Lee turned so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Angela, looking at the gathered people. “I think they’re ready. Cornerstone did one good thing: They pissed them off.”
“Should we move out?”
Lee shook his head. “No, I think we should camp here until morning. Let everyone get a few more hours of sleep. If they can. And Triprock is safer than being exposed out in the middle of nowhere.”
“But the satphone call. Aren’t you worried about a response?”
Lee lifted a finger and scratched under his eyepatch. “It’s a crap cake no matter how you slice it. But it’s only four hours to dawn. Cornerstone won’t mobilize a response in that amount of time. Triprock just isn’t that strategically valuable. And we have a lot of logistics to cover before we hit the road.”
Angela breathed out a sigh. “Well. I won’t be sleeping again.”
Lee shook his head. “No, me neither.”
ELEVEN
─▬▬▬─
CONSCRIPTION
Sam was already awake by the time Frenchie whispered to him, “Hey, yo! Something’s goin’ on!”
Sam was upright and on his feet with the speed that only a young man’s body can accomplish. He hadn’t been sleeping that deeply anyways, and the murmured alerts between Johnson and Frenchie had peeled back the last layers of dozing.
Instinctively, Sam found his eyes swooping around for his rifle. But, of course, it wasn’t there. He was unarmed in enemy territory.
He righted his gaze to Frenchie, rubbing crust out of his eyes. “What?”
Frenchie shrugged, then pointed. “Saw a few people moving down the main street with a purpose. I think there might be someone looking for workers.”
“Shit!” Sam spun, his eyes hitting the open door to the outside and seeing the dim gray light of dawn. He hadn’t expected Greeley to come calling so early. But he couldn’t waste the opportunity. “Frenchie, get everyone up and packed and meet me down there. I’m gonna run ahead and see what’s up.”
Marie, who had been sleeping—or pretending to—nearby, was getting to her feet noticeably slower than Sam had, but no less awake. “I’ll roll with you,” she husked in a dry morning voice.
Frenchie was already off to rouse the others. He stopped and shot back over his shoulder, “Don’t forget about that asshole. You might want more backup.”
Marie seemed miffed. “What? I’m not enough?”
Frenchie didn’t seem to know how to respond, and used his orders as an excuse to retreat.
Sam moved for the doorway out, checking to make sure the knife was still on his hip. “Come on, Marie. I know you got my back.”
“Damn right I do,” Marie grouched, falling in step with him as he exited the dark building, out into the dawn light. Everything was flat and gray, save for the sky to the east which shown a deep red.
What was that they said? Red sky in the morning, take warning?
Sam wasn’t a fan of the omen. He decided not to be superstitious today.
As he and Marie hit the street outside, an amplified voice lilted over a cool morning breeze that scoured away any lingering sleepiness. He couldn’t tell what the voice was saying, but his eyes caught movement on the main street: A few people were running now.
“Dammit. You good to run?”
Marie started running.
Two, four, then ten people flitted by on the main street.
They became enemies in Sam’s mind. He had to beat them to the punch. It didn’t matter if they were poor, starving families trying to feed their little chaps—it was more important that Sam get inside Greeley, and if Greeley was only taking a few people, Sam wasn’t above barging through and trampling other people’s hopes for the sake of his mission.
He broke the corner of the main street, and what he saw did nothing to ease his sense of urgency.
Straight down, at the very beginning of the main street, a single pickup truck sat with a man in the bed, speaking through a megaphone. He was surrounded by no less than a hundred people.
“I don’t give a fuck who we have to trample,” Sam shot at Marie. “We’re getting into Greeley today.”
The voice of the soldier—or rather, the Cornerstone operative—with the megaphone began to clarify into words: “Pack it in tight, people! I don’t want to repeat myself! Come on! Hustle up!”
Sam hustled, spying another group on the opposite side of the street, and perceiving the competition of a footrace burgeoning between them. Everyone in The Tank shared Sam’s decision: Everyone else was their enemy.
