Primal

by D. J. Molles

  The man whimpered.

  It made Lee feel simultaneously satisfied and irritated.

  “What are you gonna do to me?” the man gasped out, his breath stirring the dry dust against his face.

  “Ssh,” Lee whispered again, and then he bent down low, so that both his mouth and the muzzle of his rifle were close to the man’s ear. “Don’t worry about that right now. Just pray.”

  Something in the distance drew Abe’s attention, and his eyes flicked up to the horizon. He scanned for a moment, and then seemed to fixate on something out there, something in amongst the low scrub. “Time to get inside.”

  ***

  The air inside smelled like death—hot, and fetid, and bacterial.

  The man swung from the rafters of the quonset hut, making struggling noises.

  Lee watched, an old, folding pocket knife in his hand.

  The man—he’d given his name as Sean—was suspended by a chain that had been hooked to his baling wire bindings, and he could only take the tension off of his shoulders by shuffling around on his tiptoes.

  “Sean,” Lee sighed. “Stop trying to look at the dead bodies in the corner. Focus on answering my question.”

  Sean made a few more pathetic whimpering sounds, still trying to twist himself to get a good view of the bodies stacked up in the corner of the qounset hut, attracting flies. There was a single skylight in the top of the quonset hut, right above them. It provided enough light for them to see each other, but the rest of the building remained dim, like the vestiges of a slaughterhouse nightmare.

  “I didn’t have a choice!” Sean moaned. “They made me work for them! They said that I had to work for them or they would kill me!”

  “Mm,” Lee grunted. “Well, that’s still a choice now, isn’t it?”

  Sean’s gaze hit Lee’s, and for one sad moment it looked like he expected to find some pity there.

  He didn’t.

  Sean’s eyes crinkled at the edges, his mouth twisting with anxiety. “Oh, man! Please, man! You don’t gotta kill me!” His eyes strayed to the bodies in the corner again.

  “Christ,” Lee snapped. He seized Sean by the face and yanked him around to fully stare at the bodies. “Just look. You’re so desperate to see them. Go ahead. Take a long, hard look. That’s Terry, and his two sons, and two others that I don’t know and don’t care about. They fought back, so they died.”

  Lee yanked Sean around again, forcing eye contact. He brought the knife up, and put the extended blade right under Sean’s eye. Out of his peripheral, Lee saw the initials in the wooden handle of the knife: TBW.

  He didn’t know what the B or the W stood for, but the T was for Terry.

  “You work with the cartel,” Lee hissed. “Then you die. That’s the rule.”

  Sean didn’t answer outside of squeezing his eyes shut and blubbering through his compressed lips.

  A tiny dollop of spittle struck Lee’s hand. He shoved Sean away and sneered in disgust.

  “Tell me where you came from.”

  “La Casa,” Sean said.

  He seemed willing to talk, at least.

  At the mention of La Casa, Abe Darabie perked up from fishing around in a can of expired green beans that they’d liberated from a nearby pantry.

  Lee shot his partner a glance.

  Leave it alone, Abe.

  “You work for Hermanco?” Lee asked, patting Terry’s old pocket knife against the side of his leg.

  Sean nodded. “Yes. Well. You know. They made me work—”

  “Alright, shut up,” Lee snapped, slicing the air with the tip of the knife.

  Sean clamped his mouth shut.

  Abe walked over, picking green beans out of the can with his fingers. “What’s the fuel situation in La Casa?”

  Lee gritted his teeth.

  Dammit, Abe…

  “Uh…” Sean glanced between his two captors, seeming unsure who he should address. He settled on Abe. “There’s two big tankers, just pulled in yesterday to replace two empties we sent back to the refinery on the coast to get refilled.”

  Abe chewed a suspiciously pale green bean. “Are they full?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  Abe looked significantly at Lee.

  Lee stared back, trying not to let his thoughts show on his face, because he was thinking about how he wanted to smash Abe’s nose into the back of his skull. Not that he was worried about Abe knowing that—Abe knew full well that he was pissing Lee off. He just didn’t care.

