Reversion

by Paul B. Kohler

  Sam continued her tirade. She kept the gun pointed at Malcolm, but made sure to look at all of Malcolm’s men, on their knees in the grass with their leader.

  “And if any of YOU move, know that I won’t spare you,” she said, all but screaming it. “I’m prepared to tear into all of you, to rip your guts across this compound. Malcolm …” She stopped in front of him. “What kind of animal are you? To do this to people? What kind of egomaniac …”

  Malcolm gave her a strange, crooked smile. A new kind of rage twisted inside Clay. It felt almost like someone else’s. He pushed that idea away. He recognized the evilness of this man. His eyes glittered with indecency, with the ability and desire to use people for his own personal, horrible gains. At the end of the world, Clay thought. That’s when you see the real evil.

  “That isn’t what you said to me a few months ago, baby,” Malcolm said, bringing his tongue along his bottom lip. It was revolting. It made Clay’s stomach clench.

  Sam put the gun at Malcolm’s forehead, pressing it into his skin. Clay rushed forward, his heart surging with a sudden realization. Seeing the bodies strewn around, including the ones he’d shot he knew: if he could help it, he wouldn’t allow another person to die. Not in front of his daughter. He couldn’t yet know what she’d seen, what kind of horrors she’d witnessed. But it was up to him to fight for another reality. “Serve and protect,” echoed through his mind. “Not murder. Not murder. It was never meant to be murder.”

  He reached Sam who was twisting the muzzle against Malcolm’s forehead, digging a red groove into the skin. Malcolm grimaced but continued to stare into Sam’s eyes. Clay put a restraining hand on Sam’s arm.

  Sam turned her head and glared at him. “What is it, Clay? Can’t you see I have some unfinished business to attend to?”

  He’d always known she burned with the kind of ferocity you challenged at your own, very real, peril. Slowly, he eased his hand away from her arm.

  “We got what we came here for, Sam,” he said.

  “You did. I didn’t,” Sam said, her eyes darting momentarily toward Maia. “We’re meant to be equal, Clay. Don’t be so selfish.” She dug the gun deeper into Malcolm’s forehead, giving Clay a wry smile. “Or you didn’t think I was really this kind of person?”

  Clay stood his ground. “No one else is dying here today, Sam.”

  “Listen to your little boyfriend, Samantha,” Malcolm said. “He’s the one giving the orders around here. I always knew you couldn’t hack it, being the leader.”

  “You aren’t helping your case,” Clay snapped at Malcolm. His hatred began to boil. His fingers twitched.

  “Malcolm, I’ve dreamed of this day a very, very long time,” Sam said, enunciating carefully. “I’ve thought about you, about how I wanted to blow your brains out and make you pay for what you did to me. But dammit—” her shoulders shook as she allowed a small, surprised laugh to escape. “Now that I’m here—Well. You were never enough for me. Not even now.”

  “Sam, think about this. If you do this, you’re no better than he is,” Clay pleaded. “You’ll have to live with it the rest of your life.”

  Sam’s finger ticked against the trigger. Then, after a long, tense few seconds, she dropped the gun to her side and turned toward the exit of the compound. Clay’s squad began to follow, with Hank pulling a bleeding Walt over his shoulders. Clay tugged at Maia. And slowly, like a flock of wounded dogs, the ones who had survived marched into the wild once more—leaving Malcolm and his horrible compound behind.

  Chapter 23

  “Huh. It’s just a goddamn tractor-trailer.” Daniels said with bewilderment as they approached the center of Ridgeway. The town was incredibly small, allowing them a view of the green energy field down every street. Brandon held his gun at the ready, walking next to Daniels, his eyes scanning, scrutinizing every dark corner. Every shadow.

  “A military tractor-trailer,” Marcia said, correcting Daniels.

  “Well, thanks for that, Marcia,” Daniels sighed. Although it hadn’t been obvious, the tractor-trailer did have military insignia and was painted a dark green. Brandon didn’t know what to make of its peculiar design. It had a single person cab where the engine should be, and no smoke-stack exhausts he’d been accustomed to seeing on the big trucks. The flatbed trailer carried a large spiraling obelisk-shaped spire with catwalks on two sides.

