by A. J. Powers
The jubilant little settlement that always seemed to be bustling with excitement was now eerily quiet. Despair filled the air like a thick smog, suffocating those who lived within. It was a disturbing sensation that was magnified with the wails of mourning families as they laid loved ones to rest. As Clay looked down at the small grave he had just finished digging—the final resting place for a seven-year-old boy—the war inside his head raged on. It was sorrow pitted against fury, and which was winning changed by the minute.
Clay saw a young man and his wife walking toward him. The woman sobbed inconsolably as she embraced a frightened toddler. Her husband struggled to find the will to keep walking forward as he carried the small body in his arms. The stained, white sheet draped over his son flapped in the breeze, which grated at Clay’s nerves. Walking next to them, Pastor Rosario prepared for his fourteenth funeral of the day, with still more to come. The sight filled Clay with both grief and gratitude. Grief for those having to say goodbye to their loved ones, a pain Clay knew all too well. Gratitude for the fact that none of his loved ones were among those going into the ground this chilly evening.
Hearing footsteps approach from behind, Clay turned and spotted Megan walking up to him. She didn’t say anything; she just put her arm around her brother and rested her head on his shoulder. Watching as the family approached, Megan’s stomach twisted like a pretzel as she recalled what that long, dreaded walk to a small grave felt like. She said a silent prayer for them and their departed child. There were few feelings worse than what this family was going through.
Megan let go of Clay and stepped back, swiping at her eyes before the tears had a chance to slide down her cheeks. “Uhm,” she said in a gravely, exhausted voice, “he’s starting to wake up, if you want to come say hi.”
Clay looked down at the grave before looking back at Megan, “Yeah, okay,” he said. “I still have to finish up here first, but I’ll come after that.”
Megan mustered up a supportive smile and put her hand on Clay’s shoulder. “You want me to stay?”
Clay wrestled with his response. He wanted her to stay, but there was no reason she needed to subject herself to the emotional toil of witnessing a mother and father burying their little boy. That was not a burden Clay was willing to hoist onto Megan’s shoulders. He looked at his sister and replied, “No, that’s okay. I’ll meet you over at the infirmary in a few minutes.”
Megan nodded. “Okay,” she said before stepping closer to her little brother, answering the call to his unspoken request. She stood up tall and brushed away another tear. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Clay and Megan silently watched on as the memorial commenced.
As with every other burial Clay had attended that day, he found himself fighting back tears as Pastor Rosario read the same passages from the Bible that he had probably long since memorized. However, unlike the others, Clay knew the boy being buried. He and Tyler had become friends over the past week, which made this service even more difficult to witness.
When Clay and the boy’s father lowered the body into the grave, the woman started screaming. She dropped to her knees and clutched on to her only living son as if he were life itself. Pastor Rosario’s attempts to comfort her went unnoticed by the lamenting mother. As Clay and the boy’s father stood up, Rosario immediately went into prayer to end the service.
Afterwards, Rosario escorted the family back to their home, and Clay got to work carefully covering the body with soil. Megan picked up a nearby shovel and helped him finish the unbearable task. He welcomed the help.
The walk to the infirmary was cold and breezy. The sweat from the day’s work might have chilled him to the bone had his mind not been so utterly consumed with other matters. It was as if his brain couldn’t process everything that was going on, so it stopped registering physical needs like hunger and shivering.
Clay knew Megan was speaking, but he didn’t hear a word she said—she might as well have been speaking Swahili. He tried to force himself to pay attention, but quickly gave up on the matter. His thoughts were galaxies away, obsessing on what he was going to tell Vlad…how he was going to tell his friend that his daughter was still missing.
Megan was still talking as they reached the door to the infirmary. She stepped in front of Clay and swung around. “Clay, are you hearing me?” she said, knowing full well that he wasn’t.
“Huh?” Clay said with a confused look on his face. He blinked his eyes a few times and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, I’m listening.”
