by D. J. Molles
Sam felt relief flood him so hard, his knees started to wobble. “Ms. Jenny?” he called out, his voice shaky and cracking.
Ms. Jenny looked at him from where she’d stepped out of the shipping container. She tilted her head slightly, like an animal hearing a strange noise. And Deuce was still at Sam’s leg barking incessantly. Sam nudged the dog with his leg, trying to get him to be quiet.
“Deuce! Shut up! It’s just Ms. Jenny!”
But Deuce was unconvinced. He was barking so hard that his entire body was almost lifting off the ground every time he did it.
Abby was still peering around the corner, but now she was shaking her head. “Sam…” Her voice wavered.
Sam raised his voice, trying to be heard over the dog’s barking. “Ms. Jenny? Are you o—”
Then Ms. Jenny made a noise that she’d never made before, but one that was so very familiar to Sam. And it made every muscle in his body lock up. The electric shock again, but this time wholly unpleasant. Terrifying. Gut-wrenching.
She had crossed half the distance before Sam realized what was happening.
Deuce was snarling, still leaning against Sam’s leg, refusing to run and leave his two human companions by themselves. At the corner of the building, Abby started to scream. And Ms. Jenny was making that sound, that sound, that horrible sound.
Sam snapped his rifle up and cranked off a single round without thinking. Ms. Jenny reached out for him, only a few lunging strides away. The single round shot out of the rifle and it lanced through the air, perfectly aimed, and snapped right through the bone of her forehead.
She landed at Sam’s feet, still twitching.
Camp Ryder was a mess of activity. Even with the Black Hawk helicopter and the Marines’ truck both gone from the Square where they’d been parked, with everyone running around, it still seemed crowded.
Everything had been rushed. She’d barely been able to wrap her head around it when she turned around and the Marines were gone and Lee was in the helicopter, already lifting off the ground. She felt something pull loose in her, like it had been tethered to the belly of the aircraft and now was yanked out of whack. The feeling of anger that she’d had against Lee, the feeling of coldness toward him, was suddenly crippled and then there was only the fear that he would not be coming back.
But there was no time for her. No time for Lee. The people stood around, not knowing what to do, formulating plans of their own, many of which wouldn’t be divergent. All the big guys with the guns were gone, and now it was just civilians, looking to her, though she didn’t want them to. Waiting for her to knit them all together and come up with a workable plan.
They didn’t like the workable plan. They didn’t know Fort Bragg or the people in it. They didn’t trust them. Lee was wrong. Angela was wrong. Marie was wrong. It was dangerous. It was foolhardy.
Their objections were numerous.
But when Angela nodded to them, heard them, and then told them the plain truth of the matter, the reality of the situation, so bluntly put to them as Lee had put it to her, suddenly their objections were not so numerous. She assured them it was not permanent. She assured them that the people from Fort Bragg were worthy of their trust—though she didn’t know any of them except Carl, and him only in passing for the last twelve hours. She assured them that this was the best course of action.
They were assured, although begrudgingly.
Now they were milling about, gathering the things they feared they might never see again, trying to prepare themselves for some exodus to Fort Bragg. And as much as she liked the sound of it not being permanent, she knew that, in a way, it was. Maybe they would come back to Camp Ryder, but would anyone want to live here after she’d just pointed out the things that were so weak about it? They’d been lucky so far. They were off the beaten path, and the few bad elements that had managed to find them were rebuffed. But how long could they expect that to happen?
Lee was right about that one thing, at least, Angela admitted to herself as she walked briskly toward Shantytown. This has been coming for a long time. Camp Ryder has become our home, it’s become a place full of emotion, but in reality, there isn’t much here for us. And it’s always been the plan to link up with other groups of survivors. Would we just insist on staying here, even if they have room for us and better protection? No. Not likely.
Now, she had another worry, besides the imminent journey from here to Fort Bragg.
Where the hell was Jenny?
She hadn’t seen her since she slipped out of the Camp Ryder building the previous night. She’d been busy all morning and into this afternoon. And then she had searched the crowd for the woman while she’d been convincing everyone to pack their things. She’d seen no trace of her. And given her condition yesterday, Angela was right to be concerned.
She could be fucking dead in her shanty right now. Can you die of the flu? Yeah, of course you can. There was that old lady that died because of the flu. But she was old. Jenny is young. I don’t think young people are supposed to die from the flu.
As she was about to turn onto Jenny’s row of shanties, she heard the gunshot.
Just one. The sound of a small caliber. Like a .22.
She immediately halted in her tracks and turned back toward the Camp Ryder building. Her first thought went to Abby and Sam. Her eyes shot to the front of the Camp Ryder building, the steps, the fucking steps where she told them to be! Why weren’t they there? Where the hell did they go?
When she heard her name being yelled out in a panic, her fear drove deeper, like spurs into a horse. She started running for the building. Everyone else had heard the noises, too, and they’d perked up, stopping where they were to try and figure out what was going on. Angela pushed passed them all and only when she got to the edge of the building did her heart stop having conniptions in her chest.
