by Pete Aldin
Claire hasn't moved. "Only guessing, but they've been enemies for years. There's also a third and a fourth club near Launceston that both the Druids and Riders hate. But the Druids reckon that they all got wiped out by the virus and the zombies." He glances at her. She shrugs. "I eavesdrop. And some of this—the rivalry—was in the news. Before...before you know."
Elliot checks if the shotgun's loaded. It's not. He loads it from the bandolier. "So you think this is the last of them? There more somewhere?"
She breathes slowly, thinking. She points at the bodies hanging around them, the guy on the ground. "Pretty small clubs in Tasmania. And a pretty fierce battle. There can't be too many more."
"Unless they recruited. From the survivors."
She grunts and doesn't seem inclined to argue with his logic there. Elliot heads toward the black van and now she does move, keeping a good ten feet between them.
She asks, "Why are you here? Why'd you help us?"
"Seems like the world's short on common decency if you gotta ask someone why they would help."
"Decency? I came here in that van." She flinches when he stops and turns. But her chin is up, defiant. "I'm not getting back in that, not with you, not until you tell me why you helped us and your answer is—."
"I'm looking for someone. A girl. About sixteen."
She blinks back at him as if to say there've been a few of those.
"That Maggot Rider said they don't use children. But maybe they do. If they've taken her, or if the leftover Druids did, I still need to find her."
"Maggot Riders hate pedophiles. Probably not into rape and torture either."
He is relieved to hear that. The guy he let go won't be riding to some whore house with teenagers in it. "What are they into?"
"Drugs," she says. "They ran drugs. That's about it. That and fighting." She must have been watching him through that window because she adds, "The guy who just left—his people wouldn't have taken her. Not unless she wanted to go."
"Okay. Well, then. That leaves me at square one."
Goddamn hateful fucking universe.
Alyssa might not be here, but this woman is. And she deserves help too. "You can assist me in looking for her. Or I can take you back to a farm south of here where her brother and some others are building a commune. A place where people are trying to be decent."
Her chin is still raised, her gaze frank. "Convince me you're not just another pervert who's stalking her. Or who's gonna take me to a place as bad as this."
"You wanna leave, you leave. There's cars out on the road. There's bikes right there. There's food and weapons and water. I'm not stopping you. And I sure as hell understand your suspicion."
"No, I'm not sure you do," she murmurs. But she doesn't move to leave, still waiting for answers.
"Okay, I might not have been through what you have, but I've sure gotten the point that the world's no longer a happy place. I ..." He drops his head and grinds the toe of his boot into the dirt. He doesn't know why he tells her, a complete stranger. But he does. "I was too late to save her the first time. I got her brother out, but not her. And ... And I lied to him. I lied to a young man who trusted me, and made him think she was dead. And all the while these sonsofbitches had her for day after day after day ... and that ain't right. It ain't right. "
That's it. He's out of words. He has said what's been on his heart and on his mind for every one of those days he's just mentioned. He raises his gaze and she's thinking, turning it over in her head a while—a while that goes on too long in Elliot's opinion when other bikers may be coming here. Them or deaders, drawn by the noise and the blood.
But he waits her out until finally she says, "The girl's sixteen? What's she look like? What's her name? What's her brother's name?"
Elliot doesn't hesitate. "She has long dark hair. Or she did a couple of weeks back. She was picked up maybe twelve days ago. Her name is Alyssa Oussef and her brother is Lewis."
Claire is nodding before Elliot has finished speaking. "They keep most of us—" She stops and swallows. "—the ones they don't grow tired of—in a 'safehouse'. It's where I was heading next."
"She's there?"
"Maybe." She starts past him toward the van. "We do have an Alyssa who came in not long ago. The day after me. They pretty much took her there immediately to, ah, well ..." She opens the door of the van as Elliot heads around to the driver's side. "Do you have enough ammunition? We'll need it if we're going there. I heard there's two or three biker bitches who actually run the house. But more of them could've gone there."
Elliot opens the door and smiles a little as the key he hoped would fit the lock does. The van starts first time. "Won't be a problem."
Behind the driver's seat, three big road cases line the wall all the way to the back doors. There's no side door in this van and a bench seat lines the entire passenger side; sunlight coming through the rear windows glitters off the shackles lying across it. Elliot's jaw works, blood boiling again. She came here in a van like this. She sat on a bench like that with a chain like that ...
"It truly won't be a problem," he says.
He leans past the driver's seat and lifts the lid on a road case half filled with sixpacks and chips. He places the Steyr and the shotgun in there and climbs inside, slams the door. She slams hers. He says, "The shotgun's yours."
Claire has her shoulder against her door and her hand on the handle. Her seatbelt remains unbuckled. "There one more thing. Did you know her before they took her?"
He throws the shifter into reverse, backs out into the compound. "Only know her brother."
"Well, that's probably good for you. Not so good for her bro."
Elliot brakes, left hand squeezing the shifter hard as he changes to first. "Why?"
"She won't be the same girl he knew."
She studies him a moment from beneath her brow, lips pressed together, fingers of her right hand winding the bottom of her shirt.
