The group laughed at the insult. Jesse smiled painfully.
Shaking his head, Stucker grabbed a gun that was leaning against the plastic crate he had been sitting on. The gun looked cheap and well-used. It was another AR-15, but in worse condition than the one Jesse had picked up earlier. Stucker held out a hand, indicating for Jesse to start moving.
Once they were about a hundred feet into the restricted area, only a few lights continued to burn, and those that did cast crisp shadows over the tents and bodies lying about. While Stucker looked on nervously, Jesse stopped, kicked up some dust with his boot, and acted confused. He shooed the flies buzzing in front of him with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
“Come on, man, where is it?” Stucker asked.
“I’m thinking. Hold on.” Jesse pointed to the left, and then right. “I came from over there. Then we ran. And then? Sorry, I’m a little confused. But I’ll remember. I always do.”
“You’d better.”
Jesse spotted what he needed. “I remember now.”
He led Stucker left, and then turned right and hobbled past another row of tents. He stopped in front of one, choosing it at random. He hoped it wasn’t occupied. Outside, a body lay on the ground, the bloody ruins of a human being torn apart by raptors. Flies had found the corpse and were crawling in and out of the hole where the lower jaw should have been. Stucker glanced at the body and then quickly looked away. Jesse noticed a twinge of fear on the kid’s face amid the revulsion. He was afraid. That was good. He’d probably make mistakes.
“In here,” Jesse said. He held open the flap and gestured for Stucker to enter first.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Stucker stepped past him and into the tent. Jesse quickly slipped his arm out of the makeshift sling and removed the gun from its holster. As soon as Stucker was all the way inside, Jesse followed, raising the Beretta in the air and preparing to strike.
It was dark inside the tent. Even with his eyes adjusted for night, Jesse could barely see a thing. But he could see the back of Stucker’s head well enough. It was pink and pale above the collar of his shirt. That was the sweet spot. Hitting him there would have a small chance of breaking the guy’s neck and killing him, but it was better than having to crack open his skull. He could live with that.
Aiming, he darted forward, closing the distance in a lunging step. He brought the gun down hard. But the blow failed to land where he had intended. Instead, it nicked Stucker’s ear and glanced off his shoulder blade. Jesse stumbled forward, and he was thrown off balance. Stucker fell too, but caught himself on a chair back. Raising his arm to strike again, Jesse spun to get his feet under him, but the punk scrambled quicker than he’d expected and made it to the rear of the tent. Jesse rushed him, bringing up the Beretta to strike again. Before he could reach him, Stucker crabbed sideways and pivoted, using a pole in the center of the tent as a barrier. He wove around it and scrambled to get outside. Jesse recovered just in time to see Stucker disappear through the opening. He hurried to follow. On the way out, he tripped over the folded material of the flap and landed on his palms in the dirt outside the tent.
The Beretta skidded out of reach. Stucker was ready and waiting. He had his assault rifle raised and was waving it menacingly. A trickle of blood dripped from where Jesse had struck him near the ear.
“Stop. I’ll shoot,” he said while shrugging to wipe at his ear. “You. You goddamned mother—”
Jesse ignored the kid’s tirade and slowly lifted both hands into the air and stood.
-9-
THE RING
A FEW STUBBORN bulbs burned defiantly in the sagging string of lights above Jesse’s head. They cast an array of muted shadows on the AR-15 assault rifle pointed at him. The punk holding the gun continued to wave it, moving the tip of the barrel in shaky circles. Jesse looked at the ground where his Beretta lay, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this. Then he saw something. Was that fear he’d just read in the kid’s eyes? He’d been afraid earlier, but this was something stronger.
Jesse grinned.
“What are you smiling at, old man?” Stucker asked.
The light was just enough for Jesse to see the AR-15’s fire selector. It was set to the safety position. He took a step forward.
“Stop! Stop there. Stop! I’ll shoot. I swear it!”
