Harden (Lee Harden Series (The Remaining Universe) Book 1)

by DJ Molles

  Julia squatted on her haunches by a dumpster on the side of a Dollar General building. She peered down the road where the blackness of night had swallowed everything up.

  Trees.

  Forest.

  She was going to have to go in there.

  Primals might like to nest in the city, but they hunted the woods just as much as the city. They hunted wherever prey might be. And Julia held no illusions: she was the prey.

  The American countryside had become something like how she imagined the African savannah might feel to a lonely traveler on foot—rife with the potential to be ripped to shreds.

  Tomlin and Carl, she told herself. You gotta do it for them.

  She stood up and leaned briefly on the side of the dumpster. The metal was cool and she felt it through the sleeve of her shirt. She held her breath for a four count and listened past the thrumming of her blood in her ears, and then she crossed the street at a soft jog.

  That was the last building. The last of the town. Now it was just the woods.

  She made it to the other side and slowed so that she could pick her way into the woods without making too much noise.

  She stopped inside the treeline and gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the deeper darkness.

  The shapes and the shadows shot up and around, all skewed and asymmetrical, and it was impossible to see what was there ahead of you until it moved. A primal could be hiding within plain sight of her and she wouldn’t know until it started charging her.

  She sniffed at the air.

  Fallen leaves and dew and bark.

  The rustle of some branches in the breeze.

  Stillness.

  She kept moving.

  She felt how wide her eyes were stretched, trying to let in all the light they possibly could.

  After about a half an hour, she came to the wide open area that she guessed was some sort of quarry. There were pits dug into the sandy soil, and mountains of it piled high and pale in the starlight. A manmade industrial pond sat to one side, glittering faintly with the rippling of the wind. Earthmoving equipment sat abandoned and forgotten.

  She stayed for a moment, staring at this strange Martian scene.

  She was about halfway to the airfield now.

  Julia was about to step out again when she heard a cry.

  It sent electric shivers straight up her spine, spiking out to her hands and fingers, and she froze where she was like she’d been turned to stone.

  Be smart, she told herself, even as her body started to react to it with a slamming heart and burning lungs. Think. Use your head.

  Sounds could be deceptive. She knew that. Sometimes they could seem like they were right on top of you, when in fact they were much farther away.

  And she knew that the primals didn’t make a habit of calling when they were actively pursuing prey. When they were hunting for something, then yes, they would call to communicate. But when they’d locked in—then they stayed silent.

  Julia realized she’d sunk to her knees.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she heard the words on her lips, hardly louder than the rustling of the breeze.

  It’s not close. And they haven’t found you. If they’d found you, they wouldn’t be calling.

  It was logical. But it didn’t make her want to move her feet.

  You gotta move, she told herself.

  She worked her grip on the rifle. Felt the ache in her knuckles. Thought she heard something behind her. Whipped around to look, but it was only dark and still woods.

  Acutely aware of how alone she was in this dark, dangerous world, Julia forced herself to her feet.

  She began to circumvent the sandy quarry, moving to her right.

  She stopped every ten paces or so in order to listen to the forest around her. A few times, her courage almost gave out and she felt like her feet had grown roots, but it never lasted for more than a second or two.

  The quarry was about ten minutes behind her when she smelled smoke again.

  Not cigarette smoke this time, but wood smoke.

  Were they burning a fire?

  Foolish, she thought, thinking of the primals.

  Firelight could be visible from a long way off. And any unusual sights, sounds, or smells could draw unwanted attention.

  After a few more minutes of slow, steady movement through the woods, Julia caught the faint flicker of firelight through the trees.

  She felt a faint sense of victory amid the tension and the fear.

  She craned her neck around, until she had a good fix on where that tiny little tongue of light was coming from, then oriented herself to it.

  She moved in the direction of the light.

  She kept her rifle up higher than she had before. Her steps had more tension in them. She tried not to stare at the light of the fire. Even that little bit of light could affect the acuity of her vision.

  A highway materialized out of the gloom. She saw it ahead of her. If her mental image of the map was correct, that would be Highway 51. And directly across that road, stood the airfield.

  The fire was clearer now. She saw the individual flames licking up from what looked like a trash can or barrel.

  She also saw faces, seeming to hover, detached, over the fire.

  She was too far away to identify them.

  The closer she got, the slower she moved. She chose her footing carefully, and kept the trunks of trees between her and the faces she saw around the fire.

  A small thrill went through her. A dangerous feeling.

  She could see them, but they could not see her.

  They did not know that she was there.

  She could kill them right now…

  Shots’ll draw primals, she admonished herself. And you’re a long run from home base.

  She found an open spot in the brush, right at the edge of the tree line. She now had a clear line of sight across the highway to the airfield. She perceived the fence, but it was easy to see through. Beyond it, a building. It was off the side of this building that the fire burned.

  Two figures standing near the fire.

  And two other figures sitting. Their backs against the wall of the building.

