Condemn (BUNKER 12 Book 2)

by Tanpepper, Saul

  Far below, scattered along both banks of the river, were the bodies of a dozen Wraiths. Finn searched for Bix among them, but he couldn't tell any of the mangled forms apart as they were all wearing the same desert camos.

  He sucked in a sharp breath. These weren't just random Wraiths. This is where the rest of Cheever's men had gone. Adrian had infected them.

  On the opposite side of the canyon, the other half of the bridge hung in a knot against the rock face. Wraiths still fell from it, their bodies crashing from one outcropping to the next until they slammed to the ground. None of them moved after that.

  "Bix!"

  "Well now, I have to say I did not expect that."

  Finn spun around and came face to face with the business end of a rifle that looked all-too familiar.

  "Ingenious way to escape them things. Not very smart for your buddy, I'm afraid."

  Finn's eyes flicked to the spot where he'd thrown his rifle, but it was gone. A pistol rested in a holster against the man's hip.

  "Come on now, boy," the man said. "I don't want you to hurt yourself, so why don't you step away from the edge. Slowly."

  "Who are you?" Finn demanded.

  "Shucks, shame on me for not formally introducing myself. Where are my manners?" He tipped his head slightly. "Name's Ramsay. Wayne Ramsay. And you are the young Finn Bolles, if I'm not mistaken. Somehow, I expected . . . more."

  Finn stared at the man without replying.

  "Sorry about your friend. Heroic thing he did for you. Such a waste."

  Rage filled Finn.

  "Come on now, boy. Let's go. I know someone who will be delighted to see you after all this time. Time does make the heart grow fonder, don't it?"

  "If you've hurt her—"

  "Oh, I ain't talking about that pretty little girl of yours. Bren, is it? Short for Brenda? Or is it Brendina?"

  Finn's eyes narrowed. He flicked his gaze past Ramsay and into the woods behind him.

  "Don't worry. She ain't here. It's just you and me. The good reverend — you remember him, right? — he's gone ahead. The rest of the party'll be coming along soon enough."

  "How did you know we'd come this way?"

  "Didn't, to be honest. But we needed to make sure no one tried to cut us off at the pass." He snickered at the joke. "May I call you Finnegan? Or is it Finnster?"

  Finn tried to suppress his growing rage. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep his cool. "You're one of Cheever's men, from the camp, aren't you? You're the one who arranged the deals with Adrian and Jennifer. You sold my friends to be turned into Wraiths."

  "They begged to be saved, boy. They said, 'Save us, please! Save us!' Who am I to deny them that?"

  "Liar!"

  Ramsay gave him a fake frown. "You saying you don't believe in salvation? Then I guess there's no hope for your lovely Bren. Or anyone else, for that matter." He barked out a laugh that echoed across the canyon. "Of course it's a lie, boy! Everyone knows it! Everyone but that damned reverend and his sister!"

  Sister? Jennifer was his sister!

  "Your girl, now, I bet she begs good."

  "You're sick."

  He dismissed the insult with a shrug.

  "Why did you kill Cheever?"

  The man's smile faltered. "The captain? He couldn't lead himself out of a paper bag. Shame, though, that he had to go that way. He'd have made a good infected, like the rest of them."

  "Why?" Finn gestured at the canyon. "Why infect all this people?"

  Ramsay dug into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a walkie-talkie. It looked just like the one they'd seen back in the camp. "Had to make sure you didn't escape back over the bridge. Amazing piece of technology, this thing. One press of the button puts them to sleep. Another wakes them up. No idea how it works, though."

  Cold realization flowed through Finn. The Wraiths were never meant to reach them on the bridge. Bix had died for nothing, just as Ramsay had implied.

  "Sure glad to see you brought a bike across. Either super brave or super stupid, but riding sure beats walking any day."

  He waved the gun, urging Finn to his feet. Finn didn't move. "Come on, boy, get your sorry ass up. Don't make me hurt you."

  "You won't. Adrian won't let you."

