Better to keep Sadie somewhere else. He'd make sure she couldn't get away.
He'd keep her alive. Visit her once a day. Give her food and water. Treat her like a pet or a plant.
It'd work out. It had to.
Surely Sadie's mother cared too much about her to lose her. Surely she'd do anything to get her daughter back. Surely Sadie's mother would be willing to pay any price.
And if Sadie's mother was anything like Terry's wife, she wouldn't think to stoop to violence. Terry would be safe from the mother's wrath, because that's just now how modern mothers were.
Stories of mothers doing anything for their children were from older times. Modern mothers were different. More willing to weep in quiet than to take action. At least's that's how Terry's mother had been. And how Terry's wife currently was.
"And then Max told the guy to get lost," Sadie was saying. Terry hadn't been listening. "The guy didn't want to do it, but he took one look at Max and realized he didn't want to mess with him." Sadie cackled gleefully. She clearly thought a lot of this Max.
"Sounds like he's pretty fearsome," said Terry, speaking almost automatically, as he strategized trying to think of his next move.
"Oh, he is," said Sadie.
Mentally, Terry rolled his eyes.
He doubted Max was really that fearsome. Or scary at all. As far as Terry was concerned, Max was just a thief who was stealing the food that belonged to everyone, namely Terry and his family.
Terry was sure that Sadie's impression of Max was just a child dreaming that their adult hero was much more capable than he was in reality.
Terry wasn't scared of Max. Or Sadie's mother. Or any of the other thieves. He could handle them.
And after all, no one even knew where Terry lived. Or where he'd taken Sadie.
"Are you OK, Terry?" said Sadie.
"Huh? Yeah. Why?"
"You seem a little distant."
"My stomach hurts," lied Terry.
It was a childish lie. A childish lie for a child.
"It does?" said Sadie.
"Yeah," said Terry.
His mind was racing. Where was he going to take Sadie? It had to be somewhere that was close to his house. Close enough that he could visit. But not far enough away that it took too long. Not far enough that he couldn't keep an eye on her.
And how was he going to get the word out to Sadie's mother? It wasn't like he could send a text message.
A letter, he guessed. He'd have to send a letter.
"It doesn't seem like your stomach hurts."
"Uh-huh," muttered Terry.
"You're being weird," said Sadie.
Terry just nodded, not really listening.
How was he going to keep Sadie captive, anyway? He wished he'd have more time for this plan. Underfed and starving, it didn't seem like his mind was working as well as it should have.
He didn't have chains, did he?
Rope? He couldn't remember.
But there must have been some around the house. Maybe his wife would know.
But then how would he keep Sadie in one place, without exposing her to his wife first?
"Are we almost there?" said Sadie.
It was the classic kid question. His own daughter had asked it relentlessly on car trips. Before the EMP, of course. Now, there was nowhere to go, and no way to get there.
"We're almost there, yeah," said Terry.
"How much longer?"
Terry seemed to wake up. He took stock of his surroundings and realized all of a sudden that they were very close to his home.
"Just a couple more minutes."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
They were crossing an empty street, about to head down a row of small abandoned suburban homes.
They'd never been fancy homes before the EMP. They were the homes of regular people. Blue-collar workers. Honest folks, who'd cared for their property, but hadn't had the money or desire to make their home look like it was something out of a catalog. Instead, things had been kept practical and useful.
Now, the homes had been mostly destroyed.
Terry didn't know who had done it. But he knew when it had happened. Only a couple months ago. After the masses of people from the cities had died off. And a long time after the EMP itself.
The damage done to the homes was senseless. Pointless.
Windows were smashed in. Shuttered ripped off.
People had climbed up on the roofs and dropped heavy things onto them. They had ripped up shingles.
Bushes and shrubs were torn up. Stomped on.
Front doors were smashed in. Hacked to bits with axes.
Mailboxes were scattered along the street.
The only thing missing was graffiti. Probably because no one had spray paint. Or because it wasn't destructive enough. Who knew?
It looked like the work of particularly destructive teenagers.
And maybe it was.
It looked like the scene out of some post-apocalyptic movie.
But, in the movies, the world immediately turned into a scene like the one before them. In real life, it hadn't worked like that.
Sure, things had been destroyed. But sheerly by mistake. By accident. By chaos. Not on purpose.
And why had these homes been so pointlessly attacked, months and months after the EMP?
Terry didn't know, but his guess was that it had to do with the despair and rage that he himself felt. The others must have felt it as well. Maybe there'd been men and women who'd known their time was up, who'd known that they didn't have many days left. Maybe they'd had nothing, absolutely nothing, to direct their anger at. And then they'd come across those houses, standing there, like little reminders of the lives that they'd once had, or been promised.
"What's with all those houses?" said Sadie.
"Don't know," muttered Terry. "Not important."
"I thought you said we were almost there."
"We are."
"Are you lying?" There was some distrust in her voice.
Was she starting to suspect something was up?
No. It couldn't be. After all, he'd given her no reason to suspect anything.
They were extremely close to Terry's house.
