by J. B. Beatty
I find him in a room near the end of the hall. He greets me by saying, “Where the hell you been?”
“That lab tech wields a mean clipboard,” I say, dabbing the blood on my forehead.
Justin grunts. He is at a refrigerator, loading packets of vials into his backpack. “You found it,” I say.
“Took forever. Now you need to find some needles and syringes. It makes sense they would be close; check those cabinets.”
A minute later, I have them. I start loading up my backpack. We also have brought with us lightweight duffel bags which we pack half-full. We have taken all of the vaccine we can find, as well as a good supply of syringes. Justin hails Roger on the walkie-talkie: “Departing now.”
“Roger,” comes the response.
We put on the backpacks and lift up the duffels, readying our rifles as well. Justin turns to me, “Lab tech, you say?”
“The girl? Yeah.”
“Is she alive?”
“Yeah.” I sound a little indignant.
“How big is she?”
“How big? She's, uh, smaller size, I guess. Not big. Kind of a runner build.”
“Let me see her,” he says, leading the way to the room where she had been working. We find her squirming her way out from under the exam table.
He looks at me in a funny way.
“What? She's high energy. Way too caffeinated.”
“Hold on,” he says. He hands his bags to me and he lifts the table off her legs. Then he picks her up as if she weighs nothing and tosses her over his shoulder.
I see all kinds of problems with this scenario. “You don’t want to carry her. We have a long way to go. We’ll move faster without a hostage.”
“She’s not a hostage,” he grunts, taking one of his bags from me and picking up the rifle he left leaning on the wall.
We depart the way we came in. Carrie emerges from her hiding place and we follow her into the woods. There we wait until Roger rejoins us. “It’s nearly 0400,” he says. “We’ve got to move fast.” He looks at Justin. “You’re carrying that how far?”
“All the way,” says Justin. “I’ve got this.”
“Going to be an interesting kayak ride,” quips Roger as he turns away. He checks his rifle and starts walking fast. We follow, carefully moving single file in the woods. In open areas we spread out a little more and move at a jog. Nothing fast. We are not cross country runners. But a slow jog is a hell of a lot faster than a slow walk. Once we get to the lake crossing near the village, Justin gently drops his load. I hear her grunt.
“Skip the kayaks,” whispers Roger. “There’s a small fishing boat at this dock over here. Electric trolling engine. Should be quiet enough.” We follow him across the darkened lawn. Carrie gets in first, sitting at the front, rifle pointing across the water.
Roger waits to untie the boat. I step aside as Justin carries Janice, our apparent hostage, into the boat. He lays her on the bottom. The boat slowly rocks as he gets in. She chooses that moment to kick out with her legs against the side of the aluminum boat. The booming noise makes us all recoil. Justin hits her hard with his closed hand, striking her as if he had a hammer. Her head slams against the deck and she is still.
I have never seen him lash out like that. I get it, though. Suddenly we are all panicked. This is life and death. I get in and sit with my back to Carrie’s. I shoulder my rifle and point at the nearby houses, waiting for lights to turn on. Roger finally climbs in and starts the motor. It makes a whining noise and it is a few seconds before I can perceive movement. The three of us have guns ready, frantically scanning our surroundings to look for any reaction to the noise; Justin stares down at Janice, breathing heavily.
A good arm could probably throw a rock from shore to shore at this point in the elongated lake, but our voyage across is interminable. I keep waiting for lights, listening for sounds and all I hear is the hum of the motor and the sound of Justin’s heavy breathing. Eventually we near a dock on the other side. Carrie lowers her gun and reaches out for the dock post to steady our approach so we don’t bang against it. Roger cuts the motor and we glide smoothly against the side. He motions for me to get out first.
I do, taking one of the bags with the vaccines. I follow the barrel of my gun off the dock and stand on the shore, occasionally glancing back to see their progress.
