Melt | Book 9 | Charge

by Pike, JJ

  Alistair frowned from beyond. The American Way, he said. The division of Church and State means we’re all free to worship and believe—or not—and still partake in civil discourse. This is the root of our freedom.

  If Jacinta stepped aside, Abbie would have everyone praying into the decision and that couldn’t happen. Not officially. Privately, sure. But she was leader for a reason. She wasn’t as smart as Dominic, as politically wily as Jon, as easy and cheerful as Trish, but she was practical and that counted for something.

  While her friend bowed her head in prayer, Jacinta thought of who she could trust to don balaclavas and go out into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARCH 2022

  Hedwig wanted to be done allowing random men in authority to dictate how she lived her life. But she had no choice. They’d barely made it a mile and a half before they spotted a platoon of soldiers and had to take cover. She had to lie as still as a board, in a ditch, next to Sean, both of them breathing into their sleeves so the cold morning air wouldn’t give away their position.

  In through the nose, slow and gentle, even as you can make it; out through the mouth, directly into the elbow and nowhere else.

  One false move and they’d be dead.

  She and Sean had thirty-six hours to cover five miles of uncharted terrain to make it to their scheduled, monthly drug buy which was why lying in a ditch—leaves woven through their hair, mud smeared over their hands and faces, trying to stay totally still—made her twitch.

  Each time the two of them made the run to meet Sean’s drug-connected buddies they had to allow themselves a little longer, just in case. Towns had fallen, roads disintegrated, and the military was out in force.

  But that wasn’t all they had to contend with. If those had been their only obstacles their journey would have been challenging, but not impossible. As it was, the upright citizens of New York had fled leaving behind the dregs.

  Dispossessed soldiers, weekend warriors, and people who should have known better roamed the countryside in clusters of anywhere from four to ten men. Some of them were contractors, working for the Army, while others were the so-called “Remainders,” loose cannons who marched under the banner of “patrols” but did as they pleased when they pleased and were about as dangerous as any band of men she’d ever heard of. They’d stayed in the Hot Zone for reasons known only to them. She’d never had a chance to talk to any of them. Her radio show had filled her in on what little she did know.

  Those men (they were mostly men, Hedwig could only remember seeing two women in eight months of doing this run) thought the world owed them something (what they were owed she wasn’t sure, but it was damn clear they meant to take it). Nothing—not books, not movies, not TV series about the raping-pillaging-Vikings—had prepared her for them. They were disgusting, low-life, no-good parasites. She wanted them dead.

  The Army guys were not much better. They had a loose mandate (keep everyone who’s still dumb enough to be inside the Small Donut, “inside their domiciles and/or away from the military installations”); flabby orders (search this quadrant, abandoned barn, stretch of woods for “supplies critical to this mission”), and itchy fingers (“fire on the enemy, fire at will,” or, you know, much more likely, “fire because it’s fun”).

  But at least with the Army guys you understood what they were trying to achieve. There was some big push, according to the radio guys, to “cut MELT off at the knees before it reaches the edges of the Small Donut,” whatever that meant.

  But with the Remainders? Who knew what their mandate was on any given day. They might be out looking for “fights, food, and females” which made Hedwig want to embrace her own personal three-F’s: flee, fight, or mess-you-up.

  Who she engaged, and when she engaged with them, depended on the broader mission. Drug run? No contest. She had to lay low. Getting Mimi’s chemo meds was waaaaaaaaaaaaay more important than messing with a Remainder. Which wasn’t the only reason to keep her head down and her eyes closed.

  In the months she and Sean had been doing this supply run, she could discern no pattern as to who would fire at what, which meant if you bumped into a Remainder (or worse, a group of them) you could (scratch that, you would) be shot on sight. She’d seen them execute an elderly couple outside their tent for a couple of cans of chili and a water canteen. It wasn’t martial law so much as a free-for-all, with those who were armed making the rules as they went along.

