"I know about Ward. I heard him speak last week." Truth to tell, however, he hadn't entirely thought it through with the political and sociological insight of this young woman. Perhaps things were worse than he thought. Maybe it was time to act against McAndrew.
"Good, I'm glad you're on it. But one more thing," she said, looking him in the eye. "Creating this Civil Defense Force, this militia, was probably necessary. We aren't living in the good old days of a country at peace with a working army. And you're obviously keeping the numbers down. That's good."
"I'm glad you approve," Hick said, beginning to feel patronized.
She squeezed his arm, and came so close she was forced to whisper, her breath tickling his ear. "But have a care with Mr. Bekmann, or is it Captain Bekmann? I grew up around political folk, even though it was at a fairly local level, and as the daughter of a female politician, I became a pretty good judge of character. There are two types of dangerous operators. The lion wants the power of leadership, so he or she can make things happen—good or bad. You're a lion, Paul."
He couldn't help but flush as she said it, the compliment polished up by using his first name. "And the other type?"
"The jackal. They hide behind the lion, letting him or her take the risks and do the dirty work. Then they move in. And, if they become powerful enough, the jackals take over."
"And Gert is a jackal? Is that what you're saying?"
She stepped away and shrugged. "Just passing on a piece of advice my mom gave me. She said to me once that it's sometimes hard to tell if your friends are merely enemies in disguise. But the other way around is just as important. Not everyone who seems to be against you is an enemy. Anyway, thank you for the offer of transport. I'll get a report and let you know."
With that, she walked away, leaving him to ponder her words. Especially the last comment. Was she saying that she's not an enemy? It seemed to him that he was surrounded by people opposing him and it was tough to work out which of them was anything other than an enemy. And she was right about Gert. Hick had, indeed, kept the militia numbers down, but the truth was they were well enough armed to be able to take control at any time. Was he just the fall guy, taking the heat while Gert plotted to take over later? Or was he simply seeing enemies everywhere? He felt alone in a new and dangerous world, somehow looking back at his attempts to take over the council almost with fondness. He shook his head to dismiss the thought.
He looked back over the graveyard one more time, turned on his heels and pulled the gate shut—making a mental note to get Schneider to give it a new coat of paint—and walked silently back into town.
The graveyard was on the same side of town as the Bowie house. He could easily have avoided walking past it, but he didn't. Perhaps he was looking for a black flag at half-mast or some other indication that Martha had met her maker, but he found himself hurrying past when he saw nothing.
"Mr. Hickman?"
Damn, he'd been caught. It was Joe Bowie, Martha's wimp of a husband. Hick spun around and saw him leaning over the balcony. "Hey, Joe. How's Martha doin'?" He had to ask, didn't he?
The little man disappeared and, within seconds, Hickman heard the sound of a key in a lock and the gate swung open.
"Come on in. She just gets worse day by day. Doesn't say nothin' to nobody no more."
Hickman hesitated. "I'm not sure I should. Doesn't seem right to intrude."
"You're always welcome here and we sure could do with some news."
There was no getting away, so Hickman followed Bowie into the compound and through to the same living room he'd visited a week before. And there, in the same bed, lay what remained of Martha Bowie. Hick's breath caught in his throat as he looked down at her. She looked as though she'd lost half her bodyweight since he'd last seen her and only the ruby-red color of her face showed her to be alive.
"Come on in here, Paul." Leonard Bowie called from the kitchen, so he followed Joe inside and gasped as he saw who was sitting on a barstool at the far end.
"Gil?"
"Hello, Paul." In complete contrast to Martha's condition, Gil Summers looked twice the man he had been when he'd handed over power to Hick barely three weeks earlier. "I came to check on Martha. It warms my heart to see you've done the same thing."
Hickman cursed inwardly. It seemed everywhere he went he found enemies; even those he thought he'd already dealt with. But he had to make the best of it. "Sure. She looks pretty bad, though I'm sorry to say it," he lied, nodding to Leonard and Joe in fake sympathy.
