by N. C. Reed
“Blood pressure is holding at ninety over sixty,” Kaitlin called out calmly. “Respiration is now down to twenty-four and her pulse has fallen to ninety-eight.” Mattie's eyes opened slowly and appeared to be unfocused. Her eyes moved slowly from top to bottom and then side to side, falling on Patricia.
“Mrs. Sanders?” she sounded puzzled. “What . . . how are you here?” she asked, trying to raise up.
“Hold it, Mattie,” Thatcher restrained her and Mattie turned to look at her.
“Doctor Thatcher? What happened? Where are we? Are we home?”
“Mattie, what is the last thing you remember?” Thatcher asked and Patricia let her take the lead. There was no way Thatcher didn't have more experience with this kind of thing than she did.
“The last thing?” Mattie appeared confused. “I don't . . . I don't . . . ” she trailed off, clearly trying to grasp at something. All three women could see when the memory returned as her face clouded and tears brimmed in her eyes.
“My folks . . . they're gone,” she wept. “My home, my parents . . . everything is gone.”
“Mattie, you don't know about your parents,” Patricia reminded her. “Shane said their cars were both gone. It's possible they're stranded, just like you were. For all we know they're making their way home the same way you did. Try to concentrate on that, okay?”
“I'm so tired,” the younger woman almost whispered. “I . . . it feels like I haven't slept in years,” she almost sobbed but caught it.
“Then go to sleep, Mattie,” Patricia soothed, rubbing her hair softly. “We're watching out for you, okay? You're safe here. Go to sleep and rest. We’ll be here when you wake up.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sanders,” Mattie patted her arm carefully. “I really appreciate it . . . ” and she was gone. Sleeping.
“We call it delayed reaction stress,” Thatcher said quietly, still looking at Mattie. “That isn't an official diagnosis or affliction,” she added. “Just our name for it. It's something we've been seeing in soldiers returning from a difficult deployment who find things at home less than ideal. Instead of dealing with the stresses of combat as they happen, they have endured the stress and strain of that difficult deployment by concentrating on what is waiting at the end of it. Fixating on it would be more accurate. Usually going home to family, most often a significant other. Sometimes things have actually changed, and others it's simply not like they remember it, or hoped it would be. In some cases it's because their welcome wasn't all they had hoped for. There is no common denominator except that it is linked by the delayed stress reaction. Instead of it hitting them while they are in action, it strikes when something else triggers it.
“She's been through a great deal, some of it much worse than anything most of the rest of us went through to get here,” Thatcher informed them. “She's managed to get through all that concentrating on her goal; getting home. In her mind, once she got home, everything would be all right again. When it wasn't, that delayed or suppressed reaction to the stresses she was under came crashing down on her without warning, in her case sending her into Acute Stress Reaction or shock as we commonly call it.
“Her mind has been locked in on her stress and loss all this time, working to contain it and then process it. Sometimes it takes a while, and there's no set time frame. Every mind works at its own pace. Hers has finally worked through it. Now comes the hard part,” she looked up.
“She has to learn to live with it.”
CHAPTER TEN
Clay, Shane, Xavier and Vicki Tully walked toward their prisoner with slow, deliberate steps. Clay was going to have to make a decision about her, and today would be the day. She would help make the decision for him, as he gave her one chance to help herself. In Africa he would just dispose of her and be done, but here . . . he was trying to be more civilized, or so he told himself.
Of course, if I really was trying, would I have brought X along?
The woman saw them coming and sat up straighter, her face showing strain but also still a hint of defiance. She was preparing herself.
“So,” Clay said without preamble. “You going to tell us why you were following our convoy?”
No one had approached her this way so far. It had been convoluted and round-about. No more of that. Straight questions and consequences for no answers.
“We weren't following you,” was the automatic answer, though her facial expressions gave her away. “We were just using the road. Just like you.”
“Your radio traffic says different,” Clay replied. “You must be important to someone, or else somebody else in your little outfit was. They're expending a lot of resources looking for you.”
Again her facial reaction betrayed her even though she stayed silent.
“Look, I'm gonna be honest here,” Clay squatted down just out of her reach. “We're of different opinions about you. Sell you to people up north who are always looking for women, keep you here as a slave, or just kill you outright to eliminate the threat you might pose. So far you haven't given us any reason not to do one of those things. You want your life to improve, then I'd start talking. It really is that simple.”
***
Emily tried in vain not to react to the man's speech but . . . sell her? She had heard of that kind of thing happening to their north but hadn't seen any of it, nor had their group engaged in that, at least. Keeping her as a slave didn't really sound any better, considering the fate of the women kept at the compound. And killing her . . .
What to do? She didn't know where she was or how far from home she had been brought. Had no idea if her uncle had just written her off or not. She was alone and there was no one to depend on but herself. She would have to do something if she wanted to live.
It would mean betraying her uncle and the others, though, and that made her hesitate. She could always give them false information, but if they checked it and found it false, then what? She would be worse off than now because she'd no longer be able to trade information for her life since they would never trust her again.
