“We can only fit about a hundred people per load and we already lost a canoe on the way down.”
“All right. Let’s try to get a hundred twenty. Pastor and his people first.” He waved people forward before he turned back to her. “Thank you.”
“You should come with me, now,” she pleaded.
His shaded eyes wouldn’t connect with hers. “I’ll go later.”
She could feel someone’s presence behind her. A hand touched her shoulder.
“Gwen, is that it?” Jake said behind her.
She could see Mark tense in front of her.
She licked her lips and swallowed, her throat suddenly dry even with so much moisture in the air. She glanced over her shoulder at Jake.
His hand held in place, his fingers firming up. His hand felt like it claimed ownership over her, protecting her and holding her at the same time.
Her eyes leapt for Mark’s. She wondered if Mark could see her guilt in the night. In order to cloak her own deceit, she ignored her instinct to stay between them like a boxing referee and took a step back. “Mark, this is Jake Bullis.”
Her mind’s eye drew a boxing ring around them, the bell dinged signaling the beginning of round one. In the right corner, is Mark Steele, love of my life, baby daddy, and leader of a band of desperate people in the apocalypse. And in the left corner is Jake Bullis, my forgotten high school sweetheart, farmer, and the one currently trying to win me back by going against his own town and self-interest to help my people.
Jake stuck out his callused hand with a smile. Mark appeared less than amused, but took Jake’s hand.
“Great to finally meet you, Mark.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Mark said in turn. She wondered who was winning the match of alpha-male handshakes.
After a tense moment, the two bull-like men released hands.
Mark called to her people manning the crafts. “Let’s move, people. We’re in danger here.”
“You aren’t coming?” she said. The rain continued to fall, unimpeded by leaves. It was as if the clouds huddled over Gwen and dropped all their precipitation just on her.
His face was set like the stone of a forgotten statue. “I will be the last one.”
Twenty minutes later, Gwen and Jake shoved their boat off into the water. Eight more people were aboard. She jumped onto the gunwale and hands helped pull her aboard. She took a paddle, dipped it into the water, and they heaved away into the darkness.
***
The night was never-ending. The drudge of paddling, up and down the Mississippi River was literally sucking the life from her. Every single muscle in her body ached, hurt, and she was sure she would be sick from all the cold, the rain, and the exhaustion.
This was her eighth trip between Harlem Island and grandparents’ land, and she didn’t know if she could do another. Jake was still with her. He had a tireless farmer’s work ethic. She was sure he could do this labor forever without breaking. He was like Mark in that regard, but she thought even Mark could be outworked by this hometown countryman, who knew nothing more than hard work. He might be a simple man but his values were unwavering in the face of struggle. Keep your head down and don’t complain, work hard, love hard.
They had lost Harriet to the elements. After the third trip, the woman was more of a liability than an asset. She trudged back toward the barn in a daze. Huge bonfires blazed on John and Lydia’s property. People huddled for any and all warmth they could steal in the wet night.
The sickest went into her grandparents’ house or the barn. The rest were trying to set up some sort of cover in the rain. Their porch was awash with bikers and Chosen alike. She thought her grandparents might have a heart attack, but they welcomed everyone the best they could.
There were plenty of volunteers from the people she had rescued. Margie and Tony filled in. The exhausted, starving woman lasted two runs before Garrett from the Red Stripes replaced her. The big man pulled hard on his paddle.
The last load should have been the final trip to the island, but organizing hundreds of the people to do anything timely was difficult, and more and more people emerged from the trees like ghosts of a forgotten battlefield in need of rescue.
Gwen’s shoulders were numb but still managed to ache with pain as they neared the island for what she hoped would be the last time. They manually propelled the fishing boat right up onto the embankment. Mark was waiting. She climbed out of the boat. She ignored the water. She hadn’t felt her feet in hours.
“Why are you waiting? Let’s go!” she half-yelled.
