by Addison Gunn
The humans were nearly halfway through building the second fort’s wall. Once the lumber for the cabins was cleaned, they’d have no more use for such a large work force; and Samantha didn’t have to guess what would happen to those who were deemed too ill to keep alive.
“Hey, three mouthfuls!” someone shouted, drawing the crowd’s attention. “Three!”
Over in the corner beside a fire, the woman with dreads stood over Binh, who was holding a tin cup to his mouth and dumping the entire contents into his mouth. Chewing furiously, he tipped the cup higher.
The woman reached for the cup, but Binh twisted his torso to keep out of reach, shaking the cup. A small woman sitting next to him grabbed the cup and yanked it free, splattering mush across the awaiting crowd.
The crowd of workers climbed to its feet with a chorus of outrage. Shaking their fists and raising their voices, the crowd surged forward, enveloping Binh as he cowered in place.
The uproar rippled across the crowd, like a rock dropped into a puddle. Before long, Binh had been wrenched to his feet and dragged to the center of the holding pen, slapped, punched, and kicked the entire way.
Sam watched, torn between anger and horror. It had started again—the rage. The suffering of the work camp was twisting into fury and violence, and she knew, before long, Binh would be mauled or stomped to death. She was watching the incident at the farm all over again.
Samantha stood and grabbed hold of the nearest person, one of the men whom she’d shielded that day. He looked up from the fire and softly grinned at her. Soon, she was pulsing peace and forgiveness through him. The man reached out and grabbed hold of the person next to him, and from there the empathy grew.
Arms reached out and took shoulders. Hands clasped hands. One woman laid her head on another woman’s shoulder and they both reached out, finally reaching the circle pressing around Binh. The shouting stopped.
There was calm.
With a loud bang and the familiar clank of the noisy bolt, the gate into the holding pen swung open. Five heavily-armed humans stood at the entry, all in camouflage. They stepped inside and ploughed through the crowd like the a bulldozer. The mood broke as people scattered, skittering and scampering away, some on all fours.
They headed straight toward Samantha and grabbed her. She dug in her heels, tried to wrench her arms away, but she was too weak, and no match for their numbers.
“I didn’t do anything!”
They ignored her, dragging her from the pen and relocking the gate behind them. Through the fort they went, humans gawking from their cabins. They took her past the guards at the gate and out into the forest, two men dragging her as the others walked ahead, lighting the way with torches.
Her first thought was that they were going to shoot her and leave her corpse for the terror-jaws. One of them must have seen what she’d done in the pen. Surely they knew about the powers of the Archaean Bishops, and their ability to control and manipulate the Regulars. What had Alex called them once? Charismatics.
These humans were smart enough to have survived this long in the middle of the Adirondack forest; they weren’t idiots. They’d be smart to get rid of a Bishop.
But a bullet to the head wasn’t what they had in store for her.
Instead, they took Samantha to a secluded clearing in the forest, laced a short chain through her manacle, and hammered a metal stake into the ground, securing her in place.
Beside her, on one side, were the rotting corpses of other Infected, frozen solid and covered in snow. On the other side was a pile of tree stumps, branches, and tree roots, stacked in a giant heap, presumably for use as firewood. Across from that was a heap of stones and rock, likely pulled from the ground where the humans had been building.
Sam considered begging the humans not to leave, but she saved her breath.
When they moved off, taking their torches with them, Samantha listened to their footsteps crunch across the forest floor, and then cringed, despite herself, when they were gone from view.
There was no moon, or none that Sam could see. The only light was the dim glow from the fort, a quarter of a kilometer away.
Crying out for help would only attract predators. If she tried to sleep, she’d freeze. If she stood up and paced to keep warm, she would likely collapse from exhaustion, then freeze.
As she stood, contemplating her survival, the bite in the air worked its way through her thin long-sleeved shirt and pants, chilling her to the bone. Her feet grew numb in the light snow. If she didn’t do something, she’d end up on the stack of rotting bodies beside her.
Okay. First things first.
She pulled on the chain, stretched as far as she could to the edge of the scraps pile, and dug through the heap of branches and logs. She made a small pile of dry twigs and sticks, then found two thick sticks and a fat branch, each about a half meter long.
To start, she scraped each piece against a jagged rock, removing twigs, leaves, and bark. Taking up the thicker of the two sticks, she rubbed the end hard against the rock, rounding it into a dull point. Once satisfied, she put the wood aside and untied her hair, loosening the dirty waves from the leather thong.
Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her forefinger in a thick lock of her loose hair and yanked. It came off surprisingly easy; her hands shook more from adrenaline than pain.
With trembling fingers, she tied the end of the lock with the leather strip, held it in her teeth and went to work, twisting the hair into a thick, tight braid. She secured the tip with a glob of tree sap, then tied the ends of the braid to the thinnest stick. Now she had a crude bow. Holding the fat branch between her feet, she looped the hair around the pointed stick and pulled the bow back and forth, grinding the improvised spindle in a knothole in the branch.
