by D. J. Molles
Bullshit. He turned up the stairs toward the office, clomping up them. Luxuries. You’re whinin’ and moanin’ about fucking luxuries. Life. Air. Enough blood to keep your heart pumping. Water. Calories. That’s all you need.
Tired. That was the parting shot of the weak man slouching inside him, before he succeeded in stuffing it back to the dark place where it belonged. Back to the mental dungeon to be tortured to death. But never quite to death. You could never really get rid of that little creature in you that just wanted to be warm and well fed and comfortable.
Up the stairs, looking around, catching a few glances from people down on the main floor. Tomlin followed, his steps a little quieter, Lee noted, though he couldn’t really do much about it. The various injuries he’d accumulated made the stairs a little awkward to ascend with any grace. Maybe nobody else noticed it, but Lee certainly did.
A little frustrating. To be so accustomed to being in control of a well-tuned body, and now to have it breaking on you. He just needed time to rest and heal, but time he did not have, nor was he willing to make it. He considered it an unrealistic expectation in his current position.
At the top of the stairs he found the office door hanging open, and figured he knew what that meant. Deuce edged past him and slipped into the room without even touching the door. Lee pushed his way through and immediately looked to his right. He found exactly who he expected to find, sitting on the desk with arms crossed over her chest.
Angela was not abrasive about it. That simply wasn’t her style. But there was a set to her jaw, a tightness in her lips that Lee correctly interpreted as concern. And maybe a bit of anger. There were other things, lying under the surface of that expression that Lee suspected had to do with forcing someone to leave Camp Ryder. Banishing a young man named Kyle.
Deuce had made his way to her. She was one of the few people besides Lee that Deuce was warming up to. He was hesitant around Tomlin, shy around most others, and downright aggressive with a few. But he treated Angela gently and with affection, as though he could sense what was good in her, when it had spoiled in so many other people. Now he went to her and sat, leaning heavily against her leg and looking up with something like adoration.
Angela did not seem to notice. She was clearly preoccupied with other things.
Lee decided to let her speak first, since she clearly had things to say. He nodded to her and then set his rifle up against the wall and waited, his mind already rehearsing what he had decided he would say.
For a walk. To be alone for a while.
“He cried, you know,” Angela started, eyes dropping to her own boots.
Now here was a curveball.
“Kyle,” Angela clarified. “He tried not to, I could tell. He was trying hard. But he was… he was pretty torn up, Lee. And when the gates opened up, that’s when he started. And I didn’t like it one bit. He looked back at me”—her eyes came back up to Lee’s—“at me. At me. Like it was all my fucking fault.”
Angela shook her head, brow furrowing. One of her hands freed itself from where it had been lodged against her torso and went to her mouth. She bit the fingernail, making a muted crick.
“Dammit.” She withdrew her finger and inspected the nail as she spoke. “He never said anything, though. Just looked at me, like he was telling me that he was sorry. Like he was begging me to let him stay. Like I had… had… you know…”
“It was the group’s decision,” Lee said, evenly.
“He was a kid.”
“He was a man.” Lee shook his head. “Same as the others.”
Had to die, same as the others.
“I could have used you,” Angela said suddenly.
Lee was blank.
“The group could have used you. There. To make things seem less…”
“Cruel?” Lee offered, and immediately regretted the choice of words.
Angela’s face fell. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned, but it lacked true anger behind it. “And dammit, Lee, you shouldn’t be out in the woods by yourself. Not in your condition.”
“My condition is…” He hesitated to say fine.
“Wounded. And not yet recovered.”
Tomlin raised a hand. “Angela, me and Lee actually just had a very frank conversation about this. I can promise you he won’t be taking any more early morning walks from now on. Especially by himself.”
Angela looked at Tomlin. Then back at Lee. “If you say so.”
Lee nodded. “I won’t. I’m done.”
