Healers

by Munson, Brad

  “They’re not strangers,” Keaton said in measured tones. He refused to even look at Stiles and Rebecca, who were sitting very quietly not five feet away. “They’re our partners. They saved the life of this town before you even got here. And we made a deal: They helped us rebuild, we give them eggs and energy. We’re going to keep our promise.”

  Whitehead was having a hard time keeping the contempt off his face and out of his voice. “A lot of people—”

  “Look. We’ve been through this. Many times. The farmers and engineers and the majority of citizens in this town voted on this six months ago. We made a deal. We’re doing it. Six months from now, when the first agreement is fulfilled, we can all vote—”

  “No. We’re not waiting just because you say we have to. The Coalition—”

  Keaton stood up. Seven of his deputies, carefully placed all around the saloon, stood up with him. Nobody touched their guns, but everyone was acutely aware that they were the only weapons in Eileen’s, outside of the cloakroom. And one of Keaton’s best was standing directly in front of that room.

  Whitehead stopped talking.

  Keaton hated everything about this moment. It was like a scene from some bad Western, the kind of movie almost nobody younger than forty even remembered. The noble sheriff facing down the local land baron and his band of bully-boys. But Keaton was no nobleman and Whitehead sure as shit wasn’t a criminal mastermind. They usually aren’t, he told himself, remembering the thugs and fools he’d had to face down all his life. They just think they are.

  “You can call your group any damn thing you want,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I don’t care. But here’s the thing. We keep our promises here. The shipment goes. The people from Omaha have safe passage, and in return we get the first of the vaccine when it’s ready.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Keaton, wake up! There isn’t—”

  “I understand your objections, Whitehead,” he said sharply, cutting him off. He wasn’t going to go through it again. “I know what your Coalition thinks, and you’ll get your chance to discuss it again. Just not tonight. And nothing’s going to stop those trucks.”

  He looked at Jose without looking at him, and saw just how red-faced and angry the mechanic had become. His daughter had an arm on his shoulder and was murmuring in his ear. Don’t screw this up, Keaton pleaded with him silently. Don’t make it worse than it already is.

  He could feel the room holding its breath. And he could feel them breathe a collective sigh of relief when Whitehead took one step backwards and took his empty hands out of his pocket.

  “Sheriff,” he said. “This isn’t over.”

  Half a dozen smart-ass remarks spun through his brain. Keaton let them all pass. “I know it’s not,” he said, and let it go.

  Whitehead turned his back on them and left the room. Half the clientele drifted out in the next five minutes, and Keaton spent all of fifteen seconds wondering where they were going now, who had a stash of ‘shine of their own that they’d break out now, so they could drink and bitch about the fascist lawman who was ruining their plans.

  He sat down slowly. So did all his men – all but two, who he had assigned to keep an eye on Whitehead for the night. They drifted out themselves, their thumbs hooked in their gun belts.

  “Well, that was fun,” Stiles said.

  Keaton sighed. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t.” He drained the last of his one glass of ‘shine, though he barely tasted it. Most of the joy had gone out of the night for him. “So: See you at the garage around dawn. You have any trouble, you need anything, there will be a man within shouting distance all night.”

  “Somehow that isn’t very comforting,” Rebecca said, then added quickly, “I mean thank you, I’m glad, but I’m sorry it’s necessary.”

  He forced a small smile and shrugged. “Rule Number One of Abraham, Kansas, Old or New,” he said. “Nothing is ever easy.”

  He tipped his hat and left Eileen’s, squinting against the sudden sharp slap of the cold night air as it hit him in the face. Just one last stroll around town for the night, he told himself as he reached the corner and turned north. Just look for some lamplight where there wasn’t supposed to be any; check to make sure a few doors that ought to be locked were double-chained for the–

  The first blow came out of the darkness, so fast and hard he didn’t even hear it coming. A metal pipe, thick as his forearm, slammed into the back of his neck, just a little off target. His heavy jacket and his own broad shoulders took more of the blow than the base of skull, and that was a lucky thing: Two inches higher and it would have taken his head off.

  Keaton went to his knees, but he didn’t pass out. Not yet. He hauled his gun free of its holster and twisted towards his assailant, bringing up the weapon, ready to fire. A second attacker darted in his blind side, batted the gun out of his hand with a pipe of his own and kicked him, hard, square in the chest. He went down flat on his back, looking up at the hard, bright stars that filled the Kansas night.

  Stupid, he thought dimly as consciousness started to drain away. Stupid, sloppy, smart-ass …

  A face drifted into his fading field of vision, golden in the light of a single, guttering lamp. It looked down with a mixture of excitement and fear – the same expression he’d seen just a few minutes before, on the same person.

  “Adelina ...” he whispered. He saw the look of surprise and … shame? … on her pretty face before she darted away.

