“How well do you know this area?” he said, voice low.
“Not well, only what we’ve scouted through. Why?”
“You aren’t from here?” he said, eyes bouncing down to her lips if only for a moment.
“Cadillac, Battle Creek, Kalamazoo. Grand Rapids was my latest stomping ground. Then the outbreak forced me here.”
He scanned the forest. “I haven’t summered up here in years, but I was thinking. If Pentwater is north of here, isn’t there a power plant nearby?”
“Do I look like someone who would care about where a polluting energy company resided? Now, if you asked about where a craft brewery is around here, I could definitely point you in the right direction.” She let her eyes graze past his, avoiding full contact. “Fetch Brewery is only about twenty-five minutes from here. Damn good place.”
“You like beer?” Steele said, bewildered.
“Like it? I used to brew it. I was the brewmaster at First Eagle Brewery,” she said.
“No shit. What kind of beer did you brew?”
“I had few favorites. IPAs are my specialty but I also make a mean Dunkel.”
“Well, hot damn. You got any back at the camp?” His beard ruffled with the wind, a glimmer of a smile emerging from underneath.
“I wish. If you get me the right ingredients and tools, I could prolly whip up a batch that isn’t too far off the original recipe.”
“Do the Red Stripes know this? Because I’m sure they would love some fresh brew.”
“Never really talked about it, ya know, with the whole dead rising from the grave thing.”
“I’m pretty sure you don’t understand. Beer is a necessity. Especially in a time like this. They would ride far and wide for ingredients.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, soldier boy.”
“I already told you. I’m not military,” he said. “And you don’t know anything about a power plant nearby?”
“No. Why do you keep jabbering on about this stupid power plant?” she said, giving him a bit of lip biting. Can’t hurt to keep him interested. It should keep him in my pocket.
As he talked, he became more and more excited as if he could literally envision his power plant base and the future. “Because what if we can get it running? You know. Have electricity. We could control the supply of power along the lakeshore. We could use it to trade. Not to mention we could secure the facility and not live out in the open because winter is almost here.”
“Slow down, cowboy. First, we have to find this mythical power plant. Second, we have to convince all our people that this is in our best interest.”
“What bad could happen?” he asked.
“Are you serious? When you have a resource, people will want it.” She folded her hands across her chest. “What about the infected? What if it attracts them?”
His mouth flattened. “Having what other people want brings them to the table.”
“Or brings them at night with blood on their minds.”
“True. We’ll need to provide a common defense or others will take it. That’s where those volunteers come into play. Even if I can only get them started, Pagan can train them.”
She could practically see the wheels in his head churning out idea after idea. Looking at him, her stomach fluttered a bit. This is not me. I don’t swoon like a school girl over some Neanderthal with a big gun and a scraggly beard. He had something that made her trust him in a world where trust was hard to come by.
“Let’s go, Wyatt Earp. My Pagan won’t find himself.”
The duo walked over the sandy hills through a sparse forest. The stunted trees struggled to hold on to the sand, roots gripping the loose soil in an effort to stay upright. Green dune grass swished, an army of thin bright green spear points swaying in the waves of the wind.
The tracks, oval-shaped divots, were easy to see in the sand, and it seemed as if a thousand feet had traversed the path. A blind man could follow these tracks. This is not the action of someone who is in hiding.
“Hey, Wild Bill,” she called up to him.
“What?”
“What if we are only following a huge pack of infected?”
“Then we are going to have a long run back to Red Rhonda.”
“Ha,” she belted. “What? You aren’t going to single-handedly defeat them all? I would have to say I’m a little disappointed.”
He glanced over his shoulder, still walking. “Nope. I’m going to run my ass off.”
“That doesn’t sound like the man I joined forces with.”
His head stayed forward. “This is him.”
“Geez, you aren’t getting all butthurt are you?” she teased.
She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was smiling as he trekked.
