The Remaining: Fractured

by D. J. Molles

  Is he watching me? Sam thought. He wanted badly to turn and look. Maybe if the man faced the other way, not paying attention, then Sam could make a move for the rifle. But then if Sam was caught looking, he didn’t know what he would do from there.

  He probably doesn’t think I have a rifle, Sam thought. No one expects a fourteen year old to have a rifle.

  What am I going to do when I get the rifle?

  I’m going to shoot him.

  You’re going to shoot him?

  Sam pictured it. Painted the scene in vivid detail in his mind. Pulling out the rifle. Pointing it at the man. Pulling the trigger…he got as far as the big bang and then couldn’t picture it after that. He’d never fired the rifle at anyone. Just squirrels and rabbits. Mr. Keith said that’s all it was meant for—squirrels and rabbits. He said the bullet was too small. Just a .22 caliber.

  What if it doesn’t kill him? Sam was suddenly terrified by that prospect, and conveniently, his mind was quite capable of picturing his failure where moments before he’d drawn a blank. Now he pictured pulling the trigger, the little yellow blossom at the end of the barrel, the bullet hitting the man right in the chest…and doing nothing.

  The man lifting his own gun, apparently unimpressed by Sam’s squirrel and rabbit gun, and shooting him with bigger bullets. Bullets meant to kill larger animals than rodents. Bullets meant to kill people.

  And then it suddenly became much more real.

  Oh my God, I could die.

  Someone opened the flap to the shanty, sending a spike of adrenaline like an electrical current down Sam’s spine. A quiet voice, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

  “They still asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  He’s distracted. Now’s my chance. I have to do this now.

  I can’t do this. What if I get shot and die?

  How does Captain Harden do it? I wish I had asked him how he did it…

  “Wake ‘em up and bring them to the office.”

  Hesitation. “Why?”

  “How the fuck should I know why? Because Jerry said so.”

  Resignation. “Alright.”

  Footsteps in the gravel.

  Now! Now! Now!

  Sam lunged, screamed at the same time: “Abby run! Run! Run!” She sprang to life like a jolted cat, rolled and suddenly disappeared underneath the tarpaulin wall of the shanty. His hand closed around the grip of the rifle and it felt clumsy, unwieldy, like some strange alien weapon that he’d never touched before in his life. His entire body was so overpowered by the adrenaline surge, that he almost couldn’t feel anything. His hands, his fingers, they felt like he wore oven mitts.

  He rolled, pointing the rifle up. Still screaming, but now without words. Just terror.

  The man, right there, stepping back, shocked and—was he scared?

  Sam struggled to find the trigger, thinking, Where’s the trigger? Where’s the trigger? I’ve shot this thing a bazillion times! Why can’t I find the trigger? And not once did he think about the man staring down at him. Who he was or how many times they’d passed each other while they went about their business, or whether he had kids that played soccer with him and Abby. He didn’t think about the deed, or the killing, or the consequences, or the fact that he was outgunned with his little .22 caliber rifle, or the fact that he had never killed anyone before. He didn’t think about it mostly because he didn’t have time.

  He found the trigger.

  Pulled.

  Bang.

  Pulled.

  Bang.

  The man jumped backwards, trying to get away from him. And like a dog when the rabbit runs, Sam couldn’t stop. He jumped to his feet, and he just kept firing, still unthinking, unfeeling, almost elated now. Firing, firing, firing, and the man trying to get away, struggling, stumbling, clawing at the earth to get away, and then he started screaming too, and that was what got Sam.

  The screaming. A man, screaming. High-pitched, like in the funny movies when the bad guy gets hit in the crotch. But this wasn’t a movie. The bad guys never died in the funny movies. They never got shot. This was real life, and he was really shooting this guy. He was shooting him, and he was killing him.

  I’m killing him.

  I’m killing him.

  He didn’t feel bad about it.

  He felt ferocious.

