The Scattered and the Dead [Book 2.6]

by L. T. Vargus

  It was pretty impressive. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “OK. That’s decent,” I said. “Alright, now pretend I’m some skeevy old guy.”

  I hunched over and sidled closer to her, making my voice gravely and low.

  “Hello, little girl.”

  Izzy didn’t say anything. She just turned and hissed at me like a vampire seeing a ray of sunlight.

  I hadn’t told her to do that, so the shock of it kind of made me laugh. Then I went to reach for her, to pat her on top of the head, and the kid tried to bite me. And not a play bite, either. She was going for blood.

  “Hey!”

  “You said I should be mean.”

  “I know, but now you’re freaking me out.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m being evil.”

  “Evil?”

  “Yes. I just think of how everyone else is an enemy, and I want to drink their blood.”

  I stared at her with my mouth hanging slightly open. She was really getting into character, which I guess is a good thing?

  “Uh, OK. That’s… good.”

  I just hope she doesn’t turn into Evil Izzy and stay that way.

  We’re about to set off now. All our camping gear is re-packed and ready to go. In less than two hours, we’ll be in the settlement.

  I thought I’d be nervous, but a strange calm has come over me. I guess it’s the kind of thing where I know that whatever happens next, I’ll just have to deal with it. No sense in dreading the inevitable.

  Here goes nothing.

  Jeremiah

  Rural Maryland

  10 years, 40 days after

  Jenkins has been at this longer than me. Soldiering, I mean. He’d done nine months before I got hauled into this. Right on what you could call the front lines of the battle — our version of them anyhow. Spent 44 straight days under fire, too, he said. Hellish. I can’t imagine dealing with that.

  Most of the time during the day he barely says a word, right? But sometimes at night he tells stories about the stuff he’s seen. To me, anyway. I can’t say if he really talks to anyone else so much. I kind of doubt it. Weird guy.

  Anyway, I sat with him for part of his watch last night. Couldn’t sleep as usual, so why not?

  The fire snapped and popped between us, sparks shooting out of the dead pine boughs as the flames ate ‘em up.

  “I led a night recon patrol one night,” Jenkins said, pawing at his beard. “Just a handful of us out poking around in the dark. Not much point to it from what I could figure, but orders are orders, you know.”

  The wind shifted, blowing the smoke from the fire directly at us. Jenkins squinted and kept talking.

  “This was somewhere along the Maryland-West Virginia border, I believe. Probably near Frederick or just over the state line by Martinsburg. The eastern panhandle. Something like that.”

  Everything beyond the fire was inky nothingness. A void that stretched out for eternity.

  “I’d gone out late like that maybe twenty times, and we’d never found anything in the dark. Not ever. How could we, right? Can’t see for shit.”

  He spit tobacco juice into an empty can. One of the ancient pouches we’d looted six cases of. Found ‘em in a bait and tackle shop along Lake Gaston.

  “Except this time, we did find something. Gouges in the dirt trailing up a steep hill. You could just faintly make ‘em out in the moonlight. Deep divots like someone had torn the shit out of a golf course, you know? Just rippin’ big ol’ chunks of sod out left and right.

  “But once we got closer, we could tell that they weren’t just divots. They had slats of wood wedged into them. Flat pieces. And they were spaced very evenly going up the hill, a uniformity which you couldn’t quite make out from the distance. They were steps. Man made steps. And if someone had taken the time to build them, it probably meant they were moving a bunch of people through this area, and they wanted to be quick about it.”

  “Crusaders?” I said.

  “Yuh. We figured so. We flipped into creep mode — that’s what one of the younger fellas called it. Creep mode, I mean. We followed the steps up the hill, could just faintly make out a path once the land leveled out. A place where the grass was all beaten down. So we followed that. Going all slow and quiet, you know?

  “Creeping?”