Then she says, "I'm not really their type, not many of them anyway. But that poor girl is all of their type."
20:25
Elliot mentally slaps himself when Clair points through the windscreen at the "safe-house". The house is actually a motor inn. The motor inn with the barbed wire gate.
I walked right past it. I walked right past her.
Easy fella. She may not be there.
The deader still wriggles around in its wire snare but the gate has been pulled back enough for someone to walk through. Or a bike to crawl through. No one is visible in the motel courtyard and parking lot as they cruise past. Elliot pulls a u-turn and parks the van in front of a single Maggot Riders Harley still parked opposite the pub. He doesn't cut the engine.
"I was witness to a fight here earlier." He points into the yard. "One dead Druid and two dead Riders. So why didn't the others come out of the safe house and protect their brother?"
"Like anything they do makes sense," Claire says, her eyes on the deader in the barbed wire.
He climbs out and she joins him on the asphalt, gripping the shotgun, gripping it tight like her life depends on it. And maybe it does.
"Confident using that?"
Her shoulders spasm with a bark of sardonic laughter. "Nope."
"Put your finger on the trigger guard not the trigger. Less likely to fire reflexively and kill someone you don't want to."
"Love and light to those who have trespassed against me," she murmurs. "Love and light for those I may trespass against."
"What?"
"I don't want to kill anyone," she says and starts across the road ahead of him. Her finger is on the trigger guard and the stock is against her shoulder. "But let's get this over with."
By the time they reach the wire, he knows she won't need it. Not for the moment.
The motel comprises twenty apartments arranged in a rectangle. The doors to three are open.
And Jimmy is sitting on the stoop of one of them.
The kid's arms hug his knees. There's a dead Druid on t
he asphalt in front of him, face down. She isn't moving. A pair of legs poke from the doorway behind him, and the rifle Jimmy took from the compound stretches beside him.
Claire goes down the center of the lot toward him while Elliot cracks the Reception door and peers inside. It's dark and empty. If there were any more bikers here, then Jimmy wouldn't be sitting there alive. But old habits die hard and Elliot hugs the perimeter of the courtyard as he follows Claire, weapon tracking across doors and windows.
"I let 'em out," Jimmy tells Claire when he notices her. His voice is deeper than Elliot expected. It's also hollow, emotionless. "Most of 'em ran."
"Our people ran, Jimmy?" Claire asks. "Ran where?"
"Dunno. Some of them took her bike and his car and went." He points in turn to the dead woman and the pair of legs. "Some of them just ran."
Claire is closing slowly like she's approaching a skittish dog or cat. "They left you? They didn't ask you to come?"
He nods and sighs. "Like always happens. Doesn't matter. I'll just stay here."
"You'll come with us," she tells him, very close now. "You'll live with us. I'll take care of you."
She is close enough to reach for his hair but he is suddenly in motion, dodging her hand and heading for the gate. This time he walks, rather than running. And he has left the rifle on the stoop.
He passes Elliot without a glance, but says, "I'll wait in your car."
Elliot hopes he doesn't decide to head off on his own. Many of the cars he's seen in this town have been set fire to weeks ago. The others are covered in grime and dust and bird shit; he isn't hopeful they'll start if he needs them to. The remaining Harley won't carry him and Claire and ...
When he joins Claire at the porch, she reads his expression accurately, offering a grim smile. "Here's hoping."
Elliot leads the way past the legs of a dead male Druid and stops by the head. Claire is a solid presence at his shoulder, her breath coming short and fast. The motel room smells of burnt food, musk and mildew. The curtains are drawn, so he has to blink to see clearly.
The floor is covered in mattresses. Over by a narrow sink-counter at the back wall, there's a breakfast table and chairs. A young woman is slumped across the table, head on one arm. Though the evening air is cooling, she wears only denim shorts and a dirty white tank top. Her face is turned away, long dark hair spilling across her shoulder onto the surface of the table; for a split-second Elliot sees it as blood before his brain decodes the image correctly.
Shit.
"Alyssa?" Claire's voice is gentle. "That you, Alyssa?"
The body slumped on the table stirs. The arm pillowing the head shifts a fraction. The legs twitch. A deep breath comes out in a wordless whimper. Elliot grinds his teeth together, thumb on the Steyr's safety. He shifts sideways a little, clearing Claire.
"Alyssa?" she asks once more.
Legs twitch and a tremor runs along her back. The girl's movements, the whimper, are symptomatic of someone who has been bitten, someone who is Sick, someone who has died and is now reviving, returning to the world as—
"Honey, we're here to help you," Claire says and steps closer. "You're safe now."
"Wait," Elliot tells her.
At the sound of his voice, the girl's head snaps up and around. Her eyes are wide in fear, her mouth an O of shock. Her chair scrapes backward and she falls to the threadbare carpet, scampering beneath the table.
Claire sighs and says, "It's her."
Elliot doesn't need to be told.
It's the girl from all the Oussefs' photographs.
And at the same time, it isn't.
The glow has left her eyes without a trace.
