by Tom Calen
“This window opens out to the side street,” she said as she peeked through the glass. If they were being watched, eyes were most likely to fixate on the front and rear of the buildings. With luck, the side street would allow them to make a quick—and more importantly undetected—departure.
“How do you get down from here?” Matt asked from the vent. The broadest shouldered of the group, he certainly would be unable to twist around as Michelle and Andrew had. The exasperation in his voice hinted at the difficulty he faced getting as far as he did.
Standing on the desk, Michelle joined Andrew as they tried to lower Matt. Conscious of her ankle, she shifted her weight to her good side. Eventually, and with little grace, Matt was able to place his hands on the desk as the engaged couple held his legs in the air. Once Matt’s body reached a solid surface, Andrew helped Michelle down from the desk. With little to do, the three sat in relative silence as they waited for the sun to set.
A short while later, Andrew rolled the chair he was in over to Michelle. She offered him a warm smile and took his outstretched hand.
“You look different,” he told her.
Running a hand through her hair, she silently wished she had used the bathroom mirror to fix herself. Between the dockside explosion, the dust of the ceiling tiles, and her journey through the vents, she realized her appearance was certainly worse than bad.
Taking her other hand in his, he continued, “I don’t mean like that. You’ve looked different since you limped into our house. It’s like… I don’t know, like you’re alive again.”
“Alive again? What does that mean?”
“You haven’t seemed happy in a long time, Michelle,” he spoke in hushed tones. “Not since we got to New Cuba. I thought you just needed time to adjust, but you just kept staying at work. Even after we got engaged, you stayed away.”
“Andrew…” she tried to interrupt.
“No, let me finish,” he said with a slight touch of force. “I started to think it was me you were avoiding. There were so many times I wanted to call you out on it, but… but I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid I was right and that you’d want to leave. But now, you’re you again. When I saw you laughing on the dock, I realized I hadn’t seen you laugh like that in so long.”
His hand slid to her face, cupping her check, and she could not fight the calming warmth he offered. Placing her hand over his, she slowly let her eyes close as she listened to his voice.
“I missed that laugh. And when I heard it, it reminded me that I haven’t laughed like that either. Not with you, or Erik, not with anyone… not since we got to the island. In a way, I feel like… like I’m back to being me again, too, though until today I didn’t realize I wasn’t me. Does that make sense?”
Opening her eyes and meeting his gaze, she whispered softly. “It does. But it is seriously screwed up.”
“What?” he asked her with a shock.
“We had to come back to a place where death is hiding in every corner in order for us to feel like ourselves again. That is seriously screwed up.”
For a second he simply stared at her, and she wondered what thoughts formed behind his eyes. Then, he barked a laugh that made Matt jump from his chair across the room.
“It really is screwed up,” he said through a fit of unrestrained laughter. “We’ll have to bring a Til on the honeymoon!”
Falling into his arms, the two laughed through the final minutes of the sun’s descent as Matt watched in confusion.
Chapter Twenty
“I still don’t know how you talked me into doing this,” Hicks grumbled as he returned from the woods after answering nature’s call. In truth, Paul was equally surprised the other man had agreed to the plan. Over the last two days, he had begun to wonder how he had managed to convince himself to follow their current course of action. Once Hicks mounted the bestially chromed Harley Davidson motorcycle, Paul sprung his own bike to life and the two men continued along to their fate. Only a handful of miles away from their destination, a voice in his head grimly reminded him: It’s too late to turn back now.
It had been too late to turn back the moment he realized Lisa was likely being held prisoner by the Horde, and he knew he would risk anything to see her safely away from their deviations. Getting to her, however, had been an elusive prospect until the ambush of Tils and Horde bikers. After the brief gun battle ceased, Paul could feel the familiar itching in his brain that usually preceded the formation of a plan. Convincing Hicks as he worked, Paul set about stripping the bikers’ bodies of clothing and gear. In shallow graves dug by hand and rock, Hicks had helped Paul bury the Horde followers before the two began working on the bikes.