She walked between the two men, her steps slow, methodic. At the door she stopped, her hand on the frame, and she didn’t turn, but just looked over her shoulder, right at Lee, and the look that she gave him was a knowing one, or at least prying to know.
“We killed them by forcing them out like that,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” Lee said, and hated how fluidly the lie came out of him. Or the untruth, you might call it. Lying by omission. Not quite lying, but not telling the truth, either. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like deceiving Angela.
She kept her eye on him for a short time after that, and then she went through the door and was gone. Lee could hear her footfalls on the stairs outside, descending to the main level, growing quieter as they went, and then disappearing as resonant steel turned to dull concrete. Deuce stared at the door for an extra moment, and then grumbled and lowered himself into a lying position.
Tomlin poked his head out the doorway to confirm that she was leaving. Satisfied, Tomlin pulled himself back into the room and closed the door gently behind him.
Lee grabbed the nearest chair and sat down in it with a huff. It was a relief just to take the tension out of his body. The stitches in his side glowed and throbbed. Goddamned ribs. It didn’t matter what you did, you couldn’t avoid using them. Sitting also seemed to bleed some of the building pressure in his head. He grabbed the bridge of his nose, slowly pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes.
“Is it done?” Tomlin’s voice.
Lee removed his fingers and opened his eyes. The world swam darkly, the edges of his vision mottled and sparkling. He found Tomlin in the darkness and focused until things became normal again. That little bit of abnormal vision was just because he’d pressed his fingers against his eyes. But sometimes his vision would darken, all on its own. And it scared the shit out of him when it happened.
“Yeah,” Lee said. He leaned back in his chair and unzipped the front of his parka and then began working at the layers beneath. “Done.”
Tomlin leaned against the wall, regarded his friend with a grim smile. “You didn’t have to do it alone.”
“No.” Lee’s voice was quiet. “I didn’t. But I think it was better that way.”
“You didn’t have to do it at all,” Tomlin continued, rehashing things that had already been said. “I mean, I could have done it on my own.”
Lee didn’t look up. He pulled up the innermost layer of his clothing—a dingy white thermal shirt that was badly in need of a washing or at least an airing out. Underneath that dirty cloth, the skin of his belly was pale, almost white. But hard. Stretched tight over what looked like cables crisscrossed beneath the thin layer of flesh. They twitched and jumped as he twisted and pulled the clothing up to inspect the wound on his side. There the gauze was almost completely bled through.
Busted a stitch, Lee thought. Dammit.
He pulled the clothing back in place, then looked at Tomlin. “You know Deuce wouldn’t have gone out there with you.”
Deuce looked up, hearing his name.
“Besides,” Lee finished. “It was my problem to correct. Not yours.”
Tomlin wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger—a habit that Lee had seen him doing a lot lately. “You know, Lee, it is my problem.” He pointed to the ground at their feet. “Anything that happens here is my problem, too, Lee. Just as much as it is yours. We’re working on this thing together
.”
Lee wanted to close his eyes against the pain in his head. Growing now. Sharp with every heartbeat. It was gathering itself around the true culprit—the long, hairless slash that ran from his right temple all the way back behind his ear. No use suturing it closed—it had been exposed for far too long before he’d gotten any medical attention for it. Now he simply had to keep it as clean as possible and stay on a religious round of antibiotics. It was nasty-looking, jagged flesh and scabbing blood.
Lee blew air out of pursed lips, like a leaky valve. “I need to talk to you about that.”
Tomlin’s brow quirked. “About what?”
“About how we’re going to keep this place alive. If we intend to keep this place alive.”
“Okay…”
Lee shook his head—carefully, so he didn’t aggravate the head wound. “Gimme an hour, buddy.” He realized his eyes were closed and he didn’t really want to open them again. That was okay. It was time to shut it down. Shutter the windows and wait for the storm to pass. “Just an hour and I’ll be good to go. One hour.”
