The Remaining: Extinction

by D. J. Molles

  He glanced around, suddenly aware that whoever was talking to him might be trying to keep him distracted while the flankers moved up to either side so they could gun him down. Or worse, imprison him again and torture him. But there was no movement and no rustling.

  “Look out and see for yourself, Abe. I’m standing out in the open. Don’t fucking shoot me.”

  Trap, it’s a trap, just like I knew it was a trap before.

  Abe kept looking right and left, waiting to see the movement of a flanker slipping through the trees. And this stupid ploy to get him to look out…

  “You want me to look out?” Abe said, hating how his voice reflected his weakening body. “So you can put a bullet through my brain? Fuck you.”

  Abe leaned left, poking the .45-caliber pistol out from cover and cranking off three rounds. Save the rest, he told himself. You have six more to fight with when it comes down to it. And you will fight. You will go down fighting. With six bullets. Like an old-time cowboy. Six-shooter style.

  His heart was hammering noisily. It sounded almost mechanical in his ears. But he could hear the woods well enough, and they were silent. No response from his three wild shots. No shuffling of feet moving for cover. No yelling or exclamations. Just the sound of the three shots echoing out through the woods and dissipating within a second or so.

  Maybe I got him, Abe thought cautiously. Stranger things have happened.

  Funny, if he’d managed to sling out that unaimed shot that travels thirty yards and strikes someone in the head—there was always stories quietly circulating around Iraq and Afghanistan about some lucky goatherd who cranked off a round from a hip-fired AK-47 from over a hundred yards away and managed to catch some very unlucky GI in the face.

  Maybe Abe was that lucky goatherd.

  Do I move or sit tight?

  If he moved, there was a chance there was someone still waiting for him to pop out and gun him down. But if he stayed still, maybe he was missing a valuable opportunity to run. What if he was that lucky? What if one of those three rounds had managed to punch a hole through his attacker’s brain? What if now was his chance to run and he was wasting it, sitting there behind cover and ruminating about the best course of action?

  Shit, shit, shit…

  Very slowly, Abe leaned to his left again, trying to keep his wounded arm from touching the ground. His neck was cranked all the way left and steadily he let an eye break the plane of the tree trunk to see out into the forest.

  Brown tree trunks. Rust-colored pine needles. Low, green bushes.

  No body lying on the ground. No movement.

  Abe realized his mistake a half second too late.

  “Drop the gun, Abe,” the voice behind him growled.

  Whoever it was must’ve known that Abe wasn’t likely to do that.

  Abe rolled quick back to his right, holding the pistol in tight, aware that if he extended his arm, the pistol might get stripped from him. But whoever it was had already thought one step ahead and as Abe turned and saw the figure standing over him—a tall man with a grizzled beard and gaunt features, not so different from himself—the man kicked out fast with his boot. Before Abe could even get the pistol on target, the toe of the man’s boot caught him on the outside of his forearm, right on the radial nerve. The pain spiked up and down his arm, turning his fingers to rubber, and the pistol tumbled clumsily out of his grip.

  Abe snatched for it, but the man was on him quick. He grabbed him by the collar and pushed him onto his back. The man’s hand was on his chest, pinning him to the ground. He was holding a pistol of his own, Abe realized, but he also had a rifle slung to his back. Abe made a desperate grab for the man’s pistol, but it was tucked in tight and not going anywhere.

  The man pulled away from Abe’s grab and then smashed a knee into Abe’s wounded shoulder. The pain nearly caused him to collapse. He couldn’t cry out. He couldn’t breathe. He could only lie there, stiff as a board, with his eyes open wide, locked onto the man standing over him. Like he was being electrocuted.

  “Stop it!” the man shouted again, and his voice was desperate. “It’s me! It’s fucking me! Do you recognize me, Abe? Do you recognize me?”

  The coursing pain retracted enough that Abe was capable of some conscious thought. The man standing over him… the tall man with the lean build, like tall men often are. The man with the slightly Southern accent. The man with the placid face and the sharp eyes, though now the face was different. Now it was shrunk of all fatty tissue. Now it was twisted with desperation and anger. Now the eyes were sunken in and there were dark circles under them. Now the face was covered with the beginnings of a wild man’s beard. Now the eyes were more than sharp. They were hard. They were cold.

