The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding

by Greene, Daniel

  “She was a good doctor,” Byrnes said over his locker. He buttoned his ACU jacket with both hands.

  “She was a great doctor.”

  Byrnes nodded in agreement. “You’re right. My words did not convey the magnitude of her knowledge and sacrifice.” He ran a hand down his jacket and trousers, smoothing them. He grabbed his shoes and took a seat.

  Joseph grabbed his pants and slipped them over his thin, pale, almost hairless legs.

  The door to the locker room banged open startling him. Soldiers in all black marched in, fanning out to cover all exits. He hurriedly tugged his pants all the way up.

  “Excuse me,” Dr. Desai said loudly.

  Byrnes glanced at the door. “Surely this is not that pressing. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  The leader, a taller version of the other soldiers, shouldered his way past Joseph. He steadied himself with his locker. “What’s your deal?”

  “Colonel Byrnes, come with me. Now!”

  “Excuse me, soldier. You do not give me orders.” Byrnes stared up at the man in anger. “Who’s your commanding officer?” He slipped on a shoe. “In fact, I’m going to pay him a visit right now.” The colonel stood.

  “Sir, I’m not sure you understand.”

  “I bloody well do, you insubordinate prick.”

  The soldier grabbed the colonel by his arm.

  Byrnes knocked it away. “Don’t touch me.”

  Two more soldiers charged past Joseph; one shoulder-checked him as he rushed by. Joseph’s back hit the metal lockers with a crashing bang. It felt like a reenactment from his freshman year of high school, popular jocks manhandling him. “What the hell?”

  They pounced on Colonel Byrnes, bending his arms dangerously behind his back.

  “What’s the meaning of this?”

  They quickly forced his head down and led him out of the locker room. The other soldiers filed out after Byrnes.

  “Where are you taking him?” Joseph called after them.

  The door clanged closed. Joseph jogged after them, pushing past the door. The men filed out of the observation room and into the hall. “Wait!”

  The soldier in the back turned around, bringing his submachine gun slightly level. “Sir. Do not move any closer.”

  Joseph stopped, raising his hands in the air. “Do you know how important he is to our medical team? We need him here.”

  “It’s none of your concern. Go back about your regular business.”

  Joseph took a careful step closer. “We are working on a vaccine for the virus. So we can stop what’s happening.”

  His words had zero effect on the soldier, and his weapon raised to his shoulder. “You heard me. Stand down.”

  Joseph held back and pointed at the lab. “We need him. Tell me where you’re taking him so I can clear this up. Who’s your supervisor?”

  The soldier stuck out a gloved palm and fingers up. “Everything is fine.” The soldier about-faced and jogged down the hall.

  Joseph stepped out into the white-walled corridor, watching him jog to rejoin his comrades marching away. “You don’t understand what you’re doing!” But his calls fell on deaf ears.

  “What was that all about?” Dr. Desai said. She wound her black curly hair into a loose bun on the back of her head.

  “I don’t know, but not good by the looks of it.”

  “Let’s see if we can find Nguyen or Hollis. Maybe they know something.”

  The soldiers turned a corner and disappeared with Byrnes.

  STEELE

  Camp Forge, Iowa

  His index finger tapped the hard wood of the parlor desk in distinct beats. Twisting his neck to the side, he tried to stretch his right arm while making a tight fist with his hand. It was still weak but grew stronger by the day. He suspected some sort of nerve damage, but it had healed enough to support his now dominant left hand.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace. The flames snapped and popped, kicking up the chimney with tiny sparks. Any little distraction took him away from his task because he didn’t want anything to do with the notebook in front of him.

  He massaged his beard, rubbing the long soft whiskers as he thought. What do I do with them? The paper was lined with the names and units of 367 American servicemen. Rogue enemy combatants in this war but once honorable men. Now he was plagued with taking action, a decision he had delayed for too long.

