Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “Well, it’s good to meet you, Delaney. Like I said, I’m Greg, and that’s Carrie and her brother, Zach.”

  “Oh, I know Zach,” Delaney said, shooting Zach a conspiratorial smile.

  Zach turned twenty shades of red. His eyes flickered to Greg to see if he’d noticed. It would have been hard not to. So…Delaney was the reason Zach had been sneaking out all this time. Made sense. Cute girls had a way of making guys do all sorts of stupid stuff. Maybe Zach was the reason Delaney had volunteered so eagerly.

  Crowbar started walking backwards so he could glare at them as he walked. “When are you going to tell us what this is all about?”

  “Have any of your people been sick?” Greg asked.

  “Occasionally. Why?”

  Relieved, Greg nodded. “If it’s alright, we’ll tell everybody at the same time. By the way, how many people are in your clan?”

  “Forty-four,” Delaney said, still all happy and chipper. “It’s not much farther now.”

  At that, Crowbar sped up, pushing through the long grasses until he disappeared. Delaney pulled ahead, too, seeming anxious to get home. Zach hung back by Carrie and Greg, hobbling slower to match Carrie’s tired pace.

  “Thanks a lot,” Zach muttered.

  “You know,” Greg said softly, “when we’re tradin’ on a weekly basis and you’re allowed to see Delaney any old time you want, you’ll be thankin’ us for real.”

  Zach’s eyes grew eyes so full of hope Greg laughed. “You think we’ll see her every week?”

  “That’s the plan,” Greg said.

  With a wide grin, Zach sped up to Delaney, limp suspiciously gone. As soon as he fell into step beside her, Delaney chattered away to him like a bluebird. Anytime Zach said something, Delaney giggled.

  Carrie looked sick. Not just tired and pale, but physically ill as she watched her brother.

  Restraining a smile, Greg said, “You alright?”

  “But…” She stared at the two teens. “Zach’s too young to like girls. He likes baseball, and food, and …”

  More of Delaney’s giggles floated back to them.

  “And girls,” Greg finished.

  Carrie closed her eyes. “I really can’t handle another love-sick sibling.”

  A few minutes later, they entered a wooded area with huge trees creating a thick canopy above. The area was so shaded that nothing below could get enough sunlight to grow, making a soft dark floor beneath their feet. Zach and Delaney slowed down to let them catch up. Crowbar was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably run ahead to warn everyone that strangers were coming. For all Greg knew, they could be met with a rifle reception.

  Flashes of colors stood out in the shade, small domes set around the giant trees. The soft scent of campfires wafted over to them.

  “Y’all live in tents?” Greg asked.

  “When it’s warm,” Delaney said. “It cuts down guarding time. The patrolmen don’t bother us here. They’re too lazy to walk this far inland. But in the winter, we move back to our houses.”

  Greg nearly asked where those were but didn’t want to press his luck. “Why don’t the three of us hang back here while you get your parents.” He much preferred his odds if Delaney was the one to make the introduction instead of Crowbar. Plus, this way they weren’t walking into someone’s territory.

  “It’s just me and my mom,” Delaney said. “But she’ll be excited to meet you guys. I’ll bring our clan leader, too.”

  As she bounded off, Zach looked back. “Can I go with her?”

  “No way,” Carrie answered.

  Poor kid. Carrie would go after him big time once she felt up to it. He slumped down onto the dark, soft ground.

  “Maybe you should sit, too,” Greg said.

  Carrie shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  As they waited, Greg studied the small camp in the distance. The tents, the smell of campfire, illegals milling about.

  A sudden wave of uneasiness swept over him. The whole thing felt eerily like the camp he and Isabel Ryan had invaded. The rebels. Kearney. Commander McCormick had ordered Greg and Isabel to stay as long as it took to find the heart of the resistance, yet only twelve hours later, they’d been exposed. Radios, maps, green cards, and enough supplies to condemn them as government spies.

  There was something life-changing about staring death in the face. On his knees, gun to his forehead, Greg thought he’d never make it back to Carrie, his mom, or anybody. Not even in a body bag. Now it was like he had stumbled back into that camp, and any second Kearney would leap out with a gun and—

  Carrie nudged him. “Are you okay?”