  Lee simply didn’t want to show any signs of infighting to the man they had strung up. It was important to present a united front.

  “Two full tankers,” Abe said, with great import, and then shrugged, and backed off a step.

  Lee dragged his attention back to Sean. “Joaquin Lozcano Leyva,” Lee spat out. “Are you familiar?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I know who he is,” Sean backtracked. “I know he’s Mateo Ibarra’s right-hand man. I just…I’ve never met him.”

  “Where is he?”

  Sean’s eyes darted. “Well, I’m not real sure—”

  Lee moved forward with the knife.

  Sean writhed away. “—But I’m pretty sure he’s in Triprock!”

  Lee felt a heavy dose of anxiety shoot through his stomach.

  Not anxiety born out of fear for his safety or anything so plebian—Lee was passed that now. Those were human concerns, and he’d let go of his human side a while ago. Five weeks ago, to be exact.

  No, the anxiety was more the feeling of watching your prey walk towards your trap, and hoping desperately that they’ll fall into it.

  Lee already knew where Joaquin was. But it didn’t hurt to confirm. Especially when they were so close to actually making a move on him. It was the closest to real-time intelligence Lee could get.

  Sean breathed rapidly through his nose, and stared at the point of the knife—with which Lee had threatened to hamstring him. “That’s what I heard, anyways,” he said.

  “How recently did you hear that?”

  “Yesterday.” He seemed to think that more clarity might be required to stave off the hamstringing. “Last night. There was some talk that he might come ‘round to La Casa. But that was because we thought…” Sean trailed off.

  Abe spoke up around a mouthful of green beans. “You thought that you’d have Mr. Nobody captured by then, and that Joaquin Leyva would want to come torture him for a good long while before taking his balls to Mateo Ibarra as a keepsake?”

  A dry tongue darted out of Sean’s mouth. It didn’t do much to wet his peeling lips.

  Lee and Abe both waited in silent expectation of an answer.

  “Uh. Yes,” Sean whispered.

  Lee and Abe exchanged a long look.

  Combative though their relationship was at times, you can’t help but develop a form of telepathy with someone who’s at your side every minute of every day, and upon which your life constantly depends.

  The look only lasted a second. A raise of the eyebrows from Lee. A sideways nod of acceptance from Abe. A final nod of resolution from Lee.

  In long form, what had been communicated was: He’s been honest so far. Might as well ask the final question. He’ll probably give us a truthful answer.

  “Sean,” Lee prompted. “What’s this week’s passcode for Nuevas Fronteras sentries?”

  Sean must have somehow sensed that this was what it all came down to.

  And as he realized that this was the final question, he simultaneously realized that these were his final moments.

  “Wait. You can’t kill me.”

  “Sean,” Lee growled through clenched teeth. “We’ve had a good thing going. Don’t screw it up now.”

  “But you’re going to kill me after I answer that question!” Sean moaned.

  “I’m not gonna kill you.”

  “You said everyone that works with the cartel dies!”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t say
I’m the one that kills them.”

  Sean blubbered for another second or two, then looked at Abe.

  Abe shook his head. “I’m not gonna kill you either.”

  “Unless you don’t answer the question,” Lee said. “In which case, yes, we will kill you.”

  “You’re lying. You’re gonna kill me.”

  “Do you want to die or something?”

  “No!” Sean sobbed. “But you’re not going to let me live after I answer that question! I’d answer the question, but I know that you’re gonna kill me after that!”

  Lee slid up to Sean and put the point of the knife against his right hamstring. With his free hand, he cupped the back of Sean’s head. His words came out hot and harsh. “Alright, listen to me, you shit. You tell me the passcode, and you get one chance and one chance only to live. And that’s when we cut you down and you run north, as fast as possible. But the infected are all over this place because your buddy Terry over there has been stinking it up and they’re all real hungry for a piece of meat. So, no, your chances of making it on the outside aren’t great. But I’ll tell you what, Sean: They’re a whole helluva lot better than they are in here with me. And every time you don’t answer that question, I will cut one of your hamstrings. And guess how fast you’re gonna run if you don’t have hamstrings?”

