“You know, Karla… your dad was a great guy,” I blurted out.
Was? Oh God. I’m so stupid.
My throat tightened as almost a minute passed, only the slapping of feet against the pavement breaking the silence. Karla stroked the ends of her hair, as if deciding whether or not to tear out a few strands. I looked away, focusing on the road.
“Yeah,” she finally said, looking at the bright white moon on the star-studded night sky. “Funny thing is, now that my dad’s gone, I can’t stop thinking about my mom. I hated her for so long, and now I wish I could have her with me. I don’t even know where she is, or even if she’s still… sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Only when Karla stared at me, her eyebrows furrowed with concern, did I feel the cold trail a few furtive tears had left on my cheeks.
I placed the ghost of a smile on my face and shook my head. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing. I try not to think about my parents too much, to be honest, but… I have faith that they’re safe.” I held the cross between my fingers, trying to anchor my wish on the tangible bit of shimmering silver. It didn’t quite take.
“Yeah, I’m sure your parents are okay. My mom’s probably fine, too. If anyone’s good at looking out for herself, it’s her, right?” Karla asked.
“If they’re not okay, well… at least they’re in a better place, far away from all this crap.”
***
Holding the service at night had been a terrible idea. Brother Tim’s assistants hadn’t wasted any fuel illuminating the field, using only a handful of gas lamps on the stage they had set up by the bleachers. I could barely make out the people on the stage, but the pastor stood right in the center, dressed in black for a change. Beside him were a Catholic priest, another man in a black suit—probably the mayor—and what looked like a military chaplain.
The darkness that surrounded the crowd produced a morbid atmosphere. People whispered to each other or prayed, their voices quavering, sweat building up on their brows despite the night’s chilliness. Many shuffled away, excusing themselves to return to unattended children and spouses back home. Even though at least two hundred soldiers and guards stood at the edges of the field, it didn’t help put the few thousand spectators at ease. I caressed the white armband inside my jeans pocket and couldn’t help picturing what I’d do if we actually came under attack. Scenes adapted from action films popped into my mind. I fought back a smile. Maybe Karla was right. Maybe I was a bit of a child.
After about ten minutes, Brother Tim finally stepped forward to address the crowd.
“I can’t begin to describe to you, my dear brothers and sisters in Christ, the sadness that I feel in my heart tonight. The sadness that grips my very soul upon looking at you with your heads bowed low, your eyes reflecting the fear in your hearts, darting from side to side, glancing at the exits even as we prepare to say our last goodbyes to our friends and family who were taken from us just a few hours ago.”
Wow… this guy’s got some balls.
I stared in disbelief at the man who had just insulted the grieving town. He did have a point, though. Everyone seemed more ashamed than angry at his comments, pursing their lips and staring at their shoes.
“‘Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed,’ our Lord Jesus Christ said to the apostle Thomas, who doubted His resurrection. What would Jesus Christ think of us, who have seen and yet still do not believe?”
As he said this, a subdued humming surrounded us from the edges of the field. The sound wasn’t loud enough to cause panic, but many wondered out loud what it could be, raising their heads above the sea of people. My heart beat just a little faster. Before I knew it, my hand rested on my gun’s grip.
“Is that an engine?” a man behind us asked. He’d barely finished speaking when the lights in the football field went on. People gasped and looked around, the sight of electric lights nothing short of miraculous after three days of pre-industrial life. Although little more than hazy orbs of light at first, once the floodlights warmed up, the entire field was awash in a bright white glow that actually hurt my eyes. Several people in the crowd shouted out loud, praising Jesus. Many more just laughed and stared at the lights, wide-eyed, like children.
“This man sure loves spectacle,” I said, cupping my hand over Karla’s ear to be heard over the crowd’s cheering. “I’m surprised he didn’t shout out ‘Let there be light,’ before pulling off his stunt.”
“I wouldn’t put it past that manipulative bastard.” Karla aimed an expressionless death glare at Brother Tim. “I can’t believe that people still cheer, even though he’s obviously toying with us.”
