“Just don’t hurt me,” Melanie says. “I’ll tell you anything you want, just please don’t hurt me.”
“Oh, no worries, no worries,” the driver says with a dismissive wave. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’ll treat you real good. A pretty girl like you will have everything she needs. Food, decent clothes, a pot to piss in, a sleeping bag to keep you warm at night. I just want to know what happened here. That’s all, sweetheart.”
Melanie nods and lets her arms drift down.
“Ho’d on nah, honey,” the one with the rifle says, a husky voice. “Don’ make me go an’ shoot ya.”
The accent is faintly Caribbean. One of his thick dreadlocks dangles between his face and the rifle. It’s right in his line of sight.
Melanie lifts her arms again. The one with the plaid shirt motions for his partner to calm down.
“Relax, Johnny. She’s just a girl. She ain’t a threat to us.”
“You check to see if she be packing, Eddie?” Johnny says. “Even dese girls can fight. You know that as well as I do.”
The more Johnny talks, the wider the distance between his head and the rifle becomes. Another dreadlock swings down into his line of sight. At this point, if he had to fire suddenly, he wouldn’t hit Melanie if she were a brick wall facing him.
Unless he’s an expert who just happens to be full of himself.
My finger grazes the trigger. I could shoot Johnny first, but I’m afraid Eddie could be a quicker shot with that revolver than his casual demeanor implies. And if I shoot Eddie first, Johnny might automatically fire the rifle, hitting Melanie by chance.
“Let me handle this,” Eddie says, needlessly pulling up his pants again.
If Eddie goes for his revolver, I will shoot him first. Johnny will most likely swing the rifle in my direction. If he does that, he’ll never get the chance to aim it.
Eddie reaches behind his back.
I almost shoot him, but Melanie speaks and Eddie freezes. I give it a few more seconds.
“They tried to take it from me,” Melanie says, sounding girlish and desperate.
Eddie’s brow furrows in suspicion.
“Take what, sweetheart?”
“The men who made that fire. They tried to take my virginity, but I got away. I made the fire and I got away.”
A sob spills out of her. Smiling now, Eddie reaches out in a calming gesture, no longer about to pull the revolver. He approaches Melanie as if to soothe her. Either he genuinely feels pity for her, or the thought of Melanie still being a virgin has excited him to the point of complete idiocy. How does he know she isn’t packing a knife?
Now I’m aiming at Johnny. His rifle poses the most immediate threat.
Take out Johnny first, then shoot Eddie in the head before he can whip out his revolver.
“Hey, now,” Eddie says to Melanie, taking another step toward her, to which Melanie responds by taking a step back.
I’m about to squeeze the trigger and erase Johnny from the picture when Melanie, in a moment of cleverness, points at the warehouse and shouts, “There they are!”
Johnny swings around with his rifle to aim at his imaginary attackers. Before he can complete the turn, I squeeze the trigger and put a bullet in his skull. The sky goes pink above his head with misted blood.
There are screams from the women in the truck as Johnny falls among them. My pistol, aimed squarely at Eddie’s midsection now, makes another loud crack, only a second after the first.
Eddie drops his revolver—I’m actually impressed that he managed to get it out so quickly—and doubles over like a man about to vomit. He lifts his head to get a look at his executioner.
I let him study me, crouched there among the trees with my pistol aimed at him. But I don’t shoot. Instead, I watch the realization dawn on Eddie that coming here was the worst mistake of his life. After a few moments during which the color drains from his face, he coughs out a burst of blood and tips over onto the pavement.
He is still alive and conscious. A belly wound is a terrible way to die. He watches me approach, probably wondering why I’m wincing in pain, when he’s the one who’s been shot. But the ache in my back has diminished into a dull throb, and I manage to bend over and pick up the revolver. It goes straight into my utility belt for later inspection. I barely notice Melanie get up and run into the woods where we left our stuff.
“Kill me,” Eddie says in a trembling voice.
With a solemn shake of my head, I tell him honestly why I won’t.
“I don’t want to waste the bullet.”
He blinks stupidly at me, and then his eyes crinkle at the corners, promising tears and weeping. I still won’t waste a bullet on him. But I also don’t want to hear him cry.
As I go for my knife, Melanie takes care of the matter for me. She puts an arrow into his head. It makes a dull crack as it enters, killing him instantly.
The people in the truck have watched the whole thing. When it’s finished, they regard Melanie and me with dumbfounded expressions.
“You’re safe,” I tell them as I open the tailgate.
Melanie and I drag Johnny’s corpse out of the truck and toss it aside. I give the hunting rifle a quick once over and toss that aside as well. Old and poorly maintained. Probably would have jammed on him if he had tried to shoot.
The prisoners seem to trust us, especially the old man. Dressed in a worn black sweater and jeans, he watches me through a squint. A smile rises inside his scraggly white beard. A few of the girls begin to cry openly in what I can tell is pure relief. The old woman extends a hand to Melanie. She receives it warmly and gives it a reassuring grip.
“You’re all free,” I tell them. “But I recommend you let us take you to a safe place. We have a house not far from here. It’s empty, and there’s food and water.”
