Refugees

by D. J. Molles

  The man turned, and for a moment LaRouche thought he was looking back at his people sitting in the pickup trucks. Then LaRouche realized he was looking back down the road, as though picturing whatever he had come from. When he turned back to face LaRouche, he shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ for us back there.”

  Suspicion squinted LaRouche’s eyes. “Where you comin’ from?”

  The man looked grim. “Ain’t much left of it now.” He pointed back east. “Had a little settlement outside Fremont. Me and a few of the others were in the city, pickin’ through the scraps when we saw the smoke. By the time we got back to camp they’d burned everythin’ to the ground. We picked up the rest of these folks about a mile down the road—they’d managed to run before the camp got taken over.”

  LaRouche tasted something sour. “Who are you talking about? Who’s ‘they’?”

  The man wiped his brow and seemed to just move the soot and dirt around. “I’m guessin’ it was the Followers.”

  LaRouche wanted to roll his eyes, but in the face of this man’s tragedy, he thought it would simply be rude. So he restrained his response to a slightly sarcastic, “And what makes you think it was the Followers?”

  “Well…” The man put his hands on his hips and spat on the road. “Prolly because they hung ten of our men from crosses.” His face twisted just slightly and his eyes blinked quickly. He met LaRouche’s gaze, and there was grief but also anger. “See, what they do is use the telephone poles. First they nail ’em to a two-by-four, then they lash that to the telephone pole.” The man began to visibly shake, and his words became more strangled.

  He appeared to be trying to say something else but couldn’t quite do it. He brought a white-knuckled fist to his mouth and breathed ragged, furious breaths for a moment before regaining his composure enough to speak. “I can’t tell you the other thing they do. I can’t get it out of my mouth. You’ll see… if you’re headed that way.”

  LaRouche found himself staring at the man with his rifle hanging loosely at his side. Cautiously, he pressed forward. “The Followers are real?”

  “Hell, I dunno.” The man swiped at his eyes. “Whatever the fuck you wanna call ’em. Don’t matter to me. But we’ve been hearing the rumors of them from folks traveling out of the coastal region. Thought they was fake…” He grew quiet for a moment, then shook his head again. “Didn’t think they’d come this far west.”

  “When did this happen?”

  He raked his dirty hair and rubbed the back of his neck. “We saw the smoke about an hour ago. I’m guessin’ it took some time to… do what they did.”

  LaRouche stepped closer to the man and spoke softer. “We don’t have much to spare for you folks, and I’m sorry for that. But we come from a large community, and it’s less than an hour’s drive from here. They’ll be able to help.”

  The man looked up, dumbfounded. “You guys from Camp Ryder?”

  LaRouche drew his head back slightly. “Uh… yeah, actually.”

  “Are you… are you Captain Harden?”

  LaRouche was so stunned by the question that he wasn’t able to muster an answer for a moment. He almost told the man that he was Captain Harden, not because he wanted to take credit, but simply because the man’s eyes looked so completely hopeful. The look of defeat and desperation had fled from the man’s face for that brief moment, and LaRouche didn’t want him to be disappointed.

  But in the end, he shook his head. “No, I’m not Captain Harden.”

  “Oh.” The man almost looked like he didn’t believe him. “Do you know him? Is he real?”

  LaRouche smiled. “Yeah. He’s real. We’re actually out here on his orders.”

  The man looked confused. “What are you doing?”

  LaRouche shook his head. “It’s complicated. Look, you’re less than thirty miles from Smithfield. They’re part of the Camp Ryder Hub, so they’ll help you out. Go there and tell them Sergeant LaRouche sent you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen…” LaRouche took another step forward. “Anything you know would be helpful. Up to this point, I’ve pretty much dismissed the Followers as bullshit. If you know what we’re heading into…”

  “Yeah.” The man shoved his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drew up. “Everything we’ve heard has turned out to be true… except that, as far as I can tell, they didn’t eat nobody. But they did kill most of the men, and several are missing, along with most of the women.” The man’s chin quivered. “They say they take all the girls who are old enough to bear children. They give the males a choice to join them. The ones who don’t join willingly are… put on the crosses.”

