Foamers

by Justin Kassab

  Had Victoria fallen into one of the lower categories, the Chiefs wouldn’t have cared to meet her, but because of her prestigious title of medical researcher, they saw her as an asset. Now she stood before the Chiefs in their den as they appraised her.

  The room had a stonework fireplace big enough to burn most of a tree, and lying in front of it was a bear rug that had been brought back from one of the pillaging expeditions. Claiming most of the space in the room was a large red oak desk with dovetail-engraved legs. In the corner nearest the door was an antique chair with a rising sun carved into it, which was where Sarge sat, patiently waiting for the Chiefs to finish their questioning.

  Victoria nervously tapped her right foot on the bear rug, keeping her eyes on the animal’s glassy stare instead of the penetrating eyes of the Three Chiefs. She tried not to pay attention to the wet blood on the wall behind her. On the left was a tall, lean man with short-cropped brown hair. He had a quiet demeanor with an intentional three-second delay in his responses. Of the three, he was the one Victoria liked the most. In the center was the one she liked the least—the only female Chief—and, although there was officially no rank among the Chiefs, it was clear she was the leader. Her pitch-black hair stopped at her shoulders. She had dark, almost chocolate-brown skin with matching brown eyes. Victoria had had trouble identifying her as a woman at first due to her square jaw and broad shoulders. She dominated the questioning and was intentionally trying to verbally inflict pain on Victoria. The third Chief was not quite short and not quite fat, but beside the other two, he looked like an Oompa Loompa. It took Victoria awhile to figure out how he had risen to a position of such power, but he was the female chief’s puppet and aligned himself with her on every topic. They were all called Chief, but the Tribe identified them as Tall-Chief, She-Chief, and Short-Chief.

  They had grilled Victoria about her life in the Old World and the Primal Age; why she’d left her group; the group’s background; how many of them there were; how many weapons and what supplies did they have; what defenses; what vehicles—pretty much everything but their Social Security numbers. Now the Chiefs were deciding her fate.

  Tall-Chief sat with his arms crossed, disinterested, while Short-Chief whispered into She-Chief’s ear. She-Chief leaned forward and threaded her witch-like fingers.

  “To become a member of the Tribe, you have one simple task: You must bring us the supplies from Houghton College,” She-Chief said without an ounce of emotion.

  Victoria thought this was far from simple. The cohort wouldn’t hand all of their supplies over to her, and there was no way she could steal them back. That didn’t stop the small hairs on her body from tingling in fear at the thought of going back there in full force with guns blazing. She wasn’t a warrior, and she wasn’t about to become one.

  She bowed her head and thanked the Chiefs before exiting the room with Sarge. They were in the living room of the old officer’s house, surrounded by antique furniture that looked more suitable for photo shoots than comfort. The walls were lined with the mounted heads of animals from around the world.

  Victoria dropped down onto the sofa. The material shot off a cloud of dust.

  “How does this work now?” Victoria asked.

  “We stir the pot and get another squad or two to go with us. We’ll give your old friends one chance to surrender, and then take them by force,” Sarge replied, sitting at her feet.

  There were only five of them left at Houghton. John was new to the group, and Mick was upset with Lucas’s death, so they might be talked into seeing the logic of leaving. Grace and Tiny had an allegiance to Kade that they would never break.

  Victoria’s former group would be outnumbered and outgunned. They’d be trapped in their own fortress, and it would be only a matter of time until they’d either have to join or die. She hoped Kade would see reason.

  * * *

  “Tiny to Lambian,” Tiny said into the walkie.

  John, Mick, and Tiny stood in the emergency room waiting area of the hospital. A two-story building with only fifty units, the hospital was the type that had to Life Flight any severe patients to larger hospitals for better treatment; a place for young doctors to prove their worth.

  The waiting room was lined with rows of stiff benches. Hanging in the corner was an old tube television, and in the center stood the glass-boxed receptionist area. John waited by the door, fastening his gear. Before they left Houghton, Kade had told John to equip himself with anything they had brought from the sporting goods store, and John had been sure to deck himself out in case the offer was ever rescinded.

  He had a hatchet on the left of his belt and a machete hanging from his right. In each of his knee pockets, he had a case of six arrowheads. He removed his jacket and rummaged through the pockets. Hanging the jacket by the door, he pulled out three objects: a forearm guard, spare string, and a trigger release. He wound the spare string around his neck like a tie.

  “Trying to hang yourself?” Mick asked.

  He shook his head and fastened the leather guard onto his left forearm. “I won’t be a liability.”

  Mick grabbed the red-and-black compound bow and pulled the string back, watching the double wheel spin. He controlled the string back to where it rested beside the quick quiver, which was side-mounted and held six arrows for rapid access.