  His breaths were coming too fast. His hands felt cold and sweaty. He pulled her in close. When that wasn’t enough, he pressed her bad ear to his chest, squeezing her so tightly she probably couldn’t breathe.

  “What is it?” she said into him.

  Zach gave them a curious glance before going back to digging through the fallen twigs.

  “Nothin’,” Greg said, begging the memories to leave. He kissed the top of Carrie’s sun-warmed head. This wasn’t West Chicago, and he was no longer a spy.

  A black-haired girl emerged a few minutes later, with four adults trailing her, two women and two men—and no Crowbar. The group hadn’t brought rifles either. Greg told himself to relax.

  “What’s going on?” a man asked, striding forward. For some reason, he wore bright yellow swim goggles. “Who are you?”

  Normally Greg would have stepped forward and shaken a few hands, but he didn’t. The group seemed to feel the same wariness and stopped well before they were to Greg and Carrie.

  “I’m Greg,” he said, voice tight. “We’re from the Logan Pond Clan. We’re reachin’ out, hopin’ to make contact with others in the area.”

  The man with the swim goggles scowled at Delaney before turning back. “You’re from where?”

  “Logan Pond,” Carrie said, sounding more relaxed than Greg felt. “It’s south of here, near the main road into Shelton.”

  “We were told to steer clear of that subdivision,” the goggle guy said. “We heard you have legal citizens there.”

  “A few,” Greg said. “But most us are still illegal, which is why we’re anxious to contact others. Have any in your group been ill recently?”

  For the next few minutes, Greg and Carrie explained the virus, their theories as to its origin—and deadly intent—and how quickly it had spread. The only thing Greg didn’t tell them was how many extra doses of the cure they had. People killed others over things like that. Unfortunately, Delaney’s clan was in the same predicament as their clan. Nobody with medical knowledge.

  “So…it’s like genocide?” Forrest said, the leader with the yellow swim goggles. It took Greg that long to figure out why Forrest wore what he did. Prescription goggles—probably the only prescription glasses the guy had.

  “Yeah,” Greg said. “I’d suggest avoiding physical contact with anybody outside of your clan for the next while. You might also want to warn your kids. This thing is spreading like crazy.”

  Delaney’s mom put an arm around her daughter. “Oh, believe me, Delaney’s not going to be wandering off anymore.”

  Zach shot Greg a dark glare.

  “Well,” Forrest said, “thanks for the warning.”

  “How much do you know about the rebellion?” Carrie asked suddenly.

  “We’ve seen the fires,” Forrest said. “Actually, a few from our clan left to join some group outside of West Chicago. The rest of us aren’t interested in fighting.”

  “Neither are we,” Greg said. Really not interested. “We just wanted to make sure y’all were aware of what’s goin’ on. Also, to be on high alert. The patrol precinct in Shelton is goin’ through some upheaval with everything, so be extra careful.”

  “Will do,” Forrest said.

  “There’s one last thing.” Greg waited a moment for Carrie to take the reins. She looked almost startled that he wanted her to lead out on it, b
ut with his encouraging nod, she started.

  “The last reason we came is on a happier note.” Clasping her hands in front of her, she said, “We’re here to see if your clan would be interested in trading with ours.”

  That brought another round of surprised looks.

  Forrest folded his arms. “Why?”

  “Each clan in this area probably has things it excels in,” she said, “as well as things they’re deficient in. For example, our clan has done well growing crops, but there are things we haven’t been able to produce, like soap, candles, or flour. We’ve been trading for those on the black market, but that’s not ideal.”

  “Trading with Barry?” Forrest guessed.

  “Yeah,” Greg said. “I hear he’s a real sweetheart.”

  Another guy snorted. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Eventually we’re gonna run out of things to trade,” Carrie said. “So we thought it might be beneficial to open up trading among other clans. We were thinking we could meet up once a week to trade goods, like a farmers’ market of sorts. We would meet somewhere in neutral territory so people aren’t worried or traveling too far. Would that interest your clan?”

