Enemy Inside (Defectors Trilogy)

by Benner, Tarah

  “I’m not going to give up on her,” I whispered.

  “Me neither, but — Jesus, Haven!” He turned away from me, yanking a fistful of his hair in frustration. “How long do we have?”

  “A few weeks . . . maybe a couple months. It just depends on how quickly the virus progresses.”

  He raked a hand over his face. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I know.”

  Then he turned, aiming a hard kick at the nearest tree and swearing loudly. “God!” he yelled. “It isn’t right! Why did this have to happen? It’s like we walk out of one shitty situation right into another. Everything we do just makes things worse!”

  I watched him, a little terrified by his outburst.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Greyson shook his head, and I took this to mean he didn’t blame me. He just needed a minute away from everyone else to vent.

  He stood still, shoulders heaving as he panted, trying to recover. Finally he looked at me, and I knew it had passed. He was himself again.

  “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I won’t say a word to Murphy.”

  I softened a bit, taking a step toward him and pulling him into a hug. “I know you won’t.”

  He seemed to deflate in my arms. I squeezed him once and pulled back, not trusting myself to keep a level head with Greyson and Logan breaking down. “I should go,” I said. “I’m late for supply duty.”

  He nodded. “What should I tell Amory?”

  “Nothing yet,” I said, feeling a stab of guilt as the words left my mouth. “I need to think.”

  Schlepping back to camp toward the supply cabin, I felt an even heavier weight on my chest than before I’d told Greyson. Tentatively pushing open the cabin door, I was immediately engulfed by a collapsing pile of linens.

  The room was larger than the cabin I shared with Logan and the other women, but every available inch was crowded with supplies: stacks of clothing, pyramids of canned goods, buckets of ammunition, guns and knives hanging on hooks around the room, hatchets, toilet paper, pots and pans, flour, sugar, coffee. There was a pillar of wooden crates that had not been unpacked to my left, and the dim lighting made it difficult to see a path through the stuff.

  “You’re late,” said a voice from the abyss.

  “I’m sorry.”

  A diminutive woman with army fatigues ballooning over tall combat boots emerged from behind a wall of canned corn carrying a clipboard. Her hair was pulled back into a tight French braid at the back of her head, and harsh square glasses rested on the bridge of her nose.

  “In case you can’t tell, we’re drowning here,” she snapped. “There’s a supply run scheduled for today, and I have no room to put anything! I have canned corn coming out my ass but not enough ammo or first aid supplies.”

  My heart thudded painfully in my chest at her mention of a supply run, and I instantly wished I had not gotten on her bad side so quickly.

  She shoved the clipboard into my hands, and my vision immediately clouded as I squinted down at the minuscule rows of numbers. In tiny, cramped handwriting was the description of an item, followed by a number for each week to show how many had been used or lost.

  “You won’t get to everything this week,” she said. “Pay special attention to our commodity items: flour, coffee, sugar, toilet paper, antiseptic. We check the weapons and ammunition daily. If anything goes missing, it’s on your head. If someone needs something, you write down what they took. All the food goes through the mess hall. This isn’t a vending machine. Always bolt the door when you leave to keep out bears.”

  The door creaked open, and Ida stepped inside. “It’s almost time to go. Are you ready, Mrs. Miller?”

  Miller squinted up at me over her bifocals, and a gleam of satisfaction twinkled in her muddy brown eyes. “Take the new girl. I have things to do.” Then she wrinkled her nose despite her obvious delight. “Hell, I’d like to go on an adventure now and again, but I’m stuck here trying to keep this place afloat.”

  Yanking the clipboard out of my hands, she pulled a folded slip of paper out of her pocket. “Here’s my list. Don’t short me on ammunition. We’re running low.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” said Ida.

  Miller turned back to her work, and I followed Ida through the maze of clothes and food outside. She looked uncharacteristically grim. “Go get your weapon. It’s time to go.”

