Aftermath - 02

by D. J. Molles

  Then Milo turned and cast a smile and wink at Lee, as though they were old college pals, and the desecration of Nicole was just another good time to reminisce about. Huddled in the doorway, some faces that Lee didn’t recognize stared on in vague amusement, while others like Shumate and Javier stared uncomfortably at the ground. Doc simply breathed slow and steady breaths and didn’t say anything. He sounded hollow.

  “Ah, well.” Milo shook his head in disappointment and walked through the door, leaving Lee and Doc alone.

  CHAPTER 17: FIRE

  In the stillness of the room, there was only the sound of Doc’s breathing.

  Against the wall, Lee cringed, waiting for that moment to come crashing down on Doc and squeeze the screams out of him. Lee didn’t know who this Nicole was, Doc had never mentioned her before, but it was obvious she was important to him. After long minutes, Lee realized that the emotion wasn’t going to come. Doc didn’t start crying, or yelling, or sobbing, or anything else besides continuing to take those long, deep breaths. Gradually, even those subsided until he just laid there, face pressed against the floor.

  Just existing.

  “Doc,” Lee murmured.

  He gained no response. Not even a movement.

  “Doc,” Lee tried again. “Who’s Nicole?”

  Doc budged finally, rolling onto his left side so that he now faced Lee, his head lolling. His eyes were lost in the darkness, just sunken orbs. A clump of his hair stuck to his lips and stirred as the air moved between them.

  “You’ve gotta tell me…” Lee began, and almost missed the whisper.

  Had it not been for the slight movement of his lips, Lee wasn’t sure he would have registered anything at all. But what he did register didn’t make sense.

  “What?” Lee leaned forward. “What did you say?”

  Doc’s eyelids fluttered closed as he gathered the strength to form a few words. When his eyes opened again there was a glistening there in the dark hollows. “It was me. I did it. It was all me.”

  “I…Uh…” Lee shook his head like he was trying to clear it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because I thought they had her, Captain.” Doc’s voice became louder, more insistent. “I did. I thought they had her, and I thought that if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do that they would kill her. He promised he wouldn’t kill her. He promised.”

  “What did you do?” Lee asked, warily.

  Doc waggled his head and rolled onto his back so he was staring at the ceiling. “He told me to do it, Captain. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t mean for it to turn out like that, but it did. It did, and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop anything.” He suddenly spoke so forcefully that spittle flew up from his lips: “I couldn’t save Kara! And I couldn’t fucking save Nicole!”

  “Jesus,” Lee said with dawning comprehension.

  “I cut the fuckin’ fence, man.” Doc’s face twisted up. “I cut the fence, and I put the CD player there. I thought—I really fucking thought—that I was gonna get you. I was gonna take you and your little device at gunpoint and I was going to escape fucking Camp Ryder and bring you back to Milo. And I was gonna save Nicole. That’s what I was gonna do. Save Nicole.”

  He cut the fence. He cut the fence because he knew that everyone would gather in the square and no one would see him kidnap me. But what he planned on doing once he got Lee outside the fence was a mystery. Perhaps some of Milo’s men were waiting nearby for Doc to deliver Lee into their hands.

  “Doc…”

  “But you weren’t there. Nothing happened the way it was supposed to. You got up, like you were fine and you started fighting the infected like you hadn’t just been knocked out for hours and you ruined the whole fucking thing. Fucking ruined it.”

  Lee’s voice cut through the mad rambling. “Doc, where’s Josh? What happened to Josh?”

  Doc was eerily silent for a long time. Then: “I shot him. I shot him in the gut and I left him on the road. Like an animal. Like roadkill. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I knew that Nicole was dead. I wouldn’t have shot him. I wouldn’t have cut the fence. I wouldn’t have even”—his voice exploded—“COME ON THIS FUCKING TRIP!”

  “Oh my God,” Lee felt a tightness in his gut. “You...”

