People began pushing them out of the way from behind and the corporal’s eyes moved on to someone else.
Skull yanked his knife from the small of his back and slammed it down through Anson’s right hand and into the makeshift barrier on which it rested.
Anson screamed and tried to pull his hand back, but only succeeded in widening the cut. The boy’s cries rose and space opened up around them as the crowd moved away from the dangerous man stabbing people.
The corporal’s eyes widened as Skull pulled the knife free, and then grabbed Anson’s right wrist. He held the hand up so everyone could see the bleeding slow, stop, and the palm begin healing before their eyes. “He’s got the stuff, all right. Let him in.”
Some in the crowd gasped, as if they witnessed a miracle before their very eyes. Some did fall to their knees. The corporal seemed terrified and took several steps backward until his butt hit a large wooden crate.
“Let me see that,” said an authoritative voice.
Skull looked up to see a man in a white lab coat from the tent making his way to them. He didn’t seem unnerved. Grasping the boy’s hand from Skull, he peered at it closely and muttered, “Remarkable. This one’s healing rate is far above normal.”
“Good genes, I guess,” said Skull. “Can he get in?”
The doctor seemed to notice the tall thin man standing beside him for the first time. Glancing from Skull to the boy to the corporal, he asked. “You too?”
“Not me,” said Skull.
The doctor looked around as if considering before telling the corporal, “Give him a refugee number and send him to the inprocessing center.”
“Sure, Doc,” answered the corporal. He moved the barricade aside, but stood as far from Skull as he possibly could.
Anson held out his hand with the wound that had already closed. He looked from the soldier to Skull in amazement.
“Find your family,” Skull told him. “That’s the only thing that matters. You got me, boy?”
Anson nodded and allowed himself to be ushered forward out of sight.
Skull turned to walk back the way he had come, feeling oddly lighter. That’s because I don’t have him dragging me down, he told himself. Nothing more. The tight crowd parted like the Red Sea before him, people staring at him like a demon, a holy man, or both.
Chapter 23
It didn’t take long for Skull to get tired of walking. The day after leaving the Texas border, he saw a lone soldier on an Army off-road motorcycle and ran out into the road, waving his hands for the man to stop. The soldier tried to swerve around him, but Skull stepped in front of him again, nearly causing the man to turn the bike over.
Once stopped, the soldier pulled his goggles off and threw his helmet to the ground in anger before screaming at Skull, “You could have gotten me killed, you stupid—”
Skull backhanded him in the face with a closed fist containing the hilt of his knife. The soldier fell back on his butt and then lay sprawled on the pavement, unconscious. Checking the road to make sure it was clear, Skull stripped the man of his uniform, and then took off his own clothes, putting them in his pack and reassembling the M4. He then put on the uniform, which was too short and too big around the middle, but would pass at a distance. The regulation military boots were far too small, so Skull kept his own. Hopefully no one would look too closely.
Dragging the soldier to the side of the road, Skull rolled him down into the nearby ditch. He slung the rifle across his chest, put his pack on his back, and donned the helmet and goggles. Mounting the still-running motorcycle, he eased forward, and then turned the bike loose.
It felt good just to go fast with the wind in his face. At first it didn’t matter where he went as long as it was generally eastward, but after a few hours he realized he needed to plan his next few moves. After consulting his map, Skull decided to continue back to Calhoun County to recover his cached gear before continuing on. He could probably do without all of it, but he found he couldn’t bear to just walk away from his Barrett. Besides, some of the other stuff would be hard to replace and might come in handy.
The motorcycle and the uniform allowed him to blow by other military convoys and slip through checkpoints. Only once did he need to talk to anyone, and it was a brief, friendly exchange.
Refugees still streamed in the opposite direction, but fewer the farther Skull got from the Texas-Arkansas border. Those he did see would not meet his eyes, looking terrified of him.
Signs of violence abounded. Burned houses, shallow graves, dead bodies. Graffiti proclaimed both death to the Edens and down with the oppressors. Tendrils of smoke rose into the sky in every direction he looked, serving to mark devastated settlements or homes.
Skull had read a book years before on the Thirty Year’s War in central Europe in the early 1600s. Multiple armies and masses of unemployed mercenaries-turned-brigands ruled the landscape for decades. The description of the horror, devastation and lawlessness had stuck with him. Contemporary historians had claimed that a whole generation of Germans in the war-torn region had never tasted meat other than from human corpses.
The landscape in front of Skull was nowhere close to being that bad yet, but he could see it trending that way. He suspected the various dynamics might even come to resemble each other soon with armed factions fighting originally for idealistic causes, yet eventually breaking down into criminals, murderers, and thieves. The period following the Civil War had been like that as well in some places, with groups of defiant Southern troops declining to lay down arms and instead heading west to form bandit gangs.
Americans take so much for granted, Skull thought. They believed that it was their right to constant contentment and increasing levels of extravagant luxury that they often mislabeled poverty. Skull had seen much of the world dealing with real starvation and brutal tribal wars, so he knew better. America was a dream for most, a rare bright shining light in a field of dark history like few others before it.
