‘Difficult decisions have been made, and many more lay ahead. We have suffered, have been stretched thin… we all have. But in the end, our strength lies with one another, with our ability to make the hard decisions, the tough calls, for the good of us all.’
‘To that end, let us be clear. Failure is not an option. Anything that makes us weaker, that exposes us to calamity will be dealt with – definitively.’
Tiny hairs stood on the back of Sullivan’s neck.
The connotations were far more sinister than the winter cold.
‘This compound has been – and remains – under edict of Martial Law; an unpopular decision, I know,’ he continued. ‘Depleted provisions have forced competing priorities, both for daily rations and for the limits of medical treatment. Our circumstances necessitate such realities.’
Aside from periodic emphasis, neither the tone nor tempo of Quinn’s voice varied.
Its serenity was unnerving.
‘Our last several salvage missions have failed; we are critical in even the most basic of supplies… miseries that are further compounded by those not wholly devoted to the cause.’
As if on cue, two soldiers appeared from around the corner of the command building. They carried with them a hooded figure, hands bound with a black zip tie in front. He was gripped under the arms, feet dragging limp through the snow behind him. His head lolled as if his neck couldn’t bear its weight.
Several gasps issued from the crowd; the soldiers didn’t bat an eye.
‘This man was entrusted to the nests, trusted to watch over you, to detect early threats. He was charged with keeping you safe. But instead, this man lost focus. This man ignored his duty, his responsibility. Because of this man’s negligence, our walls were compromised; lives were lost.’
The soldiers stopped immediately adjacent to Quinn, their quarry limp between them.
‘Furthermore, as he answered for those crimes, it was discovered he stole provisions from the mess, provisions for his personal consumption…’
A deep breath.
‘This cannot be condoned.’
Quinn stepped over and tore off the captive’s hood.
Anders was scarcely recognizable. His jaw hung oddly; it had clearly been broken and remained unset. His right eye was swollen shut, rimmed with the brackish purple that indicated a shattered orbital bone. His lips were fat and caked with blood.
He wasn’t conscious.
‘This is the price of treachery,’ Quinn began. ‘This is the price of placing individual wants before the needs of our community.’
Quinn thrust Anders to the ground, face down and unresponsive in the slush.
In unison, the crowd’s breath was stolen.
Quinn surveyed the faces of those before him.
‘See to him, but let it be known… any transgression that undermines the stability of this community will be met with,’ Quinn turned from the gathering, but afforded himself one final passing look. Thick with derision, his gaze lingered over the broken man as he finished the thought.
‘Harshly.’
The officials walked from the courtyard and returned to their posts, leaving the stunned congregation to flirt with the void between fury and sorrow.
‘Is he fucking crazy…?’ someone whispered.
‘My god, does he really think we’re all that’s left?’
Sully didn’t answer; he realized the truth underlying it all.
In here, they were alone.
***
She had finally cried herself to sleep.
Keeley and Isaac had retreated to the corner of their quarters, curled up in a piecemeal nest they built with some stray jackets. She slept soundly against his chest with one arm draped around her.
She refused to sleep in their cot tonight, would refuse any kindness from Quinn and the officials after the day’s events.
Keeley had shared her story from the infirmary with Isaac while he sat in silence and processed the details.
‘He’s a monster…,’ she whispered as she finally succumbed to exhaustion and slipped into slumber.
Isaac spun his wedding ring about his finger, the glint of the black titanium barely visible in the meager moonlight.
He would find no rest tonight.
Isaac’s mind raced between the tenements and the infirmary.
Why was William with them today?
Isaac had recognized the man in the armory, but didn’t know who he was; not exactly. Isaac only knew him to be an administrator.
Someone who could stir the pot.
But Isaac was focused on the door; he didn’t see what happened.
He only heard the sounds.
But it was enough to raise suspicion.
Cox was more than capable – the likelihood of her being caught totally flatfooted was remote.
So, why send me?
Isaac wrestled with the possible reasons Quinn may have had to send him out.
As much as he tried to hide from it or convince himself otherwise, it was inevitable – there was but a single explanation.
Quinn knew Isaac could be trusted to do what was necessary.
Like the night the line broke.
Isaac couldn’t force the scene from his mind, couldn’t prevent the dreadful movie from playing anew.
He had been stationed in the nest.
The central terminals were overwhelmed and the crowd rushed their walls.
The speed, the ferocity…
In the deep darkness of the frigid night, it was impossible to separate the infected from those that were not. There were no clearly defined targets; only a wild mass that threatened to bring the fence down.
When the order came, Isaac didn’t hesitate.
He opened fire into the crowd.
Indiscriminately, he cut them down as they pleaded for salvation.
Isaac snapped back to the present, recognized again the four walls around him and the stinging familiarity of the civilian quarters.
