Tess’s voice came out in a whisper. “Why?”
Thunder’s eyes blinked and he stared at her again, having come back from the recesses of his memories. “It was war. It was us or them. I’d be damned if I lost another Marine on that tour.” He gave her a faint smile. “There may be misguided people out there, but they’re people like you and me. We all have our faults. We’re all trying to survive. People will latch onto something if it protects them and provides for their family.”
“Then I guess I’m like you. The way I see it, it’s us or them. I don’t care how they got there or why, only that they are blinded by his lies.”
Thunder reached over and snatched a can of beer. He held it up at her. “Want a beer?”
She smiled. She hated light beer. “Sure.”
He tossed it over to her and snatched up another. The can cracked as he popped the top. He slurped the carbonated alcohol and pointed with the can at the Chosen camp. “He’s a harsh man, but times like this breed harsh men.”
She took a swig of her warm beer and it tasted stale yet oddly refreshing. “Or that’s all that remains.”
Thunder’s dark brown eyes reflected the flames, and he tossed a branch into the fire.
She broke eye contact and lost herself in the fire. All she could see hidden in the orange and yellow flames was Pagan’s face. His mouth twisting, engulfed by fire. His screams reverberated in her ears. His eyes pleaded for release from his unbearable pain as his ghost faded into dust and embers.
“The pastor deserves to die.”
Thunder nodded, his eyes distant. “Aye, he does.”
“Then help me,” she said quickly. Thunder’s eyes skimmed over the Chosen camp where the pastor laid his head in rest, contemplating their demise.
“Tess, I hate that guy for what he done to all of us, but they’re on our side.”
“Until when? Until he decides he can take us out? It won’t be only Steele he tries to take out. It will be us too and I don’t blame him one bit.”
“What are you trying to say?” Thunder asked. His furry brows furrowed together.
“I’m trying to ask you for help in offing the prick.” She pointed. “Assassination. Murder. Execution. I don’t care what you want to call it.” She pointed toward the pastor’s camp. “Those people over there are sheep. Mere sheep without their shepherd will be lost. Vulnerable. Those people follow because they are scared. Without him, they will be normal. Cut the head off the snake, the body dies.”
“Or you create a dozen of the little monsters, each worse than the last.”
“Thunder. It can’t get worse than him.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
She glanced up at him. “Help me off this guy. Steele’s too weak. I don’t know what he sees in the guy, but it ain’t helping us.”
“You choose to follow Steele. If the man says he doesn’t want the guy hurt, then you should respect that, despite the fact that we don’t trust the pastor.”
“You too? You won’t help?”
“Use some logic here. The guy hasn’t done anything wrong since he swore to follow Steele. This isn’t a good idea. You could turn us inward on ourselves with Jackson so close.”
She shook her head. Pagan’s face still stared at her from the flames, begging for retribution.
“I thought you were better than this.” She stood up.
His eyes begged. “Don’t be rash. We’ve known each other since the early days.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Apparently, not well enough.”
She sulked away, muttering to herself. “These men are such cowards. First Steele. Then Thunder. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. These men don’t understand a damn thing.”
A form staggered from the woods in the darkness of the night. She thought it was a drunk but knew better from experience. It hobbled closer and closer. She wasn’t sure if it saw or heard her, but it came her way. She loosened a knife in her belt, a short four-inch blade, long enough to penetrate the brain stem, eye socket, or upper neck.
The gray-skinned demon walked with a hunch, one shoulder lower than the other. A low-pitched moan came from its ugly lips. She gripped her knife tight in an underhand hold. It reached for her and she sidestepped quick, jabbing her knife. It punctured the soft thin skin of its neck and she drove her fist up. She didn’t stop until the hilt reached its flesh.
The infected stood for a second, white eyes staring vacantly at her, and then gave out. Its weight grew heavy, and she let it collapse into a heap with a small clap on the ground. She bent down, wiping the blade front and back on its raggedly torn clothes. Its skeletal mouth hung open.
