The Remaining: Allegiance

by D. J. Molles

  Holy shit, he blew that thing when I was only a couple hundred yards away.

  The dust cloud had grown legs, like it was some fat-bellied spider unfurling out of a ball. The legs seemed to grow slowly, reaching out for Wilson, but in that microsecond of observance, he saw that they were in fact rocketing out of the dust cloud, arcing out over the river—hundreds of smoky tendrils—and then slamming into the water like meteorites.

  “Fuck…” He put his head against the tree, his face pressed into the rough bark and the slimy sheen of algae and mildew that coated it. It smelled like must and swamp rot. The arm that still clutched his pistol curled up and over his head, and he hoped none of these concrete projectiles found him and punched a hole in his skull.

  Please be lucky. Be lucky for one fucking day in your life…

  All around him bits of the bridge as small as pebbles, and some as big as his chest, were hitting the water, creating a cacophony of watery noises—spliff, sploonk, splash.

  Splish, splash, I was takin’ a bath…

  Please be lucky.

  He opened his eyes, peering from underneath his sheltering arm. He could see a small portion of the river that stretched out beside him. He could see the chunks of bridge, still raining. And things moving through the water. Floating down the river—rollin’ down the river—like pine logs heading for a lumber mill.

  Arms.

  Legs.

  Whole bodies, in some cases. But mostly just the parts.

  He looked up, toward the bridge, saw the dust cloud clearing. His eyes went to the water again, which was beginning to settle as the rain of shrapnel petered off. There were more logs rolling down the river. Lots of them. And on the northern side of the bridge, he could see the infected beginning to bottleneck, could still hear the roar of them

  In the water ahead of him, a body rode the river languidly, feetfirst.

  Are they dead? Are you sure they’re all dead?

  He pulled his arm from over his head, brandishing his pistol.

  The body followed the river flow until it tumbled into the bank of tree roots just a yard or two in front of Wilson and something must have caught it there. Lazily, it began to spin around so that its head was facing Wilson, just a wide, horrific arc that brought a pale but not entirely dead face into view.

  Maybe it was dead.

  Maybe it was just the water that was making it move.

  It seemed like the mouth was working, like the thing was trying to catch its breath. Blood was flowing rapidly from nostrils and mouth and empty, hollowed-out eye sockets. The river water thinned it into trickles and rivulets. The whole body undulated. Squirmed.

  Wilson forced himself upright and away from the body. He thrust his gun out and pulled the trigger. The gun fired twice, and then the slide locked back. Neither shot hit its mark. But Wilson was clambering for his feet. Beneath the soles of his boot there were slippery tangles of tree roots and more silty river bottom, but there was also hard clay. Still slick under the water, but at least his boots didn’t sink into it.

  He realized suddenly how horribly cold he was as he stood up out of the cold water into the cold air, felt the wind trying to pull the moisture off him, leeching his already lowered body temperature. He was trembling badly, to the point that his teeth were chattering.

  Go. You need to get moving. Don’t stop until you get back to the convoy.

  What if they left me?

  Don’t stop moving until you get back to the convoy.

  Unsteadily, he picked his way out of the tangle of tree roots and thanked God sincerely when his feet hit solid forest dirt and layers of fallen leaves. He stood for a moment, shaking violently, but so overwhelming glad to be on solid ground. Then he thought about everything else that was on solid ground and he wondered why he had been so afraid of the river.

  He started moving again, one hand clenched against the cold, the other still clinging to his empty pistol.

  Dorian slammed the LMTV into neutral and yanked the emergency brake. He could still feel his heart pounding in his chest and his hearing hadn’t quite returned to him. Everything seemed to be surrounded by an angry hive of bees—a steady, thrumming, buzzing noise. His vision was even sparkling a little bit and he wondered how much damage the shock wave coming off that bridge had done to his brain.

  What if Wilson was closer than I was? He had to have been closer.

  What if he’s dead?