My mood dampened as I reflected on Karla’s words. I’d been so happy about electricity finally coming back to our lives that I'd failed to grasp how sinister the whole thing had been. Karla and I were in the minority, though. The excited crowd took a few minutes to quiet down.
“It is only natural to feel sorrow over the loss of our loved ones,” Brother Tim continued, “not for their sake, who at this very hour rejoice in the company of the Lord, but for ours, beggars and sinners who now find ourselves deprived of their bravery and faith.
“Unfortunately, I believe that anything I may have to say about them will ring hollow, as I did not have the honor of personally knowing all of our martyrs while they still lived among us. I’d like to ask those of you who had the privilege of sharing a few moments with them to come forward and bear witness of the lessons in Christianity, as well as in humanity, which they have left behind.”
The scores of guards flanking the stage approached the people at the front of the crowd and escorted them in groups to a podium, which was brought up to the center of the stage once Brother Tim had finished speaking, as well as a microphone connected to a set of large speakers.
It was painful for me to associate last night’s scenes of carnage with the portrayals of saintliness and compassion being delivered by the people who knew those killed. Both the townsfolk and the refugees had a chance to express their feelings, and we spent a couple of hours immersed in cathartic grief, crying and praying in silence. When the name “Laura Palmer” came up, a brief sob escaped my chest. I knew that the dedicated bank teller whose husband—a handsome young man—praised in a quaking voice had been the shotgun-wielding woman who’d given me courage when death seemed certain. Karla held my hand and gave me a brief nod, as if giving me permission to cry.
My inner peace was shattered, however, as Mrs. Thompson climbed up to the stage, her short black hair bouncing with each step. A dozen girls from the laundry team trailed behind her, all attired in plain black dresses. Amy was among them, her blond hair no longer messy—it actually seemed to glow under the field’s bright lights. She deliberately turned her serene, I-wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly face toward Brother Tim as she walked across the stage. Their eyes only met for a second, but the pastor kept his gaze fixed on my young schoolmate as she took her place beside Mrs. Thompson.
“Hey, Becca, shouldn’t you be up there?” Karla whispered as she prodded my side, her eyes squinting with mistrust.
“They couldn’t fit all of us on that stage, Lala. We’re like two hundred laundry assistants.” I looked at the stage. “We had a vote on who’d go on with Mrs. Thompson, and well… I didn’t make the cut.” Karla met my lie with silence.
Mrs. Thompson took her reading glasses and a speech from her purse and addressed the crowd while the girls sobbed and held each other beside her. None of the names she called out seemed familiar, much less the saintly attributes given to them. All I could think of was their bitter, judgmental stares during my brief time at the laundry site.
Mrs. Thompson removed her glasses to wipe her tears at the end of her speech. Amy rushed up to her and gave her a tender hug, burying her angelic face in the lady’s shoulder. The other girls followed suit, surrounding Mrs. Thompson in tearful embraces. Brother Tim took a step forward and clapped vigorously. Soon the entire football field rang out in applause.
“
You’re very lucky to work with them,” Karla said, clapping along with the crowd.
“They’re just trying to make themselves look good, Lala. It’s easy to make saints out of the dead,” I whispered. She shook her head and turned her eyes toward the stage.
Any doubts I might’ve had about joining the militia vanished. I actually looked forward to the next day, when I’d finally leave that twisted little town and step into the outside world. I bared my teeth in a spontaneous smile and clapped my hands raw.
Chapter 24
I felt like a badass as I strolled to the yacht club, clad in the sepia button-down blouse, straight jeans, and combat boots I’d picked that morning from the goodwill pile left for us at our new home. The surprised looks I’d gotten from the town’s residents as they stared at my gun only heightened the effect. I waved everyone good-morning with a pleased smile on my face.