Sam and Marie staggered to a stop at the back of the crowd. It was already packed shoulder to shoulder. He had every intention of barging through their midst, but those present had every intention of not allowing him.
He tried to worm his way between bodies but they closed ranks on him. An old man shot an elbow at Sam’s face, which he managed to avoid by a bare inch.
He saw the old man’s other hand drop to a knife sticking out of his pocket. His rheumy eyes glared at Sam. “You stay in the fucking back! Shove me and I’ll fucking gut you!”
Sam drew back a single step, his own hand touching the handle of his knife, more than willing to respond to the old man with violence. The tiny space that he’d given up was immediately filled by another three desperate refugees. The old man smirked viciously at him.
“Everyone’s pretty motivated,” Marie observed.
Off to the left, a scuffle broke out.
Sam couldn’t see over the heads of the people gathered, but he could hear the savage sounds. His eyes shot to the operative in the back of the truck. The scuffle hadn’t escaped his notice, but he watched it with a bemused smile for a few beats before raising the megaphone to his mouth again.
“Alright, hey! Hey!”
The scuffling downgraded a few notches.
“Chill the fuck out! There’s no need to fight! We got an opportunity for everyone in The Tank.” The operative had a thick Boston accent. “Cool your jets, you buncha fucks. Christ.”
The rumble of big diesel engines caught Sam’s ears over the worried yammering of the crowd. He stood on tiptoes, and caught the tops of three city buses, nosing their way into The Tank.
“Alright!” Boston cleared his throat. “Everyone quiet down and listen up! I’m only gonna say this one time and there’s no question and answer session afterwards, so pay the fuck attention.”
Boston pulled a piece of paper from a cargo pocket and unfolded it as the crowd stilled and a strange silence fell over those gathered. Every man, woman, and child present was desperate, and in their desperation, they were easy to control.
The operative raised the paper with one hand, the other holding the megaphone to his lips as he read aloud: “By order of the President of the United States of America, all refugees currently being held in the town of La Salle—that’s The Tank to you—that are over the age of fifteen, are now eligible for conscription.”
A wave of excitement and shock roiled over the crowd. The operative looked briefly annoyed as he waited for silence again. “Can I fucking continue?”
He got his silence again. The crowd stood with an unnatural stillness.
Boston smacked his lips and returned to reading the paper. “Furthermore, and also by order of President Briggs, the town of La Salle is to be closed as a refugee encampment.” He stopped there, crumpled the paper, and shoved it back in his pocket. “Now let me put all that in plain speak for you. Everyone in The Tank has until noon today to make a decision. Option Number One: you agree to pick up a rifle and be conscripted as a Cornerstone soldier, to be put on guard duty, or latrine duty, whatever the fuck we say. Option Number Two: you pack up your shit and find somewhere else to live.”
Boston held up his hand against another wave of murmurs. “Shut up. Shut up, please. I’m not done.”
Everyone shut up.
“All of you who choose Option Number One will be afforded daily rations of food and water for you, as well as any childr
en in your care under the age of fifteen. No, you are not allowed to be a stay-at-home mommy or daddy. If you’re over the age of fifteen, you will have a rifle, and you will do what you’re told. You’ll also be provided housing. Further details will be given upon your conscription.
“If you choose Option Number Two, then you have until sundown today to leave La Salle. Any and all persons still inside La Salle after sundown will be shot on sight. And by the way, sundown means twenty-hundred—eight o’clock, P.M.”
Boston pointed behind him to the three city buses as they pulled to a stop at the edge of the crowd. “If you choose Option Number One, you will form three, orderly, single-file lines, evenly distributed between these three buses. No pushing, no jostling, no shouting—none of your bullshit. If you can’t follow these simple orders that I’m giving you right now, then we will take that as a sign that you’re not the type of person we want holding a rifle and you will not get inside Greeley. If anyone gets out of hand, you will be shot. This is going to go off nice and civilized. If you make this difficult for me and my men, you will be shot. I hope that I’m abundantly clear on that point.”