“Clay,” she said with a grim face, “it’s a miracle that we were even able to save him, but you should know that he’s never going to walk again.”
“Uhm…Wow, okay…” Clay said, still a bit consumed with his own thoughts. “Does Vlad know yet?”
Megan shrugged. “If Doctor Sowell hasn’t already told him, then I’m sure he’s figured it out for himself,” she said, almost heartlessly. She made a face and sighed. “Sorry, Clay, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay, Megs,” he said with a weak smile. Clay wasn’t mad at her for being a bit insensitive about Vlad’s injuries. Being a doctor in a well-equipped, sterile hospital was a brutal job that required a thick skin. Being a “doctor” in the apocalypse where a minor injury could lead to death faster than Clay ever thought possible had to be monumentally worse. It was only human for her to find ways to disconnect herself from her obliged occupation. What was amazing, though, was that Megan’s cold response, in fact, wasn’t normal for her. How she could care so much, even after losing so many loved ones, and continue pushing forward was nothing short of remarkable.
Megan, knowing what Clay was about to do, gave him another hug. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Clay hesitated for a moment before he pulled the door open and walked inside. The room was still packed with wounded people, though not as bad as the night of the attack. Most of the room was open, rows of beds lined up against the wall with about a foot and a half of space between each one. Toward the back of the room, several sheets had been hung from the ceiling to create some privacy for the more critical patients.
Standing near the back, Clay heard Doctor Sowell talking to Vlad on the other side of the curtain, so he waited outside for the doctor to finish up.
“Olesya?” Vlad whispered.
Vlad’s first words after waking up were the same as the last ones he uttered before passing out, and it sent a nauseating concoction of emotions through Clay.
“I’m sorry, Vlad, but I’ve not left this building much in the past two days. I’m not up to speed on everything going on,” Doctor Sowell replied sympathetically.
A single cough from behind the adjacent curtain distracted Clay from the depressing conversation currently in progress at Vlad’s bedside. He leaned around the edge of the sheet to see the girl he had found in the closet at the farmhouse sitting up in her bed, a look of hopelessness in her eyes. He wanted to say something to her, maybe ask her how she was doing. Before the words reached his lips, Vlad’s curtain was tossed to the side and Doctor Sowell came out, nodding at Clay as he walked into the girl’s room.
“How are we feeling, Madeline?” the fatigued doctor asked, trying to sound as upbeat as he could.
Clay remained outside as he struggled to figure out the best way to tell Vlad the news—as if there was an easy way to tell a father that he might never see his daughter again.
“This sucks,” Clay said quietly through a deep sigh before pulling the sheet back and stepping inside. Vlad lied on a rickety old bed that was more akin to a cot found inside an Army barracks rather than a hospital, but it beat sleeping on the floor. Barely.
Vlad looked over at his visitor, and after a severe coughing fit, he finally gathered enough energy to speak. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
Clay forced a smile. “Good to see you, Vlad.”
There was a painful silence in the room as Vlad fought to keep his eyes open. Despite his heavy eyelids, the man managed to
give a look that pleaded with Clay to tell him some good news. The piercing gaze forced Clay’s vision down, and he stared at his feet while he struggled to find the right words.
“Clay,” Vlad spoke, his hoarse voice fading with exhaustion, “just tell me.”
Clay’s vision remained fixed on his boots. The dreaded moment had arrived and there was no fleeing from it now. He finally looked up, his glossy eyes gave Vlad the answer before his voice could. “I’m sorry, Vlad, but…I…we,” Clay cleared his throat, “we haven’t found her yet.”
Vlad pressed into his pillow and began to weep as much as his shattered body would allow. The pain he was in—both physical and emotional—was a dreadful sight for Clay. Before long, the weeping turned to howling sobs loud enough that everyone in the infirmary grieved with the poor soul.
Clay knelt next to the bed and grabbed Vlad’s hand. His eyes seemed to scream for deliverance from his hell on earth—as if he preferred Megan left him to die in the field she found him in.
