“How are we supposed to snoop around without getting shot?” Terrell said.
“What if we go the obvious route?” Carrie suggested softly.
“Meaning…?”
“Let’s start knocking on doors, or just call out to people from the street. Patrolmen wouldn’t do that. Neither would government spies.”
Terrell rolled his dark eyes. “Because they don’t like getting their brains blown out. No one would do something so stupid.”
“Are you sure?” Richard said. Without warning, he strode out from behind the hedges, arms waving high in the air. “Ho, there! Hello?” Richard called. “We’re looking for fellow illegals like us!”
“Holy heaven almighty,” Terrell breathed. “He’s going to get us killed.”
Probably, but Carrie smiled and joined Richard, walking out into the wide open. Terrell huffed but followed as well. The three of them walked down the main road running through the center of the Watercrest neighborhood.
“We’re from Logan Pond, your fellow townsmen!” Richard continued to call. “We’re looking to make contact with other clans. Hello?”
Carrie checked every house. She couldn’t hear anything, she couldn’t see much beyond the abandoned-looking homes either, but she swore she felt something move. Her eyes darted around, suddenly feeling like she had a target on her chest.
Maybe Terrell was right.
Maybe this was a really, really bad idea.
Richard turned onto a side street, winding deeper into the sub as he repeated his message. “My name is Richard O’Brien. I’ve been a resident of Shelton all my life, as have my friends, Carrie Ashworth and Terrell Dixon. We’re looking to make contact with—”
“Carrie?”
Carrie turned at the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Carrie, is that you?” a woman called as she and a few others exited one of the homes.
Squinting, Carrie held up a hand to block the morning sun. The woman had long dark hair and held a small bundle in her arms. Carrie didn’t recognize her from this distance, but she waved anyway.
“Hello! It’s me, Carrie Ashworth.”
“You know her?” Terrell asked under his breath.
“I…” Carrie squinted harder. “I’m not sure.”
As the woman approached, Carrie racked her brain to figure out who she was. Terrell and Richard shifted nervously, especially since the woman had three men and another woman trailing her, two of whom carried rifles.
Carrie’s small group was suddenly outnumbered.
The woman’s face stayed shaded, but even then, Carrie saw enough to know that she didn’t recognize her. It had been years since she’d encountered other people, but so long that she’d forgotten everyone?
A chill ran down her spine. Did this woman really know her, or was this some trick to lure them in?
thirty-nine
CARRIE FELT STIFF WITH TREPIDATION. The eight of them met in the middle of the street, each sizing up the other group for threats. Their two women looked skinny and worn down, while the three men looked shaggy and dangerous. None of them seemed familiar to Carrie, even though she’d met people from Watercrest before. Especially not the younger woman who had called her name.
“It’s me, Brooke,” the woman said. “Brooke Gabriel, from Shelton High? I was in the marching band.”
“Yes,” Carrie said, finally recognizing the face. Back in high school, Brooke had been a little on the heavy side. Now her clothes hung on her body. But it was still Brooke, and Carrie couldn’t have been more relieved.
“You live here?” Carrie asked, smiling. “I thought you lived east of the school.”
“I did, but these people,” Brooke said, looking over her shoulder, “have recently taken in me and my son.”
Son.
Carrie noticed the small bundle in Brooke’s arms.
“May I?” Carrie asked, starting to step forward, but Terrell grabbed her arm and kept her back. Understanding his desire to keep some distance, Brooke pushed away the mass of blankets and held up her tiny son. He was sound asleep and smaller than a baby should be, but he had a cute button nose and a few tufts of red hair.
Carrie smiled. “What’s his name?”
“Jackson,” Brooke said. “He’s two months old today.”
It was strange that someone Carrie’s age had a baby, but then again, she was twenty-three. That was old enough.
“He’s beautiful,” Carrie said.
Brooke’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you. He looks just like his daddy, but—”
“Why are you here?” one of the men barked, breaking into the conversation. He kept his rifle in the crook of his arm, not pointed at anyone but still at attention, making it clear he wasn’t a fan of social visits.
Carrie waited for Terrell to take the lead. She’d promised as much. He held his own rifle and had demanded to lead out in this, but it was Richard who stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“We’re here on a delegation of sorts,” Richard said. “We live in a subdivision northwest of here, in Logan Pond, and we’re hoping to connect with other clans.”
The man eyed Richard’s hand without shaking it. “We were told to steer clear of Logan Pond because it had legals living in it.”
Dropping his hand, Richard smiled through his gray goatee. “Yes. May and CJ Trenton—my in-laws—are yellow card holders, but they have little contact with the government. They’ve been assisting our small clan of illegals for six years now.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth and you’re not government spies?” the older woman asked.
“I guess you’ll have to take our word for it,” Richard said. “Although I doubt government employees would dress this shabby or look so malnourished.”
Carrie smiled at the truth of that statement, but she was the only one. Her smile faded.
“I’ve known Carrie for years,” Brooke said. “She’s not a spy.”
“Then why didn’t she recognize you?” the first man snapped.