Justin gets out next, carrying the limp Janice. Her arms, still taped together, bounce against the back of his legs. As Roger and Carrie grab our remaining supplies, I hear a noise from the house just up the hill from the dock. I advance with a tremor in my heart.
A sliding door opens and an elderly man in a robe steps out onto the deck. He walks to the rail and I can see him raise his hand above his eyes as if shielding himself from the nonexistent glare will help him see in the dark.
I keep moving toward him and am nearly at the steps that lead up to the deck when he says in a weak but alarmed voice, “Who is that? Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” I say quietly, as if I know him. I get to the top before he shouts an alarm. “What is…” he begins to say. I crack him in the face with my rifle butt and he drops far more quietly than I expected. In a heap at my feet, he lies with his arm over his head, gray hair standing up as if fighting to leave. I hear a woman’s voice inside.
Carrie is behind me. “End it,” she whispers, rushing into the house. Her rifle is on her back. I see a flash of metal. I hear a soft struggle and then silence. I stand frozen while she stays in the house for several minutes.
Justin and Roger continue up the hill, along the side of the house. When Carrie emerges, she looks at me and says, “Did you?” And before I even decipher what she is asking, she quickly bends over and slashes the old man’s throat. When she comes up, she glares at me angrily.
“If they raise an alarm, we’re dead.”
“He was unconscious,” I stammer.
“If he raised an alarm 10 minutes from now, we’re still dead. Unconscious doesn’t cut it.” She bends and grabs the man by the arms, dragging him back inside. As she shuts the slider, I descend the steps. Roger gives a short hoot as a signal, and we follow him.
The rest of our trek on foot passes in silence. We travel fast, needing to be back on the freighter before the sun begins to rise. I can hear Justin behind me. Occasionally he has to move Janice to the opposite shoulder. He is growing tired and having more trouble keeping up. I walk alongside him, watching our flank as Roger sets the course and Carrie follows.
Before we emerge from the woods, I can feel the sand give way under my feet and can hear the lapping of the waves in the distance. Roger goes ahead and scouts the beach before hooting to us. The air is much cooler as we emerge from the trees, the wind hitting us. We follow the beach, walking in the damp sand just above where the waves are hitting. The footing is better there and the waves should erase the traces of our passage. Eventually we make it to our boat. Carrie boards first, checks it, and hoots.
We board. Justin sets Janice gently on the deck. He takes a deep breath and checks her pulse. Then he just sits back on his haunches, clearly exhausted.
“Are you driving this thing?” I say.
“Yes,” he exhales slowly.
Roger steps into the cabin, having untied the rope. He glances at us and says, “I’ve got it.”
Within minutes, the shoreline drifts away from us as we pick up speed into Lake Michigan.
55→PERSONS ATTEMPTING TO FIND A MORAL IN IT
Aboard the Stewart J. Cort, I stand next to Leena as Dickie and Justin attend to Janice, who is tied to a bench. They’ve put a blindfold on her, but the tape is off her mouth. Only her arms and legs are restrained.
One of the minions is holding an ice pack to her head. She is off-and-on conscious, groggy, and hasn’t said anything beyond mumbles about coffee.
“She’ll be fine,” says Dickie, a 30ish man with the scant frame of a meth addict and his hair in a brownish mane, probably the only man styling a mullet since the Apocaly
pse. “Some closed head injury, but that wears off eventually. I once banged up my head real bad in a truck accident. I got better… It wasn’t really an accident, to be completely on the up-and-up with you. I hit the moose on purpose.”
Justin looks up from Janice. Dickie explains, “For food. There’s a lot of meat on a moose. But hitting a moose ain’t nothing like hitting a deer. They don’t give way as much as you might think. When I came to, I had a busted head, a busted front end, and the moose was gone. Probably should have been going faster, I say in hindsight. Probably should’a had airbags. Some of the guys strap an old tire to the front of their trucks. Probably should’a done that too.”
