The Remaining: Fractured Part 8

"How many don't have IDs on them?" Harper asked, flicking the card away from him. "A f.u.c.king lot. Most don't have ID on them. So we've seen two Virginia IDs out of how many? Maybe five total?" He shook his head. "s.h.i.tfire."

There was really nothing else to be said. The trio scanned the area around them and saw nothing else to catch their eyes, so they turned back towards the convoy and began walking again. As they approached, Harper could see Nate Malone standing at the front of the lead LMTV, rifle hanging from his makeshift sling, arms crossed over it. The first man to volunteer when Lee asked for help, and the one that had organized and convinced many of the other volunteers. Harper wondered if he regretted it now, leaving his wife behind at Camp Ryder and coming out here on a long-odds mission.

Nate nodded as they drew closer. "We're ready."

Harper took a deep breath and looked down the column of vehicles to the end, where the Humvee was positioned, facing in the opposite direction. Back towards Camp Ryder. Devon Mills, the young, flush-faced kid from camp pushed his pack into the pa.s.senger door of the Humvee.

Harper made eye contact with Nate. "Are you sure you have everything you need?"

"Yes."

"You've got enough food and water and ammunition?"

Nate smiled. "Yes. We have everything."

"Alright." Harper's lips drew out, thin and pale. "Be careful. Keep yourself and Devon alive."

"I will." Nate turned partially, but then stopped and looked back. "We're gonna find out what's going on at Camp Ryder. We'll be back before you know it."

CHAPTER 7: SMOKE TRAILS.

LaRouche's convoy roared down two-lane blacktop, riding directly on top of the double-yellow line. LaRouche sat in the pa.s.senger seat of the lead vehicle, trying to read a map as the freezing wind from his open window jerked the paper around.

"Four-way up ahead," Wilson called.

LaRouche frowned and turned the map counterclockwise. "Uh...keep going. I think."

He hazarded a glance out the window. They headed east into the sunrise. Now the gouts of black smoke were to the south. LaRouche had been trying to navigate them around whatever catastrophe the smoke was rising out of, but now it seemed thicker and closer than before. Like no matter where he took them, they were being drawn there.

All roads leading to disaster.

Whatever was going on, it couldn't be more than a mile away.

They pa.s.sed the four-way stop and LaRouche forced his attention back to the map, jabbing his finger at their last known location and tracing it along thin lines until he saw the four-way stop they'd just pa.s.sed through. The road curved, and when they had turned through it, the smoke was rising almost directly in front of them.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h." LaRouche shook the map. "Just f.u.c.king stop. Stop!"

Wilson looked p.i.s.sed. He slammed on the brakes. "Where the f.u.c.k are we going?"

"I'm figuring it out!" LaRouche yelled. "I don't have a G.o.dd.a.m.ned GPS! Gimme a f.u.c.kin' minute to read this piece of s.h.i.t map!" He wrangled the oversized paper around. Despite the cold air, sweat gathered on his eyebrows. "Okay...okay...Go up here and hang a left on 7 Pines Road..."

"Sarge..."

LaRouche tried to fold the map, but couldn't find the creases and began to simply ball it up in anger. "Just go up and make a left on 7 Pines Road."

"Sarge!"

LaRouche turned to Wilson. "What?!"

Wilson pointed down the road.

LaRouche looked where Wilson was pointing. He dropped the map, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his rifle.

Father Jim leaned out of the backseat, grabbed LaRouche's shoulder. "Don't shoot! It's just a kid!"

Directly ahead of them, a small figure stood. She couldn't have been more than four years old. She wore what looked like a home-spun dress-little more than a sack with holes for the arms and head. She walked barefoot, with the stunted, shambling steps of someone on the brink of delirium, her chest hitching rapidly. Over the idling engines LaRouche could hear her sobbing hysterically.

LaRouche pushed his rifle through the window. "She's infected."

"She's crying!" Jim almost shouted in his ear. "Don't shoot her!"

LaRouche looked at Wilson.

The driver glanced back and forth between LaRouche and the little girl, shaking his head just slightly. "Sarge...I don't think she's infected."

She drew closer to them. Slowly but surely. Didn't even seem to register the convoy of vehicles that blocked her path. Her thin arms were locked stiffly at her sides, but the small hands opened and closed like she was trying to grab something. Her round face was grimed and streaked with her tears, her mouth open as she cried, eyes nearly closed.

