This wasn’t a reprieve, only a pause in my death spiral.
I glanced at the nightstand. The windup alarm clock said that it was 11 in the morning. That meant that today was Tuesday. My letter to Ripper, which had been under the clock, was missing. Nicole or Pastor Bill must have tucked it away while I was sleeping. Good. I wouldn’t want to leave it behind if we were heading to some camp.
“Do you have my backpack?” I asked Nicole.
“Yes. It’s on the porch, ready to be loaded into the van.”
I fumbled at my throat for my necklace and Ripper’s dog tags and sighed when my fingers wrapped around the cool metal. More than ever, I needed this tangible connection to him. I slipped them into my shirt, so they lay against my skin. I’d have to remember to tell Nicole to give them back to Ripper if I died before he returned. If I died. Crap. I swayed, then pushed thoughts of my death out of my head.
Nicole wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me to my feet. “I can ask Deacon Morris to carry you to the van if you’re too weak to walk.”
I took one tentative step. “As long as you’re helping me, I can manage.”
“Good.”
We shambled across the room. I almost tripped over one of those old-fashioned rag rugs as we made our way toward the front of the rustic log cabin.
“Is Ripper back yet?” I asked. “Will the guys meet us at the camp?”
Nicole froze midstep. Her gaze darted to my face before she resolutely turned her eyes toward the open cabin door.
“There’s Deacon Morris.” She nodded at a lean, middle-aged man who was slinging my backpack into the open side door of a paneled van.
I clutched her forearm, preventing her from moving forward. “Where’s Ripper? What’s going on?”
Deacon Morris stepped into the cabin, smiling broadly.
“Kenzie wants to know where Ripper and her friends are,” Nicole said.
“All your questions will be answered once we get safely to the camp,” Deacon Morris said, his smile not faltering. “Right now, we’re in too much of a hurry to talk.” He took my arm and helped me into the van, lifting me onto the bench seat.
Nicole climbed in after me. “What’s going on?” I whispered.
Deacon Morris watched us in the rear-view mirror, a frown line denting his brow. He started the engine and pulled away from the cabin. Nicole pressed her lips together and shook her head, taking her cues from the deacon. We drove in silence. Half an hour later, the van came to a stop outside a sliding gate. The Golden Rule Church Camp a sign next to the gate proclaimed, an odd juxtaposition of idealism and reality, given the two heavily armed guards standing outside the gate. Do unto others with AK-47s? The deacon rolled down the window to speak to one of the men, who opened the gate and waved us through.
“Why are there men with guns at the gate to a church camp?” I asked.
“Shhh,” Nicole said.
I shushed and looked out the van window as we drove past a baseball diamond, a basketball court, tennis courts, twenty or so cabins, a chapel, a dining hall—it said so on the sign—and other buildings. More armed men milled about. Two women wearing long dresses carried laundry baskets onto the tennis courts, where clotheslines stretched from one side to the other.
Deacon Morris parked in front of a large, low-slung structure. He jumped out and hustled around the van, then very solicitously offered me a hand to climb out of the vehicle. He took my elbow as we climbed the three steps onto the porch. A placard next to the door identified the building as the offices for The Golden Rule Church Camp and listed staff names. I caught only Pastor Derek Heywood, Executive Director, as the deacon whisked me inside.
Just past the reception desk, a short hall led to a series of offices. I scanned the door signs as we walked up the hall: Program Director, Youth Ministries Director, Food Services Manager, and others. Nicole trailed a few paces behind us. At the end of the corridor, we halted outside a pair of double doors with the words Executive Director engraved on a plaque. Deacon Morris rapped on the door.
“You may enter,” a familiar voice called. With a polite bow, Morris ushered me into the office.
“It’s good to see you on your feet, Mackenzie. I’ve been praying for your recovery,” Pastor Bill said from his chair behind a large oak desk. On my feet was an overly optimistic description of my condition. The short walk to and from the van had wiped me out, and toppling over was a very real possibility. Couldn’t he see that I was half dead on my feet?