  Steele stood, feeling a loose pellet deep inside his leg grind as he stretched. He walked over to the parlor window. Faded wood framed the panes. It was cooler near the old farmhouse’s windows, and he clasped his hands behind his back. The skin on his hand was cool clamped inside the other, his now dominant left hand engulfing his weaker right.

  Where there had only been one barn when Steele first arrived at the Reynolds Farm, now there were four. Three were made of freshly cut, light tan wood and had been erected in two weeks’ time with the help of the Amish.

  About forty yards away from the barns, the cabins started. Thirty sizable round-log cabins sat in rows, each one holding at least twenty people. Anyone that hadn’t been able to find residence in Hacklebarney ended up in a cabin. They created the framework of Camp Forge, one of the few outposts lining the western shores of the Mississippi River in an attempt to hold back the dead.

  A snow flurry floated from above, finally settling on the ground. In a few moments, the chunky flake had melted into the ground. The ground is getting colder. Soon the snow will be here to stay.

  His eyes flitted to the gray sheetrock sky. The only point of color above was the American flag at the top of a tall pole. The Stars and Stripes whipped in the brisk winter wind. It wasn’t a message to their enemy—their enemy only understood death—but a symbol of hope for the people manning the base below to rally around.

  Big Garrett in his Red Stripes’ club colors stood near the front of a new barn smoking a cigarette, two pistols lodged in the front of his jeans. The man next to him had a mohawk running along his skull. On every corner of the building, armed men stood watching the treacherous soldiers that Steele couldn’t decide what to do with.

  “Mark,” came a sweet voice from behind him.

  He turned around and a grin formed on his lips. “Gwen.”

  His beautiful blonde gave him a friendly smile carrying two coffee mugs. She handed him one and he took it into his palms, warming them. He dipped his head near hers and kissed her pink lips. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he let her lips take him to better times.

  He whispered, “Thank you.”

  She took a sip of hers. He leaned over, glancing in her cup.

  “Green tea,” she said, taking another sip, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Probably the fourth time I’ve used the same tea bag.”

  “Ahh.” He gazed at her rounded belly. It had grown larger over the last few months as their child grew inside her. He took a big gulp of his, letting the liquid warm his insides down to his belly. “Take a seat.”

  She sat down on the couch and adjusted a blanket around her shoulders.

  “It’s getting colder out there.”

  She drank more of her green tea, shivering a bit beneath her blanket. “It’s getting cold in here.”

  He laughed. “It is, but not as bad as out there.”

  The yellow notepad on the desk still weighed down on him. “I’m not sure what to do with the Jackson’s men.” He put it bluntly. She was his most trusted soundboard, and he never minded sharing his decision-making burden with her. For better or worse, she always had valuable input.

  “I’ve kept them on the same food ration as the others, and now we’re paying for the extra mouths. On top of that, they aren’t equipped for the winter season. They won’t survive without cold-weather gear, and I don’t want to waste it on prisoners.”

  She took another sip of her tea. A hand fell on her belly as if she protected it from his concerns. “You should let them go.”

  He cringed. “These men hunted us and killed us, and you
would have me let them go? They executed Kevin like a traitor, and who knows what they did to Ahmed.”

  Green eyes parried his words like emerald shields. “You asked my opinion. Letting them go takes them off your hands. It also prevents them from joining the ranks of the dead.”

  He shook his head and glanced back out the window at the barn. “I’ll only have them pointing a gun back at me in a week.”

  She changed the subject. “I had Dr. Miller check on one of the Chosen cabins. He says it’s the flu.”

  Steele sighed. He would much rather get in a fist fight with his old pal Jarl than handle his camp’s administrative nightmare of logistical needs.

  Taking a long drink of his watery black coffee, he wondered how many times they’d brewed it from the same grounds. At least it’s hot. “We’ll have to keep running water out to them. Double their carb-heavy rations and keep them away from everyone else.”

  “Quarantine?”