  Dorian was already pissed, but that one thought circling his brain didn’t help.

  He was in the red.

  He threw his door open and swung down from the tall vehicle, immediately looking for Gilmore. Looking for the man with the detonator in his hand. He walked as only angry men walk: with his hands clenched into bloodless fists, and in long, stiff strides, his head canted down as though walking into a gale of wind.

  What if he’s dead?

  What if he’s dead?

  Gilmore killed him.

  It’s Gilmore’s fucking fault!

  Dorian saw him, standing at the back of the truck that he’d hitched a ride in. He was still holding the detonator in his hand. A grim look on his face, still staring at the dust cloud like he was waiting for it to clear and for Wilson to miraculously come striding out of it.

  “Hey!” Dorian barked. “What the fuck?”

  The anger was making that Brooklyn accent creep back into his voice. He’d moved away a long, long time ago, and never really had a desire to go back. But the voice of it was still there, waiting for a little instigation to come out and broadcast to everyone that this guy’s a yank.

  Gilmore glared up at Dorian. One foot pivoted back, blading his body as Dorian continued to approach, not slowing down. The detonator dropped out of his hands. It didn’t require a lot of thought to figure out why Dorian was coming at him.

  Gilmore held up one hand, palm out. “Dorian,” he said in a warning tone.

  The two bodies reached that distance, just within arm’s reach, where you either go for it or you back down.

  Dorian slapped Gilmore’s hand out of the air and lunged for his collar. “What the fuck were you thinking? You fucking killed him!”

  Gilmore pulled back, but Dorian had already got his fingers into the fabric and twisted it up. “Back the fuck off…” Gilmore said, his left hand posted on Dorian’s chest, his right cocked low at his side.

  But Dorian was still screaming. Not listening. “You didn’t have to blow him up! You could have given it a minute! We could have fought them off long enough for Wilson to get back here!”

  Gilmore’s voice was strained. “No, we couldn’t. Not that many of them.” The two sets of feet shuffled back and forth, side to side, like some strange and violent parody of a waltz. “I’m serious, Dorian…”

  Dorian shook him. “Motherfucker…”

  Gilmore’s left hand looped around fast, striking the top of Dorian’s arms and raking them off his grip on Gilmore’s jacket. Then his right arm came in hard and low, slamming into Dorian’s midsection, doubling him over. Gilmore’s left hand came around again, took the back of Dorian’s head, and then the Marine just stepped back and applied downward pressure.

  Where the head goes, the body will follow.

  Dorian watched concrete coming at him and his hands shot up just in time to catch himself from face-planting. And then he was on his hands and knees. Still mad, but somewhat embarrassed, and mostly just waiting for the breath to return to his lungs. His eyes were watering, the same way they water when you vomit. Dorian gulped for air, but his diaphragm still wouldn’t allow it. Through the blur of his watery vision, he could see Gilmore’s dirty old boots, just a few paces from him.

  Gilmore’s voice, heated: “I told you to back the fuck up, Dorian.”

  Dorian coughed, and that seemed to do the trick. His lungs opened up.

  Fuck, that sucks…

  Gilmore was speaking, more evenly now. “I saw him drop from the line. I gave it as long as I could, but if I waited any longer
there would have been too many infected for us to deal with.”

  “He was under the bridge,” Dorian croaked.

  “What?”

  Dorian sat up, stretching his core out. The ache in his gut was a dull reminder to control his anger level. Still, he glared. “He was still under the bridge when he came up for air. And then I drove away and you hit the detonator less than a minute later. There’s no way he was a safe enough distance away from that.”

  Gilmore looked away, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t… I don’t know what you want.”

  Dorian felt hands grab him by the arms and haul him to his feet. He looked to his left and found Tim there, and the others beside him, standing with Dorian and staring at Gilmore like an imaginary line had been drawn in the concrete and they were choosing sides.

  Dorian pointed at him. “This is your fault.”

