Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2

by D W McAliley

  Truth be told, he wasn't really sure how he would have answered it—and that scared him even more.

  Ch. 54

  Mobile

  Mike opened his eyes suddenly and sat up. He was confused and when he blinked, it felt like he had sand in his eyelids. A sharp pain answered when he tried to lift his left hand to wipe his face, and he hissed sharply.

  "It's okay, Mike," Alyssa's voice said soothingly off to his right. "We're safe. You're safe, and everything's okay. Just relax."

  Mike finally raised his right hand and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to clear the faint fogginess that lingered in his head. The sharp, stabbing pain in his left arm had eased to a dull, aching throb. He pulled himself gingerly into a sitting position and swung his legs around to the right to face Alyssa. As he did so, though, he tottered as a wave of vertigo swept over him and made the room spin like top. He felt thin and weak and cold, which was probably the most startling thing. Mike was always the one person sweating when everyone else in the room shivered.

  And now he was cold enough to pull the thin blanket up around his shoulders as far as possible, because he was shivering uncontrollably.

  "Are you okay?" Alyssa asked softly, putting her hand gently on his shoulder.

  Mike nodded as best he could, but, still disoriented and confused, all he could manage was a dry croak, "Where are we?"

  Alyssa helped him prop himself up and handed him a small glass of water. Mike looked at the water, but he was too tired to care where it came from or whether or not it was clean. The water tasted slightly cool and faintly of a plastic bottle—it was glorious. He drank greedily and almost choked as half the water went down the wrong pipe. Mike coughed and sputtered for a moment, and despite the pain, he drank again.

  Alyssa took the cup from Mike and helped him lay back down. She covered his shoulders again with the blanket, and his shivering subsided a little. "We're at the Whitewater Center," she answered. "What's the last thing you remember?"

  Mike blinked again as he tried to sort through his jumbled memories. It was such an odd question to be asked, and even odder that he was having so much trouble answering it. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders slightly. "The last thing I remember clearly is cutting the fence at the refugee camp," Mike answered. "I cut my arm pretty bad, and then I think I passed out from blood loss. Everything after that is a little hazy."

  Alyssa nodded and rubbed his right arm reassuringly. "Well, the important thing is you're awake."

  Mike chuckled. "You sound like that's some kind of surprise."

  Alyssa's face paled, and she looked down at her hands. "Mike, you got real sick there for a while. Your arm was all swollen and red, and your fever started climbing. I went out with Alex and searched a few houses that he knew were empty. We found antibiotics in one and gave you some, but they were expired, and I don't know if they helped or hurt things. Tylenol and Ibuprofen barely kept your fever in control."

  When she looked back up at him, large tears were rolling down her cheeks. "Even with all of that, you just kept getting worse. The infection was killing you, and we knew the only way to save your life was to cut off your arm, but none of us could do it. When you stopped eating, we all thought you were done."

  Alyssa faded into ragged sobs, and Mike shifted over to the cot she was laying on. He put his thin right arm around her shoulders and looked down at the bony left hand in his lap. His forearm was still wrapped in a large gauze bandage, but his wrist and fingers were exposed enough that he could see nearly all the flesh had dissolved off them.

  He wiggled his fingers slowly and frowned. They seemed sluggish, as if the digits somehow had forgotten the familiar feel of his mind controlling them. They moved, but only when he focused on them as hard as he could, and even then the response wasn't complete. He wanted to make a fist, and instead he ended with a loose curl of tangled knuckles. When he tried to splay them out wide, they went straight, but pulled sharply to the left and trembled. Pain lanced all the way from his wrist to his shoulder, and he hissed sharply again.

  "So how long was I down?" Mike asked, his voice a little stronger.

  "We cut our way out of the camp on August twenty-seventh," Alyssa said softly. "By the time we got here a few days later, your arm was already infected. Your fever spiked a few days later. We kept giving you crushed up Tylenol and ibuprofen, and you’d sip water now and then, but you’ve been sick for more than three weeks. A couple of days ago your fever finally broke for good in your sleep. But today is the first time you've sat up in more than three weeks. It's September twenty something, I think."

