by C A Gleason
Maybe Infectors got in after the people got trapped by a cave-in or something, he wondered, and then they molted and hibernated. None of the Molters should still be inside the cave though. Not with those claws. They should have left for better hunting grounds or cocooned and already been drunk by a Behemoth. He guessed what they secreted to hang from above was either to cocoon or hibernate.
Again he thought maybe the Behemoth they were linked to had been killed, maybe even Jonah had killed it, and the Molters had been waiting, unable to cocoon, evolving in unnatural ways, like what had happened at Henrytown. The unknown, that there was something of importance close by, still tugged at the part of him that was curious. But he decided to think about all of it—and possibly figure it out—later.
“Time to go.”
He never wanted to leave Doreen and Heike vulnerable for longer than he had to. They were always more important. The cave wasn’t going anywhere, and he could come back. His intent for the cave would be on pause, like pushing the button on a remote control while watching a television program. Too much daylight was gone already. He didn’t check his watch because it didn’t matter; his internal clock let him know he could freeze to death if he were trapped for long enough.
And it wasn’t as if he could light a fire to keep warm, even though he had a lighter on him and always did. There were other ways to make fire, but he could never have too many lighters. The problem was where would the smoke go? Sure there were ripples of light in crevices he couldn’t see clearly, but the smoke would likely only go in one direction, and that was directly into his lungs. A fire just for warmth was too risky. Nope, in order not to freeze to death, he’d have to warm himself up the old-fashioned way.
Doreen was going to be worried about him no matter what. Regardless of what she was struggling with—in the ballpark of postpartum depression—and how she was currently feeling about Jonah, she didn’t like to be apart from him. He was her man but also one of her ties to society. Other than her daughter, Jonah was the only person in her life, and people needed to be around other people for their own health.
Jonah didn’t like to be apart from Doreen, either, even if she’d been down lately. Doing his best to understand all of that meant he would be ready for however she reacted. Every now and then, she was angry. From the way his clothes were all coated with dirt and grime and wet as if he’d been rolling around in a coal mine, he could only imagine how dirty his face was. Though he was unable to see it, it was surely as darkened with dirt as his clothes were.
After digging as he’d planned—chopping and scraping with the e-tool—it was easier to get out than he’d feared it would be. He’d remembered to grab the rifle before heading for home, the faint, shadowy remains of the day only glimmering over the horizon in the distance as if the sky were squinting and moments away from night’s slumber itself.
When he returned, with the cabin in view, he heard the door open and saw Doreen emerge from within. Although she’d been waiting impatiently, her immediate relief was apparent. She inhaled and exhaled while her eyes closed, which made Jonah feel good, but then they popped open. She had almost smiled before frustration took over. She was probably thinking, What happened? Is everything all right? Why were you gone so long? I was very worried . . .
He’d heard it all before and didn’t blame her a bit as he crunched across the frozen snow, anxious to get inside and get warm but also alleviate her worry. And it was always nice to see her. He loved her but also thought Doreen was such a beauty.
She stood half in the doorway and half on the porch, as if she were thwarting a young girl from escaping, a habit from when Heike was young, or she was doing her best to prevent the heat from getting out. He noticed how much snow topped the cabin.
Before reacting to how Jonah looked, she said, “Any sign of him?”
Doreen had her good days and her bad days, and lately most had been good. This was definitely one of them because she was optimistic and asking about her father. She hadn’t mentioned Henry in a while, and that meant it had been a few weeks at least, and Jonah appreciated that she never gave up hope. He wished he felt the same way.
“No,” he said as upbeat as possible.
When Doreen asked that question, it always sounded like she was asking it for the first time, so Jonah forced himself to respond the same way. He didn’t want to give away how he really felt—angry—because there was no point in discussing it anymore. Henry was missing or worse.
While Jonah felt that familiar pull toward his woman, up the step and near the door, he saw the regular battle women often had with their men, which was frustration versus love. Before she could begin the former, he kissed her, extinguishing a “where” or a “why” or a “what,” and she actually kissed him back.
It felt so good to be welcomed home. Sometimes she wasn’t as happy to see him. At least he felt that way. When he stepped away, she gave him a smirk, and then they went inside.
The door to the cabin was supposed to remain shut for the night, but it opened again, and Jonah scrambled back onto the porch, nearly slipping and falling on his ass.
“Careful. It’s dark out,” she said from within.
“I can still see. I’ll be quick,” he said.
“Please don’t break both your legs.”
“OK.”
As Jonah grabbed the readily available shovel, he saw frustration replace whatever had been on Doreen’s face as she closed the door. He would make it up to her when he went back inside. Gazing up, he saw there was far too much snow on the roof. The weight could cause it to collapse because the architect hadn’t been top tier, and Jonah didn’t want anyone to eat a plate of snow for their next meal. Or get buried while sleeping.
