The Remaining: Fractured Part 33

"Inside." Marie pointed.

They'd reached Angela's shanty. Marie opened the flap for them and Angela and the two kids scurried in, steam trailing after them like a locomotive. Marie stood in the doorway, not quite letting the flap fall just yet, looking both ways down the row, seeing if anyone was being nosy and watching them.

Angela put the pot down and hurried over. "Marie!" she hissed. "Did you do it?"

Marie didn't directly answer. Instead she drew out a crumpled piece of old newspaper, the ink faded and sun-bleached. She handed it to Angela, delicately, as though it were more than just a piece of trash. Like it contained diamonds.

Marie stepped away, holding the tarp door open with a single hand. "We'll talk later."

Angela looked from the piece of trash in her hand up to Marie, confusion evident on her face.

Marie just pointed to the paper, then let the tarp drop.

Angela looked behind her. Saw the two children sitting next to the warm pot, watching her with curiosity. Then she looked at the paper in her hands. Slowly unfolded it. Feeling her heart beating faster. Some sort of writing on it. Thick bold letters written in what looked like charcoal. Heart beating much faster now. Because Marie had gone to the roof to try to make contact and then she came back with a note. A note from someone. And it said who it was right there at the bottom.

WE ARE HERE. CHECK AGAIN AFTER MIDNIGHT.

--CAPT. TOMLIN.

CHAPTER 25: A WAY OUT.

LaRouche sat alone in the cab of the LMTV. It was more roomy than the Humvee and he had a little more s.p.a.ce to spread his legs out and try to sleep. That was his excuse for dismissing himself-trying to catch some sleep. In reality, he simply had no desire to mingle with these strangers from Parker's Place.

It was a little community, tucked back into some woods. Almost the same setup as the camp where they'd found the girl's father earlier in the day, except this one was surrounded by forest rather than open cropland. Judging by the cluttering of tents and sc.r.a.p-made shelters, there were about twice the people living here as there had been in the other.

A few of the men that had been captured by The Followers and had escaped during LaRouche's attack had made their way to this group. Jackson met them with grieving embraces, but they remained silent about anything that had happened. All that LaRouche heard them tell the people from Parker's Place was that they'd been attacked by The Followers and had managed to escape.

No mention of being captured.

No mention of hanging their friends on crosses.

Instead there'd been much backslapping and eager questions and sudden bouts of trading back and forth between the people of Parker's Place and LaRouche's group. LaRouche felt suddenly lost in the middle of it, looking about at his people like they were insane. How could they so easily switch back and forth? Not like him. He seemed stuck in the "on" position.

Feeling awkward and out of place, he'd slipped away, mumbling about getting sleep.

Now he just sat in the cab of the LMTV, unable to close his eyes, unable to quench that roiling, acid burn in his stomach as it tried to creep its way up his throat. He reflexively pressed his gut when it pained him. Kept pressing there without thinking about it until he noticed the flesh felt sore and bruised from doing it so often.

He stared out the window of the LMTV, through the dark woods and into the little settlement. He could just barely see the shadowy figures of his group and the group of strangers, all mixed together like it was some sort of bonfire in the woods, like nothing was wrong, like they were all just best f.u.c.king friends forever.

He leaned his head back, tried to get comfortable. Shifted positions several times. Kicked his feet up so he lay back against the door, his feet on the driver's seat. His mind wandered to and fro, kept coming back to Nick and wondering if the man was going to reach Camp Ryder, and if so, what he was going to find. But it felt like fruitless worrying, so he closed his eyes. But then his heart started beating. The feeling like he'd forgotten something. The feeling that something was sneaking up on him.

Finally, he sat up. "f.u.c.k this s.h.i.t," he grumbled to himself.

He stared blankly out the front of the vehicle for a moment. All around him, except to his left where the camp of survivors was set back into the woods, everything was dark. Black. Stars not even shining through the tree tops. From some source of ambient light he wasn't able to figure, he could just barely make out the pale face of one his team, keeping watch from the turret of one of the LMTV's a few s.p.a.ces in front of him.