His eyes could no longer focus on his ring; he realized his hand shook violently.
He clenched his fist to chase away the tremor.
If Quinn sent William out to die…
Was Sullivan aware, party to it?
Isaac weighed the possibilities.
It was unlikely; he didn’t think the Irishman would have the taste for murder.
What if Sullivan had caught on, fought back?
Isaac’s eyes widened.
…was he sent to protect Cox?
Chapter 16
It had grown late in the day. Not yet late enough to worry that Jacob hadn’t returned, but late enough she recognized the daylight would quickly fail.
Madison ran her fingers through her tangled auburn curls and massaged her scalp.
They had been cooped up for over two weeks in this tiny apartment.
In her restlessness, her legs ached with sympathy.
She knew she was going a bit stir crazy; she couldn’t remember the last time she had been indoors for so long.
Madison was the quintessential ‘small town’ girl. She came from a small community in the neighbouring province of Nova Scotia, had grown up surrounded by fields and farmland. Countless trails wove between heirloom acreages, the type whose boundaries were decided generations past by handshake alone.
And she knew them all.
If time wandering these trails were measured in hours, she’d spent months amongst them. She grew up with horses and helped put their miles in, but above all there was one she cherished – an Arabian quarter horse half & half, a rugged chestnut mare with stark white socks and an equally pronounced blaze. Her name was Surprise, and she was as stubborn and independent as Madison herself. When Surprise tired of the confines of the barn she would grow restless; if she remained well beh
aved, Madison would saddle her for a ride through the neighbouring trails as a reward.
Both of them were more at home in the outdoors, in the wild green spaces.
Nevertheless, a life lived to its conclusion in Kentville meant a life of predictable circumstance; a well trod path.
Wanderlust inevitably won over.
She needed to leave.
Madison was a horticulturist by trade and worked in Parks and Recreation department in the bedroom community of Quispamsis. She spent the vast majority of her time outside tending gardens or overseeing the town’s greenhouses.
Plants had always proved therapeutic.
She meant to return home someday, after she’d saved enough money to buy a small farm for herself, live out her days in the quiet familiarity of country life.
Madison replaced the woolen blanket over the solitary window.
Such thoughts were foolish now.
Madison was small, but solid. Years of landscaping meant she was deceptively strong for her size, wits sharpened from often being the only woman at a given job site. Her round face was ringed with faint freckles, conspicuously absent from her cheeks. Despite the ceaseless hours worked outside, her skin stubbornly refused to tan and she was perpetually pale.
Madison’s parents had separated when she was young, too young to fully understand why it left her to simultaneously find and project a sense of normalcy for herself and her younger sister. Each day as Jacob left to scavenge, she would channel that piece of her past and tidy their quarters, organize their supplies, straighten their affairs as best she could in a vain attempt to resist the crushing boredom of their present day-to-day.
She stood in stark contrast to Emily.
Emily wallowed in her malcontent. For the first several days she seldom spoke, preferring to sob silently with her arms wrapped around her knees in the corner of the cold room. Madison made every effort to comfort her and raise her spirits, but Emily was inconsolable. She was a few years older than Madison, but seemingly none the wiser for it – Emily’s family was exceedingly wealthy, old money, and for several generations they had owned and operated a regional franchise of funeral homes. Aside from the exposure to the realities of death and grieving at a young age, Emily had mainly known carefree comfort throughout her life – not entirely spoiled, but certainly never wanting.
Her coddled upbringing left her ill equipped for their new realities; Madison knew it, as did Jacob. Though Madison would have been a tremendous asset to Jacob scavenging, neither could trust Emily alone. Thus, the daily burdens of her care fell to Madison.
Madison bore no ill will toward Emily, but couldn’t help the resentment she felt each time Emily broke down and succumbed to self pity. Nevertheless, Madison played the dutiful friend – made sure Emily drank her water and ate her rations, kept her strength up… even went so far as to run a brush through her long, straight blonde hair whenever she thought it would help calm her nerves. Even the rare times Emily was lucid enough to carry a conversation, the banality would grate at Madison’s nerves.
Maybe it was for the best she mostly kept quiet.
Madison knew that their days in the little hovel were numbered – she was partially surprised they had holed up there this long – but she knew the road and exposure would be unforgiving. Despite its shortcomings, their shelter had proved useful – without it, they surely wouldn’t have survived until now. Though she and Jacob hadn’t yet discussed their next moves, she had to think it likely they’d aim to leave town.
Jacob was reliable, and she could identify most types of edible plants and knew how to forage. Once the weather improved and the roads were passable, and once they had some basics assembled beyond their day-to-day needs, it seemed logical to head for the road.
Only the dead or dying would call this city home, now.
***
Jacob crossed his arms and assessed his surroundings.
His daily ventures were taking him further and further from their shelter. Though the days were lengthening, effective time management was still critical for their wellbeing.