His voice was deep and gruff. “I need your help.” He had the appearance of a wet wounded wolf badly in need of a meal. He motioned her forward with his functioning hand. The midnight trees embraced his faint form and she hurried behind him, her feet squishing in wet marshy mud. The heavy scent of organic decay dominated the air, and she ignored the weight of her waterlogged boots.
She followed him through the marshy woods. As they got closer to what she thought was the center of the island, a bright flash took her by surprise.
The bright light shot up in the sky like a firework, but it was a single light. It hovered over the island, illuminating their area. Mark dropped to his knees. The earth squelched as she fell beside him. He eyed the sky with suspicion. The burning light drifted down over the top of them. His face was more haggard than she had ever seen it. It was as if the fight against Jackson had aged him twenty years in a matter of weeks.
“Shit,” he cursed. His eyes flicked back and forth as he read the flame in the sky.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice hurried.
“They know something’s wrong,” he hissed. His cold hand grabbed hers, pulling her up. “We have to hurry.”
The flare radiated downward on the swampy forest, forcing the shadows into the swamp. Bump. Another flare snaked into the sky. Bump. Then another trailed behind it, each casting more light over the trees. Mark ran in front of her, meandering through dead timber and sodden earth. Ahead of them, a low-hanging tarp covered a fallen log. It rippled in the wind and rain.
Mark bent down in front of the tarp. He turned back to her.
“I need help,” he grunted.
Gwen hurried forward and gasped. “Oh, my God.” A crumpled, blood-soaked form lay facedown on the ground. “What happened?” She bent down next to the skinny woman. Tess. Gwen had never loved the woman, but she was a part of their lives.
Mark stared down at Tess, his eyes blank. “I did it.”
Gwen laid a hesitant hand on Tess’s shoulder. Tess flinched beneath her and coughed. “What have you done?”
Tess’s voice was gargled and weak. “He hits like a wimp.”
Gwen lifted a bandage and Tess groaned. Her eyes shot for Mark.
“Healing up well?” Tess muttered.
Mark came to. “I had to keep order.”
Gwen’s brow creased. “Keeping order? Are you insane? The poor woman’s been beaten to a pulp.”
Mark closed his eyes for a moment. “It had to be done.”
Tess coughed. “Pah, if I’d succeeded, you would’ve given me a handjob as a thank-you present. That man is the devil.” Her speech broke into a wet cough.
Gwen’s eyes narrowed in concern.
Crack. Wood splintered in the trunk of a nearby tree. Both she and Mark ducked. Semi-automatic gunfire popped from across the swamp separating the island from the shore. Humvee lights flicked on, high beams exploding in the night like spotlights.
Mark scooped up Tess’s things. “Come on. She’s the last one.” He wrapped his arms around Tess. Gwen did the same.
“This is going to hurt,” she whispered to Tess.
They hauled Tess upright and she cried out in pain. “Aggghhh!” she screamed. Bullets whizzed into the trees around them. They stumbled, their backs bowed to the river shore.
Tess groaned and gritted her teeth as they ran. They clambered over sunken logs and dodged watery pools. Garrett and Ja
ke’s forms grew larger on the shore. Garrett grabbed Tess in his arms like a child and ran her to the boat.
The distinctive sound of a mortar thumped faintly from across the swamp like someone had dropped a heavy book onto a carpeted floor. Mark turned and an explosion erupted from the island. He watched the fire and smoke rising up into the air.
Gwen didn’t realize she was shaking violently, her teeth chattering. Jake wrapped his arms around her. “Come on. Let’s get you on board.” He led her down to the boat then lifted her onto a bench like a child.
Garrett gently set Tess in the back. Gwen held herself with her arms, looking out at Mark.
His eyes narrowed into vengeance through the icy rain. His beard lay wet and hung limp off his face. He tucked his bottom lip up, tightening his mouth in anger as he stared in the direction of Colonel Jackson and his men. His hand flexed at his side.
“This is not the end, but only the beginning.” He walked determined down the embankment then shoved the fishing boat back into the Mississippi.
