Refugees - 03

by D. J. Molles

  He boiled the water and poured the packet in and for a long time he stood there over his little tin mess pot with his eyes closed, just breathing in the aromas and imagining a different place. The rich, spicy pungence of the cinnamon. The warm, robust sweetness of the brown sugar. There were so many things associated with those two smells, it was like running a dragnet across the riverbed of his mind, dredging up those memories of family and holidays that had been drowned and buried so long in the silt of his subconscious.

  Holidays.

  When the cold was cozy, and it didn’t seep into your chest and make you worry about pneumonia. When the big concern of the day was what wine to bring to Thanksgiving, and whether his brother-in-law Frank would get tanked at Christmas dinner. When he spent hours on the couch with Annette, listening to Bing Crosby with only the glow of the tree lighting their living room. Colored lights only on odd years, because Annette thought they were tacky, but he loved them and she conceded once every other year. Her stupid ornamental nutcrackers displayed on the mantel, their jaws dropped in perpetual shock.

  She loved those silly things.

  The ridiculous cornucopia she put in the center of the dining room table every year for Thanksgiving, with the fake mini-pumpkins and the plastic gourds and the velvet leaves in fall colors. The little things that were absolutely necessary in order for her to enjoy the holiday properly.

  Annette.

  He opened his eyes and stared down at the thickening oatmeal. All around him were dirt floors, plywood walls, blue tarp to seal him from the rain, and cold emptiness with nothing to fill the void. The memory of her was like a dying tree that he tried time and time again to pull up from the soil of his mind, but her roots were dug in too deep, inextricably intertwined with every thought, every recollection of his old life. There was not a place, not a feeling, not a scent or a taste or a sound that did not carry with it some tiny bit of Annette. She haunted him ceaselessly.

  He missed her so hard that it became a very real, very physical pain in his chest. It was a tightness, and a melancholy, but there was also a note of frustration that he felt each time he thought of her, some distant realization that no matter what he did, not matter how hard he tried, or how long he waited, he could not have her back.

  In life, you are often set apart from the things that you desire only by your willingness to work tirelessly to gain them. So many things are unlikely to be achieved, but still within the realm of possibility. But death is not conquerable. It cannot be overcome, or outmatched. You cannot outthink it. You cannot outmuscle it, or even wait for it to be over, because it is truly, perfectly, infinite. And this realization caused in him each time a new uproar from a small, petulant child in the back of his mind that threw a tantrum because it could not get what it wanted.

  Because what it wanted was impossible.

  Not impossible, the way the word is used to describe a daunting task that the lazy person simply does not want to take on. But impossible, in the coldest, most pragmatic sense of the word. There was no way to fix it. It was simply unattainable. And goals that are unattainable are best left alone, for they destroy men’s minds and weaken the resolve to live.

  He ate his oatmeal slowly, wishing to relish it, but failing miserably.

  These memories were not worth their weight in grief.

  He looked at the box of oatmeal, swallowing against a lump in his throat. “Fucking waste of good batteries.”

  He finished his breakfast and strapped on his gear, checking to make sure his magazines were all topped off, and then slinging into his M4. Looking down at himself in his BDUs and army-green parka, with all of his gear and his rifle hanging off of him, he almost laughed. If you could see me now, Annette…you’d get a kick out of it.

  He left his shanty and threw the Gore-Tex hood of the parka up over his head to keep the rain off of him. It was misting steadily and he watched clouds of it billow down out of the sky, falling not at the speed of rain, but more like the steady drifting of snow on a windless day.

  He met Jacob, Nate, and his three volunteers at the front of his pickup truck near the gate. Nate had chosen Devon, and a middle-aged man and woman that Harper knew to be a couple, though he couldn’t remember their names for the life of him. He nodded to them all as he walked up.

  “Morning, everyone.” He extended his hand to the middle-aged man. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “Mike,” the guy said, taking Harper’s hand. “This is my wife, Torri.”