He could find no other way to occupy himself, so he reached down into the floorboard where he'd stowed his chest rig and rustled around in it. He touched the plastic bottle of whiskey that he'd taken from the man he'd interrogated, but pushed pa.s.sed it and found his map. It was creased in odd places, tattered a bit along the edges. It was wearing out with the frequency with which LaRouche pulled it out and unfolded it. Like rosary beads for a Catholic, but rather than touch the beads and utter a prayer to G.o.d when he needed comfort, he would unfold the map and look at the lines, look at his progress and try to plan ahead to meet his goals. A prayer to the G.o.d of strategy. Just like people thought they could pray enough to make bad things go away, he thought he could plan enough to keep them away.

All just a giant distraction anyways.

All just a way to try to forget about what could be metastasizing in his blood stream. His mind kept returning to it, despite every effort to push it down another track, like all roads led back to the most worrisome thought yet: I might be infected.

Like an arachnophobic person constantly feeling the tickle of a spider crawling up their neck, he kept feeling the first flushes of fever that would begin his violent illness. Kept feeling sick, though he knew it was probably more from worry than from anything physical.

Don't let me go this way, he thought to no one in particular. Not to G.o.d, because he didn't believe in Him. I'll take a bullet. I'll take a knife to the chest in hand-to-hand fighting. I'll even take a f.u.c.king heart attack. But not this. Not this thing that isn't dead and isn't alive. I don't want to simply exist like an animal. And I sure as s.h.i.t don't want to have to kill myself when I feel it happening. Really don't want to kill myself.

He didn't believe in G.o.d, but didn't know who else he could be talking to.

Just focus on the map. Focus on tomorrow.

He didn't have an exact location, but he'd notated with a circle where he thought they were, based on the roads he'd seen in the area. They were nearby the very small town of Bethel. Were actually only a few miles from the Roanoke River, which was their target objective, but they were too far inland. They needed to find the easternmost bridge, which would be close to Swan Bay. The quickest route to take out to the Swan Bay, where the Roanoke River began its trek through North Carolina, would be Highway 64. But that would also probably be the most dangerous route, so LaRouche immediately dismissed it. They would keep parallel to Highway 64, between it and the river, and make their way to where Highway 45 crossed the river. That was the first bridge that needed to be blown or blocked or manned.

He wondered what it would be like when they got there, probably within the next day or two, depending on how slow caution demanded they go. Would there already be swarms of infected trundling across the river? Would they have to fight their way through to blow it? Would it even be possible?

Another, more disturbing question in LaRouche's mind was Where the h.e.l.l is Captain Harden?

The plan had been for them to go east, and then when Captain Harden had finished dealing with the "mole" situation, he would join them. So that they could access the few bunkers he had out here. LaRouche didn't know the exact location, but he knew that one of the bunkers was on the northern side of the Roanoke river. If he started blowing bridges before Captain Harden got there, it would make it that much more dangerous and difficult for them to access the bunkers.

But was the captain even coming?

Still no word from Camp Ryder. No word from Captain Harden. No bleedover from Harper, though the two were heading in separate directions and LaRouche doubted that Harper's transmissions would bounce all the way to him.

Complete silence. Like they were orbiting around the dark side of the moon.

He would have to make this decision on his own.

A knock brought his attention up and to the right.

Just Wilson's eyes, peering in the window at him.

LaRouche snapped the map closed and reached over, pushing the door open. Wilson hung onto the side handle of the LMTV cab with one hand and let the door swing past him, then righted himself again and stood there in the frame, half-smiling in a hesitant manner, as though he were feeling out LaRouche's mood.

LaRouche folded the map. "What's up?"

Wilson shrugged and looked off. "Just getting' ready to turn in. I see you've been catching up on your sleep."

"Oh, yeah." LaRouche stuffed the map back into the pocket of his chest rig, then leaned back. "I feel f.u.c.kin' fantastic."

Wilson nodded thoughtfully. He reached into his jacket pocket, squirming his weird, three-fingered hand in and wincing as the fabric brushed past the scar tissue. LaRouche could tell the stumps of his fingers pained him-mentally and physically-but he rarely spoke about it and LaRouche figured he preferred not to dwell on it.

After a minute, Wilson produced a small, silver roll from his pocket. Two or three inches long. Like a roll of dimes. Faded paper wrap on the outside that read TUMS. He held them out to LaRouche and mumbled the jingle from the old commercials: "Tummmm-tum-tum-tum." He smiled. "Found these for you."