“I assure you, my manliness is not determined by whether or not I can defeat a thousand infected at once. In fact, running shows a bit of maturity,” he finished, sounding a bit pleased with himself.
“More brains than balls, huh? First man I ever met like that.” She laughed loud enough to make sure he heard her.
His shoulders leaned one way and then the other with each step of his feet. His pack groaned, gravity compressing it upon his spine.
“We shall see,” he said.
Yes, we shall, Mark Steele.
After thirty minutes of trekking, they struggled up a large ridge. Cresting the top of it, they stopped.
Sprawled out below them lay a large industrial facility sitting next to a canal. Two large smokestacks jutted skyward. The white concrete stacks were encircled by blood red stripes and rose hundreds of feet into the air. A massive pile of black coal sat stacked up near the waterway, a large conveyor belt running from the coal pile to the water. It was as if someone had shoveled a giant pile of snow and dyed it the color of night.
“Wow,” she said. “You were right.”
She felt his hand on her back shoving her downward to the sand. The miniature gold granules sped for her face, and she barely got her hands underneath her before she was crushed into the ground. The sand gave way beneath her. She squirmed onto her back, and at the same time, her hand instinctively went to her shoulder harness-holstered 1911. Her fingers clawed for her gun, trying to create enough space to release the weapon.
“Get the fuck off me,” she growled. His fingers locked around her wrist, pressing it into her body. He held it close, pinning it to her chest. His ironclad fingers dug into her wrist, crushing it. She struggled and tried to wiggle free.
“Shhh. Be quiet,” he said. His eyes stared out, scanning the area. She read him, letting her eyes dance back and forth. His eyes weren’t wild and frantic like those of a man waging an attack, but calm and concerned, even worried. He glanced back down at her. Kindness lurked there somewhere.
“There are people down there,” he uttered.
“Infected?” she hushed.
“No. People, people.” As she relaxed, he gradually let her go and crawled onto his stomach. His elbows dug into the ground as he crawled to the top of the ridge, his long gun laying across his biceps and forearms.
She inched up next to him, peeking over the ridge with hesitant expectation.
Semis, buses, pickups, and cars sat parked near the plant. People walked to and fro, busy with duties and chores that could only be related to the operation of a base camp. Some shoveled coal. Others hauled it away, buckets swaying back and forth as they carried the heavy loads.
“Looks like somebody stole your power plant idea,” she said softly.
“Yes, it does. Look at all of them.”
“The most live people I’ve seen since the outbreak,” she said.
“Too many people,” he said under his breath.
He brought his carbine optic up to his face and carefully scanned the plant and the surroundings.
“I count at least at fifty people working outside. Two snipers there above the entrance. And another two on that corner over there.”
Tess squinted, attempt
ing to make out the blurry miniature men sitting still atop the building.
“You aren’t worried about them?” she asked, feeling a little nervous about the idea that someone could be lining up their sights on her head as she spoke.
“No. They aren’t looking for us necessarily.”
“What should we do?”
“There.” He pointed to the coal pile. “There’s our huckleberry.” He handed her his M4 carbine. “The guy digging by the pile with the two guards.”
She held the optic close to her eye. Everything zoomed forward. The people were dirty and haggard as if they had trudged along on their mental willpower alone.
A lightly bearded man marched back to the coal power plant, a bucket of coal resting on his shoulder.
“Pagan,” she whispered, her heart speeding up. “He’s alive.”
“Finding him was the easy part,” Steele said.
“Breaking him out is going to be a bitch,” she replied.
GWEN
Little Sable Point, MI
The ring of vehicles did little to protect her from the wind. Her baggy ACUs did only enough to keep the cool air from biting at her skin. Tracing her footsteps in the sand, she stepped lightly, arms crossed over her body. Her blonde hair whipped back and forth, and she did nothing to stop it from tussling about.