  “My fault?” Gilmore said, incredulously.

  Dorian raised his voice again. “If you motherfuckers would give us the help you promised, we wouldn’t be in this fucking position! We’re having to wire these goddamned bridges under the gun, having to rush, and now that shit’s caught up to us! What would it take for Colonel Staley to take out a bridge for us? Just one! Just one to put us ahead of the game! How much would that really cost him?”

  Gilmore took a step toward them, his arms spread out, face beginning to flush. “You think I don’t know that, you dumb fuck?” He pointed to the single stripe beside his name on the front of his chest rig. “You know what that means? It means my opinion don’t count for shit! It means a colonel don’t have to listen to a goddamned word I have to say! You think Staley chose me because I’m some personal confidant and he trusts my opinion? Is that what you think? You’re an idiot.”

  Gilmore shook his head, made eye contact with all the remaining survivors of their little group, the corners of his mouth downturned, the picture of bitterness. “I’m here because I was the only motherfucker that volunteered to come with you. Jee-zus.” He turned away from them and swore at the woods.

  Dorian sucked the gummy saliva out of his mouth. Spat.

  Shit.

  He could feel the anger fizzling out in a cloud of steam.

  Like pissing on a fire.

  Looking out at the woods, Gilmore’s head canted to the side, like he was trying to see something through the trees. His hand went to the rifle slung on his back and almost whipped it around, but then halted.

  Dorian found himself watching Gilmore, rather than looking for what was in the woods.

  The Marine seemed to relax again into his bitter resolve. He rocked back on his heels, then threw a hand out at the woods. He looked over his shoulder at Dorian and the expression was purely vindication. “There’s Wilson.”

  It seemed like he’d wanted to add something to that, but held it back.

  Dorian looked into the woods.

  Sure as shit, there was Wilson, looking muddy and soaking wet, trudging through the woods and spilling great gouts of steam out of his mouth, leaving trails of it behind him. He had his pistol in one hand—slide locked back.

  Dorian took off into the woods, meeting Wilson halfway.

  Wilson huffed and leaned on Dorian, exhausted. “Holy fuck…”

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  “What?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  There was momentary confusion on Wilson’s face and Dorian realized that Wilson was momentarily deaf—or maybe more than just momentarily. Dorian put both hands on Wilson’s shoulders and overenunciated his words. “Are. You. Hurt?”

  “Am I hurt?” Wilson shook his head. “No, I’m not hurt. But I can’t hear worth shit.” Dorian noticed that the man’s voice was trembling. Noticed that his whole body was trembling, actually. His teeth were showing and they were chattering together.

  Dorian put an arm around Wilson and they began walking for the road.

  Up ahead, the group stood on the right, huddled close together.

  On the left, Gilmore stood by himself, looking livid.

  Wilson glanced at Dorian. “What happened?”

  “Argument,” Dorian said loudly.

  Wilson shook his head, a little bewildered. “Seriously?” Wilson began pulling his sopping jacket off. “Well, get the hell over it. We’re on the move to the next bridge as soon as I can get some dry clothes.”

  NINE

  SHADOWS

  ANGELA WATCHED AS LEE SLEPT.

  Sunlight pressed brightly at the office window, casting shadows over Lee’s face. Whether from the probing light, or the pain in his head, or perhaps his dreams, Lee’s face was crunched into a frown as he slept. His face, lean and tired and overworked. The thickening beard hid much of the wear, but his dark, sunken eyes told the tale. Even when they were closed.

  His dreams seemed to her a curse. They always seemed to be nightmares. She could not remember the last time she had seen Lee sleep peacefully for longer than ten minutes at a time. Always, he would murmur, or twitch, or his legs would kick about. Sometimes his voice would become very loud, but she could never quite make out what he was saying. And his exhaustion was so deep that he rarely woke himself up.

