The Meek (Unbound Trilogy Book 1)

by J. D. Palmer

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Then his will gives in to mine and the knife sinks into his chest.

  I stare down at the man. The world is fuzzy around me, sights and sounds flowing into the periphery as I stare at the man I’ve just killed. Face slack, mouth open as if he was about to say something. Blue sheets tangled around my body and blood everywhere. How did I get here?

  Gunshots. I look up. God, I’m tired.

  Beryl has a machine gun and has it bent around the stairs. She fires, the gun rocking her small frame as she sprays the landing. When she stops there is no sound. Theo hustles across the room. “Har let’s go!”

  I stand on shaky legs and he pushes me up onto the set of drawers and out onto the roof. Steven helps me out and I take two steps and vomit. I shudder, eyes blurry, retching up water and chocolate onto my boots. Beryl grabs my shoulders and makes me stand up. Steven has already started along the rooftop. Theo stares at his hands, eyes wide and panicked, face and shirt coated with blood and flesh.

  Beryl grabs my hand and looks me in the eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her with vomit and blood stringing from my bloody chin. She grabs my face and shakes it, worry fading from her face to be replaced by relief. I crack a smile. I know I look deranged.

  Hells, what have we become?

  “Shouldn’t kill on an empty stomach.”

  I regret the joke. I do. But it’s how I deal with shit. She lifts my shirt to examine my side, blood soaking the fabric.

  “It’s just a graze.” I think. I can’t really feel it.

  She gives me a shove and Theo and I grab arms in a kind of giddy embrace of brothers made by death escaped. We lean on each other and wipe tears and blood and vomit from our faces and grin because to not would be to break.

  Then we run.

  The buildings are connected on the whole block, one hedged next to the other as close as possible with only small variations in height. We run, panicked and desperate, tripping on rain-slick surfaces and falling into satellite dishes and solar panels and corpses of potted plants.

  We get to a complex that has a rooftop entrance. The door is locked. Why is everything always fucking locked?! We can’t risk making noise breaking it down. We can’t rappel down. They have to have discovered the bodies by now, the open window pointing them in the direction of our flight.

  “Here!” Steven leans out over the edge. A small balcony sits ten feet down. Without hesitation he swings his legs over, rotating over on his stomach to lower himself. He drops lightly onto the patio.

  Theo swears. “I’m starting to have a real fucking problem with what you all ask me to do.”

  He lowers Beryl, one hand wrapped around her forearm. I shimmy down afterwards. Steven breaks a glass panel and opens the door as I stand beneath the bulk of Theo, offering his legs support so that hopefully he doesn’t rip off part of the roof and topple to his death.

  Instead I’ll probably die.

  He makes it down and we race through the apartment. Time is against us. We barrel down hallways, whispered curses at every tripped step and every knock of a shoulder into something unseen. Mouths hiss and grunt and hands push each other backwards at every wrong turn until we finally find the stairs.

  We pause outside a gaudy door comprised of wood and stained glass and watch for movement outside. Down the street a group of soldiers stream by, helmeted heads gleaming in the dull light, running for the waterfront. I open the door slowly and we ease outside. There is a distant thwock thwock thwock and I see Mickey’s helicopter flying high above the city. There is a blast as a barrage of fire issues from the ship floating in the bay. The helicopter banks and flies out of sight around a building. More yelling and another platoon of soldiers run by.

  “Now.”

  We run across the road and down an alley. Rescuing John is now a distant second to getting away from our pursuers. We flit from shadows to the sides of cars to sprinting down thin alleyways.

  Tall buildings glint in the moonlight, reflecting a thousand different mirrors that shadow and illuminate strange patterns on our even stranger journey. We are getting closer to the docks, the air becoming more salty. The blasts from the ship getting closer.

  Give ‘em hell, Mickey.

