I lay there for several minutes, panting, my cheek pressed against the cool earth, arms and legs spread apart. Once my head stopped spinning, I crawled over to a tree and sat against its rough trunk. I brought up my legs close to my trembling body and wept, fighting the urge to throw up. I felt like tossing my stupid gun as far away as I could, but even though I hated myself for it, I just couldn’t part with it.
I sobbed for what felt like hours, uncertain of what I would do next. I couldn’t just stroll back to town. I‘d killed Tommy… shot him dead… murdered him. Obviously, I hadn't wanted to; I'd just defended myself. But he was dead all the same. I thought of Karla, what she’d think once she heard of what I’d done, and what they’d do to her.
I held onto my silver cross and brought it to my trembling lips. All I could do was pray.
Jesus, please help me. I’m so sorry…
I struggled to relax, taking long deep breaths as I struggled to clear my mind, but as soon I’d gotten control of myself, a new wave of sobbing and whimpering would come over me. I wept for a few more minutes with my eyes shut until my heartbeat steadied itself.
The sound of heavy thumping reached my ears—louder, closer. A twig snapped just a few feet away. I looked up, startled to find a monstrous shadow looming over me. My hand flew to the gun holstered at my side, but as I touched the rough plastic grip, the scene of Tommy’s gruesome death flashed in my mind—red blood and pale skin. My hand froze, curled into a useless claw.
I pressed my back against the tree, squeezing my eyes shut and screaming as I prepared for the worst.
Chapter 27
“Rebecca?”
My sore eyes slowly adjusted to the sunrays shining behind the monstrous shadow. A man’s dark-brown eyes stared back at me, the hint of a smile on his lips. I sighed with relief, but my heart immediately raced again. His strong, lightly stubbled jawline seemed oddly familiar.
“Martin?” I asked, blinking. The large, antlered deer he carried on his muscular shoulders had tricked my eyes for an instant, but it certainly wasn’t some monster before me.
“I knew I heard someone over here. You’re not hurt, are you?” Martin offered me his hand. It felt a little rougher than what I remembered, but he picked me up with the same gentle ease.
“No, I… I… oh, God.” I staggered up to him and pressed my face against his faded green shirt, wrapping my arms around his solidly built body. I felt so safe—at least until the musty smell of the deer’s blood reached me. The taste of pennies in my mouth made me gag.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He placed a hand on my shoulder.
“I… I think I just killed someone.” I wiped away the sticky trails left by my sweat and tears. My chest trembled as I thought of Tommy, lying in a pool of his own blood.
“Well, nobody’s followed you. If you want, you can join me for lunch while your head clears.” Martin watched me with unblinking eyes, brow furrowed with concern. A few seconds went by, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. Then he ruffled his messy black hair self-consciously and broke eye contact.
“Didn’t you hear me? I just killed someone!” I gasped for air, barely containing a fresh outburst of tears. Martin sighed and turned his face back to me.
“You probably feel like you’ll never be normal again, but that’ll pass. Trust me. Come on, some food will do you good.” He patted the deer on his shoulders. Despite his carefree smile, I saw a hint of sadness in his large, reassuring eyes. He strolled away before I could answer. Not knowing what else to do, I followed him.
***
“So, this is where you’ve been staying?” I asked as I admired the clear, sparkling pond near a quaint wooden cabin. My hands still shook slightly, but after walking for about an hour through the peaceful forest, I no longer felt as if a stiff breeze would make me burst into tears.
“Yeah, I stumbled upon this place a few hours after leaving New Jerusalem. It seemed abandoned, so I thought to myself, Why not?” He swung a rope over the branch of a nearby tree, the deer still resting on his shoulders.
“At least it doesn’t looks like you’ve worried about food.” I tried to smile as I hugged myself, hanging onto the sliver of warmth I was beginning to feel inside me.
“Why, are they short on food at New Jerusalem? By the way, I heard you were attacked recently. I hope your friend’s all right.” Martin turned to face me. He hadn’t asked me about the town or the incident with the boys during our walk, respecting my silence.