That feeling didn’t last. Over a hundred of the town’s armed volunteers gathered at the yacht club’s garden. They were mostly guys around my age—if not a few years older. The buzz of their chatter was loud even from across the street. They ignored me as I stomped down the red-tiled driveway, but I could feel their intense gazes at my back once I walked past them. A few vulgar comments reaching my burning ears. It was like the first day of school—no, even worse than that. I felt like the weird transfer student who shows up in the middle of the school year after everyone has settled into their little circles of friends.
I couldn’t find Mr. Forcellati among the young crowd, so I headed toward the clubhouse itself. The mess of empty bottles and plates had been cleared up. Serious-looking adults, mostly decked in paramilitary gear, pored over some papers on dark wooden tables, but there was still no sign of Mr. Forcellati. I figured he really had quit the militia after all. I took a deep breath and approached the nearest table, where two men with greying hair and an athletic, dark-skinned woman sorted through handwritten lists.
“Hi. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was told that you could use some volunteers to help bring in supplies from… you know… out of town?” My lips were drying at an alarming rate.
The woman studied my face over copper wire-rim glasses. “Who told you that?” She frowned as she leaned back on her elegant leather-padded chair.
“Uh… Mr. Forcellati. Henry Forcellati.” I fought the temptation to suck in my arid lips. The woman’s frown deepened. One of the men shook his head as he stood up, leaving the clubhouse with a bundle of lists rolled up in his hand. The other man only stared at me with kind blue eyes, tight-lipped. I suddenly felt slimy, as if Mr. Forcellati’s stale-beer smell had clung to me.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Are you a guest in this town? Could I see your ID booklet?” The woman reached out with an open hand.
I extracted my booklet—folded up in my back pocket—and placed it in her hand. After wrinkling her nose at the battered document, she read through my personal information and showed it to the man beside her. They whispered among themselves for a few seconds, taking quick glances at me every now and then. I’d forgotten all about the incident during registration, when I'd first arrived in their town and Martin was kicked out for his beliefs—or lack thereof.
“Tell me, Rebecca, where did you get that gun?” She slid the booklet over the table toward me as she casually eyed my weapon.
Dammit.
“Oh, well, I… I traded it from Mr. Forcellati for some jewelry I had on me,” I lied, fearing that its owner might’ve survived, and they would take it away. “So, can I join the group?” I nodded to suggest the answer I wanted.
“We should run this through the mayor,” the man said, leaning close to the stern-faced woman. He whispered something else under his breath. She nodded, looking from the gun to my face with an unceasingly creased brow. Cold sweat gathered in my palms.
“Come back tomorrow, Rebecca. We could use a few extra hands, but this whole thing’s more of a community initiative. We’ll have to discuss the matter before you can join up. In the meantime, got back to your assigned job, all right?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I turned toward the exit, an empty feeling in my stomach.
“Oh, and Rebecca?”
“Yes?”
“I think it’d be best if you left your weapon with us for now. We’ll keep it safe for you until tomorrow.” She tapped her finger on the wooden table.
From my cold, dead hands, bitch.
“Why? Am I in trouble or something? I didn’t know trading was illegal.” I arched my eyebrows, half faking a tone of concern.
The woman smiled but made a fist with the hand she had on the table. “It was only a suggestion, Rebecca. You’re not in any trouble, of course. It’s actually pretty admirable for you to volunteer after going through so much. See you tomorrow, all right?” She smiled, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes.
“Tomorrow.” I hurried outside before she could change her mind, almost bumping into the people walking in and out of the clubhouse as my head spun.
I leaned against one of the slender trees along the pathway, watching the volunteer groups march away with their supply lists as I tried to piece together what had just happened back there. Lying had been a stupid mistake—they would obviously question Mr. Forcellati about my story—but confessing that the gun belonged to one of their own might’ve meant having to give it back. I closed my eyes and rubbed my cold hands on my face as I took deep breaths, wondering what would happen to me.
Someone grabbed my shoulder. I swatted the arm away, suppressing a yelp. I expected to see the wire-rim-glasses woman flanked by heavily armed guards but instead came face to face with a guy—about my age—wearing a broad smile.
