by LC Champlin
“No wonder you flipped out.”
“How did I get out here?”
“You ran out, and then you threw yourself on the ground like you were possessed.”
“I am.” No emotion. The ice and snow had taken it. “Haven’t you decided that already?”
He pushed to his feet. With a last glance back at the suffering Savior, he began to stumble toward the road.
Rodriguez passed him. “We should be able to make it to the next town in half an hour.”
He halted, pulling to his full height. “Half an hour? You mean, if we had kept the boy alive—”
“They wouldn’t have had the capabilities, probably.” She shook her head, depression on her face.
“But . . .” He sighed. The weight of a thousand worlds—no, a thousand lives—crashed down on his shoulders. Lost. All lost. Somehow it was his fault. The reason why had floated away in the avalanche.
“Let’s go.” She jerked her head toward a Bronco with a paint scheme matching the desert’s sand. “I’m driving, you’re shutting up.”
Looking back at the church, his hand on the vehicle’s door handle, he paused. “We should bury the boy.”
“He’s dead. Burying him won’t bring him back. It won’t help the people in California you fucked over, either.”
“No, it won’t.” But maybe it could help revive his memory and ease his guilt.
“Get in. Now.”
Not pausing to see if she had drawn her weapon on him, he strode back toward the church. He hesitated at the door. The stench of death, with its iron and shit, struck him like a palpable force. “I need to do this.” Hunching his shoulders, he forged in.
When he reached the boy’s body, he lifted it with reverence. With measured tread he trudged into the front churchyard.
He settled the body beside the walkway. Now for a shovel. There, leaning against the corner of the church as if sent by the Divine Hand for his use.
“Serebus,” Rodriguez barked as she approached, “come on.”
“They won’t be coming back here.” He grabbed the spade, then headed back to the body. “They’ve already destroyed this place. They think they’ve destroyed us. Anyone who’s interested in what happened will be searching the wreck. No one cares about this place. Not even you.” He fixed his glare on her as he sank the spade into the sand.
“That’s not true—”
Sssssaaaahhh!
Nathan spun toward the sound—toward the church. Here? Now? “They must have infected some of the people. Killing them wasn’t enough.”
Chapter 7
Beasts in the Sea
Grave Digger – Blues Saraceno
Jim began work on the flank incision as he continued, “California is too chaotic right now to keep anyone in. They’ll make Nathan a scapegoat, I’m sure you know. But he seemed all right with it when I spoke with him last. He figures he deserves what he has coming to him. He was really broken up about how he treated you.” Jim fell quiet as he began opening adhesive bandages.
“Was he?” Vague images of Mr. Serebus leaning over him swam at the edge of memory. Whenever Albin attempted to catch them, they drifted away.
“He sat with you—I don’t know if you remember—when you were coming out of anesthesia after I fixed you up. Which, I have to say, I did an excellent job of. They’re small scars; you’ll barely be able to see them in a month or so.”
“Thank you. He sat with me, you said?”
“For a few hours, yes.” Skin now free of sutures, Jim began applying the bandage strips to the scar lines. “He watched you like you were his kid.”
“Really.” If his mind had blocked this out due to medication or an overload of trauma, his subconscious would wish to bring it to his attention. No wonder the wolves howled.
“After you woke up, he talked to you a little, then he handed himself over to the authorities. Rather, he finished handing himself over. He’d started the process when he needed the guys to take you. They were going to make you wait for the next boat, which would have been too late. But when he said he was the one who caused the cannibals to overrun the wall, the government had no choice but to sit up and take notice.”
Jim patted Albin’s shoulder as a signal of completion. “All done. Leave the strips on for a day or two.”
