The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series

by Jacqueline Druga

  Through the late hours that crept up, Elliott and the Captain made their final sweep through the prison camp taking weapons, food, and such like scavengers. It was nothing they prided themselves on doing, but it was something that would hold them over until they headed west and to the new home. The mouths to feed and bodies to protect had multiplied in numbers. Fast provisions were needed.

  Everything that could be taken was. Those who chose to go moved onward toward the buses and the two society trucks they had acquired from the raid. Elliott and The Captain were the last to remain. From inside the camp, through the fence, they walked.

  Elliott stopped at the body of the lone guard just outside the entrance booth. His body was in a sitting position, back against the wall of the booth. Elliot stared at the wound that killed him. A single penetration wound, clean, three inches wide. So neatly done, the blood failed to flow forward, it drained through the rear of the tilted back neck, causing a thick puddle behind the soldier. With a deep breath, Elliott looked at the Captain. “I knew the second you swiped that sword from the mansion, you would find a way to use it.”

  “Jealous?” The Captain smiled.

  “Very. Marked kill. Thumbs up.” Elliott nodded but spoke with a little resentment.

  “Cheer up, Elliott.” The Captain gave a swat to Elliott’s back. “I couldn’t have made that precision slice had you not taught me to fence all those years ago. You were so good.”

  “Yes, well some people have parents who push baseball. I had a father who pushed fencing. But I loved it.” The tone of Elliott’s words slipped into almost a daze as he spoke and stared at the body. “Every competition. Every match. Every win. And the kids who fenced, the ones who were diehards, like me always had that dream of the day when it would be for real.”

  “Um, Elliott?”

  “Yes,” Elliott snapped out.

  “Never speak of my dementia when you as a kid fantasized of puncturing human flesh with a sword.”

  Elliott laughed. “You’re right. And we’d better get going. We want to get far enough west before sun up.”

  “Some good night driving hours. Hoping, Elliott, that the women will sleep?”

  With a grumbling, ‘hmm’. Elliott began to walk with the Captain.

  “Oh.” The Captain stopped. “I can’t believe I almost forgot.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small rolled up piece of paper no longer than four inches. A string tied around it kept it closed.

  “What’s that?”

  “I wrote a little note to the society, just our thoughts or rather my thoughts. Excuse me.” The Captain darted back to the gate, put the note on the body and hurried back to Elliott. “Something for them to read. A tease.”

  “Were you always so dramatic?” Elliott asked.

  “I was never without flare.” The Captain winked.

  “You do know they may not spot that little note.”

  Again the Captain stopped walking. “You’re right. They may never see it. Thank you Elliott. Your idea is much better.”

  “What idea?” Elliott asked. But before he received an answer, he received a blast of cold air against his bald head when the Captain swiped off his red bandana.

  Running back to the body, the Captain placed the note in the knot of the bandana and laid it on the soldier’s chest. He went back to Elliott. “Now they’ll see it.”

  ^^^^

  Beginnings, Montana

  Ellen had to yawn first before she spoke. If she didn’t let the long sign of her tiredness out, her words would be hard to understand. “Dean.” She yawned again. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. We’re just doing quick reviews. Hand me the next slide.” He held his hand out.

  “Can I quit now?” She handed it to him. “Hey . . .” A slight smile crept on Ellen’s face. “Jenny Matoose’s sample.”

  “Knock it off.” Dean took the slide. “Mark her name down. We’ll need blood from her when we get out of quarantine.” Pencil in hand, Dean put the slide under the microscope, looked quickly, took it out, and started to write. Mid word, Dean stopped and put the slide back in. “This can’t be right?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “El? What did the ‘future me’ have marked down as Jenny’s strain?”

  Ellen lifted the clipboard. “Strain two.”

  Dean shook his head. “This is mutated differently. In fact it looks nothing like strain two. Why did I mark this strain two?” He spoke more to himself than Ellen as he stood up.

  “Dean, what are you doing?”

  “I’m getting the virus mutations we have. I want to do a comparison.”

