Divided We Stand (What's Left of My World Book 4)

by C. A. Rudolph

  Chad smirked and nodded. “Let’s take what’s left up to the barricade.” He turned, looking over his shoulder as he advanced into the adjacent room. “It might help our Brady compatriots be a little more sympathetic to your cause. If you’re serious about this plan of yours, we’re going to need their help to make it happen.”

  “Good idea. Thank you.”

  “You can thank me later—if we survive.”

  Another set of footsteps descending the cabin’s staircase startled the siblings, and after spotting two slender legs wrapped in a pair of rolled-up sweatpants through the entryway, Mark jumped up from his chair and anxiously backed away while reaching for the pistol holstered on his belt. “Jesus Christ! What in the hell?”

  Chad responded immediately to his brother’s reaction, moving to intercept whatever awaited them.

  As Chad and Mark went shoulder to shoulder with one another, both their jaws fell to the floor at the sight of the woman emerging from the stairway. A very pale, very emaciated Sasha Ledo limped her way barefoot into the kitchen. She had not only resisted death, but had somehow beaten it, having recently arisen from her coma without so much as a warning.

  Sasha rubbed her eyes and pulled at the bandages clinging to her chest, then scratched at the sutures that had been sewed into her skin to close her wounds. “Fuck me running up the stairs—I feel like death warmed over,” she said, her voice raw and abrasive, her tongue sticking to the desiccated roof of her mouth. “You two were being so loud down here, I had to come see what all the uproar was about.”

  She glanced upward, taking turns scrutinizing the mystified looks she was getting from them. “Seriously? What the hell are you two staring at, for God’s sake?” Annoyed, she turned away, catching sight of Mark’s tea glass. She pointed to it with a bent finger. “Mmm, that looks good. I’m as dry as a dustbowl,” she said, shadowed by a raspy cough. “What is it? Bourbon?”

  Mark hesitated. “No. It’s…uh, tea.”

  “Of course it is.” Sasha frowned, breathed a vexed sigh, and sat at the table, feeling her bones scrape and her unused muscles throb. “Well? Are you dudes just gonna stand there? Or offer a lady a drink?”

  Chapter 2

  The cabin

  Trout Run Valley

  Wednesday, December 1st

  Grace peered out the living room window, a sheen of mild trepidation coating her youthful face. Her mood was somber, but she felt hopeful despite the circumstances weighing on everyone she knew and cared about. Like most other things affecting her moods, attitude, and her overall outlook on life, the lull was brief, and Grace was quick to dismiss it.

  Letting out a loud sigh, Grace slid her arms across her chest, enfolded them, and squeezed into a mild shiver while she watched the vehicle convoy careen out of the driveway and head north along Trout Run Road, disappearing shortly thereafter.

  For several minutes after they had departed, Grace couldn’t help but be idle. With nothing else demanding her attention for the moment, she gazed affably out the window at the dust settling back onto the driveway at the road’s edge. She wanted to take all the time in the world right now. It was her way of wishing Lauren, Christian, Norman, and those accompanying them safe travels.

  Grace eventually turned away and plopped down on the couch, only to listlessly stare up at the ceiling. “I just sent the love of my life away on a sterile endeavor to save my sister, of all things,” she deliberated, smirking in amusement at her thoughts while she toyed with her hair and flicked at her fingernails. “Grace, my dear? I hope you understand, despite your attempts to prove otherwise, there’s a good chance you might actually be a little schizophrenic.”

  The cabin had never been this quiet before, devoid of life’s activities, daily commotion, and mixed conversation. Ordinarily, John would be sleeping his day away after another graveyard shift on the porch, but his brother’s condition had diverted him to the Masons’ home. Lee had been experiencing a fever nearing one hundred four degrees, the symptom of the late stages of the severe illness befalling him having begun to rear its ugly head.

  Norman and Christian had both gone along on the expedition to find desperately needed medical assistance, food, and sundries, leaving Grace to grace the cabin with her presence, accompanied only by John and her stepmother, Michelle.