  Market Street stands before us. A thick thoroughfare littered with trollies and abandoned cars. It also appears to be the main path the Chinese take. Soldiers hustle by, back and forth in front of where we hide, some breaking off down side streets on god knows what mission. There is a desperation to them. And in the opposite direction a swarm of worried women and children and infirm. They huddle, mother’s arms draped over small children as they hasten towards the piers, a small group of soldiers pointing them towards one dock or another.

  We are out of breath. Elbows and sides and knees bloody from a million different abrasions. Slips and skids on wet streets, unseen objects tripping us in the dark, fingernails ripped from climbing and falling and reasons no one can remember. Adrenaline has brought us this far. Now we are feeling the pain. The exhaustion. The dehydration.

  And we don’t know where to go.

  We sit behind a dumpster. Filth and blood and low spirits exemplified by our surroundings. Theo is rubbing dirt on his hands. I don’t think he is even aware of what he is doing. Beryl is done. She rests against the brick wall, eyes closed. Her legs are shaking with exhaustion. I’m not much better. I keep getting light-headed, my head drooping when I run, less alert than I should be.

  Steven grabs my arm. Hard. I surge to my feet, stumbling, looking for the danger. Chinese soldiers clomp by. They push two figures ahead of them, hands on their heads. Josey’s terrified face in the moonlight. And no mistaking the form of Sheila. A body is being carried behind them.

  I hiss at the others and they lean out to see what we see. This does not bode well for any parties involved. If Mickey is alive and on the run he will probably blow the bomb soon. If he is dead, or caught, then our future could be just as bleak.

  We run down the alley and shadow them down the parallel street. They march quickly, pushing the Americans towards the bay. We try to keep pace. It’s like tracking someone through a fence, slat by slat hoping they’ll reappear.

  They’re gone.

  They take a turn, somewhere, and we are forced to be bold. There is no running now. There is no escape back the way we came.

  Hoods are drawn up as we cross Market Street, huddled together, hoping the shadows hide us.

  Moonlight shines bright as the storm dissipates. There is no way we can hide our faces. No way to hide our height or skin color or bloody bodies.

  But no one cares, not this close to their home base. They race around and yell and someone squeezes by me as we cross, angry words thrown over a shoulder.

  For the first time I see the entirety of the invasion, something that part of me still hadn’t accepted. Being invaded. Is that what’s happening?

  Generators powering spotlights illuminate makeshift shelters and tents along the shore. Here, a pile of crates neatly stacked. Decomposing bodies piled in the center of a park. Bright signs attached to light posts in Chinese, arrows pointing down the road. And far less soldiers than I had been lead to believe. There are women, and children, and men that have obviously never held a rifle. They cluster in groups and stand still, casting about for direction. Some run towards the boats.

  “There they are.” Steven points and we follow them down a waterfront street. The bridge we jumped off of what seemed like days ago glows silver in the night sky ahead of us. Distant lightning flashes followed by orange explosions above the clouds that look like bombs being detonated in the atmosphere. They burst in tune to the lightning, orange and purple and sometimes gold filling the distant heavens as distant thunder rumbles across the bay to match the firing of guns from the ship. Mankind is at its knees and heaven and earth rage and celebrate and match the disarray blow for blow.

  The men ahead of us don’t have cause to look behind them. Why
would they? They hustle down the middle of the street unmindful of the shadows on the sidewalk and up steps through large brick pillars.

  We creep along shrubs, hesitant now to follow too closely. We wait a few minutes. The distant storm vents its wrath but the air around us is still, quiet. The moon has dropped behind the line of buildings and the sky has a slight blue hue to it. Morning is only hours away. There will be no hiding in the sun.

  We shoulder weapons, borrowed pistols and borrowed machine guns and borrowed knives… Nothing and everything is ours. Through the arches, a leaping horse and “Palomino” emblazoned on the sign nearby. Dark sculptures cavort on pedestals and formerly tamed shrubbery now grows wild.

  A door is propped open with a computer. We file in, suddenly engulfed in darkness. Voices whisper ahead of us in the Cimmerian shade. We pass rooms, offices and restrooms. The farther we go the darker it gets. We follow the voices, shuffling deeper into a cave to face the ghouls ahead.