With the passing of a day, they stood attired in the wearable remnants of Horde clothing, each almost unrecognizable to the other. Some parts and uniquely identifiable embellishments had been exchanged between the bikes, resulting in two motorcycles looking as unfamiliar as the men who would ride them. It had been Hicks’ suggestion to alter the bikes. He had explained flatly that the men of the Horde were probably more likely to recall a fellow member’s ride than to recall the man riding it. Seeing the sense in the other man’s words Paul agreed, though he was loathe to lose time in the effort to rescue Lisa.
As they rode towards the enemy camp, his stomach began to twist and knot. While they looked like road-worn members of the Horde, their lack of specific knowledge of camp life, both activity and protocols, could potentially expose them as interlopers. Paul hoped Carl’s stories of what the Horde did beyond its camp, and their locations of operations, would aide in the less direct questions asked of them. He pushed down a brief flash of regret when he thought of the old man. If he had not “rescued” them and moved them into the hotel, would Carl and his small band still be alive? No, he told himself. I can’t think like that. What’s done is done. I have to find Lisa.
The road before them stretched in an elongated “S” pattern. To his right, he could see the valley floor below. In daylight, the Horde camp appeared even larger than they had first thought. Hundreds of tents dotted the terrain, though the layout lacked any formality or system. With more than a little satisfaction, Paul saw the black charred ground, torn and rent from the explosions, that dominated the site. He swore to himself that the entire valley would look the same if any harm had come to Lisa.
A flash of Hicks’ hand brought his attention back to the road and the blocked checkpoint a quarter mile ahead. They had prepared their story, Hicks supplying much of the nuances to make it believable. Whatever work he had done before the virus, he was clearly well trained in assimilating into diverse populations. Paul had had a more convoluted story, but Hicks dissuaded him. “Too much detail makes it look forced,” he had told Paul. They had finally settled on the lie that the two had broken off from the main camp to scout in the East for supplies.
Hicks crafted one or two more exciting events that had occurred during the fictitious journey. The rest, he had cautioned Paul, should be simple and, frankly, boring. The bandages on his hands were to be explained as the result of a grease fire while drunkenly cooking on the return to the camp.
Slowing their bikes to a rolling stop, Paul watched with feigned casualness as two well-armed men stepped into the road. Behind them, a large felled tree crossed the pavement, making it impassable. The men, perhaps a few years younger than Paul, walked up to the new arrivals. Brief words were exchanged, Hicks taking the lead in answering their vague questions. Whether their attire, vehicles, or Hicks’ skilled deceptions convinced them, he didn’t know, but only a few minutes had passed before the men shifted the tree with an ATV and waved the pair through. Paul mumbled to himself, “And he can do Jedi mind tricks.”
“What?” Hicks asked him in a muted voice.
“Nothing, let’s go.”
--
Past the checkpoint, the road began to steadily slope down into the valley. If nerves had threatened his resolve earlier, Paul could now hear them beseeching loudly in his mind, Tur
n around! As he and Hicks sped toward the camp, he held an image of Lisa in his head. The protesting rationality was immediately silenced.
Now that he was within the camp and seeing it in daylight, he realized that it felt less like a camp and more like a small town. Cruising slowly along the makeshift road of turned earth and mud, Paul could see it actually held some semblance of order. In the distance, several men field dressed an assortment of wild life: two large bucks, half a dozen foxes, and countless rabbits. Near where those men worked, another group was busy plucking chickens and roasting a medium-sized pig on a spit. The structure behind them, Paul realized, was a large coop that could easily house poultry by the dozens.
Another section of the camp was devoted to mechanical needs—likely an endless task given the number of motorcycles and ATVs. Paul lost count after seeing twenty men diligently working on vehicles and engines. Further along, men of the Horde worked on tanning hides, repairing tent canvas, cleaning and oiling firearms, and countless other necessities of a thriving community. To his right, and a short distance from the main section of the camp, he saw large swathes of land producing corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, and he thought he even saw a section dedicated to watermelons.