SIX
THE DEACON
CLYDE STEPPED OUT OF the tent. He turned and glanced over his shoulder as the flap fell, and for a momentary glimpse saw the man inside. The rough-looking, broken man that seemed oh-so-familiar to Clyde. A memory of another time. A dark time. He’d worked hard to forget how things had been for him. He had whitewashed the walls of his mind and boarded up the subconscious. There was a part of him that resented LaRouche for stirring those echoes back up.
The convenience store.
Your wife.
Dying.
A box cutter.
Your unborn child.
All the blood on your hands…
Just leave it alone.
LaRouche wasn’t bound, but he wouldn’t leave. Clyde knew he wouldn’t leave, because he knew that look. He knew the feeling of hopelessness that went along with it. He knew that for LaRouche, just as it had been for him, this was a period of cataclysm. This was a man watching his old life die in the bloody birth of the new.
Seeing it only reminded Clyde that he had not always been who he was. And when he thought about that time past, and what had brought him to his new life, the series of events that had taken place in order for him to become the man that he needed to be, he felt something like fear. Fear that there might be some part of that old self still lurking inside him.
The weakness. The inability. The cowardice.
He turned away from the tent.
That’s not me. I’m different now. Things have changed. I have changed. I can’t go back now. I don’t want to go back. I won’t ever go back.
He realized he was gripping the strap of his rifle with white knuckles. His palms smarted as his fingernails bore into the skin. He forced himself to relax and he looked to the left, where another man stood, his arm bearing the mark of the Followers—the white band with the black circle and cross displayed prominently on it.
Clyde sniffed the cold air and jerked his head back toward the tent. “He’s not bound,” he said in low tones. “But I don’t think he’ll leave. Just make sure.”
The man nodded. “Will do.”
Clyde walked away, perhaps a little stiffly. Perhaps a little quickly. But the ghosts of his past lifted off him like a fog as he put distance between himself and that tent. Distance between him and things that dredged up old memories.
The camp all around him was tents and trucks. Nothing was permanent. Except for the dilapidated farmhouse that Deacon Chalmers was using. They had been at this encampment for almost three weeks, but they never built. Everything they did was based around movement. They had to be mobile. Except for New Bern. That was where the church was. That was the beating heart of the Followers. That was where Pastor Wiscoe heard the voice of God.
After dodging his way through the collection of tents, he found the main gravel drive. He turned right and followed it to the farmhouse. The one with the rotted, wooden siding. Shingles missing in places. Cobwebs strung in the dark corners of the front porch. Two rocking chairs still sitting there. Everything else in the house had been gutted and tossed out or used for firewood. But Chalmers had not touched those rocking chairs.
Strange.
Even in the morning light, the house seemed dark on the inside. Through the cloudy-looking windows, Clyde could see only the impression of shapes inside. But that was not unusual. Chalmers did not seem to appreciate a well-lit workspace. He preferred more of a den. But that was just a part of who he was, Clyde believed. He was cordial with others, but he brooded.
Clyde knocked. And waited.
He stepped off to the side, just slightly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a shotgun leveled at him through the other side of the door, though it made no sense. Or did it? Chalmers was known for some… mood swings.
Perhaps a dash of paranoia.
The door opened and Chalmers stood there, half-smiling, as though seeing Clyde was a pleasant surprise. As though Clyde were a friendly neighbor, dropping by to exchange small talk. He stood there in the doorway wearing only his pants, his gun belt that held the giant old revolver, and unlaced boots. His torso stood out, wiry and pasty white, with a few dark scars in his side. A mat of graying hair over a barrel chest. But he was not a large man. Just widely built across the shoulders. He did not seem to be affected by the cold.
“Clyde,” Chalmers said, and stepped out of the way, sweeping his arm inward, like an usher. “Come in.”
Clyde stepped through and Chalmers closed the door behind them. Out of the morning light, it took a moment for Clyde’s eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. They were in a tiny foyer. A bedroom off to the right. A living room off to the left. Through the living room, a small kitchen. Everything old and wood-paneled. Peeling wallpaper and the smell of must. Ancient hardwood floors creaked loudly underfoot.
