The Remaining: Allegiance

by D. J. Molles

  Julia climbed in, closed her door. “Let’s go, Dylan.”

  Dylan nodded, cranking the steering wheel. The truck jolted into a tight turn. “Boss, the radio’s been off the chain for the last ten minutes. I think they’re here.”

  “Nate and Devon?” Harper asked, hopefully.

  “Naw,” Dylan said as he righted the truck, now heading out across the bridge to the other side of the river, leaving the small town of Eden behind them. But Dylan was smiling now. “The Marines, I think.”

  Harper had staged his group off Old State Highway 87. Among the clusters of country homes sitting on one or two acres, they’d located what Harper qualified as a mansion. It was tucked back in the woods and surrounded by a fence. Granted, it was only a simple, white cattle fence, and nothing that would keep the infected out if they really wanted to get over it—but it was better than nothing. And the mansion was defensible and just a mile down the road from their objective. It was the best they could do for now.

  They rode down the long drive, the sun yellow and bright through the wintering trees. Everything seemed cold and still. Harper might have considered it beautiful at one point. Now he craned his neck to see through the trees, to see if the mansion they’d left behind was still standing, or just a hollowed-out husk. Wasn’t sure why he thought this—clearly Dylan had just received radio contact from them.

  But it seemed that everything Harper did lately was marred by unexpected consequences. Since Mike had murdered his wife, Torri, and then committed suicide with a bullet to his own brain, Harper had found every decision clouded by an infinite number of possible negative outcomes. The positive outcomes were in there somewhere. Maybe. But it was difficult to find them.

  Julia accused him of becoming trigger-shy. But she had her own set of issues to work out.

  All Harper wanted to do was blow the fucking bridges along the Smith River that separated east and west Eden. Find a damn base of operations in Eden, where they could mount simple, straightforward, search-and-destroy missions along the bottleneck created between Eden and the Appalachian Mountains. Just like Lee planned. Simple and effective.

  It had taken the Marines long enough to get here with what they needed to cut the infected hordes off—a shitload of ordnance and someone that knew how to use it to cut bridges—and they were fast running out of time. But at least they were here now. At least they could stop the flow before too many more infected crossed the bridges from east to west, and they lost the town of Eden forever.

  Dylan pulled the Humvee up into the driveway of the “mansion” where the other vehicles were clustered about. Past their bulks, Harper could see the front door of the big house that they’d taken over, and the wide brick steps leading up to it. Men in desert digital camouflage stood on those steps in full battle gear and Harper thought he’d never seen such a wonderful thing in his life.

  Just a bunch of US Marines, there to blow shit up.

  Harper found himself smiling. “Fuck yes,” he murmured under his breath as the Humvee came to a stop. He opened his door and as he stepped out, the door to the big house opened up and two men exited. One was Charlie Burke, the man Harper had left in charge while he went to get his “closer look.” The other was a tallish man that wore the same uniform as the other Marines, but apparently preferred a well-used eight-point cover to the helmet that several others wore. He stood at the top step for a brief moment, looking at Harper like he was sizing him up, then he descended the stairs with purpose.

  Harper ported his rifle, suddenly self-conscious about how he handled it around these men. He walked forward briskly to meet the tall man in the eight-point cover, his hand extended. As the other man drew closer, Harper noted a few things about him. Younger than Harper, but with a certain aggression in his face that silently instructed others to be quiet and listen. Not particularly large or well-built—or maybe he had been at one point in time before food became rationed. Was food scarce for the Marines? Harper thought that it might be the case. Just because you had guns and ordnance, didn’t mean you had food. The last thing Harper noted was the man’s nametag, which read KENSEY, and the three chevrons on his collar.

  The two shook hands, and Harper noted that Sergeant Kensey was one of those types that give a handshake everything they have—an almost painful squeeze, and a slight twist of the wrist, his hand over Harper’s. Harper thought he’d read somewhere that the twisting maneuver was a dominance thing, but frankly, he could give a shit at that moment. There were bigger things to discuss than the pecking order rituals of human males.