  The tone of her voice scared me, but I was glad to escape Miller and the cramped supply cabin. She reminded me a bit of Shriver, but without Shriver’s obvious care for the people she tended.

  I was burning to tell Ida about Logan because she would know what to do, but the thought of getting back on the road to visit the Exchange pushed the virus out of my mind.

  Back in the cabin, I grabbed my SCAR, two knives, and extra magazines. I wasn’t sure if the real danger would be the PMC or carriers, but I thought it best to be prepared for both. When I emerged, I was surprised to see Ida waiting with a gun slung over her shoulder. During my time on the farm, I’d never seen her wield a weapon.

  The truck we had taken into camp was already idling on the edge of the narrow dirt road, and two of the hunters were loading packages of venison into the back.

  “This week’s location requires us to get on the main road,” she explained. “The stretch we’ll use doesn’t have any rovers, but we still need to be on high alert. Trucks like these are a dead giveaway. Whatever happens, we can’t lead the PMC back to camp.”

  Ida turned to one of the hunters, a scraggly man in his late forties with several days’ worth of scruff on his chin. “How much will that get me?”

  He appraised the pile of deer meat, scratching his stubble. “It’s a good haul. I wouldn’t take any less than four hundred rounds.”

  When the last package was loaded, Ida thanked the men and climbed up into the cab of the truck. I followed, nervously taking in the men’s weary expressions. Even they seemed to think we might not return.

  With her long skirt, Ida looked comical in the driver’s seat, but she deftly put the truck in gear and pulled out of camp.

  The narrow dirt road quickly opened out to a wider gravel drive, which must have been the entrance to camp when the place was a tourist spot. The snow along the road was punctuated with rustic-looking signs with cheery messages carved into the wood: “Have a safe trip!” and “Visit us again!”

  The ride smoothed out as we turned onto a smaller county road, which wound around sharp curves and made me feel a little carsick. Finally we reached the highway, and Ida squinted in both directions. The road was empty. There was no going back now.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As we drove, I noticed that Ida’s eyes kept darting nervously to the rearview mirror. We were silent for several minutes, and I kept expecting to see an overpass with rovers looming in the distance or the flash of blue PMC lights on the horizon.

  Soon, however, when we hadn’t seen another vehicle for miles, Ida appeared to relax. Without the imminent threat of danger, the sick feeling in my stomach returned. I needed Ida’s advice, and she deserved to know about Logan.

  “I have to tell you something,” I said.

  Ida turned her head toward me, looking vaguely surprised.

  “But you can’t tell anyone . . . especially Murphy. Not yet.”

  “I won’t make that promise, Haven. Not if it’s something he needs to know. We are guests at Murphy’s camp. He’s responsible for all those people.”

  “You can’t. Please. Just not for a few days.”

  She looked conflicted but sighed. “Go on, then. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  I took a deep breath. “Logan is infected.”

  The words hung in the cab between us.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “She is. I don’t know how, but all the signs are there.”

  Ida’s mouth was hanging open slightly. She was staring out into the empty road, looking completely lost.

  “I’m sor
ry. I know you love Logan.”

  “Couldn’t love her more if she were my own blood. How did this happen?”

  I didn’t answer. I knew she wasn’t talking about Logan becoming infected.

  “We need to let Murphy know,” she said abruptly. “All his people think they are safe.”

  “Won’t he make us kill Logan?”

  Ida shook her head. “Murphy’s not a cruel man. But Logan will need to be put down eventually.”

  Taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone, I stared out at the road, contemplating life without Logan.

  “What stage was the . . . carrier who bit her?” Ida said the word “carrier” with some hesitation. I knew she didn’t like using a word that implied they were anything other than human.

  “Stage five.”

  She nodded. “There’s been speculation that those are the ones that spread the virus. The data we have isn’t very good since the outbreak happened so suddenly, but most of the recent cases I’ve seen have been from someone getting bitten by a carrier with the sores.”