  Prior to his departure, Fred Mason had left strict instructions for those lingering at home in the valley to remain vigilant and on constant alert. Despite the circumstances and overwhelming stress, which could very easily take their minds off their most recent threat, the evidence that Lauren and Grace had uncovered on the mountain was still in play. It was a trail of bread crumbs, and whoever had left it was certain to return. The situation therefore required awareness and anticipatory action.

  Vehicle patrols were to continue twenty-four hours a day, and foot patrols had been made into a requirement. No one was to be outside their residence without a loaded weapon within reach at all times. Everyone was instructed to watch for anything suspicious, keeping their eyes to the trees—especially to the east. If a hostile force was encountered, they were to engage it and terminate it by any means necessary. If the force was overwhelming, they were to gather and fall back to the Mason home and defend the position until it became no longer feasible.

  As a last resort, they were to bug out and utilize Fred’s remaining Humvee and his M35 deuce and a half as transportation, since it was among the few remaining vehicles left in the valley capable of transporting the sick without the need to remove them from their beds.

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, the situation had become desperate. Lives were hanging in the balance, and now, due to the division of human assets, the overall defensive state of the valley was at an all-time minimum. As a result, Fred’s instructions were heeded to the letter, even by those who had a habit of taking matters too lightly and questioning most things, like Grace typically did.

  In addition to Fred’s explicit directives, Christian had also provided Grace with a set of policies to abide by while he was away. He had told her, “Fred might not be certain about who’s responsible for all this, but I am. I know who it is, Grace, and I’m telling you, you and everyone else need to be ready when they decide to pop their heads out. Trust me—they are coming.”

  Grace squinted, and her lips pursed as her expression settled. She recalled the tone in Christian’s voice.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this. But you need to be ready to take them out,” he had said.

  She had peered at him scornfully. “Take them out? You mean kill them, correct? Is that right?”

  “That is precisely what I mean. You can’t hesitate, Grace, and I mean not for a single second. Because they won’t. If they get a clear shot, they’ll kill you because that’s what they’ve been trained and ordered to do. And I know this because it’s what I was trained and ordered to do. We are their enemy now, and we must acknowledge the same about them. We know more about the layout of the land here than they do, and that’s an advantage. We can outmaneuver them, but that won’t be the be-all and end-all. We have to kill them, and that means you might have to kill them. So don’t hesitate, because I can guarantee they won’t give you the same chance you give them.”

  Grace shuddered while her thoughts raced back to the present. “Don’t hesitate, Grace,” she said aloud to herself. “You heard the man. Getting yourself killed will not be tolerated.”

  Grace knew she was capable of pulling the trigger and taking a life, having done so before already in several instances. She had fought alongside Christian and the others during the battle with the bikers and had killed a handful of human targets, and had also, mere days ago, shot a young man several times in his chest while defending Lauren’s welfare on Mill Mountain.

  Her thoughts glided by, soon bringing her back to another conversation she’d had just before the expedition had departed the valley, one she’d had with her younger sister.

  Both Grace and Lauren had spent the time th
ey shared before the departure divulging much more than they’d intended. Just before stepping out the door on her way to leave, Lauren had turned to Grace, her eyes denoting her undying inquisitiveness, her body language displaying unease. She’d said, “Grace, I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay. Why the warning, then? Today is just like any other day, kind of. Just ask me.”

  “Warning? No…it’s just that something’s been bugging me, and I need you to answer a question that won’t stop incessantly pounding my brain.”

  “Want me to get you some ibuprofen? There’s some in the med—”

  “Grace…”

  “I’m joking. Sister, my life is an open book—it is for you, anyway. I just exposed all the gory details about Christian and me. Whatever you need to know probably pales in comparison.”

  “Oh—it’s nothing like that at all,” Lauren had said through a sheepish smirk. “It’s about the other day—on our hike to Big Schloss—when you said you thought I’d gotten used to killing and that it didn’t bother me anymore.”

  “Yeah? So? Do you think I overspoke or something?”

