Redaction: The Meltdown Part II

by Andrews, Linda

  Burying his nose inside the crook of his arm, he kept hold of the back cover and flicked his wrist. The pages fanned open with a soft purring sound but the fifty didn’t come free. Gritting his teeth, he shook the cover harder. The bill fluttered loose. He swiped the air to catch it, but a gust blew it out of reach.

  “Shit.” Forgetting the stink, he lunged for it. Small branches smacked him in the face. Thorns raked his skin. Flannel ripped and trails of fire burned his exposed skin.

  The fifty dollar bill danced out of reach before wrapping around a branch. The edges flapped like a trapped bird.

  He had it now. Lifting a bough, he ducked under it then raised his foot. His boot hovered inches about the trough that served as a toilet. For a seat, two planks of wood balanced on four rocks over the ditch. Tufts of white clung to an empty cardboard roll. What the hell? Resuming course, he sidestepped around the fecal pit.

  His fingers skimmed the surface of the bill just as the wind freed it and shoved it through the branches. God damn it! If that stupid cow hadn’t hovered around him, he wouldn’t be here now. He reached for another branch.

  “Thank you, Jesus!”

  Trent stilled at the deep baritone. A dark shadow moved beyond the green needles and branches. He wasn’t alone.

  “I always wanted to be rich enough to wipe my ass with a Benjamin.”

  He blinked. Son of a bitch! That was his money. His. He knew someone would steal it. Pushing through the foliage, he drew up short.

  A six-and-a-half-foot tall black soldier tugged on the drawstring of his trousers. He released them to grab for the M-4 leaning against a tree.

  Trent threw up his hands, dropping the Bible.

  “Sorry, Reverend.” The soldier finished knotting his drawers and his pants climbed a little higher on his lean hips. “After the firefight, you should be more careful approaching folks.”

  “Of course. Of course.” He checked the man’s hands. Where was his money? Did he put it in his pocket? He should report the man for stealing and have him punished.

  “Is the other head taken?” The soldier wiped the dust from the rifle’s stock then cradled it in his arms.

  You prick! You’ve taken my money. “What?”

  “The other john, is someone using it? I thought I heard them, but…” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the wall of greenery behind Trent’s back.

  Fuck! What was with the interrogation? He wasn’t the thief here. “It lacked…”

  Basic sanitary conditions.

  “Ah.” The soldier raised his chin. “We’re out of toilet paper here, too.” He took a step forward and the space between them disappeared. “You should appreciate this, Reverend. I was just sitting on the throne thinking how I was gonna wipe my ass…sets when like a gift from God, here comes a Benjamin.”

  His nails bit into the Bible. “What did you do?” With my money.

  “Used it as toilet paper, of course.” He chuckled, flashing oversized white teeth. “It’s pretty much the only thing it’s good for these days.”

  His mouth dropped open and the fetid taste of waste flooded his mouth. He covered his gagging with a cough. If the loser in front of him could take the smell, he could hardly do any less.

  “Thought you would like it.” Balancing his rifle in one arm, he opened his right thigh pocket. Velcro screamed apart. A white square shone brightly against his dark fingers. “Here you go, Reverend.”

  Trent held up his hand. Plastic scratched his palm as his fingers curled over it. He didn’t want any damn toilet paper; he wanted his money back.

  The soldier cocked his head. “Best get about your business. We’re moving out.”

  With that, he left.

  What the hell was with these losers telling him what to do? Protecting his nose, he covered it with the crook of his arm then shuffled to the trench. The neatly folded bill crested a mound of brown. He punched the nearest branch. Pain flared up his arm. Perhaps he should leave it behind. No! No, that was his! He was sick and tired of being deprived of his due.

  With a kick, he shoved the seat aside. It landed with a loud thud and straddled the trench.

  “Did you hear that?”

  He jerked his head up at the sound. A woman’s voice. No, a girl’s voice.

  “I hear a lot of things,” another replied. This one was young as well and familiar. “Now, hurry up. I have to pee.”

  How did he know the voice? She didn’t sound sick, so he doubted he’d tended her.

