Her pair of guards arrived first. She pointed to the rear of the truck. “Take the prisoners to the brig. I’ll send a medical team down to assess their injuries.”
“Yes, ma’am,” one of the guards said, turning and taking a direct path to the tailgate. The other soldier followed, his rifle in a standby position, angled from high to low across his chest.
The maintenance workers arrived at the same moment as Summer, who was holding the dog in her arms, her face flushed red and eyes wider than normal.
“I’ll meet you inside,” Summer said in a stark tone, never stopping her feet. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t forget the professor. We can’t leave him there like that.”
“Not a chance,” Krista said, holding back a few choice words. Words not fit for the ears of a freshly-minted leader. Nor would they be proper conduct for the second-in-charge of Nirvana. A good soldier keeps their mouth shut and opinions quiet, even when every cell in their body is screaming at them to do otherwise.
Krista wasn’t sure why she felt the way she did. It wasn’t as if Summer was out of line. It just seemed that way. Maybe it was the sharp tone the girl had just used. Or the fact that they had only just arrived at camp and Summer was already barking orders, with civilians and troops nearby.
Summer continued ahead with the dog hanging limp across her forearms, heading toward the twin handrails that bordered the entrance to the silo.
The hardhat crew formed a semi-circle around Krista.
“What can we do to help?” the fattest man asked, his head covered in a dome of protective plastic.
“I need you to escort the prisoners down to the brig.”
“Prisoners? Us?”
“Relax. They’re blindfolded and secure. Just make sure they don’t walk into any walls, or fall down the stairs.”
The men stood there in silence, only blinking, with looks of confusion on their faces.
“Don’t think about it. Just do it. My men will cover you,” Krista said, grabbing each man by the arm and sending them forward in a shove.
Krista watched Summer travel between the handrails and down the steps. Just then, the top of a head came up the stairs in the opposite direction, climbing higher into view with each step.
It was Liz Blackwell, her shoulder-length hair touching the collar of her traditional white lab coat. Her movements were brisk and with purpose, none of which was a surprise. The brunette always seemed to carry a sense of urgency everywhere she went.
Liz turned toward Krista and picked up speed, arriving with flared eyes. “Where’s everybody else?”
Krista didn’t have a chance to respond before Liz leaned to the side and peered at the truck, firing another question. “Where’s Stuart?”
Krista slid in front of Liz, hoping to keep the physician calm. “He, uh—”
“Did something happen to him?”
Krista paused for a beat. “Liz, I’m so sorry—”
Liz gasped, then used an outstretched arm to leverage her way past Krista. She ran to the back of the truck, sidestepping a pair of arms reaching out from a blindfolded Horton. Lipton was in hand-waving-frenzy-mode too, the maintenance crew escorting him with the two armed guards covering them from behind.
It was the first time Krista had ever seen Liz zip past a wounded person and not stop to treat them. It seemed like that woman was always on duty, no matter the situation—except right now, today.
Krista caught up to the doc about the same time as the woman swung the tarp open on the back of the truck. Krista grabbed at her elbow, trying to pull the healer away before it was too late.
Liz shook off her grab with a flash of her arm. An instant later, reality must have set in, as the expression on her face vanished, leaving behind only a stiff slate of numbness. The doctor’s arms and legs froze into place as well, her eyes fixed on the corpse inside.
“I didn’t want you to see him this way,” Krista said, choking on the words as tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t prepared for any of this. Not the doctor’s unexpected arrival on the surface or this meeting at tailgate. “I was going to get him cleaned up first.”
Liz didn’t respond, her eyes transfixed and energized.
Krista moved a step closer, within an inch of the physician’s shoulder. She brought her arm up, planning to wrap Liz in a hug, but she stopped before making contact. She wasn’t sure if an embrace was appropriate. They weren’t that kind of friends and she wasn’t that kind of woman—a woman who knows how to comfort someone in need.
