The Fall (Book 2): Dead Will Rise (18 page)

He woke to the sound of loud voices issuing commands. The first creeping rays of dawn cut through the clinic's windows, joined by the clomp of booted feet. They were coming for him. Someone had told, maybe one of the kids. They knew who he was. This was the moment from the premium selection of his nightmares, when the angry mob pulled a Frankenstein on him.

Except the rushing bodies pouring through the door avoided his slim cot sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling window. One of them even apologized when she bumped into it, her arms wrapped around the unconscious form of an injured man.

Phil and Evans were there in rumpled but clean uniforms, both men bright spots of color amid the mass of green and brown clad citizens. Moments later Gabrielle appeared from the basement where Andrea was being kept, assessing and moving to the next patient with the pitiless eyes of a battlefield surgeon. Kell watched in stunned fascination as she declared two patients beyond help, settling on a third. Hands passed her bundles of supplies, her movements measured as she cleaned, sutured, and bandaged.

Phil was no less busy as he ran his own triage, though luckier than Gabrielle; his patients weren't as seriously injured. Evans oversaw the whole affair, barking orders and moving between the bodies with the confidence of a man half his age. As more medical staff appeared, Evans ordered the muddy, sweating citizens out.

“We've got enough help now,” he said. “You're in the way. Get.”

A few of them looked ready to argue, but others stepped in to pull their reluctant friends away. The room, formerly a living room in the old house, cleared out quickly. The old doctor watched them leave, and when the last of them closed the door, Evans deflated a little. It wasn't that the strength went out of him, but as if a heavier weight were piled onto him. In a gentler voice than Kell had heard him use, the old man spoke to him. “Pull those curtains behind your bed, would you, son?”

Kell did as he was asked. Evans worked his way through the crowd of...nurses? Nurse aides? It was hard to tell, as everyone seemed to be doing a little bit of everything. He came to rest next to the seriously injured people Gabrielle had pronounced too far gone to be saved, and with the press of bodies gone, Kell could see them clearly. One of them was crushed almost flat at the hips, creating a mess held together—literally—with duct tape. If she was breathing, it wasn't apparent from where he lay.

The other was alive, awake, and terrified. It was a young man, barely old enough to shave every other day. His ribcage was deformed, blood misting from his mouth, fine flecks of it dusted across his face and chest. Without looking away from the woman, Evans called out to one of his workers.

“Daniel,” he said. “Please bring the kit.”

The low murmur in the room hushed. It was the unconscious act of people in the presence of something holy or profane, though the sense of life-and-death in the room might have been coloring Kell's perception. There was no doubt about the wave of discomfort in the people around him.

A man, presumably Daniel, came over with a plastic case. It appeared to be a small tool kit, which proved to be the case as Evans opened it to remove a mallet and a thick awl. The old man sighed in resignation, his slumped shoulders rolling with the breath. Even so, his hands didn't shake as he worked the grip of the tools, making sure his hands had purchase.

Evans looked over his shoulder at Kell. “We don't have curtains. You may want to look away.” Kell didn't, not because he was brave but because he didn't quite understand what was going to happen. He watched the old man hesitate, muttering a prayer before raising the tools to the woman's face. With a swift strike Evans hammered the awl through her nose and into her brain.

“Ruby,” the young man with the shattered ribcage croaked, coughing a gout of blood.

Evans set the tools down and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. “I'm sorry, Adam. She was gone before they even got her here,” he said.

Fresh tears rolled down Adam's face. The grinding rasp of his breathing grew worse, stuttering as the boy reached for air he couldn't find. Kell expected it to end at any moment, but Adam continued on, struggling every second.

He was crying, Kell realized. Weeping in great sobs no matter how much it hurt. Kell sat with his back against the window frame, frozen with pity as he tried to wrap his mind around what the young man must be going through. Adam began huffing out a mewling sound, which eventually resolved into barely-understandable words.

“Please,” he said. “Ready.”

Whether Evans would have ended the life of his patient, Kell never found out. With a final series of gurgling coughs, Adam died.

Kell and Laura were politely ushered from the clinic after lunch. The influx of patients—the result of a stack of telephone poles falling loose on a work crew—made their injuries too low on the priority list to allow them beds. Neither of them minded, insisting over and over to the apologetic staff that they weren't offended by being discharged.

He visited Andrea and Michelle before leaving and found both of them in good spirits. Evan was distant and on edge, but still spared Kell a long glance. Which from him was closing in on hug territory.

For his part, Kell couldn't have been happier to be moving around free. The clinic hadn't felt like a prison, but after so long out in the world he didn't much fancy being stuck anywhere against his will, even if it was for his own good. Despite the need for room, Phil hadn't let them walk out the door without a stern warning to come back every day for dressing changes.

The surgeon also gave Kell and Laura bottles of ridiculously expensive bourbon, grinning like an idiot. “A welcome gift,” he'd said. “Everyone gets one.”

“But why bourbon?” Kell had asked.

“It's Kentucky, man. What else are we supposed to hand out?”