  Abe knew this face. He knew it, and he didn’t know it. It was a brother and a stranger all at once.

  “Lee.” Abe’s voice came out flat. The single word was almost an accusation, rather than a realization. Because Abe wasn’t just recognizing the voice. He was trying to cram that bastard puzzle piece into places it didn’t fit and the frustration was growing, along with the realization that no matter where he put the puzzle piece of Lee being right there in front of him, he wouldn’t like the image that it created. How was Lee here? How did Lee know where to find him? Why? When?

  But most of all, if Lee was standing before him now, then where was Lucas?

  Abe’s body tightened against the pressure Lee was putting on it to control him.

  Lee must have felt it. He pushed back, his face showing strain. And some anger. Lee was making his own calculations, Abe realized. And maybe the things he was computing were not flattering to Abe. Maybe they both wanted to rip the other’s head off.

  “Where’s Lucas?” Abe said, halfway between a whisper and a growl.

  Lee’s face seemed to tremble. His eyes said it all.

  He may have felt Abe’s body shifting underneath him, but if he did, he reacted too late. Abe latched onto Lee’s arm, holding it tight to his chest while he simultaneously brought both of his legs up. Quick as a snake striking, he had one leg under Lee’s pinning arm, and the other up against Lee’s neck. Lee tried to pull out of the triangle choke hold, but Abe had sprung it too quick. He ratcheted his legs down, crossing them behind Lee’s back, creating an enormous amount of pressure on Lee’s neck.

  Lee let out a gagging noise and twisted.

  Abe rolled onto his right side, thankful that he hadn’t rolled onto his wounded shoulder.

  Lee didn’t try to get out of the triangle. It was locked too tight. But he brought one of his legs up and put the boot against Abe’s shoulder, then started hammering it with his heel. Pain brought stars to Abe’s eyes, but he stayed clear long enough to see Lee bringing the pistol up, pointing it at Abe’s face.

  Abe swept out with his hand, seizing the pistol’s slide and muzzle and yanking the aim off. At the same time, the pain from Lee’s kicks to his shoulder made his legs numb, and all of a sudden Lee was swimming out of the choke hold Abe had put on him.

  Abe still had a grip on the pistol. He yanked and wrenched, putting his body into it.

  Lee pulled the trigger. The gun fired, but the round went harmlessly into the dirt. Abe’s grip on the slide prevented it from cycling. He worked his hip, rolling onto his knees as he did, so that his back was to Lee and Lee’s gun arm was wrapped around his waist, and the angle of the pistol was suddenly too sharp for Lee to maintain a grip. The pistol slipped out.

  Abe turned, ready to smack Lee in the head with the pistol.

  Lee was rolling out of Abe’s reach, then sliding for the 1911 that he’d kicked out of Abe’s grip.

  Abe knew the spent round was still in the chamber and he would have to work the slide manually to get a new cartridge in. He also knew he wouldn’t be able to do it with his wounded left arm. He reached behind him, watched Lee slide across the ground, pine needles scattering everywhere. Lee’s reaching hand found the grip of the 1911. Abe put the slide of the pistol against the heel of
his boot and pushed. The sights caught on his heel, racking the slide back and ejecting the spent round, then slamming a new one into the chamber.

  Lee was turning, rolling onto his side, the 1911 in his grip, already getting on target.

  Abe knew he was on the defensive now. He threw himself backward, kicking his legs. He felt his back hit the ground, saw the pine tree he’d used for cover looming up over him, felt his right arm brush against the rough bark. There was the clap of a pistol and Abe saw the bark split and splinter.

  He scrambled behind the trunk of the tree. But this time he was on his back, the tree at his feet. On the other side, Lee was kneeling on his knees, but neither man could see the other with the tree directly between them. The sudden momentum of the fight was gone. Now it was back to a stalemate. On either side of the tree, the men moved like reflections of each other, though Lee was kneeling and Abe was on his back. They both were pointing their pistols out, scanning back and forth, each waiting for the other man to make the first move and pop up in his sights.

