After The Apocalypse Season 2 Box Set [Books 4-6]

by Hately, Warren

  It was tough to switch gear, but Dkembe managed it. He wiped his eyes.

  “Me, after you. . . ?”

  “Kinda shat where we eat,” Tom said. “Or where we planned to.”

  Dkembe nodded as he thought it through.

  “It might be better without me there,” Tom explained. “After what I did, you dealing with that guy Martin lets everyone pretend we’re all just playing nice, right? At least until we find out if we’re even gonna need them.”

  “The Confederates. . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom nodded, and it wasn’t a dismissal, but Dkembe took it for one – and looked glad for it. He tipped his baseball cap and retrieved the nearby M14 and headed back inside.

  *

  IT WASN’T MUCH later when a small group of people casting a very big shadow appeared beyond the compound’s gateway, but Tom’s adrenal surge eased as he recognized his Islander friend Kent calling out from outside.

  “Yo, Tommygun,” the big man said. “Safe to approach? I don’t have a white flag . . . but I did bring these.”

  Tom strode up to the gate as Kent came into view carrying a dark-featured two-year-old girl, and accompanied by his wife, also carrying a baby, and a teenage Asian girl sheltering behind them all.

  “Hey, Kent,” Tom said. He let them in, rolling the gateway aside. “Come in. You’re out on the streets already?”

  “It’s dead out there, but we had to,” Kent said.

  Any of the usual jocularity now lay abandoned as Kent motioned his family inside. Clueing into his friend’s tone, Tom made sure he did a thorough job with the gate’s latch.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been helping out, trying to help keep things under control,” Kent said. He motioned with belated introductions to his mingled family. “My wife Ming, and my little ones Momo and Bazooka. This is Crimson.”

  Crimson was the older girl. Kent’s wife was a hunchbacked-looking woman with wise eyes and a patient smile, and she stepped up despite the small brown baby swaddled in her arms to indicate the teenager.

  “Crimson’s my daughter too, from before.”

  Tom only nodded because it all seemed rather beside the point. He saw Kent and the girl wore backpacks, and worry lines were etched into the Islander’s normally cheerful broad face. He wore an M16 over one shoulder, as well as a medical kit – and an honest-to-god medieval broadsword across his back.

  “I came home this morning to find them locked in,” Kent said. “One of the Dead got in, got up onto our landing. These damned things are hiding out from trooper patrols,” he said with frustration. “A woman the next floor down from us, she turned too. Got hurt during the first night and just went home to bed and woke up . . . one of them . . . never told anyone she was hurt.”

  “It’s not safe at our place,” Ming said.

  “You talked to me before about moving in. . . .” Kent said.

  “Of course,” Tom said. “There’s a room spare, at . . . well actually, no.” He had no idea whether Lilianna still needed a room now with Beau departed, and yet the idea of her coming back into the room with Tom felt weird. “We can put you up, anyway,” he assured them. “No doubt about that. We’ll figure it out. Right now, we’ve just been laying low. We need a supply run too.”

  “Run out of coffee, Tom?”

  Tom snickered. “A long time ago.”

  He motioned their new house guests through. The baby blinked back at him, eyes like black stone, and Tom’s smile slithered unseen from his cragged face.

  *

  HE GATHERED EVERYONE in the kitchen, which seemed the cattle baron’s default meeting room these days. Gonzales and Dkembe hung right back, and the “twins” Karla and Ionia sat together on the food counter since there wasn’t much of anything left worth to cook. Kent – with his wife keeping the children appeased – sat at the table with Lilianna beside Crimson, and Lucas but not Kevin at the other end. The younger boy was nowhere to be seen, much to everyone’s relief. The burly Attila entered, cleaning his hands, an Mp5 across his back, and he did a slight double-take at their increased numbers, then settled onto a stool to listen interestedly with his hairy arms folded across his barrel chest.

  “We’re going to go outside and have a look,” Tom said to them. “If we can pick up more supplies, that’s what’s best. But it doesn’t sound like the Depot’s open. That kinda just leaves us with The Mile.”

