Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Oliver said, breathless despite his desire to look calm. “I should have told you, but I was visiting…my aunt. She’s very ill with this new illness, and I-I-I’m not sure she’s going to make it.”

  “Ah, so Carrie’s your aunt now?” Jamansky said. “She seems a little young to me.”

  Carrie.

  Oliver couldn’t breathe.

  He looked around. Ashlee was gone.

  Ashlee told.

  Jamansky pushed away from the desk and circled him like a vulture. “How about you try your story again, this time without the lies—although at this point, it’s not going to help your case. But I am curious if you’re capable of any truth whatsoever.”

  “Carrie was dying,” Oliver said weakly. “I had to help.”

  “How noble of you.” Jamansky stopped in front of him. “Why you?”

  Oliver closed his eyes. Carrie was legal now. She had her yellow card, making her safe from Jamansky’s clutches.

  She was safe.

  She was.

  Jamansky leaned close and whispered, “Ever wonder why I didn’t have you arrested with Chief Dario?”

  Oliver couldn’t have answered if he wanted to. His heart pounded out of his chest. He checked the doors, calculating how fast he had to be to get out of there alive. Reading his mind, Jamansky motioned to Portman and Bushing. Oliver’s former partners jumped into action and grabbed his arms, rooting him in spot.

  “I knew you were hiding something,” Jamansky continued. “Something bigger than Chief Dario. Bigger than even your lovely Carrie Lynne Ashworth. You’re just a bit too awkward, too quiet, and too…accommodating. You wanted to work alone all these years, and I played right into your hand, didn’t I? You’ve been up to something all these years, and it’s been eating at me. But today”—Jamansky smiled a dark, chilling smile—“I finally figured it out.”

  Crossing the room, Jamansky snatched a single paper from Ashlee’s desk. He waved it high in the air.

  No. No. NO!

  Oliver didn’t have to read the words to know what it was. He felt like he had been sucker-punched.

  “This claims you bought Carrie’s house months ago,” Jamansky said, pretending to read the deed. “But Ashlee assures me that the final paperwork wasn’t pushed through until recently. In fact, it cleared just last night during the early morning hours. Isn’t that something?”

  “Ashlee,” Oliver whispered.

  What had she done?

  Jamansky’s expression darkened. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve already dealt with her. That wench will pay dearly for her hand in this.”

  Oliver’s head snapped up. “What did you do to her?”

  He tried to rock forward, but Portman and Bushing’s grips tightened on his arms.

  Ignoring his question, Jamansky scanned the deed. “You know the best part of all this? Not that I found out about your girlfriend—although that is a huge, huge bonus. But that Carrie’s new house just so happens to be in the same neighborhood where that raid fell through in March. The same raid where we found twenty squatters who just happened to have slipped through your patrols all these years. That’s also the same raid where our acquired stash went missing. A pretty big coincidence, don’t you think, Mayor Phillips?”

  “Yes, it is,” the mayor said, eyes tiny slits of fury.

  Oliver gulped. “That stuff wasn’t yours.”

  Jamansky threw back his head and laughed. “After everything I’ve accused you of, everything I now know, that’s the best you’ve got? Are you still going to claim that you and Carrie are just friends?”

  “You leave her alone,” Oliver said, unable to scream at him like he wanted.

  Jamansky smiled and read the top of the deed. “No. I don’t think I will.”

  Carrie’s address.

  Her house.

  The clan.

  Oliver’s knees went weak. Portman and Bushing had a hard time keeping him upright.

  Jamansky stepped forward. “Oh, this is payback time,” he whispered in his face. “I spent two months in a smelly, rotten prison because of you, wondering how to get revenge. Well, I just found it—or should I say, I just found her. Now, while you rot away in that same prison, I’m going to be having the time of my life. Guess I don’t need you to give me Carrie’s address anymore, huh? In fact, I think I’ll pay her a visit right now. The hospital said she was just released, so she should be home by now. Isn’t that where you were? Driving your sweet, pretty, little Carrie home? Tell me, is she still wearing a cute little hospital gown? One without a—”

  Oliver lunged. Portman and Bushing weren’t expecting it, and he broke free.

