The Remaining: Fractured (30 page)

Jim’s eyes were sad. “You can’t keep us all alive by sheer willpower. Only God…”

LaRouche cut him off. “I’m not getting into an existential debate with a priest. God will understand that I’m putting in my best effort here.”

Jim smiled wanly, nodded, and looked away. “I understand.”

Maybe you do, maybe you don’t
, LaRouche thought.

“We’ve given the man food and water. Reunited him with his daughter.”

“Fantastic.”

“You should talk to him. See what he has to say.”

“Yeah.” LaRouche let out a beleaguered breath. “I suppose I should.”

***

Wilson and Joel stood with the man when LaRouche approached. The others sat on the tailgates and bumpers of their trucks, eating from food of their own creation, or dipping into the supply of MREs for a taste of good old processed food that made them feel like there was still civilization out there.

LaRouche took a good look at the man in the overalls and white thermal shirt. He seemed young to have a four year-old daughter—only in his mid to late twenties. But he also had that weathered look of a farmer, and in LaRouche’s experience, most men in that culture didn’t wait too long to marry and have kids.

LaRouche scratched his neck, regarded the man placidly. “What’s your name?”

“Jackson.” The man put an arm around his daughter. “This is Tessa.”

LaRouche forced a smile for the sake of the child, but dropped it when he turned his eyes back to Jackson. “We need to talk. Alone.”

Jackson looked at his little girl, then at Father Jim, who he apparently was comfortable enough with. Jim gave him a very small nod as though to tell him that he was not in any danger. Jackson squeezed his daughter’s shoulder. “Sweetie, can you stay here for a minute? I’ll be right back.”

Tessa looked hesitant, but nodded.

Jackson rose and LaRouche directed him between an LMTV and a Humvee so that when they stepped through they were outside the circle of vehicles. LaRouche stopped, rested his hands on the rifle slung across his chest.

Jackson wrung his hands. “Listen, I’m sorry…I had no idea.”

LaRouche waved him off. “Forget it. That’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

“Okay.”

“We can’t keep you around,” LaRouche stated simply. “We’re conducting a very specific mission, and there’s no room on board for you and your daughter, understand?”

Jackson opened his mouth as though to protest. He stared at LaRouche, saw the deadpan eyes, saw that LaRouche would not be impressed by whatever he had to say, and then he closed his mouth. “So what are you going to do with us?”

“Well, I’m not gonna leave on the side of the road,” LaRouche grumbled, then added under his breath, “No matter how easy that would be.” He twiddled his thumbs. “Your group must have known some other groups of survivors. We can take you to one of them.”

Jackson looked unsure. “Shit…we only knew two or three of them. There’s no telling if any of them are still alive. The Followers have been tearing us apart, man.” he looked up. “You guys look like you know what you’re doing. Weren’t you the guys that…?” he cut himself off, a look of terror and shame passing over his features.

LaRouche shifted his weight. Tilted his head. “Jackson…”

The younger man looked away, his chin quivering.

LaRouche shook his head as though he’d just heard sad news. He turned and spat on the ground. His mouth was dry, his spittle frothy. He fished in his cargo pocket for his packet of Red Man. It was down to its last bit of tobacco. He opened the pack, took a pinch for himself, then offered it to Jackson.

The young man declined, then hung his head.

LaRouche replaced the pack. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled.

“Look,” Jackson said defensively, still not meeting LaRouche’s gaze. “We didn’t have a fucking choice.”

LaRouche shrugged. “I’m not judging you.”

Jackson breathed shakily. “They took another group of survivors a few days ago. They were a little further west of us, near Fremont. So, we thought we might be in the clear. We knew that The Followers were coming out of the east. Thought maybe they skipped over us. Maybe they wouldn’t find us. But then yesterday morning…” He looked up, tears glistening on his lower eyelids. “There was no time. I didn’t have time to do anything. I just shoved Tessa out the back of our tent and I told her to run. Didn’t even tell her I loved her. Couldn’t put a coat on her, or shoes.”