  Angela had never asked him to, but he had moved his bedroll to the office inside the Camp Ryder building, knowing that his constant vivid dreaming at night woke her and Abby and Sam. Just before Eddie Ramirez had tried to murder him, Lee had slept again in Angela’s tent, trying to cling to some momentary comfort, because no one liked to sleep alone under skies so dark they seemed alien.

  It was odd, she thought, but they had never been physical.

  Is it really that odd?

  Perhaps not. Even on nights when they reached across covers and touched the other’s hand or arm, it had never gone further. That touch was simply the reassurance needed that there was another person in the dark with you. That you were not simply adrift in an empty vacuum, alone for eternity.

  There was some part of her that wondered about it. Perhaps was even a little taken aback that Lee had not even made an advance—God, that sounds pretty conceited—but there also seemed to be an understanding between the two of them. An unspoken agreement that neither would make the leap without the other being ready for it.

  Or maybe that was all in her head.

  But it seemed that they… they what?

  Ah, now what word to use?

  Love was a bitter and unrealistic word for her. Love was for girls and boys, with flower petals to pluck. Love, outside of her mother’s love for Abby, was something she refused to contemplate. It was built of obsolete things like “romance” and “passion.” It was some mythical thing she was passingly familiar with when she’d felt it fleetingly for a man who had been her husband, who had cheated on her, who had been infected, and in his raging insanity, had tried to murder her and her daughter. A man whom Lee had shot dead right in front of her eyes. Right in front of Abby’s eyes, and it seemed the little girl would never forget that.

  Jesus, how screwed up are we?

  No, love was not the word, nor would it ever be.

  What there was between them was… something inexplicable. Some deep, familiar comfort that they found in each other. Each seeming to shelter the other in the ways that they could. Propping each other up. Maybe an outside observer could ascribe some word to it that they thought was fitting. All Angela could do was itemize the things that she felt.

  She felt fear when he was in danger. She felt relief when he came back alive. She worried about his injuries. She worried about his dreams. She felt glad when he seemed in high spirits, and she felt grim on days when he seemed quiet and cold—which was often lately. She felt restless on days when he withdrew. Happy when he came back. Though she had proven to herself and everyone else that she could handle herself perfectly fine, she still felt better when he was around. When he tossed and turned and groaned in his sleep, as he was doing now, she wanted to lay a hand on his chest, and she wanted it to be enough to still his disquiet.


  And sometimes it was.

  Most times.

  Was there a word for the sum of those feelings? Probably. Definitely.

  Actually, there were most likely many words to describe it.

  But Angela chose none of them.

  It simply was what it was.

  She knelt down beside him and regarded him, somewhat blindly, perhaps. Not seeing the sunken eyes or the lids bolted shut, or the scrunched downturn of his mouth. The scraggly beard. The haggard face. The greasy hair. The scars. Rather, she simply saw a man who gave everything and kept nothing for himself. And she reached out and put a hand to his chest and hoped that it would give him something to cling to.

  He was in the Hole.

  He could tell. He knew it from the plush carpet under his feet. From the clean couch, and the soft, electric lighting, and the kitchen with the still-running refrigerator. He stood in the middle of the small living area, staring at the vaultlike door to the outside world. Staring at it with his heart pounding in his chest.

  And he could hear something beyond that door.

  Something crashing, slamming down that long cement hallway. He could hear the red emergency lights that lit the way exploding with a sharp popping sound as whatever was in that tunnel drew closer and closer.

  “You motherfucker!” it shouted, muffled through inches of battened steel. “Come back to the land of the living, you motherfucker!”

  There is no land of the living. There is no land of the living. There is only the land of death.

  The valley of death.

  The valley of the shadow of death.

  And I fear the evil, because it is a part of me.

  He was naked. His hands groped for his rifle, his pistol, his knife—anything. But there was only the cold, bony skin of his own emaciated body. He tried to back away from the door, but his feet were rooted to the ground. His blood felt thick and viscous in his veins. Muscles frozen and uncooperative, like rusted machinery.