by D. J. Molles
Other than Milo’s remains, the banks of the river were empty.
Slowly but surely, he made his way to the riverbank. Steam was rolling up off the water as the sun began to crest the trees and buildings and beat down on the river’s surface. His skin felt flimsy and waterlogged, though his mouth was parched. He’d been thirsty all night but knew better than to drink the river water, especially with all the dead bodies decomposing in the streets. His left wrist was swollen badly, though he thought that the buoyancy of the water may have helped alleviate some of the pressure and pain in his ribs. What the dirty river water had not done for him was help the bullet wound to his shoulder. The skin around it was tight and hot and Lee could feel fever settling in as an infection took hold. As he crawled out of the numbing water, all of these injuries began to grumble more loudly.
He wanted to rest, but this was not the place.
Not with so many infected nearby.
He made his way with much pain and effort back up the embankment, cresting it with caution this time and peering down the four-lane road but seeing nothing. He lay there for a moment, his torso on the flat ground and his legs hanging off the embankment. He was tempted to close his eyes, but he knew that if he did, he might fall asleep right there. He knew he had only been awake for close to thirty hours, but the physical pain sapped strength and stamina. The body needed rest to heal itself, and it made its demands known by causing the mind to be fuzzy and drowsy.
Don’t be weak…
He blinked rapidly, thinking he may have just fallen asleep for a moment.
Were the shadows different? He didn’t think so.
He slithered out of the embankment and used the concrete abutment of the bridge to haul himself to his feet. He felt the weight of his M4 tapping him on the back of the leg. It was still slung faithfully around his shoulders. After being in the silty river all night, he was sure it would be clogged up with grime. It would probably still work, though.
He hitched across the road to where the pickup truck sat. It wasn’t until he was almost touching it that he realized he had left it running. Swearing under his breath but too tired to put much effort into it, he gently closed the front passenger door that Miller had left open, then crossed in front of the car, taking a moment to inspect the inside and make sure that no maniacs had taken up residence in the backseat during the night.
It was empty.
He found half a bottle of water in the backseat of the vehicle and guzzled it. It was warm, but it was clean and at least moistened his dry tongue. He discovered several of the rifles were missing, possibly handed out to Father Jim’s people in case there was a firefight during the rescue. Or possibly looted by Milo’s goons. He decided to swap his personalized M4 for one of the fresh and clean standard-issue M4s in the back. His M4 would probably still function with the dirty river water in it, but why take the chance? He appropriated one of the shoulder-sling magazine pouches, since his vest was now lost somewhere in the hospital. He loaded four magazines, placing three in the shoulder sling and one in the brand-new M4. He put his dirty, silt-clogged rifle on the floorboard of the truck.
He sat down in the driver’s seat and closed his door, again making sure not to slam it. Looking at the fuel gauge, he saw that the needle was hovering just above the “E” line but the gas light had not yet come on. It took him a moment to figure out how it could be that the truck was not completely empty by now, but finally remembered that Milo’s crew had stolen it and incorporated it into their little fleet of trucks. There was a good chance Milo liked his fuel tanks topped off, and they’d had plenty of gas that they had confiscated from groups of survivors.
At least until Harper and Miller blew it up.
He stowed his M4 in the passenger seat next to him and then put the vehicle in gear, spinning a wide U-turn so that he was heading directly into the rising sun. He drove with an empty mind, his thoughts so knotted that he could not possibly untangle them in the exhausted state he was in. So he simply ignored them and watched the white lines on the road pass him by.
At Brightleaf Boulevard he stopped and looked in both directions. He saw no sign of the massive horde that had populated the area only so recently. He recalled those sinewy grabbing hands with their fingers like claws and the way their ripped and tattered clothes hung off of their emaciated bodies. The horde of infected that populated Smithfield was starving, he was sure of it. The question that remained was whether that would cause them to die off. Or would they simply adapt, breaking into packs to more efficiently hunt for food?
When he reached Brightleaf Boulevard, he paused for a moment to survey the area, then passed straight through. He recalled the barricades farther south on Brightleaf Boulevard. However, two blocks down the road, he could see a small bridge where a set of railroad tracks passed over, running parallel to the boulevard. He was fairly confident that whoever was responsible for the Smithfield quarantine had not barricaded the tracks. Lee wasn’t sure if this was the fastest way around the barricades, but decided he didn’t want to waste fuel looking for another way out. A short and bumpy ride later, he passed the barricades on Brightleaf Boulevard and found his way back to the road.
He brought the truck up to forty-five miles per hour and headed south for Camp Ryder.
The roads seemed empty, as though they lacked the teeming danger of the previous two days. Lee knew it was his own exhaustion causing complacency and he forced himself to approach the abandoned cars and possible roadblocks with vigilance. But he never saw a soul. It was as though all the small-time crooks had heard that Milo was going to be in the area and had packed up their little operations until they were sure he was gone. Lee could only imagine what Milo would have done to them if they’d tried to attack his convoy.
