by D. J. Molles
They signed off and Lee had those present with him get out and begin sweeping the compound on foot. The ride through had not revealed anything, but they still proceeded with caution. They left their small convoy in the center of the small airstrip and gradually made their way between the hangars towards the other vehicles.
As they passed by a particularly large hangar, Lee noticed Deuce giving the building a wide birth, his head hung low, and his tail tucked in. He growled almost a constant stream of uncomfortable noises and kept his eyes fixed on that hangar.
Lee sniffed the air, and it may have only been his imagination, but he thought there was a tinge of that rank, unwashed odor, tainting the smell of fresh rainfall. At one point, while the others continued on, Lee hung back and inclined his ear towards the hangar, standing perhaps twenty feet from it. He could not be certain, but he thought he heard something scrape and slide against the corrugated walls of the hangar.
He did a visual check of the doors and found them padlocked.
He thought perhaps there was good reason for that, and decided not to go near it again.
***
The small white pickup truck pulled into the parking deck of the Johnston Memorial Hospital in Smithfield, and began working its way up to the top level. It drove quickly, and bore with it two occupants and an interesting piece of cargo.
Jacob drove, while in the passenger seat Devon sat askew in his seat, clutching a rifle and staring uncomfortably out the back glass and the blanket-wrapped and rope-tied bundle laying secure in the bed of the pickup truck. Every time it moved, whether under its own power or the movement of the truck taking the turns, Devon tensed.
They’d restrained it with Jacob’s homemade dog-catcher’s pole and then fallen upon it with the thick blanket, terrified and hoping that its teeth would not be able to bite through. Then they tied it about the waist and ankles with rope, pinning its arms to its torso and rendering it the squirming form in the back that now set Devon’s pulse racing.
When they reached the top level of the parking deck, Doc Hamilton was already exiting the stairwell doors that accessed the main wing of the hospital. He was a small-framed man in his late forties, with a ring of black hair growing wild around a spotlessly blank dome of scalp. He had a sort of permanently paternal expression engraved in his face, and even now it only showed concern, and perhaps a bit of confusion.
Jacob put the pickup truck in park and stepped out, immediately making his way to the truck bed. Devon followed after a moment’s hesitation and a pained look that spoke of his desire to be anywhere else. Doc Hamilton watched the two men go to the rear of the pickup bed and lower the tailgate, craning his neck to see what was inside.
“What can I help you with, gentlemen?”
Inside the truck bed, the brown-bundled form suddenly thrashed and growled.
Doc Hamilton took an involuntary step back. “What the hell is that?”
Jacob looked quickly around to make sure there was no one else watching. He took three large steps and seized Doc Hamilton in a firm handshake. “I’m Doctor Jacob Weber, microbiologist with the CDC.”
Recognition showed through in Doc Hamilton’s features. “Oh, you’re the guy from Virginia.”
“Yes,” Jacob nodded curtly. “And I’m going to need a bed and as many soft restraints as you can find.”
“Uh…Okay…”
Jacob laid his hand on Doc Hamilton’s shoulder. “And Doctor…”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anything about sedation or anesthetics?”
“Not really.”
Jacob flashed a nervous smile. “I’m going to need you to learn…quickly.”
CHAPTER 23: THE PRISONER
Only two of the vehicles on the airstrip were out of commission: one of the LMTVs would not start for some unknown reason, and one of the Humvees looked like it had been cannibalized for parts. After finding the vehicles that were in good working order, they moved them over onto the tarmac and arranged them in a single-file line, so that the convoy was ready to go as soon as Harper arrived.
On the northern end of the tarmac, they located the vestiges of what looked like an ammunition drop. The National Guard troops, assigned initially just to evacuate people, were ill-equipped to handle the combat they were forced into. It was likely that they had depleted their small armories in a very short amount of time. The ammunition drop had probably come out of the back of a Chinook from Fort Bragg.
