"I tried with blankets but it didn't do any good," Keeshom says helplessly. "I managed to wrap her legs, but then it's just been this." He looks at me plaintively, almost begging. "I'm not prepared for this, Amo."
I think of Drake and his doctor outside. Maybe they could help. Maybe they still can, but the risks that opens us all up to…? I try to decide what I'd do if it wasn't Lara, and I try to nail down what it is about Drake and his people that has me uneasy, but it's everything. They have guns even though the ocean are harmless. They have so many kids from just five women. The way they're standing, and the way they stare, with not a one of them waving or smiling, not even the children.
It's not normal. Something's going on. I can't trust Lara, and all of us, to their hands.
"You've done well," I tell him, speaking calm but clear, over the panting sound and the smack of Lara's thumping hips on the shallow booth mattress. I rack my brains, trying to remember what Dr. Ozark recommended for Julio's victims as we raced toward Albuquerque.
Gentle but firm restraint was the key. Keeshom's got her arms, which is good; those will be most likely to break if she manages to buck herself out of the booth. Her feet are wrapped up well too, and though a bit of shaking will loosen them and she'll be risking breaking some toes, she was at least wearing tough farming boots when I carried her in here, not sandals, and they'll protect her well enough.
It's her head and neck I'm most concerned about now. There's not enough blankets to do anything about them, but...
"Pull her down," I tell Keeshom, as I think it. He stares at me blankly. "Down," I repeat, "get her legs bent, squashed at the bottom, so there's some space up by her head. Now, please."
He pulls. She flails and I try to guide her head as best I can. She jerks and kicks her way down the booth, juddering like a wind-up clockwork toy. Her knees bend and spasm, but now there's enough room in the booth by her head and I lift one leg and fold myself into it. At her head I get on my knees and slot her head into the space between my thighs; human padding.
Her head whips and hits my inner thighs manically, but not too painfully. All her motions are smaller now, as Keeshom holds her middle and I press gently on her shoulders. This way the damage will be limited to light bruises on the skin, not dents from the metal, not damage to bone, not wrenchings deep in her neck.
I look down into her face and it's not pleasant, because she barely looks like Lara now, more of a twisted, reddening parody. She sucks in breaths then sprays out foam. She looks just like one of Julio's survivors as we drove close to the demons, and with that a sharp, cold dread creeps into me.
Could there be a demon nearby?
It makes sense she'd be sensitive to them, like Julio's survivors. One of them grabbed her, broke her ribs, so is this my early warning? And if it is? If it is then we're defenseless; me, Keeshom and Lara, plus Drake and all his people. We're sitting ducks to what might be coming.
"Shh," I say to Lara while my mind races, "shh, it's going to be OK," though she shows no signs of slowing down, and Keeshom's clearly exhausted. He must have been holding her the whole time I was talking to Drake.
My mind races but I don't know what to do.
If it's a demon we need to go right now, but if it's not then that'll be a bad step, a sign of weakness in front of Drake which could lead to, what? I don't know. I don't know these people or what they're capable of. They might be a worse threat than a demon. A show of weakness might be all they need to pounce and take us all out. But I can't just stay here.
"Hang on, honey," I say down to Lara's twisted, rictus face, the only thing I can think of to do. "It's going to be OK, I promise."
But I can't promise. I haven't got a goddamned clue, and that scares me right to the core.
AMO 4
It doesn't stop.
It's been five minutes, ten maybe, and she's still kicking. She should be getting exhausted, the fit should be passing but it doesn't and that's hard to comprehend. She's gasping just to get in enough breath, and her face has gone dark with burst capillaries, and the white foam at her lips is taking on a bloody stain.
I'm starting to think she might shake herself to death.
"Keeshom," I bark, and he looks up at me, and I see how weary he is. I've got it easy, kneeling over her like this and holding her down with my weight. He's been at her side for twice as long, back when her struggles must have been at their strongest, trying to hold her whole body down. "What can we do for her?"