  Flame bursts to life, whispers of light dancing and darting away to flicker off the tile ahead. We cover our eyes, falling into each other as we try to adjust.

  We tread lightly, barely breathing, sweat streaming down faces made of stone. Orpheus descending into the realm of Hades. Every step a process. I curse the heavy boots I wear as we ease forward, slowly nearing the source of the light.

  Footsteps thud and I scramble backwards, herding the others before me in an effort to get back to a bathroom. A side door clangs shut and we stand alone, thankful that they took a different route out than what they took in.

  I peek around the corner. It’s a restaurant. Fire burns blue from gas grills to cast a bonfire of shadows around the room. It’s orderly, neat. Booths and tables cleared of everything and pushed out of the way. Four men stand at the edge of the firelight holding guns. And one, an older man who holds himself upright with a rigidness that belies his training, paces around the room staring one by one at pictures of people enjoying pizza.

  He barks out a string of words and a young soldier shuffles forward and drops by the bowed heads of the new prisoners.

  “He wishes you know too that should you tell him where the bomb is he will spare you and wish you to join in his new city.”

  Josey raises his chin and keeps quiet. Sheila plays dumb. “What bomb are you talking about, asshole?”

  The answer is relayed and the man in charge nods to one of his men. He disappears in the back, reappearing moments later pushing the bound figure of John.

  They shove him down in front of the others. He has been beaten; eye swollen and dried blood from a smashed nose coats his lips and chin. His head slowly comes up, his disoriented gaze glancing around the room before settling on the two figures before him. He looks at them and at the prone figure on the ground before raising a defiant chin.

  “I told them. I told them everything.”

  Chapter 32

  Steven moves to rush forward, I grab his shoulder and pull him in close. “Wait for the right moment,” I whisper. He nods, tense. It’s not going to take much for him to run around the corner and start shooting. Hell, that might be the best move.

  “Tell us location bomb is and we let you live. Other way, you die one by one,” the translator says in his broken English.

  No one responds. Defiant and resolute. They grab Sheila and haul her up, dragging her across the room to the stove. Her left arm is locked behind her and her head pulled back by one of the soldiers. Another takes her right hand and slowly lowers it into the flames. She screams, body writhing, face contorted in pain. The man presses it down, relentless, and her screams turn to gurgles. The man restraining her is choking her in order to hold her still.

  Steven looks at me as if to say “now?” I shake my head. The other two soldiers are too alert, guns raised and ready. The hallway is thin, and we are pressed against the wall. No body armor, nothing to hide behind. If we rush now it will be two by two and they will simply mow us down.

  The men let go of Sheila and she falls to her knees, gulping in air, tears streaming down her face as she cradles a hand blackened and blistered.

  “Where is the bomb?”

  She tries to control her sobs, slowly gathering herself enough to look up at them.

  “I hid it in my cooch, any of you got a pecker big enough to get it?” And she laughs dementedly. The man nods and they drag her up and prepare to place her face on the oven.

  Josey struggles up from his knees. “Stop it! Stop it you—”

  A soldier steps forward and raises his gun to strike him down.

  A nudge to Steven’s elbow is all it takes. We charge around the corner as their attention is focused on Sheila, and a flame, and the horror neither side thought to be a part of.

  I drop to a knee and fire at the one man holding his gun at the ready. I don’t know if I kill him or if Steven does, a series of small maroon holes appear on his cheek and chest and in his hair. He drops and Steven aims his gun at the man standing over Josey.

  “Everyone stop!”

  Theo has barreled into the men torturing Sheila. He leaves the gun in his waistband, apparently preferring to use physical force. He tosses one into the wall with his left hand and pummels the other and they are too shocked to strike back. I run across the room to the commander and put a gun to his head. I don’t say a word, just stare into his eyes, daring him to do something. Say something. Anything.

