by D. J. Molles
“It was Mr. Harper and Ms. Julia and a bunch of others,” Abby said loudly. “I liked her. They left in a bunch of big green army trucks. I miss Ms. Julia—she was nice. But I don’t really miss Mr. Harper. I think he was kinda mean.”
“Abby, stop talking,” Sam said, tiredly. “You talk too much.”
Bo had stopped eating for a brief moment as Abby spoke. Now he glanced up at them for the barest of moments, but said nothing. Then it seemed he didn’t want to look at them anymore. He faced his bowl of food and began eating more rapidly. His mood had clearly made an abrupt change.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You all right, Bo?”
Bo just nodded, but refused to look up. He seemed suddenly unable to finish his bowl of food. The plastic spoon simply slipped out of his hands and plopped onto the table. Still avoiding eye contact, Bo excused himself from the table. Oddly polite. He turned and walked away, not looking back at them.
Abby waved. “Bye, Bo!”
Sam watched the boy go and wondered what the heck that was all about. He kept his eyes on Bo as he weaved in between all the picnic tables and the people who stood up while they ate, or sat Indian-style on the floor. He walked with his shoulders slumped and his arms hanging at his side.
He came to a woman, one of the newcomers that Sam didn’t recognize. The woman bent down and put an arm on Bo’s shoulder. She was listening, and Sam could tell that Bo was talking, though Sam guessed he was talking quietly because the woman had to lean in to hear him.
“What’s wrong with him?” Abby said.
“No idea.”
“Bo was weird.”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
Sam watched a brown and tan form move around through the crowd, dodging strangers and working its way along the far wall. When it saw an opening it darted, like you might cross a busy street with fast-moving cars. Deuce padded up to them, then hopped up onto the table and sat next to Sam as though that’s exactly where he belonged. He pushed his cold, wet nose right into Sam’s face, smelling his breath.
Sam pulled his head back. “Hey, buddy. You must be hungry.”
Deuce wagged once, licked his lips, and managed to wet the side of Sam’s face in the process.
“All right, geez…” Sam used his elbow to push the dog away a bit. Deuce continued to watch him with his usual intense gaze. Sam felt somewhat special that the dog liked to be around him and Abby, where it disliked most others. And it wasn’t just because the dog liked kids, either, because it didn’t. Much like Sam, Deuce didn’t seem very fond of many of the other children in Camp Ryder. Had nipped at a few of them, actually. Which only made Sam like him more.
Sam reached over for Bo’s unfinished plate. He regarded what was left of the food. “You think Bo’s gonna finish this?”
Abby leaned over Sam’s shoulder, then looked out into the people crowded into the building. “I dunno,” she said. “I don’t even see him. Give it to Deuce. Deuce is hungry. Hey, Deucy-Boy! You hungry? You a hungry boy?”
Deuce was not to be distracted from his focus on the bowl.
Sam sat the bowl down on the table and Deuce cleaned it in record time.
The crudely constructed picnic table shifted underneath them. Sam looked to his right and found Jenny there, leaning partially against it, one hand planted on the rough-hewn tabletop. Sam was surprised to find her there. Not because he was surprised that she would be in the Camp Ryder building, but because she had not spoken to him or Abby since the assault.
“Ms. Jenny,” Sam said somewhat cautiously.
Jenny looked at him and Abby and smiled, but it looked pained. Her face was a little paler than usual, her eyes a bit sunken. “Hey, guys. Are you doin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam said.
Abby remained silent, watching Jenny with uncertain eyes.
“How about you?” Sam offered, trying to sound conversational.
“Well…” She swung her leg around one of the benches and sat herself down, regarding her hands. She picked at a bandage that was on her right hand. “I’ve been better, Sam. I think… I think I might be getting that flu that’s been going around. But I didn’t come over here to complain to you.” She looked at him. The smile was gone. Her eyes were bloodshot and sad. She was closer to him now, and he could see little details that he hadn’t seen before.
“It’s okay,” he said, quietly. Beside him, Abby was squirming uncomfortably.
Sam noticed that Deuce had gone very still next to him. He was fixated on Jenny, head lowered just slightly, and something in his canine body language told Sam that the dog did not like the woman that had sat down at the table with them. But that was strange, because Deuce had never had a bad reaction to Jenny in the past. He avoided her, as he avoided most strangers, but what Sam was seeing in Deuce was… aggression? Fear?
Deuce didn’t growl, but Sam could see his lips tense and quiver as though he were considering growling, or barking.
Jenny reached out her right hand—the one with the bandage on it—but then thought better and retracted it. She put her other hand over the bandage, like she was trying to hide it. “I never apologized to you or Abby. For what happened.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It was my fault.” Jenny nodded. “I made some bad choices. I did some things that put everyone else at risk. I was selfish.”
Sam didn’t really know how to respond. So he just sat there.
She was staring off at the blank wall behind them now. Her mouth was still moving, like she was still talking, but no sound came out. Then suddenly her eyelids fluttered for just a second, and her mouth closed. She looked at Sam, her expression confused. “I don’t really know where I’m going. I’m sorry.”
