The Redeemed

by Matthew S. Cox

  “That’s why she’s not a perfect clone.” Fitch snapped his fingers.

  “Yah, well.” Neeley bapped him in the stomach. “Tris also looks like the wind’d break her in half.”

  “Like I said.” Snow lifted her gaze from the ground to the distance. “Our appearance was based on an estimation.”

  “So it’s true. Amarillo’s gone.” Kevin sagged where he stood, feeling as defeated as he had after Wayne’s death. Everything he’d ever wanted or counted on… gone. He pictured Tris in his mind, the way she smiled at him right after sex, the way she smiled at him while they ate, the way she smiled at him… in general. “Not everything I wanted.”

  “What?” asked Fitch. “Little louder.”

  “Take care of yourself, Kevin.” Snow straightened her posture, the sense of projected guilt evaporating. “The least I can do is get Komodo to leave the remaining roadhouses alone. Those people are going to have enough problems.”

  “What if he says no?” asked Neeley.

  Snow walked away. “Then I guess I could just kill them all.”

  Kevin closed his eyes and wished with everything he had that Tris was okay. “Fuck it. We’re going home.”

  “Right on,” said Fitch.

  Neeley leaned to the side, peering around Fitch, staring at Snow’s ass as she walked off.

  Fitch grabbed him by the back of his vest and dragged him along after Kevin to where they’d parked. “Dammit man, that dick of yours is going to get you killed one of these days.”

  our hours or so after the last bullet left the .50 cal overhead, Tris pulled the van into a parking spot by Mac’s Roadhouse, a few miles over the Colorado/Oklahoma border, almost due north of Amarillo. According to the dash, they’d arrived at 3:04 in the afternoon. She shut down the van and leaned around to the right, peering into the back. Most of the survivors drifted in and out of sleep, save Kirsten, clearly out cold, and Warren who sat against the back doors staring at Abby. The only time he’d not drilled into her with his eyes had been a few minutes at a time during pee breaks on the side of the road.

  The two faced each other, the girl still planted between the front seats, for the entire ride thus far. After only five minutes of the man’s distrustful stare, Abby looked down and hadn’t raised her head once.

  “Hey,” said Tris, almost yelling. “We’re at a Roadhouse. The van needs to charge and you all need food, water, maybe a shower. Lauren, you can probably get something to wear here too.” She looked at Isla, still wrapped in her brother’s tee shirt. “Kid-sized clothes are pretty rare, but maybe. We’re safe here, so I’d like to spend the night.”

  “I don’t need new pants. They just need washed.” Isla held the wad of denim up.

  Tom mumbled something into her hair about it being perfectly okay for anyone to have an accident when Infected were running at them.

  “I’m not sleeping around her.” Warren pointed at Abby.

  The eleven-year-old sniffled, more from sick than tears. “You can tie me to the bed. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” She coughed, her entire body shaking.

  Emilio lunged at Warren, but Zack and Sergeant Ellis caught him. He pointed, fingertip inches from Warren’s nose, and shouted something in Spanish.

  “Dad…” Abby sneezed. “I don’t wanna be shot… and if I am gonna turn into a zombie, I don’t want anyone to die but me.”

  Emilio lost the will to fight and crawled into the front to embrace Abby, weeping on her shoulder. That, of course, got her crying, and made Tris ponder shooting Warren right in the van.

  Sergeant Ellis cast an imperious eye down on Warren. “Not ta wish it on ’er, but you better hope that girl turns. If that’s just a cold, I’m gonna beat seven shades of shit outta you.”

  Zara exited the van and headed around front to connect the charge plug. The others climbed out the back doors, Tom carrying Isla who held her jeans out at arm’s length. Tris remained in the driver’s seat despite really needing to pee. Not until Emilio regained his composure some minutes later did she move.

  “You okay?”

  He put a hand on her thigh, then his forehead against his knuckles. “You gotta tell me she’s gonna be okay.”

  “I’m not a doctor, but she looks too sick to be affected by that virus. The symptoms don’t fit.” I hope.