  The man was still alive, still screaming. Laying on his side, struggling to get away. Terrified of Sam, just absolutely, strangely, intoxicatingly terrified of him. Sam had never had anyone afraid of him before. It felt good to be feared. It felt good to shoot this man, to see him so desperate. It felt good to make him pay, because he was friends with Greg and Jerry, and so he was guilty of everything Greg and Jerry had done.

  Sam stared down at the man and all he could think to say was, “You’re gonna die now!”

  The man whimpered.

  Sam’s tunnel vision opened just enough for him to remember that there was another man. He’d taken a dive when Sam started shooting, but he’d be back in a second, and this time he’d be shooting. It wouldn’t be as easy as the first one, not to mention Sam didn’t have any bullets left.

  He almost didn’t want to turn away from the dying man, wanted to watch it happen for some reason. But he forced himself to look away, then dove for the ground and under the plastic wall of the shanty. It was cold inside, but it was colder outside, and it slapped his face and soaked his skin like diving into a cold pool. He rolled, got up onto his feet and started running.

  He yelled, breathlessly, “Abby! Abby!”

  He turned a corner—the next row of shanties—and he could see Abby’s small form, running down the row, towards the center of Camp Ryder. He didn’t know where she was going, but he didn’t really know where he was going either. He was running, that was all. The entire world was his enemy now, and he needed to get away.

  So he ran after her, as the camp seemed to rouse itself all around them, the shouts and gunfire causing heads to poke out of shanties and flashlights to spear the darkness, and concerned voices to ask, “What the hell was that?” and “Is everyone alright?”

  He ran by them all, too scared now to stop. The elation rolled off of him, evaporating in the cold air. Everything that was left was sickness and dread. Every person in Camp Ryder was now aligned with Jerry and Greg and Arnie, in Sam’s mind. And if he let any of them catch him, he was absolutely positive that they would kill him.

  What happened? What did I do?

  He ran. Abby ran, and he went after her. She looked behind her, eyes wide, blonde hair flying about like it was caught in a hurricane wind. She slowed just slightly, waiting for him to catch up, her mouth was wide open, gasping for air, trying to form words.

  “Sam! What’s going on?”

  Sam caught her, grabbed her by the oversized hoodie she always wore to bed that draped over her like a nightgown. “Ssh!” he hissed, then pulled her between two shanties.

  Shouting now, coming from the direction of their shanty. Angry shouting. Panicked shouting. People running. Cursing. Sam sorted through it all, tried to think about what Captain Harden would do. What was the situation, and how could he make it better? How could he fix it? He’d heard enough from eavesdropping when Angela and Marie talked. He knew that Old Man Hughes was out there, though he didn’t know where. And he knew that Captain Harden was with him.

  Angela had been planning something. And now Jerry had her.

  He had to get to Captain Harden and Old Man Hughes. He had to tell them what had happened. After all, they were just in the woods, right? Just outside the gate. That’s what he’d heard Marie and Angela saying. All he had to do was get out of the gate, get into the woods. He wasn’t sure what came after that, maybe he would just run and yell for Captain Harden and Captain Harden would find him.

  He leaned out from behind their hiding place and looked at the front gate.

  The guard ran, Sam guessed towards their shanty. Leaving the gate unguarded.

  H
e put an arm around Abby. “We’re gonna run, okay? We’re gonna run for the gate and I’m going to open it and then we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”

  Abby’s eyes were wild. “Okay…okay…”

  Sam watched the guard disappear into the rows of ramshackle huts. “Go!”

  They ran for the gate, Sam holding Abby’s hand in a death grip, tugging her along, looking back over his shoulder as he ran, the rifle in his grip growing heavy and causing his arms to ache. He could see the shapes of men running through the rows, congregating around their shanty, fanning out from there, looking for them. They all held guns. Rifles ready to shoot him and Abby.

  Gotta get to Captain Harden. Just gotta get to him…

  They crossed into the open air of The Square, exposed. Shouts behind him, but he wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or not. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe they were shouting about something else…

  He looked behind him, saw a figure running towards him, rifle raised.

