The Remaining: Refugees (65 page)

“I can figure it out.”

“You’ve gotta tell the other settlements. Get some help to us. And find Captain Harden.”

Tomlin nodded.

Bus pushed him towards the door. “Not much time! Go!”

Tomlin moved without hesitation. He bolted through the office door and never even asked how to get to the roof. Bus was confident that the man could
do it
. He looked to Angela and Vicky. “You two get out of here while you can.”

Angela put an arm around the other woman’s shoulders and ushered her to the door, but then she only shoved her through and closed and locked the door behind her. She turned and produced a small black pistol from her waistband. “I’m sorry, I left my rifle in
my shack
.”

Bus shook his head adamantly. “You’re not staying up here with me. Lee would kill me if he found out…”

Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes. “Bus…I don’t
even know if
Lee is
alive
.”

Bus’s jaw worked hard underneath the thick, dark beard. “He’s
alive
.”

From below them
came
the sound of a door being thrown open and people started shouting. Two shots rang out, causing Bus and Angela both to jump and stare at
each other with unabashed fear
.

“Alright.” Bus nodded. “Too late to turn back now.”

He grabbed the heavy desk with an underhanded grip and with one great
,
growling effort he heaved the desk over onto its side. Then he crouched down behind it, and Angela joined him.

“We’re not gonna fight if we don’t have to,” Bus said. “But I’m talking face-to-face with Jerry before this is over.”

Angela only nodded, her hands trembling.

They waited.

***

Tomlin worked his way through the shadows, his heart thras
hing around inside of his chest.
W
ild and
panicked, it belied the steady, sinewy movements of his body as he crept
over
the catwalk that ran along the upper level and stood like a bridge across the main open area of the Camp Ryder building where a few people still had their shanties and most people gathered to eat their meals as a community.

To the left, the catwalk dropped over a single, flimsy rail and he could see the people milling about in panic below as five of the gunmen began to surround them,
firing their rifles into the roof
for effect and making Tomlin pray that he didn’t catch a ricochet from one of those idiots.

To his right, the catwalk butted straight into the wall where a slew of pipes, air ducts, and electrical conduits ran horizontally along the six foot space between the catwalk and the ceiling. Straight up ahead, Tomlin could see what appeared to be
the
ladder that led to the roof.

The clanging of metal rungs brought his attention straight ahead.

Someone was climbing down from the roof. He could see their legs working quickly down the ladder.

Attack or hide?

Hiding gave him
a narrow chance, but the only
chance
he had. Bus’s plan was the only plan, and he suspect
ed
that even if he had more time to consider it, he wouldn’t have come up with a better one. The only hope for Camp Ryder and Captain Harden was for Tomlin to get to one of the other settlements, and sound the alarm that shit was going down.

He dove to the side, wedging himself between a row of three large pipes that sat abreast of each other, and an air duct. Panic shot through him like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket. He felt sure that he was not hidden well, that as soon as whoever was coming down from the roof passed by, they would see him sandwiched in there, and he was crammed in so tight that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. He pictured it, his arms pinned down to his side, his rifle facing harmlessly in the wrong direction, as his enemies raised their weapons and pumped round after round into him, and he would be conscious as each bullet ripped into his guts and split him open.

The sound of boots struck the catwalk.

Someone shouted, “Let’s go, Jerry!”

More boots banging on the catwalk, then the sound of running, pounding and reverberating harder and harder as it drew closer to him.

Yes, keep running…
If they sprinted past him, their chances of noticing him wedged into all these dark
-colored pipes
were pretty slim. If they would just keep running.

“Wait, slow up!” A new voice said, an older voice.

Shit shit shit!

“You see that?”

“Yeah.”

“Motherfucker’s holed himself into the office!”

Relief flooded him so hard, he thought he might piss himself.

The footsteps picked up the pace again, and two shadowy figures passed by, only inches from him. He could have reached out and touched them, and at any point in time he feared they would suddenly stop and turn to look at him, but the office
held
their attention.

Tomlin waited until their footsteps had retreated off the catwalk and then he scrambled to free himself from his hiding place. He twisted and turned and finally extricated himself and his rifle, although a sharp bit of
welding took a nasty
chunk out of his left forearm. With his feet under him, he moved as quickly and quietly as he could manage towards the ladder.