LaRouche looked at them for a moment. "Jesus...what'd you have to trade for these?"

Wilson made a dismissive noise. "Don't flatter yourself, Sarge. I just had them thrown in on another deal I made for some goodies of my own. Plus I figure if you don't have heartburn, maybe you'll sleep more and then maybe you won't be so G.o.dd.a.m.ned grumpy all the time."

LaRouche grinned. Somehow the ribbing made the gesture easier to accept. He took the item and immediately unwrapped one of the tabs. "Well, what'd you score for yourself?"

Wilson looked a little embarra.s.sed. "Couple odds and ends."

LaRouche quirked an eyebrow.

Wilson rolled his eyes and reached into his vest. He pulled out the corner of a cloth. Red and white. "One of them had an old US flag. And I wanted it."

LaRouche regarded Wilson, and then the flag protruding from his vest. He shrugged. "Whatever." He popped the Tums tablet into his mouth and changed the subject. "G.o.dd.a.m.n, you have no idea how much I needed one of these things."

Wilson looked off, stuffing the flag back into his vest. "Maybe if you were a little more sociable you would've found 'em yourself."

LaRouche chewed the tab, pinched off the foil end of the tube and slipped it into his own jacket pocket. "That's what I have you for, Wilson. To be sociable for me. And to run interference with The Pope."

Wilson looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. I'm not a fan of being your go-between. Ya'll got some problems that you need to work out man-to-man. Not through me."

LaRouche sighed, swallowed the chalky mix, felt a slight ease of the burning in his throat. "Thanks for the Tums, man."

Wilson still hung on the door.

LaRouche looked at him pointedly.

The younger man glanced over his shoulder at the camp behind him. "What are we gonna do with these folks?"

LaRouche leaned back in his seat. "Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

A shake of the head. "We'll leave out at first light tomorrow. Wish them the best of luck."

"They could help us, you know."

"How's that?"

"Lot of them have a bone to pick with The Followers."

LaRouche pursed his lips. "Wilson, be honest...do I give the impression that I don't give a s.h.i.t?"

Wilson considered it for a moment. "Yes."

LaRouche turned, his gaze intensifying. "That's my fault. I apologize if that is the impression that I give. I don't like what I'm seeing. I don't like what The Followers are doing. I wanna put a bullet in their heads just like the rest of you. I want to find all those girls that they've captured and get them back to their families. That would feel real nice. Be the hero and everything. Save the f.u.c.kin' day. Get a G.o.dd.a.m.n parade."

Wilson sensed the biting sarcasm. "It's about doing the right thing."

"I know what the right thing is," LaRouche said. "I've got f.u.c.king morals of my own. And you know what? Sometimes they get broken. Sometimes I break my own f.u.c.king rules. Sometimes I walk the line and I step over pretty far. And that's something I need to deal with. But I do those things because they need to be done in order for everyone else to live. I don't do them because they feel good. I don't do them because they benefit me in any way."

He pointed out in a nebulous direction. "We're just miles from the river, Wilson. And at any point in time, if it hasn't happened already, there's going to be some big-a.s.s hordes of infected coming over every bridge that spans that river. And they are going to come down here and they are going to overpower everyone. And everyone is going to die. And the only thing that stands between our current reality, and that future reality, is me and you and our team. And if we get sidetracked, if we lose focus on what needs to be accomplished in the big picture, we're going to all end up dead. And the fact that some girls got raped and some guys had to nail their friends to a cross is going to be a moot point because everyone is going to be dead."

"Fine," Wilson held up a hand. "Jesus, man, I'm not arguing that point."

"Well, what are you f.u.c.king arguing?"

"Give 'em guns and ammo," Wilson said with exasperation. "Let them fight the good fight while we continue on to our objective. It will make them an ally to us in the future, if we ever come back through, rather than having to deal with hurt feelings because we abandoned them. And they'll run interference for us by keeping The Followers distracted while we do what we gotta do."

LaRouche stared straight ahead, feeling like a dumba.s.s and suddenly understanding why dozens of commanding officers over his military career would shoot down his common sense thinking. Because it was easier to do that than simply admit that you weren't able to see the forest through the trees. That you were wrong and somebody under you was right.