"I don't know," he says between pants. "The last time it happened, heading to Maine, they all spasmed then dropped into comas. But she's not." He sucks in a breath. "I gave her a sedative when it started, but she was already unconscious and it didn't do anything. I don't know, Amo."
My mind sprints on, thinking back to our RV convoy tearing east through New Mexico. Lucy in the RV behind me had lost her mind, but at least she'd exhibited behavior I could understand. She'd wanted to flee, she'd fought with me to try and get out of the vehicle, and then she'd passed out and the shaking had stopped.
But Lara just keeps on shaking.
"Not a sedative then," I urge, "what else could stop this?"
He stares hopelessly back. "A muscle relaxant? I don't- we don't have any here though. In the hospital. Or if it's like the survivors, then-"
He trails off but I read his meaning. There's been plenty of time to think about it, and we've drilled for this eventuality. We know what the early warning signs are, what to do if we see them. If there is a demon coming, we need to get the hell out. But then-
An idea comes, and I hold her head down with my hand and slip out of position on the narrow bed. Standing in the narrow aisle I feel my legs cramping up. "Get up here," I tell him, "do as best you can."
Keeshom moves sluggishly into position, kneeling over her just as I was. I guide his hands to hold her arms, though he can't do anything for her hips, which begin to kick up and down freely.
"Just for a moment," I say, then hurry to the front and fetch the walkie.
"Feargal," I say into it, "respond, where are you?"
He comes back clearly a few seconds later, his light Irish accent reassuring despite everything. "On 91, ETA twenty minutes. What's happening there?"
"It's Lara, she's gone into a fit, like Julio's victims did on the way past the demons. Tell me, is Crow there?"
There's a moment's pause as he takes this in. "Crow? Yes. But he's fine."
This confounds me further. "Put him on."
"Roger."
A moment later I hear Crow's deep, calm voice. "Amo, what do you need from me?"
I catch my own breath, thinking that this doesn't make any sense. If it is demon-related then Crow and any other sensitives would be as incapacitated as Lara, unless we're that much closer to the source. Would twenty minutes distance make that much difference? On the way to Albuquerque the pit survivors were showing symptoms for hours before we got near. So maybe it's not demons and it's something else, but I can't just-
"Are there any reports of the others dropping in fits?" I ask. "Anywhere in the harvest."
He knows what I mean right away. "Nothing's come in. No reports. The harvest continues."
No help. So either it's demons with an extremely focused range, or it's something else completely unrelated, like allergies. But she tried to leap into the harvester. That memory remains, cold and brutal in my mind, as I'm sure it will forever. That wasn't normal, and nobody else did that before. It sure as hell wasn't allergies.
"Amo," comes Crow's voice, and though there's no room for me to be calm now, his voice helps. Crow lived through the worst of Julio's horrors and survived. Panic is not going to help.
I focus and see what matters. Drake and his people may be our future, but Lara is my present. They have a doctor but what can their doctor do if it's demons? The risk is too high to go to them first. Which leaves one choice.
"Brace yourself," I call back to Keeshom, then slide into the driver's seat, push the stick in gear
and crank the handbrake off. I raise an open hand to Drake, all the explanation I can offer, and punch down on the accelerator.
The RV pulls away.
If it's a demon, the only answer is to get Lara away. If it's not, then this will tell me that too. I can roll back and ask their doctor for help, if they're willing, if Lara's still alive.
I see Drake in the rearview mirror watching after me. Keeshom shouts something but I've made the decision now. I lift the walkie and switch to all-channel override broadcast, which should reach both Chino Hills and the Sacramento advance party with no problem.
"New LA, this is Amo, I'm calling Code Cerulean, repeat Code Cerulean focused around the Chinese Theater. We may have demons incoming. There's a large number of fresh survivors on the forecourt and they may have lured demons with them. Josh, I want all harvesters in their RVs now, waiting on further word and watching the sensitives with you, that's Gail and Felipe. Feargal I'm going to cross you on the 91, where we'll hand over. Sacramento, Tomas, I want you to rally everyone and get them ready to roll on an exodus east. If we're hit you'll be next. Once more, we are readying for mass exodus to the east. Report."
