Days Since...: Thomas: Day 758 (Almawt Virus Series Book 1)

by Robert Wilson

  James wound his way up the stairs—his torso moving like a turret, rotating the pistol which led him toward the wooden deck where the body lay. Once he hit the landing, the muzzle remained in the lead, but his walk seemed casual, travelling dangerously close to careless. Lessons don't last long with him.

  James traipsed around to the front side of the deck and stopped even with the fractured pine slat that felt the initial force of Thomas’s shot. James took an awkward step across what Thomas could only assume was the body and squatted down. Glimpses of James’s head appeared and disappeared as he shifted about.

  “Is he dead or what?” Thomas called over to him.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s gone for sure.” The dead man’s head filled the gap in the broken slats as James leaned him against the railing.

  “What are you doing?”

  James’s face popped over the top board. “I'm checking him for anything useful.” His tone made the answer seem so obvious.

  “We don't have time for that now. Just throw him over. We still have to deal with the lady.”

  James did as he was told—the head, shoulders, and arms were first, then the torso, and finally the legs spilled over the edge, allowing the body to plummet three stories to the ground below. A dull, murderous thud caused Thomas to cringe. “That'll teach him!” James seemed to cheer as he spiraled his way back down the stairs, smiling the entire way. “No one messes with the S.A.!”

  “What's wrong with you?” Thomas withdrew from behind the cupola. “Have some damn dignity!”

  “What?” James threw his hands up in protest. “He asked for this.”

  “Whatever. Just...” The idea of others infiltrating their operation changed his mind from arguing with James. He took his binoculars across the yard once more. All appeared as before, but as they found out earlier, that didn't count for much. He didn't have a choice but to be satisfied for now. “I got you covered. Find out how to get that lady out of there.”

  James begged the woman to stop crying and to focus, but her weeping had taken her past the point of control. He tried the door, but it was no use. He came to the side closest to Thomas and tried yanking the padlock from that one too. It wouldn't budge. “Where’s the key, lady? Come on!”

  “He keeps— He keeps it on him. It's...” Her voice trailed off, once again succumbing to her bawling.

  James didn't wait for her to compose herself. He took off, running to the body and rolled it over. He plopped one knee onto the ground and began patting down the cargo pants. His hands invaded the dead man's pockets—only air from each. “Come on lady, where is it?” James spoke forcefully.

  “A necklace. It's on his necklace,” she shouted.

  This is taking too damn long. Thomas stood and slung his rifle back onto his shoulder, but from the corner of his eye, several shadows slipped between a group of boxcars in the distance. “James, find cover!”

  He hid back behind the cupola and steadied his rifle across it. Adrenaline surged through his body. All he could imagine was that the rest of the dead man's party had caught up with them—drawn to them by the gunfire. But how many?

  He tried to calm his breaths, his rifle rose and fell with each one. Damn it, focus! “You see anything?”

  No response from James. It was strangely silent. Even the woman had found a way to smother her cries.

  A minute passed and nothing. Crawling back from cover, Thomas retreated, sliding down the backside of the caboose and onto its platform. The butt of his rifle knocked out the small window above the door handle. He reached inside, twisted the lock, and entered.

  Halfway through the cab, he crawled into the lower portion of a set of bunk beds, his eyes barely cleared the lower portion of a side window as he tried to assess the situation. He took a deep breath, calming himself, trying to refocus. Gonna need a clear shot. He punched the muzzle through a window then slunk down into the bare mattress for a moment. A few breaths—the smell of spoiled food and unwashed clothing taken in.

  He popped the barrel of his rifle even with the broken window and toward where he suspected the threat would be advancing, but the open area between the trains remained clear. Still no sign of James. Where is he? With his eyes floating overtop the rifle's sights, glancing from left to right, he caught glimpse of another figure rushing across the yard. Is that a…? “Oak!” He shouted, as if he had hoped to freeze the figure in time.

  “Hickory!” The correct response to his challenge word.

