Issa took one final look around at the empty barracks. She could almost hear Samantha’s playful laughter, Tanner’s heavy footsteps. But there was no one. It was Issa, and only Issa.
She turned and hurried out of the barracks, surprised to find that dusk was not far off. Sleep had taken her for a longer journey than she had thought, and for that, she was grateful.
As she rounded the corner of the building, she saw Giselle hiding in a shadow, her eyes darting from side to side.
“Giselle, what’s going on? Who killed Chloe?”
“We don’t know, but we think it’s because of what we did. Are you sure you haven’t told anyone?”
“I’m sure. Why do you think it has something to do with my husband?”
“Come, and I’ll show you.”
Taking care not to be caught out in the open, Giselle hurried between buildings until they finally arrived at the barracks that she and the other widows shared. Willow, a young woman no older than twenty, leaned out the front door and waved them in.
“Hurry, before you’re seen.”
Being half dragged by Willow and half pushed by Giselle, Issa stumbled into the hangar. A dozen women crowded around a bunk on one side of the room.
“Go on,” urged Giselle, “see for yourself.”
Issa moved forward, and the women slowly parted.
Young Chloe lay on the bunk, the sheets soaked in her blood. Her body was completely nude, hands pulled over her head and legs spread apart. The front of her throat had been cut, the trachea severed in two, leaving her to suffocate on her own blood. A horrible gash had also been cut across her belly, causing her intestines to bulge out like sleeping snakes. Blood from the wound had been used to write a single word across her bare breasts.
Whore.
Issa had known Chloe to be a gentle soul, soft spoken and with a sense of humor as quirky as that of Samantha’s. She had been with Mother’s family for nearly a year, and as far as Issa knew, had never shared cross words with anyone. Known for her shyness, Chloe was as far from being a whore as any woman in the community. Even though her husband had been killed several months earlier, it had come as a surprise to Issa when she had asked to join in the mass bedding of Tanner. Feeling that she needed to explain, Chloe had nearly broken down in tears when explaining that her greatest desire was to give birth and prayed that her late husband would forgive her for the transgression.
Now she lay before Issa and the other women, her belly viciously sliced open, shamed like a dishonored samurai.
Issa stepped closer and knelt to better study the body. Chloe’s wrists and ankles were both ringed with indistinct purple ligature marks. She had been restrained, either with a rope or simply by her attackers’ hands. Streaks of blood along her thighs suggested that she had been repeatedly raped, likely by several men. The cuts across her belly and throat had been made by a sharp blade, clean and deep. The indignant insult scribed across her breasts had been scrawled by one of her attacker’s fingers, the swirls of its print still visible along the edges.
“This is your fault,” someone snarled.
Issa turned and found Joan staring down at her. Being a few years older than the other women, Joan had become a bit of a mother hen to the widows. While Issa had never personally cared for her, they had never had reason to argue.
Until now.
Issa straightened up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Look at her. This happened because of what she did with your husband.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Why else, Issa?” said Giselle. “Chloe was as nice as anyone here. Why would someone want to,” she swallowed, “do that to her.”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t mean that it’s related to Tanner.”
“But what if it is? What if they come back for the rest of us who… you know.”
The other women in the crowd who had participated in the debauchery with Tanner murmured their agreement. A few were angry. All were scared.
“What are you?” growled Issa. “Children who cower in the dark?” The women shrank back, quieting. All knew of Issa’s temper, and none, not even Joan, wanted to be the focus of her rage. “I don’t know why someone did this or if they will return. What I do know is that they will pay for it. Now, quit your whimpering and find what little courage still swirls in those weak bellies of yours.”
“What can we do?” Giselle said, doing her best to summon a little courage.
“We can start by figuring out who did this.” Issa glanced back at Chloe’s body. “Why was she here all alone?”
The women looked to one another, but no one spoke.
“Look at her, dammit,” she snarled, stepping aside so they could see the poor girl’s blood-covered body. “Look at her,” she repeated, her voice breaking. “She was our sister.”
Kendra, an attractive black southerner perhaps five years younger than Issa, stepped forward and said, “Rest’a us went to lunch. Chloe said she’d be along, but never showed.”
“Why would she go later than everyone else?”
Kendra shrugged. “You know how she was, odd like that. Said she liked a little quiet time in the afternoon to meditate.”
“And when you came back, she was like this?”
Kendra nodded, “God help her.”
Giselle stepped forward. “We were afraid to tell Mother on account of what we did with Tanner.” She touched her stomach, perhaps wondering if her indiscretion had been successful in implanting the seed of life.
While Issa wanted to assure everyone that Mother wouldn’t punish them, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. While it was true that Mother was taking a more open minded view toward her pregnancy, there was no guarantee about how she would react to their mass deceit. She might well view it as a threat to the community’s way of life and banish the entire group. And in a world scarce of food and fresh water, exile was all but a death sentence.
“Well, we can’t leave her like this.” Issa stepped closer and folded the sheet over Chloe. As she did, something small clattered to the floor.