  “What do you think the antenna’s for?” Leland asked.

  The antenna attached to the trailer bed spilled glowing light, illuminating the town. As the sun sank behind the horizon, it was their beacon: the only destination the four of them could see.

  As if on cue, the clock tower in the center of town began to blare. Brandon’s terror erupted and the blood drained from his face. Marcia pointed at him, snickering, “Is the top of the hour some kind of fear trigger, kid?”

  Before Brandon could muster up a sarcastic response, they heard it: gunshots. Brandon dropped to his belly, gazing up at the bell tower. From just beneath the clock, he spotted a single rifle … pointed right at them. Bullets began to ricochet off the pavement all around. Daniels reached down and yanked him up. “We have to MOVE kid! NOW!”

  Brandon dove behind a compact car parked nearby. The bullets continued to pepper down around them. The others had fallen in line behind a row of parked cars, some of them with their glass already shot out. Marcia quivered against a bumper, speaking to herself. Saying the same words over and over again. Brandon wondered if she was praying.

  When the gunfire stopped, Daniels raised his arms over his head and yelled, “HEY! WE’RE HUMAN!”

  Brandon felt a moment’s reprieve, as if this could possibly be over. But again the bullets rang out—punching holes in the cars and busting out the rest of the glass.

  “WE’RE NOT INFECTED! HEY! WE’RE HUMAN! WE’RE SAFE!” Daniels tried again, slowly rising from behind the car. The shooting tapered off. “DON’T SHOOT! H-U-M-A-N,” he spelled out, waving his hand.

  After a long, horrible pause—during which Brandon felt sure that the bullets would come streaming down again, Daniels yelled, “I’m coming out! Hold your fire!”

  Daniels exchanged a look with Brandon. With an exaggerated movement, he stepped out into the open, waving his arms—trying to make himself look conspicuous. Without warning, bullets were raining down once more. Daniels dove back behind the cars. Marcia sputtered with involuntary laughter, pulling her own hair and all but screaming at him, “NOW WHAT?”

  “I’ll have to go in through the back,” Daniels said. “It’s the only way.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You can’t go alone,” Marcia said.

  “Well, I’m not gonna drag you along. I can’t take care of all of us right now. And if you stay out of sight …” Daniels trailed off, as if he assumed what he’d said was enough. He picked up his rifle and slinked down the shadowy sidewalk to a small gap between the street-facing buildings. Once there, he darted out of sight. Another hailstorm of bullets fell around them, chilling Brandon to the bone.

  Silence, and a feeling of foreboding blanketed them over the next few minutes. Marcia, Leland, and Brandon continued to exchange petrified glances. Knowing that the next shot they heard could very well mean that Daniels had been killed. It wasn’t clear how many people were up there, and it certainly wasn’t evident if they were “good,” anyway—even if Daniels was somehow able to get to them and try to explain.

  “What the hell do you think he’ll say to them, anyway?” Leland asked, his voice quivering. “He’s not exactly who I’d send over as a diplomat, if you know what I mean.”

  “Who would you send, then? Marcia?” Brandon replied, frowning at them both.

  “And I suppose you think we should have sent you?” Marcia spat. “You’re nothing but a child. Look at you. Seventeen years old?”

  “I’m eighteen,” Brandon said, feeling rage stir within him. “And I know I’m way less crazy than all of you put together.”

  Brandon was unaccustomed to
speaking his mind. He felt himself grow taller with it, even as Leland and Marcia exchanged glances—rueful, angry.

  They heard what they’d been waiting for. Gunfire erupted from within the bell tower, the sound echoing throughout the town square. Brandon hunched down, waiting. His blood rushed in his ears. A million questions came to mind. What the hell would they do if—God forbid—Daniels had been on the wrong side of a bullet? For the first time, he imagined himself, sprawled on the roadside with Marcia, bleeding out. He remembered his sister: how rowdy she was, how angry she could get. How she would have put Marcia in her place on day one of her outrageous complaints. How she’d have said, “Who gives a fuck what you think, Marcia?”