  “You know where they went? How many there are?”

  The man shook his head. “Went back east. Don’t know how many there were. They was gone by the time we got back. Had to be at least fifty of them to take over our settlement that quickly.” He swallowed hard. “We had a lot of people in that camp.” His hands searched for something to do as he spoke and eventually just flopped down to his sides like dead meat. “This is what they do. They send out raiding parties and they kidnap people. Force them to work in the Lord’s Army.”

  LaRouche absorbed the information. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  The man thought for a moment. “No. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else I can think of.”

  LaRouche nodded. “Thank you. Please, go to Smithfield. They can help you.”

  The man eyed him. “You’re really from Camp Ryder?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Tell me something about Captain Harden… so I know you’re tellin’ the truth.”

  LaRouche almost laughed at the man, but he could see how fragile the courage was in his clouded eyes, and he didn’t want it to break. He could have given the man some random factoid about Lee Harden that might have sufficed for the moment, but he knew the power of rumors and the power of legends, and he knew how they imparted hope and inspiration to the people who heard them, even if sometimes the truth was stretched to its limit.

  “Once, when we were fighting the infected,” LaRouche said, “I saw him fall down a three-story elevator shaft. Shoulda broken every bone in his body after that fall. But you know what the bastard did when I went over to try to wake him up?” LaRouche balled his fist. “He got up and punched me right in the nose because he thought I was an infected trying to attack him.”

  The man smiled widely. “Is that a fact?”

  “That’s a fact.” LaRouche nodded. “When you get to Camp Ryder, you watch him walk. He’s got a limp in his right leg. That’s from his fall down the elevator shaft.”

  “Alright.” The man extended his hand to LaRouche, and they shook firmly. “I believe you.”

  “Go see for yourself.”

  The man stepped back a few paces, then faced eastward, where it seemed that he paused for half a beat, perhaps struck by the forlorn appearance of his friends and family in their filthy rags and downtrodden faces. Or perhaps staring down that stretch of road and picturing the things that lay beyond that cold horizon.

  Then he continued to his truck.

  Just as the man reached his truck and opened the driver’s door to get in, he stopped and looked back at LaRouche, his face once again grave. “You boys be careful if you’re headed east. Ain’t nothin’ out there anymore but madmen. All of ’em… madmen.”

  LaRouche swallowed. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Best you do,” the man said. “Best you do.”

  * * *

  As they left Lillington and drove toward the Sanford airport, Eddie grew quieter and quieter. For a while, he held onto his rifle as though it were a blanket, but gradually he released his death grip on it and now it rested between his legs, leaned forward on the dash.

  Lee chalked it up to nerves—it was the first time the guy had been out since he got to Camp Ryder, and his last experience hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Now Eddie had his left hand planted firmly on his knee and the other
hand was inside his jacket pocket, and he looked out the side window at the countryside as it moved by them at a steady clip. He didn’t speak, but when Lee took occasional glances at his passenger, he saw the man’s jaw bunching quickly.

  “Listen,” Lee said. “I’m not saying it’s going to be clear when we get there, but when we were here yesterday, there were no infected in the area. And if there are any today, we won’t stick around.” Lee wrangled the steering wheel as he made a right-hand turn. “Trust me. I’m not trying to get in a fight today.”

  “How far are we away from Lillington?” Eddie asked.

  “I dunno. Maybe fifteen miles?”

  “And how far from Camp Ryder?”

  “Twenty or so.”

  Eddie finally looked away from the window, looking at Lee for a brief moment, and then at the rifle in front of him. “Do the patrols come up this way?”

  “Yeah, but not often.” Lee stretched his neck. “They run between settlements mostly, so they’ll cover the roads between Lillington and Broadway more than out here.”