After a few minutes, the cries waned, and Vlad lay lifelessly in bed. His eyes glazed over as he looked up at the ceiling. He began to speak in his native tongue, repeating the same couple of sentences over and over. Clay didn’t need translation to know he was begging God for just one more day with his beloved daughter, one more minute to relish in her presence.
The curtain behind him swung open, causing Clay to jump. Jackie walked in with a pill and a glass of water. “Here you go,” the middle-aged nurse said as she handed the cup to Vlad. “Take this.”
Vlad remained motionless.
“Doctor Sowell asked me to give you this,” she said. Seeing no reaction from the man, she lowered her voice, “Please…it’s going to help.”
Vlad slowly turned his head to look at what she offered. Reluctantly, he took the pill and tossed it in his mouth; he didn’t bother with the water. He returned to his staring contest with the ceiling and a short time later, as both the physical and emotional pain started to numb, Vlad drifted to sleep.
Clay stood to his feet and looked down at his friend peacefully resting—or so he hoped. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he walked into the room, but it felt like days. Though he had a heavy heart for Vlad’s loss, Clay also felt a weight lifted from his shoulders since the dreadful task of telling his friend Olesya was still missing. “Hang in there, Boris,” Clay said as he turned to leave.
On his way out, Jackie glanced over at Clay. “He’s out.”
“Good,” she said with a compassionate voice.
“What was that?” Clay asked.
“Vicodin.”
“Really?” Clay asked, stunned with the response.
“Yes. We only have seven of them left—well, six now—for the whole town. It’s not something we give out lightly, but Doctor Sowell was, in this case, quite insistent.”
“Thank you…”
Jackie smiled before returning to her patient.
Feeling utterly exhausted, Clay stepped outside to see darkness had fallen over the town of Liberty. It was oddly comforting to the weary young man.
Chapter 19
The day of interrogation culminated with Shelton’s fist through his living room wall. For the last six hours, he and two others from the security team questioned Brendan—the man in the mask. After an hour of silence, Barnes wanted to move on from questioning to more persuasive means of interrogation. Shelton was quick to shoot the idea down. “That is not how we do things,” Shelton said before kicking Barnes out of the room, leaving him and Kohler to get the man to talk. But as Shelton stared at the damaged drywall next to a picture of his wife Sarah, he found himself a little more open to Barnes’s line of thinking.
The throbbing in his knuckles was intense. It was not often that Barry Shelton let emotions get the best of him—especially anger—but after what happened to his beloved town, he noticed his fuse was not nearly as long as it used to be.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above his refrigerator, retrieving a half-full bottle of scotch. Shelton rarely drank alcohol—and when he did it was always in private. The bottle of Chivas Regal only came out under extreme duress. The last time he reached for it was five years ago, immediately following Sarah’s burial. The time before that was when he and Sarah had laid Anna, their only child, to rest. The liquor, as far as he could remember, had always been used for somber occasions. But as Shelton tipped the bottle and filled the small glass on his counter, he hoped that the drink would quell his rage.
It did not.
Slouching in his brown Chesterfield chair, the wheels continued to turn in Shelton’s head. Why did Brendan say he had a message to deliver, then suddenly become a mute after capture? That perplexing turn of events didn’t sit well with Shelton. Something wasn’t adding up—and that thought paralyzed him with fear.
An exasperated sigh passed through Shelton’s lips as he remained slumped in his chair, his hand cradling the nearly empty glass. Despite being ineffective against his indignation, the alcohol had helped with the tension. His neck and shoulder muscles had felt as if they were ratchet straps tying down an oversized load on a flatbed. Thanks to the alcohol, Shelton felt somewhat physically relaxed for the first time since the attack two nights ago.
With nineteen dead, thirteen missing, uncooperative prisoners, and no idea what was coming next, Shelton was at a loss as to what he should do next.