He’d picked clean the buildings in their immediate vicinity, at least of all the day to day goods to keep the three of them going this far. With so many of the surrounding buildings burnt out from the fires, necessity dictated that his active radius continued to expand.
This section of the peninsula was dominated by Victorian-esque manor homes, renovated over several generations to multi-family dwellings. As the average family size shrunk over the years, many of these homes proved too large to accommodate all but the wealthiest single families – partitions were added and the manors became subdivided into rentable units. Many in the older quarters of the city retained their classic character and were deemed historically significant.
This building was no exception.
The snow must have drifted high against the cedar façade. Layers of paint fluttered and peeled from the shingles as if tatters of dead skin, hopelessly clinging to the lifeless body underneath. Several of the windows were blown out in the ground floor and he had climbed through one of them to gain access to the interior of the building. As Jacob studied the scene, the shattered glass cracked underfoot as it bit into the inlaid hardwood floors and crusty snow that had infiltrated the room.
He stood in the parlor.
It could have been in a magazine, once.
Cathedral ceilings, exposed wooden beams, richly stained wainscoting; an ornate marble mantle and fireplace dominated the room, its chimney of custom masonry and stacked fieldstone. Modern sconce light fixtures adorned the walls but weren’t out of place in a seamless blend of the contemporary and the classic. Antique, solid wood furniture ringed the room.
Everything about it spoke of pomp, circumstance.
Though Jacob had plundered at least two dozen units since their exile, something about this one troubled him.
The air was sour. Though only barely discernible, the space retained the faint smell of long trapped moisture.
It was ransacked, but that was hardly uncommon – in the early days of the outbreak, looting was widespread. Desk and curio drawers were upturned, their mundane contents strewn all around. Majestic bookshelves leered over piles of jettisoned books.
The floors bore clear evidence of exposure to the elements. The stains emanated out from the window into the parlor and beyond.
Jacob studied the undersides of the overturned drawers. They appeared largely unspoiled, and yet retained the vibrancy of the natural wood grain and the subtle fragrance of the varnish.
The books were generally in good condition; he could find no evidence of their consumption by silverfish or mice.
Jacob continued to stare at the scene, silently taking the details in.
Something was amiss.
Absent were the familiar trappings of dust.
Something about the blemishes on the floor felt wrong.
The scent of mildew persisted, even with the obvious ventilation.
Those windows couldn’t have been busted out for long.
Someone had been here.
Recently.
***
Lynn could hear raised voices.
Quinn had convened a meeting with several of the more senior staff and had commandeered the module for its purpose. She and the other administrators were relegated to a small offshoot of the central structure, and they sat together in relative silence. Lynn was the outcast, and the others held little desire to engage her in conversation.
Lynn’s not-so-subtle advances had left her a pariah. She could feel their eyes upon her but she couldn’t be bothered.
She peered out a grimy window at the back of the structure and again found some comfort in the sight of the storage facility. The guards were standing there, as always, though this time she felt they didn’t look quite so regal.
Somehow
not as comfortable as usual.
She chalked it up to the stresses of the job; it had to wear on everybody. But there was something about them that caused her anxiety to swell.
Lynn looked down to her hands and feet. Her nail polish had long since worn away and her designer boots were scuffed and showing their wear.
She was running out of time. The infirmary had proven that.
As the officials exited, Lynn caught something out of the corner of her wandering eyes – a nod, a signal to those gathered.
It was unmistakable.
From where she was standing she could see the intended direction was the communications room.
The office where that squirrely little man tinkered with the radio.
Lynn’s attention piqued and her eyes no longer darted about; they fixated on the door to the comms.
One of the guardsmen pushed open the door to Andrew’s chamber, and he spun about in his chair. His mouth hung agape in stunned silence as he fumbled to remove his headphones.
Lynn caught sight of her possible salvation. It never occurred to Lynn that her meal ticket maybe need not have been a soldier after all.
This one was obviously important to Quinn.
Though she would have much preferred to give herself to one of the strong, muscular soldiers, it had proved too hard to sway.
Even if they were brutes, they were trained for fighting.
For survival.
And, worst case – at least they’d know how to properly fuck.
The thought of his pathetic, clumsy hands pawing over her body, the labored wheezes as he climbed atop her turned her stomach, but she was out of time.
She couldn’t be picky now.
***
Erik couldn’t find his appetite.
He sat alone in the mess, mindlessly pushing his ration of stale rice about his plate.
He scanned the room. Only a handful of other civilians were gathered here, scattered about as if solitary islands battered by troubled seas. The mess used to be central to the community here; between shifts the civilian survivors would congregate, regale each other with tales of the day or fond memories of better times. A place where those gathered could forget about the grim realities outside, somewhere they could try to build a life worth living together.
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