  “Blue Moon!” Sean yelped.

  Lee twitched when the man expelled the words so quickly. He’d been prepared to go on about how he was going to sever his biceps so that he couldn’t use his arms to crawl away from the primals either.

  Some men were easier to break than others.

  “It’s Blue Moon! That’s the passcode! I swear! Don’t cut my hamstrings!”

  “Blue Moon?” Lee repeated, as clearly and articulately as possible.

  “Yes! Blue Moon! I swear—”

  “Alright shut up,” Lee cut him off, pushing away from him.

  He looked once again to his partner, and once again, a wordless communication passed between them.

  They would have to trust that Sean was telling them the truth. There was no way to confirm it without actually using it—at which point their necks would be on the line. It was possible that Sean might be saying anything he could think of to get Lee not to cut his hamstrings, and that if they tried to use that passcode with a cartel sentry, they’d get gunned down…

  But that was the risk you took when you tortured people for information.

  Unfortunately, asking politely had proven to give even poorer results.

  “Alright, Sean,” Lee said. “You’ve earned your one chance to live.”

  Sean tried to blubber his thanks, but was immediately told to shut up.

  They lowered the chain that kept him dangling, and unhooked it from his bindings. Lee didn’t cut the bindings off of him. And Sean didn’t mention it. His eyes were fixated on the glow of daylight framing the back door of the qounset hut. He still didn’t quite believe that they were going to let him go. He seemed to be afraid to utter a single word that might break the fragile spell of their mercy.

  If only he knew what Lee knew.

  Lee and Abe, Nadie y Ninguno, Mr. No One and Mr. Nobody, the merciless, bloodthirsty boogeymen of Texas, hauled Sean to the back door of the hut, one of them on either side of him.

  They stopped, and Abe backed up, raising the short barreled rifle that he’d appropriated from Sean, and covering the captive as well as the door.

  Lee gripped the back of Sean’s neck, facing the door.

  “It’s your only chance, Sean,” Lee said to him. “So make it a good one.”

  Sean nodded, his mouth open, sucking in air.

  Lee’s eyes coursed up and down the man, and for a brief moment in time, he searched himself to see if he felt anything. But he didn’t.

  Everything human had callused over. And Lee only kept abrading it, more and more, growing more and more callused, because that was his only defense.

  The moment he felt anything, he was doomed.

  “One more thing,” Lee said.

  Sean’s eyes flickered to Lee.

  “Have you seen any dogs over at La Casa?”

  Sean blinked, confused by the question. “What?”

  “Dogs,” Lee reiterated with a note of impatience. “Canine animals. You seen a dog that looks kind of like a coyote? It’s a light-colored German Shepherd mix. You seen a dog like that?”

  Sean appeared bewildered. Slowly, as though fearing he might meet with some retribution if he answered in the negative, he shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  Lee grunted. “Alright. You ready?”

  Sean faced the door. “Yes.”

  Lee plunged the knife into his gut.

  Sean jerked back, but Lee held him fast as he removed the knife, and held the blade up to Sean’s face. “Ssh, Sean. Don’t start screaming. Take deep breaths and listen to me.”

  Sean somehow managed to contain the scream.

  It turned into a series of ragged, hitching breaths.

  “You’re not gonna die,” Lee said. “Not yet, anyways. It’s just a gut wound, you know? It maybe pierced some of your stomach or intestinal tract, and maybe you have some shit leaking into your abdominal cavity, and that’ll probably make you real sick in a couple days, but until then, you’re still alive right? Yeah, you’re still alive. You still have a chance.”

  Sean’s horrified eyes crawled up to Lee’s cold, dead ones. “Why?” he choked out. “Why’re you doing this to me?”

