by Ann Christy
I can’t help the smile that rises on my face. Charlie mirrors me, both of us responding to that slightly sarcastic, vaguely bored, and completely ‘over-it’ tone in her voice.
Gregory’s voice is back to regular strength when he says, “Uh, they’re just milling around. But they keep sniffing up at me and making these horrible faces. Get to the fence, quick.”
We push ourselves harder after that and I’m going to have a seriously scratched up face when I next look in the mirror. The little red flashlight isn’t doing enough to light our way and we’re all tripping over ourselves. I can only hope there are no wild in-betweeners out here, or even mobile deaders. So far, we’ve seen a few dozen of them wrapped up in kudzu like crazy cocoons, but nothing mobile.
I see the florescent glow of a marker on a tree up ahead, and loudly whisper, “It’s just us!”
I hear a response almost immediately from above and behind me. It’s Roger, which I know even without the voice because the tree is marked with an ‘R’ for Roger. “I know. You sound like a moose. I already let our shooter know. Get to your trees.”
We’ve got markers everywhere, each one with a mark that says exactly what’s supposed to happen there. Some are trail markers, others are marked for the person whose supposed to be in it, and another line of them surround this side of the parking lot to tell us not to go further, since the trees end ahead.
Matt and Savannah are our two shooters first at bat tonight. Each of them has one of our only two silenced weapons. Silencers don’t last forever, which is a bummer of the highest sort, so we’ve been sparing with them. Their job is to shoot the two military on watch. They have to do it just right. Two more of our people are just inside the shelter of the trees, waiting for the shooting with their crossbows at the ready, in case there is a need for clean-up.
The roving patrol meets up with the gate watch every half hour. It’s probably to check in, but they usually stand around and chat for a few minutes each time. Sometimes they eat. We’ve just got to wait for the next meet-up to happen and then we can go.
I’m pretty sure the wait is at least three days long, but it’s not really even long enough for me to get truly comfortable in my tree and get my rifle sighted in on the exit to the parking lot. They moved all the concrete barriers—this place was used as a relief distribution area before relief stopped altogether—so now their trucks have to follow this path out of the parking lot. I’m not sure why they did that, because I sure wouldn’t have done it that way, but they did. If anyone makes it out, my job is to take them down.
“Send Luke,” Tom says through the radio and I hear Gregory confirm that he’s on the way.
Luke has the bolt cutters. He’ll be opening the gate.
Charlie has the glasses out and trained back in the direction of Roger’s tree. I see the little flash of light as well as he does. He lowers the glasses suddenly and whispers, “Two down. Let them go!”
Up on the roof, a similar, short flash of light shows just after Roger’s, so I know the roof watch has been taken care of. Their cue to let us know if they were successful taking out the roof watch had been planned to come only after we took out the patrol, just to make sure they weren’t alerted by chance with our flashing lights.
All the preparations are now complete. It’s time to get to work.
Tom gets on the radio and his voice is a bit shaky with nerves. He says, “Send Emily and the others, but quietly.”
At first there’s nothing, then I hear the sounds of feet not being careful where they are placed. Then that rises to a sound no one could miss. It’s the sound of a crowd. They aren’t keening, but the grunts are starting. They should be able to smell the soldiers in their tents by now. I see Emily at last, near the center of the crowd, her arms still raised to her sides and her dark shift making her body almost disappear in the glow of the few lights inside the fence.
I want to snatch her back where she’ll be safe. Maybe she senses my fear somehow, because she stops and turns, like she’s searching the trees. I can’t see her eyes or any real details, only the white smear of her face. She holds up a hand, not waving, but I get the meaning well enough. She knows I’m here, but she’s going on.
Luke is at the gate, his giant pair of bolt cutters in position. When the first of the crowd draws up to the gate, the loud snap of the cutter jaws coming together breaks the silence. There’s a bluish glow of light from one of the tents as the flap opens. I see the outline of a person standing in that light, still and watchful. That was a loud snap. Our element of surprise is about to expire.
