Dangerous Days (Book 2): Fear Another Day

by Higgins, Baileigh

  An idea took hold in his mind. He blew out a slow breath as he contemplated it. “What if the person who gave us the info we needed, wasn't an enemy?”

  Mike stared at him then down at the old woman's retreating back. “You mean her?”

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “We catch her tomorrow morning when she does her rounds.” Ronnie contemplated the layout before them and pointed at a spot. “There. If one of us can get there unseen, we can talk to her without the guards noticing.”

  The spot in question was behind a crashed bus that no one had bothered to move. It listed to the side with one wheel on the pavement and the bonnet wrapped around a concrete trash can. The old woman had to walk behind it to get to the captured infected, shielding her from the guard's eyes.

  “What if something goes wrong?” Mike asked. “It wouldn't take much for one of them to get suspicious.”

  “It's risky,” Ronnie agreed, “but I've noticed they don't pay much attention to her. She's just an old woman to them. What is she going to do? Run away?”

  “That's true.” Mike chewed on his thumb. “What if she won't help us? She might scream or something. Then we're in for it.”

  “She might,” Ronnie replied. “But something tells me she won't protect those who did that.” He gestured to the object of the woman's prayers. The corpse was in bad shape, left exposed to the elements like that. It groaned through desiccated lips drawn back into a death's head grin. Is it her husband? Son, maybe?

  “Do you want me to go in?” Mike asked.

  “No, I'll do it. You can cover me from here if the shit hits the fan. You'll have a good field of fire.” Ronnie studied the area around the bus, mapping out the best route to get there. “It won't be easy, but with a little luck we might pull this off.”

  “Here's hoping.” Mike scratched around in his pocket, pulling out his silver flask. He unscrewed the top, and the sharp scent of scotch wafted out.

  “Really, Mike?”

  “What? It's just a nip.” Mike shrugged, taking a deep swallow.

  “You've been having a lot of those 'nips' lately.” Ronnie shook his head, casting a sidelong glance at his friend. “Is something going on with you?”

  “Everything's dandy,” Mike replied, waving it off. “I just like to drink. You know that. What's the problem?”

  “The problem is you're drinking on the job. You're going to get yourself, or someone else, killed if you keep it up.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “The Captain will have your balls if he catches you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Mike rolled onto his side, presenting his back to Ronnie. “I'm going to grab a snooze. Wake me when it's your turn.”

  Ronnie turned back to watching the hotel, frustration burning within him. Mike was on a slippery slope to nowhere good and refused to see it. Maybe the Captain should find out. Might do some good.

  ***

  A rough shake awakened him. Ronnie's eyes popped open, one hand going to the hilt of his knife.

  “Time to get up.” Mike's familiar whisper cut through the sleep-induced fog, and he relaxed.

  It was still dark, the air like ice. Dew drops beaded his coat and pants, soaking into the material. He suppressed a groan as he got to his feet, his spine and joints stiff from the damp.

  “Getting too old for this, hey?” Mike asked.

  “Definitely.”

  It had been a rough night. The two of them had taken turns to keep watch with Mike catching the pre-dawn shift. It was cold, their camo clothing doing little to keep the heat in. He had slept with his boots on, ready to move at a moment's notice. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rinsed his mouth with water and had a drink.

  “You still set on doing this?” Mike asked.

  “I am. That old woman might be just the edge we need to win this fight.”

  Mike shifted closer and handed him a strip of biltong. Ronnie chewed on the dried beef, working his teeth along the corner. The stuff was old, every last drop of juice long since wrung from the fibers. Mold had set in, fuzzy white patches peppering the edges. He was glad he couldn't see it in the dark. “Shit, this meat's tough.”

  “It's like eating salted boot leather,” Mike agreed. “How do you figure the old lady's going to help? Besides giving us info, that is.”

  “Who knows?” Ronnie shrugged, squinting at the horizon. Black was giving way to gray. “We better hurry.”

  His aching jaws finished chewing, and he swallowed the masticated pulp with a grimace. Right then, he'd have given anything for a cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon. Wishful thinking.

