Will to Survive (4 page)

I banked to the right so that Herb would be on the inside of the turn with the compound visible out his window. As we started to come around I could see the smoke and fire spreading out and rising up.

“It's still hard to see, but I can tell there's a lot of damage. The whole front of the one barracks has been blown off, basically peeled away. We'll be able to tell more when we fly over tomorrow.”

“You want to come back tomorrow?”

“We'll circle at the same distance as today. I'll be able to see things much more clearly, but there will be another goal. I want them to see us, to be afraid that we're going to attack again. I want them to think twice before they even consider attacking us. But I've seen enough for now. It's time to go home.”

 

4

I pulled off the covers and got up from the couch. There was no point in even pretending to sleep. This was three nights in a row that I'd been awake. How long could I go on like this?

Thinking about my girlfriend, Lori—even being with Lori—wasn't enough to ease my mind or change my thoughts. I'd seen her a couple of times since the shooting and we'd talked about it a little bit, but she knew me well enough to know when I just needed some time to myself. Besides, she had her hands full helping her dad supervising the harvest all around the neighborhood.

I took the pistol off the coffee table and slipped it into the holster. The second gun was secured in an ankle holster. It had never been comfortable, trying to sleep with it digging into my leg, but now I thought I'd never be able to sleep again without it pressing against me. Rather than being a bother, it was a reassuring bump that calmed my mind. Thank goodness I'd had it on me that night Brett escaped.

I'd even added another level to my arsenal. On the inside of my other leg I had a knife, safely stashed in a sheath. It was only four inches long but would be effective and silent and deadly and was almost undetectable unless you were looking for it.

Then again, if I was losing it, was it really wise for me to be carrying around two guns and a knife? Should sleep-deprived, paranoid people be allowed around weapons?

The house was still and quiet.

Everybody is asleep—or dead.

What a terrible thought! But it was the sort I hadn't been able get out of my head since the kidnapping.

I'd check the doors and windows and then just poke my head into the bedrooms to make sure my family was all right.

I slid the table away from the door to the hallway and moved the desk so that I could open the door. I'd taken to spending the night in the living room, barricading the door at night.

My bedroom just triggered too many bad memories that made sleep impossible. It was hard enough to go in there even during the day.

In the living room, behind the barricaded door, I felt calmer. I couldn't afford to be worrying about anybody sneaking in on me. Not Brett, but not even my family. What if I shot one of them by accident?

I went to the door, then stopped and took out one of my guns before I pulled the door open. Pistol in hand, I crept down the hall; it was nearly sunrise, still dark but light enough to see to move around. I could tell there was nothing to be afraid of except for bumping into the hall table. I lowered the gun but kept it by my side.

In sequence I checked the front door, the windows, the side door, and then the sliding doors leading off the kitchen. All were securely locked, so there was no problem.

Unless somebody had come in and then locked them after they entered.

I knew that was nothing more than paranoia, but I had every right to be paranoid—it had only been three nights since I had been taken from my bed.

Now I could just go upstairs and check to make sure that my family was safe and sound … No, I wasn't going to give in to the paranoia.

I doubled back to the front door and went out, locking it behind me.

I was fully dressed—as always—and I was even leaving my shoes on now when I tried to sleep.

I walked out to the driveway to where my ultralight was tethered. Even though it was still early, I wasn't alone. Up at the intersection were two guards.

Not only were there more guards on our walls than before my kidnapping, but additional sentries were also positioned around the neighborhood each night. If Brett was still alive and decided to launch an attack or sneak in, we were planning to make it harder for him to get over the wall and hopefully impossible to move around if he did.

Everything of importance had been relocated within the neighborhood. The medical supplies, weapons, food stocks, and extra ammunition had all been moved. I told myself that was what I was doing by sleeping in the living room: relocating myself to a new position. In all honesty, though, it had more to do with my just not being able to sleep in my room.

I couldn't lie on my bed and close my eyes without feeling a presence in the room, Brett moving in the shadows, coming toward me, his hand on my throat and the cold metal pressed against my neck …

Not that I was any more comfortable in the Cessna—the scene of the crime. I'd flown it with Herb to bomb the compound, but that was it. My father had been the one to go with Herb the following day to see the damage.

Instead, I'd been going up in my ultralight. I always did like the ultralight more. I liked the wind in my face. It was so much better than being cooped up in the Cessna.

I didn't mind flying on my own. It was an escape. Maybe I was being paranoid—maybe I had a right to be paranoid—but when I was with the twins at the playground or on harvest duty, it felt like everybody was staring at me, thinking, “That kid's a killer … What's he going to do next?” Those feelings were so strong that I'd been keeping more to myself, and I hadn't even gone to eat at the community dinner at the school the last couple of nights. Instead, Ernie or somebody had kindly arranged to have the meals brought to me at the house.

I heard an engine and spun to see a truck turn onto our street. As it closed in I saw Herb at the wheel. He pulled into his driveway and climbed out. In his hand was his sniper rifle. I knew he'd been out “hunting.”

“Good morning!” Herb called out. “You're up early.”

“Not as early as you.”

“I went to the compound.”

I knew that without him saying it. He'd gone out there the last two nights, doing recon and taking shots at the sentries there.

“There are two fewer of them this morning than there were last night,” Herb said. “They're getting more careful.”

“Was it just you?”

“I had backup. It's always good to have a couple of people watching you.”

“Wouldn't it be better to have more than just a couple?”

