To find and kill the man responsible for starting the pandemic.”

  “Oh.”

  Eager to be done with the awkward conversation, Lucia finished attaching the tarp and said, “Get on the motorcycle and I will give you a ride back to your aunt and uncle.”

  “Can you wait a minute so I can hide my gun first?”

  Lucia nodded and watched the girl jog behind the restaurant. When she returned, they rode back to the fire-pit.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the girl’s uncle asked her as he eyed Lucia suspiciously.

  “She was helping me,” Lucia said, deciding right away she didn’t like him. He looked like a taker—one of the kinds of people she had just finished warning the girl about.

  “How much for a meal?” she asked, deciding to see if she was right.

  “Depends?”

  “On what?”

  “On what part of the animal you want. The backstraps cost the most, then the tenderloin and—”

  “I want all of it.”

  “What?”

  “For them,” she said, pointing to the people who were digging the woman’s grave.

  “Really? You would do that?” Abbie asked.

  Embarrassed, Lucia nodded.

  “Don’t know why you’d want to feed them,” the girl’s uncle said disparagingly. “Besides, I doubt you have enough to buy the entire animal.”

  “I can pay,” Lucia said, silencing him. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of slivers of gold that had come from a coin Baker had cut into eighths before they left the base. The gold was part of the stash Samantha and her daughter had stolen from King John.

  Lucia pushed two pieces aside knowing it was more than enough. Back in Douglas, a person could buy enough food to eat for a month with a single eighth.

  Abbie stared at the gold. “That’s too—”

  “Shut up. No one asked you,” her uncle said. He crossed his arms and scowled at Lucia. “It’s not enough.”

  Lucia closed her fist around the gold and looked into his lying eyes. “It is all you are going to get. You can take it—or not, that is your choice, but those people will eat one way or the other.”

  When she didn’t blink, he glanced over her shoulder at the dead bikers and agreed reluctantly. “Two pieces, and they can eat until they’re full.”

  The transaction settled, Lucia handed over the gold and brought the second motorcycle around, parking it next to the first one. When she walked over to Baker, he had a wry expression on his face. “Did you just do something nice?”

  Lucia glowered at him. “You are talking about things which you know nothing about. I simply paid them for their assistance. There is nothing nice about that. That is called good business.”

  He smiled. “Right.”

  She glanced at Petit Henri who was still on the ground with his hands on his head. “What should we do with him?”

  “I don’t know. We can’t kill them and there’s not much point tying them up.”

  “Why not?”

  Baker nodded towards the crowd who were lining up to eat. “They’ll just untie them as soon as we leave because if they don’t, they’ll be in a world of trouble when these assholes finally freed themselves.”

  “Tie them up anyway,” Lucia said, not feeling particularly sympathetic. “Perhaps someone will find the courage to take things into their own hands and kill them.”

  “No, there’s been enough of that today.” Baker glanced at the row of Harleys and smiled. “I have an idea. Keep your eye on them. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Wondering what he was going to do, Lucia watched him walk to the closest bike and crouched down beside it. When he stood, he held a pair of black rubber wires in his hand. He finished visiting all the motorcycles and returned with his hands full of thick rubber cables. He opened a saddlebag on his motorcycle and dumped the wires into it.

  “What are they?” Lucia asked.

  “Spark-plug cables.”

  Petit Henri lifted his head and shouted at Baker, “You can’t take them. Our motorcycles are useless without them.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  The big Frenchman started to climb to his feet, and Baker walked over and poked him with the barrel of his rifle. “Relax and get back down on the ground. You’ll get them back. We’ll leave them on the roof of a car a few miles down the road.”

  With his eyes glinting dangerously, Petit Henri said, “Do not go back on your word or the people here will pay. And once they have paid, so will you.”

  Baker squatted down next to the big man. “Listen carefully. If you or your men so much as harm a hair on the people here, I will hunt you down and kill you personally. If you think my friend is hardcore, just wait till I get started.” He leaned in closer and said, “Do we understand each other?”

  Petit Henri glared at him. “Oui.”

  “In English.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Baker stood and spoke to Lucia. “There are plastic tie-wraps in my left saddlebag. Grab four of them. We’ll tie them up before we leave. It’ll probably only take them five minutes to get free, but by then we’ll be a mile or two down the road and out of range.”

  “But we have all their guns.”

  Baker looked at Abbie’s uncle who was sawing a chunk of meat off the roasted carcass. “He didn’t bag that deer with his hands. I’m sure he has a rifle and there are bound to be a few more guns around here.”

  Like the pistol she had given the girl.

  Lucia nodded. “I’ll get the tie wraps.”

  10

  There’s no one left

  A few miles down the highway, Baker slowed to a stop and climbed off his bike as the sky above them darkened. Lucia looked up and watched a line of black clouds sweep in from the southwest. A flash of lightning in the distance drew a jagged arc across the horizon. She began to count until she heard the thunder.

  1….2…3…4—The storm was close and getting closer.

