by Joshua Guess
The van had barely stopped when Mason and Kell took their packs and explained to a confused Rob why they were stealing his motorcycle.
“Chances are some of them are still around,” Mason said as he explained his plan. “One advantage is that we'll be loud and slow since that bike will be carrying a lot of weight. It'll draw them to us. We'll need that since we have no way of knowing which direction they'll be going when they leave.”
“What if they don't come for you?” Lee asked.
“Then we'll come back here in a few hours,” Mason said. “You should probably stay hidden until morning, just to be safe. I can't imagine these people are stationed anywhere nearby, but I doubt they'd travel more than a few hundred miles to bring in test subjects.”
And so they found themselves in the strange position of needing to move slow enough to be seen as an easy target without making it obvious they wanted to be caught. Kell couldn't help feeling more than a little silly at how they must look: two very large men on a motorcycle straining beneath them, packs hanging on the sides like saddlebags. Kell had never been comfortable on bikes of any kind, and kept his free hand tightly laced into the empty weapon loops on Mason's jacket.
“This was a bad idea,” Kell said as he tried not to look at the cracked pavement so close to him. “Motorcycles are the worst.” Having to yell to be heard was a small but very real part of why they were terrible, if you asked him.
“Are you kidding?” Mason shouted back over his shoulder. “Feel that wind, man. Almost makes me want to do a Kate Winslet from Titanic and spread my arms out.”
“If you let go of those handlebars I will fucking end you,” Kell threatened. Mason laughed.
They reached the edge of town in a depressingly short period of time. Trenton was invisible in the distance, with too many walls and buildings in between to allow even a glimpse of the place. Kell thought they would have to turn back in order to give their hunters time to find them, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind...
Horns blared in the distance. They were a far cry from the deep, chest-rattling bellow of ancient hunting horns. The feeble beep of car horns had a certain thematic appropriateness to it; like the world around them, they were just poor shadows of what had come before.
“Follow my lead,” Mason shouted over his shoulder, then brought the bike to a halt. “I'll do the talking; you just pretend to be scared and suspicious of them when they get close.”
“I am scared and suspicious of them,” Kell pointed out.
Mason laughed. “Good. You won't have any trouble convincing them, then.”
Kell was tense but ready in case their pursuers decided to fight first and ask questions later, but the change that came over Mason was nearly magical. One second he was himself, all confident bearing and with the fearless stance of the truly capable. The next he...melted. It was the way Kell saw it. The strength went out of Mason's posture, the readiness to fight draining from his limbs. A dozen pieces of body language changed as one. The man positively radiated weakness. Lethargy. A profound desire to just be done with the fight.
It was so effective that, had he not known Mason, he would have bought the act outright.
“Wow,” Kell said. Mason merely sighed in response, a defeated sound.
Three large and surprisingly shiny SUVs rolled to a stop about forty feet away. They could have been pulled from any police procedural where the FBI made an appearance. They were uniformly black, windows tinted opaque and unmodified by armor or external weaponry.
The lead vehicle's doors all opened together, disgorging four men who were as ragged and unkempt as their vehicles were neat and clean. They had the look of seasoned survivors from the soles of their oft-repaired boots to the armored gorgets around their necks to protect from zombie bites.
Mason raised his hands, putting them behind his head. “We surrender,” he said, voice cracking at the edges.
Kell did as he was asked and followed suit, lowering himself to the ground in the least threatening way he could manage.
The driver of the lead vehicle walked forward as his men covered him with assault rifles. Kell watched as the man sized them up, quick and efficient.
“You're two of Victor's half-dead?” he asked, eyes lingering on Mason's scars.
Kell nodded. The man smiled.
“Good. You should know he sold you out. You'll be safer with us, anyway.”
Seventeen
They were searched, though not as thoroughly as Kell would have expected. No one bothered to dig around inside his sling, for example, leaving him in possession of both his knife and garrote. He briefly hesitated when trying to decide whether to volunteer the weapons and save himself eventual punishment when they were discovered, then gave an internal shrug.
Fuck that. If he was going to take a beating for hiding weapons, he wanted to have earned it.
Their gear was stowed in the back of the SUV they were thrown in. Mason was chained prisoner-style, heavy bracelets linked to equally heavy shackles around his ankles. Kell was only shackled, a show of mercy he hadn't expected. Not that having a free hand would be especially helpful; the SUV they were loaded into was extensively modified on the inside to prevent escape.
The seats behind them were filled with two other captives from Trenton, while Mason and Kell sat just behind the driver and front passenger behind a thick wire screen. Kell was too wired; too amped up on fear from what he now understood was a completely insane idea, to even manage to sit still. Mason, on the other hand, had fallen asleep within a few minutes.
Kell sighed.
They traveled east for a long time. They weren't roads Kell knew personally, but he tracked their progress as best he could anyway. His brain cataloged information in an expanding map to make sure he could get them home again if possible. The way was surprisingly clear, both of obstructions and of zombies. Whoever his captors were, it was obvious they had expended a lot of effort making this trip go as smoothly as possible.