Boston lowered the megaphone a few inches, revealing a wan smile. He eyed the crowd, which had become very still in the light of his threats. No one knew what exactly rose to the occasion of being “difficult,” and so everyone simply froze in place.
“That’s good,” Boston noted. “Good start. Alright. Three, orderly, evenly-distributed lines.”
The crowd began moving. One big blob of humanity, inching towards the promise of a better life, scared to death to shoulder each other too hard, lest it be seen as disorderly. Sam had never seen so many people so suddenly fall in line.
Sam started moving too, but Marie tugged on his elbow. “We should wait for the others.”
He met her eyes and felt a note of urgency. “What if they fill up?”
Marie shook her head and lowered her voice. “They’re as desperate as these people are, they’re just hiding it better. They’re going to take everyone they can get. And we don’t want to get split up. We need to stay together.”
Sam grit his teeth, feeling the mass of people flow around him. She was right. He knew she was right. But it was difficult to simply stand there.
Boston scanned the crowd and his gaze eventually alighted upon Sam. A frown creased his brow. He pointed. “You. You choosing Option Number Two or some shit?”
Sam swallowed hard, feeling the attention of everyone around him. He stood up straight. “No, sir. I’m waiting on the rest of my team.”
Boston’s eyebrows arched. “Your team?”
“I came with four others. They’re my team.”
The operative hopped down out of the pickup bed and stalked towards Sam. As he moved, his eyes flitted back and forth through the crowd that parted before him—very orderly—and his jaw was set.
Sam’s body geared up for a fight, but his mind pressed down on that. He had a mission. He had to get inside Greeley. This was his chance, and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by bumping chests with this douchebag.
Just tell him what he wants to hear.
Boston stopped in front of Sam. Eyed him up. “Name,” he demanded.
“Sam. Sameer. Balawi.”
Boston looked pained. “Sam Sameer Balawi?”
“First name, Sameer. Last name, Balawi. I go by Sam. Sir.”
“Alright, Sam Balawi. You got prior military experience?”
“No, sir.”
“You sure about that? Because you sound like you do.”
“I’ve learned some things along the way.”
“Yeah? From who?”
“Other soldiers.” Sam felt his face flush, feeling like the operative was a shovel scraping away at his thin layer of deception.
“Boy, you better start using some plain speak to me. Because I get the sense you’re not telling me something.”
Sam’s pulse hummed in his ears. Everything in his chest and gut seemed to have welded itself into one molten-hot lump of panic. “There was a soldier I met in Oklahoma, where we’re from. He told me to always keep my team together, to not get split up. He called it ‘unit cohesion.’” Sam swallowed on a dry tongue. “He died later on. Killed by…infected.”
Sam barely kept the word primal from coming out of his mouth.
Boston looked over Sam’s shoulder. “This them?”
Sam turned and found Jones, Pickell, Johnson, and Frenchie jogging up the street to them. Jones was fixated on Sam, worry gouged across his usually playful expression. He didn’t like Sam facing down a Cornerstone operative.
“Yes, sir. That’s them.”
“Alright, Sam Balawi.” Boston reached into another one of his cargo pockets and drew out a plastic nametag with clip. He stuck it unceremoniously onto Sam’s collar.
Sam looked down at it. Read the words upside down: SQUAD LEADER.
Boston tapped the plastic tag. “You’re a squad leader now. When you get off the bus, the receiving team will pull you into a separate group of people that have half a brain. Congrats.”
The operative turned without saying anything else and edged back through the crowd.
Jones and the rest of the team stamped to a halt beside Sam.
“What was that about?” Jones demanded, breathing hard. “Everything okay?”
Sam gripped the little plastic tag in bloodless fingers and let out a shaky breath. “Everything’s good. He just appointed me a squad leader.”
Jones relaxed. “Oh. Okay, good. Congratulations. You’re already making friends.” He heaved a deep breath, then spat off to the side. “What’s next on your career path?”