  “Maybe it’s bloodborne.”

  Ida shook her head. “It doesn’t explain the first outbreaks. How did all those people come in contact with infected blood?”

  “There were two major outbreaks, right? One in the winter and one in the summer, meaning they had to come in contact with the virus sometime in late fall and spring. What happened to all those people?”

  Ida was deep in thought. “The first outbreak was much worse. Almost everyone was infected between last October and November, and there were a lot of elderly people who became sick.”

  “Maybe the vaccine only works if your immune system is capable of fighting the virus,” I said, thinking of Logan lying on that cot looking like a corpse.

  We fell silent, both frustrated by how close we were to the truth. Ida resumed her frantic scan of the road, and a moment later, we decelerated.

  Searching the right side of the highway, Ida changed lanes and slowed almost to a stop as she turned down a tiny road tucked into the trees I had nearly missed. The tires groaned as we drove through the hard-packed snow. No one had plowed the road here.

  We passed several private gravel roads, and I felt a twinge of sadness imagining all those empty houses. My dad had wanted to move out to a place like this. He loved the country, but he tolerated the suburbs mostly for my mom. She loved the neighborhood barbecues and the green lawns, but my dad had always been more of a lone wolf. Now he would never get his dream home in the woods.

  Through the trees, I could just make out a dilapidated white building. It blended in with the snow, but as we rounded the corner, a squat steeple came into view. The half-collapsed sign sticking out of the snow read “Salvation Baptist Church,” and the windows looked dark. Several other vehicles were parked along the road and in the gravel drive. Ida stopped the truck.

  “Got that list?”

  I withdrew the folded piece of paper Miller had given me, and Ida squinted through her glasses to read the tiny, cramped handwriting from the clipboard.

  “She must be dreaming,” Ida muttered. “She wants four hundred rounds of ammunition plus two gallons of antiseptic, gauze, forty rolls of toilet paper, and thirty gallons of gasoline.”

  “How much is meat worth?”

  “A lot. The only thing worth more is ammunition and fuel, but that’s gotten more and more expensive every time I’ve come here. We’re not importing oil anymore, and all the factories, refineries, and oil rigs are now PMC controlled. There’s a finite supply.”

  As Ida muttered some mental calculations to herself, I studied the old church warily through my foggy window. If I hadn’t seen the other cars, I would have thought the church was empty. There were no people milling around outside, and the windows looked dark.

  “Leave your gun,” Ida said, putting her own on the floorboard behind the seat. “These people are a little . . . on edge.”

  I tucked my own gun away with some hesitation. I didn’t like walking into the unknown without it. Following her through the snow, I began to feel the excitement and nerves humming in my chest.

  “Shouldn’t we get the venison?” I whispered.

  She shook her head once. “It’s not a good idea to show your hand. These aren’t the Murphys or even the Rulons of the world. Most of these people are preppers.”

  “Preppers?”

  “Survivalists. They’re the ones who saw this coming. They made it big after the Collapse because they’d already stockpiled enough food and weapons to last for years. But you can’t trust them. They’re only looking out for themselves and their families. They’re not afraid to kill anyone who gets in their way.”

  I swallowed, feeling the knife hidden under my coat.

  “Keep a sharp eye.”

  As we drew closer to the church, I heard the murmur of voices inside. Ida pushed open the door, and several dozen pairs of eyes snapped in our direction. They were scattered between the pews, vendors using the benches to display their wares as traders prowled up and down the aisles. I couldn’t tell which group looked more unsavory. The vendors all had a smug, rugged look about them, and most of the people looking to make a trade were thin with pinched, tired faces.

  A few vendors nodded at Ida, but she returned their greetings with a tight, closed-mouth smile so unlike her usual warm, toothy grin. I had never seen her more ill at ease.

