Beyond Green Fields | Book 3 | Lost & Found [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology]

by Lecter, Adrienne

  Hamilton considers, and he must come to that very conclusion himself when he snorts. “You conniving asshole. Does your wife know you planned to light a signal fire, risking her life and everyone else’s that she cares about?”

  I shrug, hard-pressed to keep a smug smile in. “I’m done hiding. Let them come to me if they still want me. My cards are on the table. Their turn to pick them up.”

  I’m not sure Bree has realized that this is my plan, but since she has done a stellar job laying the groundwork for it, it can’t be that much of a surprise. Hamilton just stares at me mutely, for once not hiding the emotion washing through him: trepidation. I get it. It’s not like this is anything I want to do—least of all now when I’m a mess, physically but also emotionally. But there’s only so much escalation that I will be able to tough out, and I’m done being someone else’s plaything.

  They think they want a war—whoever they are? I’m damn happy to deliver it.

  “That means I’m stuck with you both now,” Hamilton grumbles, the opposite of enthusiastic.

  “If you stay, yes.” He grimaces. I can’t help but snort. “You know, if you weren’t that hell-bent on dismissing her, you’d see how damn similar you both are at times.” It might sound strange, considering who and what we are going up against, but playing referee between them is what I look forward to the least.

  Hamilton looks ready to tear my head off, but then something occurs to him. I know why Bree hates that I-know-more-than-you grin he offers me—I’ve come to feel the same way about it. Just because we’ve had a civil conversation so far doesn’t mean that has to go on, and I know he’s about to make me regret coming up here when he opens his mouth.

  “You told her about my sister, I presume? Of course you did. But did you tell her the reason why I fucking hate you?”

  I didn’t, and if I can take one single secret to the grave, it will be this. Yet since we are up here all on our own—and I don’t want to provoke him into spilling the beans to her, or anyone else—I reply with the truth.

  “No, but I doubt it would make a difference to her.” Hamilton looks away but I don’t miss the look of utter revulsion on his face before he does—which I deserve, one hundred percent.

  “Oh, I think it would. Maybe I should tell her? And yes, I think she would believe me.”

  I exhale slowly, trying to come up with what to say to keep this from happening. “It wouldn’t. But there’s a chance she would agree with you, yes. Want to test that theory? Not sure that’s great bonding material.”

  “Fat chance.” Even after falling silent, Hamilton keeps sneering my way. I hate that he’s making me spell this out, but if it helps keep a lid on things… and I almost laugh when I realize that my reluctance stems from giving him a better look at the inner workings of my wife rather than her learning of this. Why do I still wonder why she took my dietary changes in stride? But he might have a point about the psychotic bitch part…

  Exhaling slowly, I do my best to keep my voice even as I revisit the part of our shared history that I always hope I never have to touch on again. “Yes, Bree would agree with you that I should have done what they tried to make me do. I should have cut your sister’s ordeal short by hours and raped her myself. But I know my wife well enough that I can say with certainty that she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me if I had done that. And that’s exactly why you and I are still friends—because I didn’t do it. And before you accuse me of bullshit like wanting to keep my integrity, you damn well know that the reason I didn’t go for it was because you would have hated me and her both more had I done it. Your sanity was more important to me than our friendship. That would have been destroyed either way, and I chose the way of most resistance for all of us, but it was the only way.”

  I have no idea if he agrees—we never actually talked about this until now. Never needed to—I know I’m right. Not because I’m a smartass but because I’ve known him long enough to make more than just an educated guess. Yes, I lied to Bree when I told her I didn’t know exactly why Hamilton has been gunning for me ever since—but that was for his sake as well, not just mine. I may actually tell her next chance I get, although it stands to reason there’s no right opportunity to tell your wife that the reason your former friend, who she hates with a vengeance, hates your guts because you didn’t rape his sister, because sparing her an hour or two of the same would have been the greater evil if it had been because of me doing it instead. It’s not a conversation I want to have, now or ever.

  “Don’t tell her.”

  I’m surprised at Hamilton’s statement, but maybe shouldn’t be. Not after I just told him it would make me look better in her eyes rather than worse, twisted logic notwithstanding.

  “I won’t.” A promise that’s not hard to keep, considering that I don’t think this will ever come up in conversation again.

  Silence falls, both of us staring out into the darkness, and I’m already convinced that we’ve reached the end of our talk when Hamilton turns his head to look at me once more. “Why didn’t you try to kill me? Not before—I get that you did your very best to get your rehab spiel on with my men. Here. Teaming up with me can’t have come cheap for you, and it would have resolved so many of your problems, including needing to come back for me and having someone still alive who has all the dirt on you. Part of you must have wanted to, if not because of what I did to you, but of what happened to your bitch.”

  That’s not a hard answer. “Because you’re hers to kill—or not, depending on how she decides.” He takes that with a simple nod. Pushing away from the wall, I turn to leave, but hesitate for another moment. “And because, all the shit either of us did aside, you’re still my friend.” With that, I leave, to relieve us both of having to answer to that statement.