  The room spun slightly again as those numbers sank in. Mike shook his head and immediately wished he hadn't. He'd lost almost a month and nearly died in the process. A thousand different thoughts fought each other as he tried to find something to say, something to do. Then his stomach gurgled and growled, deciding the issue for him.

  "I'm hungry," Mike said firmly as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "Is there anything to eat?"

  Alyssa nodded, and standing beside him, she steadied him with her arm. "There's still some soup left that should be good. Are you sure you should be up and on your feet, though?"

  Mike chuckled softly. "Alyssa, if I don't get on my feet now," he said leaning heavily against her as he took his first few steps, "I'm gonna lay down on my back again. And this time I probably won't be getting up."

  Alyssa breathed a heavy and meaningful sigh and supported Mike's weight as he took a few shaky steps. He couldn't help but laugh again. "I guess I could have found an easier way to get your arms around me," he said lightly.

  Alyssa poked him his ribs and half growled back at him, "I just spent the better part of three weeks helping keep you bathed and hydrated. Not to mention cleaning and changing the bandage on your arm."

  Mike grunted. "I guess you've probably been about as close as you'd like to be and then some."

  Alyssa smiled and patted Mike's shoulder fondly. "I wouldn't go that far. I mean, you did save my life, after all."

  Mike chose not to answer that, and he chose not to acknowledge how warm his cheeks were feeling suddenly. Instead, he simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other without taking them both to the floor in the process.

  Ch.55

  Wheels

  Eric straightened and knuckled the small of his back. He'd managed to field dress the deer, though it wasn't easy—this part of the hunt never was. The buck was big, near the prime of his maturity, and he was heavy. He'd already carried the liver, kidneys, and heart up the hill to an old and overgrown logging road so that all he was left with was the carcass itself. Normally, he would have split the deer into quarters to make it easier to pack out of the woods, but Nanny had asked him to keep this one whole. They could stretch and tan the hide to use for clothing and for harnesses to guide the two horses.

  That meant packing the thing out whole.

  After studying the deer and the prospects of the trek back to the house for a minute, Eric took a deep breath, bent, and hoisted the hollowed out carcass onto his shoulders. It was heavy, and it made his knees and hips hurt as he turned and carefully trudged up the leaf-littered hill. He slipped and slid more than once, but he finally made it up to the logging road and dropped the deer into a slightly modified garden cart. He set the bag with the organs he'd saved into the hollowed out body cavity; his bow went on top of the carcass. Eric bent, grabbed the twin handles of the cart, and started walking up the road.

  Rain started falling harder, and the drops that fell from the canopy overhead were fat and cold against the back of his neck. His breath steamed slightly, but he had already worked up more than a sweat. The road wasn't easy to walk as it angled up the long hillside to the plateau above, but it was much easier than trying to dodge the trunks and stumps among the trees.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Eric broke through the trees and stepped out onto the massive field that stretched across the other side of Cutler's Run
for nearly a half mile to the big road. He headed across the field of dried soybeans to a small depression era shotgun house. A pair of giant walnut trees shaded the back half of the house and the back yard where it faced the soybean field.

  By the time he stopped and reached up to tap on the bottom corner of the back door, the rain was coming down in steady sheets. He waited a few moments and then tapped a little louder. There was a muffled voice from inside and the sound of feet shuffling. After a moment, the wooden inner door opened, and Aunt Betsy's frame was silhouetted by the flickering light of a hurricane lamp on the small table behind her. She had an unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette in her fingers and the lines from an oxygen tank running up to her nose.

  "That you, Doc?" she asked.

  "Yes, Aunt Betsy," Eric answered, "it's me. I got a buck in the cart, so spread the word around to the rest of the Run. We'll have a barbecue tomorrow, or a stew if it keeps raining like this. Everyone's welcome to come that wants to come."