  Rinsing the taste from his mouth, he packed his gear. After checking his guns, he turned to Mike. “Anything?”

  “It's quiet. The guards are huddled around a fire.”

  Ronnie looked where he pointed, his eyes fixing on four figures huddled around a trash can. Yellow flames flickered around the top, casting an amber glow on the men sitting around it. “Any patrols?”

  “None so far. I figure the cold is making them lazy.”

  “Cold's making me lazy too.”

  “Yeah, I'm looking forward to my bed, I'll tell you that.”

  “Makes two of us.” Ronnie shifted his rifle and pack into position. “If I get pinned down or caught, make a run for it okay? Warn the rest.”

  Mike nodded but didn't answer.

  Not wasting another second, Ronnie turned to go. His eyes had adjusted. With the lightening sky, he had enough vision to make out where he was going. He picked his way across the roof, and dropped his body over the side, feeling for footholds. His toe landed on the edge of an open window, and he shifted sideways until he stood on the ledge. With one hand, he felt for the brink of the windowsill and pulled his body through. He landed with a muffled thump, holding still for several seconds.

  All was quiet.

  The upstairs office he was in was still empty, the thick layer of dust covering the furniture undisturbed. Ronnie shifted his pack, settling it in place and unslung his rifle. This is where the shit starts.

  He slipped out of the room into the hallway and made for the stairs. The absolute quiet was unnerving, the lack of light rendering him blind. He dared not use a flashlight and had to navigate by feel. Each step had to be taken with care.

  Bit by bit, he worked his way through the building. His ears were tuned for the slightest hint of noise. A rustle. A scrape. Anything to warn him of the presence of others. His nostrils flared, searching for smells that were out of place.

  On the first day, they'd checked the place, making sure it was empty. That didn't mean it was safe now. A zombie could have found its way inside through the broken windows, a guard on patrol could have decided to take a look-see inside and stayed. Anything was possible.

  It was this thought that set his nerves on edge and caused his heart to thump in his chest. Minutes felt like days, the corridors impossibly long. It was with infinite relief that he reached the front doors. A whisper escaped his lips. “Thank fuck.”

  Outside, the sky had turned to mottled gray, thick clouds promising rain. Ronnie checked his watch. He didn't have much time. The woman made her first round at six, and he'd better be in position before she did.

  The night before, he'd mapped out a route to the bus from his perch on the roof. After a quick check to make sure it was clear, he set out. Using every available bit of cover, he crossed the street, praying the guards wouldn't move from the warmth of their fire.

  His path took him right past the body of a zombie lashed to a pole. Its decayed lips peeled back when it saw him, exposing blackened teeth. It rasped, struggling against the ropes that held it. The elements had eaten away at its flesh, rendering the infected sexless and without discerning features.

  The hulking shape of the bus loomed ahead, and he sped up, reaching its rusted metal sides within moments. Dropping to his knees, he checked under the bus, looking for movement. Then he glanced up at the roof where
Mike lay, waiting for the signal. Seconds passed. The saliva in his mouth dried up. Was someone coming? Had they spotted him?

  A flash of movement showed. He narrowed his eyes, picking up the flutter of white cloth. It was a small enough action so as not to be easily seen by the guards. His cramped shoulders slumped with relief. The all-clear signal. Ronnie wedged himself into the corner where the bus and concrete trash bin connected, rifle at the ready and checked his watch. Five to six. She'll be here soon.

  With one eye on his surroundings and another on the roof, he settled down to wait. Time passed slowly, his senses set to red-alert the entire time. At last, he heard the crunch of footsteps. On the roof, Mike waved the white cloth again. It was her, and she was alone.

  The old woman rounded the corner of the bus; her eyes were fixed on the ground. She drew closer until she lifted her head and saw him. Her mouth fell open. Ronnie shook his head, a single finger held across his lips in a frantic gesture to be quiet. She closed her mouth.

  “I'm here to help,” he whispered.

  She looked over her shoulder then back at him. Her expression was guarded. “Who are you?”