"f.u.c.k." LaRouche muttered, trying to search the girl's face for something that might tell him the truth. She was thin, but she didn't seem starved. Dirty, but not soiled. Desperate, but not insane. No blood on her face. No blood anywhere on her.

Still...

LaRouche stamped his foot a few times as though he wished there was a gas pedal there to take him out of this situation. He knew what the others wanted him to say, but he didn't want to say it. He wanted to tell them to drive away, leave the little girl and all of her problems behind. But Wilson and Jim...they would want to save her. Of course they f.u.c.king would.

Wilson cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Come on, LaRouche," Jim said. "It's a little girl."

LaRouche turned on him. "I know that, Jim. But I need you to think ahead for two f.u.c.king seconds. We can't take a kid with us where we're going. We don't have the time to get involved in this bulls.h.i.t right now. It's just a bad idea."

Silence in the Humvee. Long, uncomfortable silence. The kind that only existed because no one could even wrap their heads around what LaRouche was trying to tell them. They couldn't even come up with words to rebut him because what he was saying was in a language they didn't speak. All they could see was a little girl walking down the middle of the road, crying.

And time was wasting.

LaRouche swore. "Fine! f.u.c.k you both!" he punched the dashboard, then kicked open his door. "Jim, you've got thirty seconds to grab her and get her in the f.u.c.king truck and then we're gone, you understand that?"

"Okay," Jim said.

"Wilson, me and you are going to move up with Jim and keep him covered until he gets the girl in the car." LaRouche slid out of his seat. "And for the record, I still think this is a horrible idea. I just don't have the time to talk sense into you."

"Okay," Wilson cranked the truck out of gear and yanked the emergency brake.

LaRouche looked back at the convoy, held up his hand, palm out: Stay put.

Jim and Wilson piled out. The three of them moved forward, Jim in front, with Wilson to his left and LaRouche to his right. Jim stepped quickly, his rifle slung onto his back, his hands open and exposed to the girl to show that he meant no harm. He put a finger to his lips, trying to tell her to be quiet, but here in the thin morning air her wail bounced from woodline to woodline.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

LaRouche cringed, forced his eyes off of the little girl. He scanned back behind her, then all around them and into the surrounding woods and pastures. Watched for movement. For things rustling through the trees, slipping through the gra.s.sy fields.

This is a f.u.c.king mistake.

As they pulled up closer to the little girl, she stopped moving forward, but her feet still stamped restlessly, as though she couldn't figure out what to do with herself. LaRouche edged pa.s.sed her, giving her only a cursory glance, but noticing how her entire body trembled so violently. From fear or from cold, or both.

Jim knelt down with the girl. "Hey, sweetie..."

"Daddy!" she continued to wail. "I want my daddy!"

"Can you come with me? You'll be safe with us."

"Daddy!"

LaRouche glanced back and raised his voice over the girl. "Jim! Grab her and let's go!"

Jim reached for her. "Okay, sweetie, I'm gonna pick you up and take you back to our car so you can be safe. It's okay, we're the good guys. No one's gonna hurt you."

She didn't resist it. Like she was frozen. Like she had no control over herself.

Jim picked her up, cradling her against his shoulder. He turned back for the Humvee and began jogging.

"They're hurting Daddy!" the girl screamed.

LaRouche looked down the road but couldn't see anything but the triple columns of smoke. He and Wilson began to move back, following Jim. The girl yelled something else now, but between his rattling gear and huffing breath, LaRouche couldn't make it out. He turned to Wilson as they ran. "What's she saying?"

Wilson just shook his head.

Jim reached the vehicle first. He shifted the little girl on his arms and opened his door. LaRouche and Wilson pulled up right behind him and just before Jim set the girl in the Humvee, she yelled again, and this time LaRouche heard what she yelled.

"They're gonna hurt Daddy on the cross!"

Jim put her in the vehicle and closed the door.

With the girl in the car, LaRouche could hear something he hadn't been able to hear before, but it was short lived as though the sound had been carried to him on the wind, and it died as quickly as it registered with him. Coming from the direction of the columns of smoke, LaRouche heard people screaming.

Then nothing.

He brought a hand to his head, raked his fingers along his scalp.