  She felt a little spark of hope, but was careful not to give it too much credence.

  Hope could make you hurt.

  Things rarely worked out the way you hoped.

  She fished a pair of compact binoculars off of her chest rig and brought them to her face with one hand. Found the fire. Twisted the focus knobs.

  The two men around the fire came into focus first. They both had dark hair and dark beards. One had an AK on his back. The other held an M4 lazily in his arms. She saw their mouths moving, but couldn’t hear their voices. They were speaking quietly over the fire.

  She panned down.

  The two sitting against the wall.

  Hands bound behind their backs.

  Tomlin and Carl.

  Julia felt elation, like oxygen breathed onto that spark of hope.

  She almost cracked a smile, but before it could find a way to her face, it died enroute.

  Tomlin and Carl.

  Captured.

  By unknown gunmen.

  Were there more than just these two?

  And how long did Julia have to figure out how to get Tomlin and Carl out of there?

  She found herself cursing under her breath again as her mind suddenly sprang in seven different directions. She was still mumbling curses when a spear of light shot out from her right and she snapped her head in that direction.

  Down the highway.

  Headlights.

  There was a vehicle coming.

  ELEVEN

  ─▬▬▬─

  STRANGERS

  Tomlin sat against the cold brick wall, and he waited.

  He waited, and he observed.

  Beside him, Carl was very still.

  Across from them, the trash can, glowing with fire and spilling an acrid-smelling gray smoke. Their two captors stood aro
und the fire, one facing the road, and one facing the prisoners.

  So far, they’d gotten no answers. Tomlin had asked a question once, and he’d lost a tooth for it.

  Still, Tomlin had managed to extrapolate some things on his own.

  First, there had been more captors initially, which made sense, since Tomlin recalled no less than a dozen people shooting at them during the ambush. After they’d been captured, most of those people had departed, and they had been guarded at the airfield by five people.

  Then three more of them had left, departing in an old, brown Suburban with a cylinder that ticked like a time-bomb. Which left them with their current two guards.

  The second thing that Tomlin knew, was that these two guards were disciplined. They never had to talk amongst themselves to figure out what to do, when to give water, how to give it, or how to administer piss breaks. They did it like it all had been laid out beforehand.

  They never laughed. Never joked between themselves. Their guarding of the two prisoners was almost manic, and often bordered on paranoia.

  If Tomlin didn’t know any better, he would say that these two guards were terrified of the men they held captive.

  All this thinking had led him to the question that had gotten his tooth knocked out.

  “Are you with Briggs?” he’d demanded, and then he’d watched his captors for any tell.

  But, no tell had been forthcoming. Only the flash of a buttstock and then ringing in his ears and blood in his mouth.

  Smooth move, Brian, Tomlin had chided himself as he spit his tooth out amid dirt and gravel.

  So after that he’d stayed silent.

  He knew two things.

  Suspected a few others.

  They hadn’t given him much to work with.

  Two guys, both mid-thirties. Both of them were dark-haired, with beards. The easiest differentiation between them was that one of them was dark-skinned, and the other light-skinned.

  The light-skinned one smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, but not often. It seemed a nightly ritual. Tomlin hadn’t seen him smoke one during the day.

  He was smoking one now as he and his companion stood around the trash can fire. The warm smell of tobacco mingled with the harsh stink of the fire, which was built with scraps of office furniture.

  Tomlin thought it was stupid to have a fire. And he especially didn’t like having his hands tied behind his back while these two idiots burned a fucking signal to every primal within a mile of them.

  He wanted badly to communicate to Carl, but knew that he couldn’t.

  The two captors talked amongst themselves, but they were still paying attention to their captives. Still checked them often. They spoke in low tones so that Tomlin knew he’d be heard if he tried to whisper to Carl.

  They’ll make a mistake, Tomlin told himself. Eventually. Just keep your eyes peeled.

  It was through this fog of thoughts that two headlights twinkled between trees, and pierced the gloom of Tomlin’s mind.

  He blinked a few times, wondering if he was seeing things.

  But no.

  There.

  Out beyond the runway, passed the fence and through the thin skein of trees.

  A pair of headlights flashed and drew closer.

  He felt his heartrate and respiration coming up from an idle.

  Was this a good thing or a bad thing?

  At the fire, the guard whose back was turned to Tomlin and Carl caught sight of the headlights and stirred. He mumbled something to the other man, who glanced quickly over his shoulder, and then back to the captives.

  It was the light-skinned one. The guy with the cigarette burned down to a nub between his lips. “Both of you. On your knees. Now.”

  Tomlin and Carl twisted their bodies to get their knees underneath them. In the gloom, and in the movement, Tomlin managed to catch Carl’s eye.

  The other man’s gaze was hard and intense and it seemed poised and ready to act.

  Good.

  The two of them got their knees under them and then waited.

  Out on the highway, the headlights were drawing closer. Slowing down now.

  The two guards shuffled behind Tomlin and Carl.

