The Remaining: Fractured

by D. J. Molles

  But the feeling didn’t last long. Greg leaned in and grabbed her by the arm, once again avoiding her gaze. “C’mon. Jerry wants you in the office.”

  Angela looked at the side of his face as he pulled her along towards the stairs. “Where are my kids, Greg?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Let me see my kids.”

  “Not right now.”

  “When?”

  “When Jerry says so.”

  Angela twisted away from him and only succeeded in making him tighten his grip on her arm so that she almost cried out. She forced herself to look over her shoulder at him, forced a wicked smile onto her face. It was a bluff, but it was all she had left. “You’re gonna regret this, Greg. This will not end well for you, you know that right? You know that Jerry and your little group of thugs aren’t gonna keep them out? You’re not gonna be able to stop them from coming. And God help you when they do. You’re gonna pay for this shit, Greg. You and Jerry both.”

  Greg glanced around. The building was empty. All the guards were outside, watching the fence. Their limited manpower was spread thin as it was. With no one there to see him, he took Angela and slammed her against the wall, pinning her there with the weight of his body.

  He put his face close to hers. “Who’s coming, Angela?”

  Angela held his gaze. “It’s gonna be bad for you.”

  One of his hands snaked up, ambled roughly over her breasts and then came to rest, the heel of his palm against her throat, the fingers wrapped around her jaw. He leaned on her, just slightly, so that she had to tense her neck to keep it from constricting her airway. He turned her face roughly, forcing her to stare at the front doors of the Camp Ryder building.

  “You know…” She could feel his lips just barely touching her skin, his nose brushing up against her ear, inhaling her like an animal. “You’re on such thin ice, Angela. And yet you still act like you’re so in control.”

  She grit her teeth. Forced herself to think about something else.

  “Where’d you learn that from, Angela?” his whispers continued, making unpleasant gooseflesh riot across her skin. “Because I remember when you first came to Camp Ryder. You were just so…beaten down. But now? You’ve changed.”

  Think about something else. Think about Abby. On the back porch of the house. When the lawn was still clean cut and green. Early summer. Before you lost everything. Watching her play in the grass. Carefree. Good times. Those were good times. Think about that.

  He turned her face towards him, and they were so close that their noses touched.

  “Was it Captain Harden?” Greg smiled. “Did he teach you how to be all tough? That’s a real shame, considering he’s dead. Considering he abandoned Camp Ryder and everyone in it, and in all likelihood, he’s either running around in the woods like a savage with a pack of infected, shitting himself…or maybe he has become the meal that they are currently shitting out.”

  Greg compressed his lips, searched Angela’s face. Then looked towards the door as though he were getting a hold of himself. He pulled her up off the wall and pushed her onto the stairs. “Go on then. Walk.”

  And she did. Up the stairs, trying to catch her breath, still feeling his hands gripping her throat. Thinking of all the times she had talked to Greg, of all the times he’d seemed helpful. But she’d seen it in his eyes as clear as a neon sign. He might keep it under wraps, but he had a cruel streak. And he would use it. He would use it if he thought it might benefit him.

  He sat her against the wall of the office and he stood in the doorway so that they faced each other. And he just stared at her. She stared back, but it curdled her stomach, the way he looked at her. Maybe it was her own imagination running away with her fears, but he seemed blank. Emotionless. Like whatever happened to her, whatever he had to do to her, or to anyone else, just wouldn’t bother him.

  Sociopath, she thought to herself.

  It wasn’t long before she could hear the clomping of someone coming up the stairs and Jerry appeared in the doorway, slipping in past Greg and looking at her icily. His face seemed alive with micro-movements, tiny twitches like he was about to break apart into a million pieces. He took a big breath and walked over to her, then he put a hand on her shoulder and drove her down into the ground.

  She saw it coming and flinched.