Tom sees it too. He hisses into the radio, “Go, go!”
Apparently, any urging by us isn’t needed. The smell of the soldiers, so tantalizingly near and unclaimed by Emily, has worked whatever magic it does on the senses of in-betweeners. The first roar escapes a throat and splits the night. It’s joined by dozens more as they run toward the tents and the command post.
It takes a minute for the soldiers inside their safe perimeter to understand what’s happening. They rely on their watches, as do we, and this is coming without warning. The command post trailer door—if that’s what it is—slams open with a bang as the door hits the metal side of the trailer. The noise attracts some of the in-betweeners like a dinner bell. Through my rifle scope I see them peel off from the main group, their motion like that of a school of fish suddenly changing direction. It’s almost beautiful in its synchronicity if I don’t think too much about it.
With a loud bang, all the lights inside the compound flare to life, the blazing white, artificial brightness from the floodlights making me pull the scope away from my eyes. I feel exposed, even though I know those lights are pointed down into their compound and probably do more to hide us than if they were left off.
The sudden rat-tat-tat of gunfire rings out and a horrible scream is ripped from the throat of one of the in-betweeners. All I can think is, Emily! I put the scope back to my eye and try to find her in the chaos. She’s there, standing still near one of the tents, arms now at her sides and her head whipping about as she takes in what’s going on around her. The in-betweeners flow around her like water.
I don’t want to watch, but I can’t stop myself. It’s just plain carnage. Once the gunfire gets going, that’s our cue to take out any that come within our personal firing range. My range isn’t nearly as far as many of the others—I can admit this—but I’m also perched where I’ll get any escapees. And one of them is coming my way.
A woman wearing a T-shirt and shorts is racing toward the gate, her light hair flying behind her as she runs. Luke is still standing there. He was supposed to pull the gate closed, chain it, and then lock it with the lock we gave him. Instead, he’s just standing there looking in Emily’s direction with that strange placidness he shows most of the time.
I yell out, “Luke! Lock the gate!”
He starts and turns toward me slowly, as if waking up from an unsatisfying nap. The woman sees him as well, her steps faltering as she checks him out, but her gun rising all the same. He’s clearly not an in-betweener and she’s probably trying to figure out if he’s one of her group since he’s in shadow.
He pulls the gate to close it and she lifts her gun toward him and screams, “No! I’m coming out!”
She must have decided he’s one of her fellows. She keeps the gun raised, but picks up speed toward the gate at the same time. An in-betweener has broken from the group and is giving chase, seeing a meal that’s getting away. Luke pulls the gate closed as she reaches it. She sticks the barrel through the links and into his chest.
She screams, “Open it!”
We need Luke to close and lock that gate. Not just to prevent the military from leaving, but also to keep the in-betweeners inside. I’ve already got her sighted, but I’m not the best shot and Luke is just in front of her. I can see half her chest and her head. I take a breath, let it out slowly halfway, and squeeze the trigger.
She jerks back like someone punched her. The
gun is jerked right out of her hand by the links in the fence and she screams bloody murder. I don’t even have time to register the fact that I just shot a human woman in favor of a recovered in-betweener who used to be a horrible person. The in-betweener that was chasing her reaches her then and that is that. The screaming goes on and she fights hard, but really, it’s over except the noise once he gets to her.
“Lock the gate, Luke!” I shout, no longer worried about anyone hearing me. The noise of gunfire, in-betweener yells and screams, and the desperate cries of the humans are a din I won’t soon forget.
He does, but he’s fumbling and unsteady, like he’s about to fall down. He stops and bends over as he finishes wrapping the chain. Through my scope, it looks like he’s throwing up. He gets the lock out of his pocket, fumbles it, then bends to pick it up. That’s when he falls over. The shadows are thick where he is, so I can’t see details, but I can see enough of him for the heaving of his chest to register through the scope.