  “Oh, this is so gross.” A zipper growled then a stream of water splashed.

  Trent stared at the hanging branches separating them. Should he take a peek? He stood up.

  “Here,” the familiar voice repeated. “At least we have toilet paper.”

  Cold sweat misted his skin. No. It couldn’t be. He shook his head. That Goth Lolita had been left behind in the burning city. She couldn’t be here. Not now. She would ruin everything!

  “My turn.”

  His thighs twitched, then the trembling seized him. Don’t panic. He had to plan. The little cock-tease would probably accuse him of trying to rape her once she saw him. Her kind always pleaded innocent. Good Lord! What if she still had the gun?

  “Ahhhh, that’s a relief.” Goth Lolita sighed. Fabric swished then leaves rustled.

  “Come on. I want to ride with Manny and Wheelchair Henry. I need a rest from nursing the sick.”

  The tree swayed and the silhouettes moved. “I know what you mean. I could use a nap but you heard the Doc. More survivors are on the way. They’ll need us.”

  Trent’s heart slammed against his chest. Goth Lolita was tending the sick. How had he avoided her until now? He locked his muscles, controlling shakes. Calm down. I don’t know that is Goth Lolita.

  But there was one way to find out.

  With one last glance at the trench, he used the Bible to beat back the branches and rounded the tree. Two girls in teeshirts and jeans picked a path across the wash. He ignored the blond and focused on the one with red roots shining through her coal black hair. That was the same.

  She turned to say something to her friend. A purple bruise marred her high cheek bone and a red slash marked her pale neck. His knees nearly buckled. It was Goth Lolita! He should have cut her throat when he’d had the chance.

  He mentally pulled himself together. It was time to stop letting bitches ruin his life. He’d have to take care of her. A truck rumbled to a stop on the makeshift road in the wash, blocking his view of the girls.

  The oversized black soldier waved his arm. “Hop on board, Reverend.”

  “Thanks.” Clutching the Bible, he loped to the truck. Instead of the stupid cow, the girl would be the first casualty of the camp rapes. But how was he to achieve it?

  Hands reached down to help him up.

  He slammed his shin against the bumper but didn’t care. A plan. He needed a plan.

  “Ah, Reverend.” A man stared at him from behind a face mask. He recognized the doctor, but the blood staining his teeshirt was new. “Mrs. Harmon is requesting prayers.”

  He nodded. Fuck prayers. Why couldn’t the dying just die? Why did they have to make such a fuss? He needed to focus on his plan, not on some loser who was of no use to him.

  A gloved hand closed around his upper arm as he made his way to the back. “A bullet lodged in her spine, paralyzing her and I’m sure she has internal bleeding. She doesn’t have long.”

  “I understand.” Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! He’d have to stay at her side until the bitch croaked. What if they stopped before he could plan? What if Goth Lolita climbed on board to help?

  The doctor returned to stitching up a teenage boy’s arm.

  The light dimmed the farther he traveled toward the front. Finally, he reached the area closest to the cab. An upside down bucket had been placed next to the bottom cot. He balanced on the round seat. “Mrs. Harmon?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” She didn’t turn her head but tears leaked from her eyes. She smelled of iodine an
d a saline bag swayed from the bottom of the bunk above hers. “Thank God you’ve come, Reverend.”

  Yak. Yak. Yak. Did women ever shut up? Well this one wouldn’t sabotage his plan. He set the Bible next to her on the bed then clasped her cold hand. “They tell me that you can’t move your legs or arms.”

  “No. The bullet…” Her lower lip trembled. “I’m worried.”

  “Don’t worry.” He glanced over his shoulder. The medical team was busy up front. The patients in the bunks around them appeared to be sleeping and the ones above couldn’t see him in the narrow space. This could work to his advantage. “It’ll be over soon.”

  Smiling, he leaned over her and set his hand over her nose and mouth. Her teeth rasped his palm.

  “No biting.” He dug his fingers into her cheeks, felt the slip of molars under his pads.