  “After a fashion. Yes. We don’t have any antivirals for the high risk people in the camp. Burlington and Donnellson were a bust. There’s nothing we can do but try and care for the people that’ve gotten it. And hope it’s not a bad strain.” He paused a moment, weighing her disposition. “That includes you. I want you to stay away from there.”

  She scrutinized her tea for a moment, deciding if it was worth fighting him on. “I’ll have Harriet and Joey deliver the extra supplies.”

  Little feet pounded down the steps and a six-year-old blonde-headed girl ran into the room. “Gwenna!” The little girl wrapped her arms around Gwen’s legs and clambered onto the couch next to her. “Can I come in?”

  Gwen smiled. “Of course, sweetie.” She opened her arms, and the little girl let herself be embraced into the blanket’s cozy warmth.

  The prisoners outside drew Steele’s gaze, once again preoccupying him.

  “I’m going to check in with the Red Stripes and make my rounds.”

  “Be careful.”

  He gave her a short grin. “If we aren’t safe here, we’re not safe anywhere.”

  “Be careful,” she repeated.

  Nowhere was really safe. Everyday he strove to make their position harder. Better fortified. Safer. But nowhere would ever be safe again. Not in the pre outbreak sense. “I will.”

  Gwen’s silver-headed grandfather poked his head inside the parlor. “I’ll join ya,” John Reynolds said.

  Steele nodded at the man in his 80s. It was their daily time together. The old farmer liked to know what was happening on every corner of his land and Steele liked seeing the conditions and people firsthand.

  He threw on his Army Combat Uniform jacket then buttoned it up. Running a hand over the center, he smoothed the captain’s double-bar patch. It’d been stripped off one of Jackson’s men after the battle. Steele hadn’t wanted it, but his followers had offered it to him every day for weeks until he added it to his uniform. He put on an old camouflage goose-down hunting coat overtop of everything and a wool hat.

  John donned his tall rubber farming boots, overalls, and down-plaid jacket. They stepped outside, the cold immediately nipping at any exposed part of their bodies.

  “It’s usually colder than this in December,” John said.

  “I’m thankful it’s not.”

  John stuck his lips out and nodded his agreement. “Suppose we should be.” He surveyed the sky. “But it’s coming.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A farmer always knows.”

  Steele accepted John’s words as fact, and that fact would force his hand in the coming days.

  They passed a corral filled with thirty-five brown, bay, black, white, and gray horses. At least ten were draft horses made for farming labor. Gwen had to bargain hard for that many.

  John finished patting Patsy and Cline on their heads, and they walked around to his old barn. The doors were closed, and smoke came from a hole in the roof. Gregor stood outside with an AR-15 in his hands.

  “Captain,” Gregor said as they passed.

  “Volunteer.”

  They passed the next barn all the way to the two new barns holding the prisoners where Garrett and his comrade stood.

  “Anything happen overnight?”

  Garrett’s cheeks were red as he smoked on a cigarette. He let the smoke blow out his mouth.

  “Just some jawin’ about how cold they were. Told ’em we were going to set the barn on fire if they didn’t shut up.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “They quieted down after that.”

  A heavyset biker with a red bandana around his long gray hair approached them.

  “Thunder.” Steele smiled.

  “Captain Steele. I wish I could say good morning, but it ain’t good.”

  Steele’s jaw clenched. “What’s wrong?”

  Thunder shook his head no. “You better come see this for yourself.”

  Steele let himself be led down the driveway to the small warped dock attached to the edge of John’s property.

  Thunder pointed across the river. “More than yesterday.” He handed Steele a pair of binoculars, the hard plastic cool to the touch.

  Steele held the optics to his eyes. Lifeless trees lined the opposing shore, all manner of browns and grays. Filthy figures wandered among them. There was no clear direction or grouping, all of their movements aimless. Each and every one a lethal killer. He did quick math in his head and scanned the embankment over 400 yards away.

  “Over a hundred.”

  “I only got to eighty yesterday.” Thunder took the binoculars back and raised them to his eyes. “It’s getting worse over there.”