The only living creatures he passed were three infected that stood by the side of the highway, just outside of the woods that bordered the road. When Lee saw them, he sped up, but they merely watched him pass without making a move to chase him. For a brief second, as the truck was parallel to them and Lee was looking out the passenger-side window at them, he thought that perhaps they were not infected at all. But he could see the wild eyes, the ripped and tattered clothing, the dried blood that ran down their chins and necks, and the way their clawlike hands worked convulsively as though strangling the air at their sides.
Looking at them staring back at him with indifference, Lee felt almost as though it was a safari and he was passing a pack of hyenas that knew he was only prey when he stepped out of the big metal canister he was in. Or perhaps they had already eaten their fill.
Lee sped away from them, a cold feeling in his gut.
* * *
It was still morning when he pulled down the dirt road to Camp Ryder.
In his mind, he braced himself. The last week had not been kind to Lee. He had learned that this world he was in was much different than the one he had operated in previously. Even a combat zone was nothing compared to the randomness of this turmoil. At least when he had been deployed, he knew that he had a base to go back to that would be standing there when he returned from his patrols. Here, he didn’t know what to expect and so he feared the worst. He pictured the gates of Camp Ryder ripped from their hinges, all the shanties burned to smoking rubble, and the bodies of all the survivors stacked up like cordwood in the big fire pit in the center of camp.
But when he turned through the last curve of the dirt road, the gates still stood intact, with a guard who stared at the approaching truck like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Lee could see his mouth moving suddenly, and all the people behind him, who were busying themselves with their everyday tasks of survival, simply stopped what they were doing and all heads turned to see the approaching truck.
Then other people were running.
Bus was the first to the gate, flinging it open. Harper was close behind him, with LaRouche in tow. Lee felt at first elated to see friendly faces, and then sickening disappointment as he knew what he would have to tell them.
Miller died. I couldn’t save him. I tried my best, but my best wasn’t enough.
I couldn’t save Miller.
Lee drove through the gate with a heavy heart. When he put the truck in park, he opened the door and stepped out slowly and gingerly. Bus was there with tired, distraught eyes, and Angela appeared next to him. She hesitated for a brief moment, but then, as though she couldn’t contain herself, she threw her arms around him and squeezed him so tightly that he nearly cried out. He felt her body, warm against his still-damp clothes, and her hair brushed against his neck.
It was a strange and altering feeling for him that he couldn’t quite explain. He wouldn’t call it love or attraction or anything even close. But it was a unique sense of comfort, of human closeness. It was something his life had lacked, even before the fall. Like any human being, he craved that connection and he found himself putting his own arm around her and holding on to her. But the embrace lasted for only a brief second before Angela pulled away, her face flushed with embarrassment. She didn’t meet his eyes, but she smiled tightly as she stepped back away from him.
“We were very worried about you,” she said simply.
When she was out of the way, Bus swooped in to support him by slipping Lee’s uninjured right arm over his broad shoulders. He had clearly seen the pain on Lee’s face when Angela had embraced him, and that Lee was favoring his left leg.
“You gotta stop getting injured,” Bus said as lightly as he could.
Lee winced as they moved. “I just love the attention.”
Then Harper was there too. Lee could see him looking back at the truck with a grave sort of certainty in his eyes. They glanced at each other and neither spoke a word because none needed to be spoken. Harper was no blood relation to Miller, but it was clear even to Lee that the two had formed a bond. They had watched out for each other. Like a father and son. Harper didn’t ask about Miller in that moment, though he would later ask Lee how he had died, and Lee would tell him the truth: He died fighting with everything he had, and Harper would have been proud. But in that silent moment between them, Harper simply put an arm around Lee’s waist to help support him as they walked, and Lee could see the redness in his eyes and the brine that welled up but never spilled over.
They sat him on the same cot that he had occupied before, when Doc had patched him up.
Doc…
Lee started to tell them about Doc. At first they told him to rest and that he could explain things later, but eventually they were quiet and they just listened while Jenny wordlessly began to clean the gunshot wound to Lee’s shoulder. She wept silently as she worked, her hot tears landing on Lee’s arm. He told them about Doc’s betrayal, but also about how he’d been given no choice, that he had done it for his fiancée, whom Milo had captured and held for ransom.
He told them that Milo was dead, and most of his men with him, though no one knew what had become of Deputy Shumate. LaRouche had already told them about the gasoline explosion and the shoot-out inside the hospital, but they all appeared relieved to learn that the ringleader was no longer going to be a problem. Without Milo’s fanatical leadership, the rest of his crew were just individual sociopaths, people to be avoided but without a common bond to unite them.
When Lee had nothing else to report, Harper told him about how he and Miller had returned to steal back their truck full of supplies. He told them about how LaRouche had rigged the claymore mine to the grille of the Chevrolet Lumina and used it to take out the guards. Harper seemed very proud of this, though he choked up when he spoke of Miller. He went on to explain how they had headed out of Smithfield, using the same railroad tracks that Lee had used to get around the barricades, and how just as they were turning onto Highway 210 to return to Camp Ryder, they saw the church bus pass them by, full of Father Jim’s people.
Father Jim, who had come in to check on Lee, laughed good-naturedly as he told Lee how Harper had driven up behind them so aggressively, honking his horn and flashing his lights, that they almost opened fire on him, thinking he was a desperate raider. Luckily, one of the children in the group recognized who was inside the truck before that happened, and they pulled to the side of the road, where Harper told them about what had happened in Smithfield.
