Another voice. Another woman. "How much did you give him?"
"Two."
"100mg? Seriously?"
"Can't you see he's in agony?"
"But couldn't that kill him?"
A pause. "No, I don't think so. I couldn't bear to see him suffer. I'll sit with him; you go watch the road."
He felt her hand in his. She was very careful to avoid the worst of the burns and, unless it was his imagination, he could already feel less pain in his fingers. She spoke to him, then she sang a quiet song of comfort. As sleep finally came—real sleep, not mere unconsciousness—he felt her lips on his.
And he dreamed of her.
And of other things. London. Three years ago. He's in his tiny flat, sitting on the couch with a microwave meal and a can of Stella. The TV's on, but he's barely watching it. He flicks through the channels until he reaches BBC's Six O'Clock news. He wants to take a break from the real world, but, somehow, he can't help himself. An ambulance siren nee-naws its way along a neighboring street. Just another peaceful evening in the city.
For three months he's been living the life of a terrorist, helping his group to plot their latest atrocity. Three months during which Detective Inspector Devon Myers ceased to exist and Kenny Harper took his place. Devon hates Kenny and hates what he's become to play his part in taking down this gang. And he's afraid, of course. For himself—he knows what would happen if they discover his true identity—and frightened for his mother. She lives in blissful ignorance, proud of her son the police officer, but having no idea what he actually does.
So, Kenny/Devon digs his fork into the watery mashed potato of his shepherd's pie, and opens his mouth, his eyes flicking up at the screen. BBC News is showing a view from street level as people flock out of a department store. Are they being evacuated? Hold on; where is this?
He sees the flash, then a thump and the camera cuts off.
His mouth is still open.
No. It can't be.
The attack isn't until next week. He's due to report to his superiors tomorrow; to lay at their feet the results of his perilous months of infiltration. The biggest London bombing since 7/7 and he, Devon Myers, has uncovered it in time to stop it.
Except he hasn't.
The TV picture switches from the studio back to another view of the street. People running away from the black hole where the department store had been.
They'd fooled him. Either they'd suspected him, or someone else, of leaking their plans, so they'd gone ahead a week early.
All that work, all that fear, all gone up in smoke.
All those people—people he was sworn to protect—lying dead and injured in the wreckage. And it was all his fault.
His cellphone—Kenny's phone—buzzed.
YOU NEXT. INSHALLAH.
"Devon, can you hear me?"
He opened his eyes.
"You've been crying again—in your sleep. Is it that painful?"
Jessie's face sharpened as he blinked. No longer the painted lady, and all the more lovely for it. "Dreaming," he managed. "Nightmare. How long?"
"How long have you been asleep? What's the last thing you remember? Apart from the dream."
He considered this. "I choked on some pills."
"Oh. You've had another two doses since then. Amanda was worried we were overdosing you. I was frightened too, but you were in so much pain."
"How long?"
"I gave you the first dose two days ago."
He lifted his arm and found that his hand was encased in bandages.
"We've changed your dressings. Most of the wounds have stopped leaking, but you must drink, Dev. Drink as much as you can."
He realized as she said this that he was parched. "Yeah."
She helped prop him up, and he took the glass from her, pressing it against dry lips. He ran his other hand over his face, but recoiled from the roughness of the bandage.
"Let me see."
"No, Dev. Wait until you're better."
"Let me see, Jessie."
Reluctantly, she got up and padded away from him. He was sitting in an unfamiliar bedroom with pink wallpaper and fuchsia satin bedding, but that was a question for later. Jessie came back carrying a shaving mirror and handed it reluctantly to him.
He was a monster.
"It will heal, Dev. It's only been a couple of days. You gotta give it time."
His eyebrows and stubbly beard had been almost entirely replaced by angry pink wheals out of which little tufts of hair poked. He almost laughed as he looked at himself. If he scrunched his eyes up and ignored his forehead and cheeks, he'd see a white man with severe sunburn looking back at him. Or, perhaps, it was the world's worst facelift as his cheekbones threatened to burst out of skin stretched too tight. And framing it all; pain.
"You're lucky, really. With your skin color, the scars won't even notice."
"Lucky?!"
Her faced dropped. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Dev. I didn't mean … "
"Just leave me alone."
"Dev …"
"Go!"
As she scurried away, he fell back onto his pillow and into a black pit of despair.
"Shrek?"
He awoke from a deep sleep to see a round face looking down at him. It hurt just to blink, but he did it.
What was her name? Mary? Margaret?
"M … Margie?"
"Mommy and Jessie were frightened to wake you up, but I'm not frightened of you. You're my knight in shining armor."
He smiled and winced again as his skin stretched.
"You gotta have something to eat."
A warm aroma woke up a desire he thought he'd never feel again. "I'm starving."
"You haven't eaten for two days. I got some soup. And some bread."
He sat up. The pain had changed from being sharp and all-encompassing to an agony focused in his hands and head.
Margie laughed. "You look funny. But you'll get better, Mommy says so."