He must have been shot. That’s the only explanation. Did that woman’s gun go off? I can’t remember. There were too many other shots for any single one to stand out.
The in-betweener that got the woman is still thrashing around with her. I can’t believe she’s still alive, but she is. And Luke is maybe fifteen feet from them. The top of the fence is liberally bound with razor wire, and that includes the gated section, but still. Fifteen feet.
“Dang it all,” I whisper and flip the rifle around to my back. I slip down the tree, losing some skin off my forearms in the process, and shake the sting out once I hit the ground. Despite all the rustling and noise I just made, no one seems to notice me. I take out my sidearm, which is far easier to handle than a rifle, and run in a crouch toward Luke.
The in-betweener growls and turns at the sound of my feet on the pavement, but the woman beneath him starts to wriggle away and he turns back to fighting for his meal. I do not want them getting out of the gate, so I really don’t have a choice.
I crouch next to Luke and see the darker shade of black all over his chest and face that must be blood. He’s choking and looking at me in confusion. The lock is next to him, so I pluck it up and run to the gate. The ends of the chain are hard to find and the in-betweener, his prey now still, screams and jumps up to run at the gate. I still haven’t gotten the chain tight, so I yank the two long ends as hard as I can and pull back, trying to stay as far from the gate as I can.
The in-betweener hits the fence hard, bouncing both of us with the impact. I pull hard on the chains, hoping with all my might that he doesn’t try to climb the gate. I can’t just put the lock on it from here. That will leave a gap one of them can squeeze through. I have to chain it as tightly as I can.
He’s still pushing and screaming, throwing blood around with every frantic shake of his head. We’re stuck. Stalemate.
“Not for long, dickhead,” I say. Yanking both chain ends as hard as I can, I put both ends in one hand and grab for my gun at the same time. I don’t think, I just lean forward and fire at his face.
It’s not a pretty sight. He’s not dead, not completely, but the overdrive of his nanites going haywire makes him look like he’s having a seizure. I don’t know how long I have before the smell of the dead woman on the ground draws more of them, so I lock the chain as quickly as I can.
I back away and crouch by Luke, who is heaving less strenuously, as if he’s getting weaker. He doesn’t grab at me or do anything really. He just looks at me with that confused expression on his face. With every breath he’s blowing out a warm mist that I can feel landing on my face and hands. I lean close to his chest, but I already know what I’ll find. He’s been shot in the lung and he’s got no time. It’s an unfortunate side effect of living in this world that we’re all very good at evaluating wounds, and his wound will be fatal. Of that, I’m sure.
I feel like I should do something. He’s a bad man—or was—but he’s also part of the cure, a vessel that gave us knowledge that will give us all a chance at a real life. I’m conflicted, but truthfully, when someone is dying, is that the time to hold back? Is that the time to play games of morality, or is it the time to show compassion?
I choose compassion.
“I’m here. I’m right here. Everything is going to be okay,” I say, holding his hand tightly.
There’s a keening scream that sounds a lot like Emily from somewhere inside the compound, so I risk a look up. I don’t see her, but the in-betweener I shot has bounced himself about ten feet and is shaking so hard on the ground that it looks like he’ll break all his bones.
Luke must hear it as well, because he turns his head toward the compound, his eyes searching. The movement makes him start choking even worse, but there’s nothing I can do. I think his lung has just collapsed, because he suddenly seems like he can’t even try to bring in more air.
When he looks back at me, the fog clears and for the first time, he looks afraid.
“I’m here. I’m with you,” I whisper, holding tight to his shaking hand.
The fog returns and after another minute, his eyes lose focus. He’s looking far beyond me. His body is still hitching, still trying to draw in a breath it will never take in, but his mind is leaving this life behind. Lack of oxygen. At least this time he won’t come back as a monster.