  “It was dead through there, earlier on,” Kent said.

  His wife whispered for him to stop saying things were “dead” and he reluctantly nodded to her, suitably chastened, and the lesbian couple started quietly talking, giving Lila the cue to start a friendly conversation with Crimson – or she tried to – and Tom had to clear his throat again and stand from the chair beside his son.

  “Hold on,” he said to quieten them. “What I’m saying is, we might not get what we’re looking for. And I also want to know who wants to volunteer to come with me.”

  “Well, I won’t be staying here,” Lilianna said matter-of-factly. “You heard that call from the Bastion, dad. I was meant to report back two days ago. But I might be able to get some supplies out to you, once I’m there. OK?”

  Tom mimed a chuckle and waggled one finger at his daughter, but her return to the Enclave wasn’t the conversation they were having right now. He surveyed the others instead as Karla stood and shrugged, a volunteer, as did Kent, then Attila, as well as an annoyed-looking Lilianna.

  “OK,” Tom said. “That’s good. But we’re a little over-subscribed.”

  He looked around the room and settled his eyes on Kent.

  “You probably just need a chance to rest with your family. Do that,” he said and then looked to the others. “Me, Karla and Attila. We’ll be quick.”

  Tom fended off Lilianna’s scowl, but wasn’t quite so prepared when he saw Lucas’ expression shatter into pieces, utterly dejected.

  “Hey,” Tom said to him. “What’s the matter, pal?”

  Tom pitched the question quietly as the other conversations flowered.

  “You didn’t even think about choosing me, did you?” his son said.

  “They’re adults –”

  “Do you remember when I used to back you, back when we were in the wild, dad?” Luke replied hotly, his voice rising and netting a few looks. “I used to carry the M14. Remember that? That was my job.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom glanced around, and the others zeroing in quickly thought better of it. Tom was mindful of his son still watching him, but he also wanted to inject a little motion into their entirely unplanned trek into the badlands the City might’ve become.

  “Things are different here, now,” he said tersely. “I used to wonder if they were better, but now I know for sure: they’re not. This shit’s serious, son. Do you remember when I trained you to hunt with me, back in the mountains?”

  It was unavoidable Tom’s speech stilled the room. He sighed and now included everyone in the one motion now, turning it into his sermon for the day as he stood.

  “I remember,” Lucas said quietly.

  “I bet you don’t remember all the times you begged to come with me and I said no.”

  “No, dad,” Lucas said, making the others titter. “That’s exactly what I remember.”

  Tom nodded, smiled, let the others have their chuckles. That was better.

  “There was a reason for me saying no,” he said. He eyeballed a few of those listening to drive home his point. “I could only take you when I was sure it was safe, so that you got the practice you needed before you’d have to rely on those skills someday – trust your life in them – the same as it is now, OK? Be patient.”

  Clearly Lucas appreciated his audience, but the last line from his father’s home school stung, and he bit his lip rather than defame the moment with the churlish reply he wanted – or that’s what it looked like to Tom, who sighed without making a noise. Although they listened, a few of the others quickly hasten
ed from the discussion, and Attila hovering, waiting with a few questions of his own, gave Tom the exit he needed.

  He, Attila, and Karla left the room with Lucas shaking in annoyance unseen.

  *

  THE TINGLING OF Tom’s intuition saw him tell the others to tool up as much as they could, adding extra firearms to the optimistic backpacks they wore. Tom slung a second Mp5 Navy across his back – the one he’d just recently acquired – while Attila and Karla went armed from the remains of Ortega’s cache. Then the trio headed out cautiously through the gate, leaving disgruntled Lilianna and the seemingly mute girl Crimson on guard.

  Although the street right outside Ortega’s digs was cleared, the hovels of the inner district resumed once they reached the opposite corner. Tom battled against memories of when he crouched there last, with Denny Greerson, a week-and-a-half before taking his life into his hands yet again in what proved to be a massive gamble with the now-dead druglord and ex-Safety Chief Ortega.