They accept this in silence, and I perform a headcount. There are two teenage girls, three women in their twenties and thirties, and the old couple. All of them are frighteningly skinny and dressed in clothes that clearly haven’t been changed or washed in over a week.
“Ride with me,” I tell Melanie.
We get into the truck, sliding over seats covered in greenish fabric riddled with holes. It stinks of body odor in here. A bobblehead doll is stuck to the dash. Its enormous head shivers and shakes, the bright orange swaths of hair above its freckled face and gap-toothed smile clearly that of the “What, me worry?” guy from those old Mad magazines.
I tear it off the dash and fling it outside. With a hard turn of the key, I start the engine. It comes to life with a comforting rumble.
“How’s your eye?” Melanie says.
“I’ll live.”
The words without depth perception run through my mind but go unsaid.
“And your back?”
I nod. “Better.”
Melanie leans over and plants a kiss along my chin, just below the handkerchief she secured there earlier.
“Your house,” I say. “Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I drive us onto the main road weaving through the industrial park. Infected stragglers have started to appear from all directions, probably having heard the sound of the gunshots and picked up the scent of the two slavers, but even those capable of running aren’t fast enough to catch up. I’m thankful for the plow as we hit a few that stray into our path.
“I hope Mom and Sarah are okay,” Melanie says, biting her nails.
“I’m sure they’re fine. Do you have any gasoline at your house?”
She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Not anymore. Why?”
“We’ve got half a tank. Enough to get us there, but I’ll have to do a supply run.”
She puts a hand on my thigh. “We’ll have to do a supply run.”
We both shudder as a bang goes off behind our heads: the small window in the back opening. I glance at the rear-view mirror. The old man’s face squints back at me.
“Sorry,” he says. “Window caught
along the darn track.”
“It’s okay,” Melanie says, twisting around to face him. “How is everyone?”
“Much better now, miss.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Need anything?”
“Just a name,” the man says. “Pete Hirscham. And you are?”
Melanie and I introduce ourselves. We keep it on a first-name basis since we might have to part ways with these people at some point. At least, that’s how I think about it.
“I just wanted to say thank you for saving my family,” Pete says.
“Are they your daughters?” Melanie asks him.
He gives a single, firm nod. “And my wife, Linda. My sons Luke, Michael, and Tobias perished during a gathering hunt. We were on our way to a community called Brightrock when we happened upon those two men in the woods. I guess they were trying to take us back to their camp. I’m glad that didn’t happen. You youngsters are a gift from the Lord.”
The way he said “Lord” tell me he means it literally. His eyes have gathered moisture.
“Brightrock,” I say. “Are you sure it’s a real place?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve laid eyes on it myself. My wife and daughters stayed in the woods while I went ahead. It’s about the purest place left on Earth. A community devoted to God. It was when I returned that we got kidnapped. I blame myself for it.”
I swerve to avoid an overturned car but can’t avoid plowing into an infected man crawling on all fours to get across the street.
If there is a God, I thank Him for the snowplow.
“Anyhow, I intend to return,” Pete says. “You kids are welcome to come and bring your families. We could use the extra hands, especially those fit for gathering hunts.”
Melanie and I glance at each other. She lifts her brow in uncertainty, mirroring how I feel about such an arrangement.
“I don’t want to offend you,” I tell the old man, “but we’re not really religious—”
“It’s all right, son,” he says and reaches inside to lay a hand on my shoulder. “I was a pastor at a church north of here. I met many young men like you. When they had questions about the Lord, I preached His word. But when they weren’t interested, I told them I loved them anyway, and that I hoped they treated others with the compassion that makes us all kin.” His expression darkens. He gives a righteous nod. “Not like those two men back there. They were no kin of mine. Animals is what they were.”
“I want to go there,” Melanie tells him. “To Brightrock, with my mother and my little sister.”
“Hearing that makes my heart sing,” Pete says, and I can tell he’s genuinely pleased.
We’re ten minutes away from Melanie’s house, which is a few miles down the road from our high school. I’d rather postpone this conversation until after I’ve had a meal and decent night’s rest.
“You have military training,” Pete says. “But you’re too young to have served. You were, what, sixteen, seventeen during the Great Reckoning?”
I nod, assuming “the Great Reckoning” is just a biblical-sounding name for “the Outbreak.” I like his version better, actually.
“I just turned seventeen when it started to spread,” I tell him. “I was never in the military, but my father was.”
“And he trained you—trained you well, I see.”
I nod again, hoping he won’t ask me about my Dad.
“Was he in Special Forces?”
“He was. What makes you say that?”
Pete grins. I sense he has something hidden up his sleeve.
It turns out he does. Literally.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
He pulls back from the window and takes off his black sweater, evoking a cry of protest from his wife.
“Peter, put that back on,” she says in a cutting voice.
The old pastor ignores her and sticks his arm through the window. He’s wearing a yellow undershirt that was once white. I watch with growing interest as he lifts the right sleeve to expose a tattoo the runs along his triceps.
“Oh, not that ugly thing,” his wife nags at him.