  “Creeping. And we found the remnants of a camp. Freshly deserted. The coals from where they’d had a fire were still warm to the touch, the smell of smoke still thick in the air. And there were big flattened swaths of grass out there, perfect squares and rectangles where the huge tents had been. This camp had easily been hundreds of men. Perhaps a thousand.”

  I tried to imagine that and felt goose bumps spread over my forearms for some reason.

  “And I guess there was a little debate about exactly what this meant. Were they headed toward our camp or away from it? Were they marching at night? A group this big? It seemed like they must be. Madness.”

  I swallowed and stared into the fire.

  “Tully, the commanding officer of our little recon mission, got all quiet as we debated this thing. Just stared at one of those angular impressions in the grass. When he finally spoke up, we all got quiet. He decided we better head back and report it. So we did,” Jenkins said. “We trailed down the steps, slipped back into creep mode. Smitty pressed the pace a little harder, so we were hustling a bit — as much as you can hustle and creep at the same time, I expect.”

  “Hustle-creepin’.”

  “Right. So we had a functioning set of radios. Just one pair, mind you. But we were only to use ours in the case of an emergency. This didn’t quite qualify, so we were headed back on foot. Hustle-creepin’ like you said.”

  He paused, frowning.

  “And it felt wrong. Tense. Bad, uh, what do you call it?”

  “Vibes?”

  “No. I mean, that’s kind of it. I was thinking of a different word, I think.”

  “Mojo?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Bad mojo.”

  He spit again.

  “About halfway back, the radio crackled. We all jumped. It had never done that before. On a night recon mission, I mean. We’d literally never used the damned thing in the dark like that. Started to feel more like a stage prop after a time, I suppose.”

  Now he got quiet, his jaw churning. When he resumed speaking, his voice had gotten smaller and tighter. Hushed.

  “The voices were squealing on the other side. Shrill and shaky. A whole mess of grown men squealing and suffering and carrying on. Like what I imagine it sounds like at a factory farm — a slaughterhouse, you know — a bunch of doomed hogs screaming their heads off, lifting their voices into that whistle-y register that is as much a whine as anything. Terrified, you know. Suffering beyond what can be imagined. That’s what it sounds like in my memory, anyway. Maybe my imagination has embellished it some, but I kind of doubt that.”

  He churned his jaw some more before he went on.

  “But you could hear the gunfire as well. On the radio, I mean. Assault weapons clattering out their death. Cutting down our friends. Our brothers. We rushed back. Sprinted the last little way in the woods, not giving a shit about anything but getting back, but it was too late, of course.”

  He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses on his shirt.

  “They were all fucked up. Whole camp lit up, you know. All of those men — boys most of ‘em — cut in half by machine gun fire. There were too many of ‘em. Crusaders, I mean. We could only keep our distance and watch the final stages of the massacre, kind of circling the camp from afar.”

  He put his glasses back on.

  “I still have dreams about it. Guilt, I guess. In the dreams, I’m trying to carry one of the men to safety, but he’s all opened up. He slides out of my hands, so all that’s left in my fingers is intestines. Greasy ribbons of flesh.”

  We were both quiet for a long time after that. When a log shifted in the fire, we both jumped a little, startled, but
we didn’t laugh about it. Didn’t even look at each other.

  A few minutes later, the watch shifts changed, and I decided to head for bed.

  When I exited the circle of the fire’s light, I saw that Smitty, Alabama, and Sorensen had been standing there in the shadows. Listening.

  They walked with me back to the tents. Total silence among us.

  I wondered how much of Jenkins’ story they’d heard, but when we got close to the lanterns, and I got a glimpse of the far away expression etched on Smitty’s face, I knew.

  They’d heard it all.

  Sorensen blinked in a way that reminded me of a lost puppy.

  Erin

  Roanoke, Virginia

  1 year, 297 days after

  There’s a nice chunk of the ride into Roanoke that’s all downhill. You can coast and look down over the drop into the valley and catch glimpses of the haze that covers the settlement. It doesn’t look so bad from the distance. But once you get inside, it’s a filthy, smelly place. There’s soot and coal smoke everywhere.

