The camp seemed to never end—more like several camps connected in a long string. He even passed several corralled horses. That surprised him. These rebels had mastered two of the biggest hurdles in any revolution: communication and transportation.
As Greg passed a young teen, and he still had no clue where Kearney was, he decided to try his luck. “Hey, kid, have you seen Kearney anywhere?”
It was a huge gamble. For all Greg knew, this wasn’t Kearney’s camp, or the rebel leader might not even be alive still.
The teen gave Greg a full once over. “Was Kearney in our camp today?”
“That’s what they told me.” Greg forced a heavy sigh. “Great. Where is he now?”
The teen shrugged. “Last I heard, he was in the Grains with the other leaders. Maybe they know where he went.”
“Guess I’ll check there. Thanks.”
The Grains. The Grains. Where was that? At least Kearney was alive, and if people—including teens—knew his name and his general whereabouts, he probably had enough leadership to get Commander McCormick what he needed.
Readjusting the bundle of wood on his shoulder, Greg kept going. The Grains. Was that code for some kind of silo? Maybe a grain factory? Abandoned cornfield?
“Hey, hold on!” somebody said. A woman waved at Greg. “Wait. Don’t I know you?”
Greg’s heart kick-started. Pretending not to hear, he changed trajectories and headed around a large, blue tent.
Footsteps came up behind him. “Hey!” the woman shouted. “Stop!”
Reluctantly, Greg turned, though he wasn’t happy about it. He came face to face with a middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar. He knew the second she put his face to her memory. Terror flashed in her eyes. Her gaze flickered around as if she didn’t know whether to run or hold him captive.
She did neither.
“Leonard!” she yelled. “Leonard, quick! The government spy is back! Leonard!”
Frantic, Greg dropped the wood and held up both hands in a show of peace. “Wait. I’m unarmed. I’m not here to cause any trouble. I’ve just got a message for Kearney. No need to alert the whole camp.”
Too late.
People came running, guns out in an all-too-familiar show of force. Greg backed up, regretting his choice to forego the bulletproof vest.
“Go ahead and frisk me,” Greg said before the group could get out of control. “I’m unarmed. Then take me to Kearney fast. There’s somethin’ he needs to know.”
forty-one
THEY LED GREG FOR A WHILE. Greg didn’t recognize anybody other than the woman who had spotted him and two guys with rifles bringing up the rear. They passed lots of people sitting on logs or camp chairs, watching them pass with long, drawn faces. Some even had blankets wrapped around their shoulders despite the hot, humid day.
“People are gettin’ sick, aren’t they?” Greg said.
“Don’t talk,” a guy at his back said, shoving the rifle into Greg’s ribs. “Walk faster.”
A man in heavy overalls led the way. When they seemed to reach a new group of tents, the man sped up until he reached a large, gray tent. Greg looked around and spotted a tall silo and group of barns behind it. The Grains.
Overall-guy rapped on the canvas wall. Then he opened the zipper and entered.
Greg could hear bits and pieces of a conversation inside. Something about the government spy returning. “No, just the guy,” Overall-guy said. “He’s alone—or I think he is. We sent guards out to find the girl.”
More unintelligible speaking before the overall-guy reemerged. Then he motioned Greg forward.
“Go on in. Kearney wants to talk to you.”
Muscles tensed, Greg entered the small tent, ready for an attack. He couldn’t see much, and he blinked like mad to make his eyes adjust in the darker tent.
Where was Kearney?
“Come to finish me off, spy?” Kearney said in a soft voice.
Greg found the rebel leader below him, lying on a small cot in the corner, arm over his forehead. He looked pale and weak.
“You’re the one,” Kearney said tiredly. “You brought this killer disease to us, didn’t you? And now…you’ve come to gloat.”
Guilt spread through Greg. He couldn’t bring himself to ask how many people had died. “If I brought this virus to your camp, I didn’t know. I didn’t even know it existed until later.”