“How'd you hurt your arm?” asked the guard in the passenger seat, nearly causing Kell to jump in his seat.
“Sorry?” Kell asked.
The guard turned in his seat and gestured at Kell. “Your arm, I said. How'd you hurt it?”
“Uh, I tackled somebody off a motorcycle,” he said truthfully.
The guard's eyebrows rose. “Yeah? That how you ended up dying, too?”
“Y-yeah,” Kell said, hoping his stutter came across as nerves rather than fear from having to lie on the spot. “Broke a couple ribs and the shock of the fall stopped my heart, or so they told me.”
The guard shook his head. “Goddamn. Why were you knocking someone off a bike in the first place?”
Kell smirked. “Just trying to do the right thing, believe it or not.”
“Aren't we all, brother,” the guard said in an almost meditative voice. “Aren't we all.”
The conversation trailed off, the SUV falling into easy silence. Experience taught Kell many important lessons, one of which was that context was ideal. Essentially it meant that no matter what the larger circumstance, there were conditions that allowed for things like comfort and relaxation.
Kell had gotten himself captured, making him a prisoner. He was guarded by men who would not hesitate to shoot him if he appeared to be a threat. He had no guarantees of getting free and no solid evidence that he would be able to recover helpful information from his captivity.
All that being true, circumstances like the comfortable seat, the casual friendliness of the guards, and the endless rolling landscape outside made him relax. Adrenaline and fear were a booster rocket for human survival, but eventually you had to refuel.
As he had on countless childhood road trips, Kell fell asleep without realizing it was going to happen.
He woke up disoriented and in the dark. It only took a few seconds to register where he was and why he was there, but the initial confusion was strong. Only instinct kept him from saying something out loud.
The SUV had stopped. Doors were opening and prisoners being led out, Kell last among them. Sounds of crunching gravel and human voices filtered through the air. When Kell finally stepped out, he frowned at the building revealed in the moonlight. It seemed too small to be the sort of research facility he expected to find, and utterly without light or sound.
“We're camping here tonight,” one of the guards said. “We're going to have to lock you in, but at least you'll have your own beds.”
They were surprisingly professional about it, Kell thought. The guards led the prisoners—counting Kell and Mason, there were only five—into the building and turned on a battery-powered lantern. Inside were neat rows of bunk beds complete with covers and sheets. What looked like a bathroom sat at the far end.
A wire mesh gate divided the narrow entrance space from the majority of the room. Kell glanced at a nearby guard, the question on his face.
“It was a work camp,” the guard said. “Juvenile detention center. Safe as can be, don't worry about that. We'll have people watching for biters in shifts.”
“Oh, good,” Kell said, realizing as he did that he meant it. “Is it much farther from here? I never did like long car rides.”
The guard shook his head. “Can't really talk about that.” He turned and directed two other guards who were bringing supplies in.
Five minutes later, the prisoners were secured behind the mesh and stocked up with a ten gallon jug of water, a box of ration bars, and freedom from their restraints. The last guard looked back at them as he stepped through the door.
“We'll be on the roof,” he said. “If there's an emergency, just yell. Otherwise, get some sleep. We'll be heading out at first light.”
With that, he shut the door. As soon as the lock clicked, Mason was on his feet and moving in a silent prowl.
“What are you looking for?” Kell asked as Mason peered closely at the narrow slits that served as windows.
“Anything that might be useful,” Mason replied softly.
“Thanks,” Kell said. “Glad you weren't at all cryptic just then.”
One of the other prisoners, a black woman about Kell's age, sat on the bed opposite him. “What the hell are you guys doing?” she asked. “You're not from Trenton like the rest of us.”
“Oh, shit,” Kell breathed. “You guys didn't say anything to the guards, did you?”
The three prisoners shook their heads.
“Fuck those guys,” said one of the others, a young white man with an asymmetrical jawline radiating scars. “If they ask, I've known you for years. I'm not giving up anyone to the people who took us from our home.”
“Same here,” the last prisoner said. He was older—maybe even old, which was a rare state of being since The Fall—and tan enough to belong to any of a few dozen ethnic groups. Though those kinds of distinctions were less important when survival was the main concern, even less when being held captive.
“What are your names?” Kell asked. The old man went by Turner, and gave no indication whether it was a first or last name. The young man, little more than a kid, was Liam. The woman who still watched Kell with a measuring gaze, introduced herself as Steph.
“That's Mason,” Kell said. “My name is Kell.”
From across the room, Mason hissed. “Do you really think that's a good idea?”
Kell shot him a withering glare. “If we're going to make it through this, I'm not going to lie, Mason.”
“Lie about what?” Steph asked. “Who the hell are you?”
Kell sighed. “It's a really long story. What you need to know is that I'm the scientist who was visiting Trenton to see if you could help me with my research on a cure...”
He explained the situation to them as best he could. While Turner and Liam seemed surprised at the decision to get themselves caught, Steph was less impressed.
“You boys have a death wish,” she said.