  Charlie Burke had accompanied the Marine down into the driveway and now he smiled awkwardly as he introduced the two men to each other. “Harper, this is Sergeant Kensey. Sergeant Kensey, Bill Harper.”

  “You the leader here?” Kensey asked, still holding the grip on Harper’s hand.

  Harper nodded. “That’s me.”

  “Good to meet you, Harper.” Kensey’s voice was somewhat flat. Not much of an accent that Harper could detect. He released the handshake and glanced at the collection of military vehicles. A slight note of suspicion when he said, “Where’d you guys come across all these trucks?”

  “Found ’em,” Harper said shortly, then started walking briskly toward the big house. “C’mon. Let’s get out of the cold.” Harper looked to his right and found Kensey following. Even though Kensey’s demeanor was slightly off-putting, Harper was still relieved to have them there. You couldn’t complain about your backup. He smiled at the sergeant. “Glad to have you guys here. You have no idea… well, maybe you do have a pretty good idea… but you got here in the nick of time. Just saw the first few infected crossing the bridges from the east side of the city to the west side of the city—”

  Harper cut himself off as they reached the steps. “Sorry. Do you even know what I’m talking about?”

  Kensey grinned, showing sharp-looking incisors. “No fucking clue.”

  “Excellent.” Harper shrugged it off, nodded to the other Marines on the stairs, and received placid, almost imperceptible nods back. Harper took the steps, trying to hide how he favored his stiff left knee. At the top of the stairs, he turned and pointed north. They couldn’t see the city over the tops of the trees, but Harper spoke as though they could. “The town of Eden is in that direction, right across the Dan River. There’s an offshoot of the Dan River called the Smith River, and it shoots straight up north and cuts the town in half. So far we’ve seen large hordes of infected on the east side, but none had crossed the river to the west side. Until today.”

  Kensey nodded slowly, considering. “Okay. And why is this a problem?”

  Harper looked at the other man, eyes narrowing. How much did this guy not know? “Well, if we blow all the bridges along the Roanoke River—which is also the Dan River—then any infected trying to get across into North Carolina from Virginia will have to pass through the bottleneck between Eden and the Appalachian Mountains. We want to use Eden as our base of operations to hit them in this bottleneck.”

  As Harper explained, Kensey continued to nod, looking out in the direction of Eden. But Harper got the distinct impression that Kensey was only half-listening. Humoring Harper, so to speak. Nodding to be polite.

  Harper felt his neck flush. The sense that he was the tee-ball kid trying to talk to the major leaguer about the finer points of increasing a batting average. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Anyway, when we first got here, we saw them inside Eden, but they hadn’t yet crossed the Smith River into the western side of town. If we hit the bridges hard and fast, we can cut them off and only have to do a little bit of cleanup afterward.”

  “Yeah.” Kensey’s breath fogged in the air. “Hard and fast.”

  Harper eyed the other man in the ensuing silence. Then his eyes tracked off the Marine, down the steps into the spacious driveway—the type of driveway where expensive cars would line up for a dinner party. Or whatever the hell rich people did. Harper had earned six figures but never really conside
red himself rich, and never really lived the lifestyle. Would never have spent the money for a house like this, and refused to buy a car that was more than thirty thousand dollars.

  In this driveway there were no fancy cars, just the military vehicles he’d seen for the last few weeks. Humvees. LMTVs. The HEMTT with the wrecker attachment so they could clear a highway that ran between Eden and Camp Ryder. Keep supply lines open, though now, apparently, there were no supplies to be transported.

  “Look,” Kensey said slowly. “Harper… whose plan is this?”

  Harper hooked his thumb into the strap of his rifle. His smile faltered. “Sergeant, where’re your vehicles?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your vehicles. Your trucks. Whatever you came in.”

  Kensey hesitated for a brief moment. “We walked it in. We were dropped by helicopter about five miles out from here—didn’t want the helicopter drawing too much attention to your position.”