  Greg could practically see her holding her breath.

  Delaney’s mom looked at her fellow clansmen before answering. “Possibly, but we’d have to discuss it with everyone first.”

  It wasn’t a no, and that seemed good enough for Carrie. She glowed with pleasure. “That’s fine. Take all the time you need. We just wanted to open a discussion.”

  “Why don’t you give us a few days to talk it over,” Forrest said.

  Greg slid his hand into Carrie’s, happy for her as much as he was excited by the business prospect.

  “Sounds good,” Greg said. “We’ll come back to follow up. How does Friday sound? Maybe midday?”

  Delaney’s mom nodded. “Okay. You know, we’ve kept in partial contact with the Aspen group. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, but we’ve traded chickens and things with them over the years. Is it alright if we invite them to come, too?”

  Carrie was practically dancing for joy. “That would be perfect.”

  fifteen

  OLIVER PUSHED HIS TRAY across the cafeteria roller. He bypassed the mashed potatoes. After peeling potatoes for hours on end, he no longer had the appetite for them. Instead he set an apple and a simple cup of wriggly Jell-O on his tray.

  “Hey!” a guy barked. “Who do you think you are?”

  Oliver glanced over his sore shoulder, wondering if the other inmate was talking to him. He was. And he looked ready to blow a gasket.

  The inmate pointed at the Jell-O. “That’s the last one.”

  Before Oliver could apologize or think to put it back, the guy jumped him. He plowed Oliver over. Oliver fell with a crash onto the hard floor. Pain exploded against his already-tender ribs. He screamed.

  Prison guards came running. “What’s going on?”

  Oliver clutched his chest, each breath a stab of agony.

  Two guards grabbed the guy and pulled him back. “What did you do to him?”

  The inmate’s hands flew up. “I barely touched him, I swear.”

  Oliver couldn’t stop moaning. It killed. He made the mistake of rolling onto his newly-branded shoulder, and more pain shot through him. They’d given him a patch to wear over the burn wound, but that was long gone. Now the tender flesh rubbed against the rough orange jumpsuit.

  “Up.” One of the guards took Oliver’s arm and helped him to his feet. “Get up. What did he do to you?”

  Red-faced and furious, the inmate glared at Oliver, daring him to say a word.

  Oliver dropped his gaze. “Nothing. I just fell. I…” He took another agonizing breath and winced. “I cracked my ribs awhile back. That’s all.”

  A gift from Jamansky that kept on giving.

  As things dissipated, Oliver bent down to grab his tray. The only thing that survived was his apple. One apple for dinner. He didn’t even care. He found the farthest, remotest table in the corner and sat with his apple.

  Someone plopped their tray down next to him with a loud clank.

  Out of instinct, Oliver cowered, jarring his ribs a second time.

  When the pain subsided, he looked sideways and saw Reef, his cellmate, scowling at him. The prison had been designed to house two men per cell, but since the Collapse, they’d packed it wall-to-wall. Oliver’s 4x9 cell housed five men. With a thick mullet and braided beard, Reef was one of them.

  The second they’d ushered Oliver into the small, urine-infested cell, Reef made it clear that he ran the place. He ordered Oliver to sleep on the floor. Oliver hadn’t argued. He should have, though. The place was revolting. Supposedly they came in once a week and hosed the cement cells down, but he didn’t believe it. Oliver had slept on the stained floor, gagging until he passed out from exhaustion.

  Unfortunately now, Reef didn’t seem to care—or take the hint—that Oliver wanted to be left alone. Reef leaned his wrestler-sized body into Oliver’s personal space.

  “Look,” Reef said, “if you want to survive in here, you’ve got to learn the rules.”

  The only rules Oliver knew were the ones the guards had given at his arrival, and none of them mentioned anything about not taking the last Jell-O. In the time he’d been here, he’d counted fourteen fist fights and two all-out brawls. It was all the guards could do to keep the men from killing each other.

  Whatever rules this place had meant nothing.