  Cautiously, he looked on as three men in Second Alliance Guard uniforms appeared, two from between some rail cars and another just opposite them.

  A great sense of relief swept over Thomas. They had been fortunate. The fact James hadn't been gunned down was a huge stroke of luck, and the negligence he exhibited to his own well-being would have to be addressed at a later time. But for now, they would focus on the woman and appreciate the reinforcements.

  “False alarm, James!” Thomas shouted upon exiting the caboose. James shuffled out from where he was set up, and the five men exchanged handshakes in the open yard.

  “Damn, Eric. Almost gave me a heart attack,” Thomas said.

  “I could say—“

  “What the hell are you guys doing out here?” James said it without hesitation. His tone was uncalled for, embarrassing. “They should've told us a crew was coming through here.”

  Same team. “Relax, man.”

  “It's not a big deal.” Eric winked at Thomas. “We were escorting a group of scavengers back and had to reroute through here. What'd you guys get into, Ricard?”

  “Nothing major,” James once again spoke out of turn. “A little fire fight. Took some guy down. About to—”

  “Get me outta here!” The woman started in again—the small talk probably signaled to her that it was safe to be known. She pounded on the walls of the train, trying like hell not to be ignored.

  “What the—” One of the other Guards seemed startled by the commotion.

  “That's what kicked this whole thing off.” Thomas dragged a hand down the side of his face, knowing, dreading the fact that she still needed to be dealt with. “Dead guy”—he pointed in the direction of the body, although it couldn't be seen—”has her locked up in there for— who knows why.”

  “You going to need any help with her?” Eric asked.

  “We're going to pop it open, so if you have the time to set up a quick perimeter while we deal with her, it wouldn't hurt. Just have to find the key, right James?”

  “Yeah, we got it.” He gave everyone a half-hearted salute and made his way back over to the body.

  “And when she gets out?”

  “Shit.” Thomas huffed. “Don't really know. Just seemed like the right thing to do. I guess we'll let her gather what little she might have and direct her to L.P.H. Fortress. If she goes, good, if not... I don't know. That'll be on her.”

  “Well, go ahead and get her out of there. She can come with us if she wants.” Eric directed his crew to their positions. “We got you covered,” he said, as he peeled off in the opposite direction of his men to complete the perimeter.

  Thomas made his way to the other side of the red boxcar where James already had his hands inside the deceased man’s shirt. James turned to Thomas as he approached, revealing the dog tag chain within his hand, pulling it taut from around the neck. He appeared unforgiving, his grasp continuing to tug, ensuring that each steel ball dimpled the skin before it eventually gave in and snapped loose. “Here,” James said, tossing the chain over to him. Thomas swiped it from the air, confirmed a key was attached, and scurried over to the boxcar.

  “Step back.”

  “Did you get it?” she asked.

  “Step back!” Thomas raised his voice. “I'm not going to say it again!” He could hear her feet sliding to the other side—the bottoms of her shoes shifting tiny grains of sand or dirt across the metal floor. She stopped. He could make out very little while peering through the vented side of the car. “Alright, lay on your
stomach.” He noticed James now to his right—he had picked up his rifle and had it pointed toward the rail car. The woman dropped to her knees and lay forward. “Don't move.” Thomas worked the lock with the key, and it fell to the ground. The heavy metal door was pulled to the side, and there she was. Her dirty, blonde hair—tangled, unkempt—appearing as if she had been pulled from a grave. Only that and her outstretched hands could be seen.

  James moved his rifle more deliberately to her. “Slowly work your way back onto your knees, but keep your hands visible—out front the whole time.”

  She did as she was told, her body shaking as she slowly pushed up from the ground. Her knees remained planted to the floor. “Don’t— Please don't hurt me.”

  James laughed lightly, turning toward Thomas with an impish grin. “Who the hell does she think we are?”

  “Shut it, James!” Thomas snapped. “Miss, we're here to help,” he softened his tone, “but being careful about it.”

  Her shoulders dropped with relief, her body seemingly accepting his words as the absolute truth. She got up from her knees and began to approach them.

