Resistance: Pandora, Book 3

by Eric L. Harry

  “That’s just the way it’s gonna be?” Jane Walsh persisted, her voice rising. No one said a word, not even her uninfected colleagues to whom she had turned. “Okay. Fine. If you’re all on board, why rock the boat?”

  Samantha leaned over to Emma and whispered, “There is no boat. She’s saying she’s not going to make any more trouble.”

  “I understand,” Emma replied out loud since everyone surely had heard Sam’s unnecessary translation of idiomatic English. “It’s time to move on to punishments.” Emma turned to Walcott. “What are the numbers?”

  “There haven’t been any punishments yet,” the sheriff replied as he pulled the small notepad from the breast pocket of his khaki uniform blouse. “There are 1,369 people in detention as of bed check this morning. We’ve lost quite a few in detention, you’ll understand. Of the ones remaining, there were 275 rapists, 311 guilty of murder or felonious assault, 296 property thieves, 419 job no shows, and 68 others.”

  “Okay,” Emma said. “Let’s get them processed today.” Walcott nodded. “Next up, Dwayne? What about reports of some reconnaissance patrol sighting?”

  “Hold on a sec,” interrupted Jane Finch again. “I’m really sorry, but…. What was just decided? About punishing all those people?”

  “It was decided to proceed with punishment,” Emma replied. “Today, if feasible.”

  “What…what about a trial?”

  “We don’t have the resources for a thousand trials. And there are more to come.”

  “Okay. No trials. But…who decides on the correct punishments? I mean, rape versus…being absent from your job…?”

  “Imprisonment costs too much,” Emma answered. “The punishment is execution.”

  Walcott interrupted. “I just wanta make a point. We don’t execute real crazies. Not formal-like. We shoot ’em right on sight unless Dwayne has put out a call for some more.”

  “Thank you for the clarification, Sheriff,” Emma said. She wanted to show the Uninfecteds that she had not forgotten how to be polite.

  “And I have enough for Winston-Salem tomorrow,” Dwayne told Walcott. “But we may need more for Greensboro, Durham, and Raleigh next week, if they resist.” Samantha whispered for Dwayne to thank Walcott. “Thank you,” Dwayne added. Walcott nodded.

  Samantha smiled at Jane Finch, sort of, then nodded for Emma to continue now that their manners had been put on full display.

  The Uninfecteds were whispering, which was impolite. Jane Finch emerged from the private conclave and said, “How many of those people you’re killing are uninfected?”

  Walcott flipped pages in his little pocket notebook. “Sixty…seven. We had a bunch turn in a little mini outbreak while in detention, you understand.”

  “There’ll be trouble,” Jane said to Emma. “They all have families. Friends.”

  “How many people are we talking about if we round them up, too?” Emma asked.

  “That’s…that’s not what I…. They haven’t done anything.”

  “But you just said they’ll cause trouble once the sentence is carried out.”

  “Yes, but…. Look, do anything you want with your people. But if you execute every uninfected man, woman, and God forbid child you arrest, and then kill all their families and friends….” She was doing so well until totally failing to make any point.

  “I think she means,” Samantha supplied, “that the Uninfecteds will revolt. And that makes sense. It’s even possible the Infecteds will rebel too. It’s a breach of the contract to execute someone who hasn’t broken the Rules. It’s a breach of the peace.”

  “Exactly,” Jane Finch said. “A breach of contract. Thank you, Miss….”

  “Brown. Samantha Brown. And you’re welcome, Ms. Finch.” Again Sam bared her straight white teeth.

  “They were given fair warning by publication of the Rules,” Emma said, “not to murder, rape, steal, or miss work. Housing them in jail requires significant resources and is too burdensome for an economy that’s struggling to feed The Community’s swollen population and deal with major security issues internally and externally. Execution also provides the deterrent benefits of reinforcing The Community’s commitment to the Rules.”

  “So have a trial,” Jane Finch proposed. “We’ve got lawyers and judges. We know how to try people. Why reinvent the wheel?” Emma had to hush Samantha, who tried to explain there was no wheel. “We don’t want rapists and murderers going unpunished either. Let’s just make sure we’re not executing innocent people.”