  “You look damn scary,” Mick said.

  John snapped the lock of the trigger release onto his wrist. The trigger release clipped onto the bowstring and had a rifle-like release. It allowed him to hold the string back with his wrist instead of his fingers, and to give a smooth release by pulling the trigger.

  “I’m trying it out for my look,” John replied as he slung his narrow black quiver across his back. The green-and-orange fletching of the dozen aluminum arrows stuck up over his right shoulder.

  “Your look?” Mick asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “You wear your uniform.” John tipped his head toward Tiny, “And she wears all black. That other guy wears a cowboy hat. I had Psych; it’s classic projection.”

  “And what are you trying to project?” Mick asked.

  Tiny watched the snow through the glass exit doors. Mick and John followed her gaze to where the snow was falling fast and heavy. The truck, which they had left in the handicapped spot, was virtually hidden behind a screen of white.

  Tiny spoke into the walkie. “I know if I hadn’t handcuffed you to the bed, you could see this for yourself, but I still want to know your thoughts.”

  “Stay there, if it’s safe. I don’t want you driving in a whiteout. If you’ve got the supplies, stay until this lets up,” Kade’s voice crackled through the walkie.

  Tiny didn’t want to get stranded here, but a whiteout was too risky to drive through. This was the beginning of winter, though, and there was nothing to indicate the weather would change anytime soon. Without snowplows and salt trucks, it could be a long time before they were able to drive. Mick and John could probably bundle up and walk back, but since it had begun snowing, Tiny’s wounded leg ached enough that she wanted to cut it off. She doubted she’d have the strength to trudge through feet of snow all the way back to Lambian.

  “Sorry, Kade,” she said. What she didn’t say was that she wished she had listened to
him—if she had, they wouldn’t be stranded.

  “You couldn’t have seen this coming. Do you guys have power, at least? We lost ours.”

  “We must have an emergency generator. I’m going to power down the walkie to save the battery in case this is a long stay. I’ll check in when we’ve cleared the place.”

  “Be safe. Be careful.”

  “Get better.”

  Tiny flipped the switch on the walkie and handed it to Mick, who fastened it on his belt. John looked ready for war. His transformation made Tiny feel better about bringing him along after the incident at the infirmary. Even if he was still shaky on the inside, he was conveying strength on the outside, and that was a good start. Tiny pondered the different tricks she could teach him about appearing stronger than he felt.

  “You look good, John,” Tiny said as she snatched her assault rifle off the bench. “You guys heard Kade; we’re going to be spending the night. John, you’re going to take point while Mick and I scan the rooms. Once we know we’re alone, we’ll get the med supplies and find a good place to sleep.”

  “Point?” John said.

  “You’ll be fine. Let’s move,” Mick said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  John took three nervous steps before pausing to glance at the other two. Tiny flicked her hand at him, waving him on. He gulped, and then moved forward. She knew she had to build his confidence, and by giving him the point position, she was playing to the strength of the bow and keeping him safer.

  Logically, people who slipped into comas first would have been brought to the hospital, and therefore, they would likely find foamers. Tiny was hoping that if they found any, they would be dead from lack of nourishment, but she knew better than to underestimate an enemy. Her biggest concern was hostile survivors, since a hospital had high priority supplies.

  They started down the long corridors, which still had a sterile hospital smell, and made quick work of scanning the rooms. Tiny was impressed by how well the three of them became a cohesive unit. She and Mick moved at a jog on opposite sides of the hallway. When they arrived at a door, they would swing it open, do a quick scan, and jog to the next room. While they did that, John moved in tune, guarding them while they searched for movement.

  Their search found nobody alive. Many of the rooms had overturned rollaway tables and discarded sheets on the floor, which would never be permitted in a staffed hospital. In a few rooms, they found the bodies of those who had needed constant care to stay alive, but they looked as if they were peacefully sleeping in their undisturbed beds.

  But their luck didn’t hold out. John stopped toward the end of the corridor, where it turned back around the short length of the rectangle. He bent to one knee, and ran a finger through the dark spot on the floor. The small red mark didn’t react to his touch, so he scraped at it with his fingernail. Sure enough, the dried liquid flaked off of the floor.

  “Guys,” John said, as Tiny and Mick turned back from the rooms they just scanned. “This looks like dried blood.”

  No sooner did he get the words out than a foamer came around the corner at the other end of the rectangle. It was hard to tell if it was male or female, with the few strands of white hair dangling around its sunken face and its emaciated frame. In its prior life, the foamer had been an elder, and still had to deal with two legs that were crippled, which gave it an awkward posture. Its hands pointed away from its body, and it waddled on fully extended arms. The creature was pitiful, and far from a threat, but someone had clearly fallen victim to it, based on the dried blood around its mouth.