“As easy as that,” she said to herself. She was confident she could handle one or two with a knife. Any more than that and things could get hairy.
She studied the still corpse with its slender, pale face. “As easy as that,” she said to herself. She watched the Chosen camp, a smile curving on her lips. “As easy as that.”
KINNICK
Warden, IA
The ten-by-twelve-foot freezer was no longer cold but only cool in the darkness. Clear plastic bags sat empty on barren shelves and racks that normally held meat, vegetables, and cheese. There was only one door in and out of the walk-in makeshift prison.
Hunter watched the men with wolf-like eyes as they trudged inside. Whitehead’s back slapped the wall in defeat and he slid down onto the floor. Volk turned around, his face filled with pure disdain.
Hunter held out a sack filled with water bottles and MREs. Volk snatched it from his hand.
“Thanks,” he mocked.
Hunter bent down and picked up a silver-handled bucket. “Almost forgot.” He handed it to Volk.
Volk’s eyes burned with hate.
The Marines lacked any sort of gear and appeared almost childlike without their vests, magazines, guns, and helmets. Volk looked like a kid about to throw a temper tantrum while Whitehead had the appearance of a whipped dog. Whitehead’s head dipped down between his legs.
Kinnick stared at Volk, meeting the man’s mean eyes. “We will check on you in the morning.”
Volk snorted and shook his head. “If the local yokels don’t finish you off in the night.”
“Pray they don’t, because whatever they do to us, they’ll do ten times worse to you.” Kinnick walked out of the freezer followed by Hunter.
Hunter put a hand on the door and started to close it. When it was almost closed, he coughed. “Why don’t you give a holler when the shitter’s full? I’ll come in and bring you a new one.”
Kinnick ignored the banter and eyed the Marines as the freezer door shut. The desperation on Whitehead’s face was one of a man being shut in a tomb alive. Volk didn’t appear to care.
The silver metal door clinked as the latch clasped shut. Hunter took a metal rod linked with a chain to the wall and slipped it into the latch.
“Well, ain’t that some shit. Nasty business.” Hunter shook his head in disgust. “Worse than fighting the Zulus. Now what?”
Kinnick exhaled. “We have to find our perpetrators without getting in a shootout with the entire town. Then we have to figure out what to do with these Marines.”
“Can you blame them? Somebody out there shot their squad mate in cold blood.”
“Yes, I can. We’re held to a higher standard.” Kinnick turned around and walked back through the kitchen and into the restaurant dining room with Hunter on his tail.
The dining room was dark and looked like a family campout. Gear and blankets littered the floor. The other Marines either sat at the barricade or in chairs.
“I fully believe men should be held accountable for the deed that they’ve done,” Hunter said behind him. He moved alongside Kinnick.
“As do I.” Kinnick stared out at the barricade. “Can you imagine the field day the press would have with a situation like this?”
“Ain’t no more press, sir, but yes, I can. I know both you and me would be on the hook for it faster than two sh
akes of a lamb’s tail.” Hunter rolled out a tin of tobacco and pinched a wad of the black grainy substance in his fingers, pulled his lip out, and shoved it into his mouth.
“I know we would, but we must continue to operate like we will be held responsible for all of our actions. How we treat these people means something. Volk admitted to killing that boy.”
“He also said that boy drew a knife on them. These men were trained to fight a war, not police a small town in Iowa.”
Kinnick pushed air through his nostrils. “I know what we are meant to do.”
“We need these Marines. We’re already scraping the bottom of the barrel for fighters and think about what you’re doing to their squad. Right now, three of the nine Marines are incapacitated in a single day, one of them their squad leader. That’s on top of this clusterfuck disaster our nation is in.”
Kinnick dropped his voice. “A nation that is requiring us to enforce Executive Order 17766.”
Hunter’s cheek muscles flexed as he clenched his teeth together. “It wouldn’t be the first order I haven’t followed.”
Kinnick glanced at the Marines and Hawkins. “Me neither, but we have to figure out a way to cajole this town to the fight. We are here to prep them for war, not wage war against them.”