  "I'll let the boys know and they'll tell the rest," Aunt Betsy said. "You want to come inside and get warm? I just put a little wood in the stove."

  Eric shook his head. "I've got to get the deer home and on ice. Besides, I'd just be getting dry to get wet again. Might as well get home now and do it once."

  Aunt Betsy nodded and took a long drag off her cigarette. "Well, get home quick. You stay out long in this it'll put the death in ya. And keep your eyes open, son."

  Aunt Betsy was already on the other side of a closed door before Eric could answer. He grabbed the cart and headed up to the broad, flat surface of the unmarked road. He made his way down to the big bend with the cedar tree where Nanny and Granddaddy's driveway spilled out onto the black top in a wash of white sand and old, deeply worn ruts.

  He turned onto the fine sand road and walked leaning slightly forward, the wind driving the rain into the right side of his face. The driveway was a little more than a quarter of a mile long, and this morning Eric felt every single inch of it as he pulled the cart over the wet, heavy sand. By the time he crested he last low dike before the gate, he was drenched as much with sweat as he was with rain.

  Thirty yards out from the gate itself, he passed the first grave. He stopped at the third makeshift cross in the sand, and stared at it for a long moment. His left hand drifted up to his neck and felt the leather chord with four metal bottle caps, each with a hole through the middle. This was the first one, though, and it still haunted his dreams from time to time. In his sleep some nights, he could hear the shots and smell the gun smoke and blood in the air. Eric shook his head and started down the road again. He didn't stop at the other graves, though he'd dug three of them himself. They all bothered him in their own way, but none had troubled his dreams like the first one; none had been as difficult to shake.

  As he got closer to the gate, a voice called out, "Is that you, Mr. Eric?"

  Eric shook his head ruefully. "Yeah, Steven, it's me," he replied. "You're supposed to use the codes remember? And don't call me mister."

  "Sorry, Mr. Eric," Steven answered. "You get a deer?"

  Eric turned and glanced in the cart. "Gee, can't get anything by you, Steven. You're a regular detective. How have things been around here?"

  "Quiet," Steven said, looking at the deer's antlers. "Rain's keeping everyone inside who isn't out on duty somewhere. Ms. Christina was looking for you earlier."

  "I left her a note," Eric said more harshly than he'd intended. "She knew where I was."

  Steven nodded. "She said as much, Mr. Eric, but she seemed worried or scared. Maybe angry, I don't know. Did you two get in a fight or something?"

  Eric's jaw clenched. "Look Steven, I like you. But you've got to learn that some things just ain't any of your business."

  Steven shrugged. "You think I can have the horns when you cut them off?" he asked. "That's bigger than any deer I've killed. Bigger than any deer I've ever seen, really."

  "We'll see, Steven," Eric said, and he grabbed the handles of the cart again.

  Steven pulled a small key from inside the neck of his shirt and unlocked the padlock on the gate. He swung the metal gate open wide enough to let Eric pull the cart through; then he closed and chained it again.

  "Will you come get me when they cook the tenderloin?" Steven asked. "I've been out here all morning, and I'm hungry."

  Eric chuckled. "I'll come get you myself so you can eat it while it's hot. Now keep your eyes open and your mouth shut."

  "Yes sir, Mr. Eric," Steven said, and he reached up to tip his cap slightly.

  The younger guys on the Run had shown him a certain level of respect since he'd shed blood in defense of the community. The first incident had made him something of an unwilling celebrity, and the other three had only added to that. Two men had been caught poaching on Brant's herd, and they'd tried to shoot their way out of it. The last one had stumbled on Eric while he was fishing in the river and drew down on him. Eric got his shot off second, but the stranger missed.

  Eric didn’t miss.

  Ch.56

  Never the Question

  Lt. Commander Marcus Attledge sat in the folding metal chair, his arms crossed over his chest. He stoically refused to acknowledge the thick, ammonia stench of old urine and soured sweat.