  “Glad to have you guys.” Harper motioned for the pickup truck. “I think we can fit everyone in. We need to hit the road, and I’ll tell you guys what’s going on while we’re on the way.”

  They all managed to squeeze in the bench seats. Harper drove with Nate and Jacob up front with him. Devon, Mike, and Torri sat in the back. As they left the gate, Harper kicked it into four-wheel-drive, as the dirt road had turned into a boggy mess overnight. The old Nissan crawled steadily through the muck and found its way eventually out to Highway 55. Dirt and gravel clinging to the tires pelted the wheel wells noisily as he brought the truck up to speed.

  When the worst of the noise had subsided, he told them what the situation was. He warned them to not talk about this with anyone else, that they should consider it confidential until further notice. Then he explained Captain Harden’s belief that there would be a den in Lillington and in that den there would be some live infected hiding out. He paused here for a long time, considering the ramifications of telling them the part about the infected being females, and being pregnant. But he figured it was best to get the arguments out of the way now, rather than when they had the damn things cornered in whatever hovel they were hiding in.

  The reaction to the news was not quite shock, but more just a general disbelief. Without being able to explain to them why Captain Harden thought this, most everyone with the exception of Jacob, who already knew, screwed up their face and asked why the hell the captain thought there would be pregnant females in the den? That’s ridiculous.

  “These people are crazy violent,” Devon was shaking his head. “No way they’re out there…making babies. Secondly, I just don’t see them having protective instincts.”

  Mike’s eyes were incredulous in Harper’s rearview mirror. “You know, I’m usually on board with whatever the captain has for us, but this seems a little far-fetched. Jacob, is there any realistic basis for thinking there are dens of females out there, and that they might be pregnant?”

  Jacob gave Harper a sidelong glance and looked uncomfortable. “Well, uh, yes. In fact, there is.”

  “So…”

  Jacob studied his dirty fingernails. “The FURY bacterium did its business already, eating through the brain. We already know that it didn’t leave behind much—just enough for basic primal functions. We’ve grown accustomed to considering these…people…to be hyper-aggressive. But much of the hyper-aggression was simply a byproduct of the plague’s effect on the brain during the primary stages of infection, and I believe most of what we see now isn’t mindless aggression, but simply the drive to hunt for food.

  “Another primary instinct for survival is the act of procreation. Primal instincts are primal instincts, and sex is one of them. We think of it as separate, because we like to romanticize it, but it really is just a basic, biological function in order to ensure the survival of the species.” Jacob looked back at three faces that looked extremely uncomfortable. “Other basic functions are maternal instinct, a very powerful instinct, mind you. And a male’s instinct to protect. So no, I don’t think it’s far-fetched to believe that they are mating, procreating, and protecting the pregnant females. It actually makes perfect sense, from a biological perspective.”

  The interior of the truck was silent for a long moment, everyone digesting this latest bit of bitter truth.

  Torri looked distraught. “So what are we going to do if we find them?”

  Harper pointed towards Jacob with his thumb. “That’s why I bro
ught Jacob along with us. It’s his deal to catch one of ‘em, so that’s what we’re going to do. Captain Harden has reason to believe that the pregnant females might not be aggressive…”

  “Yes, about that.” Jacob smiled, hesitantly. “We shouldn’t expect that. If they hold as true to biological nature as they’ve done in the past, then what we’ll see is the same thing we see in other pregnant females of the animal species. Namely, up until the point of giving birth, they will avoid a fight at all costs, but if you corner them, or get too close, they’ll definitely attack. This is true of almost every animal. What we don’t want to do is enter a den where perhaps they have already given birth, because I believe we will find the females to be even more aggressive than the males in that situation.”

  “You don’t think…” Harper took his eyes of the road for a moment. “But it’s only been four months since the outbreak!”