  "Accidents happen. And if you're dead, he won't need pretty little Bren anymore. Be a shame to infect her, turn her into such a horrible, frightening thing. Of course, I could just let you watch first. The rev won't care. He can have her after I've had—"

  "Bastard!" Finn leapt, but the man backhanded him across the face as easily as if he were swatting a fly. Finn went reeling into the dirt.

  "Stop sniveling and stand up!"

  Finn screamed in rage. He grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it into the man's face. Ramsay backed away, spitting dust and coughing. He swiped at his eyes, swearing.

  Finn tried to pounce, but the man was still too quick. He had the rifle up and pointed at his chest. Fury filled his bloodshot eyes. "Do that again and—"

  "You're a sick man," Finn screamed. His voice echoed through the canyon. "If there is salvation, you'll never get it."

  Ramsey spun the gun around in the air and raised it over his head, as if he meant to smash the butt against Finn's teeth.

  Finn didn't move. "Go ahead," he growled. "Do it!"

  They stared at each other for a moment, then the fury evaporated from Ramsay's face, replaced instead with a cold, hard, emotionless stare.

  "Won't mess up that pretty face of yours before your girl gets a chance to see you."

  He stepped back, chuckling. Then he sidled over to the edge of the gorge to check below. He kept the rifle pointed at Finn the whole time, his finger on the trigger and his eye on Finn's face, trying to judge if Finn might try to charge him again.

  "Just need to make sure this Bix fellow— What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Bix? Sounds like the sound a bird makes when it's puking. Bix! Biiix!"

  He laughed at Finn's rage.

  "Just need to make sure that he's, you know, really dead before we leave."

  Finn got to his feet.

  "Uh uh! Stay right there." He raised the gun, seating it into the crook of his arm, then grabbed an anchor post for support and leaned over.

  Finn stepped forward. He didn't care at that moment if he got shot. He couldn't let the man live. He took a step just as the shot rang out.

  The man's head disappeared in a cloud of red. And when it cleared a moment later, half of his face was gone. He tilted further out over the side, as if it might help him see better, then he let go of the cable and fell.

  A moment later, the muzzle of a rifle appeared over the edge. "You just going to stand there?" Bix panted. "Or are you going to give me a hand up?"

  They found Ramsay's rucksack just inside the line of trees. It was filled with food, water, and ammunition, although the rounds fit the pistol and so were essentially useless to them. They also found two more claymore mines.

  There was no second motorbike in sight, however. He had crossed the cable bridge on foot and evidently planned to walk up to the main road.

  "Junction's just a couple miles," Finn said, digging through the other pockets. He was still shaking badly and could barely speak.

  "You're welcome, by the way. Climbing those damn metal cables was a pain in the ass."

  "You think I'm going to thank you for that?" Finn snapped. "If you ever do something like that again, I'll—"

  "You said that the last time, too, you know. Anyway it worked."

  "I thought you were dead!"

  "What else was I going to do?" Bix asked.

  "I told you! Forget the bike! That's what I said. Run, I said! But no, you had to explode the freaking bomb and get yourself killed!"

  "I didn't kill myself! And if I hadn't done that, those Wraiths would have been on us in seconds!"

  "Actually not! That guy had this thing to control them. But now it's gone."

  "I didn't know that!"

  "If you ha
d just listened to me," Finn panted, "if you had just run, then we both would have made it to the edge in time."

  "And we'd have no motorcycle. And that asshole would be alive!"

  "Gaaah!"

  "I'll take that as a thank you and say you're welcome."

  Finn didn't answer.

  "Look, we've got the advantage now, bro. Adrian's not expecting to meet up with that guy until he gets to the junction, which means he'll be totally unprepared for us when we take him sooner. We've got the jump on him!"

  He reached up to pry Finn's hands off of his shirt. "We got this, man."

  Finn pushed himself away. "No, we don't! The plan never had a chance. The only reason we've gotten this far is because we got lucky. If that idiot hadn't stuck his head out for you to shoot—"

  "I'd have blown it off after I reached the top. Come on, man, stop dwelling on what-ifs. Bren needs you. We all need you."