  Her eyes widened in fear and panic. She tried to twist away but couldn’t move. Perfect. She mewled loudly. He glanced around. No one paid them the slightest attention. Her next one was softer. The third barely a sigh.

  “You’re going to Hell. You and every woman deserves it.” Slowly, ever so slowly the life drained from her eyes.

  He removed his hand, stared at it. Where was the rush of power? The thrill? He wiggled his fingers. This had been particularly unsatisfying. Why would that be?

  The violence?

  Perhaps. He’d have to test his theory on Goth Lolita.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pressed against the brick pillar of the gas station, Papa Rose peered into the streaming rain and raised his Glock, aiming it beyond the traffic jam of abandoned cars. The hair on the back of his neck brushed his collar. God, he hated Urban warfare. “So many fucking places to hide.”

  “Amen brother.” Legs bent, Falcon crept to the other island. The Sig-Sauer became a lethal extension of his black hands and low storm clouds camouflaged his whip-cord body until his position was identified only by his yellow bandanna.

  Damn. Did they teach that spooky shit in Special Ops?

  “What do I do?” Brainiac’s high pitched voice whispered through the earpiece. “You want me to take point?”

  “Fuck no!” Taking his eyes off the street, Papa glanced at the cab of the tanker. “You drink saltwater lately?” The windows remained clear of little Toby, but the preteen Jillie should be standing right next to the squid.

  Falcon darted for the forward pillar. “Where’s the munchkin?”

  Heart hammering against his ribs, he followed Falcon’s lead. Rain bounced off the concrete pad and ran in dark rivulets toward the street. Discarded paper and dead leaves swirled in the gutter. “I put him in the cab.”

  To keep him safe from the storm.

  And now the preschooler would be unprotected.

  “Please!” the woman called out again. “Someone help me.”

  Falcon’s eyes narrowed. “Brainiac, you and Jillie fall back to the generator room.”

  “Understood.”

  Jillie’s indecipherable voice drifted through the com, then hinges squeaked.

  “We’re in,” Brainiac whispered. “I can see the cab door from my position.”

  “Please, it’s my mom! Someone? Anyone?”

  Mom. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He reset the age of the voice, dropping it to early teens. Probably not much older than Jillie. The perfect bait.

  Falcon hunkered down and raced for the side of a blue SUV.

  Holding his breath, Papa Rose darted toward a red Ford pick-up. Wind drove the downpour into his bald scalp and quickly saturated his shirt. The cold needled his ears.

  “You do know it’s probably a trap,” Brainiac rasped, his breathing shallow. “Probably how they lured all these people here.”

  Was this the kid’s first time in combat? Surely life aboard a submarine couldn’t be that protected. Of course it was. The squid probably earned a purple heart from a splinter he got while mopping the deck.

  “Get a hold of your breathing, B, or you’re going to hyperventilate.” Falcon rolled his eyes before slipping between the hood of the SUV and the trunk of a sedan.

  “I should be out there. Fighting.”

  What kind of idiot wanted combat? Papa Rose scooted between the bumpers of two trucks. The license plate snagged his jeans. Fabric ripped. Damn, did they have to park them so close?

  “Stowe your periscope, B.” He stepped into the path between the rows of vehicles.

  Falcon crouched by the driver’s side door, two cars ahead. The ex-Green Beret glanced over his shoulder and mouthed Papa Rose’s last statement.

  He shrugged. It sound properly Navy-ish. Besides, what did the Navy really do besides paddle their boats? “We’re here to protect you. Your mission is to delay the blossoming of the mushroom clouds.”

  “Stay put.” Falcon darted another two cars up then stopped. “No matter what happens to us, you are to maintain your position until it is all clear to proceed. Understand?”

  “Aye, Sir.” Brainiac sighed.

  He moved forward, keeping two vehicles between his position and Falcon’s. Rain plastered his shirt to his back and trickled down his spine to saturate his underwear. If this was a trick, he’d shoot the bad guys twice for picking a fight in a damn cloud-burst.

  “Hello?” A roll of thunder swallowed the girl’s call.

  Rain drummed on metal. Fucking storm. How were they supposed to get a fix on the girl?