  “Keep your eyes on the fire,” the darker one said.

  Tomlin and Carl did as they were told.

  Tomlin watched the flames dance. Knew that they were destroying his night vision.

  Then his vision winked out.

  Cloth. Over his eyes.

  Blackness.

  He felt the blindfold being tied tightly at the back of his head.

  He didn’t like that. Not one bit. Reminded him too much of a firing squad.

  “Both of you stay still,” their captor said. “This is the wrong time to do anything stupid.”

  Tomlin heard the vehicle approaching now.

  Big vehicle.

  The roll of tires on concrete.

  And…

  The ticking of a faulty cylinder.

  Our friends are back.

  The engine was slowing.

  The lightest squeak of brakes.

  The rattle of chain link as a gate was drawn aside.

  Then the engine rumbled up again, and this time Tomlin heard the tires on gravel, and it was growing very close now, close enough that for a grim moment he thought they were going to get run over.

  But then the vehicle stopped. The engine went into an idle.

  The faulty cylinder ticked the seconds and half-seconds.

  Tomlin waited.

  He couldn’t observe. But he could listen.

  A door opened. Then closed.

  Feet on concrete.

  The crunch of boot heels traversed the empty space in front of Tomlin, and then stopped. Tomlin could not see the person, but he could feel the shadow of them, as they blocked the radiant heat of the fire.

  No one spoke for several beats.

  Then: “Which one of you is Lee Harden?”

  The voice.

  Heavily accented.

  If Tomlin were to take a guess, he’d say Spanish was the speaker’s first language.

  Between Tomlin and Carl, there was only a moment’s hesitation, and then they both happened to come to the same idea at the same exact time.

  “Who?”

  Another moment of silence.

  The slight chuff of a snicker.

  “Fine,” the stranger’s voice said. “Take them both.”

  ***

  “Shit.” Julia breathed the word. She watched the red eyes of the vehicle’s taillights disappearing rapidly down the road, and then they winked out of existence as it turned into a curve.

  She had the ridiculous urge to get up and chase after the vehicle.

  Gone. They’re gone.

  The strangers had piled Tomlin and Carl both into that old Suburban and driven off, their tires chirping as they hit the asphalt, heading away from Hurtsboro.

  They’re gone, and I have no fucking clue where.

  Suddenly she felt the loneliness of her position. With the vehicle gone, and the distant light of the trash can fire now extinguished, and all the human beings that had occupied her thoughts now fading in the distance, she felt abruptly like she was cut loose and adrift in the space between planets.

  I’ve got to get back to Abe and Lee.

  She started moving.

  The distance between her and the basement of their hideout seemed to have grown. Stretched. Become continental.

  She knew that it was still only a few miles.

  But they were long, slow miles, and her fear continued to put the spurs to her. She had to willfully resist the urge to begin running all the way back to the hideout. Running would be noisy. The primals might hear her. And she knew they were in the area.

  Her fear began to boil down into panic.

  She’d heard the primals calling to each other.

  And then not heard them again.

  When you couldn’t hear them calling—that was when they were right behind you.


  She became religious as she moved, the words coming out in the huffs of her breath: “God, please get me back. God, please get me back.”

  The street that preceded their hideout was like crossing the finish line of a marathon.

  When her feet hit pavement, she felt her whole body give up the tension of fear that had gripped her. She was close. So close, that it seemed nothing bad could happen.

  But as she reached the basement door, she noticed four bullet holes in it.

  Three in the body of the wooden door, and one through the glass.

  All four appeared to have been fired from within the basement, directed at something outside.

  Julia drew back from the door.

  Shaking hands gripped her rifle. Staring at the door, trying to piece it all together, trying to make sense of it, to form some logical and linear course of events that would hopefully explain away what she was seeing.

  What had Abe been shooting at?

  People? Or primals?

  And were they still here?

  Shit, shit, shit…

  She put her back to the wall of the house and looked behind her, checked the nearby overgrown yards, and the nearby houses, sitting in amongst chest-high weeds with their roofs charred black and their windows broken and their insides gutted from fire or looting.

  Who was there?

  And was Abe still alive?

  Was Lee?

  “Julia?” a voice hissed.

  From inside the basement.

  In any other circumstance Julia would have been confident that the whisper belonged to Abe Darabie. However, in that moment, she wondered if you really could correctly identify someone by their whisper?

  She chose not to respond.

  Her rifle was up, without her thinking about it.

  The optic filled her vision, the small red dot hovering right where someone’s chest would be if they came through.

  “Julia!” Maybe-Abe’s voice said, louder this time, and more stern. “Get the fuck in here. It’s okay. We got company. Don’t fuckin’ shoot them.”

  It’s a trick!

  She thought she heard something behind her.

  She twisted to look, but there was nothing there.

  She snapped back to the door, her finger going to the trigger out of sheer jumpiness.

  “No!” she called out. “Whoever’s in there, come out here where I can see you! Come out of the basement with your hands up!”