Leena clears her throat and says, “Dickie, that’s a whole lot of ‘probably’s that you should have seen to at the time. But we appreciate the edification of your narrative. However, the bigger question is what we are supposed to do with this woman, eh? Our whole survival plan is based on hiding in plain sight. Taking hostages doesn’t really enhance our prospects.”
“She’s not a hostage,” mutters Justin. “And we’re taking her with us.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“She’s a lab tech. She knows about the vaccine. She might know how it’s made. She might know where it’s made.”
I jump in: “I’m not sure how cooperative she’s going to be, she’s been kidnapped. Probably taken away from her loved ones, beaten up. I don’t see her turning into a model prisoner.”
“Unless you’re counting on Stockholm Syndrome,” quips Lawrence.
I nod and Justin says, “Once she sees those kids, once she knows what’s going on beyond that wall, she’ll understand things a lot better. She’ll help.”
His words are a needed reminder to me that we are on a good guy mission. That slipped my mind when Carrie was slashing the throats of the old couple and when Justin was smacking our captive around. I guess if I thought that being one of the good guys meant every little thing we did would be good, I was terribly naïve.
56→HOW DREADFUL IT WAS
The next night, the Tonies lower our boat with the winch. Leena and the crew aren’t much for goodbyes, though Roger does offer to come with us. Carrie lingers near him and they share some private conversation. I reason that the extra manpower would be good, but Justin and I decide to take the relationship slow. At least, that’s our position in case Carrie asks if we can bring him home, but she never asks. We exchange numbers for some of the cell networks that were still operating, and also some radio frequencies.
“Stay safe,” Leena says. “Let us know how we can help.”
An hour or so later, we dock our boat near Portage Lake, using one of the marine repair garages that appear to be abandoned. We move quickly, in case the noise of the engine attracts attention.
“You know the boat’s not going to be here next time,” warns Carrie.
“Maybe, maybe not,” replies Justin. “Got to leave it somewhere.” We make our way across the road and into the pine forest. It seems like we’ve been gone forever. Janice’s hands are tied to a rope and Justin is leading her. Her feet are free—that’s all. We have a hood tied over her head and her mouth is taped. She’s not making complaining noises so much anymore, but I’m guessing this has not been a fun trip for her.
The truck is where we left it, concealed by brush we had dragged around it. If we don’t get delayed, we can be back to the bunker before sunup. Our biggest worry is the area near the lake, where I suspect there is a remnant population of old people. No telling how militant their neighborhood watch is. Yet we pass without incident and the rest of the ride home is smooth.
Too smooth. I stop the truck a few hundred yards away from our garage. Carrie agrees to scout ahead on foot. I leave Justin inside with Janice, and I take a concealed position about 20 yards away, so I can hear and see clearly if anything approaches.
Nothing, though, and I whistle when Carrie returns. “Clear,” she says. We drive in and park behind the garage. After we unload, we conceal the truck with tarps, and pile a variety of garbage on it and against it: mufflers, boards, and ancient sheets of aluminum siding. Justin throws Janice onto his shoulder, and we begin the steep ascent.
It is nearly dawn when we get to the hatch. Light enough to see movement, and there is none. I can find no signs of any disturbance to the area. We go in, Justin alternately carrying and pulling Janice through the tunnel. She’s fighting the entire process.
Carrie enters the living quarters first, and when I come down, I find her just standing there. Almost as if she’s afraid to open the door to the hallway where the girls should be. Justin comes down the ladder with his captive and I nod to her to open the door.
She does and freezes. I look where she is looking and I see a dark stain on the floor. On the door itself is a bloody smear.
“We’re too late,” Carrie says. “Took too long.”
Justin closes the hatch quietly. He looks at me and he looks at the blood. He sits Janice in a chair and absentmindedly ties her to it while he stares at the door. Carrie and I both have our rifles ready, but we wait for him.