  We zipped past the big old oak tree, and I was relieved to see no bodies hanging from the branches this time. I hoped that meant it would be a lucky trip.

  The coal is why they picked Roanoke in the first place. The Militia found an old abandoned coal mine and started digging. I guess the rest of the place just grew up around that natural resource. That’s what Kristoff told us last time, anyway.

  The Militia are pretty easy to spot. They’re almost always wearing bulletproof vests and usually some amount of camo. They sort of monitor things in the settlement. They don’t officially control anything, and they are definitely not actually imposing any sort of law, but they’re the ones that make sure the other raider groups — the SS, for example — don’t wreak havoc and scare business away.

  Last time, there were several Militia guys standing outside of the market entrance, decked out in their military garb and all carrying giant automatic rifles. It was the same this time, except there was a woman among the group. So I guess they let ladies in. Not that I’m looking to join.

  The market is set up around the main drag in town, and the street has been cleared of dead cars so people can get through with bikes and wheelbarrows and whatnot. Last time Marissa and I were here, we even saw someone with a horse and buggy.

  A lot of the shops are run out of the old storefronts along the street, but some of the vendors are nomads that scavenge and sell as they travel. There’s a big open square that used to be a farmer’s market, so a few dozen nomads are usually set up on the sidewalk there with their trailers and buggies packed with goods.

  We passed a stall selling chickens, a stack of cages all clucking and making a racket.

  There were more food vendors out than last time. Most of them were manning open charcoal grills, and I could hear the sizzle of the roasting mystery meat as we walked by. Probably raccoon, squirrel, and groundhog. A stray dog trotted by us, looking for scraps, and I wondered about other — more domestic — meat sources.

  No matter what kind of meat they were serving, my appetite vanished in the settlement. It was just so grimy and dirty, it didn’t seem like a place to eat. And the coal smell reminds me of car exhaust, which always used to give me a stomach ache.

  I had to keep one eye on the crowd and the other on Izzy. She was completely rapt with the place, I could tell. Her gaze leapt from one stall to the next.

  It was more than just the bustling activity and other assaults on the senses. It was the people. Being in a large group again. There’s definitely something primal there. An animal excitement. After so long away from people, it’s overwhelming. It was the last time I was here, and it wasn’t any less this time.

  My own heart fluttered in my chest as we wove through the throngs of people. I found myself looking for you, actually. I know it’s ridiculous. Even if you are alive, what are the odds that I would be visiting this distant place on the same exact day and the same exact moment as my best friend that I haven’t seen in almost two years?

  Has it been that long? In some ways it seems longer. Like decades have passed since we were in school, texting each other innuendo-laden emojis when the teacher wasn’t looking. Some days it feels more like that was only last week.

  Anyway, I didn’t see you, obviously. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a window and almost didn’t recognize myself with my “costume” on. It made me wonder if you’d even know me if we passed by each other, and vice versa.

  Seeing myself reflected in the glass reminded me to make sure my Marissa-esque Bitch Face was firmly intact.

  There were a few women huddled together outside of Curly’s. That’s the brothel. I tried not to look, but I could see enough in my peripheral vision. The women were thin, pale, and sickly-looking. One of them had a black eye. She was young, maybe even our age.

  I kept walking.

  The shop Mia and Kristoff are set up in is pretty much impossible to miss. Just a block down from the big open market area, they have the corner storefront in an old brick building. Painted down the side of the brick in huge block letters is the word SEEDS. Last time I was here, Kristoff said the building was over a hundred years old.

  Izzy and I left our bikes there on the sidewalk, right in front of the big glass windows. The bells on the door jangled as we entered.

  “Wait here by the door,” I told Izzy. “Keep an eye on the bikes. I’ll signal when I need you.”