  Baker rooted around in the trailer and pulled out two rain ponchos. He threw one to her and put the other one on. Then he opened his saddlebag and grabbed the spark-plug cables he’d taken from the biker motorcycles.

  “You should just throw them away,” she said.

  “I made a deal,” he replied, tossing the cables on the roof of an abandoned green SUV parked by the side of the road. “If I’m not willing to keep my end of it, how can I trust that he will?”

  Lucia grunted. Baker was too optimistic. She trusted the big Frenchman about as far as she could throw him.

  A gigantic fat raindrop splashed against her face. And then another, and another. Baker grinned as it began to pour and said, “What did one raindrop say to the other?”

  “What?” she asked, knowing she would regret it.

  “Two's company, three's a cloud.”

  Plip…Plop….Plip…Plop.

  The pitter-patter of raindrops falling on the outhouse roof began slowly, but built to a crescendo so loud it sounded like she was inside the storm itself. Abbie finished peeing, pulled up her pants, and sat back down. There was no way she was going outside, not while it was raining this hard.

  A stack of paperback books sat on the shelf beside her. She grabbed the one on top and opened it. It was one of the romance novels her aunt loved—a tolerable read, but barely. The men were all strong and handsome, and the women, hopeless and helpless romantics; nothing like Lucia, the mysterious woman who had killed the bikers and given her one of their guns. Lucia wasn’t like anyone Abbie had ever met. She was scary and awesome all in one.

  Boom!

  Startled, Abbie dropped the book in her hand as the wooden shack shook. The thunderstorm was right above her. For a second, she debated making a run for it, but her clothes would take hours to dry in the chilly autumn weather and she’d probably end up sick. Getting wet was way worse than being stuck in the outhouse while it rained.

  Crack—Crack—Crack.


  That wasn’t thunder. It sounded like her uncle’s rifle—only louder. She strained to listen over the pounding of the rain. There was a staccato of gunshots and the sound of people yelling. She let out a whimper as her heart thrashed around in her chest. Someone was outside shooting. It must be the bikers. After her uncle had untied him, Petit Henri had stomped around swearing that he was going to get even, but he’d also promised he wouldn’t hurt anyone at the truck stop. Now, he was killing everyone.

  You must always be able to look after yourself. That’s what Lucia had told her, but the gun was inside the burned-out restaurant, hidden under one of the plastic benches. Abbie searched for something else she could use to defend herself, but there was nothing—just a plastic bucket half-full of leaves and old newspaper they used for toilet paper.

  She needed the gun. She stood and edged towards the flimsy outhouse door. The plastic tarp twisted and turned as the wind blew horizontal sheets of rain through the opening.

  Petrified and barely able to see, she ran to the side of the building and crouched down against the brick wall as another volley of gunfire erupted. She could hear people screaming—maybe her aunt and uncle. Too afraid to move, she huddled against the cold brick wall and waited.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the gunfire stopped. She heard motorcycle engines starting and then fading as the bikers rode away. She climbed to her feet and listened. It was quiet except for the dripping of water on the pavement. Cautious and terrified of what she might find, Abbie cracked open the heavy metal door to the restaurant’s kitchen and stepped inside.

  Garbage was scattered all over the floor. She cringed at the crinkling noise under her shoes as she walked. She was almost at the door to the restaurant’s seating area when a voice called out in French.

  “Qu'est-ce?”

  She froze.

  “Who is there?” the voice shouted, this time in accented English as the door swung open and crashed against the wall.

  Every muscle in her body twitched as she turned to run from the bearded giant in the doorway. Petit Henri held her uncle’s rifle in one hand and reached for her with the other. She felt herself being lifted off the ground as he yanked her backward and tossed her to the floor like a ragdoll. She lay on her back staring up at him, waiting for him to kill her.

  “Parlez-vous français? Do you speak French?” he asked gruffly.

  Unable to form the words, she shook her head.

  “Get up and empty your pockets.”

  When she didn’t move, he took a step closer. She scrambled to her feet and jammed her hands into her pockets, pulling them inside out so he could see they were empty. He scowled and motioned at the door he had just come through.

  “Allez! That way.”

  Careful to keep her distance, she walked past him into the seating area. A man’s body lay on the floor in front of her. It was one of the men who had helped bury the woman. There was another man and two women lying next to him. They had probably all come into the building to escape the rain and had been killed when Petit Henri found them hiding.

  “You are one of the ones who lived here?” he asked her.

  Shaking with fear and forcing herself to not look at the dead bodies, she nodded.

  He pointed to the small section of the restaurant her aunt and uncle had cordoned off for a sleeping area. “What is over there?”

  “Just our beds and clothing.”

  Petit Henri walked over and yanked at the blankets that hung from the ceiling. They fell to the floor and he kicked them aside. He swept a fist towards a stack of cardboard boxes, knocking them over and spilling their contents. Clothing and books flew everywhere.

  “This is all worthless,” he muttered. “Where are your guns—knives? You must have weapons somewhere.”

  She stole a glance across the restaurant to where she had hidden her gun. The crumpled plastic bag was still there, under the seat and pressed up against the wall. She forced her eyes away and looked at the rifle in his hand.