  He barely felt the rough hands that hauled at him. They were the last thing he remembered for a very long time.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Less than a week after the disastrous battle for Edwards Air Force Base, the memorial service for its fallen heroes took place in Omaha’s still-new Town Hall. It was planned for 5:30 on a Sunday evening, just before sunset. Francis Sherman and Anna Demilio met on the roof of the building half an hour before, in search of a few moments of privacy.

  Sherman arrived first. It was a mild day for a Kansas winter, but still bitter cold. He wore a thick, beautiful tailored coat over his dress uniform. Retired or not, he told himself, they deserve my respect.

  He was looking out across the ruins of Omaha, thinking of all they had accomplished and all that remained to be done, when the ever-present walkie-talkie at his shoulder squawked for attention.

  “Just got word from Mark Stiles at New Abraham,” Castillo said, her voice roughened with static. “He sounds okay.”

  Sherman frowned. “‘Okay’?”

  “He said there were some tense moments with some of the civilians a couple of hours ago, but things seem to have calmed down. He and Rebecca are bedding down for the night. They’ll be meeting Sherriff Keaton tomorrow at dawn for the send-off.”

  Sherman nodded thoughtfully. “All right. It will be good to have them home. I know Anna is anxious to get those egg—”

  The door behind him creaked open, and Dr. Anna Demilio, the woman who was saving the world, almost tip-toed onto the roof. She was wearing her characteristic blue parka, but even that had been cleaned for the day. Her hair was brushed to a high shine and pulled back in a businesslike and somehow demure French braid. Sherman was fairly certain she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “All right then, Angela. We’ll meet tomorrow about the hospital mission. See you at the memorial service.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He reattached the walkie-talkie as Anna crossed the asphalt tiles and came directly to him – not too fast, but with no reluctance or hesitation. He put his arms around her, feeling nothing but relief and strength, and kissed her for a long time.

  “This is awful,” she said. “I’ve felt like hell since the news came in.”

  “We planned the best we could,” he said. “But no one expected … no one even dreamed ...”

  “It’s a dangerous world,” she said, and he f
elt her head move against his chest. “And there are dangerous people in it. We’ve known that all along.”

  He held her even more tightly.

  They kissed again, and he could feel her smiling as they pulled away. “You know,” she said, giving him that look, “a lot of people would go a little bit nuts if they found out about … you know, about us.”

  He almost chuckled. “I’m terrified,” he said. “You know how I worry about what people think of me.” She smirked at him and he shrugged. “Besides, we’ll let them know soon enough. Today is not the day. Not with everything that’s happened.”

  “I know,” she said, and her eyes grew distant and dark for a moment. “It’s just ...”

  The silence held between them for a long moment, then she physically, almost harshly, pushed it away. “Anyway,” she said, offering him a smile that was only a little bit forced, “it is kind of a soap opera story, isn’t it? Leader of the last great city in America, falling in love with the doctor who’s out to save the world?”

  “You overestimate me,” he said, “by epic proportions.” Then he pulled her close again. “You, on the other hand ...”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re my hero.”

  They kissed again, and held each other for a while. Then they walked downstairs together.

  *****

  “There are so few of us left,” Francis Sherman told them. He looked out at the assembled and into the cameras that Boyd had set up. He knew he was being piped through the precious few commercial satellites they’d commandeered months ago to all their outposts and communities around the country: to New Abraham, to McChord Field and Fort McCoy and all the others. Each one was impossibly important to them. He hoped they all knew that: Each one was more valuable than all the gold still left in this world.

  “Just a little over a year ago, there were more than six billion people on this planet, more than three hundred million in American alone. Today there are a few hundred thousand in the lower forty-eight, separated by millions of hungry corpses who will not rest. Tonight we honor just a few of the many, many heroes who have given their lives to save us – those who have offered up the ultimate sacrifice in this strange new world so that we can live another day … and who have taught us a set of valuable lessons.”

  He looked down at his brief notes, but he didn’t have to. The names he was about to read were set in his memory forever. “Ulysses Ambrose Stone. Michael William Allen. Lester John Lindstrom ...” He continued, through all of Stone’s attack team, through others who had died in the defense of Offutt Air Force Base, those who had died holding back the hordes at McChord and McCoy and so many other outposts. It was a long list. Far too long. When it ended, Sherman stood for a long moment with his eyes lowered.

  Then he spoke again.

  “I mention not only the heroism of these men and women, and the debt we will owe them forever. But I mention the lessons they have taught us as well. Let me remind you of them before we adjourn for our own private and personal commemorations.

  “The first lesson our fallen have taught us: We are still America. We are still together. When we are called by our leaders, we still respond ... and when the cause is just, we still work together to secure the blessings of our liberty to ourselves and our posterity, no matter how horribly difficult the challenge. Remember that, my friends: We are still here.”

  He paused for a moment and found Anna Demilio’s eyes in the front row. She nodded at him – a tiny, almost microscopic gesture of encouragement. You’re doing good, she was telling him. Keep going.