She bent over and picked it up.
“What is it?” Giselle asked, coming closer.
Issa held up a quarter-sized black button for everyone to see.
“Do you think it’s from the killer?”
Issa flipped the button over a few times, studying small letters that ran along one edge. US Army. While not all of Mother’s troops wore uniforms, many did, thanks to hundreds of them being left behind when Mount Weather had been overrun.
“It’s from a soldier’s uniform,” she said, tracing the letters with her fingertips. Issa squinted, imagining how the murder had unfolded. “There must have been at least three of them, two holding her down while they took turns raping her.”
“If soldiers are behind this, there’s nothing we can do,” declared Joan.
Issa squinted. “Says who?”
“They have guns.”
Issa patted the Merkel. “I have a gun too.”
“Even so, three soldiers could kill us all. It’s better if we just hide Chloe’s body out in the fields and forget this ever happened. We could carry her out on the cart we use to haul vegetables.”
Issa looked around at the women, her gut filling with disgust.
“Is that what you want to do? Let Chloe rot in a field while her killers sleep in their beds dreaming of her screams?”
Nearly everyone looked away.
“Maybe they’ll get a taste for killing and return tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.”
Kendra’s jaw tightened. “Issa’s right. We can’t let ’em get away with this. Even if they don’t come back, we’ll be livin’ in fear forever.”
Giselle inched up next to Kendra, her face visibly trembling.
“I want to help, too.”
A few of the other women reluctantly nodded their agreement.
Issa turned back to study the scene. The area around Chloe’s bunk
was a godawful mess. The human body contained more than five quarts of blood, but to look at the sheets and crimson pool spilled onto the floor, one would have bet that it held five gallons.
Having killed a few men with a knife herself, Issa knew that it would have been darn near impossible for someone to cut Chloe open without getting covered in blood in the process. In fact, she was pretty sure that after their brutal actions, Chloe’s killers would have looked like slaughterhouse workers at the end of their shift.
She studied the floor. There were a few partial shoe prints in the blood, none clear enough to match to a pair of boots. There was also a steady stream of droplets leading toward the rear of the hangar.
“Boots,” Kendra said, gently touching one of the prints. “They was soldiers all right.”
Giselle followed the drops across the hangar, carefully going from one to the next.
When she got to the back door, she hollered, “They went out this way.” She opened the door and stepped out to briefly study the ground.
“I don’t see how that helps us,” said Joan. “It’s not like we can track them across the compound.”
Before Issa could reply, Giselle hurried back in and pulled the door closed.
“The trail ends in the dirt,” she explained. “Can’t really tell where they went after that.”
“See,” Joan said, crossing her arms.
“Perhaps we can’t follow them” said Issa, “but knowing which way they left might help to find a witness.”
“You think someone saw ’em?” said Kendra.
“Three men covered in blood, exiting a woman’s barracks in the middle of the day wouldn’t go unnoticed.”
Giselle said, “I don’t mind asking around.”
Several other women voiced that they would help as well.
“Fine,” said Issa, “but don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t be alone.”
Giselle and three other women paired up and exited the hangar to see what they could learn. As they did, Issa once again turned her attention to Chloe.
“We’ll need to bury her.” She glanced back at Joan. “Can you and a couple of the other women take her out on that cart you mentioned?”
Joan stared at her for a long moment before turning to one of the women and saying, “Bring it around back.”
When Issa moved to one end of the bunk to help lift Chloe, Joan gently shooed her back.
“Not in your condition.” She motioned for several of the widows to help, and together, they used the sheet to hoist Chloe into the air. Working in unison, they shuffled over to the back door and set her on the floor to await the cart.
Looking at young Chloe lying on the floor like a wounded soldier conjured images of war, and Issa couldn’t help but wonder what violence was yet to follow.
By the time Giselle and the other scouts returned, Chloe’s body was already on its way to being buried.
“You were right,” exclaimed Giselle, hurrying back to the group. “Someone not only saw Chloe’s killers, they actually talked to them.”
“Who?” asked Issa.
“Barb, you know, the old woman who’s lost most of her hair. She says three men came from the barracks when she was out hanging clothes.”
“Did she recognize them?”
Giselle nodded. “It was Spencer and those two Coleman brothers.”
Issa knew Spencer to be one of Mother’s lieutenants. He had been a high-profile realtor before becoming infected and had always struck Issa as a charismatic, if not slightly arrogant, man. It was hard to imagine him as a brutal rapist and killer. The Coleman brothers were both quiet men who kept to themselves but were known to be fiercely protective of one another.
“You said she talked to them?”
“That’s right. She asked Spencer why he had blood on his hands, and he said that he’d been helping one of the women kill a chicken. Barb said they had a real nice conversation, and that he and the others didn’t seem at all out of the ordinary.”
“How could anyone do somethin’ like that and not be downright sick to their stomachs?” said Kendra.