Finally, he nods to us. Carrie leans toward Janice and whispers, “If you move from this spot, I will cut your throat.” She draws the flat end of the knife across Janice’s neck. “Understand?”
Janice nods repeatedly. Carrie stands straight and we head out into the hallway. Carrie goes left, Justin and I go right. Safeties off. I see more blood smeared on the walls, as if someone was falling against them, or bracing themselves against them.
“Artemis,” I say in a querulous voice. When I repeat it, I add more volume. I pray that she answers, but I fear that it is Roxanne that will come out, a child zombie who has already killed.
At each doorway, I look inside, while Justin covers the hallway. At the bedroom—my room—I see more blood. It’s everywhere, and perhaps because it is thicker here, it looks fresher than I expect. I stare at her eyes—they are wild, darting from side to side. She is breathing fast, too fast, yet she doesn’t move, as if she is going to pounce at any moment.
“Artemis,” I say softly, lowering the barrel of my rifle.
Her bloody hands grip a knife. The knife she had to use. In the center of the room, Roxanne lays dead, her face a tortured grimace.
“Artemis, it’s going to be okay now. We’re back. We’ve got the medicine. We’re not going to leave you again.”
Her answer is so soft I can barely hear her. I move in closer, laying my rifle on the floor. I kneel beside her and gently take the knife from her hands. “What was that?” I ask.
“Jamie,” she says. “Just call me Jamie.”
“Okay,” I say, lifting her up and embracing her. “Okay.”
I turn to see Justin and Carrie standing in the doorway. Carrie wipes at her eye and turns away.
“I’ll start cleaning up,” says Justin. “Carrie, can you take care of Janice. Gently?”
“Of course I can,” she shoots back.
I lead Jamie—it will be hard getting used to that name—to the bathroom. With a warm, damp washcloth, I clean her face and hands of blood. I turn on the shower for her, check the temperature.
“Take as long as you want,” I say. “I’ll find you some clothes and a towel and slip them right inside the door here.”
“Can Carrie do it?”
“Of course she can. I’ll send her right in.”
57→CHAPTER THE LAST
Janice has an attitude. She sits in the chair, the one she’s tied to. Her eyes and mouth are no longer covered. She’s done yelling. She pants, exhausted.
“Sorry about the…” mutters Justin.
“The kidnapping?” We lean back in our chairs, afraid that she is going to start yelling again. Carrie has already fled, wanting to spend time with Jamie.
“Or the beating?”
“It was only one hit. I’m sorry,” he says.
“And because it was only one hit, that makes it better?” She is seething. Justin doesn
’t answer. They have already covered this ground, to no one’s satisfaction. Still, I have trouble biting my tongue.
“Technically, ‘beating’ implies multiple hits,” I say. The one-time mild-mannered lab tech turns slowly toward me, her red hair a tangled mess, duct tape residue stuck to her face. I add, “A plurality of punches, if you will.”
“I won’t,” she says. The way she says it though, it’s like she’s promising to eat my liver uncooked in front of my unborn children.
“Can we talk about the why?” asks Justin.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been asking you since you ripped the tape off my mouth?”
“We’d like to tell you, but it will take some time. Some uninterrupted time.”
“It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere,” Janice says. “So please, inform me of all the delightful reasons you kidnapped me from one of the last safe places on earth and beat me up and dragged me to wherever it is we are. Why?”
I stand—I have an idea. Justin watches me leave the room as he starts in with the story.
A couple minutes later, I come back leading Jamie—until recently Artemis—by the hand. She’s wearing an oversized adult bathrobe; her hair is wet. Carrie follows. I sit her down in my seat, and Carrie stands behind with a brush. Janice may still be listening to Justin, but her eyes are on Jamie, who has wild red hair just like hers. I take a syringe from the box and open up the refrigerator to grab a vial of the vaccine.
Justin drones on. He’s at the part about how the virus didn’t affect children or the elderly. He’s telling her that there were lots of people trapped outside the walls of Great America who were healthy.