Sam raised his eyes to the lines forming at the buses. He pointed to the middle line, which looked slightly shorter than the others. “We’re getting on that bus.” Sam started moving towards it. “Eyes open, mouths shut. Do not get into it with anyone. They said if there’s any disorderliness, they’ll just start shooting.”
“Great,” Jones commented, his voice slightly lower. “Fantastic.”
Marie touched Sam’s shoulder as they positioned themselves in line at the middle bus. “You did good, Sam.”
Sam stopped in the line, about twenty people back from the open bus doors where what looked like a US Army soldier stood with a clipboard, taking names as he allowed the people on board.
Sam looked behind him, worry cinching knots around his heart again. He found Jones and looked at him meaningfully. “Did you grab it?”
Jones looked put-out. “No. I left it behind. I forgot the most integral piece of equipment. Whoops.”
“Sorry. Just checking.”
“Actually, that was a lie. I didn’t forget it. I dropped it and it shattered into a billion pieces.” Jones held up his hands. “Butterfingers Jones. That’s what they used to call me.”
“Alright. I get it.”
“Christ. You should give me that squad leader tag. How dare you question me.”
Marie reached out and squeezed Jones’s forearm. The soldier on the bus was eyeing them—the only people in the line that were murmuring amongst themselves. Dangerously close to being disorderly.
Jones took the hint and shut his mouth.
The soldier grimaced at them, but didn’t call them out, and continued taking names.
They shuffled forward in silence. Sam kept scanning around him, looking at the other lines as they boarded the buses. God, but everyone was so quiet.
Sam reached the steps of the bus. The soldier nodded at his name tag with a smirk. “Already, huh? That what you ladies were giggling about back there?”
Sam chose not to answer that.
The soldier got his name and jotted it down. “All the way back. Right side of the bus.”
Sam did as instructed. The right side of the bus was already half-filled. Sam scrunched in beside a middle-aged man and woman. He couldn’t tell if they knew each other or just happened to be sitting in the same spot. They didn’t speak. Didn’t even m
ake eye contact with Sam.
Marie, Jones, and Pickell filled in the seat directly ahead of Sam. Then Johnson and Frenchie the next one up, followed by a stranger to take the aisle seat.
The bus grew stifling. The sun was barely up and hadn’t had time to cook the air, but the quiet breaths of the people crammed on board made the atmosphere dank and heavy. It smelled foul. The breath and body odors and filthy clothes of a hundred unwashed people, shoulder to shoulder with each other.
The right side of the bus filled up. Then the left side began to fill, starting at the back.
Sam watched the people as they came on board. Young. Old. Men. Women. Hungry, hopefully eyes. Excitement and fear in equal measures. A palpable sense that Sam could pluck right out of the air—the anxiety of what was happening to them. Being crammed into buses.
Sure, they’d been told they were being offered conscription. But what if it was a lie? What if this was something else? What if they were being taken to a mass grave to be disposed of?
Well, maybe that was just Sam’s worries.
But Marie had been right. Greeley was hurting for manpower. This move made sense from that perspective. And it revealed a weakness. Something that was very much worth reporting back to Lee: Greeley was about to be secured by a bunch of untrained civilians.
People who had no real loyalty to Greeley.
People who might be swayed.
Sam began to look about him with a fresh perspective, eyeing the faces, and wondering who among them could be turned? And then wondering how he could accomplish that. How was he going to open a dialogue with these people? If he did it too soon, he would shoot himself in the foot. Everyone was so scared right now—scared that this dream might be shattered—that no one would be willing to listen. Not so soon after being given this opportunity.
When was the right time to start talking to them?
You are in over your head, Sam realized. And suddenly felt enormously guilty for telling Lee that he could do this. He was going to fuck it up somehow. What the hell had he been thinking, promising Lee that he could accomplish this mission?
Lee’s trust was hard to come by these days. And Sam stood on the precipice of betraying that trust with his abject lack of abilities. It had all seemed possible when it was theoretical. Now, being faced with the prospect of it as a reality, Sam’s stomach was sinking further and further into his pelvis.
Lee Harden Series | Book 5 | Unbowed Page 11