Gwen had passed everything inside the small enclosure at least a half-dozen times. The back of a tractor-trailer sat open, and a fat woman sat on the edge of the trailer with a couple of the Red Stripes. Patrons and visitors of the small community would come and go, presenting something of value for packages of food. Families sat inside their RVs and campers while others camped in blue, red, and green tents outside of cars and hatchbacks. A few kids ran through the tents, playing hide and seek.
On her seventh pass, a man hollered at her from in front of his camper.
“You trying to drill to China, darling?” the older man said. His skin hung off his face, folding over his white turtleneck shirt looking like he lost so much weight that he was trying to keep his skin in tight with his clothes.
Gwen’s lips spread in a weak smile. “No, sir. Just thinking.” The pills burned in her pocket as if they knew she thought of them. They wanted to be found. They wanted to be taken. They begged her to do it. If I take enough, it will just go away. How can I do it?
“My father always told me to avoid a woman when she was thinking too much.” He paused and waited for a response. She stared at him with dark eyes.
He wrinkled his nose at her. “I never listened to much he said anyway.” He waved her over. “Are you hungry?”
A navy sport coat drooped over his shoulders, the limp fabric searching for a body to fill it out. Anything to keep my mind off this predicament. She plodded over to him.
“Cashews?” he asked. He thrust a package of cashews in her direction, shaking them a bit like he was calling a dog with a treat. She cupped her hands and he shook some of the oblong nuts onto her palms.
He grinned, showing yellowish teeth. “Where are my manners?” He put a hand to his chest. “My name is Dr. George Thatcher. Before you ask, I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Gwen Reynolds,” she said. She munched a nut, savoring the salty flavor. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“I was a political science professor at Mason College. Small liberal arts university near Midland.”
“I’m not familiar with the colleges in this area.”
He looked disappointed. “Ah, of course not. Are you in the military? Or should I say, were you in the military?”
“No. These are on loan, but I don’t think they’re going to ask for them back.”
“I suppose not.” He looked even more disappointed. “The last I heard about them was the National Guard was protecting the capital building in Lansing. That seems like forever ago. Now, I’m living in a trailer with a bunch of people I only know in passing. And of course, Gordon here. Gordon!” he called out. A fox-colored Pomeranian shot out from beneath his camper. It skipped about at his feet, begging for food.
“Get away, you little devil. Not in front of our guest. Shoo.” The small dog continued to scamper about his feet. It danced back and forth, excited at the prospect of being fed. “Fine. Take this,” he said, tossing the dog a cashew, which it caught in the air with practiced promptness. The dog did victory circles, chasing its own tail.
“Gordon. Don’t be so rude. Here, take this,” he said, handing her the cashews. “He loves them.” Her lips rose into a genuine smile for the first time in forever.
“It sure looks like it,” she said. She held one out, tantalizing the small animal.
“Well, go on. Give him one. Don’t be cruel.” She threw a nut high in the air and it plopped into the dog’s waiting mouth. He crunched the nut once and swallowed, not caring to savor his treat.
“Haha,” she half-laughed. She tossed him another and he caught that one too.
Dr. Thatcher looked on like a proud pet father. “Gordon can do more than that.”
“Oh can he?” she said amused, her head tilting to the side.
“Sure can. Watch this. Gordon, stand up.” The dog stood up on his hind legs. Taking short little steps, the dog did circles for its well-deserved treats.
“Wow, look at him go,” she said to the proud owner.
“He’s lucky to be here. Before the food truck came, people wanted to eat him. I can’t say I wasn’t tempted.” He patted the dog on the head. Dr. Thatcher stopped, looking up at her. “Where did you come from? I’ve seen your group. Rough, mean-spirited looking people.” He picked Gordon up and held him in his arms.
“Washington, D.C. It went under quick. Nothing anyone did could prevent it. So many people died. Even the emergency bunkers failed.”
Dr. Thatcher stroked Gordon’s head. “Did you work there?”