“Yeah, she’s fine. It’s all fine,” I said, my gaze wandering. I could only hope Karla really was still fine.
Martin nodded, the shadow of a smile on his face, and tied an end of the rope around the deer’s neck. He pulled on it until the poor creature was left dangling in the air by its neck.
“I’m pretty sure it’s already dead, you know?” I pointed at the deer. My hand shook slightly.
Martin let out a brief chuckle and went into the cabin, crushing the dry grass beneath his military-style boots. Although he was lean and strong, I’d have been amazed if he’d ever stepped inside a gym. No, I pictured the twenty-something guy earning his physique chopping wood, climbing mountains, and wrestling bears.
“Better safe than sorry. Deer are notoriously crafty animals,” Martin said after he emerged from the cabin carrying a large bucket and a pair of knives. “Would you mind holding this for me?”
Martin handed me the smaller knife, which I took without giving it much thought. He then went over to the deer’s swaying corpse and opened the lid on the bucket, from which he extracted a smaller plastic bucket. I was pretty sure he’d done some hunting before the world as we knew it came crashing down around us.
“Hey, Martin, what did you do for a living before… you know?” I walked toward him. “I’m guessing you were in the army or something, huh?”
“For a while, but the army’s got too much bureaucracy. I joined a private security company. Less paperwork. The pay’s a lot better, as well.”
“Private Security Company? What, you were like a mercenary or something?” I asked.
Martin shook his head, holding the large knife in one hand and steadied the deer’s corpse with the other. “Yeah… like a mercenary.” He looked at me with a slightly patronizing smile. Martin buried the knife between the deer’s hind legs. I winced, feeling as if he’d stabbed me in the gut, but managed to steady myself.
“And what exactly did you—oh no…”
Martin swiftly drove the blade up to the animal’s sternum. He stuck his hand inside the deer’s open chest and pulled out its intestines, which cascaded into the bucket with a mushy flop. A thick stream of blood splashed over them, the pungent scent of raw meat wafting all around me.
I turned my face away and coughed violently as I marched toward the pond. The deer’s bloodied guts spilling out of its corpse triggered memories of Tommy. I figured the boys were probably taking his body back to New Jerusalem right then—slowly carting it along the deserted highway with its legs flopping at the edge of the wheelbarrow—while Danny muttered promises of vengeance under his breath. I could almost hear Tommy’s mother howling as she saw her son’s corpse, blaming the boys for his death.
And then they’ll blame me.
I sniffed deeply and brushed my tears away as Martin stomped over to me.
“Are you okay, Rebecca? I’m sorry if I upset you, I—”
“I just need some air. Don’t worry about me—just carry on.” I returned the small blade he’d given me.
“All right. I just thought you’d be interested in getting a few survivalist tips.” Martin gazed at the pond as he stood next to me.
“Yeah, maybe some other time. I’ll keep an eye out for any other harmless animals you could butcher, though, all right?” I sat down on the grass.
Martin walked away without further comment. Pretty soon, the sound of a knife hacking through flesh—a bit like lettuce leaves being crushed—broke the forest’s peaceful silence.
***
>
“I thought you felt sorry for the gentle creatures of the forest.” Martin leaned over the campfire to get me another piece of meat from the grill. An hour had passed since we’d reached his cabin—and over eight hours since I'd had my sparse breakfast at Karla’s place.
“I’m hungry, all right?” I said, surprised to discover I hadn’t lost my appetite even with the cold sensation lingering in my stomach.
The venison took some time to chew and had a stronger, greasier taste than beef, but I had to restrain myself to keep from following Martin’s example and using only a knife to eat rather than balancing the plate on my lap and attacking the meat with the proper cutlery. Whoever said that hunger is the best spice knew what he was talking about.
“And what are you planning to do with that, Martin?” I pointed at the bucketful of raw meat cuts and edible organs. “It’s not like you can stuff it in the freezer.”
“I’ll drop it off at a nearby settlement. You’re welcome to come, of course, but if you want to get to New Jerusalem before sundown I’d advise hitting the road soon.” He started clearing away the campsite.