  It was an odd question, but he was obviously worried about the dangers of the road.

  Lee did his best to set his passenger at ease. “We haven’t seen any raiders in a few weeks—we’ve done a pretty good job of pushing them out of the region. And as for infected… well, they can’t outrun a Humvee.”

  Eddie listened with his eyes closed, nodding. His lips were pressed down and pale.

  Lee looked at him with a measure of concern. “Hey… you all right, man?”

  Eddie’s eyes opened. “Yes. Can we stop?”

  “Right here?”

  “Yes. Stop right here.”

  Is he carsick? Lee thought. Having a panic attack, maybe?

  Eddie looked at him. “Please.”

  Lee let his foot off the accelerator and looked around, checking through the windows and the mirrors and scanning the woods and the fields to the side of the road. Everything was empty and barren. Just more anonymous American wasteland.

  He pressed on the brakes and brought them to a slow stop, straddling the faded double-yellow line.

  Lee looked to his right, saw Eddie was staring straight ahead, and followed his gaze out the front windshield. He saw nothing of note. The road led straight forward, the painted lines seeming to draw in on themselves to a single point far down the road. To their right, a barbed-wire fence with cedar posts, only a few yards from the shoulder, and beyond that just a rolling set of hills once used to pasture cows. To their left were stands of commercially planted loblolly pines, standing perfectly straight in their distinct rows like soldiers in rank and file.

  Nothing else.

  Lee’s eyes went back to his passenger. “What’s up, buddy? You gonna puke or something?”

  Eddie shook his head. “I have to tell you something.”

  Lee had been through so much and heard so much, been shocked so many times, that he became surprised at his own surprise sometimes. He swore to himself that he should be immune to the unexpected, but somehow it still had the power to knock him back a few steps. And whenever these revelations came around, they were usually preceded by something along the lines of “I have to tell you something” or “I have bad news.”

  So Lee mentally hunkered down, determined that he would not let this shock him, not like the news of Abe Darabie’s betrayal had shocked him, not like the news of the acting president deciding to leave the east coast to die had shocked him. He was ready for this one.

  He lowered his chin, as though he were about to take a hard blow. “What is it?”

  Eddie looked right at him and held his gaze this time. There was regret there, and fear. “I think you’re a good man, Captain Harden. I think you’re doing the right thing… and you didn’t deserve this.”

  Lee’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “I’m sorry,” Eddie said, and then he pulled a small silver revolver from his jacket pocket and shot Lee Harden in the head.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Coup

  Tomlin and Bus were huddled over the desk, poring over a very short list of names and trying to figure out whom they were going to speak to first and how the hell they were going to broach the subject, when Angela burst through the door of the office, holding the hand of Vicky Ramirez.

  Bus jerked upright when the door came open and stared, wide-eyed, at the two women as they stood in the center of the room. The look on Angela’s face was one that bordered on panic and her companion seemed to be resisting slightly as she was pulled forward, her eyes red-rimmed as though she had been crying.

  “I’m sorry!” Vicky protested. “I didn’t know, I swear to God!”

  Bus spread his arms out, surprised. “Um… someone mind explaining what’s going on?”

  Angela released her grip on Vicky’s hand and stepped forward a bit. “Bus, you need to hear this. And this isn’t Vicky’s fault. She said she didn’t know, and I believe her. Promise me she won’t be punished.”

  Bus shook his head rapidly. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about yet.”

  Angela stomped her foot on the ground. “Promise me!”

  “Jesus!” Bus threw his hands up. “Okay! I promise!”

  Tomlin stepped in and spoke in a level voice. “Why don’t we calm down, folks?” He turned to Angela. “No one’s gonna be punished, but it sounds like pretty sensitive information. Why don’t you tell us what we’re talking about so we can be on the same page.”

  Instead of responding to Tomlin, Angela turned her gaze to Vicky and prompted her with a nod of the head. “Tell them what you told me.”

  Vicky’s whole body tensed. “I didn’t know.”