"She has double pneumonia and pleurisy. Her last lucid wish was not to be given any more antibiotics because she thought others deserved them more," Summers said.
"And you're respecting her wishes?" Hick asked, directing the question at Joe and Leonard. "You're her husband and father-in-law. Don't you want her to get better?" He could hardly believe he was speaking this way. After all, he wanted her out of the picture as much as they wanted her to survive. Well, almost.
Leonard nodded sadly. "We are. The fact is, we ain't got enough antibiotics and what we really need for her is oxygen. We could pump drugs into her and she'd still lose the fight if she can't get air in."
Hickman knew that there were no oxygen cylinders left in Hope. Well, that was that. She would lose the fight soon enough and another enemy would bite the dust.
"Well, I'm sorry, that's all," he said.
Leonard Bowie slapped him on the shoulder. "I sure appreciate that, Paul. Thanks."
And Paul Hickman, man of steel, felt the unfamiliar prick of guilt. Before he could say anything, Gil Summers opened the back door and gestured to him. "Let's leave the Bowies to it, Paul. I'd like a word with you."
Grateful to escape the house of death, Hick nodded to them both—he wasn't shaking hands on any account—and followed Summers into the backyard. It was mainly taken up by a patio made of stone slabs with a wooden picnic bench. Summers sat down on one side of the bench and invited Hick to sit opposite.
"Dreadful situation," Hick said.
"You don't fool me, Paul. Or Dave. You haven't come here in hopes of her recovery, you want to see when she'll be in the ground alongside all those other bodies you buried today."
Hick leaned forward, jabbing a finger at that smug face. "You son of a b—"
"I'm sorry, but for once in your life, let's have a straight conversation with no BS," Summers said, raising his hands as if in surrender, though Hick knew it was anything but. "Look, this town's on the brink of going down. And from all I hear, there's nowhere else like this, where just about everyone made it through the night. Hope is the last city, Paul. We've got a responsibility to put past differences behind us and do what's best for our people."
Hick opened his mouth to protest, to say something like I always do what's best for them, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "What d'you mean we're on the brink?"
"I guess you know about Ward?"
"I do. I heard one of his sermons," Hickman said, relieved.
"Did he know you were there?"
"Of course not."
Summers nodded. "So you know he's brewing an uprising."
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do about it?"
Hick didn't feel inclined to discuss his plans with his former rival, but somehow, perhaps instinctively, he knew things were in danger of getting out of control. "Why d'you think I started quarantining folks?"
"Of course you didn't do it for the sake of their health, did you?"
"You can think what you like, Gil, but actually that was the main reason. Doctor Pishar suggested it. Just so happens it suits the security situation as well."
"Well, I've got bad news for you if you think Ward is going to wait until this epidemic dies down. He's planning to strike, and strike soon."
Hicks jaw just about hit the graying timber of the bench table. "How would you know that?"
"Because he tried to recruit Lynda Strickland, and she told me."
"Why didn't she come to me?" Hic
k yelled.
Summers looked around. "Quiet down, Paul. But can you be surprised? When did you last call a council meeting?"
"There hasn't been time this past week. Good grief, Gil, if I'd had to run every decision past the whole council, nothing would've gotten done!"
"It's called democracy. You should try it on for size. You'll find folks will follow you if you involve them."
Hickman rubbed his eyes and drew in a deep lungful of Nevada spring air. "I'm not interested in your wisdom. You're a politician and I'm not—what worked back then might not work now."
"You can't rule alone; not and hope to survive."
"Is that a threat?"
Summers chuckled and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. But I will say this: watch your new friend Mr. Bekmann. From what I hear, he's been quietly recruiting behind your back."
"What?!" Hick gripped the table, as if to stop himself falling backward.