Brooke clutched her baby, bottom lip quivering. “Because I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Brooke,” Carrie said. “I wasn’t expecting to see someone from high school, but I’m so happy to see someone I know again.” And if Terrell wasn’t blocking her, she would have given Brooke a hug.
The tall man in the back stepped forward and finally shook Richard’s hand. “I’m Gavin,” he said. “This is Taylor, Johannes, and Sarina. It sounds like you already know Brooke.”
“Nice to meet you all,” Richard said. “Is Bo Swann still a member of your clan? We go back a ways.”
“Never heard of him,” Gavin said. “This sub was empty when we got here. We’re a Bedouin group.”
“Bedouins,” Terrell whispered under his breath. “Great.”
Carrie frowned as well. How would they trade with people who moved every few weeks? But she was more concerned about the other part he’d said.
Empty subdivision.
Gavin noticed their disappointment. “Don’t worry. We’ll be moving on soon.”
“Do you know where the previous residents went?” Carrie asked.
“A few homes still had things in them,” the older woman answered. “We assume the clan was taken.”
Carrie felt ill. The Watercrest clan once had fifty people.
Terrell leaned close and whispered, “They’re scavengers. Let’s go.”
Her eyes widened. Scavengers were worse than Bedouins since they lived off the misfortunes of others. Definitely not people they wanted to trade with. Now that Terrell had said it, she noticed they wore nicer clothes than any in Logan Pond. Except Brooke. Her shirt was stained and stretched like it had been worn for years.
“When did you join this group?” Carrie asked her.
“Right after my husband was arrested,” Brooke said. “About six weeks ago.”
“Your husband?” Carrie said, horrified. “Oh, Brooke. I’m so sorry.”
Nodding, Brooke’s eyes watered again. “Remember Scott Perry?”
Carrie’s stomach twisted further. She knew Scott better than she knew Brooke since they’d hung out in the same social group in high school. Carrie took another peek at the baby and spotted Scott’s fair skin and distinctive red hair.
“Of course,” Carrie said. “I’m so sorry, Brooke.”
“I don’t know if we’ll ever see him again,” Brooke said, tears wetting the blanket.
“Where was he arrested?” Carrie asked. If it was close, Oliver might be able to look at the records to find out where Scott ended up.
“The other side of Shelton. We planned to find Scott’s uncle in West Chicago, but I went into labor early, so we stopped at Scott’s old house.” Brooke wiped her eyes, but it did nothing to stop the flood of tears. “We were only there a few weeks when a patrolman came through. He had dogs, and Scott…” She started to hiccup loud sobs. “Scott, he…”
Sarina put an arm around her. “Her husband ran so they wouldn’t find them. Brooke resigned herself and her baby to starvation when we happened across them.”
Brooke took a shuddering breath. “They’ve been so kind to take us in even though I have nothing to offer in return.”
Carrie deliberated a moment and then decided to just say it. “I might be able to help. I have this friend who is—”
“Carrie!” Terrell snapped.
She reworded her explanation. “My friend might know where they’re holding Scott. I could maybe ask.”
“Oh, could you?” Brooke said. “I don’t have any way to tell Scott where I’ve gone, so even if he was released by some miracle, he has no way to find us. They burned down the house after we left.”
Carrie went numb. “What?”
That started another round of tears for Brooke, so Gavin spoke for her. “When I went back to get Brooke’s things, they had burned the house to the ground. What a waste.”
Carrie couldn’t breathe.
Oliver.
The illegal.
The phone call in the car. The squatter who attacked Oliver. The squatter Oliver had arrested.
The squatter who was dead.
Oh, no. Oh, please, please, please no.
“We’re taking Brooke and her baby with us,” Sarina continued, “so if you’re able, tell her husband we’re meeting up with the resistance in West Chicago.”
Brooke looked up with red eyes. “It’s where Scott and I were heading anyway. He wanted to join the rebellion so badly. Live free or die.” She smiled sadly. “He practically chanted it in his sleep.”
Carrie couldn’t think straight enough to respond. She couldn’t even nod. She just kept praying she’d put the wrong pieces together. She’d heard the illegal screaming, yelling nonsense in the background, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what his voice sounded like. But it couldn’t have been Scott Perry. Not her friend. It was just a chilling coincidence.
Then she remembered.
Oliver said he wasn’t able to burn the whole house down, just the garage. But the house Gavin saw had been burned to the ground. She took a deep breath. Scott was still alive. It hadn’t been him.
The next time she saw Oliver, she would ask about arrest records and see if he could help track Scott Perry down.
Terrell tugged on Carrie’s shirt and shot Richard a look that he was ready to leave, too.
“Well, we won’t take up any more of your time,” Richard said. “It was nice making your acquaintances. Good luck to all of you.”
“Say,” Gavin said as they turned to leave, “would your clan be interested in joining the rebellion? If so, there’s a group who meets every evening in an old food plant outside of West Chicago. They plan and coordinate the next attacks there. They can always use more people to join the cause.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” Terrell said, tugging on Carrie’s sleeve. She was barely able to wave before he dragged her out of there. He looked furious as they double-backed the way they’d come. They were well out of the neighborhood before Richard broke the tense silence.