STEELE
Reynolds Farm, IA
In the darkness, the flat-bottomed fishing boat scratched the embankment and dug into the muddy earth as it slid onto the shore. The rain was starting to lighten, and dawn was hiding beyond the horizon.
Two dozen other small watercraft—canoes, pontoons, fishing boats, and kayaks—lay strewn about a small dock and shore. He jumped into the freezing water with a splash and was followed a second later by Jake. Gripping the sides of the boat, they hauled it farther onto the riverside bank where it wouldn’t be swept away.
Steele quickly offered Gwen his hand before Jake did. Even though his body felt like it was about to die, he acted like he could go on for another six hours.
He grasped her cold wet hands and helped her down onto the muddy embankment. She gave him tired, worn-out eyes and a flat mouth. He glanced back at Garrett.
“You got her?” He gestured with his head to Tess’s crumpled form.
“I got it,” Garrett grunted. The tall biker crouched and gently hefted Tess up in his arms.
Steele slipped up the wet ground, following Jake to a narrow foot-trodden trail. The hard trail had become slick with the rain and they walked in silence, trying not to fall, the only sound boots sucking in the mud. Jake led them to the edge of Gwen’s family farm.
The field before them was filled with people. Groups of them surrounded bonfires. Some hovered near and others sat beneath an old yet sturdy barn in an effort to stay dry. The white farmhouse stood in the distance. It too was covered with people like an old farm dog with fleas.
They walked around the campfires. The flames persisted through the sprinkling rain, sizzling with smoke. Steele turned back toward the river, wondering if Jackson could see their smoke. He bet he did but was too tired to worry about the man.
Bedford and Half-Barrel nodded as he passed their fire. The Chosen gave him curious stares as they warmed their hands over orange flames. They appeared conflicted over whether they should burn him alive or thank him. In everyone’s current state, he couldn’t give two shits. He reached the steps of the old farmhouse. He could feel the eyes upon him, so he brought himself to a halt.
The sun was coming back to his side of the earth and light was encroaching on this field of diminishing darkness. A graying man sat in his rocker on the porch with a thick brown coat on. He was a sentry, the one that decided who entered his home. He stood with his shotgun in his hand. His wrinkled face squinted down at Steele.
“House’s full.” He gestured with a speckled hand. “May be some more space in the barn.”
“Pa,” Gwen said from behind his back.
“Oh, God,” the old man said. He hustled down his steps and embraced Gwen. “I know you got a piece of Ma in ya, but gosh darn it, you had us so worried.” He glimpsed over at Jake and then Steele and released his granddaughter.
“Jake.” He nodded. “Who’s this young man here?
“Pa, this is Mark.”
Her grandfather’s eyes inspected him.
“Looks like a wet dog that’s seen better days.”
“I feel like a wet dog that’s seen better days.”
The grandfatherly man eyed him with more than an ounce of mistrust but gave out his hand. Steele shook it.
“Heard you’ve been having a rough time across the Big Muddy.”
“Yes, sir, we have.”
Gwen’s grandfather frowned, bobbing his chin. “You can call me John.” He gazed up at the sky. “Lightenin’ up a bit, but you two look miserable.” He gestured to them. “Come on in.” He stopped, eyeing Jake. “Give me a minute and we’ll find you some dry clothes and a place to sleep.”
“Thanks John.” The exhausted farmer took a seat on the porch steps. Rain dripped from the tips of his hair. “See you in the morning,” he said to Gwen. His eyes regarded Steele with no fear. She was quiet at Steele’s side.
John opened the storm door and pushed open a squeaking door, letting them inside the house. People lay on the floor with blankets and on couches with quilts. A fire burnt low in the fireplace.
“I finally got Ma in bed an hour ago. A lot of excitement tonight.” The old man struck a match and lit a candle. He waved them forward to his stairs leading to the second story.
“Gwen’s old room is upstairs,” John said to them.