Could she betray the people she had worked and lived alongside since the flare? What did she owe them in terms of allegiance. How many of them would sacrifice themselves to protect the rest?
***
“My name is Emily Shirley,” the woman spoke quietly. “I'm from Huntsville, Alabama.”
“And that means nothing to us,” the man before her said, studying her carefully. “You're obviously part of an organized group that preys on others. We want to know where they are, how many of them there are, how well equipped they are and what they consider their area of operations. We've seen plenty of action since all this started and would prefer to avoid any more. If they're far enough away from us not to be a bother, then fine. We aren't concerned with what they do elsewhere. But you were following us. Casing us for a hit. No, don't deny it, we've heard it on your radio frequencies as the others were talking. Talking about you, and about us. We may not be the brightest in the nation but we can put two and two together.”
“We're called the North Alabama People's Militia,” Emily felt her face burn as she gave them the ridiculous name. Laughter met her declaration, as she knew it would.
“Seriously?” one of the men still standing burst out.
“I told them time and again it was stupid,” she said without thinking. “No one listened.”
“Go on,” Clay urged. “Don't let us interrupt.”
“They live in a large compound that backs up against the Monte Sano State Park area. It's a large compound, similar to yours I guess,” she looked around her. “There were about three hundred and fifty people I guess, counting the few children. It's mostly single men and women and couples without children or with grown children. Mostly families. The founders recruit from inside their own families when they can. Since the flare, the number has risen since they started taking in people who could benefit the group in some way. I don't know the exact number now, but it would have to be around five hundred. We're
never all there at the same time.”
“Out pillaging I should imagine,” Xavier sniffed in disdain. He was the man with the eyes she hated so very much. Just being near him gave her the creeps.
“The strong survive,” Emily found her courage, or what passed for it. “The weak fall into the dust. If they were strong enough we couldn't take what we need from them.”
“Beautiful communist sentiment,” he replied. “Well indoctrinated.”
“You aren't any different from us!” she shot back suddenly. “You think I don't know that you stole all that stuff?”
“We paid for all that stuff,” Shane corrected her. “It was ours. We were bringing it here to live. We didn't rob, rape nor pillage anyone for a damn thing in any of those trucks.”
That seemed to catch her up short.
“Surprised?” Clay smirked. “Not all of us are like you and your family,” he sneered at her. “We don't take from others, but we also don't let them take from us, either. You and your friends found that out the hard way, didn't you, though?”
“The strong survive,” she repeated, clinging to that mantra that had allowed her and so many others to justify the things they had done.
“I doubt she's worth anything else,” Xavier told Clay. “Tell me, Shirley; how many families have you helped end by 'surviving'? Eh?” His disdain made her angry.
“I did whatever I had to do!” she snapped.
“Kill children, old folks, take other women captive,” Vicki Tully spoke for the first time. “Now you've had a taste of what they go through, you still want to stick with the strong survive?” This was a very sore spot for her, having been such a victim herself.
Emily said nothing, but the look on her face said it for her; she was unrepentant of the things she had done. If she made her way back to her people she would undoubtedly do them again. All in the name of strength and survival, of course. The man squatting before her stood suddenly and looked at the man with the ugly eyes.
“Take her to the Interstate,” he ordered simply.
“No!” Emily shouted before she even thought. “Not him!”
“Why ever not me?” Xavier feigned hurt. “How have I offended you, eh? What err have I committed that has strained your delicate yet decidedly murderous sensibilities?”
“Use the unpainted six-wheel,” Clay told Shane, ignoring Xavier's taunting of the woman. “Don't take anyone who would object.”
“I know someone I would like along,” Xavier said as they left 'Emily's' hearing.
“Who?”
“Zachary,” Xavier replied. “The one who manned the gun on the way to take Miss Tall Girl home. Very interesting young man, Mister Zachary. I believe he would do nicely.”
“All right,” Clay sighed, missing the clearly alarmed shake of Vicki Tully's head. “He's always up for a road trip.”
“He's got ground watch right about now,” she tried to get them away from Zach. “Next four hours in fact.”
“Spell him and free him up,” Clay said absently.
“I'm on response for the next four hours, Boss,” she replied calmly. Her voice finally got through to him and Clay looked at her.
“You guys go ahead and start getting ready,” he told Shane and Xavier. “We need to have a word.”
“Roger that,” Shane nodded and the two made their way to where the vehicle they needed was stored.
“Okay, Vick. What is it?” Clay asked once they were gone.
“Don't let Zach go with them,” she asked without preamble. “Please,” she hated that she sounded like she was pleading, even though she was.
“Why not?” Clay asked.
“Don't tell me they're going to release her,” Vicki said in answer.
“No, they aren't,” Clay admitted. “We can't take the chance. You know that. She's not a woman prisoner, she's an enemy combatant. We can't keep her here and we can't risk her getting free. We don't have a choice, and she made her choice when she started raiding other people.”
“I got nothing against that and you know it,” she replied calmly. “But . . . ”
“Are you afraid Zach can't stomach it?” Clay asked with concern.