  “And the second lesson?” he said. “The heroes at Edwards Air Force Base especially taught us this one: We have an enemy we must defeat. Not just the endless dead, as if that isn’t enough. Something more. Something worse. The true enemy, the first enemy among so many, are the living humans who hide in Mount Weather, Virginia, who lie to their followers, who manipulate the innocent and who will kill their own citizens, even with nuclear weapons, to take control of this country.

  “Our heroes showed us just how desperate, just how insane, this enemy is. And they have shown us unequivocally what must be done, to save the world and to avenge their pointless murder.

  “We must defeat the RSA. Now. Starting today. We must defeat the RSA and take back what they have stolen.”

  Sherman stopped again and cleared his throat. He ordered himself to take a deep breath. He made sure he was still standing tall. Shoulders back. Voice as steady as stone.

  “Join me now – all of you, here in Omaha and all who can hear me across this great country – and raise our voices in remembrance of our fallen heroes. Sing with me now: ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  A single violin, played by an Omaha survivor name Katsuo Umeki, played the simple, powerful tune from the back of the hall, just as they had planned. And Sherman knew it could be heard everywhere at this moment. All across America.

  He had a terrible voice. He knew that. But as Umeki finished the first chorus he opened his mouth to sing … and felt Anna Demilio’s hand in his own, and heard her own sweet strong voice joining his, and heard all the others, every soul, joining in:

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me

  I once was lost, but now am found

  Was blind but now I see

  T’was Grace that taught

  My heart to fear

  And Grace, my fears relieved

  How precious did that Grace appear

  The hour I first believed

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come

  Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

  And Grace will lead us home

  *****

  Sherman was sipping a seriously watered-down glass of ‘shine, imported from New Abraham, Kansas, when he received the biggest surprise of the day. He was lingering in the Town Hall, talking with many who had attended the service, trying to ease the grief and remember those they had lost in the way they deserved. He was actually in the midst of a gentle and hilarious story about Stone and how he chose to launder his ridiculous underwear when Anna put a hand on his arm and said, “Frank ...?”

  He looked at her, then turned to follow her eyes.

  Mbutu Ngasy, wrapped in a shiny black parka, was standing in the doorway to the Town Hall. A burst of snow, illuminated by their hard-won electric lights, swirled around his shoulders as he leveled his gaze at his old friend.

  “Francis,” he said.

  Sherman could not help but be delighted. “Mbutu!” he said, and went to him happily. “How good it is to see you. I’m sorry you missed the service, but it was—”

  “My friend,” the statuesque African interrupted – which was something he never did. It was strange enough to make Sherman’s blood run cold. “My friend … we need to talk. In private. Now.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “This is not a game,” Angela Castillo said to her team. “This is not fun. There are a hundred things out there that can kill you; shamblers and sprinters are only two of them – and not even the top two.”

  She looked at the team of six she had assembled for this mission, and – as always – she had her doubts. Only three of them had experienced combat before the outbreak; the others had gone through hell and more to make it to recovering Omaha, and they’d received training since, but still: This was different.

  Kiley and O’Toole were looking at her with sharp, steady eyes. They were the vets; they’d been part of her clearance team for months, and they knew what was coming next. Lassiter, the other combat vet, was the only woman on the team other than Castillo herself. She was a tough, surprisingly short and talkative redhead who wore a perpetual half-smile; at the moment, her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her long fingers trapped under her arms as she hugge
d herself in anticipation. Piper, McCartney, and Kline, all in their early twenties, stood together. It was almost a parody of diversity, Castillo thought: one white, one black, one Asian, but at the moment they could have been triplets. They were all trying very hard to hide their nerves, and she knew why: This was their first time out, their first chance to prove themselves.

  Nobody cracked jokes. Nobody did the “cocky soldier” bit. They took their cue from Castillo, who was all business and proud of it. “Video check,” she said, and tapped the web cam on her helmet. They all did the same, and Boyd’s voice, speaking through the comm unit in her ear, said, “All good.”

  She nodded. “Voice check,” she said, and all six team members raised their fists, thumbs up, and said, “Check, check.”

  “Hey now,” Boyd said from his far-off communications basement. “Don’t everybody talk at once.”

  Nobody laughed.

  They were standing in what everyone in Omaha referred to as the “air lock,” the space between the inner gate and outer gate, bound by chain-link and reinforced plywood walls left and right, with the inner gate and outer gate back and front. It was barely past dawn and bone-cutting cold, but they were prepared. They’d been planning on this recovery mission, their biggest ever, for weeks now.

  The perimeter crew and the Watch had pushed out a single wall of chain-link from the secured section of the city, reclaiming small buildings and shielding gaps for three hard-won blocks, creating a barricaded path that would lead Castillo’s team straight towards the University Hospital. The choice of hospitals had been a long, thoughtful, utterly boring process as far as Castillo was concerned. She had chosen the target herself weeks earlier, and she wasn’t surprised when everyone who thought they were actually in charge in Omaha came to agree with her.