  I’m not surprised to find Bree awake when I return to our overflowing sleeping quarters. It’s mostly dark in the big room with only a single small candle flickering by one of the entrances, half shielded not to stray too much light to wake anyone but ready should torches need lighting. It’s by far light enough to let me stroll easily into the kitchen part of the room and accept the mug full of steaming-hot coffee Bree holds out to me. Even with my back to the candle, my face cast in shadows, I can tell that she can read my expression, a crease of worry appearing on her forehead. I silently shake my head at her as I finish her coffee, then jerk my chin toward the exit to signal her that I need to get back out there. She follows, grabbing a blanket on the way out.

  Hamilton is gone by the time we reach the balcony, which is for the best. The corner where he has been standing is mostly dry, so I sit down there, arranging the blanket around my shoulders. Bree sits down in front of me and leans back so that I can fold the ends of the blankets over both of us, creating a cocoon of bodies and warmth that smells slightly of horse.

  We don’t talk but just having her there, in my arms, her head nestled between my neck and shoulder, her breath slow and calm across my chest is the best therapy I could ask for—particularly considering what a hornet’s nest this is going to turn into as soon as the storm blows over and we have to decide what to do next. I may be ready for a war, but I’m not alone in this—and if I’m honest, her support is the only thing I’m sure of. It’s enough for me—but I’m afraid it might not be enough to let us both come out of this alive. But I don’t need that guarantee—I just need her to survive. I’ve cheated death often enough that every day is an extension granted on a sentence that should have been final many years ago. It’s not that I don’t want to spend an eternity with her, but with it being just the two of us, I’m awarded the luxury that I don’t have to give a shit about anything or anyone else—and that’s a comforting thought.

  So we sit there, neither of us dozing, and likely both feeling like shit from the drugs still messing with our bodies, waiting for a new day to dawn.

  Evacuation

  Evacuation: When the world is about to end, he’s the man they send out to save the bacon. B
ucky Hamilton’s POV

  Evacuation

  “Blue leader, report.”

  A burst of static.

  “Blue leader, report,” the voice repeated. Still no answer. Shit. “Anyone from Blue team, copy?”

  More static, followed by screaming, then a frantic voice, “Oh my God, they’re everywhere!”

  I felt my heart sink, but did my fucking best not to show any of that on my face.

  “Red leader, what is your status?”

  “All green,” I replied, glancing at my men ready to move out. “We’re just waiting for—“

  Movement at the other side of the road caught my attention. I signaled Donald and Thompson to go check it out. Turning back to the radio, I reported, “We might have something here. On standby until further orders.”

  The men had just made it across the road when the door of one of the shops burst open, spilling out two thugs with shotguns, walking backward, away from—

  An inhumane scream cut through the night, quickly silenced when Thompson unloaded his gun into the swaying figure reaching for the thugs. Everyone stared. Thompson took a step forward, likely to investigate, but Donald held him back.

  "Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?" one of the thugs shouted.

  Donald shrugged, kicking the lifeless corpse absentmindedly. "Looks pretty obvious to me," he remarked dryly.

  Shots coming from up ahead made me forget about setting the punks straight—and if they hadn’t gotten the memo yet, it was too late, anyway. Thompson and Donald did a quick sweep of the shop behind the door, returning a few minutes later, Thompson shaking his head. Gruber made as if to keep the thugs from slinking away in the opposite direction, but I shook my head at him. We had other priorities, and now was not the time to trust civilians to have our backs.

  Whoever was manning the radio was still trying to hail Blue team, but finally gave up. “Red leader, we need you to take over Blue’s sector,” came the pressed order. “How far are you away from the university campus?”

  I allowed myself only a second to grimace. I hated being delegated to collect-and-retrieve duty, but the fact that they’d lost radio contact to twenty of our finest men wasn’t boding well—which usually translated into some damn fine action. Bring it on.

  “Seven blocks,” I reported in. “ETA about fifteen minutes. Ten if we don’t run into any trouble.” Which was highly unlikely, considering what my men and I had been through since Tuesday.

  “You got the list?”

  “Positive,” I acknowledged. “We’ll pick up any member of Blue team we find hunkered down. Red leader, out.” After making sure that no further instructions followed, I turned to my men. “Change of plans, boys. We get to do the milk run that Peters apparently wasn’t able to finish. Speed is key. We get there, we bust down the doors, collect whoever we find, and then it’s back to the evacuation zone. Don’t actively try to avoid conflict, but if it’s just looters, ignore them. We got bigger fish to fry at the moment.” And in the upcoming weeks, but I didn’t add that. I could see that knowledge in their eyes, even those that we’d only picked earlier today—National Guard rookies and two police officers. “Move out.”

  Thompson and Donald took point, securing the upcoming intersection while Diaz and Soto turned north, away from the sector we’d been tasked to clear. There were a few wrecked cars blocking the middle of the road, mashed against one of the makeshift barricades someone had tried to erect, and further down a dumpster burned, but otherwise the way was clear. We made good progress, making my suspicion rise. What the fuck had happened to Peters? At the very least I’d expected a heap of corpses, but except for the background noise of sirens wailing through the night, it could almost have been any other Friday evening.