  In one giant leap, he was on Jamansky, fists swinging.

  The first blow caught Jamansky squarely in the jaw. Jamansky’s head snapped back. Oliver kept punching, wild with rage. Chest. Head. Stomach. He hit every part of Jamansky he could reach before the others pulled him off.

  Jamansky leaped up with a scream. His fist cocked back and rammed Oliver’s gut. Air whooshing out, Oliver dropped. Another blow to the head, and the world rang. Jamansky’s foot connected next, sending Oliver flailing across the room. Oliver tried to scramble free, but Jamansky kicked again, connecting with his ribs.

  Oliver gasped. Everything went in and out, black and white.

  With his foot, Jamansky rolled him onto his back. Then that same foot went on the center of his ribs, squishing out the last of Oliver’s air.

  Breathing heavily, Jamansky stood over him, wiping the blood from his swollen lip. “You’re under arrest for harboring illegals, using government-earned funds to support the rebellion, lying to your boss, running around with my old girlfriend, sleeping with my future girlfriend, treason against your country, and so many other things you’ll never see the light of day again.” Swinging back, he gave Oliver’s ribs a final bone-breaking kick.

  Oliver couldn’t breathe. His whole body burned. His fingers dug into the blue carpet, desperate to escape, to warn the clan. But Portman and Bushing yanked him up.

  “You can’t…you can’t do this!” Oliver said in between gasps.

  “Just be glad I’m not having you killed. Take him away.”

  With everything he had, Oliver dug in his heels. “Live free or die!” he bellowed. “There are things far worse than death!”

  Jamansky turned slowly, murder blazing in his eyes. “Oh, believe me, I know. Which is why you don’t have a bullet in your head. Get him out of here. No, wait. I want him to see this.”

  Jamansky walked up to the map of Shelton mounted on the wall. His finger traced the streets. “342 Woodland Drive. 342 Woodland Drive. Ah, there she is.” He tapped the house by Logan Pond. “Where are my keys?”

  “NO!” Oliver screamed, flailing with his last ounce of strength.

  Carrie, still weak and recovering.

  Greg, supposedly dead.

  May, CJ, Richard.

  The whole illegal clan.

  Jamansky would see them. He would know. Oliver had condemned every last one of them.

  The last glimpse Oliver saw before he was carted off was of David Jamansky whistling to himself as he strode out to his car.

  the end of book two

  one

  CARRIE ASHWORTH’S HEAD SPUN in the trapped summer heat. She grabbed the wall and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping this wouldn’t happen for the rest of her life, feeling like she’d stepped off the Tilt-A-Whirl. Thirty minutes post hospital had worn her out.

  With an arm around her waist, Greg Pierce helped her upstairs to her bedroom, but each step made it worse. At the top, the hallway rotated in front of her.

  Greg left her leaning against the wall and cleared a pile of blankets from the mattress on her bedroom floor. Blanket after blanket, he peeled back.

  “Where did you get all those?” she asked. She didn’t recognize most of them.

  He smiled but didn’t answer. “Ready to sleep?”

  She was, but she stayed leaned against h
er door jamb, too tired to move. The meningitis-like virus had wiped out most of the last few days, but some things she remembered vividly, like freezing to death, which seemed impossible given the hot, stuffy room. He left one blanket in the room, the one nailed over her window to ease the strain on her light-sensitive eyes. A folding chair—her kitchen chair—sat in the corner where he had fretted over her. His NY Yankees baseball cap lay next to it, and a cup of water sat beside the mattress. She remembered those. All too well, she remembered the pain, the vomiting, and the absolute terror.

  A shudder ripped through her. So close. She had come so close to never coming back. Grave number nine in their clan cemetery.

  As if reading her thoughts, Greg’s expression softened. “Come on, Carrie girl. Time to sleep.”

  Crossing the room, she lowered herself onto the mattress. Maybe if she slept for a day—or two—she could shed the dizziness, light sensitivity, and migraine. Hopefully those issues weren’t permanent.