“Sure, sure.” With great effort, Kearney picked up something from the side of his cot. A small pistol. Pointing it at Greg seemed to take all the rebel leader’s energy, but he managed anyway. “Why are you here?”
Greg stared at the gun, too tired to even be bothered by its presence. “To help you win the war.”
Kearney gave a low, mirthless laugh. “And why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m gonna save your life.”
Moving slowly, Greg pulled out a single syringe from his pocket, the one he had saved for Carrie. “Do you know what this is?”
Through squinting, pained eyes, Kearney studied it. “How did you know I was sick?”
“I just figured most everybody is.”
Kearney lay back, gun resting on his chest, arm covering his forehead again. “I should blow your head off.”
“Kill me some other time. If you do it now, you’ll lose access to President Rigsby. He’s comin’ to Illinois, and I can tell you exactly where he’ll be in three days. I can tell you how to reach him.”
“Why should I believe you?” Kearney said. “Last time I saw you, you—”
“—saved your camp,” Greg said, reminding him. “I told you exactly what was goin’ down, and how the government was onto your game. I told you to pack up and move out, which you did, so you’re welcome. I didn’t send the feds after you once I was free either. You’re welcome again. If that’s not answer enough, I don’t know what is.”
Kearney tried to glare at him. It looked like it hurt.
“Look,” Greg said, “President Rigsby’s gonna be here in three days, and I’m guessin’ you’ve got a lot of people dyin’. I brought enough to treat two hundred people.”
Low murmurs sounded outside of the tent. Apparently, a decent-sized group was listening in.
Kearney gave a choking cough. “I see. You’re bribing me. I help you with whatever scheme you’ve got up your sleeve, and you’ll give us the cure?”
“You get the cure either way,” Greg said. “It’s buried outside your camp. I’m just hopin’ you’re smart enough to see that I’m offering you a chance to do what you’ve wanted to do all along: take down Rigsby.”
Kearney squinted at him. “I’m listening.”
“Put the gun away first. Then there’s somebody I think you should meet. Technically, two somebodies—although I suppose you already know one. She’s understandably nervous to see you again since you held her hostage last time, so try to be nice.”
“Tell me you didn’t bring your pretend wife back. I nearly lost my spot in the council for letting her escape. They’re going to kill me. Maybe I should just die now.”
“Before I grab them,” Greg said, “I should probably give you this first.”
He uncapped the syringe, exposing the metal-sharp needle. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He thought about waiting for Isabel to administer the shot for him, but it could take two hours to get her and get back. Kearney needed medicine now.
Be a man, Greg told himself. Just slide the needle into the skin.
Slide.
Still an awful word.
His whole body trembled with ice as he asked, “Which arm?”
* * * * *
Carrie had begged to accompany Jamansky that morning. He promised that he was getting Zach out first thing, but it was already past two o’clock, and no sign of either of them.
She was losing hope of ever seeing anyone again.
Last night, Jamansky claimed he had visited Logan Pond and told Richard everything: where Carrie was, getting her siblings out, the whol
e thing. Supposedly Richard had been beside himself with relief, which would have been sweet if Carrie had believed a single word. Jamansky hadn’t gone to Logan Pond, and if her hunches were right, he never would.
If he didn’t show up soon with her Zach and Amber, she would have to find a way to escape and free them herself—and maybe even Greg. It just wasn’t safe to stay anymore. Not only did Jamansky keep making passes at her, but he was getting more agitated each time she turned him down.
Even more disturbing was that after she went to bed early last night, practically locking herself in his bedroom, she had heard him. She hadn’t been tired, so hours later she heard him on the phone, talking to someone. Only he hadn’t been talking. He had been yelling and swearing, trying to keep his voice down to keep from waking her, but failing. She cracked open the bedroom door and listened. Even with his office door shut, she heard him arguing with someone about money.