  “That’s the only gun I know about,” she said, lying.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you. There must be more. Where are they?”

  “It’s the only one—I swear. Please don’t hurt me.”

  His expression softened. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  He turned and looked out the broken plate-glass window. She followed his gaze to the parking lot where smoke rose from the fire-pit. Even after the downpour, the fire still smoldered. She saw her aunt and uncle’s bodies lying on the ground next to it and whimpered, “Why did you kill them? They didn’t do anything to you.”

  He turned back to look at her and growled, “I didn’t kill anyone. How could I? That crazy woman and her bastard soldier friend took my weapons.”

  Confused, Abbie looked at the three dead bodies on the floor a few feet away. “Who did this then?”

  Petit Henri stiffened as he spoke. “The Cyclones. A second group arrived as the rain started.”

  “Why did they kill everyone?”

  “Payback for their leader’s death.”

  “But these people didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “That is of no consequence. They watched it happen and didn’t try to stop it.”

  “How could they stop anything?” she shouted at him. “They’re just people. They aren’t like you, and you didn’t stop it. Why didn’t the Cyclones kill you?”

  Petit Henri puffed out his gigantic chest. “They would not dare. To kill me or my men would be to declare war. If you want to blame someone, blame the one who started this.” He took one last look around and turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, chasing after him as he went outside and walked across the parking lot to where his men were still searching the dead bodies.

  They saw him and stopped, waiting for his instructions. He raised a hand in the air and swung it in a circular motion.

  “Vas-y! Let’s go,” he yelled, throwing his right leg over his motorcycle’s saddle seat.

  He rocked the bike off of its kickstand and pushed forward with his feet. The motorcycle started to roll, slowly at first and then faster. He looked like a child learning to ride a bicycle two sizes too small. Had it been any other person or any other time, Abbie would have laughed.

  “Where are you going?” she shouted at him.

  He lowered his black boots, dragging the soles on the ground until the bike came to a stop.

  “I am leaving for Montréal and you should leave or hide too. The Cyclones have gone west, but they will come back when they don’t find the soldier and his woman.”

  Puzzled, Abbie looked east up the highway in the direction she had seen Lucia and her friend go.

  “Why did you help them escape?” she asked Petit Henri.

  “Who? The crazy one and her soldier? I gave them my word. And now, I will go and see if they kept theirs.”

  He pushed off with his feet and the big motorcycle began to roll again.

  Abbie looked around at the dead bodies scattered everywhere. Her aunt lay sprawled on the ground by the smoldering fire-pit. Her uncle was a few feet away. Neither of them had been nice to her, but even they deserved better than this.

  “What about the bodies?” she shouted. “Shouldn’t we bury them?”

  Petit Henri didn’t even bother to turn around as he answered her.

  “Les animaux doivent manger.”

  “What?”

  “The animals have to eat.”

  Animals?

  In that instant, Abbie knew she wasn’t going to stay at the truck stop by herself.

  She ran to where her uncle lay on the ground facedown. It didn’t look like the bikers had searched him yet. Grimacing at the gunshot wound in his back and on the verge of throwing up, she stuck her hands in his jean pocket and searched with her fingers until she found the slivers of gold.

  Then she dashed back into the restaurant and ran to where the gun was hidden. She grabbed it and jamm
ed the small pistol into her pants as she had seen Lucia do, but the outline of the weapon was visible through her damp shirt. You’d have to be blind to miss it and Petit Henri wasn’t blind.

  Spotting a small knapsack lying on the floor next to her winter coat, Abbie grabbed them both and put on the coat, zipping it up to hide the gun. Then she stuffed the bag with clothing and took one final look around the burned-out restaurant. Anything would be better than this. By the time she caught up with Petit Henri, he and his men had reached the highway and were pushing their motorcycles east.

  She ran in front of him, held out her hand, and blurted, “Please take me with you. I can’t stay here.”

  His eyes widened with surprise as he studied her. “No, you can not, but how do you know you will be safe with me and my men?”

  “Would I be?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I trust you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a man of your word. You didn’t betray Lucia.”

  “Lucia?”

  “The crazy one.”

  Laughing, he began to push his motorcycle up the highway. He looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Come on then.”

  11

  A real mish-mash

  Simmons slouched forward and placed his elbows on the table for support. I’ll rest, he thought, just for a few minutes before I get something to eat. He closed his eyes. In the background, he could hear the chatter of voices and clinking of cutlery. It was like a lullaby and he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

  “Tony?”

  “Tony, are you okay?”

  Disoriented, he rubbed his eyes and looked around. Mei and Robert Langdon stood at the end of the table staring at him.

  “I’m…I’m fine—awake…just taking a breathing—breather, I mean.”

  Mei studied him, concern in her eyes. “Tony, you need to get more sleep. You won’t be of any use to anyone if you can’t even stand up.” She placed the tray she was holding on the table and sat down. “Here,” she said, sliding a bowl of soup towards him. “I brought two.”