Krista let her arm drop and stood at the ready in case Liz became overcome with grief. The doc’s knees might buckle or she could faint. Either way, Krista would have to act, no matter how awkward it felt.
Yet Liz didn’t pass out, nor did her legs fail. In fact, she did just the opposite, standing even more firm, resembling a bronze statue that had just been forged. Straight. Strong. Resolute.
Krista figured it was shock.
Liz turned to her with her jaw jutting out and her eyes held tight as she pushed a barrage of sharp words through her clenched teeth. “What the hell happened, Krista? Was it those prisoners? Did they do this? Or was it that dog?”
“No, it was Frost. I wasn’t able to stop him.”
“So you were there?” Liz asked, sounding both disappointed and pissed.
Krista couldn’t hold back the tears. Or her emotions. They came out of nowhere and took over, making her hands shake and her voice crack under the strain. “Yes, I was. When the Scabs attacked the Trading Post, we made a run for it. That’s when Frost stabbed Stuart—during the commotion. I never saw it coming, Liz, and I should have. That’s my job. I should’ve been the one Frost killed. Not Stuart. I’m so sorry. I failed everyone.”
CHAPTER 6
Franklin Horton took an unplanned step forward after someone tugged hard on his elbow.
He didn’t know who it was, not with the blindfold covering his eyes. In fact, he didn’t know much at all after being captured when their ambush failed on the road.
The lack of sunshine warming his face told him he wasn’t outside. Plus, there wasn’t any wind either, leaving only one answer: he was inside a building.
Probably Edison’s stronghold, he surmised, a secret location that Simon Frost had wanted to find for years. Eight years, if he remembered right.
The throbbing in his ankle had tripled since they’d dragged him out of the back of the transport truck, each of his heartbeats igniting the nerves around the dog bite.
Yet that wasn’t the only pain escalating in his body. The restraints around his wrists seemed to be growing tighter, too, digging into his skin the farther they walked. Maybe it was the constant yanks on his arm by the guards, casing a ripple effect down into his hands.
The escort leading him put a hand on Horton’s chest, stopping his advance. “All right, take it slow. There are steps heading down. Eleven of them,” the man said, his tone sounding older.
“Where are you taking us?” Horton asked.
Only silence was heard from his escort.
“He’s right. We demand to know this very instant,” Lipton said.
“Quiet!” a forceful voice said from behind, just as Horton heard an awkward foot plant and the rustle of equipment.
The sharp retort obviously came from one of the guards holding up the rear, precisely where Horton would have been if the roles had been reversed. The guard must have shoved Lipton when he delivered his last command, making the scientist stumble.
Horton took his time with the first four steps, his senses on high alert. There’s nothing quite as unnerving as descending an unfamiliar staircase while blindfolded and restrained. It’s not just the instability; it’s also about being helpless, relying on a complete stranger to keep you from stepping off a cliff—or walking feet-first into a woodchipper.
Since he’d already found himself at the mercy of a woodchipper today—one named Sergeant Barkley—he’d prefer not to land a leg in another one.
J
ust then, the air around him changed in temperature and humidity. It went from brisk and dry to warm and moist. Damp warmth, actually. And it was stale. Musty, even.
The facts told him he’d just entered an area of recycled air. Probably an underground shelter, he figured, confirming what Frost had suspected in one of their mission briefings a few months earlier.
If Horton had to guess, Edison and crew must have stumbled across one of the doomsday bunkers built by paranoid preppers back in the day, long before The Event.
Or Edison had constructed one himself, using his ability to fabricate something out of nothing. It was a well-known skill, one that had kept the Trading Post in business for years. And Frost’s camp, if one cared to be accurate, filling the gaps in technology when Lipton’s efforts failed.
Despite Lipton’s self-aggrandized view of his talents, the man carried plenty of shortcomings, none of which Horton figured Lipton would ever admit out loud.