Nodding, Jesse moved even closer and halted an inch from the end of the barrel. It now pointed at the center of his chest. Stucker shifted his weight onto his heels, preparing to take a step backward. Jesse sensed this. He quickly sidestepped and lunged forward, driving the bone of his elbow upward and into the punk’s face. The blow landed, crashing against Stucker’s face. Something cracked. Reaching out with his free hand, Jesse grabbed the gun and ripped it away. Stucker, off balance, toppled over backward and landed flat on his ass. Jesse reversed the assault rifle and flipped the selector switch to the ‘fire’ position. He pointed the gun at Stucker.
Blood was gushing from the kid’s nose. He was saying, “You broke my nose! You broke my goddamn nose!”
Jesse shrugged. Then he noticed something else that was odd. The gun felt light. Too light. He gave it a shake. “Empty? Really?”
Stucker nodded meekly, holding a hand over his nose. Blood poured out between his dust-covered fingers.
“What kind of dumbshit points an empty gun at someone?”
“They didn’t give us any ammo. They only gave us the guns.”
Tossing the rifle into the dirt, Jesse picked up his empty Beretta and leveled it at the kid’s head.
Stucker brought up his other hand as if it would somehow ward off a bullet. “Please man, no. Don’t. Don’t shoot.”
“I should,” Jesse said, stepping forward. “I should put a bullet through your thick skull, right now, shouldn’t I?”
“No, no, please, I don’t want to die. They made me. We ran. Nelson. To the camp. They killed my mom.”
“Who made you? Nelson killed your mom? What?”
“No, I mean yes. The raptors, man. They killed my mom. We tried to run. Tried to get her to safety, but they ran her down and ate her. Ate her, man. Ate my mom!”
Stucker let out a blubbering sob. Red snot bubbles formed where he had covered his nose. “Please. Don’t shoot. I’ll go back and tell them you ran away, or whatever you want me to say. Just don’t shoot me. Please!”
The sobbing made Jesse pause, maybe because he saw something all-too human in it. He would not kill the kid, though he was sure if their roles were reversed, the punk would have probably shot him without thinking too hard about it. It was not as if he could shoot the guy either, because his gun was also out of ammo. However, if he tied him up, he figured he could likely buy himself enough time to search the area for twenty or thirty minutes. The kid’s friends would think he was off somewhere smoking weed. While they would be pissed when he returned, they were not going to kill him over it. Or would they? He wasn’t certain either way, but that was not his problem.
“Get up. I don’t think I’ll shoot you. I’d rather not waste the ammo.”
Stucker rose, nodding, wiping his eyes with one hand, holding his nose pinched closed with the other.
Jesse motioned with the Beretta. “Inside the tent. Find me something to tie you up with.”
“You aren’t going to kill me?”
“Only if you piss me off.”
Stucker ducked inside the tent. Jesse picked up the AR-15 and followed. This time, he was wholly in control. The kid found a piece of cord, which Jesse used to tie him up with, making sure the knot was secure. Then he sat the guy down on the cot inside the tent and tried to not get bled on.
“If you call out for help in the next say hour, know this. I’ll be near enough to hear. And, I will come back and shoot you.” He rapped the gun against Stucker’s head to emphasize his words. Blood continued to trickle from the kid’s broken nose, so Jesse ripped off a piece of cloth from his discarded sling and jammed it up in
side the kid’s nostrils.
Stucker winced. “Gee thanks,” he said sarcastically.
“Am I going to have to knock you the hell out? Maybe shoot you?” Jesse raised the gun to threaten him with it. “You keep your goddamned mouth shut tight, or I swear to God, I will come back here and put a bullet in your brain.” He placed the gun against the side of the punk’s head. “Do I make myself clear?”
The kid bobbed his head up and down and remained silent. Jesse saw the honest fear he was looking for, so he removed the gun.
“Okay then, I guess you’ll live another day.” Smiling, he made a show of clicking on the safety of his M9. “You really should know more about guns, kid.” He then shoved the Beretta into its holster and reattached it to his belt.