  "I'm just going to get everyone killed. Everything I do is wrong. I'm not Harper!"

  Bix punched Finn in the face, though not hard enough to knock him off his feet. "I've had it up to here hearing about Harper! You're not him! You're you. You make your own decisions."

  "And look at all the people who've died—"

  "Look at the ones you've saved!"

  "Like who?"

  "Byron and his sons. Plus who knows how many more. And it was you who figured out I'm immune!"

  "That was just a guess! Jonathan and Danny and Nami are dead. Dominic, Chip—"

  "You can't save everyone, Finn. Come on. Enough self-pity. We need to hurry before we lose our advantage."

  He stood up and walked back over to the motorcycle and righted it. He wheeled it over, then switched his backpack to the front and got on.

  "Let's go, Finn. And no slobbering on my shirt, either. I just got it and who knows when I'll be able to wash it again. I ain't going out in public with snot on my shoulder."

  Finn snorted. "God, you're such an asshole."

  "Yeah, well this asshole is driving, so you got shotgun. Literally."

  He handed over their only remaining rifle, then leaned forward so Finn could get on behind him. "Just warn me if you plan on shooting anything, preferably things that are not part of either one of us."

  They reached the end of the access road within minutes and turned onto the highway heading east.

  All sorts of emotions were swirling through Finn. Aside from the shock and relief of what had happened back there at the bridge, he was embarrassed at his breakdown. He was supposed to be the stronger of the two. Bix was the more immature — he'd even said so himself — and yet when they were under pressure, Bix had been the one to think clearly. It was obviously a side of his friend he'd never known existed.

  "Your dad was right, Bix," he said. "Your mom would be proud of you."

  They rode for another half hour, discussing how best to take Adrian by surprise, and in such a way that didn't jeopardize the others.

  "How many do you think he's got helping him?" Bix asked.

  "Can't be many, I imagine. There were at least a dozen, dozen and a half, Wraiths back there. He'd need just enough men to be able to manage our nine— the Largents, Caprios, and Abramsons. I'm assuming he didn't turn them, since all the bodies I saw wore camouflage."

  Bix didn't reply.

  "So, maybe three others besides himself?"

  "That's what I'm thinking. We only have the one rifle, so we can't pick them all off very easily, not before they take hostages and threaten to kill someone."

  Finn was silent. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone, not unless he had to. It now looked like he'd have no choice.

  Get it through your thick head that this is a different world, Finn.

  It also made him realize that he hadn't even stopped to consider what Bix might be going through right now. After all, he'd just murdered a man.

  Will I be able to kill, when the time comes?

  Bix pulled over the side of the road. They'd just come to the top of a rise, and they could see the road stretching on for a good ten or fifteen miles ahead. It was the same road they'd traveled on after fleeing the ranch, but Finn didn't recognize any of the scenery. He'd been too hyped up to take notice.

  "I've been thinking," Bix said. "Our only hope is to separate them. It's the only way it'll work."

  "You have a plan?"

  Bix nodded. "But we only got one shot at this. And it means both of us doing more killing."

  Finn sat in the shadow of an old highway sign and watched the group approach through the scope of the M4. His heart was racing and he felt lightheaded. He squinted against the glare off the road to see if he could spot Bren among the figures, but they were still a long ways off, little more than a blur against the gray-white of the horizon. The shimmering made them appear like a cluster of phantoms. He couldn't even distinguish the horses among them.

  To his left was a rise. He couldn't see Bix in his hiding spot at the top, but he could feel him watching the procession through the binoculars they'd found in Ramsay's backpack. He hoped his friend was right, that when it started to go down, the reverend would react in the way they hoped he would. If not, then someone was likely to get seriously hurt, maybe even killed. And there was no backup plan.

  He lowered his gaze to the rifle by his side. Ammo was not an issue, it was the accuracy of his aim. He'd had very little practice. In fact, he had had only the one chance to shoot the thing, and that was shortly after they left the base yesterday morning.