Since he wasn’t back with Zach yet, she decided to do more digging today. Checking the crack in the curtains, she grabbed a wire hanger and straightened the end. After last night, Jamansky had locked up his office. Bretton and Felix stood beside her, curious as she slid the wire hanger into the lock.
The office door slid open.
Heart racing, she saw papers scattered across his desk that hadn’t been there before. She didn’t dare touch them for fear he would notice anything out of place, but she saw bank statements and what looked like inventory for a storage unit.
One paper caught her eye. It was partially folded up but looked official from some place called the Department of Investigations.
Memorizing its exact position—and making sure the street and driveway stayed empty—she picked it up and read.
Her mouth slowly dropped.
The letter mentioned an investigation that had been opened against him and the mayor, illegal activity including embezzling money and stealing from the government. They’d placed him on probation and given him two weeks to prove otherwise and return the requested money, or he would be arrested. It was the amount that staggered her. She didn’t know how money worked these days, but even before the Collapse, that had been a huge sum. Now she guessed it was an impossibility—hence all the shouting last night.
Her stomach clenched.
If Jamansky was on probation, could he even get her siblings out?
One more day.
That was all she dared to stay here at his house, and then one way or another, she would leave.
* * * * *
“I’ve come for one of your boys,” Jamansky said to the DeKalb man in the front office. “My unit was behind his acquisition, and now I need him restored. I called two days ago, so his papers should be in order.”
The man adjusted his glasses and searched through his computer. “Oh, yes. Zachary Ashworth. I see that you called, officer. Let’s see here. Uh…” He looked up. “My deepest apologies, chief sir, but we can’t release him at this time. The young Mr. Ashworth is undergoing a medical procedure as we speak.”
“He what?” Jamansky said.
“He’s in surgery. I’m afraid he’ll be down for a while.” The man squinted at the screen. “This says three weeks of recovery. You can reacquire him at that time.”
Jamansky slammed a hand on the table, making the man jump. “That is unacceptable! No one mentioned anything to me about any surgery.”
“Yes, well, his ankle is—”
“An ankle?” Jamansky shouted. “No. You bring him to me now, or I’ll write up this establishment and send it into the commissioner himself.”
The man looked taken aback. “Hold on. Let me make a quick call.”
This better work, Jamansky seethed. Because Carrie was getting antsy. He needed this kid to anchor her down. Maybe he should have let her rot in prison a while longer.
Jamansky kept his glare pinned on the man so the man didn’t forget who wore a uniform and who didn’t. The guy broke out in a sweat as he spoke into the phone. He nodded a few times and then hung up.
“Yes, chief. It seems, uh…that the teen hasn’t gone into surgery quite yet, but he’s already in the prep room. I’m afraid they’ve just put him under anesthesia. The doctor apologizes for the misunderstanding and says he’ll write a letter to the commissioner himself explaining the situation.”
“Anesthesia?” Jamansky said. “But they haven’t started the actual surgery?”
“No, but—”
“Then bring him to me.”
The man’s eyes widened. “But, sir, that would be dangerous to pull him out.”
Jamansky lunged, grabbed the man by the shirt collar, and threw him against the wall. Arm to the guy’s throat, he pinned him.
“You will bring that kid to me now,” Jamansky hissed in his face. “You have exactly three minutes.”
The guy gasped, face turning red. When Jamansky released him, he took off, sprinting down the hall.
They wheeled Zachary Ashworth out a few minutes later. The young teen was lying on a gurney, arm bandaged from the IV, and totally unconscious. A doctor trailed him, swearing up a storm.
“Who do you think you are, barging in here, stealing my patient? You can’t just take him. We’re in the middle of a procedure!”
“You’re lucky I came when I did,” Jamansky said, “or I would have had every one of you fired.” He motioned to the nurse. “My car is by the curb. Put him in the front seat.”