  Tomlin nodded. “It’s okay. We just wanna know what’s going on.”

  Vicky began to wring her hands. “Well… it’s…”

  Angela reached out to touch her shoulder, offering gentle encouragement.

  “It’s Eddie,” Vicky continued. “He’s… uh… he’s not really my husband.”

  Tomlin shot Bus a look. The big, bearded man still seemed somewhat bewildered by the suddenness of it all, but he lowered his chin and looked at the dark-haired woman standing across from him. The look on Bus’s face was one of intense focus.

  “What do you mean he’s not your husband?”

  Tears were appearing in Vicky’s eyes again. “He’s not my husband! I barely even know the guy. He met me and my kids on the road, maybe three weeks ago.” She let out a tiny sob, then covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes for a moment. Twin streaks glistened on both of her cheeks. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed slightly more in control. “He said he knew of a place, but we couldn’t get in unless we said we were a family. I know it was weird, but we were desperate… we hadn’t eaten in days, and we couldn’t find any clean water. I don’t know anything about surviving! I was a hairdresser before all of this! But he seemed to know what he was doing, and he promised us… he promised us everything would be okay.”

  Tomlin leaned into Bus. “Three weeks is just about the right time frame.”

  Bus stood as still as a stone statue, the only motion the throbbing of the arteries in his neck. When he spoke it was like rocks grinding together. “What else?”

  Vicky and Angela exchanged a worried look.

  “He’s got a phone… it’s like a big cell phone or maybe a radio,” Vicky said. “He sneaks off in the middle of the night and uses it. I don’t know who he’s talking to. I know I should have said something… but I just thought it was weird. I didn’t think anyone was going to get hurt by it.”

  Tomlin tapped his finger rapidly on the desktop. “Fucking satellite phone. That’s how he’s been staying in contact with Abe. It’s gotta be him.”

  Bus nodded.

  Vicky raised a single finger. “There’s something else.”

  Bus looked at her. “What?”

  “I heard one of the old men lost a gun.” Vicky couldn’t hold Bus’s gaze and looked instead at the flo
or. “I don’t know much about guns, but I think I saw it in his pack this morning. In Eddie’s pack, I mean. It was small and silver, and I don’t know if it’s the same gun or not, but Eddie never said anything about having a gun before we got here.” She shook her head as though she felt foolish. “I should have known…”

  Angela stepped to the desk. “I think Lee’s in danger.”

  Bus immediately whirled to the radio and snatched up the handset. “It’s him. Eddie’s the guy we’re looking for.” He keyed the mic. “Camp Ryder to Captain Harden… This is Bus… Lee, can you copy me?”

  Static. Unending and emotionless.

  Bus huffed into the handset. “Lee, this is Bus… Answer the fucking radio! This is Bus!”

  Behind him, Bus could hear Vicky murmuring, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”

  “Can anyone copy my radio?” Bus held the PTT button down so hard, he thought he might break the handset. “Can anyone copy me? This is urgent!”

  Bus slammed the handset down and looked at Tomlin with alarm tweaking his features.

  Tomlin shook his head. “Something’s goin’ on, Bus.”

  * * *

  Jerry held the dangling cable in his hand with a savage grin. He could feel the energy coursing through him like his nerves were rioting, like his blood had been set on fire. He dropped the cable and watched it droop over the mounting brackets of the radio antenna posted on the roof of the Camp Ryder building. He hadn’t permanently damaged it but simply unplugged it. After all, they might need to use it in the future.

  He stood and put one leg up on the lip of the roof, looking out over Camp Ryder, nearly shaking with anticipation. Beside him stood Greg, holding the little orange flare gun. Jerry took a brief moment to grip his shotgun solidly in his hands and breathe in the crisp air from the rooftop. From up here, he could barely smell the latrines and the dirty, filthy smell of the people themselves.

  From up here, he felt like a god.

  “Do it,” he said. “Give the signal.”