“You need to realize that I have a problem with confined spaces,” Lipton said right on cue, as if he could hear Horton’s thoughts and had decided to rebuff the self-aggrandized assessment. “Unless you’re hoping to see a grown man lose it and vomit uncontrollably, I’d suggest you remove the blindfold and liberate my hands so I can deal with the situation head-on.”
One of the guards laughed. “Just keep moving, asshole. If you blow chunks, you’ll be the one cleaning it up. With your tongue.”
“Why, I never—” Lipton answered, not finishing his sentence.
Horton ignored the rest of their useless banter, turning his focus to another task—listening for the Scab Girl. He hadn’t heard any of Helena’s usual grunts, or her short, powerful breaths since they’d gotten out of the truck.
Perhaps the nose-less cannibal had been taken elsewhere, given that it was impossible to hide who and what she was. That idea made sense since her mere presence would have super-charged the anxiety level of those in sight.
It’s one thing to risk bringing members of your rival gang into camp, assuming that’s where they were at the moment. But it’s an entirely different matter to allow a flesh-eater to mingle with your population. A population that Horton knew included kids.
The term ‘appetizer’ was probably on everyone’s minds.
* * *
Stanley Fletcher finished his business in the shared bathroom of Frost’s compound, then tapped his unit twice before tucking everything away and closing the button on his fly. He zipped up with a single pull and turned for the sink.
He’d just finished what some might have considered a world-record-length piss. The ride back to camp had pushed the capacity of his bladder to the edge. The immense pressure had almost kept him from standing upright once he slid out of the truck and landed on the pavement.
Sure, he could have stopped along the way to spray a bush, but he was in a hurry, with his mind focused on other things, mainly the speech he had to give to the remaining troops.
He turned the faucet on and used the trickle of brown water from the tap to rinse his hands, all the while trying not to inhale too deeply. It was always hard to breathe in this room, the reek of week-old piss constantly present.
Plus, it was apparent someone had dropped a deuce recently, leaving the door closed after their evacuation had concluded.
Whoever it was needed to change their diet, or at least light a match in consideration. The hangtime of the fermenting odor was beyond anyone’s ability to measure, making him turn his head in disgust.
Now that he was in charge, he planned to have Lipton design a new private head, one that only he and Dice would have access to. He needed a place to sit and think in peace. A place unmarred by the bowels of his brethren.
He dried his hands on the faded towel, ready to deliver the news he carried. He figured that same news had already started germinating on its own, once the waiting members in camp realized Frost wasn’t part of the convoy’s return.
The words he would speak next needed to be not only accurate but specifically chosen not to raise doubt. He was the new boss and there was work to be done. Efficiency tends to disappear when questions linger. Or uneasiness arises. Neither of which he could afford at the moment.
He turned and stepped out of the head, taking a sharp left toward the main fabrication shop, where he expected the remaining members in camp to be waiting in attendance. That was assuming Dice had done his job and rallied the troops.
Fletcher had been on the other side of this process many times, waiting for Frost to make his appearance and begin one of his rants, usually about something insignificant or overblown. That wouldn’t be the case today, on more than one level.
When Fletcher cleared the connecting doorway, a throng of eyes met his. An instant later, backs straightened and chests filled with air, each man energized with anticipation.
Dice shook his head at Fletcher, telling him he hadn’t located Lipton. That meant the doc was AWOL, something Fletcher would have to deal with next.
Fletcher held out his hands, palms down. “At ease, guys. It’ll be hard enough for me to get through this as it is. In fact, why don’t all of you find a seat? There are things to discuss.”
“Where’s Frost?” one of the men asked from somewhere in the back of the group. His voice was threaded and gravelly, telling Fletcher who it was: Willie Boone, former Army—a six-year veteran of the infantry. A mountain of a man who’d taken shrapnel to the throat in one of Uncle Sam’s last skirmishes, only a year or so before The Event wiped out the world’s governments and their militaries.