  To my left, a shout erupted. I turned in time to see a vendor with a scraggly beard spit on the shoes of a man in a tattered winter coat. The trader shoved the man across the pew, and the vendor pulled out a handgun and pointed it at his temple. I froze, preparing to hit the deck, but no one else seemed to notice. The trader whimpered and backed away, clutching a tin of motor oil he had tried to barter.

  “Don’t stare,” Ida murmured to me.

  I snapped my eyes away from the vendor but continued to drink in my surroundings. Most of the vendors were selling an odd hodgepodge of items: clothes, tools, weapons, ammunition, car parts, kitchen utensils, canned food, coffee, eggs, vegetables, breakfast cereal, soap, makeup, farm equipment, and even live chickens.

  Ida walked straight to the back and stopped in front of a man in his mid thirties with a thick red beard and a leather vest. Tattoos snaked up his folded bare arms, and his skin was smeared with grease. He smirked when he saw us approaching.

  “Well, look who the cat dragged in,” he said with an appreciative twang in his voice. Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl.

  Unlike the others, he didn’t have a bunch of random items spread out in his pew. Instead, there was an array of disassembled guns spread out on a greasy towel and neatly stacked boxes of ammunition.

  “What can I do you for?”

  “Hello, Rick.”

  “It’s been too long.”

  “I’ve been on the move. And there’s been some trouble.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Rick’s voice was pleasant enough, but something about him still made me uneasy.

  “Who’s this?” he asked, looking me up and down.

  “This is Haven.”

  I smiled, not wanting to.

  Rick cracked a grin and extended a greasy hand. “Well, Haven, it sure is nice to meet you.”

  The way he said it made me slightly uncomfortable, and Ida stepped smoothly between us.

  “How are you set for meat this winter?”

  He shrugged. “We’re doing all right. Can’t complain.”

  “You must be spread pretty thin . . . trying to do all the hunting while protecting your family. I heard that area was hit really hard by carriers this summer.”

  “We manage,” he said. There was a note of defensiveness in his voice.

  “How many pounds of venison would twenty rounds cost me?”

  “Venison?” He chuckled. “Damn, I was hoping you’d decided to slaughter one of them fine cows of yours.”

  She smiled, and again I noticed it did not meet her eyes.

 
“Twenty rounds will cost you ten pounds of venison.”

  “How about five pounds?”

  “Sorry, Ida. I want to help you out, but venison just isn’t worth that. Now if you had beef . . .” He smacked his lips. “But it’s getting harder and harder to find ammunition.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  “How many boxes can I put you down for?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “That’s three hundred rounds.” He laughed. “What am I supposed to do with a hundred and fifty pounds of deer meat?”

  “Freeze it.”

  He studied her for a moment, and there was an odd gleam in his eye. “All right. But only because I like you. The wife’s gonna be pissed that she has to cook venison for the next three months.”

  “We’ll be right back,” said Ida. “We have a few more trades to make. Then we can exchange payment.”

  He nodded and winked at me.

  I followed Ida back down the aisle, keeping Rick in my line of sight for several feet. Something about him wasn’t right.

  To my surprise, Ida’s voice sounded worried when she spoke next. “We need to make the next trade and get out of here. I trust Rick, but I don’t like people knowing what we’ve got.”

  We made the rounds to a few other vendors Ida knew, trading pounds of meat for the goods on Miller’s list. For the smaller trades, she sent me out to the truck to get the meat. The hunters had wrapped it in brown paper with the number of pounds of cut meat written in grease pencil.

  Once we had gathered all the first aid supplies, the food we needed, and gasoline for the truck, Ida nodded to Rick to follow us outside to make the trade. I opened the truck bed and piled the packages of meat into a wooden crate. I hopped down into the snow and stared at him loping toward us.

  Something was wrong.

  He wasn’t carrying a crate of ammunition; instead, he cradled his rifle lazily in the crook of his arm.

  “Well, we’d like to be on our way,” said Ida. I knew she was thinking the same thing I was.