  “Right now? At two in the morning? Maybe, Dean, you’ve been staring so long at the different mutations that everything is looking weird. You may be tired. Stop for the night. Refresh and do it in the morning with a clearer mind and less tired eyes.”

  Dean lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Maybe stopping for the night isn’t a bad . . .” He saw Ellen had moved across the lab. “What are you doing?”

  “Shutting down, you said to stop for the night.”

  “Barely. But, we might as well.” He placed Jenny’s slide in the slide rack and lifted it. “I’ll put these in the fridge.”

  “O.K.” Ellen stepped to the sink and began to wash her hands and arms. She shook them dry and grabbed a towel. Leaving the water running for Dean who approached the sink, Ellen left the special lab.

  After he had finished washing up also, Dean too left the lab expecting Ellen to be in the trailer. He didn’t expect her to be leaning against the wall by the big window, staring out into the darkness. “El?” He walked up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “Watching Reverend Thomas. Look, isn’t he nice praying for us like that out there.”

  Dean’s eyes lifted and he swallowed when he saw the tall Reverend lingering in the shadow. “How . . . how do you know he’s praying?”

  “What else would he be doing out there? He was there last night too.”

  “Ellen.” Dean raised his head. “Could you tell Henry, I need to speak to him?”

  “About Reverend Thomas?”

  “No, no. About that power strip he was supposed to fix. It made a noise when I turned it off.”

  “Oh.” Ellen stepped away. “I’ll get him.” She spoke apprehensively walking to the side door while watching Dean just stare out. As she stepped into the trailer, she saw Henry. He came from the bathroom, still wet from a late shower. A towel wrapped around his waist.

  Henry jumped in surprise. “El, I thought you guys were still working.”

  “Obviously if you’re running around half naked. Dean needs to speak to you.” She pointed back with her thumb. “I asked him if it had anything to do with Reverend Thomas praying outside but he said it didn’t. It had to do with . .” She saw Henry take off, still wearing the towel, to the mobile. “Henry, he’s gonna make you play with wires. Should you be wet?” Henry was gone. “Oh well.” Shrugging and feeling hungry, Ellen headed to the kitchen.

  “Dean.” Henry raced into the mobile. “What’s going on?”

  “Look.” Dean pointed outside. “He’s just standing there watching. Ellen said he was there last night too.”

  “He is such trouble. He’s up to something.”

  “No shit, Henry. What do we do? Should we radio Frank?”

  “It’s too late. We’ll let him know in the morning.” Henry, holding his towel, walked over to the cabinet which set in the corner. He opened it up and pulled out a revolver.

  “Do you think we need that?” Dean asked.

  “Do you want to chance we don’t? Let’s shut the lights out in here. Everything is locked.” Henry began to head to the side door. “Dean, you know we can really solve the whole Moses problem. All we have to do is invite him in here and serve him some . . . rabbit stew?” He gave a pointing twitch of his head to the lab, before smiling and walking out.
>
  Dean chuckled at Henry’s suggestion. It gave him certain pleasant thoughts as he stared out to the big rubicund man who looked more like a stalker in the night rather than a preacher. And even though Dean put stock in the fact they were locked up, safe and secure, his mind still worried, not about Rev. Thomas getting in, but rather what he was doing and what he was planning. It couldn’t be good if it warranted the reverend running about at such late hours.

  ^^^^

  As quiet as he tried to be, Sarge’s heavy boots made a crunching sound against the hard ground and the semi-frozen leaves up by perimeter seven. He didn’t carry a flashlight to light the way around the dark area. He let his eyes adjust and used the moon as the slight illumination for his vision.

  It wasn’t his shift, not a scheduled one that was. It was his every other day, two hour watch, something Frank had asked him to do. Keep hidden, and keep an eye on that perimeter between the hours of two and four a.m.. The security team would down the beams between those hours just in case Sarge saw someone outside of the perimeter. He could chase them, grab them and find out if anyone was touching that beam without having to waste time radioing in for the perimeter to be downed. No radio contact was ever needed unless the watch was to yield something. Automatically, the monitor team downed it at two and put it back at four.