Each step complained as they walked up. The candle flickered along the walls lined with old black-and-white family pictures.
At the top of the stairs, John led them to a room on the right. The door clicked open. “Becky and Haley are over there,” the old man hushed. A mound of blankets lay bunched together.
“Thanks, Pa,” Gwen whispered with a hug. John gave Steele a knowing glare as if he already knew Steele had been intimate with his granddaughter. It was equal parts mistrust and affection for a new man hanging around his beloved family.
“Get some rest now. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
Steele nodded. “Thanks, John.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Gwen. If it weren’t for her, you’d still be stuck over there.”
Steele ducked his head in respect. “I know.”
“Too good for the likes of you or that other one down on the porch.”
Steele gave him a grim smile. “I know.”
John lifted his chin a bit. “Good. Goodnight, son.”
“Goodnight, John.”
He closed the door and softly walked across the floor. Gwen was stripping off her wet clothes and tossing them. Their wet fabric slapped the wood floor. Her wet hair hung stuck to her face and neck. She was thin, bones showing in places he didn’t remember, despite a slight bulge around her midsection.
“Come on. Take those off. I’m exhausted,” she said in hushed tones.
He stripped off his filthy Army Combat Uniform and tossed it in her pile of clothes. One of the mounds in the other single bed moaned and rolled over. Steele stopped unzipping his pants and gestured with his head.
Gwen nodded and grabbed a quilted-blanket. She held it up to give Steele privacy while he undressed.
“Didn’t mind the view from over here,” mumbled Becky from the other bed.
Gwen snorted. “Quiet, you’ll wake her.”
“Just saying,” Becky mumbled.
He tossed the rest of his clothes on the ground and slipped on a pair of white boxers John had left. He bounced into the single bed and Gwen joined him. She draped the quilt over them and snuggled into his chest. In moments, as the sun cracked the horizon, they had fallen into a dead sleep.
***
Red shone thru Steele’s eyelids. He forced open eyes that wanted to be shut for the next eight hours. Bright light penetrated the white curtains with ease. He shifted Gwen off his healthy arm, regaining feeling against the pins and needles. He flexed his fingers of his damaged arm. The tissue of his upper arm was new and fresh and ached.
“No,” she muttered. He eased himself out of the bed. Becky and Haley were gone, o
nly a pile of blankets left in their place. He lifted the curtain with a finger and peered out the window. Almost a thousand people were scattered below. Bikers in leather. Little Sable Pointers. The Chosen. All intermixed. All grouped into one refugee camp. All alive for the time being.
He glanced back at Gwen. She was awake and watching him with her green eyes. “I wonder how far he got in the night.” He turned back from the window to view his refugees. You banded these people together. Now how are you going to protect them?
“It’s almost twenty miles down south to the next bridge. Then he’s got to drive all the way back up. That’s saying he knows where we are. We have time.”
“Not much time. And what if he goes north toward Hacklebarney instead of south to Keokuk? Then it’s a lot shorter drive.”
She stuck her bottom lip out a bit. “That bridge is blocked.”
“He’ll easily destroy those vehicles. How many men does Hacklebarney have?”
She frowned. “There’s over a thousand people in this area, but there’s something I have to tell you.”
He hated surprises especially in his exhausted state. “And what’s that?” He flexed his hand as he waited, trying to work some function back into this arm.
“Not everyone in Hacklebarney helped last night.”
“What’d you mean?”
“I was only able to convince a few sympathetic families to help. Mayor Dobson and Sheriff Donnellson don’t want anything to do with you.”
Steele shook his head. “Those assholes. Like it or not, we’re here, and we need them.”
“I know, but you have to understand. These are prideful folk set in their ways. You push them too hard and they’ll act like mules.”
He smirked at her. “I had no idea.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you say it.”
He laughed. “Lucky for the both of us I have a lot of experience in dealing with people like that.”
Her eyes narrowed in a playful manner. “I’m not stubborn.”
He grinned at her. “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 36