It took several minutes and a few false starts, but eventually smoke began to rise from the knothole; a trickle at first, then a continuous plume.
She removed the central stick. At the contact point, a small red ember burned. Dropping a handful of pine needles in the hole, Samantha picked up the branch and blew into the tinder, bringing more smoke with each breath until the pine needles burst into flames.
Samantha dumped the burning needles into her pile of dry twigs. The wind kicked in, causing her a brief moment of panic when the flames flickered, but the sticks took, the flames steadily rising until the heat started melting the snow around her.
Surely, with all these branches around her, she had enough firewood to stay warm throughout the night. She was saved, for the time being—
But saved for what?
Perhaps those who had died of exposure had been the lucky ones, she realized, eyeing the pile of bodies. Their suffering had, at least, ended. Hers could continue for days, assuming the guards didn’t just come back and shoot her in the morning.
She stared into the flames and frowned—then a thought crossed her mind.
She snatched a long branch from the fire and pushed the burning pile closer to the stack of logs. It took a little while in the cold, but eventually the tree sap caught and the stack was gradually engulfed. Then the fire spread across the trunks of the trees and then set fire to the branches of the surrounding forest.
Samantha smiled. “There,” she said. “That’s better.”
Standing in the center of a forest fire proved oddly satisfying. The warmth alone was soothing, the dry heat cracking and flaking the lichen on her arm. Sam felt warm to the core, a sensation which had eluded her since her days at the dairy farm.
It wasn’t long until the fire became a genuine threat, however. She had to move.
Lying on her side in the muck, Sam kicked the stake with both feet half a dozen times, seeing it shift slightly in the hard ground. She did the same from the other side, then again, feeling it move more and more each time, until she climbed to her feet and wrenched it out of the ground with her hands. Free from her chain, she grabbed a pair of blazing branches from the burning debris and ran toward the fort.
S
hots rang out as the walls came into view, hitting the ground near her feet and whizzing past her face. She zigzagged through the trees until she was close enough to toss the burning branches at the base of the wooden fort.
Turning back around, she slunk into the dark forest, heading for the spreading fire. She snatched two more burning branches and returned to the fort.
This time they were ready for her. More shots rang out, one grazing her arm. She never lost a step. Nothing short of a bullet to the head was going to stop her.
She threw more burning branches at the base of the fort, gratified to see that her first brands had caught. She ran back into the darkened forest to watch it burn.
There was shouting within, gun shots. She saw smoke rising from the fort’s interior, heard whoops of delight from the Infected holding pen. When the howls of revolution came, she felt them in her chest.
The front gate swung open. Humans spilled out, mostly women clutching children—perhaps a dozen. They ran at a full sprint, stumbling in the dark and scattering into the forest, their babies squalling. A few of the men followed closely behind.
The fort gate remained ajar, and unguarded. Taking a breath, she cut across the forest and ran straight inside.
The west and south wall were both burning, where the Infected has set their own blazes to join the fires Sam had started. She scanned the pen, with a notion of sneaking past the guards and releasing her fellow captives, but they were already on top of it. Sam watched as some of the fittest inmates climbed on top of one another, forming a human ladder. A handful of them reached the top of the fence, then jumped down to the other side to open the gate.
The Infected quickly overcame the panicking humans, confiscating their weapons and knocking them out with the butts of their own rifles.
As Sam stood at the fort gate, dumbfounded, the woman with the dreads stood at the entrance to the holding pen, waving her arms over her head.
“Close the gate!” she bellowed, pointing at Samantha.
“Close the...? What?”
“Don’t let any more humans escape!” she shouted.
Sam turned on her heel and grabbed the edge of one gate and pushed, and was surprised to find Binh across from her, closing the other side. One last human man darted through before the gates were closed; Sam watched as two changed direction and tried to climb up to the walkway, only to be pulled down by a crowd of Infected.
At the back of the fort, by the pen entrance, the woman with the dreads had formed a bucket brigade to put out the fires. Samantha barred the gate, then took one of the ladders to the walkway, to join them.
By sunrise, the Infected had doused the flames, secured control of the fort—including a barn full of food, a fresh well, vehicles, and weapons—and were holding approximately a dozen human hostages.
Satisfied the worst of it was behind her, Samantha got in line at the barn with the other Infected and gladly accepted a cucumber-radish and a hunk of jerky. She paced herself, eating slowly, then sat on a scorched log to watch the sunrise. For the first time in months, she felt alive.
23
“MILLER TO THE Tevatnoa, come in Tevatnoa. Over.”
Lewis’s reply was almost immediate. “In the name of all things holy, son. What are you doing over there?”
“Our dinghy flipped in the sand storm, sir. We were...” He paused for a moment. “Rescued.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lewis replied, quickly adding, “How fortunate they were able to swoop in and save the day. And I suppose now they want to return you to your ship, no strings attached?”
“Not quite, sir.”
“That’s what I figured.” Almost as an afterthought, Lewis asked, “Did you find anything in Jacksonville?”