  Sarge didn’t expect to see anything so that’s why it surprised him…a shadow up by the beam. It was hard for Sarge to determine in the darkness which side of the invisible wall the figure stood behind. But, even though it was a shadow, it was definitely a figure. Someone was bending down, using an object, without a doubt, moving that beam. Sarge was fast and he knew it. Charging up from beneath his bushy hiding space, he ran full speed ahead tackling the figure to the ground. Sarge hit him with such blunt force of his body that he and the figure rolled outside of the sanctity of Beginnings. Feeling the weight of the person beneath him, Sarge raised up some, fully planning to render this person unconscious. As soon as Sarge’s back arched up and his knees dug firmly into the hard ground, he heard the slight whistle. It was soft, high pitch and it grew louder. Before he could turn to the sound, before he could turn his head, a searing burning pain shot through his throat, from the back to the front, shaking Sarge’s huge body, choking him, inhibiting any air to get into his system. Gasping, Sarge wobbled to his feet. He could feel the warm blood seep from his neck and down his chest. He could see the steam of its body temperature as it mixed in with the cold air. Feeling his legs grew weak, Sarge shifted his eyes down to see what had got him. Looking down, his view could not get past the arrow head that protruded so far out from his throat. Reaching for it, trying to break it, to free it, Sarge’s arms fell. He watched the darkness around him grow even darker. His pain stopped and Sarge fell, without his life, to the ground by perimeter seven.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  December 7

  Beginnings, Montana

  Ellen not only amazed herself on how good her coffee ended up tasting, but also amazed herself on how wide awake she was after only a few hours’ sleep. Proud of her brew and anxious to get started for the day, Ellen savored her energy because she knew in a few hours she would be dying for a nap.

  Carrying, not only her mug of coffee but also one for Dean, Ellen stopped at the bedroom where he and Henry slept. She knew Dean was up. She had heard the shower running. Though she didn’t see specifically who it was, Dean or Henry, she figured it was Dean. No one showered as fast as he did. She supposed it was because his body was so small.

  Hands full--despite her injury--Ellen used her foot to knock on the closed door. It opened slightly, and she stepped inside. “Morning,” She said to the two men. Dean sat on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes. Henry, staggering about in grogginess, was putting on a shirt.

  “Morning, El,” Henry said as he walked by her.

  Dean, hair wet, looked up surprised. “Why are you up?”

  “Ready to work. And I must tell you, if I didn’t know better, things would look pretty suspicious right now between the two of you.” She winked. “Here Dean, I brought you coffee. And no, I’m not flipping you off.”

  Dean shook his head with a smile then glanced at her splinted finger. “You’ve been up for a while, haven’t you?”

  “Yep. And I feel good. So let’s take advantage of it before I want to go back to sleep.” She stepped into the hall, nearly bumping into Henry who was returning. “Coming to the lab?”

  “Actually I’m working on the chip.”

  “Oh, because you’ll miss it.” Ellen still chipper started to walk down the hall toward the lab. “It is day four. Do or die. Or rather, do the rabbits die? It’s time to see if our fluffy friends have the virus and if they do, we’re good. And if that’s the case, four more days and we should be out of here.” With a smile she continued walking. She wasn’t out of the trailer very long before Dean and Henry heard her shouting with so much disgust. “Oh my God!”

  Henry jumped then raced with worry, Dean right behind him on his heels. “El . . .” Henry slid to a stop as he plowed into the mobile. “What’s wrong?”

  “Who did this?” She pointed to the window. A picture of two lesbians was pinned on the outside. “Look at this.” Ellen grunted. “And we can’t do anything about it either. It’s on the other side.”

  Dean looked, snickered ornery and walked back to the trailer to retrieve his coffee.

  “I’m gonna have to make paper clothes.” Ellen said.

  “That’ll work.” Henry commented. “And you know it was Robbie or Frank. Only those two are sick enough to think it was funny.”