Manners be damned. Without waiting for an invitation, I dropped into one of the visitors’ chairs facing the desk.
“Please, take a seat,” Pastor Bill said smoothly.
I raised a brow. Little late with the invitation, wasn’t he?
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers.
“Where’s Derek?” I asked when he opened his mouth to speak.
Pastor Bill looked at me, his expression vacant. “Derek?”
“Yes. Pastor Derek Heywood, the Executive Director of The Golden Rule Church Camp. The man whose office we’re sitting in.” I pointed to the framed pictures hanging on the wall behind him. In one, a tall, bearded man held a little girl in one arm, his other arm around the shoulders of the smiling woman at his side. In another photo, the man stood on a dock, making a face at an empty fishing pole, surrounded by a group of campers pointing and laughing at his empty hook. He was instantly likable, unlike the man who sat across the desk from me. “Him,” I said emphatically.
“Ah, yes. Derek.” I had a sneaking suspicion that Pastor Bill had never met Pastor Derek. “Sadly, the Lord did not see fit to spare him from the flu, nor any of the other former staff members at the camp. The Lord had other plans for them. For this facility. For all of us.”
His callous indifference to the deaths of so many people—cloaked in pious words—really rubbed me the wrong way. Bossy. Affected. Unfeeling. Pastor Bill sunk even lower in my estimation. My headache returned with a vengeance.
“The flu has scrubbed the world clean, clearing the way for a new, more godly order.”
Despite my weakness, my temper flared. “Are you telling me that God killed billions of people on purpose, in order to pave the way for some rosy new future? You think only bad people died? Looks like Pastor Derek was a great guy. Why did the flu take him?”
“Who are we to question the ways of the Almighty?” Pastor Bill said airily.
I shifted in my chair. You can’t argue with stupid, Aunt Debbie used to say. Besides, whatever time I had left, I didn’t want to spend dwelling on Pastor Bill or his cockamamie ideas. Every second of clarity was precious.
“You’re right,” I said dismissively. “Who are we to question God? That’s waaay above our pay grade.”
Pastor Bill frowned. He didn’t like that, did he? Didn’t like being excluded from God’s inner circle. I’d dissed him by being agreeable. Score.
Pastor Bill stared at his steepled hands, his forehead furrowed. After a long moment, he unknit his brows and raised his eyes to mine.
“Have you considered your role in the new world?”
“My role?” I shrugged. “I don’t have a role. I have the flu, remember?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s say you don’t have the flu, or that God answers my prayers and cures you. What role do you see yourself playing in the new world?”
Heat flooded my face and red-hot anger pounded through my veins. He had told me that I had the flu—a literal death sentence—and now he wanted to play what-ifs with my life, dangling an impossible future in front of me?
“I know exactly what I’d do if I didn’t have the flu,” I said. “I’d spend every day and every night with Ripper. We’d make a life together. A life we’d share with our friends. We’d build something good.”
“Ripper? You’d choose to be with Ripper? With the man who brutalized you?”
Brutalized me?
“What the hell are you talking about?” I de
manded.
“A lady does not swear.” Pastor Bill’s temper flashed.
“A woman gets to speak any way she damn well pleases.” Sharp pain spiked through my head, and nausea made my hands tremble. My weakened body couldn’t sustain these violent emotions. I was burning through all my reserves. I didn’t have much time left, but dammit, whatever time and energy I had, I’d use to defend Ripper.
Deacon Morris cleared his throat, a clear warning to his superior. Pastor Bill swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He folded his hands together on the desk.
“I saw the bruise on your neck. I saw what that animal did to you.”
My fingers flew to my neck, and I palpated the bite mark. Tears filled my eyes. I remembered those last moments of perfect happiness, of connection with Ripper before...before the bad thing happened. Before I got sick.