Now it rotted from within, falling apart.
He wanted to blame it on Markis, but was honest enough to know that he had only given a push to an already teetering, divided house of water-stained cards. The stumbling had come because of the grasping, selfish and failed “leadership” of the many special interests, everyone trying to protect their turf but none able to unite the fractured power structures. Now, the Unionists were increasingly filling the void and creating a common hatred against Edens exactly as the Nazis had used fear of the Jews to unify Germany.
The real question now was what would happen next. Rome had been a brilliant beacon of civilization for a millennium, but when it fell Europe entered a dark age filled with brutality and ignorance that lasted nearly a thousand years. Would the same happen here? Or would America somehow rise to regain her former place as Germany had managed in the late twentieth century?
Enough woolgathering, he told himself. Focus on the here and now. What you can control. Keep your eyes on the prize, what you’ve neglected too long.
INS Inc.
He had to stop several times to siphon gasoline from abandoned vehicles. Food was becoming a constant concern, but Skull had always been thin and had long ago learned to ignore hunger, thirst, and pain when necessary. At least he wasn’t an Eden; that would have made the hunger impossible, a killing gift.
Skull imagined what was happening in countries around the world where famine and malnutrition were already a problem. Throw in the Eden virus and you might have a catastrophe. Millions of suddenly healthy people immune from disease and sickness with super-high metabolisms all with the munchies at exactly the same time and not enough to go around. That was the sort of conundrum that Skull imagined could even drive Edens to war.
He wondered whether the reduction in corruption brought on by the Plague’s virtue effect could counter the increased demand for food. He’d read often that the world produced plenty of food. Distribution was the problem, with corrupt government or no government at all making it impossible to
bring supplies to the starving.
After several days he made it back to Calhoun County and found his way to his former team’s cached gear. It had not been disturbed, so he assumed they were all dead. Skull picked through the food in the other men’s gear, preparing a feast with what he knew he couldn’t carry with him. He also selected the best of the remaining equipment and any ammunition that fit the calibers he was carrying. After he had consolidated, Skull’s pack was full, along with two others now strapped to the handlebars and rear of the motorcycle. Finally, he felt suitably prepared for the road ahead.
Skull made his way back through the county he had become so familiar with during patrols as “Deputy Winslow.” Going around all the small settlements, he’d made it nearly out of town and across the county’s eastern border when he passed a sheriff’s patrol car going the opposite direction. The man in the driver’s seat was unmistakable.
Wallace.
Skull looked in the motorcycle’s rearview mirror and saw the brake light come on. Before the cruiser even came to a complete stop, it began the complicated maneuver of turning around on the narrow road framed by steep ditches. Once the front of the vehicle faced east, the red and blue lights on top came on and the cruiser’s engine screamed as it revved high.
I could outrun him fairly easily, Skull thought. No reason to stop.
Then he slowed and pulled off the side of the road. Concealing the motion, he eased the Glock out of its hiding place and slid it into his pocket, handy.
Wallace’s cruiser stopped beside him. A new deputy Skull didn’t know sat in the passenger seat.
“Hey there, partner,” Skull said. “I bet you didn’t miss me half as bad as I missed you. Who’s the new guy?”
“I’m George,” said the man with a smile.
“Where have you been?” Wallace snarled. “The boss has been getting calls nearly every day asking where Evans is.”
Skull shrugged. “He’s still there as far as I know. On the news they make it sound like the job is done, but there’s still tons of cleanup operations. Could take a while.”
Wallace looked at the Army motorcycle. “Why are you in that uniform? More importantly, why are you headed east out of the county?”
“I’m on another special mission,” Skull said.
“What kind of mission?” asked the new guy.
“George, I’m glad you asked, my new BFF,” said Skull with mock sincerity. “I was just about to tell you all about it, but then I remembered it was none of your damn business.”
“Is that what you’re going to tell the boss?” Wallace asked.
Skull shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on telling him anything. Evans gave me a message for the Eastern Region FEMA Director. I’m supposed to take it to Memphis directly and not stop for anything.”
“What does the message say?” Wallace asked.
“I have no idea,” Skull answered. “It’s sealed and needs to stay that way until I hand it over.”
“It’s funny anyone uses letters and messages anymore,” said George. “You’d think he would use a secure call or email.”
Wallace looked at George in surprise. “That is a good point.” He turned back to Skull. “Why wouldn’t he just do something like that?”
“Phone lines and internet are more than a little dicey right now,” said Skull.
“But there’s a lot of military down there,” said George. “Why couldn’t they just use some of the military secure comms?”
“Yeah,” said Wallace. “Why not use the military comms?”
“The military happens to be a little busy right now,” said Skull, “and the relationship between them and...you know what? Fuck it. This shit is getting old.”
Skull pulled his Glock and shot Wallace twice in the chest. He then leaned down and shot a surprised George twice in the torso. Wallace went limp, but George scrabbled for his sidearm, his face twisted in terror, and Skull realized the rookie wore a protective vest. Skull shifted his aim to George’s head and shot him once, then once more to make sure. “Sorry, George. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong partner.”