  “Alright,” Emma said, persuaded. “Jane Finch, get with Samantha and create a court system. But I decide on guilt or innocence, and on the punishment, which will more likely than not be severe. And the trials will be quick, with no appeals. I don’t have time for the old way of doing these things.”

  “What do I do about the current detainees?” Walcott asked.

  “Execute the Infecteds. Hold onto any Uninfecteds you detain until we can give them a brief hearing.”

  “Thank you,” Jane Finch replied, which thanks were repeated by both of her previously silent colleagues. That reinforced, to Emma, the importance Uninfecteds ascribed to manners and politeness.

  Chapter 19

  BRISTOL, TENNESSEE

  Infection Date 81, 1330 GMT (9:30 a.m. Local)

  Chloe’s father insisted that they gear up for their walk around town, and Aunt Isabel’s Marine boyfriend agreed. But Chloe’s shoulders were still sore. “I understand taking weapons. But why take our freaking backpacks?”

  Her mother explained. “Because your dad said so.”

  “We don’t want anyone stealing our stuff,” her dad said. “Plus, listen to that.” Even from their basement closet they could hear the constant rattle of guns and an occasional boom. Aunt Isabel’s boyfriend had spent the previous boring evening doling out cough drops, which Chloe and Jake considered candy, as prizes for correct guesses, and teaching them to distinguish between artillery, tank guns, and demolition charges. It was part macabre party game, and part campfire ghost story.

  B-b-b-b-b-boom. “Arty,” Chloe muttered to herself.

  “What?” her irritated mother shot back, spoiling for a fight.

  Chloe huffed. “Artillery, Mom. Probably 155s.” Whatever they are. “Weren’t you paying attention last night?”

  Her mother bristled, but Chloe’s dad said, “Listen up. Maintain tight spacing. Five meters max. Keep ten meters from anyone we meet. Anyone, Chloe. Anyone begging for supplies, flash your weapon and….”

  “…and use them if you have to,” Chloe completed. “We know, Dad. We’re not newbies.” Kaboooom! Chloe could feel the explosion through the soles of her boots. “Demolition?” Chloe asked Rick.

  The Marine nodded. “They’re taking down buildings to clear their sight lines.”

  “Rounds chambered,” Chloe’s dad said. “Safeties on.”

  There were a series of clacks and clicks.

  “You sure we should be doing this?” Chloe’s mother asked her husband.

  “You’re the one who said the kids were going stir-crazy down here.”

  “Yeah, but that was before World War III started up there.”

  They left their basement utility closet fully outfitted for war. At the top of the stairs sat a well-armed police sergeant with a radio. “You leavin’ us?”

  “Just goin’ for a walk,” Chloe’s dad replied in near native dialect.

  The man eyed their weapons and equipment with a brow raised in skepticism. Chloe gathered that attempting to flee the besieged town was a popular pastime.

  Chloe filled her lungs with the cool air outside but coughed at the smoke and winced at the smell, both of which hinted at fighting, despair, death, decay, and collapse. Columns of smoke too numerous to count rose from all points of the compass forming sheer canyon walls defining the town’s defensive l
ines, which had constricted noticeably since their arrival four days earlier. A low pall pressed down upon Bristol—probable site of humanity’s next miserable last stand—and cast grimy buildings and trash strewn streets in the gray light of sieges past. Chloe wanted to ask why they were trapped there and not taking their chances on the open road. Judging from the sounds of the guns, there were lots and lots of Infecteds. But their single file column assumed the imperatives of combat readiness—360 degree vigilance and rigid noise discipline—without needing any command.

  They were in the eye of a storm, and Chloe felt its dangerous presence all around.

  First went Dad. Mom followed. Then Jake. Then Rick and Aunt Isabel. Chloe stayed close to them. Margus brought up the rear, as usual. All held weapons at the ready like on the highway, and all were stooped under their heavy loads.

  “Can you spare some food?” asked a grimy woman pushing a baby stroller.

  “Stay back!” Margus snarled. Chloe raised her mask, then her rifle, joining Margus’s in a final warning to the woman.

  “Back…please!” Chloe begged as the woman reached the life defining ten meter mark. Chloe aimed carefully enough to miss the stroller. But what was the point? If she killed its mother, she killed the baby.