"LaRouche..." Jim said.

"We gotta do something," Wilson jumped in.

LaRouche didn't argue with them this time. He felt shaky. Liquid on the inside. He just hissed through his clenched teeth and looked back down the road. He knew this was going to happen. He f.u.c.king knew it. That's why he didn't want to mess with the little girl in the first place. You couldn't just mess around with parts of the problem. You had to tackle the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing.

Jim put a hand on his shoulder. "It's the right thing to do."

Without responding, LaRouche turned and opened his door. He leaned in and s.n.a.t.c.hed the radio handset from its cradle and brought it up to his mouth. "Lucky and Joel. Up front. Now."

Down the convoy, two doors opened and the men piled out and came running.

LaRouche moved to the rear of the Humvee and opened the fastback. He reached in and grabbed his pack and then slammed it closed. By the time he situated the straps on his shoulders, Lucky and Joel stood next to him. An interesting combo with Lucky's bright red hair and Joel's white-blonde Q-tip top.

He pointed to Lucky. "You're with us." He turned to Joel. "Joel, you're gonna drive this thing. There's a little girl in the backseat. Go up to 7 Pines Road and make a left. Pull off and wait for us there. If we're not back in an hour, or if you guys start taking contact, move back to the warehouse we slept in last night. Understand?"

Joel nodded quickly. "I got it."

LaRouche shouldered his rifle and turned to his three companions, Jim, Wilson, and Lucky. "Alright. Let's move."

LaRouche led them into the woods on the right-hand side of the road, plunging in about a hundred yards until they could barely see the road. They skirted along as quickly but as quietly as they could, urgency pushing their footsteps faster and faster until they were almost running.

LaRouche couldn't hear the screams anymore. Wasn't sure if he'd ever even heard them in the first place, or if he'd just imagined them. Whether he'd heard them or not, now it was eerily silent ahead of them. Silent like a spider in a web.

Maybe he was being paranoid...

A single gunshot cracked through the woods.

LaRouche's first instinct was to hit the dirt but he stopped himself at a half-crouch. He knew what a bullet sounded like when it was aimed in his direction, and what he heard was not that. What he'd heard was the clear and singular pop of a pistol round, and no hiss or zing or splitting branches that he would've heard if it were aimed at him.

He looked back at the others. They had followed his lead and crouched down a couple yards back from him, all three sets of eyes stretched open wide. He motioned with his head to keep moving, then rose out of his crouch, pushing on while the others fell into step behind him.

He shouldn't be scared, he told himself. He'd been here before. He'd been in bad situations. He'd been in combat. He'd battled enemies and shot them dead. Nothing different about this, was there?

Was there?

Another gunshot.

Straight ahead of him through the thinning trees, the scene came into view as suddenly as if a curtain had been lifted. The forest stopped abruptly about fifty yards in front of them. A road. A narrow slab of blacktop extended out in either direction. There was an old pa.s.senger van, and a small pickup truck behind it. Huddled to the rear of the pickup were perhaps five or six men. They all stood with stooped shoulders, their hands wringing, looking about with worried eyes. Four men with rifles surrounded them. On their arms they wore the white band with the red cross-and-circle. The symbol of The Followers of the Rapture.

There was another man there, standing apart from the larger group. He was a tall man with a wiry head of gray hair and-oddly enough-a clean-shaven face. He wore an old pea coat that seemed a size too small for him, his pale wrists extending past the cuffs several inches. He held a pistol in his right hand. Kneeling on the ground before him was another man. The kneeling man wore a bright red knitted cap that stood out like a beacon.

The tall man in the pea coat began speaking. LaRouche signaled for the others to stop. He leaned up against a tree, turning his head just slightly as he tried to listen. The tall man did not yell, but his voice carried. He projected, like an orator. Like a preacher behind a pulpit.

"You have repented for your sins," he said to the man in the red cap. "You have renounced Satan and all of his evils of this world, and you have accepted Jesus Christ and G.o.d as the true ruler of this earth. Is this true?"

Red Cap nodded, burbled something that LaRouche couldn't hear.

The Tall Man smiled and raised the pistol. "You have sworn to cleanse this earth. Will you do The Lord's work?"

Red Cap began to shake violently and weep.

The Tall Man bent slightly at the waist. "Will you do The Lord's work?"