  “Motherfuck.” Harper looked skyward, then closed his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Charlie spoke up, hesitant. “What’s wrong?”

  Harper faced Kensey, though he was answering Charlie’s question. “What’s wrong is, I may not know a lot about explosives but I damn sure know that these boys couldn’t carry the amount of explosives we need to cut five fucking bridges.”

  Kensey seemed to be reevaluating Harper. “Look…”

  Harper clutched his face in one hand. His voice was muffled when he spoke. “Please, dear God, tell me the trucks are on their way. Tell me they’ll be here by tomorrow.”

  Kensey raised his voice. “Bill…”

  Harper took his hand off his face and glared at Kensey. “Don’t you call me that.”

  Kensey seemed confused. Charlie shifted his weight uncomfortably, caught in the middle.

  “Only two people called me that.” Harper spoke deliberately, his voice sharp. “My wife, and a very good friend. And they’re both dead. You call me Harper.”

  Kensey’s expression became deadpan. “Okay. Harper. Let me explain something to you, Harper. We’re not here to destroy infrastructure that we might need in the future. You know we don’t exactly have construction crews capable of putting that shit back together, right?” Kensey shook his head. “But that’s just my personal thoughts on the matter. Professionally, I’m here on behalf of Colonel Staley. To feel out the situation and determine if we’re going to be investing our resources in this… plan.”

  For the first time in a very long time, Harper was speechless. He balked. His mouth hung partially open and his eyes stayed affixed to the man facing him for a while. His left hand clutching the strap of the rifle on his back. His right hand limp at his side, still but for the movement of his thumb and forefinger drawing rapid circles around each other.

  Really?

  Really?

  After everything else that had happened? After all their losses. After they’d fought to reach this point, but gotten here just a few days too late to mount a full defense. After being told about Colonel Staley and holding to the hope that his Marines were going to ride in on white horses and save their asses.

  And now this.

  Harper hadn’t even realized that Julia had followed them up onto the steps, and apparently she had heard most of what was said, because now she stepped forward, her voice shaking and livid. “Is this a goddamned joke or something? We were told that we were getting help…”

  “And you are,” Kensey said simply.

  Harper looked past Julia at the four Marines that stood on the wide set of brick stairs with them. They seemed not to really give a shit about the conversation that was happening. They were watching Julia. Smiling and exchanging glances. Maybe they didn’t have too many pretty girls where they came from. Or maybe they were just being Marines.

  “Think of us as investors,” Kensey continued. “We need to get to know you and your operation before we agree to the monumental bill that you’re asking us to pay.”

  Julia almost shouted. “Do you have any fucking idea what’s out there?”

  Harper reached out and touched her arm. She looked back and when they made eye contact he gave her just the slightest shake of his head. He made his face as blank as he could. There were a million things he would have liked to say in that moment, but none of them seemed like they would do the job. And some part of his old self, the part that knew about good investments, had to admit that Sergeant Kensey had a point.

  Still, he felt misled.

  Harper stepped to the door of the big house and opened it. The air inside was noticeably warmer. He held the door open and gestured Julia inside. Then he looked at Kensey. When he spoke, his words were polite, but his tone still bore an edge to it. “When’s the last time you had real coffee, Sergeant?”

  There was hesitation. Kensey seemed uncomfortable with the rapid change in conversation. Like it was a trick.

  Harper pointed into the house. “C’mon, Sergeant. We’re letting the warm air out.”

  Julia stepped through. Followed by Kensey. Then Harper.

  He closed the door behind him. The door opened into an enormous living area that would have been impossible to heat without electricity and gas. But there was a large stone fireplace to the right with some chairs clustered around it, and a pile of dismembered wooden furniture to the side. In the fireplace, flames ate through what was left of the coffee table. On the hearth, a large pot was scooted in close to the fire, the sides of it blackening.