They found it splayed out like the carcass of an animal attacked by wolves. The parachute was cut away partially, still attached by two lengths of cord, and the cargo netting that held the pallet together was flayed open like a skin. The tops of the wooden boxes were scattered about, some of them in pieces, and most of the boxes were empty. About half of the pallet bore boxes designated as 5.56mm, but the other half was .50 cal. There was not a single box of 5.56mm left, but they were able to find three untouched boxes of .50 cal.
They took what they could get and made sure each Humvee had at least one hundred rounds in its gun.
Thirty minutes after their conversation on the radio ended, Harper and his three people showed up, crammed into an old Toyota Camry that puttered onto the airfield. Lee waved to them as they pulled up and extricated themselves from the car.
“You guys made good time,” Lee remarked, shaking Harper’s hand.
“I was eager to get away from Frankenstein and his creature.”
Lee half-smiled. “He’ll get good information. Maybe even something that can help us.”
Harper shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t wanna be around the damn thing.”
Lee changed the subject by pointing to the vehicles. “Right now, let’s get these things rolling towards Camp Ryder.”
“Okay.” Harper regarded the convoy stretched down the tarmac, hands on his hips. “What’s the plan?”
“Me and LaRouche will take the lead Humvee, Wilson and Lucky in the rear Humvee. Everyone else just grab a vehicle and follow the leader.” Lee shifted his feet. “Soon as we get out of this airport, I’m gonna pick up speed, and I’m not letting up until we get to Camp Ryder, so stay with me. I don’t want to get bogged down.”
Harper nodded, but looked concerned. “When we get back, we gotta talk.”
Lee met his gaze. “Yeah. Same here.”
The group split up to their separate vehicles and the convoy got rolling. Lee kept his Humvee at a steady 45 miles-per-hour clip as they moved away from the airport and back onto the surface streets. The fencing and trash flowed by them in streaks without detail or texture. A small break in the clouds showed a glimpse of white, sun-brightened clouds, cresting above their dark, damp underbellies. The hole in the sky drifted with the wind, opened wider, and then eventually collapsed on itself after revealing a sliver of blue sky.
The wind was picking up, blowing the dreary rain clouds out, and bringing colder weather in behind it. Flurries of brown leaves skipped across the roadway, caught in the gusts. Lee eyed the occasional house as they passed by. There was a quality to everything now, even in the houses that were not clearly ransacked, a grainy worn-out feeling about them. This indistinct quality to everything was as pervasive here as it was in the cities, and Lee believed probably across the entire country. Without the people that once inhabited these areas, a wasteland was all that was left, and you could feel it like a chill in your bones.
Scavenging from these houses, Lee felt like an archaeologist, staring in wonder at the things humanity had once held dear to them. Ornate clocks and sets of fine china. Placards and degrees and trophies. The things people were most proud of, the things displayed on mantle’s and walls, were now the things that were the first to be left behind.
They continued down unused streets, driving through long stretches of country and short clusters of neighborhoods and intersections with old abandoned gas stations long since tapped of any fuel. At intersections they slowed just enough to make the turn, but never stopped. And if they were passing straight through the
intersection, Lee didn’t even tap on the brakes.
Just before it happened, Lee had sunk deep into a memory, triggered by some unique and fleeting sensations, a combination of numbers on a mental lock that opens up the dusty safe where things long forgotten and pushed aside are stored. The things locked inside are impressions, images and bits of time, like clips of film. Sometimes just a feeling, or an emotion.
The trigger is a gust of wind through the open windows that bears with it that musty, oaky scent so reminiscent of fall. The cold air seeps down past his collar, and the smell is the smell of leaf piles on an autumn day, and the sensation of lying there, the chill on his neck and on his cheeks and nose.
He is young in this memory, and his soul is still light, and the world maintains its wonder.
His memories are the sensation of the leaves, dry on top and wet on the bottom.
The feeling, almost slick against his fingers, of cold dew clinging to old wood in the early-morning shade—a ladder of boards nailed to the side of the tree that leads up to the top, and feels so incredibly high that his pulse races.