“Thank you.” Albin eased into a sitting position. “I have to find him, Jim.” The decision voiced itself before reason could restrain it. “I have to speak with him at least once more.” He locked gazes with the surgeon. “I promised his wife I would return him home safely. I may not be able to discharge my duty and take him to his family, but I will at least investigate his situation.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Smiling, Jim assumed the air of a proud father. “I’ll help you any way I can. It might take me a while, but I finish what I start. It took me a good year to finish that cornhole game, but I did it,” he added, his expression wistful. Then he snapped back to reality. “You boys deserve a fair shake, and I’ll do my best to see you get one.”
“Thank you, sir, for everything you’ve done.”
“Ah, just doing my job.” He waved away the gratitude. “See you around, eh?” He paused, hand on the handle, then turned to face his patient. “Albin, I know that after we let you loose from the infirmary, you requested sleeping quarters separate from your friends’. How’s that working for you? Know any of your bunkmates yet?”
Rubbing the knuckle of his index finger, Albin looked down. As usual, Jim pinpointed the area of difficulty. “I believe the name of the man in the bunk above me is Gary . . . or Greg.”
With a sigh, Jim crossed his arms. “It’s been three days since discharge. You need to start getting out a little. I know it’s not like what you’re used to, but you can’t spend twenty-three hours a day sleeping. You’re not a cat, and you’re not in solitary confinement.”
Albin straightened. “I go out. I simply do not wish to socialize.”
“Do me a favor and spend some time with your friends, all right? They’re worried about you.” The officer smiled. “Humor me. And try to get more to eat; you look like hell!”
Chapter 8
Living and Active
Demons – Imagine Dragons
The desert’s darkness pressed in around Nathan. The two cannibals crawled on all fours from behind the church. They wore jeans, plaid shirts, and cowboy boots. Locals.
Spade up like a spear ready for an enemy charge, Nathan braced himself. “Rodriguez. Cannibals.”
“I’ll shoot when they’re closer.”
The monsters rose to bipedal posture. Then they advanced, with torsos falling farther forward with each step. Then the cannibals reached out to catch the ground with both hands before their hind quarters swung forward to replace the hands and launch the body ahead. Like lions on a hunt they loped. Twenty yards from Nathan and Rodriguez, they split up to flank the prey.
“I’m taking the left one,” Nathan relayed.
“I have the right.”
The cannibal charged him, then dodged left. Spade between him and the red-eyed monster—strike! Steel glinted in the flashlight beam. Miss. “Fuck!”
Readjust—for prey and predator. Low blow. It caught center of mass. The instant it did, Nathan retracted. Aim, thrust! It struck the cannibal in the teeth. Oily incisors snapped from the gums. The spade continued, shearing through the cheeks and into the jaw joints.
Bang-bang! Rodriguez finished her assignment.
Nathan’s attention remained on his enemy. Push—but keep distance. Even a drop of the bodily fluids could turn him into an oil-puking abomination.
Off balance, the monster tumbled backward. Nathan drove the spade forward with all his weight and adrenaline-amped strength. The skull fell away from the spine and jaw, neat as a sliced watermelon. Yes! The thrill of the kill surged. Death to all enemies! But no more existed within sight. Breath coming quick and hard, he grinned down at the corpse
.
Then reality struck with more force than his spade blow. Only a few hours ago, the monster he killed had walked the village as a productive citizen. He probably knew the dead boy. Hell, Nathan might have just killed the child’s father.
Shoulders slumping, Nathan turned back to the grave site.
The spade sliced the sand away, taking bite after bite. His ribs ached, but it felt good to move. A catharsis. Sweat dripped down his neck and the side of his nose. It made the night colder. He blinked it out of his eyes. Sweat, or tears? It didn’t matter.
When he reached four feet deep and had to stand in the pit to continue digging, he ceased. Four by four, not six by six, but it would have to do. His sides throbbed.
Climbing out, he met the emotionless face of Rodriguez. “Serebus. I . . .”
“Move.” He shouldered past.
Coming to the body, he knelt beside it. He lifted it for the last time. The black-haired boy resembled his son, save for tanned skin closer to Nathan’s own color. His son . . . David.