  “No, never. It’s just that…the thought occurred to me that you’ve been pulling the trigger quite a bit lately yourself,” Lauren had explained. “Lord knows, I haven’t had the time to do a body count, but odds are it was your gun that took out some of those bikers. And if it had, doing so didn’t faze you one bit, at least from what I can see. You even shot that boy so I could get away from him without shedding a tear.”

  “What’s your point?” Grace had asked.

  Lauren had given her a cross stare. “My point is, you pointing out to me that killing doesn’t faze me anymore even though at one time it had. But looking back, you’ve pulled the trigger, too. You’ve killed, same as me. And I don’t see one single bit of hurt or regret on the surface.”

  “And?”

  “And I know you’re a heck of an actress…but some things are impossible to hide—yet you’re hiding them or not allowing them to affect you somehow.”

  “And?”

  “And I want to know why.”

  “I’m not sure I want to tell you why,” Grace had said.

  Lauren had cast an indignant stare. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because. It’ll probably sound stupid, and you’ll make fun of me about it, like you usually do.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “I’m quite sure that you will.”

  “Try me.”

  After an extended moment of hesitation, Grace had said, “Fine. If you must know, I’ll tell you. But I swear to God, I’ll shoot you too if you tell anyone.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever.”

  Grace had wavered slightly. “I…I close my eyes.”

  “What?”

  “That’s it. I close my eyes.”

  “You close your eyes?”

  “Yeah. Like—before I shoot the guy. I aim, and right before I pull the trigger, I close my eyes.”

  Lauren had cocked her head in disbelief. “And that’s it?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I always thought if I did it that way, I can’t see myself shooting them, and I can’t see them die when I pull the trigger. It’s, like, plausible deniability or something.”

  Lauren had giggled and used her hand to conceal a smile. “Jesus. That’s, like, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard or something.”

  “Hey, like, shut the hell up or something, like. Not everyone is a born-again, hard, ruthless, friggin’ cutthroat assassin like you are, twisted sister. Some of us find ways to preemptively cope before coping becomes requisite. Closing my eyes is my way, and it works for me, and so far, I like it. So you can just kiss it.”

  As the fire crackled happily within the black iron Timberline, tempering the air nearby, Grace’s look of worry returned as she scanned the uninhabited cabin. She’d grown fond of seeing Christian lounging in the recliner. Now it sat upright and empty, deficient of the warm body that had once made it whole.

  “Just like me,” said Grace, leaning her head to point to the chair. “You and I got something in common now, mister La-Z-Boy.”

  After a few minutes, Grace rose and shimmied to the kitchen table, where she’d begun to arrange her gear. She picked up what she now considered her own personal AR-15, a Palmetto State Armory build her father had put together several years before the collapse. Grace had never paid close attention to the mechanics or the finer details of the weapon until recently. Now she was beginning to become accustomed to it, and she liked the way it felt in her hands. But even more than that, she liked how it made her feel safe and powerful.

  “Well, Lauren, since you’re not around, I suppose it’s my turn to do this stuff now,” Grace said to herself, her voice echoing against the walls of the vacant cabin.

  She peeked at the table, where she had previously arranged the items she intended to carry with her for the next several days, weeks, or for however long it took for her sister, Christian, and the others to return home. There were extra magazines for each of her firearms, a SOG folding knife, and the Baofeng radio she normally carried with her.

  Grace patted her side with her right hand, verifying the Glock 27 she normally kept holstered on her hip was there. Then she pushed her hand into the front pocket of her pants and felt something she didn’t normally keep in her front pocket, remembering that before Lauren had left, they had decided to exchange gifts.

  Grace had given Lauren the plate carrier she’d been holding onto since the fight with the Marauders, and Lauren had given Grace their father’s custom Ruger LCP, the same weapon Lauren had used to dispatch the club’s leader. At first, Grace didn’t want it, but her sister’s insistence was as stout as her own, and Grace acquiesced.

