The Remaining: Fractured

by D. J. Molles

  There was a certain silence that had fallen over those gathered. It was the silence of reeling after a shockwave. Their eyes remained fixed upon Lee, and Lee had lowered his eyes to the floor because he could think of no more appropriate place for them.

  Lee took a deep breath, and continued. “Tomlin and I have discussed it, and we agree that it’s very unlikely that we’ll be able to find Eddie Ramirez and recover my GPS.”

  “So,” Kristy Malone rubbed her head. “There’s no, like, override code or anything? There’s no other way you can get into the bunker without the GPS? No back door coding? Nothing?”

  Lee shook his head. “It was built to be that way. The whole mission, the whole structure of it is based around the coordinators maintaining control of the bunkers. The GPS unit needs the coordinator, and the coordinator needs the GPS unit. If one of those is missing, then you’re just not getting in a bunker. Period. No way around it.”

  Kristy turned her attention to Tomlin. “Well, you’re a coordinator, aren’t you? Don’t you have a GPS unit?”

  Tomlin shook his head. “My GPS is only good for the bunkers in South Carolina. Besides that fact, at the very outset of this thing, Major Darabie, our commanding officer, took control of all of the GPS units and they are now essentially useless. All except Captain Harden’s. Until it was stolen, anyways.”

  “And Major Darabie sent Eddie Ramirez?” Nate clarified, joining up with his wife.

  Lee nodded. “Guys, if there was a way that I could fix it, I would be doing it. You know that I wouldn’t give up, especially on something this big. You know that I’d probably get myself killed over it if there was even a small chance that I could catch Eddie Ramirez and get that thing back. This is just…” he held up his hands, let them fall into his lap. “…It’s just the way it’s going to be. We’re going to have to work around it. We’re going to have to find other ways to adapt. It’s going to be a whole different ball game, food and supplies-wise. We’re going to have to figure out a sustainable agriculture system by this coming spring, and we’re going to have to do overtime on scavenging to get us through the winter.”

  “What about weapons? Ammo?” Nate asked. “Everyone’s running short.”

  Lee glanced at Tomlin. “That’s where this Colonel Staley will come in.”

  “The Marine guy?”

  Lee nodded again. “Obviously, he’s expressed his desire to meet face-to-face with us. Which I take to mean he wants to make sure we’re not a bunch of psychos before he sends men and supplies to help us. But he’s going to be a possible source of all kinds of weapons, ammunition, ordnance, maybe even vehicles and fuel.”

  Old Man Hughes cleared his throat. “But we don’t know this guy.”

  “No,” Lee shook his head. “We don’t.”

  “So he could be some wannabe despot, scoping out our shit and figuring our weak spots?”

  Lee smiled grimly. “All due respect, Mr. Hughes, that ship sailed before I even got on the radio with him. They’ve got air superiority and probably a lot more trained fighters and warfighting equipment than we do. If they wanted what we have, I’m pretty sure there wouldn’t be shit we could do to stop them.”

  “So, basically, we don’t have a fucking choice?”

  Lee shrugged. “Not if we want to have a fighting chance.”

  Old Man Hughes considered it for a long moment, scratching the gray stubble of his beard. “Join or die, huh?” he said.

  Lee smiled without humor. The image came to mind of the old yellow flag that bore the illustration of a rattlesnake, divided into thirteen sections. Written on the body of the snake were the words JOIN OR DIE. A revolutionary call to arms and the meaning was clear: They could put aside their differences, come together and fight…or they could remain divided and allow themselves to be destroyed.

  Lee nodded. “Yeah. Join or die.”

  ***

  Camp Ryder was in quiet chaos. After the meeting, Lee watched from the single window in the office as the grounds below him swirled with activity, and from the disorder he could not tell whether it was falling apart or coming together. Rather like the pieces hung suspended in the air.

  Old Man Hughes’ group conducted a “house-to-house” sweep to make sure there was no one left in the shanties, hiding and ready to start shooting when they least expected it. There were no shots, and no yelling, but instead a sort of tension, as families were found and it was apparently arbitrarily decided whether they were friend or foe, whether they were to be detained or not.