  He punched her hard in the side of the face, causing her head to rebound off the hard tile floors and her vision to darkle around the edges. She caught a glimpse of him, just before he punched her again, his face a rictus mask of rage. He hit her twice more, both in the same spot as the first, and each hurt monumentally more than the one before. The whole left side of her face tingled and burned.

  She gasped for air like he’d been drowning her.

  She opened her eyes and tried to focus, but something didn’t feel right. The colors were off. The clarity was off. Like she was watching reality through an ancient TV set. She could feel her eyes twitching and crossing, unable to focus on the image of Jerry standing over her, with that sneer so familiar to his face.

  “That’s for not telling me about Marie,” he said. He took her arm, hauled her up into a kneeling position. Gripped her like he was trying to crush her bones. He shook her to get her to look at him and when her eyes were on him his voice was venomous. “You are going to tell me everything you had planned. You’re going to tell me who was with you, and who you were working with out there, and you’re going to do it because if you don’t I’m going to fucking destroy this pathetic existence that you call a life. I’m going to hurt you beyond physical pain, Angela. I’m gonna wreck your fucking world.”

  He held up his thumb and forefinger, separated by a hair’s breadth. “And I’m this close to getting the kids, Angela. I’m this close to fucking both of those little runts up, starting with that little cunt you call a daughter. Just give me one dishonest answer, Angela.” He grinned, wild and insane. “See what fucking happens.”

  ***

  Lee Harden moved through the woods with singular focus. He moved faster than he had the previous night. There was more purpose. More like a decisive action than sneaking in. He still remained cautious, but he did so out of habit. In his mind, his only conscious thought was Angela and the kids. He had to reach them, and everything else was just background noise. It became the one thing that his entire life, his entire existence, his self-worth hinged upon. If he could not save them, if he could not save the people that had become his family—not by blood, but by choice—then he was worthless.

  This was the proof that he required of himself. To use the skills that he had, to use every tool at his disposal to take back what was his. It was not about the mission anymore, as he’d plainly expressed to Tomlin. The stakes were far more than that now. This was for things that actually mattered.

  This was for people.

  So he moved like an animal stalking prey; his head lowered, his feet picking the ground underneath him. His body was beaten and tired, sore and sick. But he was in control of it. He would always be in control of it.

  Behind him he could hear the breath of the others, the rasp of their boots through the leaves. Devon, Nate, Jacob, Marie, and the others. He did not train them for this, he did not even look behind him to see if they moved with the ease of a natural hunter, or whether they clunked through the woods clumsily, like any old suburbanite. He didn’t look because he didn’t care. Beggars could not be choosers, and they were the only manpower he had.

  Jacob he trusted. If not solely because Captain Mitchell had apparently trusted him. He knew Devon and Nate were decent. To be honest, he’d never been outside the wire with Marie, but she at least had common sense that he could vouch for and that in and of itself was a quality worth overlooking a lot of other faults.

  He slowed his pace, and without speaking, the rest of the people behind him followed suit. Up ahead, just barely visible through the trees, Lee thought he could see the cement walls of the Camp Ryder building. He held up a hand, moti
oning for them to stay. This time he did look behind him and he watched them all sink slowly to the ground, no one uttering a word.

  Good looking group, he thought.

  He made the motion for them to stay so that it was clear, and then he moved forward. The fatigue of woodland movement didn’t touch him. He could have gone on for days if that was what it took. It was not only about the overwhelming feeling of obligation, not only to Angela and the kids, but towards all the people in Camp Ryder that had supported him.

  It was also anger.

  Anger seemed to fuel him, seemed to spur him on. Not a fiery anger, or a righteous anger. It was a cold, despicable anger and it settled in his chest like a virus and he could not get rid of it, nor saw a reason why he should. It was the type of anger that allowed one man to tear another limb from limb. It was the type of anger that enabled atrocities.

  And at the center of it all was Jerry.

  And all Lee could think of the man was, how dare he? How fucking dare he?