Abby and Sam were standing there side by side, as they were so often found these days, looking at something on the ground that was very nearby to them, but which Angela could not see from where she was. Sam had his rifle in one hand, the other held protectively around Abby.
Angela knew the look on Abby’s face as she ran up to them. Abby was terrified, and just now beginning to cry, the tears spilling over. Abby saw Angela coming and any semblance of control fled her. “Mommy! It was Jenny! It was Jenny! I thought it was… I thought it was something else!”
Still standing there with her, Sam kept staring at the thing on the ground that Angela could not quite see. Not until she reached the two children. Then Sam looked back at Angela and their eyes met. Whatever was going on inside of his head, it was flowing under a thick layer of ice.
The form that he’d been staring at was stretched out, facedown on the ground, not five feet from where Abby and Sam were standing. Angela couldn’t see the face, but she could see the stringy blond hair, the clothing, the small frame of the person underneath. The tennis shoes that she insisted on wearing, despite everyone else wearing boots. She knew who it was. She understood suddenly what her daughter had been screaming about.
“Oh my God.” Angela grabbed Abby without thinking. She wasn’t sure what she was hoping to accomplish, only that she needed to take her daughter in her arms and make sure she was okay. She didn’t think about the fact that maybe Sam was holding her just as much as Abby was holding him. And when she took her daughter out of his arms, he looked like he snapped back into real time. His eyes sharpened, then stretched wide and fearful. His mouth worked. His body looked like it was starting to tremble.
“I’m so sorry,” he stammered breathlessly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
“What happened?” Angela said, trying to keep her voice from yelling and realizing that she was failing miserably.
Sam winced when she spoke, like he’d been stung. He spoke rapidly, haltingly: “Deuce was growling and I didn’t know what it was, so I came back here with Deuce, and then she… it was just Jenny, but she was sick, she was infected, and she started coming aft
er me, and I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know what to do!”
Angela struggled to comprehend him, like he was speaking some other language. Inside of her chest, her pulse was pounding hard. And Sam was speaking so fast and panicked, and Abby was clinging to her, starting to wail loudly. Behind her, other people were starting to talk and shout over each other as they came within view of the body. And highlighting everything, Deuce was standing there with Sam, barking savagely at the body.
Jenny. That’s Jenny on the ground.
Angela stared at the body as Sam continued to repeat the things he had already said, his voice spiraling out of control, now fully shaking and cracking, tears springing into his eyes. She stared at the body and thought for a second that there was no bullet wound, but then she could see the little exit in the back of Jenny’s head, where the .22-caliber round had broke free of her skull and spilled just the tiniest bit of blood and brain matter into Jenny’s hair.
She was shot in the head. Sam shot her in the head.
“I didn’t know it was her!” Sam was yelling now, like he was trying to convince everyone. Like nobody believed him. Sweat was joining with the tears on his face. His dark complexion had suddenly turned ashy and pale. His feet moved like he was thinking about running.
Why did he shoot her?
Deuce barking, barking, barking, refusing to stop. Refusing to leave Sam’s side.
Deuce only barks when there’s infected.
And there was infected. Angela suddenly saw everything correctly and she felt surprise and shame, because she should have put it together long before. But how the fuck would she have known? Who would have thought that Jenny had been infected? She was in so much contact with all the sick people with the flu, everyone was just counting the days until she caught the flu, that no one thought twice about the symptoms she was displaying. Of course it was the flu. Just like everyone else. She hadn’t been bitten! She would have reported it! It didn’t make any sense!
But the proof was right here in front of her.
If you could call a dog barking proof.
Jenny was sick. That’s where she disappeared to. She must’ve known that she was infected. She must have known she was going to turn and that the only thing we would be able to do was kill her. She must have been trying to hide. Maybe she was trying to protect us. Maybe she was just trying to keep us from killing her when we realized it.
One of the adults in the crowd was weeping now—someone that had known Jenny, Angela thought.
Sam heard it. Angela could see it on his face, the look of guilt, like he’d been caught red-handed at a murder. And Angela had rushed in and snatched Abby from his arms, like he’d done something wrong. Like he was dangerous. Angela had taken the one person that Sam found comfort in. She’d made him vulnerable.
She had a million questions in her mind. Where did Jenny come from? Where had she been hiding? Did she say anything? Why didn’t Sam call one of the adults? Why weren’t he and Abby where Angela told them to be? Why the hell did he let Abby tag along with him? Why was Sam always shooting things with that goddamn little rifle of his…?
But any of those questions would have been devastating.
Sam didn’t need to answer questions right now.
Angela reached out and grabbed him, pulling him in with Abby. He didn’t resist, but he felt stiff. Encumbered by shock. Angela put her face to his ear and spoke the only words that she knew made sense in that moment: “It’s okay. It’s okay, Sam.” Then she put her hands on his shoulders and held him tightly by his arms, looking right into his face. She couldn’t believe the words when they exited her mouth. “You did what you had to do, okay? There’s no shame in that. You did what needed to be done. And sometimes that thing is ugly, but it’s okay, because you had to do it to keep people safe. You were just keeping Abby safe and everyone else safe. It’s okay.”
