Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  “While it’s hard to understand at times,” Richard said, watching the sleeping women with fondness, “my stepson has seen the ugliness of the world more than you or I have. You can’t blame him for wanting to protect you from it.”

  A picture of patrolmen dragging Greg handcuffed out of that office made Carrie shudder. What would happen when he reached Naperville and they realized who he was and what he’d done?

  “Greg needs my support now more than ever. Even if Greg was right about Oliver—which he isn’t—I still wouldn’t pursue things. Oliver has a gentle soul. A failed relationship would only hurt him more than if I never allow it to happen in the first place. I don’t want to crush Oliver, if that makes sense.”

  “I can respect that. Frankly, I think that’s why Greg held back with you.”

  She turned. “Really?”

  “Greg once mentioned his concern that he might, I believe his word was, ‘squash’ you. With your soft-spoken nature, you and Oliver are quite similar. But you stood up for yourself well enough with Greg. Perhaps Oliver would like the same chance.”

  She gave Richard O’Brien a strange look. That almost made it sound like he agreed with Greg.

  He lifted his hands. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  As long as this civil war was brewing with Greg and Oliver caught in the middle of it, she struggled to think about anything else.

  “Do you think this uprising can help things for us?” she asked. “I mean, do you ever see things going back to how they were?”

  Richard sat back on the bed, pensive. “It’s hard to imagine our side gathering enough support to make a dent in Rigsby’s new system. We only have a few ways to protect ourselves, and even fewer ways to communicate with others like us. Unfortunately,” his gaze flickered back to his sleeping wife, “I think this civil unrest will only complicate life—at least, in the near future.”

  A depressing thought.

  “Will you lose your citizenship if…” She caught herself too late, but Richard didn’t seem to mind. His citizenship was tied to Mariah’s by marriage. What happened when she was gone?

  “I doubt there’s an easy way to find out without getting myself arrested. Honestly,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t mind going back to illegal status, especially after today. I’ve lived my life, Carrie. I’m content to spend the remainder of it hiding in Logan Pond. But are you? Are your siblings?”

  Why did it keep coming back to that?

  She studied the ragged rise and fall of Mariah’s blankets, contemplating the price of freedom. Would Mariah say it was worth it? Would Carrie’s parents? Jeff or Jenna? More importantly, would Oliver? She had a hard time thinking his life was happier or any easier because he had citizenship. In fact, as she studied Mariah’s skinny, gaunt face, it was hard to think that liberty was worth the price. Mariah looked like a body finished with this life, and it killed Carrie to think that it might not be that way if it wasn’t for the citizenship wars President Rigsby started years ago.

  Her eyes filled with hot, silent tears. Why did life have to be so hard?

  “I’ve overstepped my bounds again,” Richard said. “Forgive me. I just think that if your father was here, he’d say you couldn’t go wrong with either man. Then again, he might say you’re free to choose neither. Just because Greg and Oliver love you, doesn’t mean you’re obligated to love them back.”

  The mention of her father brought another wave of emotion. And memories. She had forgotten how close Richard and her dad had once been. After the Collapse, when the clan was thrust under May and CJ’s roof for months, the two became friends. Sherry O’Brien, Richard’s first wife, was the first to get sick. When Sherry passed, Carrie’s dad helped Richard through the grief, so when tides turned, and it was Carrie’s mother on her death bed, Richard stayed by his side.

  Of all the nights in Carrie’s life, she wished to forget that one most. Watching her mom die. But being back in this room, Richard sitting where her dad once had, Mariah lying where her mom once had…it was too close, too familiar.

  She stroked Mariah’s cold hand, unable to look at Richard or Mariah again for fear she’d see her parents instead.

  “Your father,” Richard went on gently, “might also tell you that just because they chose to live here as illegals doesn’t mean you have to. You’re free to choose your own future, Carrie. Your parents would be proud of who you have become and all you have done for Zach and Amber. They would trust you to decide.”

