Finding no trace of his wife and daughter in the triage area, he entered the hospital tent, pushing past a group of nurses helping a man with a missing arm. At the far end of the cavernous tent, doctors labored furiously over tables of mangled piles of flesh, cutting into bodies or casually hacking at limbs as if they were working at a butcher shop. Red jets of blood squirted up like miniature fountains. The streams hissed and smoked when they hit the bright floodlights illuminating the operating tables. Jesse had to turn away. His stomach was threatening to rebel. After a few dry heaves, he realized it was futile to resist. He covered his mouth with a fist to keep from retching on those in front of him and started running. He barely made it to a half-empty bin in time, where he exploded from within, expelling the scant contents of his stomach in one long, protracted convulsion. After a series of two more spastic heaves, he was empty inside. He stared down at his spattered vomit in the bin, inhaling the acidic smell. He felt dizzy and ashamed and had to remain still for a few more seconds. He then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened. His knees buckled when he tried to walk, and he had to steady himself by stumbling to and then leaning against a metal post holding up a section of the tent. Faint-headed, he rested his cheek on the pole, letting the coolness of the metal soothe him.
Get going. Move on. They are still out there somewhere. With returning lucidity, he left the pole and stumbled past more rows of maimed and brutalized bodies. Many of them lay on cots, reeking of their own filth. Some appeared to have been there for days. Amputees, mostly. This wasn’t the first attack the camp had suffered, but it had been the worst in his memory. With fewer and fewer to guard the perimeter, it was only a matter of time before the entire camp would be overrun. And that day couldn’t be too far off.
A number of patients, the ones who could still walk, shambled by aimlessly. Some were being shepherded out of the rear exit in the tent. Jesse meant to catch up and see where that led to, and if his wife and daughter were with any of them. He stopped next to a woman propped against another support pole. She had recently died. Her jaw now hung slack and flies buzzed around her head. Some had landed and were crawling across her sightless eyes. Others wriggled into her nose or worked their way down her throat.
It was not Cheryl, so he kept going.
A small percentage of the injured sat between the cots on the dirt floor. Brown, muck-covered gauze bandages wrapped their injuries, and the air around them smelled sickly sweet, like the foul odor of rotting meat. Jesse had to tread lightly to not accidentally step on arms, legs, or bodies as he passed. He continued from person to person, searching the blank faces for any sign that might trigger a spark of recognition. Anything, anything at all.
He recognized no one. Frustrated, he clenched his hands into fists and dug his nails into his palms. He let out a long sigh and reconsidered his options. Could they have gotten out in time? Or were they still inside their home zone? Or could they be… Could they be dead? That was one place he didn’t want his mind to go. He pushed back against those thoughts. All he knew for certain was that they were not here. He left the tent through the rear exit where he had seen others going. The bustle of activity outside served to drown out the muted whimpers of shock and the weak cries of agony inside. Barked orders and stern commands filled the air. In a corner, off to one side of the hospital tent, a steady stream of mutilated corpses arrived on stretchers. The bodies were being dumped unceremoniously on top of a growing pile. Some had their rib cages torn open, others had black and purple bruises from being trampled, still others had shredded skin and ragged, dangling, half-chewed-off limbs.
He felt an even larger lump swelling in his throat as he examined the pile. The odor was overpowering. So much so, he put his right arm across his face and took shallow breaths through the fabric of his sleeve. If his stomach had not been empty, he would have fallen into another fit of vomiting. Though he wasn’t a religious man, he did attend church with his wife and daughter on the major holidays. He often wondered if there was anyone above to listen to his prayers, or upon hearing them, bothered to care. Iraq had shown him the consequences of an over-zealous belief in a higher power. Still, he prayed for a boon. Please, let them be alive. Let them not be here. Please, God, let them be somewhere else, anywhere else. He had to have faith, because, without it, he had nothing.