The doctor was still swearing as Jamansky followed the gurney outside.
forty-two
THE KID DIDN’T BUDGE THE entire drive home. His mouth hung open, and he looked paler than a ghost. When Jamansky got to his house, he didn’t even pull into the garage. Too hard to get Zach out with how crowded it was in there. So he parked in the driveway and ran around to grab the kid.
The teen was only thirteen, scrawny, but still tall enough to make him a pain to carry. Jamansky hefted him into his arms and struggled up the sidewalk. When he reached the front door, he kicked it hard.
“Carrie,” he called. “Open up.”
He waited, arms straining.
“Carrie!”
Maybe he shouldn’t have scared her about avoiding the front door at all costs. The thing was deadbolted, and his house keys were buried in his pocket. Bretton and Felix barked on the other side of the door. Carrie must have fallen asleep. All she did was sleep. Useless woman. His arms were about to fall off.
He kicked harder. “Carrie! It’s me!”
Finally, he heard her footsteps approach.
When she cracked open the front door, her eyes widened. “Zach?” She took in the state of her brother—arms and legs flopped to the side, unresponsive and looking dead—and lost all color in her cheeks. “Oh, please no. Zach!”
“He’s fine,” Jamansky said, struggling. “Just sedated. Help me to the couch.”
As he dropped Zach on the leather couch, Carrie knelt next to him.
“Zach?” she said, stroking his face. “Zach?”
The kid looked grotesque. His freckled skin was pale, but also badly sunburned in several spots. Splotches of skin was peeling off his nose. Chapped, cracked lips. Blisters and scrapes running down his arms.
Turning, Carrie looked at David. “What happened to him?”
“They were about to operate on him when I got there,” he said, wiping his brow. “They’d already administered the anesthesia. Who knows how long he’ll be out?”
“Operate? On what?”
He shrugged. “Thankfully, I got there in time.”
Carrie’s deep, blue eyes filled with tears as she studied her little brother. Then her head dropped onto his arm, and she started crying softly.
Finally, a reaction David could handle.
Stepping close, he rubbed her shoulder. “It will be okay. I really did get there in the nick of time. I didn’t even think they were going to give him to me, but he’s here and he’s safe. Don’t worry. He’ll wake up soon.”
She nodded against her brother’s
arm.
Jamansky continued to rub her shoulder, waiting for the inevitable, “Thank you, David. Thank you for saving his life! How can I ever repay you?” Then she would throw herself at him. After all the garbage he’d endured, he deserved it.
The longer the boy sleeps, he thought, the better.
But when Carrie finally spoke, she said something entirely different.
“How can you stand it?” she said.
“Stand what?” he said, confused.
She turned her brother’s hand over, exposing scratches, blisters, and burns. “How can you be part of this, David?”
“What are you talking about? I had nothing to do with this.” His temper kicked in. “I didn’t even arrest your brother. In fact, I just saved him for you.”
“Yes.” Her red-rimmed eyes lifted to him. “But how many other families have you ripped apart? How many women are dying in prisons because you put them there?”
“Hey! I’m just doing my job. I arrest people who break the law.”
“What law, David? The one President Rigsby created so he could stay in power? So he could turn innocent children into slaves? What right does Rigsby have to tell us where to live and how to live? To rip our kids away from us? How many laws did President Rigsby break to create this new society?”
Jamansky’s chest heaved in and out. “Better watch your mouth, sweetheart. I’ve arrested people for less.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s my point.”
Turning back, she brushed the hair away from her brother’s peeling forehead. “President Rigsby is killing people, David. He’s murdering his own people. These laws, the virus, the raids on our homes, stealing our stuff. How can you be part of it?”
His blood pressure shot through the roof. He pointed at the kid, half dead. “Do you want me to take him back? Do you want me to take you both back? Because I will!”
“So we can die, too?” Her shoulders lifted. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore except that this is wrong. All of it is very, very wrong.” Her forehead fell onto her brother’s arm again. “I just want to go home.”
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 117