  “Where’s Lucas?” Abe rasped. It was hard to find air in his lungs enough to talk. “Did you kill him? Did you kill him, Lee?”

  There was silence from the other side of the tree. Then the sound of a few deep breaths. The man that was both strange and familiar spoke, and Abe could hear that he was gratifyingly just as out of breath as Abe himself was. “I don’t… I don’t know if he’s still alive, Abe. I shot him. Twice in the chest. He didn’t look good.”

  How did that feel? Abe’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. How was this supposed to feel? At first, it was nothing. Like being shot, Abe recalled. At first there was just a tremendous reality that seemed very unreal. Something difficult to accept. But then… Oh, there it is. There’s how it’s supposed to feel. Like something cold and sharp in your guts.

  Abe choked. Coughed. “God damn it, Lee… you sonofabitch…”

  Lee’s voice sounded far away. “I didn’t want to. He was shooting at me. What the fuck was I supposed to do, Abe? What would you have done?”

  Abe’s teeth were grinding together.

  “Why’d you send the men to kill me, Abe?” Lee’s voice went from faint to full of anger and resentment. “As long as we’re airing grievances, why don’t you tell me about that shit? You tried to have me fucking killed, you piece of shit! Then you come in here, for God knows what reason, and you expect me to welcome you with open arms? What the hell were you thinking?”

  “It wasn’t me!” Abe barked back. “It was… it was…”

  He wanted to blame it on Briggs. Place the blame squarely onto the acting president and his lapdog, Colonel Lineberger. But they hadn’t forced Abe to do it. He had objected, of course, but they had cited Lee as a nonviable asset, and technically he was. And no matter how wrong it felt, Abe had toed the line like a good soldier.

  “You broke the rules,” Abe said lamely.

  “The rules?” Lee sounded on the verge of insane laughter. “The fucking rules? Oh man, Abe. Where the fuck have you been for the last four months?” Now he did laugh. A bitter sound. “You want to talk about rules? How about common fucking decency? How about ethics? How about morals? How about not leaving the entire eastern seaboard to die while you huddle your resources out in the fucking Rockies?” Invisible behind the tree, Lee made a tired, raspberry sound. “Rules. Listen to yourself. Trying to tell me you wanted me killed over a set of goddamned rules. What about rescue? What about rebuild? What about those rules, huh? Subvenire refectus? You remember that, Abe? I followed those rules. But those weren’t the rules that Briggs wanted me to follow, so you sent men to kill me. Well I fucking killed them all and now you come knocking. You tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to think. I didn’t want to kill Lucas. I don’t want to kill you. But you keep putting me in these fucking situations, Abe. You keep forcing my hand. And I’m tired, man. I’m so, so tired. You don’t know. You just don’t fucking know.”

  “Abe…” This was a new voice from off to Abe’s left, and behind him.

  Abe twisted to look. About fifteen yards away, he could see the figure behind a tree; the only things protruding were the rifle that was aimed right at Abe and the side of the man’s face who held it. But the voice was distinct, floating through Abe’s recent memory, and the eyes were in his memories as one of the men he had sent and never heard from again.

  “Brian?” Abe said in one heavy breath. “Is that you?”

  A slight nod. Very calmly: “Why don’t we stop pointing guns at each other?”

  Abe’s head was swimming. He glanced down at his shoulder, at his side. It was a magnificent amount of blood he’d lost. Surprising that he was still up and talking. Even now the whole left side of his body was soaked in blood. It coated the surface of the pine needle carpet underneath him. And that wasn’t counting what had dripped off of him while he was running.

  Abe looked back toward the pine tree that stood as the only barrier between him and Lee. “I thought you were dead, Brian. I thought he killed you.”

  “No. We worked things out,” Tomlin said from his position of cover.

  “I…” Abe blinked rapidly. His scalp felt hot. His extremities cold. That’s not good, he thought.

  Lee’s voice. “Why are you here, Abe? You tell me that. You tell it true and don’t try to fucking lie to me. Then we’ll talk. You lie to me and I’m going to kill you. No questions asked.”