  “I didn’t tell you to stand.” Thomas shouldered his rifle. “Get back on your knees!”

  The outburst jarred the woman. Her eyes overflowed with tears, leaving trails within the dirt upon her cheeks. She retreated, throwing her hands out in front of her to shield any aggression. “I’m sorry— sorry. Please don’t hurt me.” She stumbled—her foot tangled in piled clothing before she fell backwards, slamming onto her ass.

  “Hands!” Thomas screamed.

  She struggled to free them. Reluctant. Her hips shifted. A black handgun. Crack! Crack! Thomas raised the rifle and responded with a quick shot to the woman’s chest. His rifle expelled the brass as he worked the action then slammed another round into the chamber.

  Thomas turned toward where James had been, but he was now sprawled across the ground several feet back. His initial thought was to go for him, to see if he was alive, but the woman's hand was trembling, lifting the pistol forward to finish the job. Another press of his trigger and the woman’s head jolted, never to be recognized again.

  Thomas visually cleared the boxcar then rushed to James. His body lay still—his head bent awkwardly within the gravel. The eyes. Closed. The pulse. Thomas only felt his own. The pounding of footsteps startled him. “Where's he shot?” one of the Guards asked.

  “I don't know.” Thomas managed to get the words out before he was pushed aside. “Are you a medic?” The man nodded while he tended to him, placing his hands against James’s chest. Come on, man. Where are you shot?

  The medic worked over James’s bunched up clothing—covered in dust, hiding his injury. He balled his fist and rubbed along the sternum with the ridge of his knuckles to wake James from his bit of unconsciousness. “You hit or did you fall?”

  James’s eyes began to flutter. His hand swatted the medic away, and then he grunted—the pain present in the stress of his response. He began to raise his back from the ground, but the medic laid his hand against his chest to keep him down. James gave in. “It burns,” he said, motioning toward his shoulder. His sleeve was straightened out, and a noticeable amount of the fabric by his shoulder was frayed—a bright red barely visible in the rut of the cloth. James hissed from the pain.

  “You’re fine, man, just hang in there,” Thomas urged while hovering over the process. The medic maneuvered his fingers through the tear and ripped the sleeve away from the wound. A grazing.

  “This is nothing.” The medic pressed lightly around the wound, causing James to wince. “It’s not even bleeding.” He took a small bottle of moonshine and gauze from his side bag and doused the wound with the alcohol.

  “Damn!” James sucked air between his clenched teeth and turned away from the discomfort. “That shit stings.”

  “You'll just need to keep this thing clean.” He dabbed at the wound with a cloth. “Almost done.” He reached inside his bag again, removed a bandage, and placed it over James’s wound. “It'll probably be sore— maybe. You're lucky that's all you got.”

  James shook his head. “What the hell just happened? Trying to help her and she flips out like that. That lady lost her damn mind.” He attempted to gather his feet below him.

  The medic kept him in place. “You need to take a second and relax.”

  James exhaled, drawing it out to make his point, closing his eyes in protest, but ultimately agreeing. “Okay.” He pulled his knees in toward his body then lay back into the gravel, letting out another sigh. “Make sure that bitch is dead.”

  Thomas and Eric approached the red boxcar. The pool of blood spread far beyond the corpse—her blonde hair matted with blood and wrapped violently around her face. How long had he been keeping her in here?

  It didn't appear to be too long. A nest of clothing in the corner. Two cinder blocks lined up as chairs— a wooden music box at the foot of another. An undercooked squirrel on a plate. Thomas leapt inside the boxcar. “Let's take a look.”

  “I'll check her,” Eric said, as he followed.

  Thomas rummaged through their belongings, and Eric moved over to the body, rolling her over. Her face…

  “In here! In here! In here!”

  “Hot damn! Where the hell'd they come from?”

  “Just get in one of these apartments.”

  “This one! James! Here!”

  “We lucked out. Should take them awhile to find us.”