  Those who were suspected of working with Jerry stood to the left of the Camp Ryder building, not bound, but simply watched closely by the group of survivors that had come with Jacob from Smithfield. The two groups eyed each other uncomfortably, the Smithfield group seeming out of place, while Jerry’s people seemed resentful, as though they were being occupied by a hostile force.

  Lee stared at them, wondering what he was going to do with these people. Where was the line between mercy and common sense? Would he even be able to see it when it was right in front of him?

  A cold nose, touched his hand.

  Lee looked down, found the tan dog standing at his side. Deuce had been on the first Humvee that had entered Camp Ryder after the place had been declared secured. Surprisingly enough, he’d allowed Old Man Hughes—and only Old Man Hughes—to put a leash on him and lead him, limping on his broken and splinted leg, into the Camp Ryder building.

  Lee smiled, faintly, and scratched the dog’s neck. “Good boy.”

  Hughes still stood in the room, and though he could not see out the window, he knew well enough the scene that Lee had been looking at. “We’ll figure all of this out. We’ll find a way.”

  Lee nodded, tried to show some resolution, but felt it slip away from him. He looked back up and out through the window, his hand still idly touching Deuce. “Hughes, could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Watcha need?”

  Lee drummed his fingers on the windowsill. “When you get the chance, try to find Jacob’s things. There should be a backpack with a notebook inside of it. I’d like you to bring that to me, if you find it. There’s something important in it.”

  Hughes looked at the floor, solemn at the mention of Jacob. “Yeah. I’ll check.”

  Lee nodded. “Thanks.”

  Hughes left the room, his footsteps down the stairs slow, almost plodding.

  Lee turned back to his view. Camp Ryder. All the polarizing aspects of humanity stuffed into a fishbowl for him to observe and consider. From one man’s view, it was the bad guys that stood to the left, and the good guys that stood to the right. From another’s perspective, it was the betrayed that stood to the left, sulking, while the betrayers celebrated to the right. The invaders and the invaded. The oppressed and the oppressors. Right or left, it didn’t matter. Ask ten different people, five would point in one direction, and five in the other.

  As he watched this silent tragedy, he recognized a face standing in the middle of the two groups. It was Jenny, and even from this distance Lee could see the distress on her features. He could see her red, swollen eyes. She stood there at the edge of Shantytown, staring at the Camp Ryder building. She wrung her hands and looked from right to left, as though trying to decide which group she belonged in.

  Angela appeared, walking out of the Camp Ryder building. Lee could not see her face, but he knew her from the slope of her shoulders, and from the unruly head of blonde hair that never stayed where she put it. She did not look to either side, but instead went straight to Jenny. Angela stopped a few feet from the other woman, and they appeared to exchange words. Jenny’s hands covered her face and her shoulders shook violently. Then Angela put her arm around Jenny, like a friend or a sister, and she guided her to the right.

  CHAPTER 45: THE LINE

  Major Abe Darabie sat quietly on a chair beside the window. His face had weathered in the months since the outbreak of FURY. It was severely lean, less from starvation and more from stress. The dark
circles under his eyes, already prominent in his olive complexion, made his eyes seem cavernous now. The only thing that kept him from appearing like a stick figure was his beard. Thick and jet black, it added size to his features, much like a lion’s mane.

  He chewed the cuticle of his right thumb. The skin was haggard from constant picking and biting. A nervous habit he’d developed, his thumb had become a barometer for others to judge his mood. Today his thumb was raw to the point of bleeding. His M4 lay across his lap, his free hand draped over it, fingers tapping the upper receiver. One boot kicked up onto the windowsill. Wiggling away. Eventually wiggling free of the sill, and it would drop down. He would kick it back up again, and begin wiggling once more.

  Outside, the Tennessee mountains seemed bearded by the white clouds all around them. The pass that this little highway ran through, crossing the border from North Carolina into Tennessee, was shrouded in fog, which was common this time of year. It gave everything a bleak, gray aspect. But worse, it muted sounds and reduced visibility.