No, Paul realized, this is not a mismatched, unorganized collective of modern barbarians. What he saw before him was a successfully expanded version of the camp Mike Allard had led in the mountains. Established as they were, with the structure they maintained, he did not doubt that the Horde’s stronghold could sustain the members indefinitely. Not for the first time did he wish Mike had journeyed with him. His friend would have marveled to see such a settlement.
Progressing to the rows of surviving vehicles, Paul and Hicks both nodded in response to the intermittent greetings offered by those they passed. Most wore the unofficial uniform of black leather and camouflage. As much as he recognized the camp as a succeeding community, it was all but impossible to not similarly recognize the camp as a powerful military compound. Each person his eyes passed over was well armed with a variety of knives and firearms. There was an alertness to their gazes, a sense of warrior wariness, that was unmistakable. The evening attack days earlier was still fresh and he could see its effects in the cautiously deliberate movements of the Horde.
Adding their bikes to the others, Paul and Hicks spent a few minutes seeming to check various elements of their vehicles.
“That was easier than we thought it’d be,” Paul whispered hoarsely over his shoulder.
Hicks, who crouched with his back to Paul, replied, “I’m more concerned with how the ‘getting out’ goes.”
Paul knew he was right. It would certainly be simpler to infiltrate the Horde posing as two drifting members. The exit, however, with a female prisoner in tow, would likely be a feat of far greater difficulty.
“I didn’t get a good look at the prisoner pen,” he told the mercenary. It had taken a fair amount of restraint to not head directly for the pen when they first entered the camp. The thought of Lisa caged… he shook with anger.
“We need to stay away from it for now,” Hicks hissed. The point was one he had stressed after agreeing to Paul’s plan. “If no one knows who we are, and we show too much interest in the prisoners…”
“I know!” Paul growled in response. But I don’t have to like it!
“I saw a line forming on the east side of the camp. Looks like a meal line,” Hicks said as he switched topics. “Good place to pick up some information.” As he finished speaking, the man moved off into the direction of the food. Paul had conceded a good deal of authority once Hicks agreed to the plan. The formerly-isolated man had much more practice in these situations than Paul, and he agreed to follow Hicks’ direction while among the Horde. Standing from the Harley, he tucked the tight-fitting riding gloves into his back pocket and followed.
As he crossed the ground behind Hicks, Paul tried to scan more of the camp. Careful to keep his eyes from seeming to search, he would occasionally allow his gaze to drift to either side and briefly study. The activity was so mundane, so reminiscent of the mountain camp, that he had to remind himself of the Horde’s past sins. He passed tents, canvas doors flapped open, where men sat around small tables playing poker and laughing. Another where an older fellow was demonstrating the best method for boot shining to a group of younger members.
If he did not see the prisoner pen in the distance, Paul could almost wish to become a part of this brotherhood. Turning his head slowly forward, his feet stumbled slightly as a face flashed in his vision. Forgetting subtlety, he whipped his head back in a double-take. His eyes scanned the crowd, but the face was gone. You’re too jumpy, he admonished. You’re seeing things.
After reaching the meal line, Paul slipped into place behind Hicks and let his ears wander the nearby conversations. Men spoke idly of the weather, the quality of the food about to be served, and a series of other day to day topics. A pair of middle-aged men who joined the line after Paul discussed the night attack and the loss of their bikes.
“Drennan says he’s going to send out a party to scout for more bikes,” one said in a soft tone.
“Yeah, and I’m the damn King of Spain,” his counterpart said with a snort. “Drennan’s boys have their rides and that’s all he cares about.”
“Keep your voice down,” the first snapped. “You saw what happened to Grogan.”