  “Quiet… Something’s bleeding.”

  “What?”

  “Look. Blood here and some over there. Heads down this way.”

  “Stay close!”

  “Not a lot is it?”

  “Tommy!”

  “What?” ... “It's okay, sweetie.”

  “It's Almawt! Don't you dare touch her!”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “She’s coughing up blood. Of course it’s Almawt.”

  “James! She's just a little girl. She's not gonna make it here. She can't...”

  “They're here damn it! She's not gonna make it.”

  “Then we got to get her out of here.”

  “She’s not coming with us.”

  “I’m not leaving her!”

  “Listen! They aren't gonna knock on that door and ask us to come out—they're gonna take it down! We don’t have time to debate this. We have to go!”

  “Come here... please, come here.”

  “We don't have time for this shit! We'll never get outta here.”

  “Then hold them off. I'm not leaving her, damn it. Please... Just come here, we'll get you out. I want to take you someplace safe.”

  “She doesn't understand you.”

  “Please come here!”

  “Tommy! We gotta go, man. None of these people are going to make it. It's us or them!”

  “We can't just leave a kid! They don't deserve this.”

  “It's not our place to save these people anymore. We have to save ourselves. Hell, their own government abandoned them—did this to them. It's over! It's fucking over for them, not us!”

  “That doesn't mean we have to do the same. We’re better than this!”

  “Put her down!”

  “She's coming with us.”

  “Damn it, Tommy! You're gonna get us killed.”

  “Shut it! You’re the one that got us separated. Don’t blame me for this!”

  “Shit! Alright, back hallway! Let’s go! Hurry!”

  “Hold here like this sweetie… Lock your hands around my neck like this. There we go.”

  “Now or never, Tommy!”

  “Alright.”

  “Through here! This one!”

  Bang! Bang! Boom!

  “Shit! They’re coming in!”

  Crack! Crack!

  “Get the fuck down!”

  “Behind you!”

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  Crack!

  “In here!”

  “Back window!”

&nbs
p; Crash!

  “Cover me! Through here, sweetie. Careful!”

  Crack!

  “Got ‘em!”

  “Call it in! Damn it!”

  “Radio’s fucking gone, man.”

  Crack! Crack!

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  “Tommy, drop her, damn it! Leave her!”

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  “No! Move! Move! Go! Come on!”

  “Hey Thomas, take a look at this.” Eric tossed a thin gold necklace with a locket to his feet. It stopped just beyond reach. “Ricard!”

  “Huh…? Yeah. What?”

  “You alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Take a look at that.” Eric pointed to the coiled necklace.

  Thomas bent down, pinched it from the floor, and opened the oval piece. Two photos—one with the two dead souls in full embrace in their younger days—the next, a family photo. It was a sham. He was just trying to protect his wife. Why do people still insist on going it alone? We have everything to offer. He rolled the edge of the locket between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What do you think?” Eric asked.

  “It's definitely them, but they look like a couple of accountants in these pictures. Crazy how things change once you're exposed to this kind of lawlessness. They probably never held a gun before two years ago.”

  “I was an accountant before all this.” Eric snatched the necklace from Thomas’s grasp, stuffed it in his pocket, and turned abruptly away from him.

  “Really?” Thomas asked.

  Eric looked over his shoulder, smiling. “No.”

  Thomas shook his head, trying hard not to laugh.

  “We need to wrap up here and move on.” He eyed one of his men and spoke up. “Hey! Head over to our group, let them know we're good, and have a couple of those scavengers respond over here and sort through this mess.”

  “Try and find James here another shirt to wear before they start picking through everything,” the medic added his concern.

  Thomas began sorting through the nest of clothing in the corner. This is actually decent. He set the shirt off to the side for James. He held a few other pieces in front of him, but cast the rest aside. “This stuff is junk. I'll leave your guys to it. Maybe they'll see value in it that I don't.” Thomas sprung from the boxcar and pitched the shirt over to James as he passed him. I'm just going to take another look at this guy.