  “John,” Tiny said, and let out a long sigh. “Give me your machete. I’ll put her out of her misery.”

  The poor creature had lived her entire human life to a ripe old age only to have to face such humiliation in her departure from the world. Tiny thought she looked like a woman of pride, a weathered grandmother who had earned her stripes. Now she was pitifully crawling toward them with no more grace than a dog who’d been hit by a car. The merciful thing was to put her down.

  John slid the machete from its fabric sheath and presented Tiny the handle. She stepped toward the weapon, keeping her eyes on the foamer. Her hand reached for the machete, but John moved it away. He placed his bow on the floor and switched the machete to his right hand.

  John’s jaw tightened to try and fight his quivering lip as his eyes turned glossy with tears. Tiny wanted to tell him she would do it, but she didn’t want John to lose his composure. His body rigid, John strode forward. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Each step brought him closer to the old woman, and his sweating hands grew clammy.

  The other two didn’t move as John stopped three strides from the foamer, who was still struggling toward them. He dropped down on one knee and bowed, touching the blade to his forehead.

  “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His will; That I may be reasonably happy in this life and supremely happy with Him forever in the next. Amen,” John recited then stood.

  Tiny pursed her lips as she contemplated John’s faith. She hadn’t thought to ask him about religion, even though they had found him at a religious prep school. No one in their group was a religiously practicing person, but they all had varying degrees of dogmatic belief.

  The foamer reached John’s feet, and he stepped to the side to give himself a clear target on her neck. He gripped the handle in both hands and arched high up onto his toes with the blade above his head. For one brief moment, everything froze, followed by an explosive tightening of muscles as John clenched his core and the blade whistled through the air toward the woman’s neck. The metal sliced into her flesh and tore across the width of her neck, until it exploded through in a burst of blood. The woman’s head dropped onto the tile.

  The blade clanged off the floor as John removed a chain from the stump of her neck. Clutching it in his hand, he stepped back until he was against the wall, and slid down to the floor. He held the bloody chain and they all watched the cross swing. Mick put a hand on John’s shoulder.

  John wiped the welling tears from his eyes. “She was the organ player at the church in Houghton. Completely tone-deaf.”

  “You did her a favor. I’d expect you to do the same for me if I turned,” Tiny said.

  John shook his head and held his hand toward Tiny, as if he was grasping an answer out of the air. “I don’t think I could. You’re—” he swallowed hard. “I couldn’t do it.”

  Tiny snatched his outstretched wrist and yanked him to his feet, so she was looking up into his eyes. “You could.”

  John nodded and smeared what was left of the salty tears running down his tanned cheeks. “We still have half a hospital to clear. It’s not gonna happen if I’m sitting on the floor.”

  Tiny smiled at him and clapped him on the back. “Welcome to the Primed.”

  As they continued down the hallway, Tiny wondered when Mick would finally Prime. He was still living by Old World values, and all that would get him here was depression
and nightmares. It seemed to her most of them had Primed. Grace transitioned after she killed her brother; John had just now, while facing the woman he knew; X was born Primed; and Ashton had changed during her time away. That was something she wouldn’t point out to Kade, but she had her suspicions that Ashton may have made a move on her longtime crush.

  However, that left Kade and Mick to still find their Primal selves. Mick was still trapped in the laws and procedures that used to govern his life. No amount of advising would help him leave that behind; it was something he could only reach on his own. Then there was Kade.

  As long as she had known Kade, he had been contemplating the Primal Age. Almost yearly, he was preparing for a different apocalypse and dragging others along with him. She had figured that he would quickly switch into Prime mode, but he was still holding back. Something had him rooted, but she couldn’t figure out what that was. They needed him now, but he just seemed stuck behind some invisible wall. He was second-guessing everything he knew. She’d swear he was intentionally going against his instinct.

  Even with her frustrations, Tiny couldn’t help but smile when she thought of him. Since the day with the farmer, she often thought about their first kiss. She wished she hadn’t ruined the moment by speaking, but at least she could hold on to that moment. She loved him. Whether or not he felt the same, she knew through and through that she loved him.

  CHAPTER XIV

  COMMAND POST

  ___________

  Ashton leaned into the swirling white snow as her boots packed dirty waffle prints into the four inches of powder. She was dressed in a heavy blue Marmot jacket, a black balaclava, and fleece pants, with a police-issue assault rifle across her back. Her hands, which gripped a dead foamer by the ankles, were covered in black Under Armour. At the other end of the foamer, Grace, similarly dressed in winter gear, held the limp body by the wrists. Argos trotted beside them with his nose in the air.