  Then it was silent again. Brandon squinted, trying to see into the darkness beneath the clock. The bell began to toll again—a warning, perhaps? Brandon glared at Marcia and Leland, suddenly blaming them for the fact that he might have to die beside them. How dare they be the only people around at the end of his life?

  A bullhorn squealed with feedback, a familiar sound, scratchy but shrill.

  “All right, team. That’s an all clear,” Daniels’ amplified voice said. “Meet me on the steps of the church.”

  Incredulous, Brandon bounced from his hiding spot and stared up at the clock. He waved his arms, leaping up and down with the kind of adrenaline that only comes from escaping death—again. Brandon was growing accustomed to it. It was becoming his fuel.

  At the church, Brandon saw Daniels tugging a large man—similar in stature and muscle to Daniels himself. The uniformed man dragged his feet as he walked. Blood dribbled down his forehead, oozing on his lip, and he spat on the carpet just inside the church, giving Brandon a demonic, slant-eyed look. Marcia gasped as Daniels pushed the man forward.

  “Check this out,” Daniels said, his eyes sizzling with energy. “Seems that our military isn’t here to protect us after all.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Marcia asked, her voice quivering. She began down the steps, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes wouldn’t leave the bludgeoned face of the military man. “What did you do to him?”

  “I had to neutralize the other one,” Daniels said, still holding the man’s shoulder. “But after a knock to the head, this feller here seemed to be in a more cooperative mood, if you catch my drift.”

  “Barbarians. You’re all barbarians …” Marcia muttered.

  The man in Daniels’ clutches remained silent. Daniels had tied his hands together, and he strained at the bonds. His eyes were downcast, filled with self-pity. Brandon was too experienced to believe that the man felt remorse for anyone except himself.

  “Tell them what you told me, Sonny,” Daniels said, shaking him. The man whipped around. “Tell them.”

  The man’s voice was one accustomed to addressing a crowd. He looked directly into Brandon’s eyes—something that made Brandon start.

  “We’re the only two at this outpost, manning the relay tower,” the man said.

  “And you’ve got supplies, you said. Over by the police station …” Daniels coached him.

  “We’ve been positioned there, yes,” the man said.

  “Well, it looks like we’ll be heading there!” Daniels said, his eyes wide, manic. He started down the steps, dragging the man with him. He was all but whistling, with a skip to his step. This was his element, the kind of war he always yearned to fight.

  It was a better war. One with two sides. So unlike the war against the crazed, Brandon thought.

  As they walked toward the police station, the man sputtered, “I should tell you, we do have a special guest in the jail cell. We have ’em on special orders, straight from the lieutenant.”

  “Oh, goody,” Leland said sarcastically. “Another wild person who should be locked up in prison, who is, for some reason, going to be a part of my life.” He glared at Brandon for a moment; Brandon’s hands clenched into fists.

  “Just thought you should know, so you don’t try to blow their brains out first,” the man said, grunting as he spoke.

  When they arrived, Daniels reached forward and pushed open the door. And sure enough, there—seated in the dank jail cell, perched at the edge of their seat, was a person that everyone—Marcia, Leland, Brandon, and Daniels—absolutely recognized. Someone they hadn’t seen in what felt like years.

  Chapter 24

  “You really think tying them up is going to be enough?” Sam scoffed. She was darting around the compound as Clay and the others wrapped tape and rope around wrists and ankles, sitting them along walls and fences. “Because I’m telling you, this man—this man right here—” she pointed at Malcolm, “He’s a fucking monster. He’s far more dangerous than most of the crazed beasts wanting to eat our flesh.”

  But Clay carried on, his mind one-track at this point. He’d decided that there would be no more murders, and he was resolute in this decision. As he worked, he kept looking back at Maia, who was with Alayna—holding her close. The sight warmed him and made him work with more ferocity, faster, biting at the tape and wrapping it tight.

  “You’re an idiot, Clay,” Sam said, gesturing wildly. “You’re all idiots if you think some tape and rope is going to keep this crew back. I can’t imagine how you’ve all made it this far, actually, if you’re so unwilling and unable to fight for what you need. And that’s elimination, Clay.” Clay continued to work.