CHAPTER 5
The Draw hadn’t selected someone many would call a friend for a while. Almost everyone had breathed a sigh of relief when Wayne had captured the guy from before, the one who’d tried to kill him for the supplies he had on him: a revolver and a bottle of water. They hadn’t even known his name. Because it hadn’t mattered. Someone of low moral character, like a murderer or a potential one, made it easier to choose because he would never be allowed to join them and, because of that, could never be beneficial to the group. Except for being put in a cell.
Most accepted their fate because death was often the easier choice. Difficult to escape from an enclosure while guarded. Some tried to get away before that happened, but most never got far. Otto had gotten the farthest. Everyone seemed to like him, but he had no skills, none that helped anyone—other than his upbeat attitude—and he couldn’t even shoot straight. Those who couldn’t be relied upon to use a gun were deemed worthless by Archard.
Frox agreed, except everything went smoother when someone unfamiliar was chosen over someone whose past, friends, or family were known. When the Draw happened that way, it made it harder on everyone. Most seemed to pity Otto, the man who was in the cell, even some who didn’t appear to have emotions at all, and even some of them had wondered aloud if it would be them next.
The cells were enclosures, portable jails, and Archard had already possessed them when they met. Frox knew them intimately, and because of that, he never asked where Archard had obtained them. But they looked as if they’d been taken from a local prison. They were used to transport inmates for reasons Frox didn’t care about, and they suited as a cornerstone of their methods just fine.
Archard had mentioned it was possible that a stranger could join them and then rank past those who’d been with them for a while. Even though it hadn’t happened yet, Frox was open to it. He did not think it likely, but he was open to it. If it did happen, though, it would mean the person was a crack shot and could shit matches.
“You sure about this?” Perry said next to him.
Frox held the binoculars tight, his tunneled view on the cell. Without looking, he said, “About what?”
“How we’re doing it.”
Of course Frox wasn’t sure. “Orders,” he said.
>
“Yeah, Archard’s.”
“And?”
“Never so close to home.”
“With Wayne gone, it changes things. You nervous?”
“Yeah. Mortars make me feel safer.”
“Then the howitzers must really make you feel relaxed.”
“They do. Not that I can’t shoot.”
“I know that.”
What they were doing there had happened only at the firing line so far, and Perry was right to be wary. Frox was, too, but it was best to exhale with annoyance as often as possible to dissuade Perry from being anxious. Frox was too tired to supplicate his right-hand man into being on board completely, something that didn’t seem entirely possible. Lowering the binoculars, Frox looked to his left, then up at Perry.
Perry had a thick salt-and-pepper beard that grew far up his cheeks. He held an assault rifle close to his slim stomach, beneath his barrel chest. The handle disappeared within a hand so large it practically looked swollen, and whenever he placed his finger on the trigger, it filled up the inside of the trigger guard.
Not that Perry needed a gun. He was huge, taller than everyone at the fort he’d named after himself but also everyone else. He could probably kill almost anyone if he caught them by surprise and got hold of them, so it was strange to sense he was spooked. It was as if Frox were witnessing a nervous grizzly bear. It was understandable because it wasn’t people that caused Perry to worry, but whatever Frox silently communicated made him regain his bearing.
“I’m good, man,” Perry said. “Just like to talk is all. Voice what’s going on in my head.”
“Yeah, I know you do.”
Perry snorted. Frox raised the binoculars again and shivered. He was chilled, even though he wore a warm weatherproof jacket. It was as if his skeleton were made of soaked wood instead of bone. He couldn’t seem to get warm no matter how many layers he wore. It occurred to him he had worn the same underwear and socks for the last two days so that probably had something to do with it. Regularly changing clothes helped a person stay warm, but it was winter, and he was outside most of the time. What could he do?
Frox chose the same jacket hunters wore, a blaze orange so strangers wouldn’t shoot him thinking he was a deer or something other than human. A downfall of the color was that it was similar to Behemoth cocoons at a certain time in their development. As long as Frox didn’t go climbing around in trees, he would be safe. With Molters about, everyone had itchy trigger fingers, so it was safer to be more noticeable. Another reason to wear a bright color was so others could find him quickly when needed, which seemed to be more often than he would have liked, but Frox understood; he reported directly to Archard.
Perry typically didn’t question Frox, but lately he had been doing it more often. Maybe it was because of how tired Frox was lately and how all pack leaders, animal or man, got challenged eventually. Frox knew Perry wouldn’t betray him. They weren’t just coworkers in the new world; they were friends, too, but poor sleep and the stress of what was demanded of him probably made Frox look as weak as he felt. Friends or not, they were both in charge of other lives. Protecting them and taking them.
It didn’t help that Frox was on the shorter side at five feet seven inches. Any dummy a few inches taller usually didn’t respect him until they got to know him, and his patience for confrontation got lesser the older he got. Frox had maintained a long mustache for decades and shaved the rest of his face, but because he hadn’t gotten much sleep lately, he had foregone his habit of shaving every day. It gave him an unkempt look and displayed a stressed demeanor that the others seemed to be picking up on. It wasn’t only Perry who had noticed.