  “Trouble up ahead,” Donald reported back once he hit the second intersection away from where the sprawl of the campus started. “There’s—“ he cut off, clearing his throat. “Sir, you need to see this.”

  I gave the others the signal to halt and secure the position before I jogged up the street to where my forward recon guys where squatting behind a truck. I knew what had Donald’s panties in a twist before I got a good look—the sounds gave it away. That low growling, followed by wet slurping and louder chewing noises—you don’t forget what that’s like if you’ve ever heard it.

  Sure enough, as I looked over the hood of the vehicle, I saw a figure crouching over another in the middle of the intersection. At a first glance, one might have mistaken that for someone trying to resuscitate a near lifeless body, but I didn’t buy it for a second. The male lying prone on his back was giving a full-on shiver as the smaller female lowered her head to his neck and viciously tore into it, coming away with the bottom half of her face glistening with blood, strings of flesh and tendons hanging from between her teeth.

  Thompson shifted next to me, his pack clanking into the side of the truck, making the female pause, then look around, sightless eyes staring in our direction. She’d been quite the looker once, I could tell—curvy in just the right places, and that excuse for a kimono tied around her middle doing a shit job hiding it—but the gore dripping from her full lips diminished the appeal greatly. I was sure that if we’d been closer, I would have seen the bruises and lesions covering her body, the kimono stiff with not just her meal’s blood but her own vomit when the virus had hit the final stage.

  It would have been merciful to end her sorry excuse of an existence with a bullet between the eyes—and that of the chum she was feasting on—but the shots would have drawn attention, and that was the last thing we needed.

  “Keep to the very right of the sidewalk and try not to make any needless sounds,” I told Donald and Thomson as I sent them forward, then relayed the same order to the rest. In single file—and mostly unnoticed—we crossed the street, leaving the spectacle behind. All talk between the men ceased, and one of the rookies ended up puking into the bushes. I ignored him as I did my best to orient myself.

  “Okay, we got five VIPs to retrieve,” I read off the crumpled paper that command had handed out hours earlier. “The dean. A beat-down politician’s wife. College football star. And two scientists.” A scream echoing across the park right across from campus made us all listen, but nothing followed, so I kept going. “I say we prioritize and go for the geek squad first. Says here they’re both virologists, females. They’re likely sitting right in their living rooms, waiting to be rescued, and won’t put up a fuss. I give the jock a fifty percent chance that he wasn’t even home, so no way to retrieve him.” Provided he was still alive. “And who wants to be nagged at by some senator’s ex, or an academic overachiever soccer mom refusing to leave her home?” Calling out names, I split my group into two parts, sending the smaller one off to look after the dean, and taking the rest to rescue the nerds. Both targets lived in the street perpendicular to the south side of campus, just a mere three hundred yards down the road.

  Donald had barely set a foot onto the sidewalk when they swarmed us.

  They must have been hiding in the half-filled parking lot at the outer edge of campus, the vehicles doing a great job obscuring them. What was more surprising was that they had been silent, like a pack of predators lying in wait. As soon as Donald stepped out of cover, three burly shapes came out of the lot and hurled themselves across the street at him, physically overwhelming him in the five seconds it took for them to get there. Part of the football team, I figured, as I let out a call of warning the second I realized that it was just the beginning. Donald was down before the words had left me, the largest of the pouncers wrenching his head to the side and sinking his teeth into Donald’s barely protected neck next to the chin strap of his helmet. He let out a scream that ended in a wet gurgle.

  Him I would have done the mercy of ending it quickly, but he only had seconds to live left, and I had others to think about. Without hesitation I pulled the trigger, making the bodies of two perky coeds that came running across the street jerk. The first I hit in the knee,
sending her down onto the asphalt, screaming with rage rather than pain. The other perfectly ignored the three shots in the gut, still running at full speed. I had a split second to decide how to handle this before she was on me. Following instinct rather than rational thought, I let go of my assault rifle and grabbed her head as she came—stained teeth first—at me. A good wrench to the side, the telltale cracking of vertebrae, and she went slack in my grip, dead meat finally accepting the fact that it was, indeed, no longer alive. Diaz took care of the other, sending a spray of bullets into the back of her head.

  Turning back to where Donald had disappeared underneath the linebackers, I grabbed my M4 and smashed the stock into the first skull I could reach. Diaz joined right in. Together we had them gone for good within moments, but even as I hauled the last body off Donald, I knew that it was in vain. Blood had stopped spurting from the gaping wound in his neck, his eyes staring up sightlessly at me. Just to make sure, I put a bullet between them.

  Diaz recoiled, staring in horror at me. “He could have still been—“

  I cut him off with a grunt, briefly looking around to make sure that my guys had taken care of what remained of the footballers and cheer squad before I turned my attention back to him. “Do I really need to spell this out for you? The least he deserved was for this to be the end for him.” Donald had been one of the good ones. He would be missed. But I was starting to get the sense that it would be a long time until we could sit down for a proper wake.

  That settled, I joined Soto where he was kneeling next to Thompson. He’d had more luck than Donald, if you’d want to call it that. He was bleeding from several scratches, but he’d managed to get his arm up to fend of the first assailant. The rest was history. “You good to go on?”