  Grace had always considered the Glock 27 to be a small pistol, as far as pistols go, even though it fit perfectly in her hands. The Ruger, on the other hand, was even smaller than the Glock. It worried her that she’d never shot it before, and she made a mental note to put holes in some paper with it before the need arose to put holes in something else.

  “Thanks, Lauren. I love you, sister,” Grace said, feeling the inseam of the tactical pants her sister had also given her. They were a little long in the legs, but fit her well, and Grace was finding all the extra pockets to her liking. There seemed to be a pocket for just about everything she could think of and, as well, for things she couldn’t.

  Grace set her rifle on the table. She picked up one of the matching thirty-round composite magazines and slid it into a thigh pocket while discovering two other pockets existed inside it.

  “Well, isn’t that special. Pocket pockets. I wonder who thought of that? The genius is probably a millionaire by now.” Grace giggled to herself. “Or I guess, maybe he was, anyway.”

  Grace soon realized these pocket pockets were perfectly sized for an AR-15’s magazine and slid one into each of them. She grabbed the remaining items from the table and placed them on and around her person, then slung her rifle over her neck and arm in a comparable manner to how her sister did, so it would drape in a ready position across her chest.

  Afterward, she turned and looked down the hallway into a mirror mounted on the wall. “Grace? What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?” She turned sideways. “You’re not exactly Red Dawn. Lauren was chosen to play that part. Maybe…no, I guess not really a Charlie’s Angel or Sarah Connor, either.” She turned again and sashayed. “You look better suited for a role as an extra in Kill Bill.” She paused, sighing. “Oh well…fake it till you make it, Gracey Lou. A clever act has gotten you through most predicaments…why should this be any different?”

  Fake it till you make it.

  Grace had always been a phenomenal actress. Her career as a thespian had begun in junior high and continued throughout the remainder of her life pre-apocalypse. She had won awards and trophies and had even been accepted into schools of higher learning based solely on her skills and performance abilities. But Grace had also learned h
ow to exploit her talents to get whatever she wanted. If a particular angle wasn’t working for her, she’d put on a different face and eventually find a suitable character to act her way through a situation. Any situation.

  Grace walked outside the cabin, and in the relative silence, she thought she could hear a faint buzzing noise, seeming to originate from above her somewhere in the sky. She glanced skyward in search of the source, an aircraft of some type, since it was the only contraption she could compare the noise to.

  “Watching the birds fly south?” John called to her teasingly as he approached, Mossberg shotgun cradled in his arms and a small pack dangling from his shoulders.

  “What?”

  John laughed, knowing he’d caught her off guard. “What are you looking at?”

  “Oh…I don’t know. I thought I heard buzzing. Like an airplane or maybe a helicopter or…something like that.”

  “I haven’t seen or heard anything artificial in the sky since we’ve been here,” John said, taking a second to have a look for himself. “I can’t hear a thing. You sure you heard something?”

  “Yeah…I mean, who knows? I can’t hear it now. It’s probably nothing.” Grace fidgeted. “Could be my brain playing tricks on me. I get that from time to time.” She noticed John’s face appearing sullener the closer he got to her. “How’s Lee doing?”

  John didn’t respond immediately, and his sluggish pace soon slowed to a stop. “He’s still got a hell of a fever. Kristen is trying to invent ways to get his temperature down. I was going to suggest rocks from the creek, but I guess that’s out of the question now. I sure wish we had about fifty bags of ice.”

  Grace nodded in recognition but didn’t say anything. She, too, was worried about Lee, but she knew her level of preoccupation paled in comparison to John’s.

  John moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with her, pushing out a despondent sigh. “Aside from that, I have nothing of note to report. The valley looks good, I suppose. Everybody seems to be doing like Fred asked them to.” He pointed through the trees in the direction of the Taylor residence. “Bryan is on foot, walking the road between his house and the barricade with an HK-91 Fred must’ve given him. I haven’t seen Sarah, so I’m guessing she’s inside keeping Emily occupied. I’m not certain if she’s armed, but I hope she is.” He paused. “Everybody else is at the Masons’, obviously.”