“Feels like a war that never ends. New places. New enemies. Always a war.” Hunter’s eyes went distant as if he stared at a faraway place in his mind. He blinked as he came back to reality and scooped up a plastic water bottle in his hand and spit in it. Brown juices hit the side of the plastic and dripped down the side. “That’s why they pay you the big bucks, boss.”
Kinnick laughed and shook his head. “Or nothing at all.”
***
Kinnick and Hunter walked down the middle of the street. Boone, Washington, and Duncan formed a tactical triangle. Boone walked in front, gun pointed downward, his lanky neck twisting as he scanned for threats. Washington stalked on the left flank and Duncan on the right flank. Hawkins had stayed with Gore and the Marines under arrest.
Lining the two-lane residential street were newer sidewalks made of clean white cement. The houses were nicer than most of the others on the island, giving off a lake community vibe. The houses had long-panoramic style open windows and porches, all facing the water with fresh paint in lighter pastel colors. Every block away from the water, the houses became shabbier and more rundown. The lawns were overgrown, discarded junk lay scattered in the front yards, and backyards were lined with broken wooden fences. Kinnick was unable to tell if it was the societal collapse or if the homes were like this pre-outbreak.
Hunter spoke under his breath as they walked past lightless houses. “It’s tough to ignore them looking out the windows or when a curtain flutters or the blinds bend. It never sits right in your gut.”
Kinnick kept his eyes moving from building to building. “Makes you nervous too?”
“Hells yes. It could happen a hundred times and mean nothing, but it’s the time a sniper is waiting in ambush that counts.”
“Recommendations?”
“Well, I’d love to point my gun at each and every one.” He spit chew onto the ground. Splat. “But that doesn’t show any trust, and when you point guns at people, you’re more likely to find guns pointed back.”
Kinnick gulped and rested his hand on the pistol-like handle of his M4 carbine as they walked. Their destination rose in the air like a spire. The top of the water tower was barn red like a rocket, the rest of the tower painted white. Four thin support legs propped up a tall thick silver trunk that went deep into the ground.
Hunter had speculated that the shots had come from the tower when Gore was hit. A ring of metal wrapped around the top provided a railing against someone toppling off. It was Kinnick’s time to dig up some answers. If he needed to take a risk to get them, then so be it.
Washington pointed to a leg of the water tower. “Duncan, set up with the SAW that way. Boone, you’re over there.” He pointed at another leg. Washington rounded out by placing himself outward by the nearest leg. He nodded to Kinnick.
Kinnick and Hunter walked slowly through the grass beneath the tower. Both men knew what they were searching for and there was no need to discuss it while in the open. They searched for anything that might provide some insight as to who had shot Gore.
Kinnick blinked and closed his eyes, trying hard to see every detail in the overgrown grass. Hunter kicked with his boots into the grass. Ten minutes passed and they hadn’t found anything but dirt and dying overgrown brown grass that had tipped on its side in thick clusters.
Hunter shook his head. “Ain’t nothin here. I’m going to hop up this ladder and see if there’s anything up there.”
“Carry on.”
The Green Beret skipped up the ladder. His boots resounded off the metal rungs and his hands bounded over one another all the way to the top. He disappeared over the ledge.
Kinnick paced below. His eyes weren’t particularly great compared to what they were when he flew C-130s, but they weren’t terrible either. He also knew the odds of finding something were slim. The evidence could easily hide beneath the long unmown grass until the dead finished walking the earth, or the perpetrator could have scooped up any evidence before their retreat. The shot could have come from anywhere nearby and they were searching the wrong spot. Yet they searched because Kinnick needed answers. He needed something to level the playing field with this town of people. He needed a way to trust them again as much as they needed a way to trust him.
The Marines knelt, warily watching their sectors. He brushed his foot along the grass, digging it through the clumps, trying to kick up something that wasn’t supposed to be there. He swept his foot through the dead vegetation swinging it back and forth. It crunched under his boots. He looked back up at the Marines and his boot struck something in the grass.