  “I'm a friend. I won't hurt you; I just want to help.”

  Terror and hope chased each other across her face. Hope won the battle. “Help? You're here to help?”

  “Yes.” Ronnie got to his feet, moving slowly and with care. He reached out a hand, palm out. “Please, I just need to talk to you.”

  “Talk?” She glanced over her shoulder again.

  “I need to know a few things. Quick, before someone comes or they miss you.” He drew closer, looking into her old eyes. “You can trust me, I promise.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please. If you help me, I can save you from Ke Tau and his men.” Her expression changed when he named the leader of the gang, hate deepening the lines on her face.

  “You will kill him?” She stepped closer, a claw-like hand gripping his forearm. “You swear?”

  “Yes,” Ronnie replied. “I do.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter 22 - Breytenbach

  Breytenbach rubbed his temples, massaging the ache lodged between his eyes in the hopes it would go away. A bottle of painkillers mocked him from the table, alluring in its promise of freedom from pain. It was a false hope, one that carried consequences. He couldn’t allow narcotics to cloud his judgment. With a sigh, he pushed it away, taking a deep swallow of water instead. The cool liquid revived him, clearing his mind for the ordeal ahead.

  Since he had awoken from the coma, much of his strength had returned. Within days, he was walking around and overseeing gun practice, even volunteering for kitchen duty. The headaches continued to plague him, nagging at the edges of his existence. That and a debilitating weakness in his left arm that struck at odd times.

  “Are you all right?” Julianne's soft voice drifted to him from the chair to his left, her eyes fixed on his face with an expression of concern.

  Breytenbach nodded and cleared his throat. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

  “It's been a long night,” she agreed. Her hand reached out to rest on his forearm, her fingers imparting a pleasant warmth to his skin. “Shouldn't we postpone the meeting, perhaps?”

  “No, we can't afford to. It's been two weeks already since Ke Tau and his men ambushed Ronnie and the others.”

  “Surely it can wait a few more days?”

  “Ke Tau won't wait. He will be planning his next move, perhaps even striking soon. In the meantime, we're confined to this camp, wasting precious resources guarding our walls against attack. Resources that could rather be used to resolve our other pressing problems.”

  “I know but...” Her fingers squeezed his wrist. “You need to rest, Christo. You're not fully recovered yet.”

  “I'm all right, sweetheart. I've had enough rest to last a lifetime.” Breytenbach offered Julianne a smile. “I need to move, to be active. I can't lie around in bed all day while people need me.”

  Julianne bit her lower lip, teeth worrying at the flesh. “Just promise me you won't kill yourself in the process. I need you as well.”

  “I'm not going anywhere. That you have my word on.”

  He gathered up the scattered notes in front of him, aligning their borders until they represented a neat pile. A tremor worked through his arm, rustling the papers until they shook. Before Julianne's sharp eyes could spot the movement, he slammed his hand down on the table and placed the other over it.

  Despite Jonathan's objections, Breytenbach had insisted on chairing this meeting alongside Max. The good doctor felt he was overexerting himself, but this session was of the utmost importance. It was one that might very well decide their future. “What's on the itinerary first?”

  Julianne glanced at the list in front of her, pursing her lips. “Dr. Lange has requested to speak to us.”

  “Lange? That's odd. We hardly ever see the guy.”

  “I know, and he never goes anywhere without that brute following him either.”

  “Michael?” Breytenbach frowned. “He's not so bad. Just loyal to a fault.”

  “Well, in any case, they should be here soon.” Julianne glanced at her watch. “Five minutes to be exact.”

  “Where's Max?”

  “He's checking the state of the fences and walls with Joseph. They'll be along any moment.” Julianne ran her eyes over the list. “Lucas is working on the grid. I doubt he'll show. Too much work. Elise can't make it, either.”

  “Can't make it?” Breytenbach eyed the spot in the middle of the table where Elise usually put the snacks. His stomach rumbled upon being reminded that it was empty.