  “We don’t have much time,” he told her. “I want to get Maia home.”

  “Home. As if that’s something that exists in this world,” Sam scoffed.

  When Clay reached the final woman, she was noticeably shaking: her shoulders rocking back and forth. She looked up at him, revealing her youth. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. With a soft voice, she said, “If you tie us all up, we’ll just die here. You know that, don’t you?”

  Clay realized the truth in her words. He glanced at Alayna. A memory of his purpose warmed his heart: he was meant to protect. He was meant to be an honest hand of the law. He reached down and helped her to her feet. Sam uttered a groan that turned into a scream.

  “You’ll walk out with us,” Clay told the woman. “All the way to the exit. Then we’ll close the gate, and you’ll go back and untie everyone. You can go back to the way things were, but without my daughter. All right?”

  The woman nodded, biting at her bottom lip. Clay dropped her hand but gestured for her to follow. He, Alayna, Maia, and Sam left the compound to join the others. Agnes was sobbing over the death of her husband. “We weren’t supposed to do this alone!” she shrieked to the sky, pounding her fists on her legs.

  The sun was rising. Clay closed the gate between him and the stranger. He gave her a firm nod and turned back to his team and started back toward the hotel. Hank carried Walt over his shoulder. Walt groaned with misery, but Hank had wrapped it well and the bleeding had stopped. Hank muttered to himself as they walked, “I shouldn’t have fucking tripped. All my fault. All my …”

  Clay was grateful for the chance to carry his daughter. Feeling her relax in his arms was one of the most beautiful feelings of his life—the way she nestled her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes, her eyelashes fanning against her porcelain-like skin. Alayna kept up with him, walking without speaking. The rest of the team followed this cue, except for the occasional outburst from Sam. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t—”

  At the hotel, Clay set Maia down at the lobby entrance. She peered inside with tentative eyes. Holding the doorframe, she glanced back at Clay—worry making her eyes heavy.

  “It’s okay,” Clay said, coaxing her. “The hotel’s clear. None of them are here. We’ve been sleeping here for weeks. And there’s plenty of other people … a little community of sorts.”

  Sam stomped up behind him, her boots landing heavily and making the porch quake. “Right. Safe. Safe until that monster comes back here to kill us all, you mean?”

  Clay spun toward her, frowning. Hank clambered up the ste
ps with Walt still over his shoulders, breaking the tension. “We’re gonna need the doc!” Hank cried. “Doc? Hey?”

  The doctor barreled down the steps into the brightness of the morning. He helped Hank lift Walt onto one of the lobby couches. With a flourish of his knife, the doctor cut through Walt’s jeans, exposing the gunshot wound. He ordered Lane to grab his medical kit, and the others to clear out.

  “The community room,” Clay called, going in that direction “We’ll talk about our next steps.”

  Sam grumbled. The people who’d stayed behind scampered down the steps, falling in as they walked toward the community room. Clay felt, suddenly, like a God amongst men. He’d guided them through a most treacherous rescue—and had done so with very few casualties. Above all, he’d found his daughter. And now he felt charged, energized, ready to proceed. With an entire company of people at his back, he felt he was building something. It wasn’t Carterville, no. It was a new kind of society, for a new world.

  Once in the community room, Sam stormed to the center, in full view of everyone. She tried to stare Clay down. Clay stood his ground, sensing that letting his guard down a single time in front of this volatile woman could lose him respect.

  “Nobody died and made you leader here,” Sam said, her voice as charged and angry as it had been with Malcolm. “Least of all, I didn’t die.”

  Clay raised his voice to speak over Sam—to address everyone else. “It was a great group effort out there in Maia’s rescue,” he said. Maia peered up at him from an oversized armchair, all skin and bone in the purple fabric. “In the wake of it, and after losing Damon and Tyler, it’s important we rest up and think about next steps. How we’ll proceed in this, shall we say, brave new world …”

  Clay was astonished by the way they looked at him: with the eyes of followers, seeking answers. Several of the people who’d come with Sam continued to look at him with distrust, especially as she stormed across the room, enraged. She jabbed a finger into Clay’s chest, trying to shove him toward the wall.