I’m reluctant to just get up and walk away. I’ve seen so much death that I’ve come to believe that whatever is inside us doesn’t shut down all at once. The eyes may not move, but how long does the brain receive images? How long does it understand what it sees? And hearing and taste and touch. How about them? Our nerves are a system unto themselves.
Instead of getting up, I lean close to his ear and say, “It’s a beautiful day and all your family is nearby. Can you hear them? They’re asking for you. It will be a perfect day. There is food on the table and everyone is waiting for you.”
Nothing happens as I babble on, except that the hitches subside, but I’ve done my best. He may have been bad, but he wasn’t born that way. I don’t know if he had a family of his own or anything, but almost everyone has someone they love enough to call family at least once in their lives.
I hope he saw them, whoever they might be, with the last flickers of reason left in his mind. I hope he left happy and feeling welcomed.
Today – Hold the Gate
Behind me I hear, “Don’t shoot! It’s me!” It’s Matt.
I stand up and wipe my face, not wanting him to see me crying for a dead enemy. I forgot about the blood spray. He rears back when he sees me under the weak light that makes it this far and says, “Cheezus. You look like you tried to eat him.”
“No,” I say, flipping my rifle back to the front. “I’m still me.”
“You need to get back. Some of them are on the move,” he says, pointing with his chin toward the compound. I hear it now. There’s a concentrated round of gunfire. It’s the kind that’s organized, not frantic. Someone is putting up a good fight.
I nod and he pulls me back to the edge of the trees. It’s a good distance when you’re exposed. It didn’t feel like it on the way there, but it sure does now.
In the shadows again, Matt leans close and says, “Next time they’ll find a bigger parking lot. Without trees for cover.”
I think I hear him smiling, which is so inappropriate considering the circumstances. But then again, stress makes people do inappropriate things all the time.
“There won’t be a next time, Matt. They’re toast.”
He harrumphs and mutters, “With cheese on top.”
I almost laugh at that, because…well, because they’re becoming dinner. Literally.
I bring the scope to my eye and look at the compound. Under the flood lights, I see movements more organized that that of the in-betweeners. It passes quickly out from under the direct glow of the lights and fades into the shadows to the side of one of the tents.
“Heads up,” I say, nudging Matt with my elbow. “I think we’ve got some coming this w
ay.”
He scopes the area, then asks, “Where?”
“By the near tent, the one on our side of the closest flood light. I think they’re going for the gate.”
He grunts and looks through his rifle. I see them again as they leave the shadows of the tent, the floodlight behind them backlighting the runners into resolvable shapes. People, not in-betweeners, crouched and coming our way. And they’re armed.
“Got ‘em,” Matt says, getting down on his belly and tossing his pack down in front of him.
I copy him, though I’m not really much better shooting prone than standing. Still, I’d like to lower my profile some. They’ll see the flashes of our fire as soon as we start shooting and the less mass they have to aim at, the better off we’ll be.
The in-betweener on the ground is still slamming around, but less vigorously. I don’t think he’s getting up anytime soon—he took a .357 slug to the brain—but he’s still between them and the gate. They slow as they get to the gate and I can see them better as they turn to walk sideways, aiming weapons at the in-betweener on the ground. They don’t even check the dead woman. She hasn’t risen, so I’m guessing they were very good at staying suited when outside, because she isn’t infected or else she would have certainly gotten up by now.
At the gate, they pull, then rotate the chain as much as they can to see the lock. One of them utters a pretty serious expletive loudly and I hear the faint sounds of the others shushing him. One starts climbing the gate, though how he’s planning on getting over the razor wire I don’t know.
Next to me, Matt says, “There we go. Nice and clean.”
In the next second, he fires and I jerk at the sudden noise so close to my ear. I should have put more distance between us. The guy climbing the gate loses his grip and falls, but the shot wasn’t clean. He gets up, cursing a blue streak, and limps around in a tight circle. The other two crouch, and even though I can’t see details, I know their weapons are up.
