by Tom Abrahams
Marcus crossed the distance to Andrea and held out his arms. It was a hesitant motion from a man usually decisive and sure of movement. “Could I?”
Andrea smiled. “Which one?”
Marcus eyed both babies before his gaze settled back on Andrea. “The boy? I’ve already held yours.”
Andrea shifted her weight in the chair and leaned forward with the baby boy. Marcus stooped and, with both hands, took the child from her. He was wrapped in a cotton shirt. Once he had the child firmly in his arms, supporting the head, he checked behind him.
Lou was still crying. Her sobs, softer now, were muted in Dallas’s chest. He was whispering in her ear. Both of them were oblivious to the room around them. David was standing off to one side, a few feet from his parents and between two bookshelves.
Marcus caught David’s attention and motioned for him. The boy glanced at his parents, a frightened, drawn expression on his face, and slid past them to Marcus.
Holding the baby with one arm, his head supported in the crook of his elbow, he offered his free hand to David. The boy took it and Marcus led him to a pair of chairs at the other end of the open space.
They were high-backed chairs, the kind you might find in a study or a formal living room. But they were threadbare, the seams torn or popped, the seat cushions missing altogether. Marcus took a seat in one and guided David to the other.
“What do you think about your big brother?” Marcus asked.
David leaned against the oversized arm closer to Marcus. One side of his mouth lifted into a smirk. “Little brother,” he corrected. “I’m the big brother.”
Marcus widened his eyes and dropped his jaw. “Oh,” he said, as if he’d discovered something, “you’re right. You’re the big brother.”
“I’m older.”
“You are older,” said Marcus. “And I hear you’re a hero.”
David studied Marcus. There was no shift in expression. No giveaways. Only a silent appraisal, judgment.
“You think you’re funny,” said David. “My mom said you thought you were funny. But you’re really not.”
That drew a genuine chuckle. Marcus bit his lip. “You are your momma’s son, aren’t you? All spit and vinegar.”
Instead of answering, or even fully reacting to Marcus’s assessment, David tucked his legs under him and glanced toward his parents. “Why is my mom crying?” he asked. “I’ve never seen her cry.”
Marcus followed David’s stare and saw Dallas stroke the back of Lou’s head. Then he looked down at the boy swaddled in his arm. “She’s thinking of your grandfather, David. Her father.”
The boy’s eyebrows twitched. “He was David too.”
“He was,” said Marcus. “He and your mom lived in a library for a while. It was their home. I guess she has a lot of memories about that. This makes her think about that.”
“It makes her sad?”
“A little, I’m sure,” said Marcus. “Plus, it’s been a really long day. She’s tired.”
“How long will we be here?”
The baby moved in Marcus’s arm and brought his hands up to his face. They were balled into tight fists. The kid looked like an angry Winston Churchill.
“Good question,” said Marcus.
“I know it is,” said David. “What’s the answer?”
Marcus looked up from the baby and at David. The kid looked like Lou. It was hard not to be nostalgic with all the kids and babies around, difficult not to reminisce. He realized he’d been doing a lot of that since Dallas showed up on his land a very long five days ago.
Was it only five days? Five days. A lifetime in five days.
Marcus wondered why they’d needed him. He looked down at the new baby again. Was it to play nanny? His eyes, fully adjusted to the faint gray light of the room, found Lou and Dallas.
She wasn’t crying anymore. She was whispering to Dallas. His hands were on her shoulders; hers were on his elbows, cupping them.
“Marcus,” said David, “what’s the answer?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus. “It could be an hour, it could be a couple of days, but we’re safe here. We’ve got food, water, and, when the sun comes up, plenty of books to read.”
David leaned toward him and Marcus thought he was going to whisper something. Instead, he puckered his lips and planted a soft kiss on the top of the baby’s head.
Amidst all of it, there was still this: family. A husband comforted his wife; a boy loved his sibling. Family. That was why he was here.
CHAPTER 11
APRIL 21, 2054, 6:30 AM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
TYLER, TEXAS
Lou stood at the window, rocking side to side at her hips, holding her baby. She was trying to nurse. It wasn’t easy. And it hurt. She winced. Finally the boy latched on and started to feed.
“Hey.” Marcus came up behind her. “You okay?”
“I’ve got a hungry cannibal who hasn’t figured out how not to bite the boob that feeds him,” Lou said. “So there’s that.”
Marcus chuckled. “Sorry. Didn’t realize. You want me to leave you alone?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Where is everyone else?”
“Asleep.”
“Even David?”
“On top of Dallas. They’re on the floor somewhere in the children’s section. Andrea and her kids are asleep in a chair over by the newspapers and magazines section.”
“I couldn’t sleep even if I tried, even though I’m exhausted.”
Marcus stepped to the window next to Lou. He kept his eyes forward, staring out at West Elm. It was that time of the morning where everything looked like it was filtered through a sepia lens. Everything blended together and edges blurred. “You’ve got a cannibal to feed. That’s good enough reason to be awake.”
“True,” she said. “It’s not that though. It’s the library. It’s too much. I want to cry just looking at a book on a shelf. You know, with the little white stickers at the bottom that tell you where it belongs on a shelf? It reminds me of…” She couldn’t finish saying it.