  Who knew whether the guys on the road directly above her head were legit or not?

  Either way, she despised every single one of the ambling, self-entitled, freeloaders who tromped past the salt mines, putting her new family in danger. Hedwig was 92% in agreement with the Everlee plan to lay low and draw no attention to themselves, but the other 8% longed to snap her fingers and make the interlopers catapult themselves into the sun, screaming obscenities all the way. If it had been up to her—if the others had moved on and left her behind; if there was no Paul, no Petra, no lovely Midge, no silent Bryony—she would have done it. No second thoughts. No second chances. She was done with second chances.

  She’d counted seven men before she and Sean took to their ditch off the side of the road. The men strolled by, out of formation, oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. Their camo and ammo made them bold which made them casual which made her hate them all the more.

  Snatches of conversation wafted her way, but she couldn’t thread the conversational needle.

  “Lucky, lucky bastards….”

  “…I vote we go back…”

  “Friggin’ delicious…”

  “You think there’s _____ “ The rest was indecipherable. She strained to hear what he was saying or what the reply was or what the hell they were talking about. No luck.

  They’d found real food, that much was clear, and were chowing down while on the move. It was a bit of a surprise. There wasn’t much pre-made food (cans, bottles, packages) left to find in these parts.

  Her stomach clenched. There was one place that hadn’t been picked clean. Her breathing ticked up. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t think about it. She’s going to be fine. Barb’s fine. We’ll be at her place as soon as these guys get their asses in gear and move on.

  Now the thought was loose in her head Hedwig couldn’t get it to quiet down. Barb had refused to move to the salt mines with them. “God has a plan,” she’d say, whenever they brought it up. The woman was hell bent—shoot, no; she wouldn’t like that phrase; she was heaven-sent on rescuing the animals—and refused to relocate.

  “They’ll find me, as they are meant to. When the time comes, they’ll be prepared. I’ll be prepared. You’ll see.”

  Sean would smile and cram his mouth with Barb’s, “hand-curated crunchberries” and “a smidge of Spleen Machine, again my own recipe” followed by a cup of the foul-tasting “Roto-rooter Heart Cleanser.” Barb was a New-Yorker-turned-herbalist who insisted the fallout wouldn’t harm her any more than the bears would eat her in her sleep.

  She couldn’t be…

  They wouldn’t have…

  If they had, Hedwig would…

  There was a light tap on the back of her hand. Hedwig opened her eyes. Sean had thrown a pebble. He had his finger up to his lips. She was breathing too hard. He was right. She needed to calm herself.

  Barb would be fine. Her massive, four-legged hunk of fluffy protection, KC, would have bared her teeth and run the men off the land if they’d so much as looked at Barb the wrong way.

  The men’s laughter cut through her nightmare. Why didn’t it sound right? What was it about the laughter of Pigs that set her brain to racing?

  She knew, even though she wished she didn’t.

  She’d seen enough kicked-in doors and ransacked rooms in the past eight months to know the men who marched on the rough road beside their ditch were exactly the same as the men who’d assaulted her in the camp. Different faces, different voices, same MO. Good guys? Bad guys? They were
all the same. Thugs and bullies, every one of them.

  Pigs.

  She dug her nails into her palms to keep herself still and in the present.

  The less she thought about that whole episode the better. She closed her eyes again and banished those thoughts to the farthest reaches of the universe where they could be summarily swallowed by a black hole.

  Swallowed.

  Crushed.

  Atomized.

  Made part of the nothingness. For real. And forever.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows. A rookie mistake. She knew. She wasn’t invisible or invincible. She could be as dead as the next guy if someone saw her. All it would take was one bozo unzipping his pants and walking toward a tree to take a leak and their cover would be blown. But she couldn’t help herself. She had to look. What if one of them had made it out? What if they’d been spared a bullet to the brain? What if they were walking around free to do it again? What if the men who’d taken her had done something to Barb?