“And the others?” a second member asked, drawing Fletcher’s attention a bit to the right. That was when he saw Boone standing in the back with his arms folded.
Next to him was a tiny man Fletcher assumed had asked the last question. One of the new recruits, someone who hadn’t had time to make an impression yet. Just another FNG that Frost had drafted off the street; he’d probably wandered into the Trading Post and demanded work.
The new guy was half the size of Boone, but just as irritating. His black goatee held spots of gray, giving him an older look.
Fletcher made eye contact with several of the men to the left, then said, “Just hold on. I’ll explain everything. But first I need everyone to plant their ass in a chair.”
None of them moved.
“You heard him!” Dice snapped, adding extra volume to his words. “Find a goddamned seat. That’s an order.”
Fletcher held out a hand, giving Dice the back off signal. He brought his eyes back to the group. “Look, the Trading Post was attacked.”
“Was it Edison? That fucking guy—” Boone said.
“No,” Fletcher answered, needing to stop the mounting anxiety. “Let me explain.”
“Everyone just shut the fuck up,” Dice said. “Let the man speak.”
Fletcher cleared his throat, wishing Dice would keep his mouth in check. He thought about reprimanding his second in command again, but decided to let it go and forge ahead. “The Scabs hit us. Hard.”
“What do you mean, hard?” another man asked, this time from the center of the group.
Fletcher redirected his eyes to find the guy raising concern. It was Sketch, the dark-skinned, thirty-nine-year-old former Army architect, usually the first man with a raunchy joke on his lips, or a drawing pad in his hand.
“He means all of them attacked. Thousands of them,” Dice added.
“Dice is right. Our position was overrun and we had to fall back. Unfortunately, Frost didn’t survive the second wave. But let me be the first to say our leader gave as good as he got before they got the better of him. Took a dozen of them out, like the true warrior he was.”
“Was it before or after the meet?” the goatee-wearing munchkin next to Boone asked.
“During, actually,” Fletcher answered, locking eyes on the little guy. “What’s your name again?”
“Pepper,” the man said. “TJ Pepper.”
“What about his body?” Sketch asked, wi
th more urgency in his words than before. “We need a proper service.”
“I wish that were possible, but there wasn’t anything left,” Fletcher said, deciding to spin the truth a bit. It was time to deflect and push forward. “Trust me, we looked. High and low.”
“It was like a swarm of termites,” Dice said, using his hands to emphasize his words. “They were everywhere. We would’ve needed an army to stop them.”
Sketch didn’t hesitate with a response. “Then we mount up and go find those Scabs and take them out. Every last one of them. It’s payback time.”
“Damn right,” Boone added, his chest sucking in air to expand.
An instant later, a smattering of additional comments filled the air, most of them sharp and to the point—everything from “He’s right” to “Fuck yeah” and “Roger that, Fletch.”
Fletcher held up his hands, preacher-like, shooting a glance at Dice before he spoke again. “No, I’m not putting any more of you in harm’s way. Not until we figure out what’s going on. We need better intel.”
Two of men in the front row looked at each other for a beat, then stepped forward in tandem. “We’ll go, Fletch.”
Another man on their left joined them out front. “Me too.”
A sleeveless man in the middle of the group pushed forward, sliding between the other volunteers, his face covered in streaks of black grease, running at an angle. He wore a black headband, keeping his shoulder-length hair in check. “Count me in.”
CHAPTER 7
Rod Zimmer stood from the mess hall chair and moved to the open side of the table after Krista walked into the room.
Krista made eye contact, then changed course, heading his way in a slow walk with her shoulders slumped. Her face looked ten years older, her eyes withdrawn and weary. She’d obviously been through hell today.
Zimmer held out his hand, hoping for a customary handshake, but she ignored the gesture and sat down, plopping her butt in the chair before letting out an air-filled sigh.
“What the hell happened out there?” Zimmer asked, returning to his chair and sitting.
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