LaRouche huffed. "When you're right, you're right."

Wilson lifted a brow. "So..."

LaRouche nodded. "We'll do it."

Wilson didn't make a deal over it. Just kind of shrugged it off and sighed. "Well, I'll let you sleep then."

He started to get down from the LMTV but LaRouche reached out and grabbed his jacket sleeve. The younger man stopped and looked back at his bedraggled superior. Bags under his eyes, creases all over his face like he'd been wrung out and left to dry.

"You're gonna be a good leader," LaRouche said quietly. Then he released his grip on Wilson's sleeve and crossed his arms over his chest, closing his eyes and seeming to situate himself for sleep. "Now get out of here before you let all my warm air out."

Wilson smirked, then hopped down and closed the door behind him.

While night deepened, Harper's group to the west lit no fires and remained mostly silent. Their place in the industrial park had not changed. The horde of infected had come and had slowed and had meandered around the area, all while Harper's group waited in their vehicles, the engines at idle while Julia stood atop one of the buildings and occasionally gla.s.sed the road out with her scoped rifle.

For hours the distant clamor of the horde went on, so that Harper would sometimes think they had pa.s.sed and he would have to focus on listening in order to hear them again. By the time they could truly not hear the horde any more, the sun was already touching the horizon and they shut the engines off and decided to make camp. Double watch, due to limited fortifications.

They ate quietly. The mood of the group was in a downward spiral, it felt like. First the clash with the other group of survivors, and then the loss of Gray, which everyone bore without a word or a tear, simply bore it up like another burden to be carried on their backs. Winced like it caused them pain when they looked for him and Harper only shook his head.

And Mike. Mike losing his s.h.i.t. Now sitting wordlessly with his back to the cold corrugated steel of the building they'd parked next to. His head was tilted back, eyes to the sky. And then he would nod forward and stare at the ground. Harper ate a meal that he wouldn't remember, and didn't taste, and he watched the man repeat the movement over and over. The upward look of pleading. The downward look of despair.

A man begging G.o.d and not hearing an answer.

Harper needed Father Jim with him. He needed someone to tell him that there was a plan to all of this. He needed a scripture, some hocus pocus from three thousand years ago that somehow pulled everything together. He'd never believed, but he wanted it now. Wanted something to believe in.

Harper drank some water. Took a p.i.s.s, watching the last bit of twilight fade.

The land behind the industrial park fell away into some flood zone, a low point in the land cleared by the construction crews to build the park, and then abandoned back into the clutches of nature where it was now half engulfed, sprouted with adolescent trees and weeds as high as a man. A wisp of fog was just beginning to gather at the base of the land, like nitrogen pooling.

Harper saw no beauty in any of it. Just something cold and unknown. Just a place for danger to hide, like a shadow or a cave. He shivered when he looked at it, zipped himself up and turned his back to it, wishing to be in the relative safety of the Humvee, only to remember the blood inside of it. Gray's blood.

He went to it anyway. Empty on the inside, like an abandoned house. Julia and Mike the first two on watch. So it was just Harper and what was left of Gray. Harper and his old ghosts. Annette, and Miller, and Josh, and now Gray. Good company, but they didn't talk much. He just replayed them in his mind like a favorite alb.u.m, like a treasured vinyl full of songs that made you sad, but you just kept torturing yourself with them because you couldn't help yourself.

He stared out the windshield until the heat of his body had fogged it and then he closed his eyes. He fell asleep quickly, though it was not restful. His aging body didn't react well to long nights and long days cooped up inside the cramped vehicle. His lower back woke him often, forcing him to shift positions and alleviate the pain for another half hour or so. He didn't dream. Just slept.

It was three hours into the night when he woke up suddenly, a gunshot echoing back to him. There was a moment of pause where that rolling crack of a bullet bouncing off the buildings and trees was the only sound, and then shouts could be heard.

Harper threw his door open, blinking his foggy eyes, trying to clear his head. His back protested the sudden movements, every joint screaming at him as he forced his body to be more limber than it was after three hours of no movement. He grabbed his rifle, didn't think to grab anything else. His boots. .h.i.t the ground and he hobbled towards the back end of the Humvee, trying to figure out what was going on in the darkness.