  She blinked to stave off the tears. How could she date a patrolman when patrolmen had destroyed the lives of so many people she loved, even today? How could she consider leaving the clan after her parents had sacrificed everything to keep their children out of the government’s claws?

  Maybe that’s why she’d never considered Oliver before, because in a way, it was a slap in her parents’ dead faces.

  The room felt too hot. Too empty. She longed to have her parents there with her. She wanted their comfort and not just Richard’s. Their arms around her. It wasn’t fair they’d been taken so young. Then again, it wasn’t fair that she was sitting beside Mariah instead of Greg.

  No, she realized suddenly.

  None of them should be there. Carrie and her parents—or Greg and his. They should all be sleeping in their own homes and beds, alive and happy without thought of citizenship, war, or death.

  “Apparently, I don’t know when to stop,” Richard said. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I appreciate your thoughts.”

  She studied the older man, realizing that when Mariah passed, he would have no one to go home to. Again. “Are you going to be okay?”

  His eyes glistened and went back to his wife of less than a month. “I will be. We all will be, because that’s what she wants.”

  They listened to Mariah’s soft wheezes as their thoughts carried them to the deep places where the soul longs for privacy.

  After a few minutes, Richard nudged her. “For the record, though, my vote is still for Greg. Entirely selfish reasons. It just feels like you’re already part of our family.”

  Family.

  The word wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She may have lost her parents, but May and CJ had virtually adopted her afterward. And Richard and Mariah felt more like parents than anyone.

  In that moment, he couldn’t have said anything kinder, because sitting in that candlelit room with May, CJ, Mariah, and Richard all a breath away, Carrie didn’t feel like an intruder or even a good friend. She felt like family.

  Their family.

  And she knew that no matter what happened with Greg, she always would.

  twenty-one

  MARIAH DIDN’T MAKE IT to sunrise.

  She woke with a jolt sometime after Carrie nodded off to sleep. A gurgling sound erupted, and Carrie grabbed a bucket. Richard rubbed Mariah’s back until the vomiting stopped. Then he and Carrie helped ease her back down.

  Mariah stared up at the ceiling for a long time after that. Not speaking. Just staring. When she finally broke the silence, her voice was barely a whisper in the candlelight.

  “Tell Greg…sorry.”

  Carrie’s eyes filled. Only Mariah would apologize for dying.

  “Of course, love,” Richard said, squeezing her hand.

  Mariah stared upward several more minutes. Then her eyes widened as if seeing something. “Kendra…” She paused for a ragged breath. “My girl.”

  Carrie was tempted to follow her gaze upward, but she knew she’d see nothing.

  Richard’s eyes overflowed. Sniffing, he forced a bright smile. “You give Kendra a big hug from her new stepdad, alright?”

  Mariah’s pale features lit with joy. She closed her eyes and her breathing came easier after that. Too easy and far too spread out to sustain life.

  Carrie’s heart plummeted.

  When Greg asked her to take care of his family, this wasn’t what she’d envisioned. Not so soon. Not l
ike this. Amber was supposed to deliver water to them, and Carrie would bring flowers and as many dinners as Richard would allow. Yet, less than twelve hours after Greg left, Mariah was slipping away. Greg would be devastated when he found out that things in town had pushed his mom over the edge—or how close he’d been to being there with her himself.

  Twelve hours.

  Richard stood. “I think it’s time. We should probably wake up May and CJ.”

  Mariah coughed a few more times, but her eyes never opened again. With May and CJ holding one hand, and Richard and Carrie clutching the other, her breathing stopped with a long, final exhale.

  * * * * *

  Greg crouched behind a patch of trees near the outskirts of Naperville, ignoring the overall ache of his muscles. If he had calculated correctly, the sun had been up for an hour, which meant he still had time before check-in. The air already felt muggy and humid. After two and a half days of walking and rain, his smelly clothes clung to him, but he focused on the scene ahead.