He buried his face in his hands for a moment. His shoulders shook, but when he removed his hands, his face was blank. “I just…came out with my hands up, because I didn’t want to die. They were going into everyone’s shacks. Killing them if they resisted. Dragging the cooperative ones like myself out in front of the farmhouse.” His voice took on a slow, monotonous tone, almost hypnotic, as though he spoke these memories out of a nightmare. “Took the women and children away. Tied ropes around their necks. Shot them if they tried to run, or fight. Then they made us do this weird…oath…and we had to get down on our knees. But some of the guys wouldn’t kneel…so…”

LaRouche gave the man the only compassion that he could muster: he leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, and shook his head. “We know.”

Jackson nodded.

LaRouche looked off into the surrounding woods. “So you were with the group that we hit yesterday.”

Another nod.

“And you just came back here?”

“Yes. I ran back here, but I…I was too afraid to go in. So I just sat in the woods and stayed quiet. Hoped that Tessa would show up.” He rubbed his forehead. “When I saw her get out of ya’ll’s truck, I didn’t know what to think. But Father Jim seemed so kind to her…and I couldn’t just let her go again. So I came out of the woods.” He glanced at LaRouche. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do. And I didn’t know there were infected that close to me in the woods.”

LaRouche sighed, but couldn’t think of much else to say, except, “Well…”

“So, aren’t you guys going to help?”

LaRouche tongued the tobacco in his cheek. “Help with what, Jackson?”

“Help us with The Followers.”

LaRouche made a humorless chuckling sound. “Jackson, let me be completely honest with you. There are many, many times more of them than there are of us. It’s simply not a situation that we have the time or resources to handle.”

“What do you mean you don’t have the time?”

LaRouche narrowed his eyes. “I mean I don’t have the fucking time. There are bigger things at play here. Much bigger things. You want my advice? You tell me another group of survivors. A group that hasn’t been knocked over by The Followers. And when we drop you off, you gather everyone you can, and every weapon and every supply that you can, and you head west as fast as you fucking can. ‘Cause there ain’t shit I can do about The Followers, and if you decide to stick around, then it’s just a matter of time before you’re nailing someone to a fucking telephone pole, or getting hung on one yourself.”

“What about my daughter?”

“Your daughter isn’t my concern,” LaRouche replied, blandly. “I already saved her once. The rest is up to you.” He looked at the other man pointedly. “You’re her father.”

Jackson looked like he had just tasted something sour. “And what if I don’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Where to find another group of survivors.”

LaRouche shrugged. “Then we leave you right here, Jackson. One way or another, you’re gonna be out of my hair.”

Jackson looked down, inspected his worn out, dirty boots. “Parker’s Place,” he muttered.

“What now?” LaRouche leaned forward.

Jackson spoke up. “Parker’s Place. It’s another farm. About thirty people there. Few miles north of here. Last I heard, they were doing okay.” Jackson met LaRouche’s gaze. “If you take us there…I would appreciate it.”

“Okay.” LaRouche sniffed. “We can do that.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so LaRouche turned away from him and stepped back towards the circle of vehicles. He didn’t have much appetite, but he knew he needed to eat something. As he stepped between the Humvee and the LMTV, Jackson’s voice stopped him.

“I, uh…” Jackson started, then paused until LaRouche turned to face him. “I heard a few of them talking. The tall, older guy. I think he was in charge.” Jackson kicked at a loose chunk of concrete in the road. “This isn’t an expansion. They’re not trying to…you know…take over the world.”

LaRouche eyed him, wondered how fucked this man’s brain had become in the last twenty-four hours. “Sure seems like that’s what they’re doing.”

Jackson shook his head. “They’re being driven west.”

“Driven?”

“Something is pushing them this way.” Jackson looked around, shrugged. “Don’t know what it is, though.”

LaRouche felt a cold certainty settle in his stomach.
Bet I know what it is.

Instead, he just flicked a salute to Jackson. “Thanks.”

***

Wilson and Jim sat on the tailgate of their Humvee, sharing a packet of Chips Ahoy that Wilson had long-ago lifted from the glove box of a vehicle. They didn’t bother checking the expiration date—just sniffed it to make sure it didn’t smell offensive, and then split the pack.

Jim closed his eyes as he chewed. “What was my problem with these things again?”

Wilson shook his head. “I never had a problem with a cookie.”

Jim inspected the half-cookie pinched between his fingers. “A while ago, I would’ve declined these when you offered them. Something about trans fats, or what not. Now I don’t even remember what trans fats were, or why I cared about them.”