  Kari had shown him how to sight properly, how to breathe and then hold the air inside, how to squeeze rather than pull on the trigger. His shots had been surprisingly accurate, and she'd been impressed, but that was when he was shooting at a rusty tin can from fifty paces, not at a living, breathing, walking human being. Not when other lives were at stake. Not when there was the possibility of shooting someone else instead by accident.

  "You can do it," Bix had told him. "Go for the big man first. Shoot his horse out from under him if you have to."

  "I'm not going to shoot a horse!"

  "If it's a choice between the horse and Bren?"

  Finn had stared at his friend for a moment, wondering when he'd turned into Jonah— cold and calculating, heartless. But then he realized Bix was right and the judgment passed.

  The exchange still left him with an unsettling afterimage, a negative impression of Bix, like from one of those old time photographic films. There was definitely a dark, practical side to the boy, a side that the happy-go-lucky part of him masked.

  "Can't we just hold them till the rest of the group catches up?"

  "We have to hit them hard," Bix had said, speaking as if he were some kind of genius military strategist. "And this is the perfect spot."

  Finn had no basis to challenge him, nor any reason to believe his plan wouldn't work. So he'd had to accept it. He had to admit it was no worse than his own plan, though he still didn't like the idea of shooting anyone."

  "The first thing we need to do is get them separated. Then we pick them off one-by-one."

  "Why am I the one doing the shooting?"

  "Because I'm doing the separating."

  The dark, shimmering spots finally resolved themselves into distinct people and horses. With a sinking feeling, Finn saw that there was also a large vehicle in the group. Before long, he knew that it was one of those military trucks. Bren and the rest of the survivors must be hidden inside.

  "So much for not trusting automobiles," he muttered to himself.

  They were still a quarter mile away when he could see them clearly enough to count the riders. There appeared to be three, one in front of the truck, two behind. They were moving at a fairly rapid clip, the riders pushing the horses in a fast trot.

  Three riders— Adrian, Luke, and Billy, he thought, though he couldn't be sure. He didn't know if either of the boys had survived the Wraiths or the fire back at the ranch.

  Three riders, plus one man driving the truck. Four shots, four b
ullets. And four pieces of his soul stolen away.

  Bix has done more than his part. He killed Ramsay. He took your place in the cage and fought — and killed — Nami.

  Nami was already gone.

  He's done more than you have. What have you done, besides kill Jennifer? It's your turn.

  He rotated the scope further down the road and thought he saw a sparkle, a reflection of light perhaps off a windshield way off in the distance. Was it the pickup truck?

  He glanced again at the ridge. Could Bix see the second vehicle further off with the binoculars? He wiped sweat from his forehead and tried to work the kink out of his neck. Soon the horses would be directly in front of his hiding place. Then it was do or die time.

  Moving carefully, in case the riders were scanning for movement, he settled down into the hollow beneath the sign and angled the rifle toward the nearest part of the road in front of him. He used a rock as a base. Breathe, hold, sight, squeeze, he thought. Don't rush it.

  Now he could hear the clip-clop of the horse's hooves on the road and the whine of the truck's engine. The riders shifted positions, rotating, always in motion.

  It still appeared to be just the three men. Finn's job was to take out Adrian. But he now realized he should first shoot the horseman — or horsemen — guarding the back of the truck.

  He nudged the scope to see the front rider's face. It wasn't Adrian. In fact, it wasn't anyone he recognized. The other two riders were on the other side of the truck, and the glare off the windshield prevented him from seeing the driver.

  A hundred and fifty yards away, he heard the sudden buzz of a small engine, and a motorcycle appeared. It raced up the road ahead of them, clearly intending to scout the other side.

  "Shit," Finn muttered. They hadn't expected someone on a motorbike. So, now there were four riders and the driver. And they didn't know who or what was in the back of the truck.

  "Do it, Bix," he whispered to himself, as if his friend could somehow hear him. "Take him out."

  The biker disappeared over the other side of the ridge as the caravan came to a stop below. The truck's brakes squealed; gears were shifted into neutral. The horses stamped their hooves restlessly.