  “Some of them could have been very pregnant when they were infected,” Jacob observed. “Whether or not they could maintain a viable pregnancy after that is a point of speculation. Another thing to think about is the gestation period. We already know the plague causes massive increases to the metabolism, and that affects a whole slew of other biological functions, including aging. It’s possible that the gestation period grows shorter.”

  They drove the rest of the way in relative silence.

  It was just after seven in the morning when they pulled up to the back lot of Outpost Lillington. Harper had radioed ahead the previous night to let them know they would be arriving in the morning, but still the sentry regarded them with suspicion. One of Old Man Hughes’ people, he believed. Harper rolled down the window and felt the cold wetness on his arm as he hung it out the window to display his yellow armband.

  Still, the sentry approached with caution, trying to peer through the rain-mottled windshield at who was inside. When he finally looked in the open window, he immediately recognized who he was dealing with. His face became sharp and urgent. “Mr. Harper! I’m glad you’re here. Something bad happened. I think some of our people got hurt. You’ll have to talk to Professor White.”

  Well isn’t that just fucking dandy. Harper pursed his lips. Always a goddamned emergency.

  The sentry ran back and he and his partner pushed the car they used to barricade the entrance out of the way—Harper supposed they kept it in neutral so they could roll is back and forth with relative ease. When the car was clear of the little alley, Harper goosed the gas and trundled noisily into the parking lot where he parked in the center, angry and a little concerned, and not really worried about where he parked his truck.

  He had barely put his boots to the muddy gravel ground by the time he heard someone shouting his name. He looked up and found Professor White running towards him, his face twisted in panic, and Old Man Hughes trailing closely behind. Unconsciously, Harper slid his hand onto the grip of his rifle.

  “Harper! Harper!” Professor White wailed. “Thank God you’re here!”

  Harper couldn’t help himself, the guy brought out the worst in him. He extended his hand swiftly and stopped the professor’s forward progress with a palm to his chest that nearly knocked him over. “Calm the fuck down, Professor.” Harper nodded politely to Old Man Hughes as he plodded up in his dirty overalls. “Now, what’s the problem? Why are you running up on me like that?”

  The panic in Professor White’s face disappeared for the briefest of moments, and Harper saw a flash of irritation—and what was that, a bit of hatred?—before the needy fear reasserted itself. He stammered to get the words out: “Four of our people were just kidnapped!”

  “What?” Harper looked at Old Man Hughes like White had just spoken a foreign language, and the old man was going to translate it.

  Hughes nodded. “Five of his kids went out to do some scavenging. One of them just came back, beat to a pulp. Said the other four got jumped and kidnapped.”

  Harper took a second to absorb this information, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Hughes and White. It appeared they were deadly serious. He turned to his pickup truck and handed the keys in to Nate. “You guys continue on without me. I’m gonna figure out what the hell is going on here.”

  ***

  They were back at the high school by what Lee supposed was daybreak, although there was no definitive point in time when the sun shone through the dreary sheen of clouds. Deuce was willing enough to climb in the Humvee but when everyone else began to pile in, he retreated to the rear of the vehicle and hunkered down there for the ride.

  They rolled slowly through the break in the barriers that surrounded the high school complex, and came to a stop amid the dead bodies and ravaged crates of supplies. Lee stepped out, keeping his eyes on potential hiding places while he walked to the back of the Humvee and opened the rear hatch. Deuce was huddled there against the tailgate and tumbled out as soon as the fastback was open. He jogged a short distance away, taking occasional glances back towards Lee while his nose worked the air.

  Lee watched him for a moment, but the dog didn’t seem to react to anything. “I think it’s all clear for now.” He patted the side of the Humvee and the others stepped out.

  The drivers stayed inside their Humvees.

  They made their slow and cautious progress across the high school’s parking lot. The rain turned from a cloying mist to a drizzle, and then tapered off again. The Humvees followed behind and stopped short of the jumbled collection of abandoned military equipment. Lee and LaRouche jogged forward slightly, doing a quick sweep of the undercarriages and all around and behind the trucks before waving the two Humvees in.