As soon as he exited the tent, he tossed the useless AR-15 through the flap of a different tent. If they saw him with it, he’d be shot on sight. He moved deeper into the restricted area and closer to the perimeter fence. A couple of soldiers stood near it, but they had their backs to him. Still, he did his best to remain out of their direct line of sight in case they were looking for him. He knew there would be other patrols coming through the area soon. When a breach occurred, they always sealed all sections up tight and kept them closed off until each sector could be swept clean. He would have to work quickly before those patrols arrived, if they were not here already.
The paths between the tents were littered with bodies. He stepped carefully over a dead woman. Her windpipe had been ripped out of her neck. It hung limply under her chin like a misplaced vacuum cleaner hose. A small boy was lying face down, twisted grotesquely in the dirt. His feet were gone. From the ragged trail he’d left behind, it appeared that he’d tried to get away on the stubs of his ankles. Jesse averted his eyes, thinking of his daughter, hoping she was okay. Where are you, Hannah? Cheryl, where did you take her? He stopped next to a metal pole holding up a string of lights. A nearly unrecognizable corpse rested below it, slumped forward in death. Jesse could tell it was a man, but the guy’s entire head was missing. It had been gnawed off. Bloody hand prints streaked the pole above the guy, as if he’d tried to climb up it. What was left of his arms had been stripped to the bone, all the way up to the shoulder blades. The ribcage had been torn open too, and the raptors had cleaned out all of the soft tissues inside. He stared at the guy. No feelings came to mind, nothing at all. He was simply growing numb to the horrors.
As he grew closer to his tent, the stench of death became worse. The smell reminded him of the many places he had been over the past few months. Even the open latrines of the camp had not conditioned him to tolerate the foul stench. He gagged and started breathing more through his mouth than his nose. Moving down the path, he checked the various bodies, stepping past each carefully. He knew if he could eliminate the dead, his wife and daughter would end up being among the living. They were still alive. They had to be. He knew it. He just hadn’t found them yet. He also knew he couldn’t call out their names for fear of someone finding him and tossing him out of the area, or shooting him before he had a chance to explain why he was there. And if Briggs or his men found him first…
Cautiously, he pulled a random tent flap back and looked inside. It was dark, but nothing stirred. He went to another, did the same, and continued to make his way down the narrow path, checking each tent, but finding them empty. Most had gotten out and many had died, probably right outside of their own tents. Every horror he saw, though, served to numb him further.
He passed a corpse where he couldn’t directly see the face. He rolled the body over with his boot and checked just to be sure. It wasn’t anyone he knew. He rounded a corner where the path widened to about twenty feet side to side. There were scores of bodies lying dead on the ground. Men, women, and children. All had died terribly, most with frozen screams painted on their faces. There were just too many bodies and too much blood. He just couldn’t check them all. And, try as he might, he could not remember what his wife had been wearing the last time he had seen her, even though she’d only brought a few different shirts and pants with her. It all seemed so distant. So nothing. Hannah, he was sure, had been wearing a pink T-shirt with a pony on it and light blue jeans, hadn’t she? She must have also been wearing the tan hiking boots, right? He had a sudden memory of the first time he’d seen her in them. She had wanted to look just like him, her daddy, the man who would never let anything happen to her.
Movement at the far edge of his peripheral vision caught his attention, breaking him from his daze. A shadowy form was crouched low over a body about fifty feet away. It rose and moved to another body. The form resolved into a man who appeared to be searching for something. Jesse immediately thought the guy might also be looking for family members, but something didn’t look right. It was hard to tell. After watching him for a few seconds, it seemed the man was—
Knife? The guy had a knife in his hands. Why? Why would he have a knife?
Jesse approached the mysterious stranger for a better view, stepping quietly and staying in the shadows. He didn’t want the man to turn around until he could figure out what the guy was up to.
What are you doing? What are you—?
The man spun and stared straight at Jesse, but the guy didn’t seem to be able to see him and returned his focus to what he was doing, going from corpse to corpse, looking for something. Jesse crept closer, closing in on him until he came to within twenty-five feet of the guy. The man was hovering over another body. He again looked over his shoulder, showing his face. Jesse recognized the guy. It was the greasy-haired man in the Alamo shirt. The one he’d almost shot earlier that night. A flash of steel glinted in the dim light. It was a knife. A hunting knife. Jesse’s knife. The guy must have stolen it from him. The man raised the arm of a corpse and cut something off it. He held his prize up to the light, inspecting it.