Laura and Kell were met at the base of the clinic steps by Kate, who had somehow procured a golf cart. It was one of the larger types, a four-seater, and Kell was more than happy to stretch out in the back. Which amounted to barely fitting and sitting at an angle so his bandaged foot didn't butt against the front seat.

Before getting in herself, Kate reached between the front seats and came up with a set of boots. “Thought you might want these since you left yours behind,” she said, handing them over. They were new, not a scuff mark on them.

“Who'd you have to kill to get these?” Kell asked.

“No one,” Kate said with a mock frown. “Maybe next time.”

“They're nice,” Kell noted.

Kate swung into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. Kell was caught off guard at the speed of the cart, rocking sideways drunkenly as he gingerly pulled a boot over his injured foot. Kate, who had spent the previous day exploring, gave them a guided tour of New Haven.

Most of the houses inside the walls actually were homes, though more than one family had to pack into each one. There were patches of green here and there, gardens just starting, but most yards were furrowed dirt waiting to be planted. Kate pointed out several buildings that served different purposes. There were mess halls, three of them operating around the clock. A dispensary, which she'd visited to get Kell his new pair of boots. Not far from the clinic was a part of the neighborhood shaped like an island, roads surrounding it on all sides. It' wasn't huge, five or six houses on two sides, one on each end, but it was impressive. A wall surrounded it, obviously older than New Haven's wall. This one was made of odds and ends; pieces of lumber, downed trees, sections of chain link fence, old cars, and other assorted junk.

There were gates, one for each driveway. Kate pointed out a house with a smithy, and through the open gate he saw a huge man working a homemade forge. In the same huge yard a small group of people practiced combat. They were using spears. Kell smiled at that.

New Haven was much larger than he'd have expected. North Jackson itself was mostly indoors, the large factories perfect for securing a population from attackers. That same defensive quality made the place hell for personal space; if you weren't on business, you were in your alcove or shoddy home. Along with privacy, it was a huge driving force behind their choice to move into the more dangerous countryside.

More than once, children playing in the streets had to duck out of the way of their golf cart. The pure normality of it nearly took his breath away.

Kate took them in a full circuit of what the locals called 'old New Haven', which had been referred to as 'the compound' before the citizens decided on a name. The entirety of the original compound was the neighborhood itself. Much blood and sweat went into securing it, in making walls, and creating a safe place. The Haveners hadn't stopped there.

He discovered that when Kate drove them through a narrow gate in the east wall and into one of the expansions. Here there were no houses, or rather nothing from before the end of the world. An explosion of housing styles littered the place; here a cluster of tents with a collection of tables and other furniture suggesting the fabric structures were permanent homes. There several trailers circled up, a small courtyard in the middle with a merry fire blazing.

There were a few larger, permanent structures, but they resembled houses only in that they had walls. Intellectually, Kell appreciated the design, though the heavy doors, lack of ground-floor windows, and spiked defensive stakes left something to be desired. Picket fences weren't supposed to be used to impale enemies.

The cart was left at the gate. Though the ground was mostly packed dirt, it was too uneven to safely drive on. Again, Kate took charge, leading them toward the northeast corner of the expansion. The whole quarter lacked the signs of long habitation the area near the gate displayed, containing only a handful of vehicles in front of tents and a few campers. At the corner of the property, close enough to the walkway behind the outer wall to jump from one to the other, was the RV.

Several small fires burned, people milling about them. Kate hadn't mentioned the fact that every person who'd traveled from their old house would be camping right in front of the RV. People waved at him as he limped by.

It was only several hours later that he realized it hadn't bothered him to be surrounded by people, no sense of unease and fear. It was a moment of clarity that came without warning while he jotted down notes for every idea he'd had in the recent weeks.

Greeting familiar faces as he ambled toward the RV was like walking past the neighbor's yard. New Haven gave him the first glimmer of something he'd not felt in almost two years in North Jackson.

A place that felt like home.

Under threat of being stabbed by Gabrielle—and while she joked, she was also kind of scary—Kell stayed off his feet for the next three days except to check in at the clinic. The first day he enjoyed himself, fine tuning his notes and zoning out for hours at a time as he worked on expanding his ideas. By the second day he was restless; living in a house with no protective wall, then traveling under constant threat had set his throttle to full. Being a couch potato no longer suited.

Day three involved paper airplanes and a rigorous study of their engineering.

On day four he was given the all-clear to walk, but not run. Laura joined him on a walk to the management building, where they were supposed to have a series of meetings. New Haven never ran out of work, and there was a full-time staff dedicated to schedules, work crews, and finding the right person for each job. Sometimes several jobs.

That first meeting was over quickly; the interviewer asked each of them a dozen questions and marked the appropriate boxes on a form. Kell laughed at that, which according to the woman taking his information wasn't an uncommon reaction. Along with the Spanish Inquisition, no one expects bureaucracy after the world ends.

The second meeting was with Will Price himself, governor of New Haven and basically the boss. Kate had gathered information and shared it with the rest of the class as usual. Will answered to a council, and had an interesting and troubled history within the community.