Sam felt himself involuntarily leaning away from her. “You don’t need to say you’re sorry.”
“No. I do,” she insisted. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done. And everything I’m going to do. Just remember that.” Jenny turned so she could reach out with her left hand—her unbandaged hand—and touch Sam’s knee. “Can you do that for me? Can you remember to tell everyone that I’m sorry?”
Sam felt his voice tighten. “About what?”
Jenny just smiled. “Just remember.”
“Okay.”
She stood up from the bench without another word. When she moved, Deuce twitched and let out a small growl that Jenny didn’t seem to even notice. But Sam did.
Jenny thrust her hands into the pockets of her jacket and walked away, head down. She headed for the door, and no one stopped her or reached out to her. It seemed no one knew her. And perhaps half the people in that building did not, because they were strangers. And the other half chose not, because she was a traitor.
Sam watched her all the way to the entryway of the building, where she stopped at the metal staircase and looked up for a moment, and then continued on to the heavy double doors and pushed through into the night and the cold.
The first mistake she’d made was trying to touch the infected when she was out of her mind on prescription medications. The second mistake had been not trying to hack her hand off as soon as she saw the bloody cut. The third mistake had been refusing to tell anyone about it.
Her mistakes seemed to compound on her like no one else’s did. It seemed unfair. All the other people could make mistakes left and right and all fate had in store for their stupidity was minor injuries or maybe some hurt feelings that were easily apologized for and moved on from.
Every mistake she made seemed destined for disaster. Like fate had put her on the narrowest path it could find, and one step to the left or right meant she was tumbling down the mountain. It was all very unfair.
She was capable of thinking about this somewhat detachedly because she’d been on a steady diet of antidepressants. She decided not to mix and match from the mystery bottle she’d found—that had been a dangerous proposition and had led to another bad decision. But the antidepressants, along with some pain medication, seemed to do the trick.
They kept her floating above the situation, they kept her panic and her pain at bay, but they didn’t muddle her thoughts.
At least, not much. Not as much as the mystery stack she’d taken.
She walked out of the Camp Ryder building on warm, unfeeling clouds. Far down below her were the worries about what would happen to her in the next few days, but here and now, those things could not reach her. Besides, there was always the chance that she really was getting sick with the flu that was going around. She’d been taking care of so many people that had caught it, it wouldn’t be surprising at all if she finally came down with it. The knife cut had been deep, but she had wiped the tainted blood off quickly, and if enough of her own blood had been pooling out, none of the infected blood could get in the wound, right? It seemed plausible. Besides, like Jacob had said long ago, there is no method of infection that guarantees you’ll catch it.
But he did say that blood-to-blood was the most likely method of infection.
Maybe, maybe not, her Paxilated brain told her. You’ll just have to cross that bridge when you come to it. No point in worrying about it now.
TWENTY-SIX
WELCOME
THE RAIN WAS A double-edged sword. It hid Tomlin’s movements, but it soaked him to the bone. And though the rainstorm had brought warmer temperatures, that didn’t stop the constant wetness from making him cold. Now he stood silently among never-ending rows of dark-skinned sentinels, and he watched the forest before him from his position behind one of them.
The underbrush was thin among the pines, so visibility was good. He could see a solid two hundred yards all around him. But that was two-sided as well—if he could see them, they could see him. Whoever “they” were. He still hadn’t figured that out.
Fort Bragg—or at least the roads heading into it—was exactly how Tomlin had remembered it. Military bases had the habit of being stuck in desolate places such as this, where the government could feel free to invest in a million-plus acres of land so shitty that no one else wanted them. Because of this, Fort Bragg had two things: sand and pine trees. As far as the eye could see, there was sand, and there was pine trees, all in even ranks and even heights, like soldiers standing in some vast formation.
Bragg was a massive base, famous for being the home of the 82nd Airborne, and US Army Special Operations Command, and infamous for being one of the older and more spartanly constructed bases. A large portion of the US Army had been through the base at some point or another, Tomlin included. These sandy marshes and rows of pine trees were where he had taken his SERE course, and that was something he would not soon forget.
Tomlin slowly turned his head to look behind him. About fifty yards back and to his right, he knew Nate was there, though he couldn’t see him. The man was well hidden—at least until he leaned out from the pine tree he was behind and made eye contact with Tomlin. A quick glance in the other direction and Tomlin could see Devon, crouched very still among the sand and pine needles, behind him and to his left.
Wet sand and wet pine needles, Tomlin thought, thanking whatever force was responsible for this turn of good luck. The rain might be cold and soaking, but even an inexperienced woodsman like Devon could be silent on a bed of wet pine needles.
The distance between Camp Ryder and the northern tip of Fort Bragg was about the same distance as Camp Ryder was from Sanford. However, they could make the drive to Sanford straight across Highway 421, which had been cleared and patrolled and was mostly secure. To the south, which was a direction they had yet to expand in, it was all new territory. The going was especially slow.
They’d driven a small SUV out of Camp Ryder with just enough gas to get here and return, accounting for a trip that would be far from a straight line. Nate had driven, with Devon in the shotgun seat and Tomlin in the back center, directing them with a map laid across his lap and his rifle in his arms. They’d avoided main highways, skirted around towns, and doubled back if the road looked too much like an ambush, or if it was blocked by a snarl of derelict vehicles. What would have been a forty-minute drive in better times had turned into a five-hour ordeal.