  The woman turned the stroller aside. It was empty. Maybe her baby was already dead. Or maybe the stroller was a prop to elicit pity or to distract from some danger. Chloe’s rifle swung all around before settling back on the whimpering woman. Or maybe the carriage was just to cart around supplies.

  “I need food. Please. We’re starving. I’ve lost my milk. I need to eat.”

  The plea tugged at Chloe’s heart, but not her dad’s. “Let’s go! Keep up!”

  Go where? They left the forlorn woman, who stared silently at their passage.

  “Sorry,” Chloe turned back to say.

  They reverted to silence, only it wasn’t silent. Boooom! Main tank gun, Chloe guessed, because artillery fired in bunches. B-b-b-b-boom! Now that was artillery. Seconds later, the distant c-c-c-c-crump announced arrival of the shells. Chloe knew the sound, feel, and smell of that mini apocalypse from the night Rick had gotten them rescued.

  “One call does it all,” Rick had replied when Margus asked how he had managed to “drop the hammer” on the Infecteds at the barn. Apparently, Rick’s satellite phone call had gone to the White House switchboard, which had relocated somewhere, and been transferred to the military and down the chain of command with surprising efficiency. Had it not happened quickly, Chloe knew, bits of her body—minus the top of her head—would litter that burned-out barn.

  Her reflection off the dark windows of the Subway sandwich shop danced as explosions’ shock waves rattled the glass and Chloe’s insides. She hoped they would soon return to their cramped and smelly basement.

  “Stay back!” her dad shouted to a gaggle of beggars. “This is your last warning!” That shout, and the half dozen rifles aimed their way, scattered the ten or so people into subgroups, which hurried away separately. It was their eyes that haunted Chloe. Wide. Sunken. Desperate. Terrified and terrifying. It was like Uninfecteds were transitioning to Infecteds even before arrival of Pandoravirus.

  Chloe waited until Margus twirled around to walk forward. “This is a really stupid idea.”

  “No shit.” He looked left and right then spun to check the rear.

  “What do you think is gonna happen? With this town, I mean?”

  “They’re surrounded. They’re runnin’ outta everything. Nobody’s comin’ to help. Same as happens everywhere else, I s’pose.”

  “Quiet!” snapped her dad.

  They passed people here and there. A line of civilians with empty gas cans. You’re dead, Chloe thought. Troops guarding a water tower. Dead. A family much like Chloe’s, apparently making a run for it, but much more poorly equipped. Definitely all dead. Men pushing a pickup truck piled high with belongings while a woman steered. Them too. A crowd waving papers at troops in gas masks guarding a grocery store. Bet you didn’t realize it, but it’s the end of the line.

  At an intersection, there was a much louder b-b-b-b-b-boom, causing Chloe to duck reflexively. Huge guns in an empty lot recovered from their recoil and smoked as troops clad in rubber suits and gas masks reloaded with well-choreographed movements. C-c-c-c-c-crump. Someone, somewhere, was getting blown to pieces. For what? No matter how many the big guns killed, the artillerymen would all soon be dead or turned.

  “Halt!” came a shout from ahead.

  Rick, right hand raised from his rifle’s trigger, approached a sandbagged pit across the street. Chloe couldn’t hear their conversation, but the soldiers kept pointing in various directions and shaking their heads.

  Chloe drifted closer to Margus. “You think we’re going to get out of here?”

  “Sounds like Cap’n Townsend is havin’ trouble findin’ us a ride.”

  Was that his answer? That sounded like a no. “Maybe we should, I dunno, just not be here when, you know, it happens? Maybe sneak out or something? Exfiltrate?”

  Margus snorted as he looked around. “Sneak out? Through that?”

  Flashes barely preceded the thumping of explosions and boiling clouds of smoke. There was a constant background rattle of gunfire.

  “We’re headed back,” Rick called out from thirty yards ahead, chopping his hand and pointing back toward the high school. “Margus, you take point!”

  The normally serious boy now turned grave as he led them back from their abbreviated stroll. Chloe didn’t follow, but hung back as Rick, Isabel, Jake, and her mom passed. No one said a word. All grasped their weapons tightly and eyed every broken window or smashed doorway of the thoroughly looted town.

  “What’s going on?” she asked her father. “I thought we were taking a look around.”