"Of course I'm not lying, Sadie," said Terry. "See that over there?"
"What?"
"That big shed in that backyard?"
"Yeah."
"We're going to walk right past that. And then my house is across another long lawn. We're cutting through the backyards."
Sadie gave him a suspicious look.
"Well," said Terry. "I'm going. Either come with me, or I'll walk you back to your mom."
"No, I'm coming," said Sadie, picking up her pace again.
Terry smiled inwardly. Then became nervous again, while trying to hide it.
His brain was rapidly moving through plans.
Finally, he settled on one.
Terry's tired legs carried him in long strides, with Sadie following him, past the shed, and onto his property.
It was a little house. Out of the way of the vandals. Nothing fancy. Nothing spectacular. Nothing to attract any attention.
"They don't know you're coming," said Terry, pausing outside on the lawn. "I don't want to scare them."
"Scare them?" said Sadie. "I'm not going to scare anyone."
"We haven't had visitors in a long time," said Terry. "And that gun of yours might scare my daughter."
"She doesn't have a gun?"
"My wife didn't think it was a good idea. And we've done better with hiding than with fighting so far."
"I'll leave my gun outside," said Sadie.
It was clear in her eyes that she was desperate to meet Lilly.
Too bad that it'd never happen.
"Maybe that'd work," said Terry, feigning momentary confusion. "But let me just go inside and tell them you're coming. OK? Can you wait out here for a minute?"
"Of course," said Sadie, putting on a face that made her look
ready to please.
"I'll be right back," said Terry. "Don't leave."
"I won't," said Sadie.
Terry turned his back and started walking towards his front door. Behind it, he knew his wife would be waiting.
Terry dug his key out of his pocket, but before he could put it in the lock, the door opened.
His wife's weary, emaciated face stared back at him. There were dark circles under her eyes.
She looked terrified. But she smiled.
"Olivia," he said. "Rope. Quickly. Get me some rope."
She didn't say anything. They had been through these kinds of tense moments before together. From experience, they both knew that the best way to survive was to simply provide the other with what they asked for. Or do what the other said.
She turned her back. A moment later, she turned back around, strong rope in her hands.
Terry grabbed it.
Now he had what he needed.
"Shut the door," he said.
Terry turned on his heel and marched back out the door, determination in his stride.
He could do this.
He needed to do this.
It was for his family. For his survival.
He was the man of the house, after all. He needed to set things right. No matter what it took.
10
Max
Max had dozed off sometime after the sun had gone down. It hadn't been restful sleep. But instead a sleep punctuated with nightmares. Terrible dreams where Mandy had given birth to a beautiful baby girl. Only to have something unspeakably horrible happen to it.
He'd wake up, breathing heavy, feeling as if he'd just run a mile, with the intense darkness of the night around him. The clouds must have been heavy in the sky. The faint snores of his stockade companions.
He'd wake up and think of Mandy and wonder whether she was OK, whether she was eating right. He'd wonder what would happen to Mandy and the baby if he didn't return.
If Max had one quality that had helped him survive, it was that he never gave up. Somehow, he'd always pushed on. He'd always continued, no matter what the odds.
Max had always been able to ignore how he'd felt about a situation, ignore the mounting dread that the body and mind naturally produced in the face of difficult odds. He'd always been able to divorce himself from the fears that came up.
Others may have thought that he just hadn't felt fear. But it wasn't that. Fear was natural. Fear was everywhere. Fear was omnipresent.
It was what Max did with the fear that mattered.
But now? Now that he and Mandy were together? Now that there was a baby on the way? It was harder. So much harder.
He hadn't thought it would be. And now, faced with the reality that he couldn't process his dread and fear as well as he could before, he didn't know what to do.
Something that came easy to Max had suddenly become hard. That fact made it all seem so much more difficult.
He'd been asleep when the guard had come in. Given him a couple of swift kicks to wake him up, the pain intense and pumping through him.
He'd been dragged out of the stockade. Tossed to the ground like a rag doll, unable to fight back properly because of the pain. Another kick, this one harder.
Max lay on his side, involuntarily doubled over in the dirt.
He had no gun. No weapon. Even his watch had been taken from him.
He was weak from hunger. Weak from thirst. Weak from pain.
No matter how strong a man was, or thought he was, he could become nothing in the blink of an eye. He could become as weak as anyone. A couple of days without food would bring most men to their knees.
And most thought that they could deal with pain. But most hadn't experienced real pain.
Max looked up. A bright flashlight shone into his eyes.
He couldn't see much.
The light danced around. Max hoped for a glimpse of someone. His captors. Of his tormentors.
But he saw nothing. Not even a shadowy outline.
"Leave him with us. Back to your duties," said a harsh, deep voice. Gravelly. Male, definitely. Maybe early fifties. Late forties at the youngest.
It was the voice of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Then another voice. A familiar one. "What are you interested in him for? He's just a nobody. Came in today, arrogant as hell. Wanted a leadership role. Wouldn't take no for an answer."
Who was it? Where did Max know that voice from? His brain was sleepy. He wasn't putting things together properly.