  There was a moment there that Lee pictured it all. He pictured Doc putting a bullet in Josh and watching the kid squirm around and die. He saw the blood, smelled the opened bowels, heard the pathetic screams, all like he had been standing there when it happened. And through it all, in his mind’s eye he could see Doc, watching but doing nothing. Doc, the weakling. Doc, the coward. Doc, the complainer. The one who convinced everyone to let him come on the trip and the whole time was scamming them. The one who killed Josh and gave all those hard-earned supplies to their enemies. The liar. The traitor.

  Doc.

  But Lee found any further words were caught in his throat. There was such a tidal wave of thoughts that he just sat there with his mouth open, trying to find the language to express himself but couldn’t, as though he’d suddenly been struck mute. Through the hazy shock of disbelief—or simply not wanting to believe—it began to make sense to him. Little details began popping back up in his mind, like wreckage from a sunken ship that floated to the surface. Doc’s insistence that the people of Camp Ryder would eventually blame him for Kara’s death. How eager he was to come with them on the trip, but how unwilling he seemed once he was there. How he volunteered to accompany Lee into Smithfield. Lee had to wonder if there’d ever been a genuine moment between the two of them, or had every decision he’d made been for the purpose of getting Lee to walk into a trap?

  Two competing notions fought for control.

  The first was pure hatred. The sting of betrayal, the humiliation at realizing how utterly duped he had been and the nearly all-consuming desire to lash out because of that. The childlike instinct to repay mental pain with physical pain that turned into the very adult will to stomp Doc’s head into a pulpy mess.

  The second was a kind of morbid curiosity. The never ending desire to know WHY something happened. To seek some fact that might explain it all away. Something that might absolve Lee of any responsibility. Something that Lee could point to and say, “See? Anyone would have been tricked by that. It’s not just me. It’s not my fault.”

  Instead, what eked out was simply, “How?”

  Doc didn’t ask for any clarification. He just started talking again. “We went to my parents’ house when all of this happened. We were both students at Duke. But my parents were gone by the time we got there. I think they’d already been evacuated. I think everyone had already been evacuated. So we just stayed there, not quite sure what to do, thinking the government would come back for us. Thinking that someone would come to save us.

  “But the only people that came were Milo’s people. They knew we were in there, even though we hid and stayed as quiet as we could. I think they’d been watching us. Or maybe just Nicole.” His voice fought back a break. “When they came in after us, I didn’t fight. I should have done something. Anything. But I just stood there with my hands up. I was sure they just wanted food or water, or maybe they were just going to take my parents’ things. I kept telling them to take what they wanted and leave us, but they weren’t interested in any of the stuff.

  “I remember Milo walking in and I was so terrified. The look in his eyes...he was smiling, but not in his eyes. They scared me, what I saw in them. And then he was looking at Nicole. He...he would run his fingers through her hair. I don’t remember how it happened, but Milo found out we were medical students and I could see he was thinking about something. Then he had his men take Nicole out to that big green Hummer and I could hear her screaming from inside the house.

  “And Milo described Camp Ryder to me. He told me where it was. He told me that they would take me in because they needed a doctor, but that I would be working for him, in exchange for keeping Nicole alive. So they drove me to Camp Ryder, and dropped me off a mile from the
gate. I was so scared of walking alone, but all I could think about was Nicole. When I came to the gate, Bus was there. He took me in. Fed me and gave me water. I told them about my medical training, and they were so excited. They were so happy to have someone to help them. But I wasn’t there to help them. I was helping myself. Trying to help Nicole.”

  Lee took a deep breath and forced his voice flat. “How long ago did you get to Camp Ryder?”

  “I don’t know. Two weeks ago? Maybe a little more. I lose track of time...”

  “But Milo must have continued to talk to you.”

  “Yeah.” Doc sounded far away. “There’s a tree that grows against the fence. He would leave instructions on pieces of paper and hide it under a rock at night. Or at least someone would. That’s how me maintained contact with me. That’s how he told me to watch out for you.”

  “So, this whole time...”