Wilson smiled. “Yeah. They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”

“They really don’t,” Jim said wistfully, looking at the last bite with some regret.

Wilson sucked on his teeth. Glanced at the ex-priest. “Listen…I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, especially in front of a stranger.” Wilson crumpled the blue wrapper in his hands. “We shouldn’t show division when dealing with people we don’t know.”

Jim made a noncommittal noise. “It’s just…”

“I know.”

“Yeah.”

Wilson sighed.  

Jim glanced around. “I really thought he was gonna do it.”

“Shoot him?”

“Didn’t you?”

Wilson’s lips quirked, but he didn’t seem to have a solid answer. “He gets a little intense.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.” Jim snorted. “If he’d’ve pulled that trigger, that man’s brains would be all over his daughter. She would have watched us murder her father after she asked for our help and we promised that we’d give it.”

“Cut the man some slack, Jim,” Wilson said. “He just got infected blood in his mouth.”

Jim looked unconvinced. “I don’t think you can contract it that way.”

“Would that make you feel any better?”

“It wouldn’t make me feel like I needed to shoot someone.”

Wilson looked his companion in the eye. “Jim. You’re my friend. And I’m asking you as a friend. Please don’t push LaRouche. The last thing he needs right now is to be worrying about looking over his shoulder at us—the people that should have his back no matter what.”

Jim looked pained. “I understand that. But I’m not just gonna allow him to murder someone in front of me.” He leaned in to Wilson, his voice growing harsher. “For God’s sake, he already tortured and murdered one man! It’s bad enough that I’m still following his orders when I’m doubting his mental stability, but I absolutely will
not
just stand by and watch him do it right in front of me!”

Wilson nodded, and began to respond, but LaRouche turned the corner of the Humvee.

The silence that suddenly fell on them was brief, but obvious and painful.

LaRouche glanced between them, seeming to know everything.

“What’s up, Sarge?” Wilson broke the silence, then cleared his throat.

LaRouche tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “Get everyone loaded.” He gave Jim a sharp look. “Time to hit the road again.”

CHAPTER 19: HAUNTED

It was an old shopping center along Highway 61. A failing economy had crippled the strip mall long before the collapse came along and wiped it out. Most of the suites in the brownstone building were empty. The ones with windows still intact had signs advertising that the leases were available. A few stubborn businesses had remained open until the bitter end. A New York-style pizza place. A liquor store. A small grocery store.

Harper directed Julia to pull in. They were getting close to the section of I-85 that ran between Burlington and Greensboro, and he didn’t want to stop. If any place was going to be bad, it was going to be the interstate between those two cities, and he wanted to hit it with a running start and not stop until sundown.

They rumbled into the parking lot, jostling over the remnants of a speed bump, the black and yellow-painted stripes barely visible anymore. The convoy rolled in behind them, and Julia brought their Humvee in a slow, wide turn, around the empty parking lot, and finally stopped, facing an exit.

Now the dark interiors of the suites were on Julia’s side, and she and Harper gazed out the driver’s side window at them, no one daring to open their doors or even take the vehicle out of gear before they gave it a long minute to see if the racket of the incoming vehicles had stirred anything that might be lurking in the shadows.

In the turret, Gray shifted his position. The hinges of the M2 creaked a bit. They were in need of some grease.

After a while, Julia’s shoulders relaxed a bit. She turned to Harper. “Clear?”

Harper nodded once, then grabbed the radio set. “Takin’ twenty minutes for food and fuel,” he said into the mic, then set it back on the cradle. He glanced at Julia, then pointed to the little strip of shops. “You gonna help me clear these things?”

Julia sighed, pushed her door open. “Yeah, why not.”

Gray grumbled wordlessly as he extracted himself from the turret. When he was in the cab of the truck and working his way towards a door, he said, “Holler if you need me. I gotta take a piss.”

Harper stepped out, slinging into his rifle and adjusting the collar of his jacket so it covered his neck. He sniffed the air, detected only the smell of human civilization long abandoned—a sort of
non
-smell, like frozen concrete. An absence of exhaust fumes, the smell of restaurants, and smoke from factories. But also the absence of anything natural, like trees or dirt. Just a plain, dead, grittiness in the air.