“Hey there. Sorry if I scared you. Are you joining the scavenger hunt?” he asked.
In stark contrast with the camouflage and boots most of the militia wore, he sported a bright green polo shirt, pre-faded jeans, and bright-yellow athletic shoes. He’d even taken the time to style his longish dark-brown hair backwards, in an artistic faux-messy look. His smile broadened even further, exposing rows of perfectly straight teeth. He placed a hand on my shoulder, weighing it down with the large steel watch wrapped over his wrist. My heart beat four times for every second ticked off by its precise Swiss machinery.
“I’m Mark, by the way, and these are Vincent, Danny, and Tommy,” he said, looking over his shoulder.
Three other guys dressed in a similar fashion stood behind him, smiling and nodding as Mark called their names. Vincent tried to puff himself up, but his slim physique didn’t help him much, while Tommy clearly struggled to reign in his well-fed stomach. Danny had a striking resemblance to Tommy but was a good deal taller with muscle, rather than fat, bulging under his clothes. All four of them had white armbands on their designer shirts, which gave them away as being part of the militia—that and their rifles and ammo vests.
“So, what’s your name?” Mark asked, straightening his back.
My nose reached up to his smoothly shaved chin. “Rebecca,” I said, my gaze fixed on his honey-colored eyes.
“Well, Rebecca, do you want to join our team? You are here to help us pick up supplies, right?” He pointed at my gun.
Before I realized it, I'd pulled out the white armband in my pocket and nodded—Mark’s charming smile short-circuiting my usually logical and levelheaded thought processes.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, short of breath and steadying myself against the tree as my knees turned to jelly.
“In that case, you should join me and my buddies. You can’t really go out there on your own. Those monsters might be scared of the sunlight, but there are still plenty of bad people roaming about.” Mark dropped his smile for an instant.
“Plus, there’s wolves and bears and stuff,” Vincent added. Danny and Tommy failed to hide their snickers.
“Yeah, grizzlies,” Mark said. “So, are you in, or what? You’d be in good hands, Becky, I swear.” He tapped on his military-style rifle for emphasis.
The seconds slipped by, and no sign from heaven appeared. I’d known guys like these at school, all friendly smiles and silly jokes until they got what they wanted. I didn't know whether these guys were any different. The world was going up in flames, and they were trying to do—what? Seduce me? Running away seemed like the smart thing to do.
“Okay, sure. I’m in. Just don’t call me Becky, all right?” I pinned Mr. Forcellati’s white armband on my left sleeve.
Who knew? Maybe I was wrong about them. Maybe they weren’t some rich douche bags, still carrying their daddies' platinum cards in their wallets. Maybe they were just as shaken as everyone else and hadn’t been able to grasp the fact that the world we used to live in was gone forever. Maybe in a couple of hours I’d be glad to have joined their group. It certainly beat going back to Mrs. Thompson and the laundry crew. And hey, Mark was pretty hot. And his friends seemed nice enough. Maybe I would enjoy hanging out with them. Maybe I hadn’t just made a colossal mistake.
Chapter 25
I tried keeping track of the times the boys questioned each other’s manhood, but lost count barely a mile out of town. Mark couldn’t help making up tales of his bravery against the demons that had assaulted New Jerusalem—never mentioning the monster’s acid blood, glowing red eyes, or bizarre animal features, which seemed odd. At least it passed the time as we walked eastward along the broken boulevard, nothing but trees and neat rows of flattened houses around us, the nearest town still a couple of miles away.
“So, while Tommy cried in a corner like a bitch, and these two pansies were fumbling around for ammo, I unleashed hell with my Little Friend right here.” Mark aimed down the road from the hip. “I got carried away, though, and ran out of ammo before I could kill all of them bastards. Luckily, I had Mr. Forty-five by my side, and I don’t care if it’s a demon or a damned elephant; nothing can take five shots to the face from it and live.”
Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) Page 13