  “We did.” Even fifteen minutes above ground had been deemed too great a risk.

  “But I heard you tell Mom we were gonna scout ways out of here.”

  Her dad, now doing the Margus spin to check behind them every few steps, said, “Change of plans. Those soldiers said the quarantine facility is filled to the brim. They’re getting ready to…to clear it out.”

  “What does that mean—clear it out? How? Let all those Infecteds go?”

  His eyes darted toward her, and he shook his head. It told Chloe everything she needed to know. They were getting ready to slaughter thousands of captive Infecteds, or try to. Which gave Chloe the answer to another of her questions. The end was nearer than she had thought. They had days, at most; hours, in the worst case.

  A sudden fusillade of gunfire erupted from a few blocks away, much louder than the sounds of fighting from the town’s perimeter. The avalanche of sound rose and rose until everyone in their small procession had come to a stop and stared toward its source.

  “Let’s go!” her dad said. “Safeties off!”

  Chloe felt a sudden rise in anxiety as she clicked her rifle to Fire. But it wasn’t fear; it was dread. She didn’t want to resume killing Infecteds, especially fellow citizens of their newly adopted home town of Bristol who had managed to hurl themselves out of windows or somehow dodge machine gun bullets only to run into the Miller family out for a stroll.

  Crack. It was Margus’s rifle. Pop-pop-pop-pop. Rick and Aunt Isabel had joined in. The first of the onrushing Infecteds came pouring down the side street toward them. Aunt Isabel was directly in their path. Mom, Dad, and Jake took cover—prone behind the curb or kneeling behind a concrete trash receptacle—and flashes from their rifles joined the furious fire from Rick and Isabel’s weapons.

  Chloe lay prone in the middle of the intersection. There were dozens of Infecteds fleeing the slaughter at the smoking warehouse, and they were bearing down on Aunt Isabel. A man with one side of his shirttail untucked. Bam! Chloe’s shot went in his chest and out his back, and he landed on his knees and then face
. A middle aged woman whose hospital gown flapped loosely around her flabby frame. Bam! Bam! How had she missed that first shot? A little boy, arm bloody and eyes black. Bam! The high powered round was really overkill for his small body. Bam! The face of a man in the blue coveralls of a paramedic cratered sickeningly.

  Men, women, and children recoiled as if hitting an invisible force field sagging ever closer to Aunt Isabel. Rick knelt above her as rounds flew and Infecteds fell. In the end, Chloe was reduced to shooting squirmers and crawlers before Rick yanked Aunt Isabel to her feet and they all took off jogging, if you could call it that. Their heavy packs slowed them to little more than a fast, springy walk.

  “Stay back!” came Margus’s shout, followed instantly by a single shot from his rifle. The man who fell looked uninfected. By the time Chloe passed, his family had gathered, sobbing, around the man’s last breaths, and the man’s wife shouted obscenities at her. Seconds after her dad passed them, the woman and her children were tackled, pounded with fists, and stomped with heels by the Infecteds that had overtaken them.

  By the time they reached the door leading back into the high school, a huge tank was restoring order. Two crewman manning machine guns atop the monster raked the area clear of life while rumbling slowly down the street, sweeping fire at anything that moved. Rick and Jake helped Aunt Isabel back to her feet after she collapsed, trembling and sobbing, from near death at the hands of the onrushing horde. It was the reaction of Aunt Isabel—a grown-up—that brought home to Chloe how close their call had been. They must have shot thirty or forty Infecteds who had escaped the slaughter at the quarantine center. Had there been fifty or sixty, they might all have died. And if they had been a minute or two slower getting off the street down which the tank carved its deadly path, they would have died by its guns. Once again, they had just barely escaped death.

  But for how long? Was Chloe’s life still just beginning, or was it very near its dismal end? She took one last look at the contracting walls of smoke and one last deep breath of the distinctly acrid stench. The mechanical clatter of metal treads on concrete and shuddering rips of fire from its guns were the new chirps and tweets of nature. Would this be her last glimpse of sunlight filtering dimly through a canopy of smoke? The last kiss of cool air on her cheeks before hearing the animal howl storm down the stairs toward their dungeon? Save one round, she reminded herself as her father dragged her through the door. One round is all it would take.