At the hole, he eased down into it. Careful now. He set the body on the cold sand. No doubt the boy had grown up here in San Luis. Had he ever seen the wider world?
Grunting, Nathan climbed out. He reclaimed the shovel. The sand went in much easier than it came out. The first spadeful washed across the boy’s chest. Had he ever seen the ocean? Forests? Cities?
The next score of shovelfuls went in without Nathan looking at the deceased.
Rodriguez stood to the side, watching, silent.
After the last shovel of sand fell, Nathan tamped it down. He didn’t trust his voice to not break if he spoke. He sank the blade of the spade into the head of the grave. It needed more, though. After collecting an armload of rocks, he arranged them in the shape of a cross on the mound.
The boy under the sand would hopefully find peace, but Nathan had many miles to go and promises to keep before he could sleep.
“Now are you ready?” Arms folded, Rodriguez regarded him, more thoughtful than annoyed.
Nod.
“Good. I found some water and extra gas while you were digging. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting to San Ysidro, the next town.”
Another nod.
He climbed into the passenger side of the vehicle. A saddle blanket covered the seat. An angular object jutted from beneath it. A book? He pulled it from under the cover. The gold-leaf title read, Holy Bible, King James Version. Why would a Catholic priest have this version of the Bible? He thumbed through the pages, the boy’s blood leaving red smudges on the edges. “At last, the Word.” The Word of truth and life, his mother had called it.
“What?” Rodriguez glanced over at him as they belted in.
Nathan opened the glove compartment. A flashlight peeked out from amid the papers that came standard with every glove compartment since the invention of the storage unit. No sense using the battery on the Maglite. He clicked on the secondary flashlight and settled back to read.
“Is that a Bible?” Rodriguez asked. She looked unsure of whether to snort in derision or to stare in disbelief. “What, are you getting religious now that you’re basically fucked?”
“I’ve been fucked for a long time.” He skimmed through the pages until he found his mother’s favorite book, Psalms.
“That’s not going to get you unfucked.”
“I do not expect it to. Now, unless you have something constructive to say, please leave me in peace.”
“Fine.”
He began to read at random near the middle of the book. Psalm 50, verse 21 stood out. God spoke: These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself: but I will reprove thee, and set them in order before thine eyes. Now consider this, ye that forget God, lest I tear you in pieces, and there be none to deliver—
His chest and throat tightened.
A minute of reading later, he glanced up as they passed the convoy’s wreck. The Bronco left the road and circumvented the section of highway.
Minutes and miles slid by as they left the City of the Dead behind. Reading kept the images of blood and corpses, and the dying boy, at bay. In the Book, the writers described a loving God who watched over His own and who punished those who sinned. And I am the chief of sinners. That which I wish to do, I do not do. Who can save me from this body of death?
Pressing his lips together, nostrils flaring, Nathan looked up at the dark road ahead. The stars, cold as ice shards, shone in the sea of darkness. Contrary to popular opinion, God did not live in the sky. He lived on Earth with His people. And with His enemies.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The vehicle lurched, forcing Rodriguez to fight for control and Nathan to grab the door. His seatbelt locked.
“Damn it!” She brought the truck to a shuddering halt on the edge of the road.
Flat tire? Wait, it felt and sounded like flat tires.
“I think it was a spike strip,” she hissed.
“Like the police use?” He twisted to see behind. The rear window’s layer of dust obscured the view. “That means they’re waiting for us.”
She jumped, apparently spotting danger in the side mirror. “Get out! And keep down. Get in the ditch.”
He kicked his door open and threw himself out. She clambered after him, dragging her gear—and him—farther off the road and into the ditch, really just a depression beside the road in front of a barbed-wire fence.
“What did you see?”
Bang-bang-bang!
Never mind.
Chapter 9
One Chase a Thousand
Dark – Glasslands
Rodriguez brought her MP5 around but held her fire. No target. If she did shoot, she’d reveal their location. “Start crawling that way.” Head jerk rightward, up the road.