More bodies were brought to the growing stack. He continued to watch with a detached fascination since he recognized no one there. Every new body that arrived joined with the others on the growing mound of death. It looked very much like a pile of broken and discarded dolls.
Two bloodstained soldiers dragged a headless corpse next to the pile. One held the arms. The other held the legs. They swung the body between them, counted to three, and on three, tossed the corpse up top. It landed there and slid down to one side, coming to rest upside down. Where the head had once been, long red-gray tubes hung out like strands of spaghetti. Something about the dead body called out to him. Forgetting the stench, he moved closer, leaning in and kneeling to get a better view. The body was disfigured and looked as if it’d been chewed on for some time.
Another corpse landed on the pile with a wet thump. It jostled its neighbors and settled, displacing the first body and giving him a better view of the disfigured one. He held up his hand to indicate not to throw any more bodies on the pile. His mind started working hard to process what his eyes were telling it.
He recognized the headless corpse.
-8-
OFF LIMITS
THE NEW CORPSE settled deeper into the pile. Jesse realized who it was. The fraying shirt with the torn-off sleeves remained, as did the sunburned biceps, only now, besides the missing head, the arms ended at the elbows, and the legs ended near the knees. To add to the violation, the body was naked from the waist down, and much of the groin area was exposed and resembled hamburger meat. But it wasn’t his wife or daughter. It was one of the two men who had been fighting near the wellhead.
“Hey!” someone shouted. “Lawman!”
Tensing, Jesse glanced over his shoulder. The camp commander stood ten feet behind him. The man’s hands rested on his hips and his legs were spread wide.
The damn wellhead, Jesse remembered. Briggs was not the type who would let this kind of stuff go unpunished. Rising slowly, Jesse brushed his hands off on his shirt, calculating whether to act tough and bluff his way out, or plead ignorance, or—
Turning on his heels, he sprinted away, quickly ducking behind a tent and crossing over to a narrow dirt pathway on the other side that would take him to the perimeter walls. His boots pounded in the soft dirt, kicking up dust and leaving an easy trail to follow, but it couldn’t be helped. He risked a glance behind him. Two men had broken off from Briggs. They were in close pursuit. Both had their weapons drawn, but neither had yet fired. Pushing harder, Jesse used any available cover to gain advantage, running in a zigzagging pattern, not wanting to give them an easy shot. They yelled for him to stop.
In retrospect, running had probably been a bad idea. He might have been able to talk his way out of it. But now that he’d deserted his post, Briggs would likely have him shot. The man had done the same to someone else earlier in the week.
Ahead, the camp was dark. He ran toward the darkness, legs pumping like pistons, thinking he might find a place to hide. He entered the darkened area and dodged behind a tent. When he came around the other side, he slammed into something that brought him to a sudden halt.
He’d run into a washbasin. Bending his knees, he lifted. The basin toppled over, flooding the area with soapy water. He took off running again and weaved between more rows of tents, listening as he went, trying to pick out the positions of the two behind him. He heard the sounds of splashing water. They were close. Three seconds, max. Then something snagged his boot and caused him to trip. He fell face-first in the dirt and landed with an oomph.
Whatever had stopped him had also wrapped around one of his boots. Tugging at his leg while spitting out
a mouthful of dust, he struggled to untangle himself, but the harder he pulled, the tighter it got. He reached for the hunting knife on his belt. It wasn’t there. Where was it? The snap that normally secured it was undone. He must have lost it somewhere. Grunting, he yanked again on his leg, struggling to break away from the tangled mass of rope holding him in place.
“Down here!” he heard someone yell.
He pulled again.
Nothing.
Straining, he pulled harder. This time, his foot slipped out and his leg came free, leaving behind his boot. He scrambled behind a supply crate and glanced out at the pathway.
He’d hidden just in time. One of the men ran past, ignoring the lone boot lying in the dirt. After the guy had passed, Jesse crawled out from where he had hidden, untangled his boot, and scrambled behind the crate again. He put his boot back on over a dust-covered sock and laced it tight.