  The Naperville training facility looked like a compound, an old prison with double fences ten feet high topped with razor wire. One gate led inside, guarded by at least six armed men. The surrounding area had been cleared of trees and brush, making it difficult to get close enough to fully scope out the rest.

  His stomach growled. That’s what two days and three squirrels did to a man. Scrawny squirrels at that. Part of Greg wished he hadn’t left his slingshot with Zach so he could have scored a few more meals. He’d been stuck setting traps, a skill he’d never perfected. Thankfully, water had been plentiful with yesterday’s downpour.

  Though it killed him to admit it, it was a blessing he left Shelton when he had. The trip took longer than expected. His body was in decent shape but unaccustomed to that much distance on foot. The first day he’d been stopped twice by patrolmen on the roads who had enough time to hassle him, but not enough time to give him a lift—or decent directions. After that, he steered clear of the main roads, which cost him more time and mileage. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere outside of Aurora and had to travel half the night to make it here in time. Now his feet ached with massive blisters from walking in rain-soaked shoes.

  To say he was in a foul mood didn’t do it justice. He was wet, exhausted, chewed from mosquitoes, and still fuming over events with Jamansky. Coupled with two lousy nights of sleep and the fact they’d drafted him in the first place, he felt like tearing a tree to shreds. Or…destroying a government compound.

  With a deep breath, he reminded himself that he was playing by the rules now. Dead people can’t help the living. Survival was his new goal—although not necessarily his own survival.

  A car pulled down the road and stopped just shy of the compound gates. It wasn’t a patrol car, just a normal, boring sedan. A strange sight after so many years. Two people got out, an older and younger man, maybe father and son. The son hefted a bag over his shoulder and they hugged. Then the son walked through the gate. A few guards approached and pointed him toward a small building.

  Seemed easy enough. Walk up. Give them your card. Hope they don’t shoot. Still, Greg stayed low, cherishing his last moments of freedom.

  A twig snapped to his right. More rustling, and he heard footsteps. Several footsteps, too slow and loud to be animals. Leaning left, he spotted splashes of blue and orange moving through the trees. The people stopped just inside the edge of the woods twenty yards from where he crouched. They weren’t talking loudly, but in a place like this, they might as well have been shouting.

  “—not sure how long,” one guy was saying.

  “It looks pretty guarded,” another answered. “Do you think they’ll let me keep my gun?”

  “If we survive that long.”

  Greg jerked up at that last voice. It had been higher. Female.

  He squinted but couldn’t see through the thick brush, so he crouched low and crept closer to the group. He stopped ten yards away.

  Two guys and a girl watched the training compound like he had been. They looked too young to fight, maybe twenty years old. Maybe. Either that or Greg was just getting old. The last encounter with Jamansky and his mom had him feeling much older than twenty-five. The three of them all had meat on their bones and no rips in their jeans. Even their shirts had plenty of color and thickness to the threads. Yellow cardies. The girl’s shirt was neon orange and reflected off the trees.

  Subtle.

  They never once looked over their shoulders or scanned the woods. Even the guards could have looked up from their posts and spotted them easily on the edge of the woods. Definite yellow cardies. Too clueless to be anything else. Each carried bags with their belongings. Not only did they have things to pack, but they actually had time to pack.

  Greg hated them.

  It wasn’t fair. He knew that. The next few months would be kinder to him than them—assuming he lived that long. But it was people like those three who didn’t know what it was like to starve, hide, sleep in the rain, or wear the same clothes day in and out. People like them would become haughty, unfeeling patrolmen like David Jamansky.

  He looked down at his own light blue UNC t-shirt. If this training compound was anything like Raleigh’s Third Municipality, the government would confiscate and burn his clothes. He’d planned to leave his lucky shirt home along with everything else he cared about. If it weren’t for his condemning scars, he might even have left it here in the woods and gone shirtless. But, like so many other things, his lucky shirt was about to be another victim.