SEVENTEEN
INFILTRATION
AT THE CENTER OF Newton Grove, the Followers of the Rapture gathered. Deacon Chalmers, and every one of his lieutenants, around a campfire stolen from people they’d killed. LaRouche stood with the others, wondering if his specialty was wearing thin. He wondered how much use they would have left for him once they had taken Camp Ryder. But they would always have a use for people like LaRouche, wouldn’t they?
He looked off into the growing darkness where the van, the truck, and the blue car sat. And beside them, a pile of bodies stacked up like cordwood.
It had not been very difficult. They let the vehicle pull in, and the men get out, and then they shot them where they stood. The van had more people, so they had shot them while they were still in the van, starting with the driver. Because of this, the van was still workable, but covered in glass. And blood. The truck and the blue car had come away without too much damage and might still be used.
But the biggest bounty was not the vehicles, of which the Followers had plenty. The boon of the day was from the twenty-some-odd rifles and cases of ammunition that they’d scored from the people that had been supposed to be guarding Newton Grove. Good rifles. Good ammo. Better to help them take Camp Ryder.
“Clyde and LaRouche,” a loud voice called.
LaRouche snapped his attention back, getting the sense that it was not the first time his name had been called. At the campfire, Deacon Chalmers was waving them forward, closer into the light, where the battle plans were being actively discussed. Clyde was already halfway there and looked back over his shoulder to see why LaRouche was lagging behind.
LaRouche stepped forward quickly into the warmth of the fire. A man on the other side tossed fresh wood on the fire. Sparks flew up in gouts and then disappeared as they got higher and the cold air snuffed them out.
“Yes, sir?” LaRouche said quietly when he was inside the circle, shoulder to shoulder with Clyde.
Deacon Chalmers looked at them seriously. “It is clear to us all that God has His hand on you. Both of you. I trust you, Clyde. And LaRouche? I haven’t known you for long, but you’ve proven yourself over and over. Now, I have a job for you both. One of great importance.”
Clyde bowed his head, honored.
LaRouche just felt his gut clamping up.
Chalmers looked out beyond the fire. “Our scouts are working their way through the countryside as we speak. They’re looking for the Marines, and I feel that we are close to finding them. It is obvious to me and to all of the lieutenants standing at this fire that the hand of God is being shown to us right now. God has delivered this town to us. And He has delivered us a convoy of Marines—these soldiers of a sick, bastard country. It is clear to me that we have the impetus to strike, to surprise, and to overtake them. And when we overtake them, we will have control of their artillery. And when we have control of their artillery, we will return east and level their opposition once and for all.”
LaRouche looked around at the encampment. There were many of them, probably many more than the Marines. But that didn’t make him confident. The Marines were a trained fighting force. These were just… pirates. Thieves. Bandits.
“LaRouche, you disagree?” Chalmers said, somewhat coldly.
LaRouche realized he’d been shaking his head. He looked at Chalmers. Did he disagree? Of course he disagreed. It would be much smarter to ignore the Marines and continue on to Camp Ryder. They had the numbers and equipment to take Camp Ryder now, LaRouche thought. If they sidetracked and tried to take the Marines, they would only hurt themselves. It would be smarter to stick with the plan. Gain strength. Then try to hit a hard target. Chalmers’s zeal was getting the best of him.
But then again, do I actually care?
LaRouche sniffed. “No, sir. I don’t disagree. What would you have me and Clyde do?”
The smile returned to Chalmers’s face. “You’re going to lead the attack.”
LaRouche bowed his head. But inside, he could feel the acid burning its way up his stomach, and he was thinking, Suicide—that’s suicide! But along with those negativ
e, fearful thoughts, there was also a sense of justice that came to him, a sense of rightness. He would only get what he deserved. And at least he would die fighting.
Clyde seemed dumbstruck. “We’d be honored,” he said.
Lee found himself in a strange place in his mind. One that was unfamiliar to him. He sat in the roaring darkness of the Black Hawk’s belly and he felt very still. It was exhaustion; he knew that much. Not just physical, though it was there as well—the pain in his side, in his legs, the solid ache like heavy metal injected into his marrow, it bled the energy out of him. More than that, though, it was mental. It was emotional. He did not feel as wound up as he thought he should.
The place that he found himself in was one of an odd sense of flatness. Emptiness. His heart wasn’t racing; his mind wasn’t rolling through the nervous procedures that it should have been just before an operation. He knew that he was going into a dangerous situation, he knew that people’s lives depended on him just as much now as they had before, but it all just felt two-dimensional. The dangers became peripheral. It became more about the goal. And perhaps his goal was skewed, but it was not Harper and Julia he thought of right then. All his mind could seem to wrap itself around was Tyler Bowden.
He kept picturing Tyler’s face. He wanted to feel righteous anger, but he seemed to have none left. All that was left was a slow, seeping resentment that sat on his stomach like cinderblocks. And more than once on that short helicopter ride, Lee thought to himself, Maybe I should just give him the goddamned GPS.
But he knew that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Simply not the way this machine was wired. There was another fight to be fought, another battle to charge into. And Lee was an incredibly stubborn man. He only knew two things: First, someday, his fight would be over; second, that day was not today.