  Silence but for heavy breathing behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” John is aghast. I look at him, confused. Steven is undoing his bonds but John only stares at me. “What have you done?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” I look around. Beryl leans over Josey, he was knocked unconscious by the strike to the forehead. The prone form on the floor doesn’t move. Sheila stands and kicks one of the men who held her in the face. She grabs a pistol from his belt and aims it at his head.

  “Stop!” John holds out a hand. “Listen to me. These men are refugees. They aren’t invaders. They have told me. Listen! They are from China. They said there were nuclear meltdowns. They had to flee. These are just survivors. We can talk this through.”

  Sheila shakes her head, incredulous. “Fuck you.”

  “They aren’t looking to fight,” John carries on irately, “they are looking for a safe place to—”

  She shoots the man in the head. Only a brief pause before she moves on to the next one. John turns to me, imploring. “Do something!”

  “You did this, John.” The frustration, the terror, the hardships pour out of me in cruel sentences. “You brought this on everyone.”

  He rounds on me, an anger I hadn’t seen before. “Lies! You are a damn liar!” He walks up to me. Sheila pauses, gun aimed, to watch. “You did this Harlan. You.” He jabs me in the chest. “You sat by and watched all this. You didn’t do anything. And they would follow you. They do follow you. My brother follows you in your meaningless direction. YOU could have prevented this. All you had to do was act.”

  I rock back, stunned by the words. “John, you came here. You knew your brother would follow, that we would come to rescue you—”

  “Rescue me? Rescue me? God dammit you don’t get it. You don’t see the big picture. This world is broken. Broken. And instead of trying to piece it together you want to cause more pain and death. Destruction. Dammit Harlan, if I can’t stop some of it I don’t want to live. You aren’t rescuing me.”

  I shove him away from me. “I don’t have time for this. Stay if you fucking want.” I gesture to the people in the room. “I fight for them. Do they matter to you? Are their lives precious?” He doesn’t respond.

  Steven steps forward. “He wants to start a home. He wants to protect his family. He wants to protect the people he loves.” He gestures around the room. “There isn’t anything to be gained from saving strangers from the chaos of the world if your own life is thrown away meaninglessly. Jesus John, you taught me that.”

  There is a grunt, a slap of flesh on flesh. I wheel to see
Sheila struggling with the soldier for the gun, his hand locked on her forearm. Theo jumps forward to help as the gun goes off.

  I turn in time to partially deflect the blow from the Chinese commander. He knocks me down and races for the door. Beryl fires her gun after him. I don’t know if he is hit. It’s chaos. Another shot rings out. Theo is prying the gun out of the hand of the Chinese soldier. Someone runs by me. Another shot rings out and another soldier falls.

  I don’t know what else is happening. I don’t care. All I see from my spot on the floor is John cradling his brother’s head in his lap, pleading incoherently as crimson blossoms bright on Steven’s chest.

  I sit on the floor. Steven’s body is still on the cold tile, his blood mixing with that of the dead Chinese soldiers. I look at his tattoos, goofy and macabre and now, just now in this night with the words and acts we’ve shared, I truly begin to see the meaning behind them.

  I howl. My soul grieves for this man who was the most deserving of love. This is not how it is supposed to go. I scream, face lifted to the sky as I try to rid my body, somehow, of the excessive amount of sadness that darkens my soul.

  John stands in the corner. He’s in shock. Beryl kneels next to Steven’s body and tries to speak to him. She can’t. Theo stares at the body and at John and I don’t know what the large man is thinking.

  “We have to get the fuck out of here.” Sheila has ripped part of a uniform and is wrapping her hand. “They’re gonna be all up in our nasties soon, let’s go!” She scans the room. “Now! Grieve later, move now!”

  It snaps us out of our despair. We gather weapons and head towards the door. I stop and kneel by the prone form that was brought in with Josey and Sheila. Long dark hair covers the face. I gently roll it over. Maria’s lifeless eyes stare up at me, a perplexed look fixed on her face, as if she doesn’t understand why she is dead.