  Harper went to the hearth. He could feel anger and frustration inside him, like another man under his skin, flailing about, trying to burst out and take control. But outwardly, he was calm. At the hearth, he took his rifle from his back and leaned it against the stone, then he unzipped his parka. The heat from the fire gushed up at him, almost uncomfortable on his cheeks and ears and hands. It smelled of wood smoke and chemicals. Harper was sure there were untold amounts of carcinogens in the treated, polished wood from the coffee table. But what were a few carcinogens in today’s world? Just a minor annoyance, really.

  “Look,” Kensey said, his tone changed to placating. “Harper…”

  Harper didn’t look at him, but he waved the sergeant off. “No, no. You don’t need to say anything else. Your position has been made abundantly clear. We’re all very, very clear right now. No need for further explanation.”

  Harper sat on the hearth. Kensey stood beside a large chair, facing Harper. Julia was across from the Marine, staring at him balefully. It was getting easier for Harper to maintain his calm now, though it seemed Julia still struggled with it. There was a collection of ceramic mugs near the fireplace, as well as a strainer, a ladle, and an oven mitt—all items they’d looted from the well-appointed kitchen.

  Harper put on the oven mitt, then slid the pot away from the fire. He opened the lid and closed his eyes as he breathed in the steam that rose from inside. It was one of the best smells he’d inhaled in his life. After a moment, he set the lid down and gathered three mugs, the strainer, and the ladle to him.

  “You know, my grandmother was old-fashioned,” Harper said. “Grew up without regular coffee machines. Refused to use one when we bought it for her. To the day she died, she made coffee in a damn pot, just like this.” He smiled. “Best coffee I’ve ever had.”

  One by one, Harper put the strainer over the mugs and filled them with the ladle, the coffee grounds catching in the fine wire mesh, the cups filling with dark, steaming liquid.

  “Found some coffee in the kitchen pantry,” Harper said as he worked, his voice quiet with concentration. “A whole, unopened package. Not even expired. Good stuff, too. The kind you paid fifteen fucking bucks a pound for in a health food store.” The mugs filled, he handed one to Julia, then one to Kensey, who accepted doubtfully. “Used to drink that shit so often, I didn’t even taste it. It was coffee, for chrissake. Nothing special. Fill up a travel mug, drink it on the way to work, listening to talk radio and getting myself worked up about bullsh
it politics.” He stared down into his own cup for a moment. “Who knew I should have just stayed the fuck home and enjoyed my damn coffee?”

  Julia seemed to have relaxed enough to take a seat, but if one were capable of taking a seat contemptuously, she accomplished it. She held the mug up high so that it covered most of her face, but her eyes still glared through the steam at Sergeant Kensey.

  Kensey stood stiffly.

  Harper blew gently over the top of his mug.

  The door opened and one of the Marines leaned in. “Hey, Sergeant. You good?”

  Kensey didn’t look back at his Marine. He just nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  The Marine retreated, eyeing Harper and Julia with a suspicious glance. Lingering longer on Julia.

  Harper took a sip of his coffee. Scarily hot, but good.

  Kensey adjusted the brim of his cap. “All right…”

  Anger flashed across Harper’s face. “Shitfire! Sergeant, please! Any one of these days, any of us could wind up dead. So we’re going to take a few moments of silence and enjoy this fucking coffee. It may not be the last cup of coffee in the world, but it very well could be my last. And while I enjoy this coffee, I’m going to think about how to make you understand the urgency of how fucked we are. But I’m going to do it in silence and I would appreciate if you humored me on this.”

  Kensey pursed his lips. Keeping an eye on Harper, he took a slow, tiny sip of the coffee. As though to say he would drink the coffee, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.

  Harper did not return the gaze and let his own fall to the floor, and it stayed far away. His eyebrows twitched together. He took slow, leisurely sips from his coffee. Sitting in the chair across from him, Julia crossed one leg over the other and propped her elbows up on the armrests, her own cup suspended delicately in the air. She kept her eyes on the fire and they glistened some, but Harper could not tell if it was from the dry heat pouring out of the fireplace, or from something else.