A loud thumping on the front door ejected the jumpy mayor from his thoughts. Setting the glass of scotch down on a coaster as Sarah had taught him in their first year of marriage, Shelton stood from his chair despite his popping knees and walked to the door. Kohler was on the other side of the door, the chill in the air evident from his visible breath.
“What is it, Daniel? Did you get the little brat to talk?” he asked.
“No,” Kohler replied immediately, “but…his father is here to post bail.”
Shelton felt as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach by an angry mule.
Arlo.
It was time to get some answers.
****
“Have a seat,” Barnes said as he pushed Arlo into the chair sitting across Shelton’s desk.
Arlo let out a derisive laugh. “Now, now, Timothy, there’s no need for such aggressive behavior. After all, I am unarmed and of no threat to you.”
“No threat to me, huh?” Barnes scoffed.
Arlo had a wry smile plastered across his face as he fixed his disheveled hair. “I am merely here to negotiate the release of my men.”
Barnes rested his hands on his hips and stroked his holster as he stared down the man in the chair. He looked around the room before looking back at Arlo. “Well, in case you were wonderin’, this ain’t America no more. That whole ‘innocent until proven guilty’ malarkey don’t fly—even for a big shot has-been like you.”
“I see,” Arlo responded softly as he sat back in the chair. “Timothy, I do apologize, it seems we have gotten off on the wrong foot after all these years…” he said with a malicious grin before adding, “So, tell me, what’s new with you? How is Chloe these days?”
Arlo had gotten the reaction he wanted when Barnes furrowed his brows and clenched his jaw. Barnes pushed Arlo, causing him—along with the chair—to tip backwards and crash to the ground. He jumped on top of the former prosecutor and wrapped his hand around Arlo’s neck. Barnes panted with rage while Arlo seemed almost apathetic to the assault.
Barnes tightened his grip, cutting off Arlo’s air. “If you so much as speak her name again, I swear to God I will put a bullet right through that big head of yours, drag your corpse over to the jail so that daddy’s lifeless body is the last thing your son sees before I slit his throat,” Barnes said through a menacing whisper before finally releasing his grip on Arlo’s throat.
After a few small gasps, Arlo responded, “Oh, Timothy, it would seem I’ve struck a nerve with you. I apologize again. Did something happen to your dear wife?”
Barnes’s eyes
flashed hot white with rage. “See you in hell, Arlo,” he said as he stood up and reached for his gun. Just as he removed the pistol from his holster and pointed it down at Arlo’s head, Shelton and two others stormed through the door.
“Tim, put that gun down right now!” Shelton ordered.
Barnes kept his sights between Arlo’s eyes and put his finger on the trigger.
“Why?” Barnes asked with a frail voice, an about-face from seconds earlier. “Why?” The gun was heavy in his hands, as if he held a dumbbell.
“Tim…please,” Shelton pleaded. “You are a better man than him.”
After several tense seconds passed, Barnes slid the gun back into his holster and walked out of the room. The other two men followed and closed the door behind them.
Arlo nonchalantly got up off the floor, corrected his chair and returned to his seat. He removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed at the spit Barnes had sprayed during the attack. He looked up at Shelton, who leaned on the edge of his desk. “Thank you, Barry, for putting the hound on the leash. I much prefer dealing with sophistication inste—”
Shelton interrupted Arlo with a vicious right hook to the jaw, catching the man completely off guard. The audacity of the violent gesture, not the pain, was what surprised him the most. Arlo shifted his jaw side to side as he said, “Well, I do believe that was quite unnecessary, Mr. Mayor.”
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Shelton shot back, his fist still tightened. “In fact, it was real necessary.” He tried to relax his knuckles, but the pain was excruciating. If he didn’t already break a knuckle or two on the wall earlier, Arlo’s face certainly had.
Shelton walked around to his desk and sat down. Hundreds of questions plagued him and he wanted answers. “Why did you attack us?” Shelton asked, getting straight to the point.