It is the image of his childhood hiking boots with their red laces, and how they felt, heavy with mud as he tramped through the woods after his father.
It is the feeling of his blue jacket, the inside flannel so warm, but the metal zipper cold every time it touches his neck.
The earthy smell of pecans and the ripe, gritty feeling of their hulls as he gathers them in his pockets.
And it was into these memories that a ghost suddenly appeared, a being from another time, another place, transposed there strangely into his childhood amongst fall leaves and tree forts and hiking trails. All those images disappeared like a sudden gale of wind dissipating a cloud of smoke that hangs in the air, and his memories became his perceptions of the present.
Blacktop, stretching out before him.
Empty trees to either side.
A sign that stated the speed limit was 50 miles per hour.
And the ghost—a man—standing there in the center of the road, his legs straddling the double-yellow line and his arms spread out wide, his hands open, palms revealed and empty. He wore a multicam uniform, and his bowed head was shrouded with a matching boonie hat.
Lee stamped on the brakes and the Humvee skidded to a stop just a few yards short of the man. Lee must have grabbed his rifle and exited the Humvee, because the next thing that registered was how much colder the wind had gotten in the last half-hour of driving. He stared down the barrel of his M4 as he approached the man in the road, and he realized he was yelling.
“Get on the ground! Get the fuck on the ground!”
The man complied, moving slowly and deliberately as he lowered himself so that he was face-down on the roadway, his legs and arms spread eagle.
“Do not look up!” Lee shouted as he continued to approach.
He could hear boots behind him. LaRouche was there beside him, also pointing his rifle at the man on the ground, but his eyes were fixed on Lee. “Captain! What are you doing?”
“Make sure this motherfucker doesn’t have any weapons, and get him in the back of a truck,” Lee ordered. “I’ll keep him covered, but we need to move quick.”
“Uh, Captain, I think he’s military…”
“I know he’s fucking military!” Lee snapped. “You’re gonna hafta trust me on this one, LaRouche. Pat him down and detain him!”
LaRouche gave a slight shake of his head, but turned his eyes towards the man in the road. “Sir! Keep looking down at the ground. Put your hand on your head and interlock your fingers. Don’t move from that position, or you will be shot.”
Again, the man on the ground complied.
Lee stood with his feet spread wide, his rifle addressed towards the man’s torso, and his finger hovering outside the trigger guard. LaRouche crossed the short distance between them and took hold of the man’s arms, pulling them behind his back and then securing them with a single, large zip-tie from his vest. As the hands were secured, Lee shifted his attention from the man in the road to the woods around them. He felt naked and exposed.
“This is not a trap,” the man on the ground said, loudly. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
At the sound of his voice, Lee jerked, tingled.
When he looked back around, LaRouche was pulling the man to his feet. Lee took two steps and stood directly in front of them. The boonie hat was unsettled and fell from the stranger’s head. Short, sandy hair with a long, crescent-shaped scar running from the top of his head down to his ear—a scar that Lee knew came from a boating accident many years ago.
The man raised his head. “How are you, Lee?”
Lee’s mouth fell open. “Brian?”
The man smiled, hesitantly.
Then Lee delivered a right hook to the man’s jaw and knocked him unconscious.
On the ground in front of Lee, the man called Brian lay on his back, his eyelids fluttering, while that strange knock-out groan came from his throat. Lee ripped the shemagh from around his neck and used it to quickly blindfold the man on the ground. As he worked, his eyes scanned the woods again.
Harper appeared, wide-eyed. “Uh…what the hell was that?”
“Come on.” Lee bent down and hooked his arms through one of the man’s elbows. “We need to move.”
Harper’s voice bore a little more edge to it. “What the fuck is going on?”
Lee straightened his legs, dragging the man’s torso off the ground. “Could I get some fucking help here? I told you I would explain things later. This is not the time or the place.”