Father Jim smiled and placed a gentle hand on Lee’s shoulder. “After what you did for us, there was no possible way I could turn my back on you. And all of my people felt the same way.” His voice grew more serious. “We were lucky we were able to help without having to kill anyone, but I want you to know that we were fully prepared to defend you, whatever that entailed.”
Lee nodded, wondering once again what the background of this priest was.
Julia also came in, with Marie close behind. Marie spouted profuse thanks, but Julia, who appeared to have some medical training, set to work helping Jenny put Lee back together again. They cleaned and patched up the shoulder wound as best they could. It was too old to immediately stitch closed, especially since they agreed that infection had set in. They quickly gave him a round of Cephalexin, an antibiotic that they appropriated from the medical supplies Doc had packed for them. They gave him plenty of water while they poked and prodded him, explaining that they did not want to use one of their indispensable IV packs, since his dehydration was not severe.
After much discomfort and answering questions like, “Does it hurt when I do this?” and, “Can you move your fingers like this?” they explained to him that, from what they could tell, he had torn the ligaments in his wrist and elbow and had been lucky that his shoulder had not been pulled out of its socket. They further concluded that his tailbone was indeed broken, his right collarbone fractured or badly bruised, that three of his ribs on the right side were either broken or badly bruised (without an x-ray machine it was difficult to tell for sure), and that he had a pretty severe high ankle sprain on his left leg. For good measure, several of the stitches that Doc had put in his back had ripped out and needed to be replaced, and he had managed to get them infected.
As they worked, his friends silently trickled out of the room. Eventually it was just Julia and Jenny fussing over him, and then it was just Jenny, testing his temperature and asking him if he needed anything. When he said that he was fine, she only smiled, clearly knowing that he was far from fine but too proud to admit it.
CHAPTER 26
The Road Ahead
Harper appeared after a short time. His eyes were dry now, but the redness at the rims and the rawness around his nose gave him away. He carried a long, straight branch of some hardwood. He had affixed a crossbeam at the top so it made a tall T shape. The crossbeam was wrapped in cloth to pad it.
“Made a crutch for you.” Harper handed it to Lee.
Lee felt humbled by the gesture. “Thank you, Harper.”
Harper stuffed his hands in the pockets of his pants. “It’ll hurt like hell with your cracked ribs, but knowing you, you won’t be wanting to sit in bed for long.”
Lee smiled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
He took the crutch with his right hand, because they’d wrapped his left up with enough ACE bandages to keep it from moving too much, and pulled himself to his feet. It seemed that the less he used his left foot, the more tender the ankle became, but he also knew he needed to rest it. He got the padded crossbeam under his left arm and held it in there tightly. Lee tested it out, keeping pressure off of his left foot as much as possible, and walked around the medical trailer with it. Jenny kept a watchful eye on him but didn’t object. Harper had been right on both counts: It hurt like the dickens on his ribs, and Lee definitely wasn’t in the mood to sit in bed until he healed up. Survival was a twenty-four-hour job, no days off and no vacations.
“It’s good.” Lee nodded.
“One other thing I thought you should see.” Harper pointed out toward the Ryder factory, just to their left. Lee moved forward with his crutch to the edge of the medical trailer so he could see what Harper was pointing at. The two-story building st
ood in dark relief against the sky. Hanging from the tall awning over the entrance to the factory was Old Glory, flapping gently in the breeze. Beneath her colors, a few people walked in and out of the building, occasionally looking up with wistful smiles.
“It’s the one you took from the car lot,” Harper said. “Just a little reminder for everyone.”
They looked at the banner for a long time before Lee finally broke the silence. He would never admit it, but he needed that moment to swallow the lump in his throat and steady his voice. “Thanks again.”
Before Harper could respond, Bus appeared with a familiar face beside him.
Lee’s expression changed a bit, as though he’d just tasted bad food.
Jerry, wasn’t it? Yes. Jerry the Politician.
The very same Jerry who had insisted that Lee prove to them he wasn’t with Milo, who had turned a large part of the crowd against him, who had convinced them to send Lee out with half as many men accompanying him as he’d originally planned. Lee felt his chest swell with bitterness. If Jerry had kept his goddamn mouth shut, would things have been different? Would Miller and Josh be alive now?
The look on Bus’s face was that he clearly knew this was not the time for Jerry to come speak with Lee, but Jerry had likely insisted. Lee also got the impression from Bus’s uncomfortable body language that he knew what Jerry wanted to talk to them about and knew Lee and Harper were not going to like it.
Jerry opened his mouth, but Lee cut him off. “What the fuck do you want?”
He couldn’t contain his hostility. Frankly, Jerry should be glad Lee didn’t beat him to death with his crutch.
Jerry held up his hands, but he still had that stupid smile on his face. That placating politician’s smile. The smile of a man who thinks no one can see through him. “Captain, I stand corrected. Clearly, from all accounts, it sounds like Doc was the person responsible for the breach in the fence. I was wrong to accuse you of being with Milo.”