“Just the opposite,” she shook her head. “He can stomach it just fine. Too fine, if you catch my meaning. Being around . . . he doesn't need someone like Xavier Adair as a role model,” she finally blurted out.
Clay considered that in silence. He himself had noted a tendency in Zach to be less troubled by harsh decisions than most of the other boys. They all did what they had to do without hesitation, but none of them relished such things the way X would. Zach on the other hand . . .
“Are you saying he's more like Xavier than you're comfortable with?” he asked her, eyebrow raised slightly.
“Yes. No! I mean . . . yes,” she sighed in defeat, head down, feeling as if she had betrayed Zach somehow.
“Vicki, I've noticed Zach's behavior,” Clay assured her. “And he is nothing like X, I promise you.”
“How can you know that?” her head shot up in defiance.
“Zach exhibits some tendencies that are associated with being a highly functioning sociopath, Vicki,” Clay informed her. “Not all of them, but some. I admit that isn't good, but Xavier is a much different sort of animal entirely. I don't believe you have anything to worry about on that front. Zach probably won't get any better, but he shouldn't get any worse, either.” He paused for a minute, noting the absolute concern for Zach that Tully was demonstrating.
“Something you want to tell me, Vee?” he said softly. “If there is, it stays right here,” he motioned between the two of them.
“He . . . he's a good kid,” she said, sounding somewhat lame even to her own ears. “Good man. Just . . . I just . . . I don't want him mixed up with someone like Xavier. No offense to you, I know he's your friend.”
“I don't know if Xavier recognizes 'friends',” Clay admitted. “And I know that Zach does, which should be comforting to you. How deep are you two in?” he asked flat out.
“I don't know,” she sounded despondent. “He doesn't talk. Doesn't say shit for all that he talks all the time. It's like he fakes it.”
“He's trying to fit in,” Clay nodded. “He knows that he's not normal so he mimics what he sees around him, trying to fit in. I suspect, however, that he allows you to see the real Zach,” he smiled gently. “You are probably the only one who gets to see that.”
“Great,” she grunted.
“I thought that would make you happy,” Clay frowned.
“It did. It does,” she amended. “I just . . . I ask myself every day how I got where I am.”
“Welcome to the club,” Clay snorted. “I’ll send someone else,” he promised.
“Thanks,” Vicki replied earnestly. “And uh . . . if you don't . . . ”
“Not a word,” Clay promised. “To either of them. Just didn't work out.”
“Thank you,” she repeated.
“Sure thing.”
***
“I can't raise Zach on radio,” Clay told Corey. “He should be making the rounds on foot so see if you can run him down. He may need batteries or maybe his radio is off. Find him and get it fixed.”
“On it,” Corey nodded, climbing aboard a golf cart and heading off on his errand. His arm was almost healed and he was trying to get back to work.
“Gonna have to settle for someone else, brah,” Clay told Xavier. “Can't get hold of Zach. Thug will ride along with you. Head down a ways before-hand,” he added to Shane.
“Will do,” Shane nodded. 'Emily' was already loaded, bound hand and foot, bag over her head. She had been pleading non-stop since they had come to get her. Let her stay. She had offered everything from manual labor to sexual favors if they would just leave her right where she was. Xavier, knowing her distaste of him, had asked if that included him and she had fallen silent. Now she was lying in the floor of the passenger compartment, sobbing silently beneath the hood over her head.
�
�Make it quick,” Clay ordered. “And keep a close eye out. Some of her bunch may have come this far north looking for her if she's related to someone important enough.”
Shane nodded and the three mounted up and were on their way.
“Do I want to know?” Beverly asked from behind him.
“You know better than to ask by now,” Clay shrugged. “But no, I suspect you don't.”
“Is it justified?” she asked softly.
“Most definitely,” Clay's voice was firm. Unyielding.
“Well, I have work to do,” she said suddenly. “Have a good day.”
“Around here?” Clay snorted. “Thanks for the thought.”
That made her smile as she walked away.
“What a day and it ain't even lunch,” Clay sighed, shaking his head.
***
Emily Shirley had belonged to a group of people that had preyed on the weaker survivors as if it were their right to do so. Taking what they wanted from those around them and doing what they wanted with the people they found. The strong survive and the weak fall. It had been drilled into them for years before the flare, though no one had taken it seriously until civilization took a leap backward.
That attitude and their success against those less prepared or caught off guard had made them arrogant. That arrogance had made Emily Shirley careless. He team had died because of that carelessness, and now . . .
“Here's good,” Shane said, pulling to a halt. They were five miles south of their exit. It would be enough.
“If we hurry we can be back before lunch,” Mitchell Nolan noted, opening the rear door and jumping down to the asphalt below.
“On your feet, Bonnie,” Xavier ordered, cutting the flex straps around her ankles and pulling her to her feet. He jerked the hood from her head as it had served its purpose.
“Please,” she begged softly. “Please don't do this. I don't want to die. Please.”
“Out of curiosity, how many people begged you for mercy?” Mitchell asked.