Crouching, he began following the contours of a nearby canvas tent until finding the entrance flap. He ducked inside, stooping low, then turned to watch for any movement outside.
Nothing.
He worked on steadying his rapid breathing, but could do nothing to slow his pounding heart. Outside, some distance away, a voice called out. It was one of the two men. They must have split up. One of them went running by only a few feet away. Jesse lurched backward, snapping the tent flap closed behind him, hoping the guy hadn’t seen him. He knew he was nothing to them, or shouldn’t be. He was just a guy trying to keep his family alive. Didn’t they have something else to worry about?
Jesse listened to the guy’s receding footsteps slapping against the chalky dust. He hadn’t been seen. It was nearly pitch black inside the tent. He had to feel his way around. Something brushed across his face. He reached out to touch it, fabric. Running a hand over whatever it was, he quickly identified it as a T-shirt. Blindly, he unbuttoned his tattered police shirt and replaced it with the T-shirt. It fit, but it was two sizes too large. He also located a baseball cap and some pants. He stepped on the heels of his boots to remove them, but found in his haste he had pulled the laces overly tight. The pants would take too much time to change into. They were probably not his size either. So, he stuck with the khakis he was already wearing. He took a pillow from a nearby cot. He ripped the pillowcase off it and tore it in half to make a sling, which he slipped around his shoulder and inserted his right arm into. He also used the sling to conceal the empty Beretta, still inside its holster. Moving to the tent flap, he listened outside. All was quiet except for the constant hum of the diesel generators powering the camp and the hordes of buzzing insects. Occasionally, those droning sounds were punctuated by a distant scream or lamenting cry of pain. He peeked out between the flaps. Wherever his pursuers had gone, they seemed to be looking for him elsewhere.
He pulled the baseball cap down low to obscure his face and left the tent behind. Upon reaching one of the more populated areas, he assumed the awkward gait of someone with an injured leg. No one paid him more than a sideways glance. He worked his way to the section where his family’s tent was located. They might have returned by now, or were trapped, or in hiding and waiting for him. Hannah was his biggest worry. He’d kept her protected from the real world for far too long.
As he approached sector Bravo, he spotted a group of armed men sitting on boxes, presumably guarding the entrance. They hadn’t been there earlier. The flesh on his arms tingled and broke out in gooseflesh. If his wife and daughter were hiding inside, then they were trapped. He knew what young punks like this did to women when given the opportunity. Cheryl was smart to stay hidden. Some of those standing guard he recognized. They were the new arrivals Briggs used to do menial tasks. Punks with guns, no military training, and little smarts. He was certain they had seen him before, too. He just hoped his disguise would hold. As he got closer, one guy got up from where he was sitting and put up his hand. Jesse slowed but did not stop. Tufts of fuzzy chin hair grew on the punk’s face, and he had the sneering, cocky attitude of an armed youth.
“Hold it. Far enough. You can’t go in there, old man.”
Jesse hobbled up to stand in front of the kid. He then stared at him, altering his face by scrunching it tightly into a sour grimace of pain. “Come on. Please, I need to,” he pleaded. He wasn’t above begging to get past.
“No way. Not letting you through. I have orders to shoot anyone trying.”
Jesse clenched his fist around the Beretta inside the sling.
“Now go on, get the hell out of here,” the young punk said. He turned his back and started laughing as he rejoined his friends.
There was no way Jesse would let this little shit stop him from getting through. He had seen these same types in Iraq. Every unit had one, sometimes more. Usually, they were quickly mustered out or had their attitude, ‘readjusted.’ He thought of going around the punks and finding another way in, perhaps by cutting through a different sector. But the other sectors might also be guarded. He needed a diversion to pull them away. How though? He had a gun, but no ammo. Bluffing might work, but the other young punks and their assault rifles easily outmatched him and his empty Beretta. But what if they called his bluff? What then? No, there had to be another way. He just had to push on them hard enough to see where they bent.