  Abby smiled. Emilio helped her up and they walked around the van to the roadhouse door. Tris climbed into the back once no one could see her, and tugged at the tarp over the pile of cardboard boxes and metal tins. Thank you, Zara. She pulled two of the boxes out of the pile of fourteen or so, and covered the stash once more. After wrapping them in a blanket, she hefted the bundle in her arms, grunting a little with the weight, and exited the van via the back doors. After using her foot to nudge them closed, she met Zara by the front bumper.

  “Gee, you think that’ll be enough?” Zara smirked.

  Tris chuckled. “It’s only fair.”

  “You’re a sucker for kids. Mac’s daughter’s sweet.” Zara looked down.

  “I dunno.” Tris walked to the roadhouse entrance, Zara at her side. “Maybe because I didn’t really have a childhood, I feel bad. I’m really having to work hard not to shoot Warren in the head.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you’re a Persephone…”

  “No. Look at these spindly little arms.” Tris gave her a raspberry. “I mean… the replacement parents weren’t bad to me, but I always felt like I was ‘in custody’ more than ‘at home.’ You know?”

  “Can’t say I do.” Zara opened the door for her. “My parents are pretty cool. They’re probably all kinds of upset now. I wonder what kind of bullshit Nathan fed them about why I’m missing.”

  Inside, the survivors had dispersed among tables, with Abby and her dad way off in the corner by themselves. Tris lugged the boxes over to the counter, where Mac stood, flashing his huge grin at the crowd.

  “Hey Mac.”

  Denise glided out from the back, took one look at all the people, and started to go right back in. Mac grabbed her wrist.

  “Come on sweetie, I need your help.”

  “Aww but Dad, the book was just getting to the good part.” Denise grumbled.

  “Book ain’t gonna grow legs. Save it for when there’s nothin’ goin’ on… otherwise you’ll be bored when nothin’ goin’ on.”

  “Okay.” She started to turn to the room, but stopped facing Tris. “Hi, again.” After a smile, she headed to the nearest table.

  “Hey Mac.” Tris nodded at the curtain. “Can I talk to you in back for a few minutes?”

  “Yeah sure.” He held the curtain aside for Tris.

  “Guess I’ll take the counter.” Zara winked.

  Mac gave her an ‘I’m watching you’ point, then chuckled.

  Tris headed down the hallway and took a left into the office. She stood there until Mac walked in.

  “What’s up?”

  “Here.” Tris held up the bundle.

  He got his arms under it. When Tris stopped supporting them, the boxes almost took him to the floor. Wide-eyed, he rushed to the desk to put it down. “Jesus F… little warning.” He blinked at her. “How you lift this? What the fuck is it?”

  Tris sighed. “I’ve got some good news and some―”

  “Bad news. Yeah. Okay, hit me.”

  “Those people out front are all that’s left of Amarillo. By the way, the whole thing was bullshit. They never had an army. Chances are, they couldn’t have done a damn thing other than throw money at bounties.”

  Mac gave her a look as though she’d told him he had five seconds to live. “That bad?”

  “Yeah. At most, they had about 250 people. All the soldiers on the rooftops? Mannequins and rudimentary androids with fake weapons. The old guy running the show was lying to everyone.”

  “So what’s the good news?”

  Tris grinned, gesturing at the boxes. “Well, since Amarillo was phony, I figured you deserved your money back.”

  He swooned into the
chair.

  “Should be ten thousand in there.”

  Mac pawed at the blanket, exposing the cardboard coin boxes holding dimes and pennies still in their pre-war bank wrappers. “Fuck!”

  “Sorry, Mac. I’ve got a boyfriend.” She winked. “There’s no security blanket anymore. Eventually, the bad element will figure that out. You’ll probably want to hire some muscle to help keep things safe here. Think you can feed these people, let us crash the night, and maybe spare some clothes for those who need it. Hope ten grand is enough.”

  “Shit, yeah!” He leaned toward the door. “Liv, get in here.”

  “Mind if I use the radio?” asked Tris.

  Mac waved her at the table full of electronics with a ‘be my guest’ gesture and turned his attention to the older version of Denise who walked in. “Sweetie, baby… you ain’t gonna believe this.”

  Olivia yelled out in surprise and lost all strength in her legs at the sight of the coins. Mac guided his fainting wife into the chair.