  The two LMTVs were desert tan in color, both equipped with cargo beds. Along either side of each bed were fold-down benches so that the 2.5-ton truck could serve as a troop transport, or carry cargo and equipment in its hold. The cab was a two-seater with a little more room on the interior than the Humvees.

  The HEMTT was of a similar construct, but wider and longer, and painted olive drab. In place of the cargo bed, there was a long, oval tank that extended the length of the machine from the cab on back. It was less than a commercial 18-wheeler would carry, but still plenty of fuel.

  They flipped the switch in the diesel vehicles and crossed their fingers as they waited for the ignition light to go off. Maybe they waited longer than normal, or maybe it was just that the wait seemed interminable, but they rejoiced in a stroke of good luck when the little orange lights went off and a press of a button brought the big machines to life. Further inspection of the gauges revealed that all three had more than a half a tank of fuel, and that the HEMTT’s tanker still contained three quarters of its payload.

  They fueled their two Humvees, which were down to less than a quarter tank. Lee kept an eye on Deuce as he explored the area with a relaxed familiarity. He trotted around the perimeter, like a guard dog, constantly sniffing, his nose up high, testing the wind, then down low, searching the ground.

  They split their nine people up into two man teams—a driver and a gunner—with the odd man out being Jim, who volunteered to drive the HEMTT, stating he had some experience driving bigger vehicles. In the Humvees, the extra passenger would man the gun, and in the LMTVs he would simply ride shotgun with his rifle out the window. Lee would drive, and LaRouche would be on the gun. They would take point. Julia volunteered to drive the other Humvee, with Wilson in the turret. They would bring up the rear of the column. Jim in the HEMTT would be in the center of the convoy, with an LMTV and a Humvee behind him and in front of him.

  It wasn’t ideal, but limited manpower demanded some sacrifices.

  They loaded everyone up and managed to convince Deuce to get in Lee’s Humvee again. Then they formed into their column and made for the exit. They left the high school behind them without spotting a single infected, or any other suspicious person that might have been gunning for Lee the previous day. The roads stretched before them, empty and abandoned, and apparently safe for passage.

  In the rural area outs
ide of Sanford, the scenery looked like every other country road in central North Carolina—two-lane blacktop that had been neglected even before the collapse, with pot holes deepening, and the painted lines fading and cracking. Now, with no traffic to keep them down, weeds had grown in the cracks and the narrow grassy strip to either side had begun to encroach on the cement. Beyond that, the forest rose up in gray streaks of timber.

  Eventually they came to a rural road, off of which a nondescript dirt road would lead them to the bunker. Here Lee found the familiar bucolic setting to be slightly different. The road stretched narrowly, the trees crowded in on either side, with no open fields to let them breathe. The shoulder was sharp and the culvert deep and marshy with overgrowth, leaving no room to turn around.

  They turned right onto this road.

  At the corner, a weathered street sign rose from coils of brown creeping vines, stalwart in its losing battle against the relentless advance of kudzu. The name of the narrow road, according to this sad signage, was Devil’s Tramping Ground Road.

  Lee grimaced at the road name and pressed down on the accelerator pedal, at which point several things happened at once.

  The engine wound up, as though to accelerate as normal.

  Then the hood of the Humvee very suddenly warped, changing shapes in front of his eyes.

  The entire vehicle jolted violently and Lee felt it all the way through him like the crack of a baseball bat in his hands, felt the shockwave in his chest like getting the wind knocked out of him.

  And then the engine lost power.

  CHAPTER 21: IN THE WOODS

  From the cab of the LMTV directly behind Captain Harden’s Humvee, Wilson not only heard but felt what sounded like a hammer striking an anvil, but louder, more overpowering. Wilson wasn’t sure whether he had imagined it, or whether somehow his eyes had zeroed in on just the right focal plane at just the right moment, but he would later swear that he saw the bullet that took out Captain Harden’s engine block, or at least the path of spatial distortion left in its wake.