“Smaller is quieter and more elusive. I don't want them to know when I'm out there so that they think I'm
always
out there,” Herb explained.

“But you want them to see the Cessna above during the day.”

“It's the same in a different way. I want them to always feel like they're being observed by us.”

“Won't that just provoke them?” I asked.

“They don't have enough men to attack us outright anymore. Ideally, I'd like them to leave the compound, go away, as far as possible, and not even think about coming after us.”

“What about us going after them?” I asked. “Have you thought any more about an attack on the compound?”

“They're expecting that now, so it's the last thing I want to do. We could defeat them, but the cost to us would be too great, too many fatalities and injuries. This will do for now.” He paused. “I'd like it if you could take the Cessna up over the compound today.”

“My father can do that.”

“He's going to be busy. He and Howie are selecting the people to be part of the new away teams.”

My father was going to be leading one of the teams. I didn't like it at all, but I couldn't argue with his logic—nobody had spent more time outside the neighborhood than he had. When the blackout hit, he'd been in Chicago and had had to make his way hundreds of miles back home on foot. He still hadn't really talked about what had happened to him on that trip.

“You need to get behind the controls again,” Herb said.

“I've flown it once, and you know I've been up every day with the ultralight.”

“Have you seen the social worker?” Herb said.

“Not yet.”

“How have you been sleeping?”

“All right … you know … about the same as always.”

“And have you been sleeping in your own bed?” Herb asked.

He probably already knew the answer to that question. Herb often asked questions when he already had the answers.

“Not always. You're not the only one who thinks he needs a safe room.”

“And what does your mother think you should do?” Herb asked.

“You know that, too,” I said.

“I know that it's standard procedure for a police officer to seek counseling after an episode involving violence, even if it is clearly a justified incident.”

“I'll see her when I can,” I said. “I've just been busy … flying the ultralight and helping with the harvest, and now you want me to take the Cessna up.”

“I do want you to take me up again, but there's lots of time for that. Let's wait a day or two. How about if you find the time for a talk today? All right?”

I looked away. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

I dragged my gaze back to Herb, who was looking at me with concern. “Do you want to do a pinky swear?” I joked.

“Just give me your word. I'll never need anything more than your word,” Herb said.

I gave it to him.

*   *   *

It turned out that the social worker didn't have time for me until the following day.

After another crappy night, I made my way across the neighborhood to a little ranch-style house where the social worker, Maureen, lived.

Soon enough, I was settling into one chair in a little room she used as her office while she settled into another. I expected her to have a pen and pad to take notes, but she didn't.

“So, Adam, how are you doing today?” she asked.

“Fine. So fine I don't even know why I'm here.”

“It sounds like this wasn't your idea to be here, that you don't want to be here.”

“Does
anybody
ever
want
to be here?”

“I think many people want to be here to work out issues, but nobody wanted those issues to happen in the first place.”

“I had no choice in what happened,” I said.

“Many times people don't have a choice. Accidents happen.”

“This wasn't an accident. It was deliberate. I did what I did, but you and everybody know that.”

“I know what happened,” Maureen said.

I laughed. “You'd be shocked what most people don't know anything about, including you.”

“You're right. There are lots of things that happened that night that I probably know nothing about.”

“Probably?” I questioned. “Definitely.”

“Okay, things I definitely don't know about. I do know about the shooting, though.” She paused. “It must have been difficult.”

I shook my head. “It's easy to pull a trigger. Remarkably easy to take somebody else's life.” I made my finger into a gun and pointed it at her. “Bang, bang … as easy as that.” I let my hand drop. “Have you ever shot anybody?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had anybody threaten to kill you?” I asked.

“No, although all of us have experienced that threat in some form over the past months.”

“Some
form
, some vague threat from a distance. But having a knife pressed against your neck while you're sleeping in your bed, a gun aimed at your head, looking at the person who wants to kill you—that's all different,” I snapped.

“I didn't mean to minimize what happened to you … I didn't know about all the details. I knew you were taken from your bed—at least I'd heard that. A lot of people see you as a hero.”

“A hero, is that how they see me?” I laughed. “I killed those two men because I had to kill them or I would have been killed. That doesn't make me a hero, just desperate enough to do what I had to do.”

“I seem to be saying a lot of things that are getting you upset. Maybe it would be helpful if you just told me what went down the other night.”

In a quick burst I told her. It all sounded like a story I'd heard rather than something that had really happened to me.

“Do you have any more questions about it?” I asked.

“There are lots more questions to be asked and things to be discussed.”

“And how will the two of us talking change anything that happened?”

“It's not going to change anything. It's just that sometimes it's good to talk about things, things you can't or don't want to talk to your family or friends about.”

“Or girlfriend,” I said. I knew there was a lot of it I couldn't tell Lori or anybody else, not even Herb.

“Or girlfriend.” She paused. “But you can talk to me. Anything and everything we talk about stays right here inside these walls.”

“Everything?”

“Everything. You have complete confidentiality.”

I thought about the two men I had killed, and then thought further back to the scenes of carnage at Olde Burnham after the people living in that neighborhood had been attacked; those women and children coming out of the building who we'd almost killed by accident; the bridge being blown up and hundreds of men plunging to their deaths; the massacre on the street; the looks in the eyes of children walking by our neighborhood, children we couldn't help; the burned bodies at Tent Town; cries of pain, looks of fear, the smell of death, our bomb going off at the compound—all the images I couldn't get out of my mind. I thought about them and then I started to cry.