  Dean with his coffee pulled Ellen from her stare of the picture. “If we can stop admiring the artwork, we’ll get started. Henry, you’re working on that microchip today. Correct?”

  “Yes.” Henry followed Dean and Ellen to the back lab. “Unless you need help with the rabbits.”

  “No, we need you on the chip. Robbie did bring that SUT back.” Dean flipped on the light switch and opened the special lab door. As soon as he did, an overwhelming sour, bad stench hit them. “Aw man.” He shook his head.

  Ellen held her nose and peered at the cages. “Gross, rabbit vomit.” She looked at the four rabbits, the ones who were fine the day before, were lying so helpless, their bodies quivering in their own regurgitation.

  Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. “Let’s get them out of this mess.” He looked at the other cages of rabbits. “These guys look fine.” He returned to the sick ones. “These ones definitely have the virus. Henry, why don’t you . . . Henry?” He saw Henry huddled in the corner, his shirt above his nose. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I can’t, Dean?” Henry’s eyes watered. “I’m really bad with smells. And . . . and animal puke.”

  Ellen giggled as she placed on her lab jacket then a single glove. “He isn’t lying, Dean. Henry is really good about some things, but stuff like this . . . no way.” Ellen opened the cage and lifted a rabbit. Gently, she set it back down, smirked, and walked to Henry. “Look Henry.” She held up her gloved hand. “Bunny throw up.” With her index finger, slightly moist with the animal’s vomit, she touched it down upon Henry’s arm. She laughed even harder when Henry just suddenly bolted out.

  “That’s really sick.” Dean removed a rabbit from a cage. “But funny. Now get over here and help me clean up these cages. Let’s see what you and I can do to save these rabbits.”

  ^^^^

  It was a chain reaction, a domino effect that Frank hated. With the oncoming winter, the cold air, the dampness of the morning caused the sniffle in his nose. The sniffle in his nose that caused a tickle in his throat which made him start to cough. Which then in turn, made Frank miserable. “Fuck.” He grunted as he made his rounds. He’d walk, spit, and then walk again.

  Before he made his final approach to perimeter seven, Frank did what he did every morning there. He bent down, searched out a heavy stick, stood back up and aimed toward the beam. A sizzling sound us
ually told him it was off track. So like he always did, Frank hurled the stick and waited for the sizzle or the sound of it hitting the ground. Frank got neither. Striking him as odd, Frank repeated his action, again, nothing. Was someone catching it before it hit the ground? Clenching his clipboard and pulling out his revolver, Frank made his way closer. The clipboard dropped from his hands and Frank dropped to his knees. “No.” He stared down to a face first Sarge. “No.” Rolling him over, the arrow that protruded from Sarge, broke. Hands still upon the cold skin, Frank found himself looking into a wide eyed dead stare. Adjusting the headset with a dropped heart, Frank called out. “Robbie. Dad.” He cleared his throat. “Bring a jeep to seven. Hurry.” Removing the remaining arrow from Sarge’s throat, Frank stood up, glaring out into the area beyond the perimeter, outside of Beginnings. “How did this happen?” He spoke out loud. “How?” Biting his lip in blame on himself, Frank bent back down, waiting with Sarge.

  Joe flicked his cigarette, blowing out the smoke loudly as he paced around the scene at perimeter seven. “All right. The arrow hit him from behind, so seeing the way his body fell; the attack definitely came from beyond the perimeter. Out there.” Joe pointed.

  Robbie’s foot moved about the leaves. “There was a struggle, check this out,” He indicated. “Sarge ran from there. Whoever he got, he tackled and they rolled. See the shifting of the leaves?”

  Joe nodded his head. “So there was more than one. A group maybe like we thought.” He bent down picking up an arrow. “Savages? Who else uses arrows?”

  Robbie threw his hands up. “They’re the only ones I’ve seen but I don’t think it was.”

  “It had to be. Do a sweep of the region to check.” Joe stared, shaking his head at the arrow. “How in Christ’s name did it happen though? How did the arrow sail through the beam? That’s a pretty lucky shot if you ask me.”