I didn’t have time for subtlety or subterfuge, for dancing around the truth, and I wanted to rub that truth in his face. “You want to know how I got this bruise?” I leaned forward. “Ripper and I were fucking—doggy style—and I pushed my hair off my shoulder and pressed my neck against his mouth until he finally got the idea. I wanted him to bite me. I liked it.”
“You liked it?” Pastor Bill repeated. His cheeks flushed pink. He tilted his head, his eyes gleamed, and his expression took on an unsettling intensity. “Do you like it rough, Mackenzie?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I should have thought this through before opening my mouth. My blood chilled at his rapt expression, until I remembered my condition. Who would have believed a terminal case of the flu could protect me from anything?
“I like it any way that Ripper gives it to me.”
He chuckled. “God has a purpose for you, child. In his wisdom, he has seen fit to put you into my hands, to deliver you from evil. Ripper was a bad influence on you, and it’s a blessing that you’ll never see him again.”
“Wait. You won’t keep him away from me, will you?” I asked, panic clawing at me. “You’ll let me see him before I die?”
Pastor Bill’s face took on an expression of exaggerated sympathy. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I sent Ripper and your friends to hunt down the man who blew up The Dalles Dam. The bomber booby-trapped his cabin with explosives, and your bumbling friends managed to detonate them. Your boyfriend’s dead. Ripper, Kyle, and Sahdev, they’re all dead.”
TWELVE
Kenzie
I rolled on my side and turned my face to the wall. If I refused to talk, maybe she’d go away. Hannah was a sweet girl, but I couldn’t bear to speak to anybody, couldn’t bear to engage with the living. Talking, moving, thinking—shit, even breathing—felt impossible when everybody I cared about was dead.
The veil between life and death had grown gossamer thin, and shadowy figures moved behind the sheer curtain. Ripper, Kyle, Sahdev, Miles, Ali, Jake. I could see their faces in my mind’s eye, all the people I’d loved and lost, but most of all Ripper. My brain balked when I imagined him dead, his voice silent, his powerful body still and cold. How could the most vital man I’d ever known be gone?
If I cried uncle, would the universe take pity on me?
Maybe it already had. I’d thought the flu was a spit in the face from a cruel fate. Maybe it was a gift, not a tragedy, a coup de grace, a mercy killing that would tear down the veil and reunite me with the ones I loved. All I had to do was bide my time until the virus took me.
“Kenzie.” Hannah was relentless, her voice urgent. “I need to talk to you.”
The mattress dipped when she sat on the edge of my bed. She touched my shoulder. I almost shrugged off her hand, but couldn’t quite bring myself to reject the friendly teenager.
Taking care of the living takes precedence over everything else. Sahdev was right.
With a sigh, I rolled over to face her.
Hannah looked over her shoulder, then leaned down close to my ear. “I overheard Nicole talking to Pastor Bill this morning. She was upset with him for telling you that you have the flu.”
“He was right to tell me,” I said. “I needed to know.”
“No, you don’t get it. You don’t have the flu. The dickwad made it up.”
I stared at her blankly. “What?”
“He lied. Nicole was upset with him for lying to you,” Hannah whispered.
That made no sense. “But...but...I have all the symptoms. I’m nauseated and weak. Dehydrated. And I have a killer headache that won’t go away.”
“That’s right.” Hannah nodded. “But your symptoms weren’t caused by the flu. They’re from the accident.”
“What accident?” I had no clue what she was talking about.
“Jeez. You seriously don’t remember?” Hannah rolled her eyes. “Last Friday, an elk jumped onto the road in front of Ripper. His Harley went down. You were hurt. They brought you to Nicole’s cabin. Nicole’s husband was a biker, too. He belonged to the same motorcycle club as Ripper. You were unconscious for days. They brought me over to sit with you yesterday after Pastor Bill sent your friends away. When you woke up a few hours later, everything hurt, but it wasn’t the flu. It was the accident.”
How could I forget being in a motorcycle accident?