My eyes widen. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Rendered in what looks like ancient, faded black paint is a dagger with the blade pointing down. Ornamented with jewels and a leather grip, the blade is partially covered by a coiling scroll on which I read three words, one on each coil.
DEATH
BEFORE
DISHONOR
Below the dagger’s point is an elaborate logo that reads:
75 RANGER RGT
“My father was a Ranger,” I tell him, “and then a Green Beret. Maybe you knew him. Arthur Garrity?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. But he was my brother. You can be sure of that.” He grips my shoulder, then pats it. “And that makes you my kin.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “Thank you, Pete.”
He smiles and tips his head at Melanie before backing away from the window and into the receiving arms of his wife. She urges him to put on his sweater, and he immediately complies.
Five minutes later, we arrive at Melanie’s house, and I follow her instructions to drive onto the grass and pull around the back. It’s much nicer than mine, but hidden deep inside a neighborhood where stretches of forest separate each residence, similar to my family’s place. Probably why they survived so long without getting attacked.
Melanie runs to the garage door and pounds a distinct beat against it that could never be replicated by accident. It almost sounds like Morse code.
There’s a clicking and clanking noise from above—locks and chains being undone. The window above the garage door is boarded up, nails holding it in place, but the way it swings open tells me the nails and boards are just an elaborate disguise.
In the dark opening, two heads rise cautiously to peek over the edge, one blonde, the other auburn-haired. The blonde one is a little girl. Sarah. The other must be Melanie’s mom.
They’re both cautious enough to hold back squeals and shouts, though the little girl has to clamp both hands over her mouth to contain her excitement. Her mother’s face lights up with joy, and immediately she drops a rope ladder through the window and motions for her daughter to climb inside.
I watch with a growing sense of hope as Melanie turns to me, smiling.
“Go,” I tell her. “I’ll hold the rear for now and help the others.”
As I watch her climb gracefully up the front of the garage, I feel a hand settle on my shoulder. Pete is standing next to me, wearing his ratty black sweater again. Only he isn’t watching Melanie climb. He’s looking up at the clouds.
I expect him to say something God-related, about being blessed or smiled upon by the Lord.
“It’s going to rain,” he says instead, then turns to help his family out of the truck.
I smile at the simplicity of his words.
“Spoken like a true survivalist,” I say.
“Not all men of God live with their heads in the clouds, you know.”
“Especially not ones that used to be Rangers.”
“Not many of us left, unfortunately.”
Together, we watch Melanie slip through the window and pull her mother and sister into a fierce embrace.
“I guess we should help your family,” I say, looking at Pete.
I can’t tell if he heard me. He’s squinting with happiness at his daughters, the youngest of whom—a gangly teenager—is struggling to place a foot on the ladder’s bottommost rung with help from her mother.
“Let’s do that, son,” he says finally.
It takes several minutes to help them up, and on a few occasions, I think I hear the moans of a nearby infected, which makes me pull my gun.
But it’s just the wind, probably bringing in that rain Pete was talking about.
Pete and I help his wife climb up the rope. She calls me “dear boy,” and I respond with “ma’am.” I feel the icy splash of raindrops—big, heavy ones—against my face.
> Pete goes up next. He tells me he doesn’t need any help, thank you very much.
Soon I am the last one standing in the driveway. I holster my gun, grab the ladder, and look around before I climb. Everything is silent and still except the rain, which makes a slapping noise against the tree leaves and a thudding against the house.
To me, it isn’t gloomy or depressing. The rain is clean, natural, and untouched by the virus. It’s the only part of the world that I know will always remain the same. I tip my head back and let it coat my face.
Then I pull myself up the ladder, toward the dark square of the open window.
Melanie isn’t there. She must be with her family, comforting them and explaining what happened. I continue quickly up the ladder. All I want is to be with them.
Looking up, I see Melanie stick her head out the window. I stop and stare at her. She winces at the cold sting of rain and touches a wet spot on her scalp, as if water falling from the sky is a new thing to her.
As always, though, we are on the same wavelength, and she responds to the touch of rainfall by leaning even farther out the window, head tipped back, eyes closed, shoulders thrown back to let the water coat her face.
She looks down at me, wearing a smile of pure contentment.
“Come up,” she says with a wave.
I climb the rest of the way. Melanie takes my hand and pulls me into the warm, dry darkness on the other side.
CHAPTER 16
According to published reports in regional newspapers like Clean World Gazette, Farmer’s Almanac, and Repairman Sam, the last infected person in the U.S. died from a gunshot wound to the head February 14, 2029, in a small Nebraska town called Victoria Springs.
Valentine’s Day.
Our love letter to the virus, signed by a bullet.
It took a whole decade for the majority of the infected to die out on their own, mostly from animal attacks and exposure. We got so good at hiding and protecting ourselves from the threat that the virus struggled those last ten years to find new hosts, and was virtually extinct by the time that last bullet was fired.
The last infected man—nicknamed “Mr. Valentine” by the press—was by then a mere skeleton. Naked and hairless, he weighed ninety pounds and was completely blind.
Outbreak: A Survival Thriller Page 13