Having been nearly murdered by one of the leadership at North Jackson—Kell had no fond memories of Phillip or his knife—he was understandably nervous about sitting in front of the big man's desk. Still, if there was a group out there causing trouble, Kell would pass on everything he knew. A small tingle of guilt chased its tail in his head for a moment at the thought. After all, if they hadn't stolen the SUV and invited the wrath of whoever backed Grim and his hunters, the attack wouldn't have happened and Andrea and the others wouldn't have been hurt. The idea that he'd brought additional scrutiny down on New Haven chafed as well.

Behind all of it, a quivering anxiety was building. Kell found himself weary at the idea of having to start over again if New Haven didn't work out. That tiny bud of hope was fed by observation; the place was well-run, the people possessed of a community spirit he hadn't seen since before The Fall. In short, he was getting his hopes up. People here acted like...well, people. Human beings with hard jobs and hard lives, who still found it in themselves to be decent even if some of them were suspicious of the new guys.

The woman in charge of agriculture had somehow discovered his profound love of pickles and brought him a jar she'd made herself. If nothing else gave him hope, that did.

An assistant led them through the complex arrangement of repurposed shipping containers, up two flights of steps, and to a heavy door cut in the side of one of the heavy steel boxes. It was a clever use of space, the tops of each container acting as a walkway between the stacks. Here and there heavy supports reinforced the whole thing, along with armor plating in key areas. The outside of Will's office, twenty feet above the ground, was densely layered in armor. It looked like it could take a tank round.

A trill of worry rolled through his stomach as they stepped through the door. The memory of Philip in his office, clear desk, clean surfaces gleaming, the sense of deliberate intimidation, rushed through him.

Will's office couldn't have been more different if he had tried. This was clearly the work space of a man deeply involved with the community he oversaw. Piles of paperwork neatly stacked in folders littered the cramped space. The small desk was covered in active work, half a dozen files spread out. Cabinets lined the walls, Will rifling through several with his back toward them.

Laura cleared her throat, causing Will to spin his chair toward them.

He was surprisingly young, though the stress of leadership had given him a few gray hairs years ahead of schedule. His face had the same weather-beaten look most of the locals carried, skin tan even from the faded light of the dying winter season. Otherwise he was an average-looking man with intelligent blue eyes.

“You must be Laura,” he said, shaking her hand. “And you like to be called K, is that correct?”

Will's eyes lingered on him for a few seconds. “Uh, yes. Kevin, but everyone calls me K. Or Big K, either is fine.”

The man responsible for hundreds of lives flashed a sunny smile and went back to rooting through his file cabinets, this time unlocking the one on the wall behind his chair.

“I'm sure Kate told you why I wanted to meet you,” Will said over his shoulder as he searched through files. “It's vitally important we don't spread word about these people. The council thinks they're two separate groups, but we don't want the word to spread we know about them. Either of them, if the council is right.”

“What makes you think they're one group?” Laura asked. “Pretty different ways of doing things.”

Will paused in his search, nodding. “Yes, that's true. One group sends out small hunting and gathering parties, and has others man transports to move the goods. They stay under the radar as much as possible, and avoid conflict.” Leaning back over the open file drawer, he continued. “The other...well, they hit a community and kill everyone in it. No slavery, like marauders. No rapes that we know of. They come in, kill everyone, and take everything. Thank god they seem to have stopped after two attacks, but they were enough. Scary good at what they do.”

Will smiled, rotating back to face them. He tossed a file on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I think they're one in the same. The first group are civilians with a few military people leading them, if I'm right. The second are mostly military. And that pisses me off. I was a soldier. That's not what you do to your own people.” Will leaned forward, elbows on the thick coating of papers. “They're both after resources. Food, mostly. Both use a tremendous amount of fuel getting here and there. Neither have come into contact with the other from what we can tell. We've encountered both groups at one point or another, so it stands to reason random chance would dictate they meet. Maybe they have and our scouts haven't caught it, but reports tell me neither group comes within fifty miles of each other. Which suggests cooperation if not separate heads of the same beast.”

Kell nodded appreciatively. “Nicely reasoned.”

Will bowed his head. “Thank you. Now, please. Regale me with your own experience with these people. Every bit helps us build a better idea of who we might have to fight if they show up again.”

The telling didn't take long, and would have been even shorter had Will not asked questions occasionally. He showed no surprise, though he did laugh when Kell got to the part where he and Andrea had stolen the SUV.

“Nothing we didn't already know,” Will said when they finished. “Not that it's unhelpful; independent corroboration never hurts.” He looked pensive for several seconds, suddenly a thousand miles away. “I'm a little torn here,” Will admitted. “I need to put the nail in the coffin of whether or not this really is one large group of people. If it comes to fighting, we need the most accurate information possible. Problem is, so few people even know about these folks, my pool of scouts is limited.”

The question was obvious. Laura absently scratched at the bandage on her scalp, stuck to the spot they'd shaved around the wound. “I'll go. K should stay here. He won't be much good on that foot.”