  Abe felt his lungs getting heavy, and it was hard to draw enough oxygen from the air. His vision was down to little pinpoints in front of him. He could barely even feel the pistol in his grip anymore, and he could see it wavering. He was on the verge of passing out. I lost too much blood. Too much. Too much blood. I’m going to pass out, and then they’re going to kill me. I can’t believe that Lucas is dead. And now they’re going to kill me. I’ll be dead. This is the last thing I will see. Fucking pine trees in Fort Bragg. God damn it.

  He laid his head back and looked up. Above him the sky was clear blue.

  “I… uh… I brought your GPS back.”

  Then he groaned and collapsed.

  FIVE

  ALLIES

  LEE HESITATED, CROUCHED A yard or so on the other side of the tree from Abe. He heard the words, then the groaning sound of someone losing consciousness, and then silence. He leaned to his right, so he could see around the tree, but all he could see was Tomlin, standing in cover several yards away, rifle still trained in the direction of Abe.

  Lee scrambled to his feet and pied the edge of the tree quickly. He could see Abe’s form lying on the ground. It was moving. More twitching, actually. In that way that people do when their mind has disconnected from their body for a moment. It was difficult to fake that. But he wasn’t putting anything past Abe at this point. He wanted to trust someone that he had considered his friend, but that ship had sailed a long time ago. And Lee knew better than to trust.

  He closed the distance, still pointing the pistol at Abe. The same pistol that he’d knocked from the man’s hands only moments ago. His pace quickened as he got closer, and when he was within a few feet of him he kicked the pistol out of Abe’s limp hand and sent it skittering across the forest floor.

  Abe remained on the ground, his eyes wiggling weirdly underneath his eyelids. Chest hitching up and down in an unnatural rhythm.

  Tomlin emerged from his spot of cover. “He’s gonna bleed out.”

  Lee stared down at his old friend across the tops of his pistol sights. One pull of the trigger would end it all right now. And even if he didn’t do anything, Abe’s blood pressure was clearly dipping to dangerous levels. Already his dark complexion was turning to an ashen color and the blood was standing out in stark contrast. Lee didn’t have to pull the trigger. He just had to sit there and let it happen.

  “Lee… we gotta do something.”

  “Why?” Lee looked at his partner. Another friend. One that he had believed betrayed him, but had proved himself a friend. Did Abe deserve the same consideration? In
the case of Tomlin, he’d been sent along with other teams to try and assassinate Lee. But he’d never tried himself. He made himself known and he suffered through Lee’s interrogations and he proved himself to be a friend.

  Abe, on the other hand, had actively tried to kill Lee. And that was a very different animal.

  “What about your GPS?” Tomlin said quickly. He pointed to the base of the tree where the fight had occurred. “Check in his bag.”

  Lee looked at the bag and hesitated for a moment. Should he rush? Should he look for proof? Did it matter in the end? But he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know the truth. But he also realized that he didn’t want to find the GPS. He didn’t want to prove Abe and Lucas right. Because he’d killed Lucas, and Abe was dying in front of him. And the weight of all of that was a terrible thing.

  He moved to the bag that lay tossed against the tree. He yanked it off the ground and unzipped the main compartment, then upended it so the contents went spilling out onto the ground. He shook the bag a few times to make sure the main compartment was empty, and when he did, a familiar piece of disassembled electronics came tumbling out.

  Lee dropped the bag, almost shocked to see the GPS device lying on the ground at his feet, the power unit disconnected and hanging. But it was there. It was not destroyed. It was not in Briggs’s hands. It was not halfway across the country. It was right there in front of him.

  Unless it was a trick.

  Unless this was a different GPS device.

  “He needs help,” Tomlin said, his voice urgent.

  Lee looked back at the fast-fading figure of Abe. He reached down swiftly and snatched up the GPS device. “If it works, we’ll save him.”

  Anger flashed across Tomlin’s face. “He brought it to you! We can always tinker with it later!”

  “It’s no good to me if it doesn’t work!” Lee shouted. “How do I even know it’s mine?”