“No,” Kell insisted. “I know it's insane, but if these people have been doing research then I need to get my eyes on it. To do that, they need to think I'm a test subject for as long as we can manage.” A thought struck him. “Wait...we took three of you from Trenton, and you three are here, but I haven't met you. There were only supposed to be six...”
“Yeah, about that,” Turner said, cutting in. “Victor fed you a lot of bullshit. There were more than a dozen of us, maybe more. He kept all of us separate. Most of us are from different communities, actually. Victor found us and did everything he could to make Trenton an attractive retirement spot.”
“No idea why, though,” Liam added.
Mason appeared and lowered himself onto the bed next to Kell. “Wow,” he said. “I think I owe Kincaid an apology. Victor totally had it coming.”
Steph leaned in. “Had it coming? Victor's dead?”
Kell nodded. “Leader of our group shot him.” He turned to Mason. “What are you thinking?”
Mason sighed and ran a hand over the stubble on his head. “Sounds like Victor was stocking up on half-life people,” he said, grimacing. “We really need a better name for them. Anyway, the only reason I can think of for why he'd try to gather them from other groups and keep them from interacting with the larger populace and each other...”
Steph frowned. “Is to make it easier for people to overlook us being gone. Jesus. He was going to trade us?”
Kell felt sick to his stomach. Horrific as it was, the facts fit in nice, straight lines.
“Yeah, looks that way,” Kell said. “Remind me to buy Kincaid a beer when we get home.”
“If we get home,” Mason said. “Unless they're taking us to a supermax prison, I'm pretty confident I'll be able to escape wherever we're going. I'm pretty sure I can get you out, too. But the farther we go, the harder it's going to be to make the trip home or bring backup.”
“I'll help,” Steph said. “Whatever you need.”
Kell was about to wave her off and explain that she didn't need to make such an open-ended offer for what would certainly be a dangerous situation, but Mason spoke up before Kell could even open his mouth.
“What's your skill set?” he asked. “If I'm going to plan, I need information.”
Before she could answer, Turner and Liam chimed in to offer their help as well. Mason grinned broadly as Kell mentally threw up his hands in defeat.
“I'll do anything I can to help,” Steph said. “As long as when this is all over you can promise us a safe place to live.”
Kell blinked. “You seem awfully sure we don't have bad intentions,” he said, playing devil's advocate.
She laughed, a light and pretty sound. “Man, you got yourselves caught just to see if you could help people.” She shook her head. “If I can't take that as a sign I can trust you, then I don't know what would do the trick.”
Eighteen
The next morning Kell's heart fell somewhat as he watched their guards refuel the vehicles from containers they removed from a locked storage building. The place had to be used on a regular basis, probably as a way station between abductions. That alone would have been enough to depress him—the thoughtful planning behind creating infrastructure to make kidnappings easier—but it wasn't the main reason.
He had hoped their trip might be nearly over, but the refueling crushed the thought flat. The economics of survival were simple but iron in that you didn't top off a vehicle with fuel if you weren't going to use most of it. It looked like a full day of driving, probably hundreds more miles.
Every mile meant less chance of getting home safely. Try as he might to get the nagging thought out of his head, it repeated in a ceaseless mantra.
They had been on the road for a few hours when the SUV braked suddenly, the seat belt across Kell's injured shoulder digging into him, pain lancing through him. He choked off a scream.
“You okay?” Mason asked from beside him. “Pop any stitches?”
Kell shook his head and felt the sudden sheen of sweat there move as he did. “No stitches left,” Kell cr
oaked. “Just hurts. What's going on?”
The sound of doors opening caught their attention. Kell ducked his head to get a better look out the windows and saw four of the guards striding toward the front of the caravan with purpose. The angle wasn't the best for Kell, tall as he was, but with a little wiggling he managed to get a decent look.
It became clear immediately why they had stopped; there was a small herd of zombies in the road. In itself that wasn't surprising. Kell found himself wondering why it hadn't happened already. Maybe these men, whoever they were, kept a dedicated force of workers to clear roads and draw swarms away. Lots of survivors did, since it was the only way to ensure regular trade.
“No guns,” Kell said in a low voice.
Mason nodded without looking away. “I want to see this...”
The guards moved with confidence but with no trace of cockiness. Their motions were practiced and sure, but no less cautious than Kell or anyone back home would have been. The four men worked in unison, staying close enough to guard each other but with enough space between to use their weapons without hitting their friends.
Each wielded a piece of black metal about a foot and a half long, sharpened to a point at the business end. The weapons must have been kept in reserve where the prisoners couldn't see them, because Kell thought he'd have noticed miniature versions of his spear.
He saw the familiar movements of men using armored jackets to their advantage, striking zombies in the face with shielded knuckles or letting teeth gnash at thick material over forearms. Despite his own circumstances, Kell found himself feeling honest respect for the skill he saw as the guards let the zombies slowly push them back, drawing the swarm along while slowly thinning its numbers.
All told it took about fifteen minutes. There were no celebrations. No high-fives. You'd have thought the guards had done nothing more impressive than take out a load of garbage, from the reaction they had.
Then again, Kell thought, that's pretty much what they had done.