  Unlike her ear…

  She rubbed her bad ear, the one that registered things as muted and dull and left her feeling lopsided.

  “Wanna change first?” he asked.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  While she craved her comfy sweats, she was too tired to change by herself, and she refused to ask Greg, who would only be too eager to help. What she really craved was a long, hot, bubble bath, but she hardly got lukewarm baths, because by the time she boiled water for Amber and Zach, the water cooled before it was her turn. A bath, even a cold one, would have to wait until she had the energy to cart in water from her well.

  “Here, let me take your card,” Greg said, slipping the lanyard from around her neck. Carrie caught a glimpse of her photo on her new citizenship card—her ticket to freedom.

  She grimaced. “Any chance they’ll let me retake that picture?”

  “What, this?” He smiled. “I kinda like it. You look like the poster child for the zombie apocalypse.”

  She would have swatted him if she wasn’t so tired. Not that he was wrong. She vaguely remembered him and Oliver coaxing her awake for the ID photo. At least Greg was teasing her again. For a while, he had looked worse than she felt.

  “You can always ask when you take Amber and Zach into town to get their cards,” he said. “I’m sure Ashlee Lyon will retake your picture. She knows what it took to get you legal.”

  That was more than Carrie knew.

  “Speakin’ of zombies, you gotta get feelin’ better fast ‘cause look at this mop.” Greg rubbed his hair. “It’s in serious need of a cut, and rumor has it that you made me pretty irresistible with the last one.”

  Definitely irresistible.

  With her eyes, she followed the sharp line of his jaw, now dark with stubble, the shape of his thick brows. Summer had tanned his skin and lightened his hair a shade. He looked good. Really good.

  Winking, he said, “Alrighty. Stop checkin’ me out and go to sleep already.”

  Cocky guy, but she smiled.

  She closed her eyes, exhaustion consuming her. The medicine needed time to work. She had insisted they leave the hospital in Aurora, Illinois prematurely to save the clan’s money, but she hated wasting time to sleep. Too many neighbors had caught this government-inflicted plague, weeds had overtaken the clan’s garden, and they still needed to contact other clans and warn them about what was coming. She had to get better fast. So she would sleep. But just for a bit.

  “You’re scowlin’ again.” Greg rubbed the spot between her eyebrows. “Are your eyes still bothering you? Want me to…”

  His lips kept moving, but with her good ear pressed to her pillow, his words muddled into hearing-loss oblivion.

  “No, I’m fine.” She grabbed his hand and lowered it. “You should go.”

  “Wow. Love you, too. Was it somethin’ I said?”

  She gave a tired smile. “No. You’ve just slept less than I have.” And it showed: his disheveled clothes, brows wrinkled with worry, and his drooped shoulders—one of which still hadn’t healed from the attack in West Chicago. At least his bruises were gone, but he still looked weary to the bone. She felt it. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re sleeping, too. In your own house,” she clarified so he didn’t park himself on her dirty carpet again.

  “Fine.” He stretched out his back. “I’ve gotta go around and administer the first round of shots to all the other sickies anyway. Speaking of which…it’s your lucky day. You get the first one.”

  He grabbed a small white box containing dozens of syringes.

  The cure.

  “Are you sure I need another dose already?” she asked. They hadn’t left the hospital that long ago.

  He glanced down at his empty wrist—an old habit. “When I checked the clock in Oliver’s car, it was around six. Besides, I’ve gotta practice on somebody.”

  Practice? She didn’t love that word. Greg didn’t have an ounce of medical training. No one in the clan did. But with six others starting symptoms, someone had to try. Luckily the nurses had shown him how to administer the shots. Apparently, they hated President Rigsby as much as he did.

  “Live free or die,” they had whispered, thrilled to be helping a group of illegals.

  Carrie eyed the box of syringes. Better for him to practice on her than his grandparents, who were so old and frail that their skin would bruise.

  She pushed up her sleeve.