The choking sensation returned with the prospect of facing the fallout of Tommy’s killing. For all I knew, I’d be walking straight into the loving embrace of a lynch mob’s noose.
“I don’t know. I guess I’d like to check out that settlement. I still haven’t heard anything from my parents—maybe I could find them there,” I said, not all that convinced. With each passing day, the chances of seeing my mom and dad again seemed slimmer.
Martin gazed at the campfire’s flames with his dark, soulful eyes for a few seconds. “I don’t think so. The settlement’s mostly made up of the survivors of some Asian-Indian community from Queens—people who weren’t admitted into New Jerusalem.”
I recalled the day we arrived and the dark-skinned woman who was screaming and crying as she and her son were forced to leave with nothing but a water bottle and a bag of chips.
“Someone might’ve seen them, though. I’ve got to try,” I said.
Martin looked away but nodded. “Sure. It’s worth a shot. I’d take that off, though.” Martin pointed at the white armband still pinned to my shirt—the same armband worn by the people who’d turned him and every other non-Christian away from the only refuge for miles around after the disaster struck.
I tossed the piece of white fabric into the campfire and stared as the flames slowly turned it to ash. My brief stint in New Jerusalem’s militia was over.
Chapter 28
After about half an hour of marching through the forest—more of a state park, really—and the sprawling suburban ruins around it, we reached the Indian settlement. The thought of running into search parties that were looking to make me answer for Tommy’s death had worried me, but fortunately, we walked away from New Jerusalem toward an airport. Its quarter-mile-long terminal had caved in, but a handful of the smaller hangars—destined for private planes and jets—had survived the earthquake with no visible damage. Clusters of men of Indo-Asian descent milled around, stripping the insides of the larger aircraft, probably to use as building materials or to take clear out space for shelter inside them.
A group of cinnamon-skinned children played soccer by the entrance of the settlement. I waved at them, displaying our friendly intentions, but they ran away to the nearest hangar, leaving their ball behind.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have brought guns along, Martin,” I said, marching along the broken tarmac. My handgun was conspicuously holstered at my side, while Martin had a bolt-action rifle slung over one shoulder.
“I wouldn’t blame them for being scared after what they’ve been through. Don’t worry, though. Just don’t reach for your gun unless they shoot first, and you’ll be fine.” He fixed his eyes on the hangar’s entrance.
Seven armed men emerged from the structure—young men, judging by the jeans and T-shirts most of them wore. My chest tightened as they drew closer. Four of them were armed with machetes or improvised clubs, but two others carried handguns.
The man in the lead—in his early thirties, dressed in black pants and a formal shirt with the sleeves rolled up—aimed what looked like an M-16 at Martin. “What do you want? We have nothing for you here,” the rifleman said while the others strode forward, surrounding us.
“I’ve been here before. I’ve done some business with a man called Pallav… Pallav Raj.” Martin placed the venison-filled bucket on the ground and showed the men his empty hands. I mimicked his gesture.
The men lowered their weapons but didn’t soften their scowls. The rifleman nodded at the T-shirted guy next to him, who then sprinted back to the hangar.
“We’re going to need your guns,” the rifleman said, pointing at my handgun but staring at the silver cross hanging over my shirt, his dark eyes squinting with suspicion.
Thick beads of sweat stained my already sweat-encrusted shirt. After wearing it for several days straight, my necklace—my only tangible link to my parents—had become like a part of me. Even as I'd watched the armband burn back at Martin’s cabin, I hadn't thought of taking off my blatantly Christian memento or even hiding it under my shirt when we visited the settlement. If these people—mostly Hindus, probably—had been to New Jerusalem, they wouldn’t have been happy to have armed Christians paying them a visit. But surrendering my gun now and entering their turf unarmed didn’t sound like a great idea.
“Is that really necessary? I mean, we’re just here to drop off some food,” I said, glancing at the bucket by Martin’s feet.