  Steele watched the tiny dark figures from afar, swarming ants to his eyes. “As long as they stay over there, we shouldn’t have any problems.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about. What if they find an unmanned bridge, or shit, what if it freezes?”

  “John, when was the last time the Mississippi froze in these parts?”

  “Oh, let’s see here.” His eyes darted upward. “Must of been ’bout ’38. We ran all over that jagged ice. Almost fell and broke my leg, but I didn’t.”

  “It’s been almost eighty years. I think luck’s on our side.”

  Thunder looked unconvinced. “I’d hate to see unlucky.”

  The group made their way back to the camp, passing through the cabins. The cabins were constructed of round logs. Each log was roughly two feet around and notched where they lay perpendicular with other logs to lay tight atop one another, any remaining space filled with caulking. Each cabin was outfitted with a fireplace. Smoke billowed from dozens of chimneys filling the air with a permanent wood fire odor.

  A beanpole of a man with a slight stoop in his neck emerged from the door of a cabin. His face was long and his hair gray. Black sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

  Steele nodded to him, and the pastor was oddly silent.

  As he passed the pastor spoke, “My people need medicine.”

  Steele turned, retracing his steps back to the man. “I know this is difficult, but there’s nothing we can do. I’ve given instructions to double their carb ration and to help with fresh water as needed.”

  The pastor’s eyes pierced Steele. “Not enough. There must be a way to get medicine.”

  “Dr. Miller’s already said to let the virus run its course.”

  The pastor frowned, the corners of his mouth drooping like a neglected houseplant. “We need medicine, or this will spread like wildfire among us.”

  Steele blinked back the man’s dire words. “It’s the best we can do.”

  The pastor turned his back to Steele, his voice carrying over his shoulder, “It is not enough, Mr. Steele.” He disappeared through the cabin door.

  Ignoring his complaint, Steele trekked back to the Reynolds’ farmhouse, the pastor’s words pummeling his conscience. Have I done enough?

  GWEN

  Camp Forge, IA

  “Mommy?” The voice came from the fringe. Her barely conscious mind played evi
l tricks, skirting around in the fogginess of the dream world.

  Boy, is it you? Do you need me?

  “Mommy?” the voice repeated.

  The voice resonated with its familiarity. Soft and cute, that of a child. One that belonged to Haley and not her phantom boy.

  Gwen’s eyes shot open. She hadn’t always been a light sleeper. At first, it was the dead, but now it was as if some maternal genes had activated inside her. The smallest peep in the night would send her eyes flying open.

  Carefully, she shifted in the small single-person bed, an impossible feat with the caveman lying next to her. He smacked his lips and laid still. She looked over him at the bed across the room.

  Haley was sitting up in bed, tugging at Becky’s arm.

  “What is it, baby?” Becky murmured, half-asleep.

  “I don’t feel good,” the young girl squeaked.

  “Lay back down, baby. You’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Come over here, sweetheart,” Gwen said. Mark didn’t move. He was using his manly superpower of being able to sleep through anything.

  Haley’s little blonde head bobbed as she climbed over Becky and softly padded over to Gwen’s side of the room. She reached out the back of her hand, and Haley stretched her neck forward.

  Gwen’s hand met flaming skin. “Come closer.”

  The little girl leaned in over the side of the bed.

  “What’s going on?” Mark muttered, his eyes cracking open.

  “I think she’s sick.”

  Mark scooted up and picked Haley off the floor, setting her near Gwen. “Shit, she’s soaked.”

  Gwen put the back of her hand on the girl’s forehead and the other on her own.

  “She’s burning up.” Her eyes darted toward her sister. “Becky, wake up. Haley’s sick.”

  Haley pouted. “My throat hurts.”

  “I know, sweetie. You’re going to be okay.”

  Laboriously Becky sat upright, her blonde wavy hair flying out in every direction. Her words were a detached question, not fully awake. “She’s sick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come here, baby.” Mark handed her back to Becky.