  Oliver needed to cough but couldn’t risk the pain. He took a bite of apple to push down the irritation.

  “Did you hear me?” Reef said.

  Oliver nodded.

  His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Ten more minutes until he could peel potatoes again. He massaged his hands and knuckles, anxious to hide in that back room they shoved him into. Guards watched him while he peeled, and when he finished each shift he not only had to check the peeler back in with them, but they frisked him quite intrusively to make sure he hadn’t somehow stolen anything else.

  Why would anyone steal a potato peeler?

  To use as a weapon, of course.

  The potatoes he peeled not only fed these brutes, but half went through a food processing facility that eventually fed blue card holders in municipalities as well. Welfare food. After six months of pristine behavior, Oliver could work up to dish duty. Assuming he survived that long.

  His thoughts wandered to Carrie and what Jamansky had done to her. Ashlee Lyon and what Jamansky had done to her. But he quickly steered his thoughts back to safer, less-painful places. Like here.

  “Fine,” Reef growled. “You might have a death wish, but I’m going to tell you anyway. First rule: pay attention to your surroundings. That means you shouldn’t be sitting with your back to the group.”

  Oliver nodded again.

  Reef grabbed his arm, hauled Oliver to his feet, and shoved him around to the other side of the table. Oliver dropped hard, aggravating his ribs all over again.

  “Never sit with your back to the group again!” Reef said.

  Oliver couldn’t stop himself. A cough erupted against his lungs. By the time it quieted, he could barely move on his small, round seat without pain searing through him.

  “Let’s see if you listened,” Reef said. “How many guards are in this room?”

  Oliver lifted his eyes. There were probably a hundred or so inmates eating at tables throughout the massive cafeteria. Several guards patrolled the area, tapping nightsticks in their hands, making him think about Carrie all over again. Where was she? What horrors was she enduring?

  Reef shook his head angrily. “How were you ever a patrolman? There are twenty-two guards today. That’s down one from yesterday, which tells you what?”

  That the inmates had the ability to kill guards, too.

  A lovely thought.

  Reef stabbed a finger at him. “You really do have a death wish. I guess it doesn’t matter then. At least you’ve already
got rule number two down: don’t talk too much. Keep your ears open, too. Listen for anything that’s off. Listen between the lines, if you know what I mean.”

  Not talking wouldn’t be a problem. Oliver planned to never speak again.

  “Don’t join any gangs either,” Reef went on, picking some food from his teeth. “They always say they’re out to protect guys like you, but they end up beating up their own members more than anyone else for breaking one rule or another. So keep to yourself. Understood?”

  Gangs.

  Sure.

  “Also…guys here can sense fear like a dog, so when you talk to someone, look them in the eye.”

  A bead of sweat dripped down Oliver’s forehead.

  Reef reached across the table and grabbed him by the orange jumpsuit. “I said look me in the eyes. Now!”

  The jumpsuit scraped against Oliver’s shoulder. He yelped.

  A few tables over, people stopped eating to watch. The inmates looked anxious for another fist fight to break up their monotonous incarceration. A few guards turned on their heels to head toward them. Reef dropped Oliver—not-too-nicely—but his murderous eyes dared Oliver to look away first.

  Heart thundering painfully against his ribs, Oliver forced his gaze to stay on his cellmate’s beefy, weathered face.

  Maintain eye contact.

  “Good,” Reef said. “One last thing so your scrawny hide doesn’t wind up dead. Any free time you get, bulk up. Pushups. Jumping Jacks. Do them like your life depends on it, because it does. Bulking up might give you a fighting chance—or at least make others think twice before attacking you. Got it?”

  “Why are you helping me?” Oliver whispered, eyes still painfully locked on the guy’s face.

  He shrugged. “I’m tired of watching guys like you get cut to pieces in here.”

  Cut.

  Another lovely word.

  As Reef moved off, Oliver pushed his tray away, no longer hungry. Live free or die, he thought. Maybe it would come to that after all. But not yet. First, he had to take down David Jamansky.

  “Wait!” Oliver said with a sudden thought.

  Several paces away, his cellmate turned back.