Wait a minute...Ali had a scar down the front of her right shin and metal screws in her leg that used to set off alarms at the airport. She’d been hit by a car while walking home from school when she was fourteen. When I’d asked her about the accident, she told me that the last thing she remembered was the door clicking shut behind her when she headed out of school. She’d never been able to recall being struck by the car. Her doctor called it trauma-induced amnesia.
“Move over,” I ordered Hannah. She hopped off the bed, and I lifted the sheet to examine my body. I had no memory of stripping and climbing into bed. Shock and grief must create their own kind of amnesia. I gingerly touched the gauze dressing that covered an injury on my inner left calf. Fading bruises mottled my thighs. I looked positively beat up. No wonder my body ached.
“I heard your doctor friend say that you got burned by the exhaust pipe when the bike tipped over. And you have stitches in your shoulder, too. The mirror broke off the bike and cut you when it flew past.”
My fingers found the bandage on my right shoulder.
“This is insane.” I sat up and leaned against the wall. “Why would the pastor want me to believe that I was dying from the flu?”
“That’s what Nicole asked him, in her super-polite, ass-kissing sort of way.” She rolled her eyes again, clearly disgusted with Nicole’s servile mannerisms.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said that the Lord opened a door, and he walked in.”
I made a face. “What does that mean?”
“Apparently, when you came to, you assumed you were in bed because you were sick with the flu. The pastor took that story and ran with it. I don’t know why. Maybe he wanted you to be grateful when he prayed for you, and you miraculously recovered.”
“Women never survive the flu,” I said. “That’s what Sahdev said, and he should know.”
“Huh. I guess that explains why there are more men than women at the camp.” Hannah looked over her shoulder again at the open door. “What do you wanna bet that the pastor tries to take credit for your amazing recovery. You know, impress his flock with the magical healing power of his prayers. It shows that God and him are like this.” She twined her pointer and middle fingers together.
My head was reeling. Ten minutes ago I believed that I was dying, and honestly, it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. It spared me from having to figure out a way to move forward without my friends. Without Ripper.
I can’t...I can’t think about Ripper now.
“Shit! Are you okay?” Hannah demanded, jumping to her feet. “Do you need me to go get the nurse?”
“Give me a sec.” I sucked in a slow breath, then sat up straight. “Did you hear anything about Ripper and my friends?”
&nb
sp; Hannah blanched. “You know what happened, don’t you?” She sat back down on the bed and touched my arm, her eyes filling with tears. “They had to have told you about the explosion.”
“What did you hear?”
“Everybody was talking about it in the dining hall, how Jerry and Vince found the cabin where the guy who blew up the dam was hiding. Vince got hurt in a booby trap. Pastor Bill asked Ripper and your friends to rescue Vince and to investigate. The bomber’s cabin was rigged to blow up. Some of the guys who were out hunting said that they heard an explosion this morning and saw smoke.”
The tiny bud of hope—the possibility that their deaths were another one of Pastor Bill’s lies—withered and died.
I’ll think about that tomorrow. When everything went to shit, I always fell back on the classic Scarlett O’Hara strategy for avoiding a painful truth.
“That’s why Pastor Bill ordered everybody into the camp,” Hannah continued. “With a bomber on the loose, he wants everybody safe behind a fence with armed men standing guard.”
A bomber on the loose. I blinked and an image flashed before my eyes. Ripper’s body torn apart by the blast, his flesh charred. Shuddering, I bent over double, unable to draw in a breath.
“Kenzie?” Hannah touched my shoulder.
I forced my eyes to focus on Hannah and swallowed back the despair that threatened to undo me. I had to think about something else. Anything else.
“How did you end up at the camp?” I asked. “Did you live nearby?”
“No. I grew up in the Portland suburbs, in Beaverton. I was finishing my junior year at Westview High when the flu hit. I’m a theater nerd, and I’d just found out that I was going to be inducted into the school’s Thespian Troupe.” She paused and her expression clouded. “It feels like forever ago, instead of just a couple of months. Anyway, everybody I knew got sick and died: my parents, my little brothers, my friends, my neighbors.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
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