Paul continued to advance to the large tables where several men were serving food. The pair behind him fell silent and spoke no further until well away from any listening ears. he took his full tray and joined Hicks, who sat on an upturned milk crate. Easing to the ground, and crossing his legs, he was a bit surprised as he examined the food. Two large slices of pork covered in a thick brown gravy sat in the main sectioned part of the tray. The smaller sections held a generous serving of boiled corn and a fist-sized chunk of still warm bread. He realized he would have to add bakery to the list of Horde services. Lacking utensils, he rolled the top slice of pork with his fingers and took the first taste. As a thin line of gravy dripped across his stubbled chin, Paul raised his eyebrows in surprise. Not only was the meat edible, he was fairly sure few meals in New Cuba could match the one he had now. Scooping some of the corn with the bread, Paul glanced about to assure privacy as he conversed with Hicks between bites.
“Sounds like the lost bikes are a sore point,” he said, though his mind was more focused on the crusty bread.
“Mhmm,” Hicks agreed, clearly enjoying the meal as well. “From the food operation they have running, I’d guess there’s about three to four hundred camped here.”
The number did not surprise Paul. There had been at least several dozen before them in the line and yet the camp was still filled with activity. Carl had warned that the Horde’s ranks were vast, but Paul and Hicks had initially doubted him when they first spied the enemy camp. He was about to respond when a trio of Horde members joined them.
“You guys don’t look familiar,” the one now sitting to his left observed. The tone was casual, not threatening in the least, but Paul had to remind himself to not tense at the man’s words. “You just join?”
“You could say that,” Hicks responded. “But for the second time. We headed east about six months back, thought we’d scout around. Just got back today and still haven’t seen a familiar face.”
With extreme focus, Paul managed to keep his eyebrows from shooting up. Though he had discussed the cover story with Hicks, hearing the man tell it was still a surprise. The rough edge that usually marked Hicks’ tone was absent, replaced by a friendly hint of a southern drawl. Even the hard lines of the man’s face had smoothed to a welcoming, even friendly, expression. Guy’s a freaking chameleon, Paul thought.
“Six months? There’s been a whole lot of changes since you’ve been gone, man,” the man replied with a laugh before extending his hand. “James Hingurth. And that’s Billy Walsh, and Terrell Johnson next to him.”
Paul placed his tray on the ground and leaned into to sh
ake each of the men’s hands. Hicks did the same and they both supplied their names to the men before them. As expected, the conversation immediately turned to the obvious injury to Paul’s hands. Without missing a beat, he told them about a night of drinking and a cook fire. Though Hicks had urged minimal details, the man jumped in with several humorous quips and imitations of Paul’s fictitious drink induced injury. The Horde men laughed prodigiously, Terrell pounding the ground with his fist as Hicks capered about pretending to wave flaming hands in the air. Though he forced himself to play the role of the idiot, behind his nodding grin he envisioned several ways in which Hicks should die.
“Wouldn’t have been that bad, except he rushed for the tent,” Hicks continued. “Next thing you know, the thing goes up like a bonfire in summer! Been sleeping in the open for the past week.”
For a moment more the laughter continued. Finally catching his breath, James offered, “After lunch, we’ll set you up with Finns. He handles all the extra supplies. He’ll complain about running low on everything, but he’ll end up giving you what you need.”
“Thanks,” Hicks told him. “I’d appreciate it.”
“We’ve got a few bottles of booze,” Billy spoke for the first time. “Tonight after you get settled in, head over towards the infirmary. I have a shack set up over there, and you guys are welcome to join us for a drink.”
Paul was about to decline the invitation. His goal was to locate Lisa as soon as possible and leave the Horde a memory. He saw no benefit in spending any unneeded time socializing with murderers and rapists. Hicks, however, slid his answer in before him and accepted.
As the meal finished, James led them across the camp to a run-down trailer with flattened tires that had sunk deeply into the ground. Banging on the metal door, James called out the supply manager’s name. True to his reputation, Finns mumbled, though more out of habit than any true irritation, as he collected the supplies Hicks listed. New tents, sleeping mats, and a pair of coarse military issue blankets were quickly gathered as Hicks and Paul set off to select a campsite.