"I told them you wouldn't be in on it. You're a control freak, but you're not a fool. You know Rusty started to gather weapons together to keep them in one place? Well, it seems he and the guy Rusty appointed to mind the shop while he went to Ezra with you know each other. Waydon's been carrying on the gun-gathering and Bekmann's been building his army."
Hick stared at Summers. He had to be lying … and yet if there was one thing Gil Summers wasn't, it was a liar.
"Look, Paul, you and I share one thing in common above all else. We want our daughters to come home to a place where they'll be as safe as anyone can be."
Taking the hand from his mouth, Hick said, "Yeah, you're right. What in hell's name am I going to do? If what you say is true, then I guess Bekmann's waiting for Ward to make the first move. He'll expect me to send in his people and bam! we're under the boot of the militia. Again. Sweet Jesus, show me a way out of this mess."
"I'm glad to hear you talk like that, Paul."
"You are?"
Gil Summers gestured at where the city lay hidden by the house. "It's time for us Hopers to come together. Ward isn't one of us; neither is Bekmann or Waydon Downs. But I'm Hope born and bred, and so is that woman in there. If we come together, the people will follow us. Unless we're too late."
"Martha? She's practically dead."
"But she's not gone yet. She needs oxygen and antibiotics."
"She won't take the drugs, Gil."
"You know, even Martha doesn't get to have her own way about everything. We need her, Paul."
He paused for a moment, then sighed. "This is a coup, isn't it? Dressed up warm and cozy like, but a takeover just the same."
Gil Summers shook his head. "I don't want power. I had enough of it back before … all of this. And Martha doesn't. No. And this might be hard for you to believe, but I think you are the best man to lead us through this. You've made some tough decisions and, mostly, they've been the right ones. Decisions I might not have had the courage to make myself. But you and I are not enough on our own. We need Martha and we need Rusty."
"Rusty's dead," Hick said, struggling to wrap his mind around this new and supportive Gil Summers.
Summers tilted his head to one side. "We both know you can't be sure of that."
"What happened to Jenson? He went after the sheriff."
"We haven't heard anything."
Hickman threw his hands up before slapping them on the table. "Goddammit, Gil! So your plan rests on a woman at death's door and a sheriff who's holdin' it open for her?"
A smile spread across Summers's face that, on a cruel man, might have been interpreted as triumphant. "I think you have a few days—a week at most—before Ward will act. As soon as he sees the tide turning with the disease, more and more families will come out of quarantine and he'll be able to marshal the uprising."
"But even if I get drugs and oxygen for Martha, she won't be near recovered in time."
"No, but her family will stand behind you. If you can also track down Jenson. And if Rusty's still alive, that'd be a big bonus. You know how serious things are, Paul. But I have faith." With that, he got up, waved at the faces of Joe and Leonard Bowie who were watching through the kitchen window and disappeared around the corner of the house heading for the gate.
Hickman sat there for a little longer, staring at the shadows of the mountains in the late afternoon sun. Gil was right and Hick hated him for it. There was only one place near here where he might get oxygen and news of Jenson Bowie. It was the same place he'd last seen Rusty Kaminski.
Tomorrow, he would head south to Ezra. But first, he had to fetch something from his basement for the Bowies.
Chapter 17: Saline
Devon sat under the trees and watched the river flow past. He'd folded his legs so his chin rested on his knees. He wore a warm black hat and a massive coat over the rest of him so he resembled a termite hill more than anything else. He sat in silence, listening to the birds chirruping, cooing and cawing in the oaks and ashes, the sighing of the trees and the gentle lapping of the water against the bank. And if he sat completely still, the pain went away almost entirely until he became achy from inaction.
It was peaceful here, deep in the heart of rural Kansas, so peaceful he could put aside the chaos and the struggle to stay alive. For a little while at least.
"Sir Shrek?"
If it had been anyone else, even Jessie, he'd have been annoyed, but Margie's company was always welcome. He turned his head, wincing as the scars on his neck and scalp stretched beneath the hat. He patted the ground beside him, inviting her to share the scrap of tarp that was keeping his backside from getting wet.