  It was hard to believe the City hadn’t half-emptied. Whole families – or groups of survivors thrown together so that they resembled them – crouched within sawn-open shipping containers, a network of tents, a demountable office, cabins hammered together from old fencing, and faded old adventure camping tents that’d seen more adventure than their creators ever envisaged. But few faces were seen. The cacophony of life within the sanctuary zone was muted by precaution, and only the odd whispers, tinkling of cooking utensils, a soft-playing cassette deck, and half-a-dozen voices raised in quarrel sounded as Tom and Attila took the lead, with Karla sweeping her Mp5 in protective mode at their rear.

  The street opened a little as they approached The Mile. Ahead of them, a man led a donkey with a cart, but seemed unwise to hail him, and the other lonesome survivor showed not a whiff of interest in them despite their stalking approach. Feral cats – on their eighth or ninth lives avoiding the cook pots of The Mile – scrambled after other vermin, and a boy aged about six was hauled forcibly back through an awning flap as he made a run from confinement within.

  Otherwise, there were no other people about. But if the shambolic, bucolic scenes gave City trooper patrols belief their warnings were obeyed, that was false confidence. The night had been alive with people abandoning fear of breaking Curfew for the benefits of anonymity in the dark. It was no surprise to pass a corpse, just a boy of sixteen or seventeen with a dark wound to his skull, curled up, seemingly pushed aside into a drain and half-covered by leaves and scum overnight.

  Karla tsk-ed, but Tom couldn’t afford the sympathy as he kept his eyes fixed on the tightening streetscape ahead. Someone’s intricate shopping-bag-and-canvas shelter lay exploded across the path in front of them and several children crouched scavenging amid the scraps. One of the boys looked up at Tom, fierce determination in his eye. Tom was as startled as anyone when he realized the child squatted on a broken-framed photograph taking a shit.

  “Keep moving,” Tom muttered under his breath.

  Squeals broke out almost immediately. Tom and Attila hurried either side of the street out of instinct, and Karla fell into a jog at Tom’s six as the sound of more footfalls carried to them. At once, a scrambling figure ran naked and gray across the way ahead of them pursued by a ragtag patrol of Safety personnel, not all of them able to keep up with the Fury.

  The haggard naked figure twisted about at the intersection, changing trajectory mid-flight, and sprinted towards where Tom sheltered at the rusting edge of a tin-walled hut, its doorway fashioned from an old portable latrine.

  The woman had been dead a long time. Mold caked her graying skin, and not enough of her scalp and face remained intact to tell much about the life she’d lived. The closest of the troopers bore a metal pole with a wire hoop at one end, and his companions had their sidearms drawn – all except for a hopeful-looking chap in riot armor who carried an ax.

  The Fury snarled and nearly tripped as it spied Tom inadvertently in its path. And Tom did the only thing he really could at that point, which was to step out with the Ak47 he used to bar the thing’s path. The snuffling, squealing creature banked right, but Karla was already there. She rammed into it with her own weapon and kicked the Fury in the chest hard enough to send it toppling back.

  The running troopers were onto it.

  One of the bigger men pounced, pinning the scoundrel to the filthy street with his knees protected by old baseball gear. The trooper with the pool cleaner then fixed the wire around the Fury’s neck, the sturdy men ignoring its snapping teeth as it desperately wrestled free only to find itself still trapped. Then the guy with the ax stepped in, as was apparently his job, and swung a deft chop into the back of the dead woman’s skull. She slumped with a treacle of black goo slithering from the wound the axman had to clear with one boot pinning the creature’s half-collapsed head.

  “Jesus,” Tom muttered under his breath like he was giving the experience a one-star review. He raised an eyebrow at the troopers, several of whom chose to counter with belligerent looks they didn’t need, which only made Tom’s frown deepen.

  “Everyone’s meant to stay indoors,” the man with the ax said.

  “You shouldn’t even be out here,” one of the out-of-shape female troopers added.

  “Jesus,” Tom said again. “So much for the assist.”

  “You can see it’s hardly safe,” the woman said.