  "I don't really want to be here," Marcus said as the silence stretched between them. "I'm not sure if you believe that or not, but it's true. I'd rather be just about anywhere on earth right now other than this room."

  The man in the chair facing him laughed a sick, dry cackle. He had dark bags under his eyes and his face was thinner than it should have been. It looked as if the skin was stretched too thin over his skull. For a few moments he shook his head violently from side to side. Finally, he fixed Marcus with a trembling, near rabid stare. The man's hands were zip-tied together in front of him as well as secured to a metal loop in the center of his seat with another zip tie.

  "You could stop it," the man said after a moment, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. "Don't kid yourself. If you wanted to, you could stop it."

  "You're right," Marcus replied without hesitation. "But I won't. I have orders."

  The man bared his teeth in a snarl. "So do I."

  "Do you remember the last time you slept?" Marcus asked, shifting tactics.

  The man blinked and sat back as much as he could, his hands immobilized as they were. His tongue darted out to wet his lips a few times, and his eyes narrowed. "Is this a trick question?" he asked, his voice sharp.

  Marcus shook his head slowly. "No trick. Just curious. I have it written down, if you'd like to know."

  The man's head twitched a few times, but finally he nodded.

  "A little more than seventy nine hours," Marcus answered. "This is the longest stretch yet. How are you feeling?"

  The prisoner clenched his jaw, and his eyes briefly rolled back in his head. He blinked and shook himself hard, then glared daggers at Marcus. "You won't break me," he growled in a hoarse rasp.

  "Yes," Marcus said softly, "we will. Whether we get anything useful out of you is a different story entirely, but we will break you. In the end, everyone breaks."

  The man started to laugh but broke down into ragged, hacking coughs. Small tears ran from the corners of his eyes, but they were from exertion more than any pain or emotion. He looked like he might snarl at Marcus' hand as he extended a small cup of water, but the prisoner drank greedily enough. He sputtered as some of the water went down the wrong way, but he kept drinking.

  When the small cup was empty, Marcus put it under his seat. "Who did you receive orders from?"

  The prisoner's eyes rolled slightly, but his rabid snarl returned. "I've already told you that."

  Marcus nodded. "Yes, you have. And now we'll see if you give us a consistent answer or not. Who did you receive orders from? Who was in charge."

  The prisoner cackled a hoarse laugh. "Two different questions, two different answers. I told you already, but I didn't. The Deputy Secretary, he
was the one you had to worry about. He would have a quiet conversation with someone who was just gone the next day."

  Marcus was careful not to let anything show on his face, but he began taking notes furiously. This was the first time the prisoner had spoken about anyone being in charge. Sometimes the names that were repeated most often were the important ones, but other times it was the random bit of information that slipped out once and was never uttered again that could be the key.

  "The Deputy Secretary?" Marcus asked carefully when the prisoner ran down and his head drooped.

  "What?" the man asked, looking around confused.

  "You said the Deputy Secretary, but didn't finish the thought," Marcus answered.

  "DHS," the man mumbled, and his head drooped forward again.

  "Should we revive him, sir?" The Chief asked from the door of the room.

  Marcus shook his head. “Carry him back to the cell and put him to bed," the Lt. Commander said softly. "Give him two hours, then turn on the speakers. We'll need some time to try and track this down, and it'll be good to get a fresh start, see if this shakes out again."

  The Chief nodded and turned to give the orders to the two guards standing out in the hall while Marcus wrote some last notes on his pad before closing the thick leather binder and locking it. The key to the secure portfolio was on a chain around Marcus' neck next to his dog tags. The cool feel of the metal against his skin still wasn't familiar enough for him not to notice it when he slipped the necklace back under the neck of his undershirt.

  As he stepped out of the interrogation room, a familiar feeling like a film of disgust settled over Marcus. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, but bore it as best he could. “Such are the burdens of duty and responsibility,” he thought to himself.