He shoved the Bible into his shirt front, under the armor. Ribs complaining, he set off in an army crawl through the dead grass. Gunfire cracked behind him. Shit! No cover, no weapons. Not even an idea where the damn enemy hid.
“Rodriguez,” he panted, “they’re going to find us. We’re too slow.”
“Shut . . . up.”
“Why . . . do they want . . . to kill us?” He could only move so quickly while trying to half swim through sand and brambles.
More gunfire rattled.
BOOM!
Night turned to fire-lit day. The Bronco went the way of its previous owner, but with an explosion rather than a gunshot.
“Keep going,” Rodriguez ordered.
Weeds scratched his face as he pressed on. “We have to make a stand.”
“I know. Watch that way”—up the road—“I’ll cover the rear.”
“They have to come to us if they can’t shoot us. Give me a weapon.” Nod to one of the M4s on her back
“Be happy with your flashlight.”
Dead grass dug into his exposed skin and thorns jabbed him as he tried to make himself a smaller target. Damn flatland. Why couldn’t this have happened in a grotto like it did in the Westerns? Out here he didn’t even have a Styrofoam boulder to hide behind.
The solitary-confinement cell the DHS kept threatening him with sounded better and better. Bars, concrete walls, guards . . . He might kiss the ground if and when he reached the prison. Assuming, of course, they didn’t decide to put him in front of a firing squad, hang him by the neck until dead, or administer a lethal injection. For . . . whatever he’d done.
Bang-bang-bang! From Rodriguez’s MP5.
Nathan jumped. Whipping around—nothing.
An engine rumbled. No lights, but the sound emanated from across the road. Rodriguez fired several rounds in its direction. Wonderful, now the enemy knew their prey’s location.
Nathan brought his Maglite to bear. A military-type Humvee approached. “They’re going to ram us!” Nathan grabbed Rodriguez’s shoulder, but before he could pull her back, she shoved past, dragging him up.
�
��Move!” She set off at a crouch-run. Shit, having a foot of height on her sometimes proved a disadvantage.
Another engine growled from the direction of San Luis. This one sported headlights. They swept across the asphalt, with weeds and fence posts throwing shadows.
The Humvee stopped short of the road as the other vehicle, a pickup, barreled over. Apparently they planned to join forces.
“They’ll catch us,” Nathan panted as the vehicle’s lights grew nearer.
“What, you giving up?” Rodriguez snarled, looking back. “Fucking quitter.”
For the first time in weeks, rage at her words welled within him. “I am no quitter and no coward.”
Yelling in Spanish came from the truck. Gunshots rang from it and from the Humvee.
“Give me a rifle.” Nathan caught the nearest one on her back. “I’m not letting go.”
“Fucking—Fine. We’re dead meat anyway.” She shrugged out of it.
A weapon at last! Relief and triumph flooded him. He raised the M4 as he dropped to his stomach on the side of the road.
Men in coyote-tan fatigues and black balaclavas piled from the Humvee, their rifles covering the pickup truck.
The vehicle’s occupants—civilians, probably locals—had exited and taken shelter behind the engine block to exchange fire. No doubt they came to avenge their slaughtered townspeople.
As for the Humvee, while the men resembled Soldiers, the vehicle lacked a .50 cal machine gun or similar weapon atop it.
Army crawling again, Nathan plowed through brambles behind and beyond the truck. If he could get around . . . Yes. While Rodriguez fired from the other side, he could work his way around behind the Humvee. He dashed across the open road, low, then threw himself into the depression that served as a ditch on the other side. No one seemed to notice.
Ah, more enemies to destroy. Nathan squinted through the red-dot sight, leveling it over a masked assailant who crouched behind his Humvee. Intoxicating excitement sluiced through Nathan’s veins. Fire! Two rounds slammed into the assailant’s skull. A rush of pleasure, victory, and adrenaline. Yes! So much better than killing cannibals. So. Much. Better!