  Tom nodded. “We were aiming for The Mile.” It was only a block away, though the background showed utter stillness like a movie set at dawn.

  “Na,” the trooper with the metal pole said. He offered a commiseratory smile. “There’s no one trading on the street today, fella. Sorry.”

  “What about the Depot?” Tom asked. “We’re running low on supplies.”

  “There’s still too many of these fucking terrors running loose.”

  The trooper straightened to lean on his metal pole, shrugging as if to say it wasn’t his fault. Tom only nodded, glancing back to his companions to judge the mood. Attila gave him a shrewd, dark look – though those were about the only expressions the Hungarian had mastered – and Karla chewed her cheek as if awaiting the next move.

  “Alright,” was all he said. “Good luck with it.”

  “Return to your homes,” the axman warned.

  “When we’re ready,” Tom answered. “If you want to hack down Furies, just wait till you’ve got homes filled with people who starved to death.”

  The trooper’s fatalistic expression chilled Tom’s skin.

  “Sounds like last winter,” the axman said, then gave a dark smile and patted his weapon. “Plenty of fuel for the fire when you burn the Dead.”

  Tom walked off shaking his head, trying not to mutter curses too loudly in case he made the situation worse, but disgusted and more than a little despondent at the other man’s grim enjoyment of their diabolic new status quo. Karla fell into step beside him as they advanced past the last muted shanty booths and abandoned street stalls approaching The Mile.

  “Did you see how old that stalker was?” Karla asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Thought we were dealing with fresh kills?”

  Tom tried not to wince at the terminology, however much their troubled times needed such a raw new lexicon.

  “I don’t understand it either,” Tom said. “Not sure I ever will.”

  “You tracked the ones down who did this?”

  Tom’s rampage was a sort of conversation dead zone, back at home when they were all locked in together. Attila ranged slightly ahead, moving into the middle of the rubbish-stained bazaar normally teeming with vendors and residents. Now only a handful of figures moved along the promenade down to within view of the First Gates. Tom returned his gaze to the woman beside him, mindful of Karla’s hazel eyes on him still.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s who we think did it.”

  “And you. . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well I don’t know, do I?” Karla replied, pissed, br
eaking eye contact. “Did you shake them fucking guys down and off a bunch of ‘em or what?”

  “Yeah,” Tom sighed, for the moment as if the life’d left him. His eyes strayed back down the block to watch a wizened man bend slowly to inspect some of the detritus, then realize it was only trash. Tom looked equally disappointed. “I didn’t get much of what you’d call ‘useful information’,” he said to Karla, and finally met her eyes as they returned. “I thought those guys had my kid, or that they’d killed him . . . and turned him into one of them.”

  He motioned back in the direction they’d come, though whether he meant the withered hag Fury or the dead boy in the drain, it wasn’t so clear.

  “Circumstances evolved, though,” he said at last. “Lucas was just caught out late, by the whole . . . this whole damned mess.”

  And now he motioned around at The Mile, deserted in the aftermath of the Council’s town hall massacre. Karla nodded and kept watching him.

  “You thought your son was dead?”

  He thought Karla was about to take his arm, but she didn’t.

  “That must’ve sucked, man,” she said.

  Tom snorted, glad to snap out of thinking someone might truly understand. The woman nodded thoughtfully, as if gone profound at her own remark, and Tom checked back with Attila who pointed him to a thin white man about his own age, out in the street with a handmade spear in one hand, an old polyurethane bag in the other. Tom nodded, and Attila moved to block the man’s path.

  “Hey,” Tom said gently to the newcomer. “Any lowdown on anyone trading stashed supplies?”

  The other survivor checked them over a moment before he relaxed.

  “It’s slim pickings,” he said. “I saw that lady that sells those jams and chutneys, but everyone’s bunkered down.”

  “What are you doing out?”

  The man rubbed his stubbled chin, maybe not feeling the need to explain.

  “Just seeing what’s out,” he replied. “Try my hand at a little salvage, but I ain’t seen much.”