  Fifty yards ahead of the others, Lee stopped, looked through the woods. He had been correct—it was the Camp Ryder building. A couple hundred yards ahead of him the trees stopped and there was the building, the back of it where, according to Marie, Keith Jenkins had been murdered. Just another one of Jerry’s victims. Just another person that had to die to feed him.

  He took a moment to look it over and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so he crept back to the others. When he found them, they gathered up into a tight group and Lee knelt amongst them.

  “Camp Ryder is about two hundred yards straight ahead,” Lee said quietly. “This is our staging point right here. If everything goes to shit, this will also be our rally point, okay?”

  A round of nods.

  Marie looked nervous, clutching an old hunting shotgun in her hands. “What do we do now?”

  Lee looked over his shoulder to where the earth rose up into a small hill. “We wait for Tomlin to initiate us.”

  ***

  Tomlin settled down slow. Finding a good sniper’s hide took time. Like a dog choosing a spot to sleep. He shifted, picked stones and twigs away. Inspected his lanes of fire. Shifted some more. Broke a few branches that clouded his view. Didn’t feel quite right, so he shifted again. He set the rifle down, extended the tripod, hugged it into his shoulder. Took a few breaths.

  Everything felt right.

  He looked through the scope, felt that old familiar tingle. Long distance. All those tiny mil-dots lining up. A killer’s dream. To take a life without ever being seen. Without anyone knowing where you were. It didn’t matter who you were, or whether you’d never hurt anyone in your life, looking through that scope and knowing that it was real, that you were truly there to take another person’s life, it was exhilarating. Some vestige of predatory instinct, first experienced by a caveman hiding in a bush with a spear. Just waiting for the prey to happen by.

  He scoped the compound, took his time with it. He could see a few sets of patrols, what looked like two-man teams roving the fence line. He categorized them, prioritized them. When you were looking through a rifle scope, you had to prioritize everything. The guards? They were high on the list.

  He didn’t know these people like Lee did, and Tomlin thought that maybe that was why Lee had tasked Tomlin with this job. So that Tomlin wouldn’t look through that riflescope and see a face he recognized and make a biased decision on whether or not that man should die. To Tomlin, if you held a rifle, and you were unlucky enough to be patrolling the southern fence, then you were going to die.

  Oh well. Hate it for you.

  But it could not be avoided. Were they to live so that Lee and his team, trying to rescue their friends and loved ones, could simply be shredded when they attempted to make entry into the compound? Those poor bastards on sentry duty…they’d made a decision. And they’d made a bad one.

  Best not to think about it.

  He scoped the top of the Camp Ryder building, a big, flat, gray square with a few air-conditioning units on it and an abutment surrounding it that stood about two or three feet high. If anyone got onto the roof, Tomlin would let them have it and their only recourse would be to get the fuck off the roof, or they could get real flat up against that abutment. Even then, a few .308 rounds would probably go through the concrete and get them anyway.

  On the ground level at least they could run. The roof was just a death trap. As were most high places. Never run up, Tomlin noted in his head, a paramount rule of evasion. Always run down. Just like water.

  He shifted his view over into the woods around Camp Ryder, tried to see into the woods where the other four snipers might be sitting, ready to lay down suppressive fire, waiting for Tomlin’s first shot to start off the whole shebang. He couldn’t see them. Which didn’t mean that they weren’t there. But it wouldn’t hurt to give them a few extra minutes to get in position.

  Tomlin looked skyward. The sun was well above the trees. The other four snipers had inserted at the same time that Tomlin had, and they’d had a little less distance to cross than he had, but he felt he should play it on the safe side regardless. He laid down a bandana just to the right of his rifle and began to arrange his .308 cartridges in a perfect row, ready to be snatched up and fed into the rifle.

  What was a few extra minutes in the grand scheme of things?

  ***

  Angela did not give a dishonest answer.

  She did not answer at all.