  Falcon set one knee on the ground and turned his head from side to side. After a brief pause at four o’clock, he pointed in the same direction.

  What the hell? Did the military implant radar in his head when he got the special hat? Shielding his gun from the elements, he waited.

  “Is anyone there?” A rock bounced off the car between them.

  Then he heard it. Squishy footfalls heading this way. Damn but he hated it when Falcon was right. Drawing up tight in the wheel well, he waited. Lines of rain. Light fractals intermittently shattering the gloom. Water snaking down his cheeks. Time counted down to the encounter.

  “Please. Please.” The mantra followed the beat of steps. Closer now. So close.

  Falcon tucked his gun against the small of his back.

  Papa Rose traced the curve of the trigger guard. The kid wouldn’t be the threat. If there was one, it would be farther out, watching, waiting. The kid would probably be disposable. It was a hell of a world.

  God, please let him off it soon.

  Falcon launched off the pavement and collided with a cherry red form.

  “Ahh!” she shrieked

  Twisting in midair, he landed on his back with the girl on his stomach.

  Her legs flailed. Soggy, black-bottom socks slouched down over her pink heels. He must have knocked the wind from her as she didn’t say a word.

  Christ Jesus! Twice in one day, they’d attacked children. Papa Rose closed the distance between them, aiming at the ground.

  “Shh.” Falcon cupped his hand over the girl’s mouth. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

  Brown eyes stared up at him. Black ropes of hair rolled off her shoulders. Tiny brown hands tugged at the arms constricting her. Geez, what was she ten, eleven?

  “You’re okay.” He kept his Glock out of her range of sight. “We’re soldiers.”

  Her body went limp. Heels rested on the ground. Her elbows dropped to her stomach, and her eyes closed.

  The magic words. How long until the assholes figured it out and the word conjured up fear instead?

  In the valley between cars, Falcon sat up, taking the girl with him. “I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth, but you can’t scream, okay?”

  Her hands released his arm to drop in her lap. Rain coursed down her red slicker and slid off her indigo jeans. She turned her face up to look at Falcon.

  Poor thing. No doubt, she’s scared witless. He touched her chin, drawing her attention. “No screaming. Got it?”

  She nodded.

  A moment later, Falcon’
s hand hovered inches from her mouth.

  No screaming. They were off to a good start. Papa Rose inched closer. “What’s your name?”

  Falcon rolled his eyes.

  Yeah, the guy might be drilled in interrogation techniques, but Papa Rose had experience talking to kids. And scaring the pants off them was hardly the way to get them to talk. “Name?”

  The girl slid her slicker over her knees until she was a red ball. “O—Olivia.”

  “Hello, Olivia. I’m Papa Rose. That ugly guy behind you is Falcon.” He quickly positioned the gun behind his knees. “Isn’t Falcon a stupid name?”

  She covered her mouth with her hand and nodded.

  “At least, I’m not named after a flower,” Falcon growled. “Doesn’t he look more like a weed than a rose?”

  Olivia’s eyes scrunched up as she giggled.

  Papa Rose smiled. Now that he’d gotten all friendly… “Are you supposed to be meeting someone here?”

  She nodded and wrapped her arms around her shins. “Our neighbors. Mama was too slow so they went ahead to get us a place with someone leaving.”

  He blinked away the rain. A slow mama might have saved their lives. If it was true. A big if. “Is your mother sick? Is that why you need help?”

  Her pointed chin rose a notch. “She’s getting better. She didn’t get the Redaction the first time around, so it’s just making up for it now.”

  Hell, someone hadn’t gotten the Redaction. What were the odds? He shook off the thoughts. Now was not the time. He’d pencil it in next to never. Right now, he needed to find out what kind of threat she and her ‘mother’ posed. “Anyone else traveling with you and your mother?”

  Olivia stiffened.

  Falcon set his hands on his thighs, not touching her but close enough to grab her if need be. “A little brother or sister, perhaps?”

  She scrubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. “They died. Yesterday. I tried to take care of ‘em, cuz Mama was feeling bad but…”