  “I’ve been trying to trap you,” Doc nodded his head. “I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. But they didn’t give me a choice. They set up a roadblock to catch us on the way back from the bunker. I was supposed to have you there by 12 o’clock today, or they were going to kill Nicole. That’s what they said, anyway.”

  “How did he know about me?” Lee demanded.

  Doc made a small shrugging motion. “I don’t know. He never said. Just said to keep my eyes out for a soldier, accompanied by a female and two kids. He said he wanted to speak with you. That you had access to supplies. But he never said how he found all of that out.”

  “Had to be my bunker,” Lee mumbled to himself.

  Doc looked at him. “I know you probably want to kill me.”

  Lee stared back at him, considering that for a long moment. Did he really want Doc to die? It was a difficult question to answer. Lee knew that he would not feel bad for Doc if they blew his head off right then and there. He knew watching Doc die would only leave him with a sense of fulfilled justice. He had murdered Josh in cold blood, whatever the reasons might be, and he was also responsible for Kara’s death. A death that he allowed Lee to take the blame for. And even though he had killed two people, he couldn’t find it in himself to fight when they needed him during their engagement at the roadblock the previous day, freezing up and standing there. Worthless.

  No, Lee had no great love for Doc. Ten minutes ago, he was still an ally, albeit an annoying one. Now he was just some sad, broken creature, and for all his righteous anger of only moments ago, Lee felt that pent up fiery feeling in his chest beginning to deflate. He wanted to be angry with Doc, but found himself simply disgusted instead.

  Lee shook his head. “No. I don’t want to kill you. Because you’re going to help me.”

  Doc made a drowsy sound. “I don’t care anymore.”

  Lee worked his way up onto his feet. “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to help me get out of here if it’s the last thing you do,” he hissed, spittle flying from his teeth. “You fucking owe it to me, Doc, and you owe it to Josh and Kara and everyone else at Camp Ryder that you’ve fucked over with your bullshit.”

  Lee crossed to him and pushed Doc into a sitting position with his foot. “Sit up,” he commanded. “Quit rolling around and feeling sorry for yourself. Nobody did this shit to you, you made this situation yourself. Now you have to deal with it. At least be useful for something.”

  Doc sat lazily, apparently unconcerned with whatever Lee had planned. And that was fine. If Doc did this one thing and then keeled over and died, Lee wouldn’t shed a tear. But he needed him right here, right now. With Doc sitting up, Lee turned his back on him and pushed his bound wrists towards Doc. “Now start chewing through that tape.”

  With nothing further to say, Doc began chewing.

  ***

  Trevor Schlitz was mentally unstable.

  Or “bat-shit crazy,” if you were his father.

  Whatever the terminology for it was, Trevor didn’t view it as a weakness, or a problem to be overcome. He hurt people, so they had to slap him with a label, qualify and quantify him, and attempt to “cure” him in their various ways, both through the court system and through mental evaluations that ended with him attending hours of counseling and having all kinds of weird medications shoved down his throat. Uppers, downers, all arounders. He had to admit, the drug cocktail was the most fun part of being “cured,” because it got pretty trippy sometimes. Sadly, his medications were no more, because pharmacies and pharmaceutical companies were no more.

  What a shame.

  But at the end of the day, there wasn’t a cure for what Trevor had. Simply put, he loved knives. All the talking and the blah blah blah psychiatrists tried to make it sound like more than it was, tried to make it sound like he had “anger issues” and told him he was “paranoid schizophrenic” and displayed “sociopathic tendencies.” But he just loved knives. It wasn’t that he was angry at the people he hurt, but he just enjoyed the feeling of skin parting under a blade. Clearly, it wasn’t that he disliked his victims, because he’d cut his own skin just as much as he cut them. He rarely wore a shirt, because he liked to display the strange cross-hatch pattern of scars that marred his chest. He liked to show it off. Like a masterpiece.