  She grit her teeth and bore down into the center of herself, like she was trying to escape through her own body. Jerry howled and screamed at her. But his devices were unimaginative and clouded by his rage. He just kept hitting her. Screaming the questions and hitting her. Her face felt swollen and about to break. Like every nerve ending was exposed and every contact that he made with her face was like needles and knives all at once.

  She could feel her own blood rolling thickly around in her mouth. She could not hear Jerry’s questions, his impotent shouting was just noise to her. It battered her eardrums and signaled to her when she would receive her next blow. But he would tire and step back, breathing heavily, and Angela would take that opportunity to spit the blood out of her mouth.

  She could not spit it far, and her shirt and pants were stained with it.

  I won’t tell him anything. I’d rather burn in hell than help Jerry. Fuck him. Fuck Jerry and everyone out there that is helping him. I will not help him. I will not help him. I will not help him.

  She tried to think of the green lawn, the warm spring air, the feeling of sunlight on her skin. Abby, running, laughing, carefree, as any little girl should be. Carefree in a way that Angela would never be able to give her again. Innocent in a way that was gone forever. Stripped away from her like a dried and dead husk. She would do anything to have that Abby back. She would do anything to stop the degradation from progressing. Because that’s what it felt like.

  Like this world was a cancer eating her little girl alive.

  Oh, Honey, if I could do anything to make it better I would. She could only imagine how Abby must feel right at that moment, locked in some dark room, terrified, not sure what was going on. Not sure what she’d done wrong. You didn’t do anything wrong, honey. It was mommy’s fault. Mommy was just trying to do the right thing. But sometimes you get in trouble for doing the right thing, even though that’s not how it should be. Please, Honey, please be strong for Mommy.

  A hand on her face, but not hurting her. It simply turned her face upwards.

  She tried to open her eyes, but everything was blurry. One of her eyes was swollen shut. Or maybe Jerry had knocked the sight out of it. Maybe he’d broken the bone around her eye and she was going to be blind now forever.

  If he doesn’t kill me…

  Jerry stood over her, his face masked by the light pouring in through the little window in the office. She could just see the side of his face, just white lines and beads of sweat along the creases of his brow and the deep furrows in his face that made hi
m seem hellish and delighted by what he’d done to her.

  “Angela,” he said, breathing hard through his mouth. “You’re starting to really piss me off. You’re really going to force my hand on this one, aren’t you? You’re going to force me to hurt one of the kids.” He swiped her head out of his hand, made a sound of disgust. “Have it your way.”

  He stalked over to the door and flung it open. Out on the edge of the stairs was a younger guy who looked half-sick, and scared that anyone might notice it. Jerry looked him up and down like he was disgusted that Greg had sent him, then just shook his head and started down the stairs.

  “Watch her,” he growled. “Make sure she doesn’t move.”

  Angela lifted her head, thinking for the first time about how she might be able to get the hell out of there. She tried to focus on the man standing in the door, but couldn’t quite achieve enough clarity to recognize him. She cleared her throat, tried to speak and found it too dry. She waited a moment, waited for the blood to gather and she swallowed that, which seemed to help.

  “Can I have water?” she asked, her voice barely there.

  The man in the door looked around, unsure of himself. Angela could see enough of his face to know that he didn’t like what was happening to her. It struck something in him. This was not another Greg, not another Arnie. This was just a regular guy.

  He looked over the railing, down into the main area of the building. Then he stepped into the room, pulled an old, OD green standard issue canteen from a pouch on the back of his belt and unscrewed the lid. “I’ll give you a little bit, but you can’t say anything about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” Angela tried to nod, but her head just dipped and stayed down.

  He raised the canteen to her mouth, tipped it back.

  She raised her head, swallowing with some effort. She could see his face clearer now that he was closer. He pulled the canteen away from her lips and she breathed heavily, felt the coolness of the water around her mouth. “It’s Kyle, right?”