  Maybe it wasn’t so lucky after all.

  Another engine sputtered and a small green bus rumbled toward the gate. Two dozen people climbed out. Those ones didn’t have the clothes or demeanor of the yellow cardies next to Greg—or the age. They were older and dirtier, with matted hair, blank expressions, and matching factory uniforms. Blue cardies. They didn’t look scared. They hardly looked alive. Six years of living under the government’s thumb had beaten the life out of them. He was surprised how many middle-aged men were in the group, plus several women. The group shuffled toward the front gate.

  Greg watched those women as a sudden, horrible thought popped in his mind. The government wouldn’t recruit his mom, would they? He went numb with dread. No. Ashlee knew how sick she was. Then again, Greg wouldn’t put it past Jamansky.

  Revenge of the worst kind.

  “That group won’t last long when the fighting starts,” the dark-haired guy said.

  The other guy laughed.

  “If that’s the kind of people they’re recruiting,” the neon girl said, “the illegals will conquer us before the real fighting starts.”

  Considering Greg crouched less than ten yards away from them, he figured the blue cardies weren’t too bad off. Blue cardies at least knew how to survive.

  The girl slid her arm around the dark-haired guy’s waist. “It’s 7:42, Ethan. We better go.”

  Ethan brushed some hair from her cheek. “Who knows what’s waiting for us down there—what’s waiting for you. Don’t go, Meg. I can lie and make up some story about you getting sick. Please, just go home.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m excited to join. Come on.”

  Greg watched the young couple walk toward the compound, hands entwined. He felt sorry for them. It was bad enough Greg was here. He couldn’t imagine bringing Carrie with—

  His thoughts jolted him for a second time.

  Carrie.

  His mom wasn’t a likely candidate for service. One look at her, and they’d know. But thanks to Oliver, Carrie had papers now. She was young and perfectly healthy, which meant they could recruit her anytime. Next month. Next week. Only she was too sweet and quiet to be thrown into this pack of wolves.

  Hopefully as the “wife” of a patrolman, she’d be exempt from service, but knowing how Jamansky had it out for Oliver, Carrie could easily end up with a target on her back.

  Greg could hardly think straight.

  Carrie.

  H
is mom.

  Where did it stop?

  Straightening, he strode out of the woods at a furious pace, wanting nothing more than to speed up time and get this over with. By the time he made it to the guards, the three yellow cardies had disappeared inside the compound.

  “Card,” a guard said, hand outstretched.

  Greg pulled out his citizenship card and handed it to a Polynesian guard who had to be 6’4” and three hundred pounds. The guy crossed his name off a list and tossed his yellow card into a box. Greg eyed the box, figuring that was the last he’d see that card.

  Good riddance, he thought. It had been nothing but trouble.

  “Where’s your bag?” the beefy guard said. “All bags much be searched.”

  “I didn’t bring one,” Greg said.

  “Why not?”

  Greg glared up at him. “I wasn’t given the option to pack.”

  The guard snorted a laugh. Then he motioned him to move toward a small cubby and another armed guard. “Search him.”

  Greg obediently walked toward the corner where he spotted another box, this one filled with piles of discarded clothing. Every layer of clothing, too. A strip search. His muscles seized. He figured somebody would see his traitor’s mark at some point, he just didn’t think it would happen within the first minute of captivity. He grabbed his lucky shirt in his fist.

  “Everything off,” the second guard said, mindlessly tapping his nightstick against his leg.

  Stalling, Greg held his arms out wide. “As you can see, I’m unarmed. Check for yourself.”

  “Nice try. Everyone is searched down to the skin. No exceptions.”

  The second guard not only had a decent-sized nightstick, but a large assault rifle hanging off his shoulder as well.

  Heart thudding, Greg pulled on the corner of his shirt, taking his time in hopes of prolonging his life. But as he did, he caught sight of a flash of orange. Right on top of the box was a neon orange shirt.