  Tris took a seat by the console and squeezed the mic button. “Hey, uhh, breaker or whatever… Sang? Come back.” She listened to the radio hiss for about a minute while Mac tried to calm Olivia down from her exuberance. “Sang? Okay, if you can hear me, pick up the little back thing on the squiggly cord and push the button on the side before you talk into it.”

  Silence.

  “Shit. Maybe he’s out front.” Tris set the mic on the table and stood. “I really need to piss.”

  Perhaps an hour later, after food and a trip to the bathroom, Tris followed Emilio and Abby into one of the tiny bedrooms upstairs. Warren and Zack hovered in the doorway like prison guards. The tween gave them a pouty look, but said nothing as she crawled into the bed and held her wrists up to the bedposts on either side of the headboard.

  Emilio hesitated a long time before winding cord around her right wrist and tying a knot. “There.”

  “That won’t hold her if she turns,” said Warren. “Both hands.”

  Tris glared. “Infected can’t even figure out ladders. She’d try to get up and just keep tugging at her arm, not knowing why she was stuck.”

  “I won’t be able to wipe my nose,” said Abby, sniffling.

  “This is suicidal. Forget it.” Warren reached for his gun. “You’re being too sentimental. She’s going to kill us all.”

  Tris had the Beretta at his temple in an eye blink. Warren froze. Emilio paused as well, his gun half-drawn.

  “Please don’t kill me!” yelled Abby. “It’s okay. Just… stay with me, please.” She sniffled, trying to breathe through her nose, coughed a little, and moaned.

  Muttering a continuous stream of apologies, Emilio tied her other wrist to the headboard. Warren scoffed.

  Abby, glaring daggers at him, struggled as if to prove she couldn’t get loose.

  “You’re right,” said Tris. “I think a bullet in the head is the solution to our problem, but it’s not going into Abby.”

  “Whoa.” Zack held his hand up at Tris. “Everyone needs to calm down.”

  “They’re sneaky.” Warren forced his voice past clenched teeth. “One second, they look innocent, then before you can react, they’re chewing on you. You think I like this?” He huffed. “I don’t want her to be sick at all, but I’m also not going to let emotion kill everyone who managed to get out of there.”

  An animalistic growl, like nothing that could ever come from a human throat filled the air out in the hallway. Abby screamed, struggling against the ropes and kicking at the air while shrieking. A lone gunshot rang out, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting floorboards and another shot. Warren and Zack pointed pistol and rifle down the hall at the foreboding silence.

  Emilio tried to comfort Abby as best he could; wild with panic, the girl thrashed and tried to break free.

  Tris stopped pointing her gun at Warren’s head and aimed down the corridor.

  A doorknob twisted. The men tensed as if ready to shoot whatever came out.

  “It’s me,” said Micah. “Don’t shoot.”

  He stepped into the hallway, his face a mask of total blankness, a Glock dangling from the fingers of his right hand. Blood smeared his shirt and jeans. He let the gun fall to the thin carpet before peeling his clothes off and walking up to the three of them stark naked.

  “Gran’ma got scratched.” His lip quivered. Giant tears streaked his dark brown face. “She tried to bite me, but it wad’nt her. She gone already.” He turned in a slow circle and held his arms out. “Am I bit or scratched?”

  “Jesus.” Warren lowered his gun and gave the boy a quick look-over before patting him on the head and moving past him to the open door. “Nah, son. You’re good.”

  Mac bounded up the stairs at the end of the hallway, submachineguns drawn. “Hell was that?”

  Tris holstered her Beretta and waved him over.

  Abby stopped fighting the rope, apparently having heard enough to understand Lauren had been shot… by her grandson. She sniffled and coughed in gasping sobs. After two seconds of watching his daughter struggle to hug him, Emilio pulled a knife and cut her loose. She leapt into an embrace, shivering and crying.

  Zack examined the boy. “Don’t see any broken skin. This blood’s all spatter. What happened?”

  Micah looked downcast. “Gran’ma must’a got scratched when that man jumped on ’er. She’d been sleepy the whole ride. She ate up a bunch and wanted ta go ta bed. I was tryin’ ta read and she’s mutterin’ ‘sorry’ in her sleep. Then she sat up lookin’ all confused. She tell me ta run, so’s I ask what’s wrong. Then she made that noise. Grabbed me. Her eyes were yellow… an’ I… an’ I―” He collapsed to his knees, sobbing into his hands.