“Negative, sir. The lab was cleaned out and abandoned some time ago.”
The line cut short with a brief burst of static, then reopened. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, sir. Have you received any communication from President Fredericks in the last forty-eight hours?”
After a brief pause Lewis answered. “No, but our long-range communications have been down for weeks and the sand storm knocked out our short range for a couple hours. We just got them back on line. Why? Who’s in command over there? What do they want?”
Looking to the captain, the commander and Clark, Miller cleared his throat and continued. “Sir, it appears President Fredericks is infected.”
The line cut out again. Ignoring the quizzical looks from the RN officers, Miller gave a twitchy shrug and nervously fingered the receiver. Minutes later, there was another burst of static.
Gray Matheson’s voice came on the line. “Miller, repeat transmission.”
“I said, it appears President Fredericks is infected.”
“How is this...? How do you...? Where did you get this information?”
“There was a long-range communication video uploaded to the...” He looked over at the officers watching him.
“Emergency broadcast network,” Clark said. “And the internet.”
“Well, what’s left of them,” the commander said, chuckling.
“To the EBN and the internet,” Miller said into the radio. “Two days ago. I’ve seen it myself, sir. It looks legitimate. He’s asked all humans to surrender to the nearest commune.”
The line cut again for a few seconds, then, “Who’s got you and what do they want, Miller?”
“It’s the RN, sir. They want to be sure we aren’t infected, and don’t intend to become so.”
“Tell them we don’t.”
“I did, sir.”
“Good. Thank them for their concern. We’re sending a transport to retrieve you and your team.”
The captain cleared his throat.
“I suspect the captain has a thing or two to say about that.”
The disgust in Gray’s voice was apparent when he spoke again. “I’ll put Lewis back on.”
Miller held out the microphone and waited for the captain to take it.
After tugging on the hem of his jacket, the captain squared his shoulders and cracked his neck with a sharp twist. “This is Captain Jefferson Corthwell of the Royal Navy. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Commander Brandon Lewis of the Tevatnoa. Thank you for rescuing our security team. We’d like to dispatch a transport to retrieve them so we can be on our way.”
“Nothing would make me happier, commander,” the captain replied. “In exchange for the rescue of your team, we would gladly accept an operational desalination unit as a token of your appreciation.”
Miller’s mouth dropped open. “Hold on a minute.”
Lowering the mic, Corthwell frowned at Miller. “By our estimation, given the size of that ship and the depth of its drag, you have approximately five thousand people on that boat alone, not to mention the other cruiser. The blast in New York City was over six months ago. For you to be at sea that long without stopping for supplies means you have multiple desalination units aboard each ship, and a sustainable food source. Am I wrong?”
Before Miller had the opportunity to reply, Lewis responded from the receiver. “That’s quite an ask. Is there something else that would interest you? A refrigeration unit, or perhaps some fresh fruits and vegetables?”
“No,” Miller barked, more at Lewis than at the captain. “Do not take food from that ship, captain. They’re starving as it is.”
The captain raised a disapproving eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said. “You would be putting lives at risk with that demand.”
“Sounds to me as if you’ve been mismanaged.” Turning to the commander, the captain nodded toward the exit. “Escort Mr. Miller back to his team. Mr. Miller? It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Sir?”
“Everything will be dealt with accordingly, I assure you,” the commander said. He stepped in front of Miller, hand resting on his sidearm.
Seeing no other alternative, Miller stepped into the hall, face
hot, palms clammy. He followed the commander below.
What bullshit. He wasn’t going to play along with any negotiation if it involved taking food out of the mouths of those aboard the Tevatnoa. They’d just have to think of something else.
Inside the bunk room sat du Trieux, Hsiung, Morland, and now Doyle, who was snoring on a bunk beside Hsiung. His left leg, wrapped tightly in a gelatinous compression bandage, was propped up with an extra pile of bedding.
The three others sat gripping steaming cups of tea.
Seeing Miller, du Trieux rose to her feet. “What happened?”
“We’re hostages. Lewis is negotiating our release.”
“Well now,” the commander said. He stood in the door, bristling. “That’s not quite the way I’d phrase it.”
Miller frowned at him. “How would you put it?”
“A mutually beneficial exchange of resources,” he said, smiling. He stopped abruptly when Miller took a step forward.
With a slow, steady hand, Miller reached out to the door behind the commander and moved to shut it. The officer had no option other than to step into the hallway and get out of the way.
“I’ll see to it you get some tea as well,” the commander said.
“Don’t bother.” Then he shut the door in his face.
“What a wanker,” said Morland.
The door locked from the outside. Miller gritted his teeth. “The captain is all right, I think.” He stepped away from the door and slouched onto a bunk.
“What if they can’t reach an agreement?” du Trieux asked.
Miller shook his head. “I don’t know. They want food, water. Everything we can’t spare. If they can’t figure something out, my guess is we’ll be absorbed into this crew.”
“Either that or they put us on a raft and push us out to sea to die,” Hsiung said.