So close…so close…

“Hey!” Someone shouted.

Maybe they’re not yelling at me.

“Shoot him!”

The distinct barking sound of an M4 firing three rounds in quick succession came f
rom below him
. He wasn’t sure where two of the rounds went, but he watched a section of cement wall to his right suddenly explode into fragments, and
knew that the rounds were meant for him
.

All pretense of stealth immediately left him.

It was do-or-
die time.

He bolted for the ladder, crossing the last dozen yards in an instant and leaping halfway up the rungs as more rifle reports came from behind him. This time he felt the rounds, impacting close to him. He could feel the shrapnel from the cement wall stinging his face, feel the ladder lurch
under him as they struck the metal
.
H
e cringed, waiting for that ricochet to find him.

He kept pulling with his arms, thrusting with his feet.

Daylight above his head.

He grabbed the lip of the roof and pulled himself up like he weighed nothing at all, then vaulted himself over the edge. He hit the ground and rolled twice, then scrambled to his hands and knees,
and finally
to his feet.

He ran towards the edge of the roof, but then stopped himself short.

He looked around, gasping for air.

“How do I get down? How do I get down?”

The sound of shouting, echoing up to him from the ladder.

He scanned the entire perimeter of the roof, but didn’t see anything tha
t looked remotely like a ladder. Not
even a drain pipe that he might scramble down. How high u
p was he? Two stories? Three? If
he busted his ankle on the way down, he’d be
screwed
…

A banging noise.

Metal on metal vibrations.

Someone was shimmying up the ladder.

He crouched down, making a small target of himself and brought the M4 up.

An identical rifle to his own suddenly protruded from the hole in the roof, and it began
spitting
out bright tongue
s of flame, the operator of the
weapon blindly firing over the edge, hoping to strike something. But he’d chosen the wrong direction and was firing uselessly off to Tomlin’s left.

Tomlin snapped off one round and watched the rifle fly out of its owner’s grip as the bullet struck it right in the receiver. From the ladder came a yelp of surprise and pain.

Should hold them off for a second…

His options were dwindling quickly. It was either jump, or eventually get waxed by an enterprising individual that chose to pop up from the ladder at just the right time when Tomlin wasn’t looking. He would
n’t last on the roof forever
.

He ran to the edge of the roof and looked down.

It looked more like ten stories than the two or three it was.

He’d never been a fan of heights.

Lucky for him, he was facing the backside of the building, and there
before him
was the very same shipping container tha
t he had escaped from, maybe five or ten feet
off the side of the building. It would cut down on the distance he would have to fall, and lessen his risk of injury.

More shouting from behind him
.

Now or never…

He backed up a few paces to get himself a running start, then flung himself over the edge.

He thought the drop was going to take much longer but the top of the shipping container rushed at him with surprising speed and he didn’t quite have enough time to set himself
up
for a good landing. He hit the top of it with an explosive noise and immediately pitched forward.

He was too close
to the edge
.

He tumbled off the shipping container and hit the ground on his side, the magazines in the shoulder sling jabbing mercilessly at his side and sending shooting pains through his ribs. He felt the air leave his lungs and
refused to
go back in, his shocked diaphragm locked in position.

Got the wind knocked out…it’ll come back…

He hobbled to his feet, feeling woozy and hoping his breath came back sooner rather than later. His vision swirled just slightly, and then found its correct spot and became solid reality again. He ran straight forward, toward the fence and all the while looked up at it with his mouth hanging open, getting small breaths into his lungs and gradually working them into larger breaths.

Barbed wire fences.

He wasn’t going to climb that shit.

He glanced behind him, saw that there were no immediate threats—yet—
and then turned back to the fence he was running towards, trying to find a point where he might make it through
. For the most part, the bottom of the fence touched the ground, and in some places the dirt had built up and swallowed the first few rows of links. But just to
his
right there was a section where
erosion had carved
miniature canyon into th
e dirt.
T
he ground cleared the bottom of the fence by a few inches.

A few inches would have to be enough.

Tomlin knew instantly he wasn’t getting under that fence with the rifle and spare magazines, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was
leaving them behind
. He shucked off the shoulder bag and slung it as hard as he could over the top of the fence, and then did the same with the rifle. The two objects cleared the barbed wire and clattered down a few yards into the woods.