  Sean hissed, almost inaudible but loud enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and stand to attention.

  Hedwig ignored him, scanning the soldiers’ faces, searching for the guilty. They looked like regular people. Nice even. No one who hadn’t been through what she’d been through would ever guess that they weren’t just regular “boy next door” types. The guy closest to their side of the road lit a cigarette, drawing the nicotine in and holding it before blowing smoke rings into the trees. Had he taken that pack of Menthol Lights off a dead body? Killed for them? What? Cigarettes weren’t easy to find. Probably explained why he was smoking menthols. You could smell them from a mile away. Idiot.

  Sean threw a second pebble at her, catching her on her shoulder. He was right, as always. It was stupid not to keep her head down. Even if she did see one of the men who’d done that to her, what was she going to do? Go out there, take him down, cartridge to the cranium?

  No. Of course not. The mission was more important than her feelings.

  She rolled over onto her side and pulled her jacket tight to keep off the early-morning chill. Even in May, when the New York days were getting warmer, the nights were chilly and dawn was a time for birds and worms and dew and shivering when you had to hide from the enemy.

  Don’t think about them. Think about where you’re going, what you’re doing, and why. The end.

  She and Sean could have gone around the south rim of the quarry and avoided the patrols but they avoided that route for a reason. It wasn’t simply that the road was narrower and the inclines steeper, though both of those things meant the Darwin Award could be handed out regularly. Nope. It was because that side of the quarry was too close to the municipal dump. The goal was to avoid MELT super-sites whenever they ventured out.

  Menthol Man was still puffing away. He’d been joined by a second smoker. Even with her face nestled in her elbow she could smell the twin scents, mint and cinnamon. They really were scraping the bottom of the barrel. Before—when you could buy cigarettes on every street corner—neither of these dudes would have been caught dead smoking flavored cigarettes.

  She’d never smoked, but her mom had. She’d take a few puffs then stub it out in the ashtray on the patio. No smoking allowed in the house. She was perpetually giving up but kept a pack “for emergencies” and “was only going to take a little puff to calm my nerves.”

  Hedwig wished she could call her folks and tell them she’d made it. Not just that she’d escaped Manhattan, they knew that much. But that she’d hooked up with the Everlees and was safe-safe. Kind of. Well, at least alive. Safe was a concept that had gone out the window. How was anyone safe with MELT on the move? Nigel was right: anyone could have it; any object could be infected; you couldn’t stay out in the rain for fear of plastic landing on you and MELT finding you and your flesh falling off your bones. Even the ditch they’d picked as their temporary hideout could mean the end. You never knew. Death was everywhere and everyone.

  Didn’t do to think about that too much, either.

  She sent those musings packing to the black hole the other side of the universe.

  Boy, the black holes had to be glutted, full to the brim, overflowing with garbage that no one wanted to think about. The only thing she could do to keep her own dank thoughts at bay was to stay occupied at all times.

  She plucked a piece of grass and slid it between her thumbs, putting her mouth to the makeshift reed before she remembered (for the millionth time in ten minutes) where she was and why she had to remain silent. No sound. No movement. Just waiting. And thinking.

  She had plenty to keep her busy. Her self-appointed job was to keep her new adoptive family safe, fed, and appropriately medicated until Bill Everlee gave them the thumbs up to travel (which, honestly, he should have done months ago, but…).

  Yeah, there were lots of “buts” these days. She got it.

  The stump where Bill’s arm had once lived was healed (physically), but he wasn’t adapting to being a one-armed dad. Excuse number one.

  Midge was blind and would slow them down if they hit the road, that much was true; so more of a reason than an excuse. But, still…

  Petra was heavily pregnant (which was just ONE argument for why they should have ALREADY moved on, but water under the bridge now; she really was too blobby to move a few thousand miles to safety). But…but WHAT, Bill? He made her so mad. He had an answer for everything and the answer was always “NO!”