  Greg pulled out the first syringe and ripped off the plastic covering as if he knew exactly what he was doing. But then he froze, the syringe hanging midair.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He swallowed. “Know any techniques to make it easier?”

  The needle didn’t look too big, but she had received the rest of the medicine via intravenous fluids. The back of her hand was still bandaged and bruised, but she forced herself to look brave. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl. Just go fast.”

  “Not easier for you.” He wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Easier for me. I’m not real fond of needles. They make me…uh…” He glanced at the syringe and quickly looked away. His summer tan faded into a pasty white. “Ah, man. Not cool. Not cool.”

  “You’re afraid of needles?” she asked.

  “No. I’m terrified of needles. Take this.”

  He handed the needle to her and jumped to his feet. Then he threw open her window and hung his head out, taking in huge gulps of fresh air. A slight breeze blew inside, bringing in the smell of summer. Greg stayed half in, half out.

  Carrie couldn’t help it. She grinned. How could something as tiny as a needle scare Greg Pierce? The needle wasn’t even going into his arm. It took her a minute to regain her niceness.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Just fine,” he said in a tiny squeak, head still outside.

  Smile fading, she thought of the other clansmen who needed shots every six hours. The needle wasn’t too huge. Maybe she’d just administer it to herself and then go around to the others.

  “Did the nurse say how to give it?” she asked.

  He looked over his shoulder, blanched further, and faced the open window again. “Just slide it into the skin. Oooh. Slide. Bad word.”

  For some reason, his anxiety relieved hers. She craned her head to see down the side of her arm. Unfortunately, the awkward turn of her neck brought back the dizziness in full force. She clutched her mattress, needing to anchor herself to something solid.

  “I’ll do it,” Amber said, coming in from the hallway.

  “Are you sure?” Carrie asked.

  “Yep. I don’t mind needles.” Carrie’s little sister grabbed the needle like a butcher grabbed a cleaver. “How high up on the arm, Greg?”

  “I don’t know. The regular spot. Just do it already!”

  “Wow, I didn’t know you were such a baby,” Amber smirked.

  “Be nice,” Carrie said. “He hasn’t eaten or slept for days. The last thing we need is for him to pass out and—”

&nbs
p; Amber stabbed Carrie’s arm, driving the needle deep into the skin.

  “Ow!” Carrie yelped. “Not so hard.”

  “All done.” Amber slid the needle out and dropped it into the box.

  “It’s over?” Greg asked, stealing a glance.

  “Yes.” Carrie rubbed her arm where it burned from the cold medicine. “Yikes, Amber.”

  “You’re welcome.” Standing, Amber held the small box of syringes. “I’ll do everyone else’s if you want, Greg.”

  “No. I got it. I’ll be fine. I can do this. I…” He eyed the box. “You sure you know what you’re doin’?”

  Amber rolled her dark eyes. “Better than you. I want to check on Braden anyway. Who else needs medicine?”

  “My grandparents and Richard. Do theirs first,” he said. “Then Terrell and Rhonda. Do Braden’s last.”

  Amber scowled. “Why does Braden go last?”

  Carrie eased herself back down onto her pillow. “Because the others can’t wait while you and Braden chat.”

  “Oh, good thinking,” Amber said, brightening.

  “No,” Greg said. “Braden’s last ‘cause he’s the healthiest and youngest. No lollygagging at his place either. You get two minutes. And no kissing, not even once. You might not have caught this beast yet, but we’ve gotta be careful. I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if we run out of medicine.”

  And what Greg hadn’t said but what Carrie dreaded was that, even with the cure, others might have permanent issues like hers. President Rigsby had manipulated this strain of meningitis to be deadly. Kill those without citizenship, save those with it. The easiest way to stop the impending civil war. It had spread like wildfire. Carrie couldn’t bear to think of millions suffering an outcome worse than hers, but from what Richard O’Brien had said, the ER had been packed with yellow card holders and government workers alike. Legal citizens. People the President of the United States shouldn’t be trying to kill.

  She pressed her hands to her stomach and focused where she could. Here. Now. They had quarantined her clansmen. They’d all be fine.

  They had to be.