“Of him,” Marcus said. “I get it. It’s totally—”
“No,” said Lou. “It’s not that.” There was no melancholy in her tone; there was concern. “We need to get away from the window.” She stepped back carefully, as if a snake were at her feet and she didn’t want to disturb it.
“What?” Marcus asked, searching the street in front of him. There was an old church across the road. Next to that was a squat building with an orange roof in bad disrepair. A sign in front of the place indicated it was the Smith County Historical Society.
He stepped closer to the window and looked to the left. Nothing. To the right. Nothing at first. And then he saw them.
Beyond the corner of the church that sat at West Elm Street and South Bois D’Arc Avenue were four men on foot. They were armed. Shotguns? They were zigzagging along the street, peering in windows along one side before crossing the other to do the same. How had Lou seen them so quickly?
“Marcus,” she whisper-shouted, “get away from the window.”
He took three steps back and turned around to face Lou. She’d already covered up and stopped feeding. The baby gurgled but seemed otherwise content with the abbreviated breakfast. “That’s not Pop Guard,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“No uniforms,” she said. “I bet they’re tribal.”
Marcus resisted the urge to go back to the window for another look. “Really? You think so?”
“No doubt. If this is a tribal town, nobody else is going to be wandering around armed at dawn, searching buildings.”
“Good point,” said Marcus. “C’mon.”
He led her farther into the space, back behind a collection of shelves with heavy, matching volumes on them. She leaned against one of the shelves, swaying unconsciously while tapping the baby’s back with her fingers. He faced over her shoulder, looking at Marcus with a drunk expression on
his face. Definitely Winston Churchill. The only thing missing was a homburg and a cigar. He took his attention from the baby and looked through the gap between the top of one row of books and the bottom of the shelf above it.
“I think we can see them from here without them seeing us,” said Marcus, “assuming they check the window.”
The baby burped and Marcus smelled stale milk. His face soured, but he didn’t say anything. He’d never liked that smell. Sylvia had loved it. But she’d also loved the rancid odor of cradle cap and the bizarre enjoyment of picking flakes of skin off Wes’s scalp.
“What’s the plan?” Lou asked.
Marcus kept his eyes on the window. “For what?”
“If they see us?”
“They won’t see us,” said Marcus. “If we stay quiet. If we—”
The first face appeared at the window. He was a ginger. A heavy mop of bright red hair below his ears, clinging to his jawline. In one hand he held a Mossberg twelve gauge. He pressed the edge of the other to the glass and used it as a visor to look through the window.
Marcus’s pulse quickened. He was faintly aware of the nine millimeter on his hip.
The redhead scanned and squinted, trying to survey the space through the film of bubbling tint on the glass. Then he stopped, focused on something. He pulled his face away from the glass and poked at it, jabbing with his index finger. He said something. Marcus heard him but didn’t decipher the words.
“This isn’t good,” said Lou.
“No, it isn’t,” said Marcus.
A second man joined the first at the glass. He held his weapon in both hands. Another Mossberg, identical to the one in the ginger’s hand.
A third pressed his face to the window. Then the fourth appeared.
What did they see?
Marcus pulled back from the shelf and turned his head, trying to find what it was that had the gang’s attention. Nobody was visible. Everybody was hidden. There wasn’t—
The packs. The rifles. They were on the table at the center of the room. Piled high, covering its wide surface.
Marcus gritted his teeth and cursed.
“What?” Lou asked under her breath. “What is it?”
“Look at the table.”
Lou stopped swaying. “Mother—”
“Yeah,” said Marcus, “tell me about it.”
He and Lou locked eyes. It was like both were looking to the other for an answer.
“So what’s the plan, then?” Lou said. “Since they’re not going to find us.”
Marcus frowned. His pulse thumped at his temples. It was distracting. And suddenly he felt every ache and pain in his body. The base of his neck, his knees, his knuckles, and even a tender spot on the back of his elbow hurt.
He bent over to look through the gap again. The men were still at the window, waving and pointing as they talked over one another. They didn’t strike Marcus as tactically aware.
“They’re not coming through the glass,” he said.
“They could shoot through it,” she said.
“They won’t waste the ammo,” he said, trying to convince himself as much as reassure her. “They’ll try doors first. They don’t know we’re here. They see loot. They’re pirates. They want it.”
“Good point,” Lou said. “Let’s wait until they move away from the window. I’ll take Dallas. The kids can stay with Andrea. There’s a bathroom in the back corner. Well, what used to be a bathroom. It’s pretty nasty. But it’s got a door that locks. They can hide there.”
Marcus looked at the ceiling. “You don’t want them upstairs?”
“Better if we all stay together,” she said. “We can always fall back to the second floor.”
“Or third,” said Marcus.
“There’s a third floor?”
“An empty computer lab and some offices,” said Marcus. “But all of the rooms have locks.”
Lou reconsidered. “Okay. Third floor for Andrea and the kids.”
“Good,” said Marcus. “Then Dallas, you, and me take up positions. They have four to our three. But we have the element of surprise.”
Lou nodded and Marcus thought he saw the twitch of a smile. Like old times.