  The building he sheltered in was an old gas station. Some mom and pop place. No other gas stations for sixty miles in either direction—a fact which was still displayed prominently on the small sign that lay toppled, half in the road. It also advertised Grandma’s Pickled Eggs.

  “Only gas station for 60 miles! Grandma’s Pickled Eggs! Yum!”

  Fucking Tennessee, he shook his head, spit a little morsel of his cuticle skin out onto the ground.

  “Don’t spoil your appetite,” a voice remarked behind him.

  Abe leaned back, eyed his partner. Captain Lucas Wright leaned against the counter, his rifle slung onto his back as he flipped casually through an old nudie magazine he’d located under the cash register. He was an odd looking character, not at all what you would expect from a highly-trained operative, formerly tasked with the preservation of the state of New York. He was short and stout, bright red hair, ruddy, freckled skin, and eyes that were a kind of odd version of hazel, perhaps closer to “tan” or “golden brown.” He was talkative, but not overly loud, and he had no perceptible accent.

  Abe just snorted and looked back out the window. “You cooking?”

  “Yeah…” Boredom in his voice. “Grandma’s Pickled Eggs.”

  “Mmmm.”

  Their sense of humor was flagging.

  Abe leaned forward to see if he could see a bright spot in the sky that would denote where the sun was hanging, but the fog was too thick. Everything above them was just a big, off-white smudge. “What time you got?”

  “Thirteen-fifteen,” Lucas said and went back to flipping through the magazine that he’d flipped through about a dozen times already. Probably not even looking at the pictures anymore. Just giving himself something to do. Each time he flipped it, the glossy pages crinkled lightly, the only noise in the building. Even and methodical. Like a metronome.

  Abe leaned back into his chair. Took a deep, quiet breath.

  Another few minutes passed. Forty-three flipped pages. Abe was counting.

  A sound worked its way into the old convenience store. An engine thrumming up the road, through the fog. Abe came upright from his reclined position, put his shoulder up against the wall and peered through the window, looking off towards the North Carolina border.

  Lucas unslung his rifle. “That him?”

  “Can’t see yet.”

  Lucas moved quickly around the counter and took up a position on the other window, on the other side of the front door with the little hanging sign that said, “Sorry…We’re closed.” Abe squinted into the fog, annoyed at how brightly it refracted all of that sunlight, without actually letting any sunlight through.

  It came on them quicker than Abe expected, because of the color. But the shape was unmistakable. A Humvee. One of the cargo truck variants with no gun on top. Tan in color. Abe raised his rifle and moved back a little farther from the window, putting the post of his front sight on the windshield of the vehicle as it approached.

  “You got him?” Abe asked.

  “Yeah…I see the truck. Can’t see who’s in it.”

  Gotta be him, Abe thought. Hoped. Prayed.

  The truck was already moving slow, but the sound of the engine faded off and the vehicle slowed to a coast as it drew up to the old gas station. It almost rolled to a complete stop in the road, no doubt the driver eyeing the gas station, hoping he hadn’t come to the wrong place. Then the wheels turned and the Humvee rumbled into the lot, stopping just short of the single set of pumps.

  “It’s him, right?” Lucas asked.

  “Hold on.” Abe waited, still not wanting to jump the gun. He would let the guy in the truck get out, reveal his identity. If it was their guy, then they would make their presence known. If it wasn’t their guy, then they would hope that the unfortunate stranger would move on.

  And if he didn’t, they would kill him.

  The driver’s door opened.

  Eddie Ramirez slid out, looking at the windows of the convenience store, trying to see inside.

  Abe nodded. “It’s him.”

  “Thank God,” Lucas smiled with relief.

  They both lowered their rifles, moved to the front door and opened it. Eddie Ramirez waited behind the engine block of the Humvee, cautious, until he recognized the two men coming out of the front door. He raised a hand by way of greeting, walked around the front of the truck.

  “Major,” he nodded to Abe, then Lucas. “Captain.”