She rustled and wiggled her way down to his level. "Whatcha looking at?"
"Oh, nothing. Just watching the river flow by."
"That sounds like poetry. Here, Jessie says you have to have something to eat." She handed over a cup of instant ramen, removing the lid to release a rich chicken aroma full of artificial promise.
Devon piled a bunch of ramen noodles onto the fork Margie handed him and sucked them in. This was one manufactured taste the surviving members of the human race were unlikely to run out of for a while. He chuckled to himself as he imagined archaeologists of the thirty-first century digging through the rubble of a grocery store and uncovering a case of plastic pots with dried noodles and powder sauces inside. What would they think of us? Right now, he didn't care, he simply enjoyed the warm sensation as it went down.
"How's Jay?"
"Sleeping like a baby," she said, running fingers through the partially coagulated hair of her Elsa doll. "Sam's with him."
Devon grunted. Of course she was. Try as he might, he'd found no trace of her father in Sam Hickman. She seemed like a good kid and she'd sure been glad to meet up with Margie and Amanda. But the look of joy on her face when Devon caught up with them with Jay would live with him forever.
Sam had sobbed so hard Devon wondered how she had that much water in her body. She'd cried with joy and relief that she'd been reunited with Jay and she'd cried in horror at his maimed and bleeding foot. She'd climbed into the back of Devon's Land Rover and nursed the boy while they traveled in convoy. There had been no question of stopping while they were within range of the Sons, though Devon suspected those who'd been in Wareham were too few now to mount a search. So, they'd driven on until nightfall when they turned into a country lane and spent a cold, wet night huddled in the cars.
They'd then played the gas game. Devon's Land Rover only had a third of a tank of fuel, so when they found the first intact gas station, they moved Jay and Sam to the other Land Rover and Devon drove alone to get diesel while they waited. Sure enough, as soon as he approached the station, two hooded figures with automatic weapons ran out and covered him, but he sensed them relax when they saw what type of car he was driving.
"You got any news?" the man had asked as his colleague began manually pumping diesel into the tank.
"I don't s'pose I know any more than you," he'd said. One of the skills Devon had developed during his time in the police forc
e was the ability to seem like he was just an average Joe; the sort of guy you'd be happy to confide in because he was the same as you.
"It's just, we ain't heard nothin' for a week now. Not since we was dropped off here. No sign of any relief, neither."
Devon nodded. "Things are taking shape. We all need a little patience. Thanks for the fuel."
"Where you headin'?"
"West." He raised his eyebrows in the universally acknowledged sign for “don't ask any more questions” and was satisfied with the reaction he got.
They'd played this game again at the next station, but this time Devon drove the other Land Rover in. The guards there were skittish. Seemed they'd been attacked three times in the past week and they were as anxious as the previous crew to be relieved. Devon took heart from that. The coordination needed to bring off the firestorm was huge on its own, but keeping the boot firmly down on the chest of the country while the referee counted it out was a much harder proposition. The sheer manpower needed to hold enough gas stations to allow them to move across the continent was mind-blowing. How had they kept it a secret?
With those full tanks, they'd picked their way from Pennsylvania to Kansas until Jay's condition became so bad they were forced to stop. They'd been heading along a minor highway toward the small city of Salina when Jessie, who was in the leading car, had spotted a building nestled behind a burned-out ranch house. It was a small cabin with two bedrooms on a mezzanine above a large open living area, and no one had been inside since before the firestorm.
They installed Jay in the smaller bedroom and Sam slept on a makeshift mattress of couch cushions on the floor beside him. Margie and Amanda shared the larger bedroom and Devon and Jessie made do with two couches pushed together downstairs. There was little to do except wait in the hope that rest and the fact that they could change Jay's bandages more easily and keep the wound cleaner would see him improve enough for them to go on with their journey. They were getting low on drugs, and Devon had come to the riverbank to ponder a trip into Salina to see if he could get fresh supplies.
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