There's a long silence as we race on, then a clash of voices chimes in.
"Tomas," I select, overriding them.
"All people to mobilize?" his lone voice comes through, tinged with disbelief. "Is this a drill I didn't know about?"
"It's real," I call back. "For your own safety get everyone together and ready to go right now, no time to stop and pack, go with your emergency kits only. Signal understanding so I can move on."
"Understood. But-"
I move on. "Josh?"
"Understood," he comes back in his twangy Alabama accent. "I have the kids with me."
I push back on the wave of concern and emotion that this comment brings up.
"Feargal, I'm on the move with Lara and Keeshom, trying to put some distance between us and whatever's out there. We'll cross you in a few minutes for further instructions."
"Roger," he says, and I set the walkie down. The speedometer hits seventy and glossy cars marred by patches of rust flash by on my right. The beach is a blur and the ocean a blue strip and all that matters is the river of the road carrying us away.
"How is she?" I call back to Keeshom.
"The same."
I can hear the muffled thumping of it over the engine. I don't want to think what kind of damage she's doing. I push down on the gas and propel us past Manhattan Beach toward Redondo, then jerk us hard onto Artesia, which leads up in a tight spiral to the elevated 91 freeway, where we cruise along above the rooftops. We fly through Compton and over the dry cement bed of the Los Angeles River, past Long Beach Airport in the distance with its jumbo jets tilting on soft rubber like wilting plants, until-
"I think she's getting better," Keeshom calls. I cock my ear and maybe I hear it now too, over the growl of the engine and the grind of old asphalt under the wheels. Lara's panting is fading and the bucking is less violent. "She's calming down."
It's good but it's bad. We haven't done anything other than move, which suggests it's demons, which means we need to run.
"Crow?" I say into the walkie.
"No change," he answers, knowing what I'm looking for. "No reports anywhere, and I'm feeling nothing."
It doesn't make any sense.
"I'm coming up to the 605 overpass," I say, "where are you?"
A beat passes.
"Fullerton, nearly at the 5."
I game out the minutes to come. I try to pull back and look at the global view.
"Stop when you see me. You're going to pick me up."
"Roger," says Crow.
I hope I'm wrong. This is where brutality rewards. If I'm going to run an exodus of New LA, it's not going to be with fifty fresh demons at my back. I can't take that risk. I have to persuade Drake to come, or force him to come, and failing force?
It's a horrific scenario. I push it to the back of my mind.
I need to be sure.
"She's almost still," Keeshom calls. "Like shivers now. Does this mean there's a demon coming?"
I don't have any certain answer for him. We moved position and the symptoms got better, but I need to be sure.
"Hold tight," I say, then hit the brake. The wheels squeal, the stink of burnt rubber fills the air, and as the RV skids I pull us into a tight U-turn.
"What are you doing?"
"Going back," I answer. I pump the pedal hard, flooding the engine, and the old RV spurts back the way we came, rising fast to sixty then seventy miles per hour. I grip the steering wheel so hard it feels like the skin on my knuckles is going to split. Thirty seconds pass, a minute.
"Amo," comes Keeshom's voice, and I know from the tone that it is not the news I want to hear. I even hear her breathing getting louder. The sound of her thrashing starts up again.
I keep driving. Two minutes pass, three, and she gets louder. Keeshom is talking but I need to be sure. I can't commit myself to this course if there's any other way, or-
"Amo!" he yells, jolting me out of the reverie. The road is a hot blur. "She's dying back here."
I hit the brakes, U-turn, and get us going once more, waiting to hear Keeshom tell me what I know he's going to say.
"That's it," he says, not even to me. "That's it, sweetie. Calm down."
And that decides it.
I bark orders.
"You're going to drive back to Chino Hills with Lara," I say firmly. "Then you're going to Fallout One, do you remember where that is?"