And Frox was stressed, for many reasons, but it was mostly from the voting. It wasn’t something any of them ever wanted to do, of course, except for maybe a few with grudges who coincidentally got to decide on someone they didn’t like. But that hadn’t happened this time. The system was necessary, but that didn’t make it easy, even though, other than Archard, Frox was its main supporter.
And enforcer. Because it made sense. It wasn’t as if any of them were new to it. Many of them were allowed a vote and understood why, but the process had been more necessary lately because their numbers were dwindling. Friends of friends were being picked. That would sour anyone’s mood.
More accurately, the Draw had chosen them, but that was because they’d captured only one Molter alive this time. The task was nearly impossible anyway, and the man who was best at it had gotten himself killed recently in an attempt. What was left of Wayne had been discovered after somebody tripped over his hand still sticking up out of the ground. The Molter responsible for draining him had buried him, as they did. Since then, the cells had needed human occupants quite regularly, especially on the firing line. Frox never would have guessed that Wayne’s death, the death of just one man, would result in the need for so many more to die.
The only part of their system that gave Frox comfort was that he knew he wouldn’t be a vote any time soon, unless he committed a serious crime, which he wasn’t about to do. The higher-ups of the community were deemed important, and Archard considered Frox to be one of them. That and they still numbered in the hundreds.
Perry had nothing to be nervous about, either, but he was still nervous about it. Maybe he was correct to be because, really, how long could they actually go on like this? The biggest downfall of not being chosen was having to live with the decision, witness the looks and see the tears. Not just from those who were going to die but from those who couldn’t handle it. A few had killed themselves, adding to the number lost.
Another downfall of living was knowing you would have to witness a lot more die. Many Frox knew well. Lately he felt like he knew everyone better than he wanted to, especially because some of them would eventually end up chosen, but knowing what would happen in the future was impossible. He had to remember that. He also had to remember that the Draw had been implemented only within the last few years so it was possible to end it just as quickly. Probably not any time soon and that fact was mostly accepted by those who wanted to live. It was always a relief when they made a new enemy. It made the next Draw so much easier.
Archard always chose the group of men. Only men were picked. None who were chosen were told they were a vote, and the ones who got the most votes were informed right before they were taken to a cell. Most of the time, only one man was needed for the Draw, but recently the system had expanded beyond the firing line to Fort Perry. If an enemy presented himself, then he would almost definitely be the result of the next Draw, unless he was a pilot or had some other skill considered useful by Archard in the future.
When someone had suggested they throw women into the mix, Archard had decked him. His anger hadn’t needed to be explained. Human numbers diminished every day. The more women kept alive, the better for the species, for obvious reasons. Still, Frox wondered if there would be a day when even women might be considered. Even by Archard and especially if there was a day when there were no men left. If that day arrived, then they were all probably doomed.
Yes, much easier to choose when there was some animosity toward those chosen, if they were the obvious choices because they were thieves or murderers. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case with the poor son of a bitch below them.
“Did you like him?” Perry said.
Frox didn’t want to say, so he didn’t because it didn’t matter, but when he lowered the binoculars, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Perry was about to ask again. “Does it matter?”
“Just want to know is all.”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Otto, he was a good man.”
Frox exhaled. “Yeah, good but useless.”
Perry reacted as if Frox had said that Perry was useless, but Frox paid it no mind. No matter how disturbed he seemed, Perry understood. Frox abided by the rules set forth by Archard and implemented them with immediacy. It pained him to lose people in any way but particularly by this method
because he couldn’t show how he really felt. Frox personally hadn’t had any trouble with anyone who had been chosen so far, but any faltering, any taking of sides, could splinter the community.
Different groups often saw the other as the enemy, and they couldn’t have that. Sure, it would make the voting easier, but the fear of whoever could be next, and the thought that it was only those who everyone deemed the most unworthy and contributed the least who would be chosen, kept them all together. It kept everyone motivated to do as much as possible and do the right thing. Everyone knew what had sparked the first Draw: some fools trying to steal gasoline.
Those under Archard were a mix of locals and people from far away, but none of that mattered anymore. They were all practically foreigners because hardly anybody knew each other. Not really. Everyone had changed after the Molting, and some had needed to get to know themselves, discover who they were deep down. What was interesting was how some of the most respected people turned out to be weak or even useless, while others who didn’t stand out in any way rose and became leaders. Frox liked to think he’d been one of those people.
The days leading up to the Draw were chaotic because everyone seemed to know it was about to happen. It wasn’t like people kept their thoughts to themselves. Paranoia ensued, and some individuals pointed fingers, accused one another as children did, often to the bewilderment of those who the fingers were being pointed at. Mostly the accusations were made up, anything to take the heat off the ones in the hot seat, for this reason or that. It was all a very messy business.
The earth had changed, drastically, and not for the better. Humans were no different than any other desperate animal now and no longer at the top of the food chain, ruling as they saw fit. No, now they were practically prey animals, like common deer, and if they didn’t go through with the Draw, they’d all die, in one way or another, sooner or later, whether it be by teeth or bullets. Frox truly believed that. It was an unfortunate predicament, but he knew there was no way around it.