He unslings the Steyr and hands it to Claire. He fishes in his side pocket for the object he brought all the way from The Downs to give her. Four slow steps bring him half way across the mattresses toward her. He crouches. Alyssa winds tight into a ball of fear, arms around knees and face hidden behind her hanging hair.
"Sweetheart," he says and wonders if he should use words like that. "I'm not one of the bad men. I'm a friend of Lewis."
Her body jolts at that name. But she doesn't look up.
He tries again. "Lewis is safe. I got him away from the ... the bad men, before they could hurt him." She doesn't respond. He wonders if he should have mentioned Lewis's escape. The young man was roughed up but he avoided the abuse that she has suffered. Will she hate Elliot for not rescuing her from it? The way a small and irrational part of himself already hates him for that?
He twists around for a second and Claire nods encouragement at him, so maybe he's doing okay. Turning back, he says, "Lewis would very much like to see you."
Even though Lewis has no idea I'm here and no idea you're even alive. Have I got a surprise for him?
She makes a sound then, somewhere between a moan and a murmur. He realizes it was a word: "Lewis." She still hasn't moved. But it's a start.
"Claire and I, we're taking you to Lewis, sweetheart." That word again. Alyssa has met Claire, but has little reason to trust him. "Lewis is in good health and he'll take good care of you."
She whispers something he doesn't catch. She's still not coming out from under that table. Elliot carefully tosses the object he brought with him underhand. It jangles and clatters as it comes to rest where he intended, right by her left foot. She jerks. A hand releases its grip on her legs, starts for the object and freezes a few inches away, hesitating.
"What is that?" Claire asks.
"Mine," the girl whispers.
She snatches up the pandora bracelet. The bracelet Elliot first saw in a photograph of her in her ransacked house. The bracelet whose twin is probably still around the wrist of her dead mother. The bracelet that Waxer wore on his belt as a trophy until the day Elliot took it from him and gave it to Lewis. The bracelet Elliot took back from Lewis's bedside, while Lewis was out mending fences and Elliot was assembling his gear for this trip.
Elliot smiles and with a shrug, he tells Claire, "It's hers."
And this time, when Alyssa looks at him from within the tent of her hair, the fear has faded from her eyes. Just a little. She slips the bracelet around her wrist and climbs out from under the table.
Elliot stands and steps away to give her space and starts thinking about what Lewis will say when he sees her. And for the first time since the world has broken, he thinks he just might have something to look forward to.
<<<>>>
KEEP READING FOR THE BONUS SHORT STORY
"THE BRIDGE"
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Thank you for reading Rescue Mission. This story sits between the first two novels in the Doomsday's Child series.
Sign up for the author's mailing list to receive advance notice of new releases, and to get the prequel novelette "Half Past Doomsday" absolutely free.
Head to http://www.subscribepage.com/Doomsday'sChildNews to get started.
NOTE: Half Past Doomsday is free and exclusive to subscribers only, and not available for sale.
Before Elliot met Lewis ...
Stranded in a foreign country while civilization falls to the infected, Elliot takes shelter in a resort with other survivors and refugees—people who seem hell-bent on attracting the attentions of the undead and getting themselves killed.
Acknowledgements
I send my genuine gratitude to readers of this series. Your passion for post-apoc worlds (and your positivity toward mine) makes writing Elliot's story worthwhile.
Many, many, many thanks to my wonderful beta readers: D Robert Digman, EJ McLaughlin, Andrew Spong, Ian Welke. Their astute feedback and friendly banter helped me polish this project.
Other Books by this Author
Doomsday's Child
Came Monsters (coming in 2018)
Nine Tales
Illegal (with Kevin Ikenberry)
Black Marks
The Bridge
Old soldiers never die...
Years earlier, a missile strike had left the centr
e of the Bridge with a ragged and fatal wound, the roadway melted, blasted, twisted by forces that Kim barely understood.
He'd seen such forces in action on dozens of occasions and on dozens more he'd studied the ruins, cold testimony to the destructive will of Homo sapiens.
The congealed slag reminded him of an old lava-flow he had once seen on his son's television—cooled and grey and lifeless. The muscles of his face trembled for a moment with an old sadness. He would not watch a television again. And he would never see his son.
He turned his attention away from the colossal lesion, away from the late summer humidity that welded his mottled green private's uniform to his torso, away from the arthritic pain that throbbed in his spine. His attention was needed elsewhere, since the man staring back across the hole in the motorway wore a different uniform to his.
The fifty metre-wide gap in the Bridge was small enough to fire across. And far enough that each man squinted at the other and reached into his breast pocket for his glasses.
When—after a full minute — the other man hadn't yet gotten himself sorted, Kim cradled his rifle in his left arm and considered the Bridge's wound again. The desolate beauty of it—the way its sheer scale dwarfed him and his opponent both—stirred memories of recent history. Memories of a global plague erasing billions of lives, from infants to the middle-aged. Memories of sovereign nations and fundamentalist paramilitaries all accusing each other of creating and unleashing the disease—until words became bullets and missiles and invasions...
Not for the first time, he sighed over the tragic comedy of a World War passing into the hands of the elderly, until septuagenarians like himself found themselves abandoned on foreign soil fighting more from habit than for any higher purpose.