A finger? A finger? A ri—?
Jesse realized what it was. He could hardly believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be. Christ, it couldn’t be. But it was. On the severed finger was a wedding ring. Even from twenty feet away, he recognized that ring. Memories flooded back. The thin band of etched yellow gold and half-carat diamond had cost him nearly half a year’s pay. It had been twelve years since he had put it on Cheryl’s finger. She was so beautiful that day, so stunning, so full of life and hope. She had always been there for him, and he had been there for her. Until now.
“No! No! Please, God no!” He rushed out from behind the tent, looking at his wife’s dead body then back at the man in disbelief.
The thief froze. He turned, eyeing Jesse as if determining how much of a threat he offered. He then raised the blade and held it out in front him, taunting Jesse with his own knife. But that barely registered. What did register was seeing the body the man had violated. He wanted to run to her, pick her up, hold her, protect her, but in the space of a few heartbeats, he realized he could no longer do so, and would never do so again. Part of his mind simply collapsed, not wanting to accept what he saw. He stood in denial, in shock, but quickly that shock turned to anger, to outrage, to hatred, and finally to furry. Something primal took over. Dark. Bestial. Savage.
Teeth gnashed together, he drew and aimed the Beretta. This time, his hand remained perfectly steady. He meant to kill the guy.
But when he pulled the trigger, the gun failed to fire. He pulled the trigger again. Then again, and again. The gun clicked away uselessly as the hammer kept dropping on an empty chamber.
Smiling broadly, the greasy-haired man closed his fist around the stolen ring, spun on his heels, and ran into the night.
-10-
HEART OF THE MATTER
IT HAD BEEN almost a year since the raptors were let loose. The countdown clock on the wall inside Bunker 2 read 1:02:14:21:36:12, or one year, two months, fourteen days, twenty-one hours, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds. Project Genesis was well into the cleansing phase. In a little over a year, Reboot Day would arrive. The bunker would then be un
sealed, and its inhabitants could return to a world cleansed of the wicked and unworthy. Today, Cory Melkin held a three-foot piece of hickory cut into the long, thin shape of a katana and was poised to strike his opponent with an overhead attack. Stepping forward under the imagined arc, he hoped to force Professor LaPaz to retreat. But instead of retreating, the man shifted his weight sideways and spun away, lightly tapping Cory on the side of the head.
“You call that an attack?” the professor said, mockingly.
Exhaustion slowed Cory, but he did not dare show it. He knew Professor LaPaz had already beaten him in their sparring match, much as he did every night. But he refused to give up. He wrenched his hands on the handle of the wooden stick, grinding them against the spiral-cut grooves that had grown slick from sweat. He touched the sword to his head in a gesture of respect and backed away, locking gazes with the professor. The two men circled one another, calmly, each searching for weakness in the other.
Cory was over two decades younger than Professor LaPaz. His reaction times were superior. Nevertheless, he had not landed a single decent strike against the man.
A slight movement from the professor, a tremor, caused Cory to inch backward. He then realized his mistake. His shift of weight was all the opening the professor needed. LaPaz closed the gap in a confusing blur of motion, slashing in quick, broad, arching strokes. Forced to retreat under the onslaught, Cory brought up his sword to defend himself. LaPaz stepped into his attack and prepared to strike. Cory moved to defend then found himself flat on his ass, sent there by an unseen leg sweep. Stunned, he sucked in the stale, recycled air of the bunker. He had been defeated once again. The professor bent forward, offering an open hand. Staring up at the offer, Cory wondered if this was yet another trick. Strike them when they are down. Never give up. Never relent. These were lessons he had learned from the man over the past few years. Right now, he knew it was better to play it safe and stay on the floor. He propped himself up on his elbow and did not take the offered hand. Instead, he prepared to roll sideways and onto his feet and then into a defensive stance.
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