“I worked at the National Red Cross Headquarters in D.C.” The word worked gave her a weird feeling. I technically never quit, but it’s all gone now.
“Ahh. I see. A bleeding heart.”
She didn’t answer him. Am I?
“Or a heart of stone,” he said quietly, petting the head of Gordon. Dr. Thatcher’s eyes held a sadness in them. “Don’t forget where you came from. The past isn’t dead.”
High-pitched crying distracted her from the professor. A child stood in the middle of the tents, tears streaming out of her eyes.
“Will you excuse me, professor?”
“Of course,” he said with an understanding smile.
Gwen walked over to the crying child. Not more than six years old, the young girl’s cheeks were red from sobbing. Gwen crouched down to her level.
“Hi there, young lady. Are you okay?” she said, exaggerating her words in an effort to be comforting.
Unable to get enough air into her lungs, the little girl said with trembling lips, “Dey’, day’, all lef’ me here.”
“Who left you here? Your friends?” The small child’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.
“My name’s Gwen. What’s your name?”
“Lacy.” The girl sniffled.
“Well, Lacy, I’m going to help you find your friends.” She wiped a tear from the girl’s cheek, feeling her insides melt. Gwen stood upright. “Do you want me to help you?”
The small girl nodded her head again, and Gwen offered her hand to the little girl. The girl glanced up, unsure about her new friend. Gwen smiled back. After a moment, Lacy decided Gwen was safe enough and grasped Gwen’s pinky finger.
With the steps of a child, they circled the inner ring around the lighthouse. Children darted in and out of tents and wheels on the far end of the encampment. They hid beneath trash, scraps, and scattered debris. Their hearts are still young. Their world will be one filled with only loss and misery, but they don’t know it. It brought her great sadness knowing that they would suffer so much no matter what path their lives took.
Only despair would meet them in the future. A future filled with stoma
ch pains and gut cramps when they had nothing to eat. A future gobbled up in fear of being ripped apart by the undead or being murdered by bandits. A guarantee of psychological damage as they watched their friends, family, and loved ones die around them, victims of violence at the hands of the dead or the guns of the living. Gulping the ball of emotion down her throat, Gwen looked down on little Lacy.
The girl stared up at Gwen, dirt outlining her cherubic small face like apocalyptic cosmetics.
“Are you okay?” Lacy’s voice squeaked.
Gwen bent down next to the little girl, wiping a tear from her own face. Damn hormones. “Yes, Lacy, everything’s fine.”
“You don’a look so fine.”
Laughing a bit, Gwen wiped her other eye. “Lacy, you go and play with your friends. I see them over there.”
“But I don’t know where they are.”
Gwen stood, peering around the parked vehicles. She spied a child’s white shoes sticking out from behind a wheel. She pointed to the feet. “See there? Go get him.”
Lacy gushed, looking up at her. “Thanks, lady,” she cried out and tagged the other child beneath the rubber tire. They scampered off as the children chased each other. Let them be young while they can.
Standing straight, she covered her own stomach as she watched them play. A few years down the road and one of these kids playing could be mine. The children brought a sad smile to her lips, making her soul ache just a little less than it had before. For several minutes, she watched them until she noticed a boy, about the age of five, standing away from the rest. His hair was the color of the sun. His eyes were blue but bordered on gray like a smoky ocean wave. His red zip-up sweatshirt hung open shifted to one side as if someone had yanked him around. Beneath the sweater, he wore a blue shirt with a red star emblazoned on the front. She gave him a half wave. Unblinking, he stared back at her as if he expected her to do something.
Uncomfortable, Gwen turned back to the kids now playing tag around a fire pit. Guilt washed over her and she looked back up at the child. He had disappeared. Her maternal instincts went into overdrive.
Rushing, she quickstepped to where the boy had once stood. Using the bumper of a trailer as a brace, she looked underneath. Dune grass lay crushed and limp.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 16