The redhead gave one more squint-eyed look through the window, and the men moved away. Marcus guessed they had a minute until the men started trying the doors.
“Dallas,” Lou called. “Dallas, get up.”
Marcus moved to the table, grabbed one of the rifles, and pulled out the magazine. He took a full mag from an open pack and palmed it into the semiautomatic weapon. He laid the weapon to the side and did the same to a second rifle.
He thought about how he’d spent the last two hours, the preparations he’d already made. There was little chance anyone other than their next conductor would find them here in the Tyler Public Library, but Marcus had learned long ago that little chances were enough to get a man killed.
There were three entrance doors to the library: an entry from the parking lot, a side door with no handle on the outside, and the main entrance, which faced College Street but was closest to where the quartet had been. That was where they’d try to get inside.
Marcus thought he could wait for them there, right by the entry, and tag them as they broke through the glass doors. However, that presented a bigger problem. Even if he killed all four of them, the sound of semiautomatic rifle fire right by open doors might draw more attention. They needed to lie in wait with the guns.
Dallas joined Marcus at the table. “Andrea took the kids upstairs,” he said. “They’re going to hide in the computer lab away from the windows.”
He had a pink crease along his cheek from where he’d slept. There were puffy, bruised circles under his bloodshot eyes. If a young guy like Dallas looked like hell, Marcus wondered which side of zombie he resembled.
Marcus handed him a rifle as Lou joined them. She reached for a rifle. Marcus held out an arm to stop her.
“I need you at the entrance,” he said.
Her brow furrowed. “Then give me a gun.”
“Use your knives,” he said. “Tag one of them. That’s it. Then retreat.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” said Marcus. “We don’t have time for questions.”
Lou issued a sarcastic salute.
“Shouldn’t she have a gun?” Dallas asked worriedly. “You know the old saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight.”
“I also know the old saying about bringing a feral knife-slinging freak to a gunfight,” said Marcus. “Trust me. Your wife is going to be fine.”
Dallas and Lou silently exchanged glances. No arguing this time.
“Get on the stairs, Dallas,” said Marcus. “You’ll have a clean line of sight from there to the foyer. Wait until—”
There was a rattling sound coming from the entrance. The intruders were trying the doors.
“Wait until they clear the foyer, or whatever that brick area is called. Lou, after you get one of them, they’ll panic a little bit. They’ll be on edge.”
“Then we lose the element of surprise,” she said.
Another rattle at the door—harder. Metal clanged and echoed into the building.
“Not really,” said Marcus. “We have three people, not one. As soon as you get your kill, move to the young adult section. You’ll find something there for you. Now go.”
Lou eyed both men. She touched her hand to Dallas’s face and blew him a kiss. Then she moved toward the entry.
Marcus grabbed the remaining rifle and the pack with ammo. He tossed a couple of full mags to Dallas. They nodded an understanding, and Marcus limped to the DVD and CD section close to the front of the space.
He found a good position behind a spinning wire rack. There were a couple of DVDs still on the rack. One of the movies was Raising Arizona. Another was the Steve Martin remake of The Pink Panther. Marcus couldn’t help but smile as he dropped to one aching knee and lowered his pack to the floor beside him.
He checked and saw Dallas on the stairs. He was using the wooden handrail as a brace for his barrel. He was ready to go.
Marcus lifted his knee off the floor, winced, and again rested his weight on it. His kneecap shifted uncomfortably under his weight. He ignored it as best he could and leveled his rifle, pulling the butt tight against his sore shoulder. He wondered if he’d torn something there. His range of motion wasn’t what it should be.
In position for a couple of minutes, Marcus wondered what was taking so long. He expected the thug quartet to shatter the glass doors, clear the shards, and move inside. That hadn’t happened.
Marcus considered how odd it was the library was mostly intact. There were a few second-floor windows facing the church that were missing. A lot of the books were on the floors in piles. Electronics were gone. A couple of the bookshelves were disassembled and no doubt used as scrap. But the place was otherwise in good shape. Twenty years after Texas descended into chaos and the library was still standing.
He thought about how the Taliban had destroyed the Buddhas of Bamiyan in the months before 9/11. How in Syria, he’d stood at the same spot at Palmyra where the Temple of Baalshamin once dominated the landscape. ISIS ruined it and another temple dedicated to the ancient god Baal.
Yet the library in Tyler, Texas, somehow withstood the litany of gangs and armies that had sought control of the territory. Until today. Because of him and his party, this place would be in tatters by the end of a violent confrontation. He was sure of it.
He wasn’t sure, though, why that confrontation hadn’t begun. What were the hostiles doing outside the front door?
Surprisingly, Lou appeared at the spot where he expected to see the first of the intruders. She glanced around the room, locked eyes with Marcus, and hustled across the room toward him. She crouched beside him, holding her belly. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. Sweat glistened on her forehead and in the creases that defined her cheeks.
“There are more than four,” she said, heavy breathing punctuating the spaces between her words.
Marcus didn’t follow. “What?”
“Men. More than four men.”
“How many?”
She wiped sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. It was then he noticed she held a knife. “I dunno. A dozen?”