Harper bared his teeth, but snatched up the man’s other elbow and they began hauling him towards the nearest LMTV. “Why not, right?” His voice was rank with sarcasm. “We trust you on everything else, what’s one more time? You know, one of these days you’re gonna have to actually tell us what the fuck you’re doing!”
The man dragging between them mumbled something, forming words with the noises coming out of his mouth. Lee shook him hard. “Don’t talk.” His eyes came up to Harper as they shuffled around the corner of the LMTV, regarding the older man from under his eyebrows. “We’ve lost two men to ambushes. You wanna stand around with your ass in the wind, be my guest. But we need to get mobile ASAP.”
They hauled the man into the back of the LMTV. Lee grabbed the handle on the lifted tailgate and hauled himself up. He looked over the side and saw LaRouche standing around, looking a little confused. “LaRouche, you’re driving. I’m gonna watch our man back here.”
LaRouche nodded and jogged back to their Humvee.
At the tailgate, Harper clenched his jaw. “You want help back there?”
Lee shook his head and looked down at the blindfolded man. “No. I got it.”
Harper disappeared with a huff.
Lee knelt down over his prisoner. The man’s mouth worked, probably feeling out the damage to his jaw. As the sound of engines shifting reached him, and the LMTV lurched forward, Lee searched himself to see how the presence of this man affected him. Was he off-balance? Was he shocked? Perhaps confused?
No.
He was cold inside. Like the surface of his mind was a frozen lake, and he knew there were things moving beneath that hard numbness. Powerful emotions that could hurt him, cloud his judgment, and drive him crazy. Fatalistic thoughts. Feelings of hopelessness. But he couldn’t see or hear or feel them. He only had the knowledge that they were there.
Now there was nothing but the cold, flat, hardness.
He took a deep breath and it felt rotten in his chest.
He would have preferred anger.
Lee sat back on his heels as the truck rumbled along. Over the sides, the tops of trees clawed at the darkening sky. He lifted his head and felt the wind on his face and neck, colder where his shemagh had kept his skin warm.
The man at his feet shifted and touched Lee’s boot.
He directed his face upwards, searching like a blind man. “That you, Lee?”
> Lee didn’t respond for a long time, just sat there, staring down at the captive and considering what to do next. Finally he spoke: “What are you doing here, Brian?”
Brian triangulated on Lee’s voice. “Listen to me. I know you’re confused, but you have to trust me. I’m here for you.”
“What about my men? What about them?”
“I can’t help what happened…”
“Just shut the fuck up.” Lee shook his head. “Who’s taking care of South Carolina?”
“You’ve been out of the loop, my friend. What the hell happened to you, anyways?”
“How about you answer my questions first.”
“There is no South Carolina, Lee. Not anymore.”
Lee’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Brian shook his head. “No. Not here. You get me someplace safe and you keep me under lock and key and you have someone you really trust guard me. I’ll talk to you in private. But not here.”
Lee’s jaw jutted out. “Suit yourself.”
Five minutes later they pulled up to the Camp Ryder gate and Lee peered over the top of the cab as the guard opened the entrance and the convoy rolled in, barely fitting all the vehicles inside. As the diesel engines trundled in, people began to notice and their eyes went wide at the line of military vehicles. Many of the people began to clap, smiling up at Lee as the LMTV came to a halt. Perhaps the presence of the military vehicles gave them an increased sense of security.
But Lee’s mind was in other places, and he gave them a curt nod and hopped down off the tailgate. Harper was immediately there with him, and they were pressed in by curious onlookers who wanted to see the vehicles. As they edged around the back of the truck, they saw the huddled form in the back, bound and blindfolded and a slight hush fell over their excited talking.
“Help me get him out of here,” Lee mumbled to Harper.
“Where we gonna put him?” Harper asked.
As he said it, Bus edged through the crowd, followed closely by a group of three that Lee recognized as some of the volunteers. Lee nodded to Bus and they pulled Brian over.