He stopped, eyeing his tan combat boot. He kicked the toe of his boot around the ground there, feeling with his foot. Something clinked off his foot. Squatting down, he felt the weight in his knees. A bit of shiny brass reflected up at him. He picked up the object. He twisted the round cylindrical tube-shaped piece of brass in his fingers. He flipped it around to the bottom containing the primer. It read .300 Winchester Magnum Cobra AP around the edge of the shell. A small symbol of a coiled serpent was etched into the metal.
“Master Sergeant,” Kinnick called up to tower. “I think we got something here.”
“Nothing up here. Only a few missed shots from us.”
The end of the brass was dark with gunpowder burn. This could be the shell casing we need to match to a gun or it could mean nothing. Kinnick let the shell casing roll to the palm of his hand and he squeezed it tightly.
“Colonel!” Hunter exclaimed. He leaned over the railing and pointed.
Kinnick looked in the direction Hunter pointed. Abandoned town blocks leading to the water. He shaded his eyes, staring up Hunter. “What?”
“Infected,” he screamed. Hunter hopped on the ladder and climbed down quickly. He reached the bottom and marched for Kinnick, his chest heaving.
“How many?”
Hunter snarled. “Fleas on a mangy dog.”
“Come on,” Kinnick called. He started to run for the restaurant. The Marines fell in behind him, their boots striking the pavement.
Kinnick gasped as he ran, gripping his radio. He placed it near his mouth and breathed, “Coffey.”
GWEN
Reynolds Farm, IA
A red and black-feathered chicken raced ahead of her, it’s feet kicking up little puffs of dust. Gwen tried to snatch it, but it ran faster and scooted out of her grasp. The chicken squawked in victory and continued to run for its life. It dodged into a corner, lifting its feet, preparing to make another break for it.
“Come on, Haley. Trap it in there.”
Haley slunk forward, her hands close to her body but ready to launch.
“Don’t be afraid to grab it.” Gwen crouched down with her arms, elbows fla
red and her fingers spread.
“Okay, Gwenna, but its talons look sharp.”
“It’ll be fine. It’s only scared.” It will be fine after I wring its skinny neck.
Both Gwen and her niece stalked close, pinning the terrified creature in the chicken coop fence. The chicken darted, its head bobbing with fierce determination.
“Get ready. It’s gonna run,” Gwen whispered. The chicken cocked its head to the side as if it understood her words and bolted. It ran straight for Haley, the weak link, and ducked through her legs. Haley lunged much too late and crashed into the dirt.
Gwen dove to the side, the chicken evading her grasp. “Yow,” she exclaimed. She rose to her knees and brushed off her overalls and one of her grandfather’s work shirts.
“We didn’t get it,” Haley whined. She stood up, dirt covering her from head to toe. Gwen helped herself up. She smoothed her filthy clothes.
“My mom is gonna be mad.”
Gwen laughed. “Yes, she will. Come on over here.”
Haley stopped in front of her and Gwen proceeded to pat her down.
“Gonna need to dunk you in the river.”
Terror filled Haley’s eyes. “No, Gwenna. Please. That’s where the scary people are. I’ll take a bath anywhere else. I promise. Please.”
Haley’s response almost broke Gwen’s heart. The fear associated with the broken world touched the young the most. Her breath caught in her chest and tears formed in her eyes. The child stared up at her, quivering in fear like a young sapling in a rainstorm.
Gwen crouched down. “Haley. No one is going to hurt you. I promise.” Her little unborn blond boy stomped around the chicken coop yard smashing piles of mud with his feet. She ignored him like she had been for weeks. I see you, boy. Now, let me deal with the people already here.
Haley’s eyes were large blue orbs. “Please don’t make me go there.”
Gwen grasped Haley’s hands. “You don’t have to go down there, okay?”
Haley nodded, still pouting.
A voice called from the fence. “Gwen.”
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 28