He repeated the smile, and this time succeeded in the attempt. Margie's brown eyes peered out from behind thick glasses which, from this angle, looked as though they'd grown pigtails. She fetched a tray and put it on his lap. Gingerly, Devon grasped the spoon and tasted the soup.
"It's only warm, not hot. Jessie said you wouldn't like it hot."
Devon swirled the chicken broth around his mouth and remembered what pleasure was. Then he took the thick slice of bread, tore a piece off it and dipped it in the soup. "This is delicious. Hold on, where did it come from?" It was only a little stale, but two weeks must have passed since the firestorm.
"Uncle Jerry made it. Before those men killed him. We saved it for you, even though we all wanted it."
"Thank you. I'm sorry about Uncle Jerry." Whoever he was.
She shook her head, pigtails flapping. "They were bad men. Very bad. Mommy and Jessie went back and buried him by the creek."
"Where are we?"
"In another house. I don't know where. Jessie brought us here and then she went off to find medicine for you. You gotta take your pills. I can't get the top off, though."
She handed him a pill bottle. A psychopath would have found his attempts to remove the child-proof cap very amusing. After several minutes of fiddling with it, he flung it across the room, watching it bounce off the wall.
Margie cried out, gave a squeal and ran from the room, almost knocking Jessie over as she went.
"I see you're awake and upsetting people."
Devon lifted the tray off his lap and put it to one side before lying back. "I'm sorry. I couldn't open the morphine."
Jessie picked up the bottle, twisted the top and took out a tablet. "Here. I should have loosened it."
He swallowed it and chased it down with a mouthful of water.
"You're looking a little better. Don't pull that face—you are. I'm sorry I said you're lucky. Bad choice of words."
"Forget it."
"But you are improving. The swelling's going down. I put new dressing on
your fingers last night and they've stopped weeping. They'll be stiff as hell for a while, but I reckon they'll be okay."
"Since when did you qualify as a nurse?"
She looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said, catching his self-pity before it took control again.
"I'm just trying to stay positive. But, Dev, we're going to have to move soon. It's not safe here."
He unwound the bandages on his hands. The undersides of his fingers were the worst affected. He wondered whether he'd ever have fingerprints again. Must have been where he'd hung from the windowsill before dropping. Aside from that, the skin had tightened and broken in places and he could see small ruptures that were still leaking.
"Where are we?"
"It was Amanda's idea. She remembered it from when they were traveling through Mud City. It was an old cafe, and we're in the bedroom out back. They met some people here before—people who asked Sam to join them. We've kept you here because you couldn't be moved, but someone's bound to check it out sooner or later."
"Where d'you want to go?"
She shrugged as if she hadn't considered the question. "I don't know. I thought—maybe—we could go find Marianna. You know, at that church. They've got food and they could help with your recovery."
"But we've got to find Sam. Doesn't Amanda know where she went? What is it?"
Jessie had turned away as if reluctant to respond. Her shoulders dropped in resignation. "She went looking for a beacon."
"What?"
"When they were here, they met a group. These people said if Sam changed her mind, she just had to follow the beacon. It was over to the west of the house."
"And we've gone the opposite way."
"It was the only place Amanda knew of where we could hide and nurse you back. I just wanted to save you, Dev."
She put her hand on his, then immediately withdrew it as he winced. After a moment, he took her fingers in his less damaged left hand. "You did it. And I'm grateful." He laid back again and looked at the ceiling before examining his body by flexing muscles and joints as if he was meditating. He was aware of her watching him as he took an inventory of his body. Damaged goods. "You're right. I don't have the strength yet. Let's go find Marianna. Tomorrow. "
It was only three miles or so from the cafe to the church where they'd left Marianna, but, as Devon focused on lifting his feet one at a time, it might as well have been thirty. Margie had suggested they use the wheelbarrow they'd transported his unconscious body in a few days before. Though they'd all dismissed the idea out of hand, Devon was beginning to think he'd rather endure the ignominy of being carted along the road than this interminable torture.
His legs had only been superficially burned, but he'd jarred them in the fall from Margie's window, so his left leg was barely able to support his weight at all and he was reduced to dragging it along like a modern-day Quasimodo. He kept his hands folded up tightly to his chest as every movement hurt them, and his head was protected by a black woolen hat. But he left his face uncovered, enjoying the cold wind that played over his scars and swellings. He suspected that if anyone did see them walking slowly along the road, they'd keep well clear in case he was a scout for the zombie apocalypse.
Burned-out cars littered the highway as they passed what remained of a retail plaza—now just a metal roof over a series of shadowed, glass shattered openings. Did people ever really need polished concrete? Devon could barely conceive of the world he'd inhabited so very recently. A spiderweb of interdependent bagatelle that crashed with the society it polluted. Oh, his thoughts were very dark today …
He recognized the intersection when they reached it. He, Jessie and Marianna had come from the north and turned west here. Another mile or so, and they'd be there. He allowed himself to look forward to resting, however briefly.
Then a call from point. It was Jessie. "Oh, no."
She was pointing along the road to where the remains of the church lay, still smoldering, wisps of smoke heading skywards. Devon could see, even from this distance, that the windows had been smashed and he thought he detected the flickering of flames within.