  Lee nodded, like it was a good question. Then he put his hand on the door to the outside world, and made sure that his grip on the back of Sean’s neck was good and solid. “I’m just giving you a chance, Sean,” he said. “The same chance you gave Julia.”

  Then he pushed the door open, and threw Sean out into the world.

  Sean stumbled, and looked for a moment like he might collapse. Then he regained his feet. He whirled around, trying to get his bearings.

  “Run, Sean,” Lee said, as he reached out and grabbed hold of the door, pulling it closed again.

  The last thing that Lee saw of Sean was the man pointing himself north and staggering into a jog. And in the distant hills, Lee thought he saw shadowy shapes slipping through the low brush.

  Lee pulled himself out of the doorway, then let the door close and latch. “You grabbed the keys to that pickup truck, right?”

  Abe lowered his rifle. Patted his pants pocket, emitting a muted jangling. “Yeah, I got ‘em.”

  “Good,” Lee had already turned away from the door and started moving. “Let’s get our shit and hit the road. It won’t take long before they realize we took their boys down—Blue Moon ain’t gonna work for much longer.”

  THREE

  ─▬▬▬─

  SCAVENGING

  A month had turned Benjamin Sullivan into an animal.

  He knelt on all fours, with his nose touching the bottom of the door, smelling the gap between the door and the floor tiles. And he also listened.

  Eyesight wasn’t much use to him where he was. These buildings that had once housed Master Sergeant Gilliard and his team of operatives in their quiet little corner of Fort Bragg, were not built with the concept of natural lighting in mind.

  There were a few offices that had tiny windows. Unfortunately, the one that Benjamin and his mother hid in, did not.

  So they steeped in blackness.

  For over a month.

  His mother moreso than him, because Benjamin would go out, as he planned to do right now. He had tasted daylight. And yes, being so long in the dark, it had a taste. Like grass, and wind, and, very faintly, lemons.

  Benjamin spent another few seconds at the crack under the door, smelling and listening.

  The primals were difficult to detect when they wanted to be. When they hunted.

  They didn’t smell as terrible as the infected had when the plague first struck. But that was because those creatures—the first generation of people turned mad by the FURY bacterium—would de
fecate in their clothing and their brains seemed not to have held onto any instinct for cleanliness or grooming.

  The primals, on the other hand, were different. They were mutants, one might say. Part human, and part…whatever it is they had become. Or were becoming. But they had instincts that the first generation of infected did not.

  They hunted as a coordinated pack. They communicated through their guttural language of barks and hoots and snorts. And they groomed themselves.

  But, as any animal did, they still smelled.

  You couldn’t detect them from two rooms away, like you could with the first generation. But Benjamin had found that he could still smell them if they were nearby. A faint smell, that was both human body odor and the distinctly musty-sour scent that came from the sweat of a purely carnivorous creature.

  Sometimes it was harder than that, because they gave themselves dust baths. Benjamin had watched them do it a few times now. They would find a bare patch of dry dirt, and they would roll in it, and rub it over themselves. In their armpits and in their crotch.

  Benjamin thought that this was instinctive, too. But smart.

  They recognized that they had an odor. And the dust made that odor disappear for a while. Which made it easier to creep up on prey.

  Finally, smelling neither body odor, nor carnivorous sweat, nor dirt from a dust bath, Benjamin eased back away from the door.

  He thought about dust baths. Thought about bringing some dirt back with him so that his mother could bathe in it, too. They’d been in this room for a long time now. It probably stank of them, though he’d gone nose-blind to it, except for the first few seconds after coming back from his daily scavenging.

  So far, the primals had not infiltrated these buildings. But it could happen at any time. They liked dark, insulated places, and that’s exactly what these buildings were. And if they ever came into the building, Benjamin knew that they would scent him and his mother out within moments.

  The door would hold for a while, if they locked it.

  But eventually they’d ram their way in.

  His mother was close to him in the blackness. He could smell her too.

  He leaned over in her direction. “I’m going,” he whispered, the words little more than a breeze.