  Mac relaxed. “Shit…”

  Tris bit her lip. “He’s smeared in blood…”

  “I’ma goin’ to Hell now, ain’t I. For killin’ mah own gran’ma.” Micah stared down.

  “That wasn’t your grandmother anymore, boy.” Warren pulled the door closed. “The Virus killed her. You helped her find peace.”

  Mac looked torn between being upset he had an Infected in his place to clean up and feeling bad for Micah. “C’mon, kid. I got a water well out back we can rinse you off. Think I got some clothes’d fit ya too.”

  Micah shuffled off after Mac.

  “Hey, Mac, you got any real strong moonshine?” asked Tris. “That should disinfect. I’ll clean up in there so no one gets sick.”

  He looked at her with two raised eyebrows.

  “Vaccinated… I can’t get it.” Tris sighed down at her clothes. “Can you send up a cheap long shirt or something? I’d rather not run around naked or have to burn what I’m wearing.”

  “Yeah,” said Mac. “I’ll ask ’Liv to bring you something. Might have some holes but if you’re gonna burn it anyway…”

  “That’s fine. Beats tits-out.”

  Warren walked back down the hallway, pausing to shoot a smirk at Abby. “She’s loose.”

  “Yes. She is.” Tris scowled. “You’re going to tell me you’d have left a terrified eleven-year-old tied to the bed when she’s desperate to hold on to her father?”

  Warren sighed. “No, perhaps not, but… before we all sleep.”

  “Lauren. It’s only been a few hours and she turned. Abby’s got a damn cold.” Tris glared.

  Zack exited the room. “Got her on the thigh, deep gouge.”

  “Abby hasn’t turned because she doesn’t have a massive wound down the inside of her leg.” Warren glanced sideways at Tris, most of his attention still locked on the girl. “You did say the level of exposure mattered, didn’t you?”

  Tris wanted to shout him down, but enough doubt lingered that she couldn’t quite do it.

  “You’re an asshole,” said Abby. She coughed. Her glower faltered at a dire look from Warren, and she slipped away from her father to lie down again, extending her arms up to the headboard. Her expression looked calm, but the rest of her body trembled. “Fine. Whatever.”
>
  Emilio shook his head in disbelief. “I’m gonna be right behind Mike. When she kicks this cold, and you all see it’s nothing, I’m going to break my boot off in your ass.”

  Olivia appeared at the top of the stairs with a faded, coral colored knee-length tee shirt. Mac was right about the holes. At least one promised to give a nipple a great view of the world.

  I can put it on backwards. Tris took it. “Thanks.”

  She ducked into her rented room, stripped, and put on the tee, which had evidently been dinner for an army of bugs. It smelled like it had spent the past half-century in a wooden box as well. Emilio and Warren’s argument seeped through the wall in low murmurs.

  After putting her shoes back on, she crossed the hall to enlist Zara’s help.

  Tris woke feeling sore everywhere. The window remained black, leaving her confused as to why sleep had abandoned her. A faint wail hinted that there’d likely been a not-so-faint wail before it. Tris rolled to her feet, grateful to be rid of that awful tee shirt and in her own clothes, and headed out into the hall.

  The air still reeked, thick with the vaporous horror of moonshine capable of peeling varnish. She advanced to the door from which the noise emanated. From the sound of it, Isla had a nightmare. The girl’s quiet crying continued under a constant mutter of reassurances from her brother. Tris relaxed and trudged back toward her room, pausing to listen at Abby’s door.

  A man’s snoring accompanied a child’s wheezy, labored breaths. She took a knee and peered into the keyhole. Emilio lay on his side on the floor by the bed. Abby had managed to pass out despite having her arms tied out to the headboard; she looked far from comfortable, but also far from being an Infected.

  Tris grabbed her heel, ready to twist open the lockpick case in her sole. Sang couldn’t shoot his son even when it had become obvious the young man had become Infected. As horrible as Tris felt… if the girl did turn in the middle of the night, unlikely as she hoped that to be, anyone she killed would be Tris’ fault.

  Grumbling, she tromped downstairs to the bathroom before returning to bed. Guilt and worry over Abby did their best to fight off exhaustion, but after all that had happened that day, plus cleaning up Lauren, fatigue won.