"You think he's a nobody?" said the other voice, the gruffer voice, laughing harshly. "We'll see about that."
"How do you even know about him? I haven't even given you the nightly briefing. You don't have any of my reports from today." The familiar voice again.
Suddenly, Max realized who it was. It was Wilson. The man in the tent. The man with the paperwork. The man who had sent him to the stockade.
"I have my sources," said the gruffer voice. "I have eyes all around."
"And if he's not a nobody, Grant, just who is he?" said Wilson.
Grant! It was the man that Max had heard so much about. The leader himself. The famous Grant. The man who was going to restore order. The man who was going to stamp down chaos. The man for whom Max had, essentially, left his wife and unborn child for, thinking that he had the answers.
Well, maybe he still did.
"You remember the group that we had the most trouble with? Back about a month ago? All that fighting? We lost a lot of good men."
"The guys who called themselves the New Disorder? The anarchist group? The ones who welcomed the new chaos of the world and would stop at nothing to accelerate the spread of chaos, violence, and civil unrest. The ones who had hated civilization and society since who knows when."
"Exactly," said Grant. "You remember the leader?"
"The guy who called himself, improbably I might add, Moby Dick. Absurd name. Yes, I remember him. What about him?"
The pain was subsidizing a little bit for Max. He knew he shouldn't make a move. Not yet. Not before he knew what was going on. And what was going to happen to him.
But Max couldn't help himself. The fight was still in him.
Max moved. Just a little. Trying to see if he could get a look at Grant or Wilson. See what kinds of weapons they had.
Max's movement was ever so slight.
Grant didn't speak until after Max felt the pain. An incredible pain. Sharp and intense. It felt like a piece of metal had been smashed hard into his thigh.
"Don't move anymore," came Grant's stern voice. "Or you'll get it worse than that."
"Shit," muttered Wilson. "You don't want to break his leg, do you?"
The pain was bad.
But Max had felt worse.
"Maybe I do," said Grant.
"Just tell me what the hell's going on," said Wilson. "What does a violent anarchist group have to do with this man here? Do you think he's one of them or something?"
"Nothing like that," said Grant.
"He's not one of them?"
"No."
"How do you know for sure? Maybe he is. Maybe this is a late-stage attack. An infiltration. Or a decoy. Something, anyway."
"He's not one of them," said Grant. "And I know because I talked to one of the leaders."
"One of the leaders? You talked to him? I thought they were all dead. We killed them all. Didn't we?" Wilson sounded more confused by the minute.
"Not all of them," said Grant. "I struck a deal with one of them."
"A deal?" Wilson couldn't have sounded more shocked.
"Exactly. A deal. It is what it is, and I won't apologize for it." He sounded vicious. Cruel. Intense. "In exchange for letting some of them live, I asked them to keep their ears to the ground. Provide me with information. They're in hiding now, their mission failed, but they still know people. They hear things."
"This is insane," said Wilson. "I just can't... you struck a deal like that... without consulting m
e..."
"Get over it," snapped Grant. "That's the way things are. I don't have time to consult everyone."
"I'm the second in command, though."
"Exactly. Second. I'm the first."
Wilson said nothing. It seemed as if he had no response.
Max opened his eyes again, to see if he could see again. Maybe the flashlight was now pointed off at an angle. But it wasn't. He was just hit with the blinding light, his eyes squinting reflexively
Max closed his eyes again before anyone noticed. Apparently Grant and Wilson were looking more at each other than at him. The conversation was getting intense.
Maybe Grant and Wilson would start fighting. A long shot, probably. But maybe. Just maybe.
If a fight broke out, Max would have a chance. A chance to escape.
Wilson seemed upset. Maybe angry. But probably not angry enough. He seemed too subservient. Too subservient to start fighting.
OK. A fight was a long shot. But if they weren't looking at him, maybe he had a shot now. Maybe he could escape. Break free. Run off.
Max wasn't bound. Seemed like a huge oversight.
Plans were quickly running through Max's head. He was trying to calculate angles, guessing where Wilson and Grant were from the sound of their voices.
It'd never work if they spotted him too early. Surely they were armed. They'd just shoot him in the leg or arm. Or the back, the bullet hitting his stomach. He'd bleed out slowly, and they'd try to get the information they wanted out of him then. It didn't seem like they'd care if he died or not.
But who did they think he was? It didn't make sense.
Apparently Wilson was wondering exactly the same thing.
"So who is he?" said Wilson. "He told me his name was Max. He told me he wanted to lead a local group, that he was interested in restoring order."
"Maybe his name is Max, for all I know," said Grant, his voice cold, emotionless. "Not that it matters. What I've learned from my anarchist contact..."
Wilson let out a long sigh, as if he was frustrated, as if he still simply couldn't fathom Grant dealing with an anarchist. But he said nothing, and Grant continued.
"There's another group like ours."
"Another group like ours? What do you mean?"
"Just what it sounds like. A militia composed of men and women of diverse background, many of them from the armed services, the police force, the government... all sorts of people who are interested in restoring order back to this great country."
Finding Shelter Page 7