  “You’re a little late, Ramirez.” Abe smiled, tried to force some good humor into it. He clapped Eddie on the shoulder to compensate. “You okay? Everything turn out alright?”

  Eddie nodded. “Everything went fine.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  Eddie reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and withdrew the handheld GPS device. He looked it over for a minute, seemed to be weighing it in his hands, judging its importance and coming up mystified as to why everyone would go through such great lengths to have it. He handed it to Abe.

  Abe took it, turned it over. He activated it, watched the screen light up. No apparent damage. Still operational. He put it in his own pocket. “Thank you, Ramirez. You did a good job.” Abe turned and took a step away, his hand slipping into the grip of his rifle.

  Eddie stretched, scratched the back of his neck. “You got a chopper inbound to take my ass home?”

  “No, not today,” Abe said over his shoulder.

  Then he turned quickly and put two rounds into Eddie’s head.

  As Eddie Ramirez fell back, Abe transitioned smoothly to Lucas, putting his sights right where he’d put them on Eddie. Lucas stood there, still watching the dead body on its trip to the ground, still watching the spirals of blood and brain matter that hadn’t even splattered back onto the Humvee yet. By the time Lucas even registered that Abe pointed a rifle at him, Abe could have put half his magazine into the man.

  Could have.

  But didn’t.

  “Don’t fucking move,” Abe commanded.

  Lucas stared at him in complete shock. “What the fuck are you doing, Abe?”

  Abe raised his voice over Lucas’. “You listen to me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you, Lucas, I really fucking don’t. Eddie had to go because he wasn’t working for me and I don’t fucking trust him. But I trust you, Lucas. We’re friends. And I need you to trust me right now, okay? Can you trust me?”

  Lucas bladed his body just slightly, like he might try to attack, or make a run for it. “Abe, you’re not making any fucking sense. And could you please stop pointing that thing at me?”

  Abe lowered the rifle, but only slightly. “Lucas I need your help, man. This is me asking. Not Briggs or anyone else. This is just me.”

  Lucas shook his head rapidly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Briggs is out of control, Lucas.”

  “Abe…”

  “He’s out of fucking control,” Abe said more sternly. “We both know that. He’s maintaining power thr
ough force, and I’m not going to help him do it anymore. It’s not too late to fix what we’ve done. Project Hometown still has a chance to work, but we need to make a move now, before Briggs gets too powerful.”

  “All the coordinators are either with Briggs or they’re unaccounted for,” Lucas said flatly.

  “Except Lee.” Abe said. “And I have his GPS.”

  “You never slaved it. You can’t access it. And Lee’s dead.”

  Abe shook his head. “Lee’s not dead. Eddie’s been using the sat phone to stay in contact with me. He called me right after he took the GPS. Told me that he’d shot Lee in the head, but that Lee was still breathing and seemed like he was coming to. Wanted to know if he should finish the job or just leave him. I saw my chance, Lucas, and I took it. I told him to just leave him alive.”

  Lucas frowned. “Why didn’t he just kill him? That’s what Briggs wanted.”

  “I lied to Eddie,” Abe said. “I know he was loyal to Briggs and I couldn’t just tell him to cancel the mission completely, because he would’ve known it was a lie. But about a week ago, when he told me he was getting close to Lee, I convinced him that Briggs changed his mind on Lee and was only concerned with the GPS. And he bought it.” Abe grimaced. “I had hoped that Eddie would have just taken the GPS quietly and without hurting Lee, but he said that Lee kept it close all the time. Said that shooting him was the only way.” Abe looked bitter. “Lucas, I thought we lost everything until Eddie told me that Lee was still breathing. I know it’s a small chance but…”

  “Jesus, Abe!” Lucas looked pained. “Lee’s been shot in the head! Do you know his chances of surviving something like that? All the complications that can happen? The swelling on his brain probably killed him twenty minutes after Eddie left him!”

  Abe blinked rapidly. He was not so hardened that he could not feel the shame of betraying a friend, of allowing that friend to be taken advantage of, possibly killed. He was Judas, trying to undo a crucifixion at the eleventh hour.