  Don’t shoot me! Please don’t shoot me!

  He hit the gate, the heavy reinforcements rattling languidly, despite his panic. He yanked at the gate, tried to pull it open, but it was secured by a length of thick chain, a heavy padlock linking one end to the other. He pulled at the lock, as though his skinny arms might break the steel. He began to weep in desperation, yelling at the lock.

  Gunshots behind him. He flinched, hunkering down. The bullets struck the gate just above his head and he cried out, falling to his knees. Two more gunshots struck the gate and Abby started screaming loudly, high-pitched, wordless.

  Sam didn’t know what else to do. He was caught. He was trapped. He had no bullets left in his rifle. He threw it away from him and held up his hands, sinking down to his knees. “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!”

  Footsteps behind them, pounding up close.

  Abby was suddenly whisked away from him, screaming and reaching out to him.

  He tried to get up and reach for her, but something hard hit him in the face.

  He watched the world upend, but couldn’t feel himself lose his balance. Then he lay on his back, his brain tingling, his ears ringing, and Greg stood over him, shaking his head and murmuring, “Goddamned kids…”

  ***

  The door to the office burst in and Greg came through, face rigid. Behind him, Arnie stood at the top of the stairs and pointed down at some unseen person or persons. He yelled in that odd, almost squeaky voice of his: “You keep those little bastards locked the fuck up! And if there’s anyone in the building that ain’t a part of our crew, you kick ‘em the fuck out!”

  Jerry rose from where he’d been kneeling in front of Angela, explaining in detail his intentions if Angela were to be uncooperative, and the mere distance of him getting out of her face and paying attention to something else allowed her to breathe air that didn’t stink of his breath and body odor and clear her head for a moment, try to make sense of things, try to see the path that might lead out of this situation.

  When she heard what Arnie said, she came up off the ground with a jolt. “Are those my kids?”

  Arnie pointed at her, eyes narrowed to little slits. “You shut the fuck up, bitch!”

  Angela thrashed. “You stay the fuck away from my kids, you motherfucker!”

  Greg put a boot in her chest, hard enough to press the wind out of her lungs and leveled his rifle into her face. “You need to be still before I end this shit real quick.”

  Standing there now, Jerry spread his palms, eyebrows up. “What the fuck’s going on out there, Greg? I sure as hell would like to know why you woke the whole goddamned camp by crackin’ off a buncha rounds!”

  Greg looked to Jenny. “Paul’s hurt. He’s been shot six times. He’s downstairs.”

  Jerry directed his attention towards Jenny. “You trust her, Greg? Even after she held back a bit? I don’t know. Maybe we should just take care of this little problem right now…”

  “Jerry,” Greg’s voice was like slate—cold and flat. “Paul’s hurt. We need her.”

  Jerry touched a finger to his lips, kept eyeing Jenny up and down while she avoided eye contact with him, kept glancing up at Greg then down like it shamed her to see him there. Shamed her to be in the same room with him. Maybe it simply shamed her that she’d allowed herself to be taken advantage of.

  Jerry hummed and hawed. “I dunno…”

  And all the while Angela lay on the ground, her mind in a panic, trying to figure out what she was going to do, how she was going to extricate herself from this situation, and most importantly, how she was going to get Abby and Sam out of this situation. There was nothing to call it but panic. Panic of having no options and no time and a problem that needs to be solved regardless.

  There’s gotta be a way. There’s gotta be a way.

  You can’t let him hurt your girl. Your sweet little girl…

  She strained against the duct tape wrapped around her wrists. Thought maybe the pure nuclear energy of her exploding mind might simply power her out of them. She kept staring at that shotgun, still laying up on the desk. Ten feet away from her. Ten measly little feet.

  Some shouting at the bottom of the stairs drew Arnie away from the door and he thundered down, cursing the whole way. Whatever it was that he responded to, it didn’t garner Greg or Jerry’s attention, and they remained locked with Jenny, who still wouldn’t look at them.

  “So what do you say?” Jerry asked. “You gonna help us, Jenny? Whose side are you on?”