  I stepped further into the store and saw Kristoff standing behind the counter, bartering with a lanky older guy with an eyepatch.

  I have to say, it was nice to see a familiar face this far from home. I mean, I’ve only met him once, but it still meant something.

  Kristoff has reddish-blonde hair and a big beard with a little streak of white on one side. Both arms are covered in tattoos all the way down the wrists. Despite the ink, he reminds me of a gnome for some reason. I think it might be his cheeks. They’re always a little red and shiny. I guess there’s also the fact that he smiles most of the time. A rare feature, given the times. Not a lot of jolly people when it’s the end of the world.

  It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment what I would have done if Kristoff and Mia hadn’t been there. I guess I would have tried trading with some of the other shops, but it would have been dicey. It’s hard to know if you’re getting a fair shake or not. I’m sure a lot of the sellers there would see me and think I’d make an easy mark.

  Eyepatch finished his business and turned to go. He went to shuffle by but he made no attempt to avoid walking right into me. I could tell he expected me to sidestep and let him pass. And every ounce of the polite little girl I used to be wanted to do that. But then I caught sight of the black leather riding gloves on my hands, and I remembered who I am now. Who I have to be.

  So I stayed put. Planted my feet and stared the guy down. And it worked. At the last possible second he pivoted on his heel and brushed around me.

  I waited a moment and then turned my head enough to make sure he left without giving Izzy any trouble.

  Once he was gone, and the front door swung closed again, I returned my focus to the counter.

  Clear blue eyes sparkled from behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses as Kristoff smiled down at me. I have no idea how old he is. I’d say twenty-five at the youngest, but the white spot in his beard makes me think older. Maybe even close to forty. But he’s one of those guys that will probably look young until he’s like fifty years old, and then overnight he’ll turn into Santa Claus.

  “Howdy,” Kristoff said. Then he sort of paused to stare at me, squinting hard. “Have you been in here before?”

  Before I could answer, Mia piped up from the back corner of the store. I hadn’t even seen her there. She’s so silent and still, standing watch over everything.

  “She’s the one Marissa brought in a few months ago.”

  Kristoff clapped his hands together.

  “Right! It’s… Merrill?”

  �
�Erin,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Close.”

  Even though Merrill didn’t seem at all close to Erin, in my opinion, I was so relieved that they remembered me that I didn’t even care.

  “I’m bad with names, but I never forget a face,” Kristoff said. “Is Marissa here?”

  “She didn’t come this time. But she says hello.”

  Marissa didn’t actually say hello. Even though the three of them came north together when they fled Florida, I don’t think they really consider each other friends or anything. It was a relationship of convenience. Mia and Marissa do seem perfectly suited to butt heads.

  Kristoff must have suspected that Marissa had not sent any such warm regards, because he laughed a little and said, “Oh yeah? Give the old battle-axe our love, then.”

  Resting his forearms on the counter, he leaned forward.

  “I assume you didn’t come all the way into the settlement just to bring us hugs and kisses from Marissa. What did you bring?”

  At a signal from me, Izzy brought out our first offering and set it on the counter.

  “Who’s this?” Kristoff asked, and for a second, I was worried Izzy was going to hiss at him.

  But she looked at me instead. Introductions were made all around, and Kristoff offered her a piece of gum. It was the individually-wrapped kind that you get when you go trick-or-treating on Halloween, and you keep avoiding eating it because everything else is better. And by the time you get down to where that’s the only thing left, it’s rock hard and stale. Or maybe it’s rock hard and stale from the beginning. I wouldn’t really know because who really chews that stuff by choice?

  Anyway, Izzy was delighted. Once I said it was OK, she wasted no time unwrapping the paper and popping the pink wad into her mouth.

  Kristoff’s attention finally went to what she’d set on the counter, and his elfin eyes lit up.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  I nodded. “Twenty pounds of Kentucky coffee beans.”

  “Did you hear that, Mia? Twenty pounds!”