He ignored their mocking laughter and walked past, heading into the restricted area. He started mumbling to himself as if he was confused. The one who had confronted him earlier stepped up and blocked him from moving any farther. Mischief swirled in the punk’s eyes. The guy held his assault rifle tightly across his chest with his arms drawn back as if he planned strike out and hit Jesse given any provocation.
“I thought I told you to get lost, old man.”
Jesse stared back blankly at the kid and let his jaw drop open slightly. “Uh, I have to get in there. How about? How about this? How about we make a trade?”
“Like what? What’s you got? Money? Who needs that anymore?” The fuzz-faced punk smiled and raised his gun, gesturing wildly to his friends. They all began to laugh. The kid lowered his gun and again prepared to strike Jesse with it. A cruel, sadistic look boiled in his eyes. “No, money don’t mean shit, old man. You got nothing I need. Now go on, get outta here. Go on. Move along.”
Jesse wanted to level the little prick. It would be so easy, too.
“How about this?” He showed the kid his wedding ring, a solid gold band with three diamonds on it. He had nothing else of value to offer other than the gun, but he wasn’t giving that up so easily. The ring was only a symbol. When he found his wife and daughter, the ring would not matter. It only mattered that they were alive.
“You’d give me that just to let you pass?” The kid seemed surprised.
“Yeah.”
One of the young punk’s friends jumped up. “Hey, what about us?”
“What about you?” The leader of the little band of thugs said. “I’m in charge here, now sit down and shut the hell up.”
“No way, Nelson. Our asses are on the line too. That psycho Briggs will kill us.”
Jesse needed something else. Money or gold probably didn’t mean much to these assholes, but he knew of something that might. “I’ve got another idea,” he said. He stepped closer to the leader. “How about some dope, some weed? I have some in my tent. Just inside. If you let me through, I’ll share with you guys.”
“Ho. Ho. Dope? That what you old guys call it? Funny. But, now you are talking my language, old man.”
“A crippled old man with weed is a friend indeed,” one of the others said.
They all laughed at the joke. Jesse forced a smile.
“Come on. Let him through, Nelson,” a kid with shaggy blond hair and blackened teeth said. “I wants some smoke.”
Jesse grinned conspiratorially and held out his unslung arm, holding it palm up in submission. Nelson circled him once. Then, he moved closer until they stood face to face. The punk’s breath smelled like a mixture of chewing tobacco and rotten shrimp. The rest of him sme
lled like cat piss. Jesse kept his gaze averted and suffered the stench. He let his eyes wander and ultimately looked down at his feet, willing himself not to appear as a threat to them.
“You look familiar,” Nelson said. “Where do I know you from?”
Jesse shrugged and then winced as if in pain. He pictured the punk figuring out who he was and turning him into Briggs. His anxiety grew, and his grip tightened on the M9.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Jesse shook his head and looked away, not wanting to make eye contact.
“Perhaps,” Nelson said, pulling at the scraggly fuzz on his chin while nodding.
Jesse’s back was against the wall. He was cornered. He itched to remove the Beretta and smash the kid’s face in with it. Or maybe he could pull it out fast enough to press it to the punk’s head and bluff his way through. But the others? What could he do about them?
“Okay,” Nelson finally said.
Jesse willed himself not to let his relief show.
Nelson pointed with his thumb. “Stucker, you go with him. Make sure he finds it. Quick.”
Saying nothing, Jesse watched Nelson return to the group. The punk winked at the others as he rested his rifle against a crate.
“Wait,” Stucker said. “Why me?”
“Cuz’ I know you ain’t going to go running off and smoke it all,” Nelson said.
Stucker glared at Jesse.
“What, you afraid of a one-armed cripple?” Nelson added. “You a coward? A goddamned coward? I don’t like cowards.”
Raptor Apocalypse Page 5