  Angela watched, very still. Part of her wanted to see Jenny tell them to go fuck themselves, that she was on Angela’s side, on Lee’s side, on the side of what was right. But another part of her still, despite everything, ached for Jenny and the stupid position she’d put herself in. And that part of her just wanted Jenny to say that she was with Jerry and Greg and Arnie, because then they might let her go. Then they might not hurt her any more.

  Jenny deflected, slightly, sweeping hair behind her ears with a timid hand. “I’ll help Paul. Of course I will.”

  Jerry stepped forward. “That’s not what I asked, Jenny.”

  Greg stepped forward, too, but it seemed more so that he could intercede on her behalf. “Jenny…”

  She seemed to snap out of some sort of haze. “Of course I’m with you guys,” she said, not much inflection in her voice. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  Angela just watched her, conflicted. Didn’t know what to feel. Had other things to think about. Still trying to wrestle the problem down. Still trying to figure out where she was going to go from here, from this dirty spot on these ugly laminate tile floors that would have turned her nose way back when, in the days when she gave a shit about anything but the survival of the people she loved.

  Jerry stared the other woman down for another moment, but then seemed to relent. “Okay, then. Greg, take her with you.”

  Arnie erupted through the door, out of breath. “Jerry, we’ve got a problem.”

  CHAPTER 35: MANIPULATION

  Jerry peered out of the front doors of the Camp Ryder building, cracked just slightly. He recoiled at the sight: what appeared to be the entire populace of Camp Ryder, hovering around the front steps, their faces scowling with confusion and outrage.

  He looked at Arnie. “What the fuck is this?”

  Arnie squirmed. “It got messy. They heard the gunshots.”

  “It got messy?” Jerry simmered. “That’s what you tell me?”

  Arnie hung his head. “They saw us take Angela’s kids, and they want to know what’s going on. There was no way around it.” His voice became plaintive. “We tried to do it quietly, but the damn kid started shooting. What were we supposed to do?”

  Jerry wanted to choke him, but he really didn’t have a good answer. Arnie had a point. The kid had started the gunfight which had drawn the attention of the others. Shot up one of Jerry’s guys and then tried to scurry out the back. There really wasn’t any way to get around drawing attention. So people had
seen them take Sam and Abby.

  Now what?

  Jerry put his face in his hands, breathed the musty, dirty smell of them. Comforting in its familiarity. Like the smell of your own pillow or blanket. Comforting because it’s coated in your dead skin cells, bound together with the rancid oils that you secreted out of your skin. Like a rat in a nest.

  People were such disgusting creatures.

  His fingers curled into claws, pressed in at his eyes like he was trying to rip them from his sockets. Arnie watched with some concern, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Eventually Jerry took a deep breath and released his face from the grip he had on it. He blew the air out of his lungs and looked around, eyes blank and empty like a man who has just woken up and is still processing his surroundings.

  He looked at Arnie, and his gaze focused. He raised a finger, pointed it inches from Arnie’s face. “Okay. I’m going to handle this, Arnie. Just…” Jerry shook his head, looking disgusted. “…don’t talk.”

  He opened the doors and the crowd erupted.

  “What the hell’s going on here, Jerry?”

  “Where are those kids?”

  “Where’s Angela?”

  “What aren’t you telling us?”

  As Jerry emerged through the door, his face underwent a transformation. The harried, frazzled face of a man who was close to losing his shit was suddenly wiped away and replaced with a steadiness, a confidence, and a resolve that caused his expression to harden into the face of any great leader calling upon their people in tough times.

  The crowd responded to his presence with respect. They quieted to let him speak, though they still watched him cautiously, still dubious as to why there had been a firefight in the middle of Shantytown. And particularly why it had involved two children.

  Jerry stepped forward with his arms crossed over his chest, his head slightly pulled back in fatherly consternation. He looked out across the gathered people for a moment, letting the silence hang, appearing to make eye contact with everyone, though in fact not really looking at anyone in particular.