One of the men stomped his club on the tarmac with a sharp, metallic bang. I recoiled, jerking my hand toward my gun. Fortunately, I stopped myself before the others noticed. The cold, heavy sensation in my stomach that I'd gotten after shooting Tommy came back to me quickly.
“Yeah, it’s necessary,” the club-wielding guy said. He seemed even younger than I, with only a hint of a moustache growing over his upper lip, but the way he flexed his wiry muscles unnerved me. The guy beside him grasped his snub-nosed revolver with both hands, ready to fire.
“Calm down—we’ll give you our guns.” Martin slowly took his rifle off his shoulder. “Just don’t let the children play with them; we wouldn’t want to be responsible for a tragedy.”
Martin looked at me and reached out his open hand, asking for my gun. I clutched the grip between my thumb and index finger and placed the gun in his palm. A feeling of nakedness came over me.
“You’ll give them back, right?” I asked, addressing my question to Martin rather than to the men surrounding us.
“As long as you behave,” the owner of the snub-nosed revolver said as he tucked it in his jean’s waistband. He took our guns, giving a glance at my necklace. The others stared at us, whispering among themselves. I practically held my breath until a short, old man dressed in charcoal-grey pants and a light-blue shirt came out of the nearest hangar, his formal shoes clopping on the tarmac as he trotted toward us.
“Martin, it’s good to see you!” The old man shook Martin’s hand. “Don’t worry, Arjun,” he said to the head security guy. “He’s—I mean, they’re all right.” He smiled at me. “Shall we, then?”
Mr. Raj walked toward the hangar. Martin and I looked at Arjun, who nodded in approval, and we strolled after the old man, taking the meat bucket with us. The guards’ unfriendly stares followed us all the way.
***
After getting used to the relative darkness inside the hangar, I found more than a hundred people—families, all sharing the same dark skin and straight black hair—looking at Martin and me with uneasiness. The elderly and small children lay in mattresses lined up against the hangar’s walls, while women—some of them dressed in worn but still colorful saris—prepared meals over a cluster of scratched, battered tables by the entrance. All of the furniture appeared to have been scavenged from the suburban ruins.
Mr. Raj wasn’t interested in giving us a tour of the place and headed straight for a large desk in the corne
r. A mess of electrical wires, batteries, and circuits rested on top, the stinging smell of glue and burning plastic heavy in the air. A slim woman in her late forties, wearing a carmine sari with floral patterns, hunched over the desk.
“Welcome to my home,” Mr. Raj said after catching his breath. “This is my wife, Sita.” He stroked the woman’s shoulder. She flinched and blinked at her husband a few times before turning to us.
“You know Martin, of course, and this is”—Mr. Raj’s lips curled into a devious smile—“his young friend… umm, forgive me, but with all that excitement I forgot to ask your name.”
Young friend?
“Rebecca. Pleased to meet you.” The tips of my ears grew slightly hot.
Mrs. Raj took my hand and bowed her head, smiling. She similarly greeted Martin as her husband cleared away the mess of electronics from the desk and took out a box from a drawer. His hands trembled like those of an excited child as he revealed the contents of the box: some sort of homemade radio.
“Scrounging up the materials to build this took some time, but I knew that it’d be worth it.” He flicked a switch on the device. A burst of static crackled from the radio’s small speaker. “Maybe we’ll get a message from our alien overlords soon.”
I chuckled. “Alien overlords?”
“Pallav believes we’re under attack from the little green men.” Mrs. Raj dragged a chair over to me, and I mouthed my thanks.
“Solar eclipses and EMPs don’t work like this, Sita,” Mr. Raj said, his tone slightly patronizing.
“Granted, but that doesn’t mean—”
Mr. Raj swatted a hand in his wife’s direction and then fiddled with one of the knobs until the static became a whisper, which gradually sounded different—human.
“No way!” I hunched over the radio, almost pressing my ear to its small speaker. My heart pounded. I expected to hear the president or some other government official, reassuring anyone listening that help was on the way—that things would soon go back to normal—but with each slight twist of Mr. Pallav’s hand, it became clearer that a different voice was speaking.
Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) Page 15