From the kitchen, Clyde could hear the sound of water.
A muted trickle. A slight splash.
“Are you here because of our new man?” Chalmers asked, like he already knew the answer.
Clyde nodded. “Yes. I did what you told me to do, but…”
Chalmers held up a hand and made a face that indicated Clyde should hold his tongue for a bit. Then Chalmers looked through the living room and into the kitchen. Clyde closed his open mouth and followed the other man’s gaze, but couldn’t see anything. The quiet splashing again, but then it was silent. As though whatever was making the noise suddenly realized it was being listened to.
Chalmers seemed slightly bemused. He stepped into the living room and motioned for Clyde to follow him. Clyde obeyed. They stepped through the musty room. The fireplace had the remnants of burned wood in it, some embers glowing at the bottom, the hearth still giving off heat as they passed by.
They stepped into the kitchen. Clyde stopped in the threshold, not sure whether he should keep going. Chalmers continued in, casually. There was a small dining area and then a counter separating it from the cooking area where the defunct electric stovetop stood dark and piled with ancient pots and pans with white fuzz growing on them. The kitchen smelled sharply of spoiled food, undercut by the pleasant smell of warm water and… soap.
The dining area held no table, but instead, the subject of Clyde’s uncertainty.
A blue, plastic fifty-gallon drum occupied the center of the small open space where Clyde could imagine family dinners once taking place. The drum was filled with sudsy water, steam still rolling off it. Huddled in the water was a young woman that could have been sixteen or seventeen years old, by Clyde’s reckoning. She was naked, her hair hanging in wet sheets around her face. She peered intensely and cautiously from behind the curtain of her own hair. Her eyes tracked Chalmers first as he walked around the opposite side of the counter, not paying her any attention. Then her eyes switched to Clyde and the look of caution became one of recognition.
Clyde looked away from her, very deliberately. He forced himself to keep walkin
g. Hoped that Chalmers hadn’t noticed the hesitation, and wasn’t quite sure why he suddenly felt so unsettled. It felt like his heart had stopped, but the blood was still rushing. The beating muscle in his chest turned to a mechanical pump, just cycling blood through at a constant, dizzying speed.
He felt flushed.
You’re weak! LaRouche is pulling up old memories, and they’re making you weak!
Clyde followed Chalmers to the other side of the counter, carefully ignoring the girl in the water, but feeling her gaze still lingering on him. He wouldn’t look at her, but the image of those eyes boring into him stuck in his brain.
He thought of two nights ago.
And then perhaps a week before that.
The first time, about a month ago, when she’d first been captured.
“Clyde, would you like some bread?”
Clyde realized he’d been staring lifelessly at Chalmers while his mind clouded with intimate thoughts of the girl sitting in the washtub. Thoughts that warred in the center of him. Some part of his old self raging and telling him he was sick, a pedophile, a rapist. But the other, larger, stronger part of him that believed. Believed that he was doing God’s work. Believed that the girl was blessed to receive his seed, blessed to have a chance to bear a new generation of the Lord’s Army.
I’ve done nothing wrong. I have done as God commanded.
“Excuse me?” Clyde asked, carefully.
Chalmers gestured to the counter next to him where there was a wooden cutting board and three oval pieces of what looked like thick, dense, flatbread. They looked slightly blackened on the bottom. Powdery on top. “Would you like some bread?”
Despite his soured gut, Clyde felt it would be rude if he refused. “Yes. Please.”
Chalmers smiled like any gracious host. Then he took one of the small, oval loaves and Clyde got the sense from seeing how it did not give under the pressure of Chalmers’s grip that the loaf was hard. With two hands, Chalmers broke the loaf in two. It was not as hard as Clyde had thought. Chalmers handed one half to Clyde and kept the other. Clyde held the loaf in his hand, felt the warmth still hiding in it. These had been baked recently.