“Should we try another clan today?” Richard asked.
“Oh, no,” Terrell said. “We’ve done enough damage.”
“I didn’t think it went badly,” Richard said.
“Me neither,” Carrie said.
“Not so bad?” Terrell said, picking up his pace. “They don’t live here, they can’t trade because not only are they a bunch of vultures, but they’re joining a rebellion which is going to make the government even more violent. Oh, and the biggest clan in this area no longer exists. What exactly did we accomplish that has you two all hunky-dory?”
“We made contact,” Carrie said. She thought about Greg and a smile warmed her soul. Though it had taken longer than she hoped, they’d finally accomplished Greg’s proposal number four. “We made contact with the outside world.”
* * * * *
It took Greg a while to figure out which way they’d gone. Kearney and the others had packed up camp faster than he thought possible.
Greg searched around the smoking fire pit, but no sign of Isabel’s body—not even any sign that they’d dragged it somewhere. Which meant they had her. Alive, probably. He searched until he found matted-down grasses and weeds. After that, following their trail was easy.
With every step, his body screamed to give up this suicide mission and head home. Now that the adrenaline rush was gone, his left leg seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, his shoulder screamed with pain, and his other injuries stabbed with every heartbeat. But he kept following the trail until he found them.
Kearney’s group had met up with another camp, a larger one. This new camp had fifty or so rebels, and they’d commandeered a few small buildings which looked like part of an old weather station. The two groups gathered in a clearing. Greg couldn’t see Isabel anywhere, but it was hard to see much of anything from his vantage point through the thick trees. Then he spotted Kearney’s dark hair. With his good leg, Greg knelt on a fallen tree trunk and kept a sharp eye on Kearney.
Kearney was in a heated debate with a few others, probably the leaders. Greg was too far away to make out what they shouted, but he guessed Kearney was convincing them to abandon camp.
Then Kearney shifted and pointed into the woods. Right in Greg’s direction.
Greg ducked, but after a second, he realized Kearney wasn’t pointing at him at all. He was pointing at a small shed off to Greg’s right, a shed guarded by two men.
Isabel. She had to be in there.
Greg sized up the two guards. They were older than him but close to his size, only they were armed and unwounded.
Greg started moving. With a bum leg, he struggled to keep his footfalls from snapping twigs, so he slowed down and placed every step with excruciating care. The low summer brush and tree limbs snagged and scraped his arms, mosquitoes fed on his flesh, but he ignored it all to inch his way toward that shed.
The two guards talked in hushed whispers as they kept watch, looking disturbed by whatever Kearney had said. That was good. They were distracted.
Greg crept up behind the shed. Pressing an ear to the old wood, he heard a woman crying loud sniffles of defeat inside.
Isabel wasn’t dead or unconscious.
Also good.
The shed didn’t have any windows, and there was only one door in, guarded by the two men. The whole shed was made of rotting wood. Greg tried a couple of pieces, but they weren’t rotted enough to pry pieces off. Not without drawing attention.
Stepping close, he pressed his face to the wood and tried to see through the slats.
“Isabel,” he whispered.
The sniffling stopped. He heard scrambling inside. “Greg?” she whispered back.
“Yeah. Are you injured?”
“Some. You?” she asked.
“Some.” Greg rested his heavy head on the painted shed. “Is the door locked?”
“Not sure.” A few more sniffs. “Why are you h
ere?”
Good question, he thought. But he shoved it aside to figure out his options. If the two guards had been on opposite sides of the shed, he could take them down one at a time, but there was little way to do it now without sound or alerting the rest of camp. Not unarmed and alone.
“Think you can take down one of the guards—preferably a silent method?” he asked.
A pause and then, “Yes. Are you sure you want to do this?”
No, but Kearney and the others would be packing up again soon. The longer Greg waited, the harder it would be to free her.
He listened again. Those guards were distracted, talking about how careless Kearney had been to let two spies into his camp. Ironic, considering where Greg stood.
“Can you see me through the cracks?” Greg whispered.
“Just where you’re blocking the light,” Isabel said back.
“Alrighty. If I take the guard on this side, can you take the other?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll take both if I have to,” Greg whispered, hating this plan more by the second, “but it’s gonna be hard without alerting Kearney. You know the sleeper hold?”
She grunted. “Of course.”
“Okay. When I knock on the side of the shed, that’s your signal to move. The goal is no sound and no deaths.” He could trust her for the first but not the second. Thanks to training, Greg knew four ways to kill a man without weapons, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. “Ready?”
When it stayed quiet, he assumed that was her nod and started moving. He inched up to the corner of the shed and peered around.
“I’ve moved seven times in the last month,” one of the guards said. “Here I thought we were going to get settled, and now—”
Greg knocked on the side of the shed and then made his move.
The guard turned. “What was—”
That was all he got out. Greg jumped him from behind, arm around his neck, and squeezed his wrist against the carotid artery. The guy struggled, only speeding up the process. Then he dropped, out cold. When Greg turned, Isabel’s guy was on the ground.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 70