Then he put one more round into Wallace for good measure.
Leaning in the windows, Skull pulled out both of their wallets. Taking out all the cash with his gloved hands, he stuffed it in his front pocket and then dropped the billfolds on the ground. Then he disabled the dash-cam and ripped out its hard drive, stomping it to bits on the pavement.
“So long, scumbag,” Skull said to Wallace’s corpse as he stepped back away from the cruiser’s interior. He revved the bike and shot forward.
Chapter 24
At the Mississippi River, it pained Skull to have to abandon the motorcycle, but he’d spotted checkpoints with soldiers on all three bridges he reconned. He might have been able to talk himself through with the uniform and bike, but he decided against the risk.
Skull hid the bike and uniform in the tall grass of a field gone fallow and carefully made his way to an isolated bend in the river several miles south of the I-40 bridge near Memphis. Stepping through thick underbrush hiding clinging mud and water moccasins, he found an area where he hoped to be able to cross at night.
While waiting for the sun to set, Skull placed all his weapons, sensitive gear, identification and electronics in a large waterproof bag with his clothes, packs, and sleeping bag. That made it heavy, but he blew air inside and sealed it to help with buoyancy. Next he found a few small logs that floated and tied them together into a raft. After that, he strapped his pack and all his gear securely on top.
Sitting and watching the currents for a time, he found the water deceptively calm and slow moving, but he sensed great power. In at least two spots he could see dangerous eddies and straight out in front of him a whole tree that had been uprooted and washed downriver had gotten stuck in the soft riverbed. Thankfully the water temperature remained fairly mild, so he felt no danger of hypothermia.
Drowning concerned him, though, and the huge barges that plied the river. If he got caught in the wake of any of these, it would all be over despite the fact Skull was a strong swimmer. Watching the river carefully, he marked a steady flow of barges going north carrying loads of fuel and finished goods. The ones traveling south were filled with coal or grain.
After a few hours, Skull was able to detect a pattern. Whether the barges were going north or south, they liked to keep at least half a mile between them. There seemed to be no correlation between the southern barges and the line of northern barges. That would make it tricky.
Maybe I should just look for a boat, he thought.
A boat might seem convenient, but river folk were notoriously protective of their watercraft. A boat also drew more attention to a man by himself. Despite the physical risks, swimming across seemed the best option.
Almost dark now, Skull took off the rest of his clothes and stowed them in his waterproof bag. He then tied a six-foot length of cord to the bottom of the raft he’d made and the other end to his wrist. If he lost his grip, he wanted to be able to find the raft in the dark. Speaking of finding...he needed a landmark on the other side of the river. It would be easy to get confused and turned around in the dark. There were several lights on the far bank, but Skull wanted something distinctive and to the south since he knew the river’s current would carry him a good distance.
There it is, he thought seeing two white lights side by side with a smaller greenish light just below them. After watching for a few minutes to make sure none of them were car lights or something that might move, he was satisfied.
Now came the matter of timing. There was a barge pushing upriver almost directly across from him and one traveling downriver about a quarter of a mile to his left. He would have to time the crossing perfectly to give himself the best chance.
After four hours, he had thought the perfect window wouldn’t arrive, but then it happened. A barge going downriver passed him just as another going upriver lined up with him and the other barge. Now both headed away from him
, opening an ever-widening gap. Knowing how long it might be before another such opportunity, Skull waded out into the tepid water, pulling the raft behind him.
He swam strongly, directly south behind the barge. There was a large eddy near the center of the river he had to reach to the south before he could continue across the river. Skull used the wake of the barge to pull him along while gradually working out toward the middle of the river, staying far from the propellers.
Finding the two white lights and the green light on the opposite bank, Skull saw he had already gone farther down the river than he had expected and began swimming directly across the brown water toward the lights.
He hadn’t counted on the raft hindering his progress. It would have served as a simple helpful flotation device had he been drifting easily down the river, but he needed to travel perpendicular to the current and the raft acted like a sea anchor dragging him downstream. Alternating swimming hard and easily, he gradually made his way out to the center of the river where he could just barely see the three lights.
The forlorn sound of a horn echoed across the river from Skull’s right. He looked in that direction and could just make out the nose of a northbound barge. He would have to swim hard to get across in front of it. Skull didn’t want to get caught in the middle waiting for another window. There was no telling how far south he would drift in that amount of time. After taking several deep breaths, he began to swim powerfully and steadily.
Marine Recon were typically divided into Scout Snipers or Scout Swimmers. Most Scout Swimmers were recon guys who failed the psych testing for snipers, and most Scout Snipers couldn’t swim very well. Skull was one of the few who could have been very effective in either field, but he liked being a sniper better than infiltrating into enemy territory through the water. Even so, he had spent a significant amount of time swimming during Marine Recon training and live missions in a wide variety of conditions. Day and night. In open sea and in fresh water. With equipment and without. Naked and clothed. Exhausted and fresh.
Skull's Shadows (Plague Wars Series) Page 15