  But it was okay now because the world was ending and nothing really mattered anymore. Court dates and probation violations and involuntary commitment paperwork—all things of the past. Frankly, Trevor loved this new world and all of its freedoms. With all the dead bodies he could cut to his heart’s content and no one would ever say shit to him. Even the living were fair game, though sometimes they moved around too much and spoiled the moment. Why, just the other day he’d shot an old man in the chest and then spent hours working his body over. Then, for no other reason than the whim popped into his head, he poured gasoline on the body and made it into a stinking bonfire, and he danced around in the glow, laughing and hollering like a Wild Injun. Just because he could.

  He loved knives, and he loved this new world.

  Gone were all the people of old that judged him with their shifting stares and chose never to even attempt to understand the machinations of his mind. All of that was wiped out and replaced with this amazing new playground where you could never get in trouble for anything and you were surrounded by people that—though they might not be considered “bat-shit crazy”—still accepted you for the person that you were.

  They even started calling him Slitz, which he found delightful.

  For the first time in his life, Trevor Schlitz was happy.

  The smooth-faced black man that they called Roc (it was the only name he answered to) passed him what was left of their last cigarette they’d cobbled together from the leftover tobacco they’d found at the bottom of cigarette boxes and butts. It had been a collaborative effort on their part, and had resulted in three horrid tasting cigarettes. They agreed to each take one, and split the third.

  Trevor nodded his thanks, and Roc hocked and spit on the ground.

  The two of them never said much, but that was why they preferred each other’s company. And to be honest, Trevor thought that Milo and Big G were a bit creeped out by them. Maybe that was why they had been told to stay outside and watch the trucks while everyone else got to go inside and look at the trim.

  Trevor shrugged, keeping his own counsel.

  That was fine with him. He had no qualms with standing atop the upper level of the parking garage adjacent to the hospital and enjoying the view. Most other people would find the view cold and disturbing, as it was mostly battered barricades, concertina wire, and dead bodies. But to Trevor it was just another reminder that he was free to be himself, liberated from the constraints of a suffocating society that refused to give him room to breathe.

  No, he had no problem with it at all.

  “Hey,” Roc nudged his arm and motioned to the western side of the parking garage, where it overlooked the old decontamination domes. They were all aware that this was the only way past the barricades erected around the hospital, and watching it was part of their j
ob when they were hanging around Smithfield.

  Navigating the domes and cement barriers was a red sedan that struck Trevor as being kind of familiar. He was never good with cars and couldn’t name the make or model, but was pretty certain he’d seen it around here before. It navigated the barricades deftly, as though it had done it a thousand times.

  “I think that’s one of their guys,” Trevor murmured, speaking of the Smithfield survivors.

  Roc grabbed his shotgun. “You never know.”

  Regretfully, he set the little remainder of his cigarette in a crack in the cement and hoped it wouldn’t be burned out by the time he got done dealing with these folks. He still had a few good lungfuls of acrid, nicotine-laced smoke that he could coax from it.

  The sedan drew closer and they could see that there were three people in the car. It was quickly out of sight underneath them and they could hear the faint squeal of the tires as it took the corners just a little too quick and rose up the levels. The growling of the engine grew louder and louder until it finally crested that top level.

  Trevor and Roc stepped out, brandishing their weapons at the car, and it slowed down to a stop on the other side of the parking deck from them. Through the reflective surface of the glass, they could barely make out the three faces staring at them.

  A little thrill worked its way up Trevor’s spine.

  Maybe he would get to shoot them, and then maybe he could cut them up.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Roc yelled at them.

  No response but the engine idling.

  Trevor and Roc exchanged a suspicious glance.

  This was exciting!

  When it was clear that the occupants of the vehicle were not going to continue forward, Trevor and Roc began to approach. Though they were approaching from the front, neither of them were dumb enough to walk directly in the path of the vehicle. They both walked in line with the sides of the vehicle—Roc on the driver’s side and Trevor on the passenger’s side—so that they could dive out of the way if the crazy bastard inside decided to run them over.