“Maybe they found that killing was to their liking,” Giselle said, her face twisting.
“Even so, why wasn’t they more careful? It’s almost like they didn’t care if someone saw ’em. Surely, they musta known Mother would punish ’em for what they done.”
It was a good question, and one that Issa didn’t have the answer to.
“What matters is that we have their names. Stay here until I get back.” She turned and started toward the door.
“Where you goin’?” Kendra said, catching her by the arm.
“To get a little justice.”
“All by yourself? They’ll kill you for sure.”
“She’s right. We should all go,” Giselle said, snatching up a spade the women used for gardening.
“No,” said Issa, “this isn’t for you.”
“It isn’t for you either?” said Joan. “Let Mother handle this.”
Issa shook her head. “Mother has her idea of justice, and I have mine.”
“You gonna kill ’em, right?” said Kendra.
Issa stared at the large red stain soaked into Chloe’s mattress.
“Yes,” she breathed, “that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Kendra hurried over to her bunk and retrieved a revolver from under the pillow.
“Then I’m goin’ with you.” When Issa started to object, she said, “We all cared about Chloe, same as you. It ain’t right you doin’ this alone.”
There was a fire in Kendra’s eyes. The same, however, could not be said of Giselle.
Issa let out a breath. “Fine. You, and only you, can come.” She turned to Giselle. “I need for you to stay here and guard the other women.”
Giselle made a little chopping motion with the spade.
“Please, Issa, I can help.”
“You will be helping by staying here.”
Kendra put her hand on Giselle’s shoulder.
“We’re meanin’ to kill these men. Believe me, you don’t want no part of that.”
Giselle reluctantly nodded. “Fine. But come back as soon as you can, both of you.”
Issa turned to Kendra. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“I’m sure.”
“I can’t keep you alive.”
“I don’t ’spect you to.”
Issa nodded. “All right then, let’s go set things right.”
Chapter 10
The walk to the Western Tidewater Regional Jail took Mason, Beebie, and Bowie through a small retail section along the northern edge of Suffolk. They passed fast-food restaurants, a couple of gas stations, and a Goodwill store. Off to one side, they also spotted a fire station and a high school set back from the road. Everything looked lifeless and dark, which given the state of lawlessness surrounding them, was not at all surprising.
As the businesses thinned out, they came upon a nondescript blue and white sign that read, “Visitor Center, Left at Signal.”
“That looks promising,” said Beebie.
The coming intersection had a single stoplight and turned onto what looked to be a two-lane residential road. An old white house sat on the corner with the words “Left for deliveries” spray painted on its side. Before they could decide whether or not this was the right turn, a truck matching the one they had seen Brooke being taken away in appeared on the small road. Two men rode up front, and a blood-stained tarp covered something in the bed.
Mason unclipped his badge from his belt and slid it down into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” asked Beebie.
“Trying not to draw the wrong kind of attention.”
Mason raised a hand and waved down the men. As the pickup truck eased closer, he recognized the driver as being the hippie they had seen on the back porch of the house where Brooke was taken. Based on his size, Mason was pretty sure that his passenger had been there too, although he had never re
ally gotten a good look at him. The man had roughly the same body weight as Beebie but nowhere near the muscle mass. Instead, he carried it like an overstuffed pillow that stretched from his neck down to his knees. His face was equally as swollen, not to mention as flushed as that of comedian Chris Farley.
“What can we do for you, man?” the hippie asked in a voice that sounded a lot like Tommy Chong.
“Are you guys coming from the prison?” said Mason.
Chong smiled. “It was either that or a hotel in a really bad neighborhood.”
“We heard Laroche is looking for men who can handle a gun.” It seemed like a safe bet since warlords always needed armed men to do their bidding.
“What do we look like, chopped liver?” Before Mason could answer, Chong laughed and said, “I’m just shittin’ you, man. Laroche’s always looking for guns. Either of you any good?”
“Good enough.”
Chong turned to Farley. “What do you think, man? They look like somethin’ Laroche might be interested in.”
“They look like a couple of dumbasses to me,” the big man said with a sneer.
Without warning, Beebie marched around to his side of the truck, swung open the door, and yanked him out. Farley drew a pistol from his waistband, but Beebie swatted it away before driving a huge fist into the man’s flabby gut.
Farley doubled over, gasping for air.
Chong straightened, his eyes going to a rifle lying on the floorboard. When he saw that things weren’t going to escalate further, he relaxed and settled back against the seat.
“Your friend has a mean temper, man.”
“I’ve always thought of Beebie as a wrecking ball looking for his next target.”
“A wrecking ball,” he said with a chuckle. “I like that, man.” He looked over at Bowie. “That your dog?”
“Let’s just say Bowie and I are traveling together.”
“He sure is a big ’un.”
“That he is.”
Still struggling for air, Farley half fell, half crawled his way back into the cab of the truck. Beebie shoved him the rest of the way in and slammed the door.
The Survivalist (Solemn Duty) Page 11