  There were a couple of legit reasons not to move. Mimi was fading. She’d never make the trip and Bill wouldn’t leave her behind, even though she’d begged him to go on without her. They all pretended her cancer wasn’t back, but she was a husk of her former self, wincing whenever she stood, gasping at the slightest touch, holding her hand to her side as if she could magic away whatever it was that was eating her from the inside out.

  And how could they leave Barb and the dogs? Barb would never relocate, no matter what. God was her guide and He had Plans, she said. Plans that involved her being in the “eye of the hurricane when it comes calling…”

  On balance there were more reasons than excuses, but it was a bitch and a half to be sheltering in place in an abandoned salt mine while the world melted all around them and nuclear rain showered the region whenever the wind tacked west.

  None of those facts were the real reason they hadn’t left the mines and Hedwig knew it. Bill Everlee was never going to give the thumbs up for the family to move until Alice returned home.

  Which was nuts. The woman had taken off. Not said goodbye. Not left a note. Nothing. She was there one minute and gone the next. Hedwig had grilled Paul about it, because he was close to his mom, but he didn’t know more than anyone else.

  It had been eight months and thirteen days since Alice Everlee had abandoned her family to Hedwig’s care and during that time Hedwig had never let anyone go without food, medical care, exercise, or entertainment, though their supply of board games was pretty tattered.

  They weren’t doing too badly; better than some she could think of. Not many people could stay in a mine with a handful of humans and remain semi-sane. They stayed busy, that was the trick of it. They had to. Water had to be drawn by hand, then strained and boiled. Food was cooked over an open fire. (Try making crème brulee over an open flame! She’d won that game.) Laundry took a million years, dried slowly, and was stiff with salt even when it was clean. Everything took hours and hours and hours. Which was good. It meant they didn’t have time to linger and get maudlin.

  Nurse Nigel insisted they meet, as a group, at least three times a week. They’d talk, but mostly they’d play games. Paul was best at Risk. Petra slaughtered everyone at chess. Sean joked that he was “born to dominate Monopoly.” Bill complained that charades wasn’t fair to Midge, even if they all shouted out the actions. The various showtunes Nurse Nigel had been teaching Petra and Grandma Margaret got on Hedwig’s nerves. It was too much. Too people-y. She was happy—no, more than that, she was positively
relieved—to get out of their salty prison and be on the road for supplies.

  Even when that meant lying in a ditch for forty minutes or more.

  The men had smoked their stinky cigarettes all the way down to the filter before one of them moved off and the other hung back to take a whizz against a tree.

  Finally, the thump of soldiers’ feet faded into the distance. They’d stay in their ditch, silent and alert, for a while longer. There were always stragglers bringing up the rear guard. They’d have to wait ten—maybe even fifteen—more minutes until they moved from their position.

  Hedwig felt for the iodine pills in her pocket. Still there. Mimi took her aside every month before the drug run. “Find more,” she’d say. “They’re all that’s keeping us alive. I know you want to get my meds, but those are more important, do you hear me?”

  There weren’t any iodine pills anywhere. They’d looked. Well, apart from in Wolfjaw Down. Bastards. They had everything under lock and key, including most of the supplies the Everlees had been hoarding for years. They didn’t call it that, they called it prepping, but it sure looked like hoarding to Hedwig.

  Bill flatly refused permission for them to mount any raids—even exploratory outings to get the lay of the land, see if they had guards at the gates, that sort of thing—on Wolfjaw. He didn’t give a reason, but he was the head of the family (nominally, at any rate) so she did as she was told and steered clear of the one place that could supply them with years of food, meds, clothes, and equipment. Bill was nuts to say it was off limits.

  She checked in with Sean. He was on his elbows now. One rule for her, another for the boys.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Sean was a good type. He always had her back. He cared about getting Petra’s pre-natal vitamins and making sure their drug supply was topped up for another month. He’d do nothing to endanger the mission.

  The soldiers (if that’s what they were) had moved on and it was time they did the same.