  “She's busy.” Julianne refused to meet his eyes, her gaze fixed upon her hands.

  “Did you two argue?”

  “No.”

  “Julianne?”

  “All right, all right.” She sat back with a huff, crossing her arms. “We had a minor disagreement, okay? Nothing serious.”

  “Let me guess. It's about a particular young prisoner, am I right?”

  “Yes.” An indignant look crossed Julianne's face. “She treats him like a...a...”

  “Like a child?” Breytenbach finished in a mild tone of voice.

  “Exactly!”

  “That's because he is a child, Julianne.”

  “No, he isn't. He's young but not a child. Not by a long shot.” Julianne's lips thinned to a fine line, and her eyes narrowed. “As a criminal, he doesn't deserve special treatment.”

  “You don't know what he is. We don't know anything about him. Not for sure, anyway.” Breytenbach sat back, suppressing a sigh. “At this stage, it's all speculation.”

  “Now you sound like Elise.”

  “That's because she has a point.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry.” Julianne's voice took on a sharp edge, her cheeks flushing with angry blood. “Until we know for sure, I'm not trusting him for one second.”

  “I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust me.” Breytenbach leaned forward and took her hand in his. “I'd never let anything happen to you or the kids. You know that.”

  “I know.” Julianne sighed, squeezing his fingers. “It's just so hard, seeing him walk around eating our food and wearing our clothes, knowing what he's done.”

  “If he has done any of those things, we'll find out, and he'll get his just punishment.” Breytenbach paused. “In the meantime, give him the benefit of the doubt, at least.”

  “Fine, just don't expect me to act like he's just a regular teenager because he's not. I don't want him anywhere near either Meghan or Sam.”

  “Lisa wouldn't let him anywhere near them.” Breytenbach chuckled. “That's one mean-tempered little girl.”

  The corner of Julianne's mouth quirked, and she looked away.

  “Come on, admit it,” Breytenbach teased.

  “Yeah, okay. She's a firecracker. Goes with the red hair, I suppose,” Julianne admitted. “Still, I feel kind
of bad for asking her to babysit Kabelo.”

  “Don't feel sorry for her. Lisa needs to work through her feelings of anger.” Breytenbach tapped his fingers on the table in a rhythmic jig. It relieved the shaking in his hand somewhat. “It'll be good for her.”

  “Really?” Julianne's brows lifted.

  “Or she might just kill him. Who knows?”

  “You think she might do that?”

  “If he pisses her off enough...” Breytenbach trailed off. “She certainly is capable of it. At any rate, I'll be keeping an eye on those two. Both of them, all the time.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  A sharp rap on the door interrupted her and Michael walked in, followed by Dr. Lange. Breytenbach stood up and extended his hand, shaking theirs briefly. “Dr. Lange, Michael. Nice to see you.”

  “Captain,” Michael greeted. His dark eyes cut around the room, missing nothing. “Where are the others?”

  “They'll be along shortly. Today's meeting is a small one.”

  “But an important one, I hear,” Michael said.

  Breytenbach's eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that? We kept it quiet so as not to alarm everyone.”

  “I have ears.”

  “So I see. Sit, won't you?” Breytenbach gestured to the table. “Dr. Lange, have a seat.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Dr. Lange replied, sliding into a chair.

  Michael ignored the proffered seat, choosing instead to make his way to the corner where the coffee waited. He poured himself a cup then leaned against the wall, sipping the bitter black brew while his hooded eyes flickered over each of them in turn.

  Breytenbach took his seat, proffering a smile to the doctor. “Julianne says you asked to meet?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Dr. Lange nodded. “Let me get straight to the point. I understand we're in a bit of a pickle? The camp, I mean.”

  “Understatement of the year, but yes, we find ourselves in an awkward position.”

  “Do you know what you face? Do you have a strategy in place to deal with the problem? Backup plans? Anything?” Dr. Lange's earnest eyes fixed on Breytenbach, and he leaned forward, placing a thin hand on the table. His features were lively, the fingers of his hand moved ceaselessly, plucking at a seam in the wood.