"Hide!" Jessie called, as she came running back.
They crouched behind a white picket fence that stood outside what was now a blackened wreck. "What is it?" Devon said once he'd recovered from the pain of bending his limbs.
Jessie pointed to the parking lot by the church.
"What the … ?" It was a Land Rover. An old one. Exactly like the vehicle that had attacked them at the gas station. But that was a thousand miles away. And they'd killed the terrorists driving it.
"Maybe there's no connection? I mean, it's going to be the old cars that are still working."
A figure appeared from behind the church. He was carrying a crate and, as he emerged from cover, he glanced up and down the road before dropping the box into the back of the Land Rover.
"Give me a pill," Devon said. "Quick!"
Jessie didn't argue, though her expression darkened as she fished in her backpack and handed over one morphine table which Devon swallowed without water.
"What are you going to do?"
Devon moved painfully along the picket fence toward the road. "I want answers and he's got them."
"I thought you were going to say that," Jessie said. "Cover me."
"What? Get back here!"
But she was striding across the road, her hands held high as the figure turned his assault rifle on her, scanning back and forth nervously.
Devon hissed under his breath, then drew his G17 and said a silent prayer as he waited.
Jessie stopped a few paces from the figure. Devon couldn't hear what she was saying, but it was obvious that the gunman was stressed, his voice high pitched and panicky. Jessie moved to the side a little so Devon had a direct line of sight. But he couldn't be sure of hitting the target from this far away, and in any case, he wanted to question the man.
Without warning, Margie leaped up, let out a cry and ran across the road. Amanda called her, but she was out of reach. The gunman's rifle swung around to track her. Panicked, Devon fired two rounds, missing with both in his terror of accidentally hitting Jessie.
But Jessie was moving. Like a blur, she jumped at the gunman, knocking him backward. Margie turned on a dime and ran along the road, throwing herself on them both as Devon, yelling in pain and alarm, stumbled along the road, reaching the struggling pile of bodies just as the soldier got the upper hand. He pressed the Glock against the back of his head.
"Drop your weapon or I fire," he said, his breath coming in gasps as he fought the agony in his hands.
The camouflaged figure froze and, after a moment, threw his rifle away as Devon grabbed the top of his jacket and pulled. The head came up, and the figure fell on its back.
"Don't shoot, Dev. He's only a boy."
Chapter 3: Refuge
"Hick, you'd better come. We got walkers."
Paul Hickman looked up from his desk and sighed. Lynda was becoming the bane of his life. "How many?"
"A half-dozen. They were spotted south, near Miller's Farm. Rusty's gone to talk to them."
Hickman got to his feet and took a handgun out of the top drawer. "Why didn't he come tell me himself?"
"Maybe he figured you might give him some order he wasn't entirely inclined to follow."
"I ain't gonna stand for it, Lynda. Folks are gonna have to do what they're told, no questions asked. I ain't Gil Summers."
He caught a strange expression on her face as he said this. It might have been regret. Or, perhaps it was disappointment. He'd only taken control a few days ago after recovering from his heroic part in the liberation of Hope and, so far, getting a grip had been like wrestling a barrel of snakes. Sheriff Kaminski was the worst rattler of them all, with the possible exception of shop owner and interfering old bat Martha Bowie. And Kaminski had gone to meet the newcomers on his own.
"I got a bad feeling about this," he said to himself as he led the way.
"Oh, hi, Paul," Kaminski said as Hickman's car pulled up beside his.
"That's Mr. Mayor, Sheriff."
Kaminski's eyes twinkled. "Actually, it's Council Leader."
Hickman ground his teeth as his own weapon was used against him. "What's goin' on here?"
"These folks have walked up from Ezra. They're looking for somewhere to shelter."
"Well? You know the standing order. No one is allowed in or out until we've worked out how to handle them."
Sheriff Kaminski grunted. "Well, apparently they ain't read the minutes of that meeting. So, why don't you tell 'em they're not welcome?"
Hickman cursed under his breath. He would have to deal with Kaminski, and sooner rather than later. As soon as he found out what the sheriff knew about his role in Ned Birkett's death and who he'd told.
Twisting his face into his best car salesman's grin, he pushed past the sheriff and headed for the disheveled group.
"My name is Paul Hickman, and I'm the ma—council leader of Hope."
To his surprise, a young blonde woman—probably a good-looker once she was cleaned up, he was prepared to bet—came to the front of the group and held out her hand. "I'm Libby Hawkins, special representative of Ezra. I was sent here by my mother, the mayor."
"You're Libby?" Kaminski said. "How's Crystal doin'?"
Hickman looked irritably at the sheriff. "You know her?"
"You should pay more attention in council meetings. I drove Mayor Hawkins around Ezra while Devon was helpin' in the hospital."
"Rusty? Are you Rusty?"
He smiled at the young woman. "Yeah. An impressive woman, your mom."
Libby Hawker gave a rueful smile. "She said for me to come find you and Devon. She didn't mention that you're the sheriff in Hope."
"For the time bein'." Hickman snapped.
Kaminski ignored him. "So, what's the story in Ezra?"
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