But it had given the rain time to come and soak everything into silence, and to provide a steady sound cover for their movements.
They’d parked the SUV a ways back on Johnson Farm Road, just a mile or so north of where government property began. They’d pulled it into another cluster of abandoned cars and it fit in nicely with the others with its four-month layer of dirt. Then they’d made the rest of their way on foot.
Slowly.
Tomlin was out front of the others, forming the point of a triangle. He would move forward perhaps five yards at a time, in unhurried, stalking steps, his eyes shooting from his footing to the woods around him, simultaneously making sure he didn’t step on fallen branches, and that there was nothing ahead that might give him problems.
Nate and Devon hung back. Tomlin would stop and survey the scene for a second, and then wave them forward. Then they would wait, and Tomlin would continue on another five yards when he felt it was secure. Stealth could not be rushed, especially in this situation. Time was on their side. Trying to hurry would only get them caught, and they benefited nothing from getting there today or tomorrow or the day after.
It took them nearly two hours to reach this point.
Up ahead, Tomlin could see the signs: POSTED NO TRESPASSING and GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. They were hung on an old, rusty-looking section of chain-link fencing with barbed wire on top. Even when shit had been going tip-top, he was sure that sections of the fence were always rusty, though fence maintenance was probably a year-round job. It was simply impossible to fence in millions of acres and have it perfectly secure at all times.
He wondered how secure they had managed to keep it now.
He knew the fence that he was looking at would be the very same one that would encompass the entire base. And it would cross Johnston Road, a couple hundred yards to their left, and there would be a gate over that road. Whether that gate was locked, guarded, or flung open on its hinges remained to be seen. Tomlin had yet to see a single person, or a single noise that might tell him that there was anything in Fort Bragg besides dead bodies and insane people.
The stillness of the woods was absolute. Even the rain fell perfectly steady, with not a single gust of wind to push it to either side. Water ran in rivulets through his hair, which had grown irritatingly long, and he could feel the wet clumps of strands clinging to the side of his forehead and feeding the water down onto his eyebrows and from there, into his eyes, down around his nose, and into his mouth, salty and sweet all at the same time.
The stillness seemed inviting on the one hand, threatening on the other.
Sometimes it was difficult to determine whether something was good, or a little too good.
Paranoia, maybe.
Or caution. But it’s all the same to me.
Tomlin stepped out from his tree. Every time he did it he expected his chest to meet with a copper-jacketed bullet and for the life to be snatched out of him. But the woods remained still and silent and no bullet came for him. He pushed forward another five yards. Got a little greedy and took a couple more. He felt instantly foolish for it.
Behind the next big tree he waited, cringing.
He looked upward, wishing to hear or see some form of nature—a squirrel dancing across tree limbs or a bird ruffling its feathers—but even the wildlife was silent. They had more sense than he did. They weren’t about to get themselves soaked in the rain. Intelligently, they were hiding.
Another thing he had yet to see: a single infected.
Not one.
Most everyone that left the confines of whatever secure location they’d holed themselves into had become accustomed to the sight of the infected. Not so accustomed that it didn’t peak their fear when they saw them, but it was common enough to see a pack of them chasing something through a field, or a horde standing at an intersection, still and dumb, like they couldn’t decide which way t
o go. Sometimes they charged, but often enough they just stood and watched, their hands always clenching and unclenching manically.
But all the way here they had been conspicuously absent.
Isn’t that a good thing?
Sure. Definitely. Maybe.
Tomlin decided to move forward again. He looked behind him and very slowly motioned the others to stay put. With the fence in front of them, and knowing that the road was only just out of sight, he needed to see what they were facing before he had Nate and Devon come up.
He had a small spotting scope that he kept stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. He brought this out and scanned the horizon in front of him, and then moved forward ten yards. He stopped and scanned again. He waited a few minutes. Scanned again. Moved forward another ten yards.
Thirty yards up and he could see the blacktop of the road, shimmering with rain. He followed the road until he could see where it crossed paths with the fence. There was a gate. Nothing too robust, but a simple double-hinged affair of eight-foot fencing topped with barbed wire. All around the gate, fresh, shiny concertina wire had been jumbled, creating a glittering field of steel points and razors for the unwelcome.
On the other side of the gate, the two-lane blacktop continued on. However, one of the lanes was obstructed by a Jersey barrier, and behind that and all around it were piled a wall of sandbags with the muzzle of an M240 protruding from it. Behind the machine gun, two helmeted heads alternately looked out at the woods and the road leading to the gate, and then down to however they were amusing themselves. A green tarp or maybe a poncho liner was draped over the top to keep the interior of the nest relatively dry.
Tomlin watched them for a while. He slowly lowered himself down onto his haunches, only half his face peering around the side of the pine tree, with his small spotting scope held to his eyes. He locked his core to keep himself from shivering. It sure would be nice to get out of the rain, though how and when he would be able to do that was anybody’s guess.