"I, uh…"
"Josh knows. Get there, fuel and gear up, then we're going to make a run across the country. I'll be following on behind, Sacramento too. Is that clear?"
"I, uh..."
I rub my eyes. Why am I even telling this to Keeshom? "Focus on her," I say, then bring up the walkie and send the message out to all our frequencies, with a certainty that I don't feel. "We're leaving now. It's almost a certainty that demons are coming. I'll meet the harvest group on the 40 heading to Albuquerque, then join with Sacramento in St. Louis, Missouri. This is happening right now. Get ready and start moving. This exodus is live."
I put the walkie down before they can ask me any questions. There's no time to spare. The thought crosses my mind to contact Witzgenstein, but there's no way but the comms office in the Theater, and there's no time for that.
Tense moments pass until I see Feargal coming toward me on the other lane, emerging bright yellow from the gray and blue of the city. They're in the school bus, once my battletank and still decked out with defensive grilles. We keep a stash of weaponry on board; not heavy gear but enough for an AR-15 rifle each, more than the handguns they have back at the Theater.
I think through the plan. We'll roll up in the forecourt and put a bead on the adults, then I'll go out to persuade Drake. If I can't, then we'll be well-positioned to try force, and if force doesn't work then… Maybe we'll find the strength to do what has to be done.
I bring the RV to a halt and the school bus stops across the way. I wave to Feargal then duck in the back. Here's Lara, breathing in short pants, her jaw basted with drying bloody foam, with only the slightest twitch in her left leg. Here's Keeshom, slathered in sweat, leaning against the booth and gasping.
He can't drive like this. His eyes barely fix on me.
"She's better," he says, delirious with exhaustion. He's been restraining her at full throttle for close to an hour in the extreme heat and he's broken. I hate to think of what the fit's done to Lara.
I bring up the walkie.
"How many men you have, Feargal?"
He comes back. "Seven."
Seven. If I spare one to drive Lara back we'll lose one seventh of our firepower. One man left behind gives Drake's people one more shot at the bus, if it comes to that. But there's no choice.
"I'm coming to you," I say to Feargal, then put the walkie down and turn to Keeshom. "Buddy, you lie down. You did good. Don't try to drive. Just la
y up here and wait."
He nods like a man just pulled out of the ocean. He slumps to the floor on his back and I leave it at that.
Out of the RV I run to the line divider and vault over it, picking out faces in the school bus windows, each sitting with black rifles spiking up at their sides. Feargal and Crow, Phillipa, Lindy, Belle, Greg and Jack. Not the strongest, but then the strongest are already out in Europe dealing with the bunkers. I'd give anything to have Anna here, Peters, even Cynthia, but this is what I've got.
I climb into the bus and look over their faces.
"Jack," I say, picking the guy who just had a baby, "I need you to take the RV back to Chino Hills; Lara's in there with Keeshom, they're both pretty sick. Sync up with the rest of the harvesters and follow Josh's lead to Fallout 1. Is that clear?"
"Clear," Jack says, already getting to his feet. He's a great guy, a wonderful young father and an incredibly safe pair of hands, but of the seven here he's the least likely to shoot down thirty children in cold blood.
As he's climbing out I say, "Drive," and Crow drives. I look over the six that remain, still working through in my head how I'm going to say this. Feargal's face is hard, barely marked by the scars that tore up his chest and throat in Bordeaux. Crow is focused at the wheel, trusting in me. The others are plainly worried.
I don't have time to be the quiet, uncertain Amo they've gotten used to this past year. I have to lead.
"Demons are coming," I say flatly, as Crow pushes the battletank up to a chassis-rattling speed. "We're not safe. Our people at Chino Hills are not safe. I know it's demons because Lara was just in a fit that lasted nearly an hour, and we all need to run. Crow?"
Crow grunts, playing his role. Hell yes, we should be running.
I look into their eyes. I need them to feel this in advance. "But there are forty-two survivors on the Theater's forecourt. We need to get them to come with us. I can't leave them to be converted."
Zombie Ocean (Book 6): The Laws Page 15
