Fight for Power (6 page)

Beside almost every house that had southern exposure was a series of small wooden frames topped with a window attached by a hinge. These were tiny personal greenhouses that were growing a few plants. A few vegetables multiplied by hundreds and hundreds would make a difference in that fight to survive.

I looked over and caught sight of Herb walking up the street. I hadn't expected him to be out for a stroll. He waved and came over.

“You ready to go up tomorrow?” Herb asked, gesturing to my ultralight, which was parked in front of the garage, secured underneath an awning by guy lines to hooks on the driveway.

“The only thing that could stop me is the weather, but Mr. Peterson says he thinks it's going to be good.”

“I have more trust in a farmer than I have in a weather forecaster on TV—not that we have TV anymore—so you should be good to go,” Herb said.

“Are all the plans coming along okay?” I asked.

“It's fine, although I have something I need your help with,” Herb said.

“So this wasn't a social visit.”

“Nope.”

“The winds are strong today, but I could go up and scout around if you want,” I offered.

“This doesn't involve you going up in the air as much as going up to the mall. I'm planning to interview the prisoner.”

A few weeks ago we'd captured a wounded member of our enemy, left for dead after they destroyed Olde Burnham and retreated back to their stronghold. He'd been brought back to our neighborhood, and Dr. Morgan had saved his life. Then Herb and I had tricked him into giving information that helped us with our victory at the bridge.

“How is he doing?” I asked.

“Recovering as well as possible, considering that he should be dead.”

I felt a sense of relief. I had these terrible fears that once he'd served his purpose and given us the information, he was going to be allowed to die. Or worse.

“So what happens to him now?” I asked.

“I know a number of people who had loved ones killed in the other neighborhood who still think we should have just let him die,” Herb said. “I have him under guard, not just to stop him from escaping but to stop anybody else from harming him.”

“Do you really think that would happen?” I asked.

“What would you do if you thought he'd been responsible for killing a member of your family?”

I didn't need to think. “I guess it's the right thing to have him under protection.”

“I don't know about right, but it's certainly wise. All along I thought he might have more information we could use. So, are you in?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

*   *   *

Dr. Morgan and the two nurses at the little clinic were busy, but it didn't look any busier than the times I'd been to the walk-in clinic before the power went out. There were two differences, though.

First, the clinic had three admitted patients in beds off to the side of the waiting room, where in normal times they would have gone to a hospital instead.

Second, there was an armed guard standing at the door leading to our prisoner's room. The guy with a gun was a jarring reminder not only of why we were there but also of how the world had evolved—or devolved. A few short weeks ago it was beyond belief that somebody would be standing in our mall, rifle on his shoulder, guarding a prisoner, two doors down from the supermarket and four away from the Baskin-Robbins.

Dr. Morgan saw us and came over.

“How is our patient doing?” Herb asked.

“Better, and we'll all be doing better once he's well enough to leave here.”

“Is he causing problems?” Herb asked.

“Not directly, but he is a problem. We had another woman who showed up all agitated wanting to see him,” Dr. Morgan said.

“She wasn't allowed in, was she?” Herb asked.

“Of course not. She was escorted out by the guard, but it's pretty disruptive and disturbing to all the patients when that happens.”

“Has that happened often?” I asked.

“Three or four times. I understand those people are angry—that they need help, counseling, to get over what they experienced—but I have a clinic to run.”

“We've got them help, but it isn't that simple,” Herb said.

“I understand. I'm sorry if I implied it was, but I guess I just find it pretty disturbing myself,” Dr. Morgan said.

“No apology necessary. We'll try to give them additional support. I just know that what they experienced, well, they'll never really get over. All we can do is help them cope. So when do you think he'll be ready to leave?” Herb asked.

“Two weeks, three at most, if there are no unforeseen downturns in his condition.”

“So he's not out of the woods yet,” Herb said.

“He should have died. Frankly, I was surprised he didn't die. It's not like I've had any experience with gunshot wounds before this.”

“Let's hope it stays that way,” Herb said. “Is it all right for us to go in and speak to him?”

“Of course. Take all the time you want. He's not due for his dressings to be changed for a couple of hours.”

I followed Herb to the door. The guard was a retiree I recognized but didn't know by name. He gave Herb a little salute. I guess this wasn't how either of them was expecting to spend his golden years.

“We're going to interview our prisoner,” Herb said. “Have you had a break, Stewart?”

Of course Herb knew his name. Herb seemed to know everybody's name.

“Straight duty, no breaks, since six this morning.”

“Why don't you go down to the supermarket and explain to Ernie I sent you to have a coffee?” Herb suggested.

“Would that be all right?”

“I'm here, and so is Adam.”

“Thanks, I won't be long.”

“No need to hurry. We're not going anywhere for quite a while,” Herb said.

I didn't like the sound of that.

Stewart gave another little salute and went off for his break.

We entered the room. The prisoner was handcuffed to the bed.

“Good afternoon, Quinn,” Herb said.

Quinn. So he had a name—I'd always just thought of him as the prisoner. I guess that wasn't so bad. There were other names I could have called him.

“Afternoon.”

“You don't mind me calling you by your first name, do you?” Herb asked.

“You can call me anything you want. You have the guns and the key to the handcuffs.”

“I guess we do. Please call me Herb. And you remember my young friend, Adam?”

“I remember you both. I just didn't expect to see both the good cop and the bad cop at one time.”

“And which one am I?” Herb asked.

The man laughed, which seemed to surprise even Herb.

“I've been told you're doing better. Are you pleased with your care?” Herb asked.

“As pleased as a turkey before Thanksgiving,” he said.

“I'm not sure what you mean by that,” Herb replied.

“The turkey that is being fattened up before the kill. Isn't that what you're doing with me?”

“Why would we be helping you to recover if we were simply going to kill you?” Herb asked.

“Probably because I still have some use. I don't assume you're here today to inquire about my health.”

“Well, we are looking for some information that would be helpful,” Herb said.

“And why should I help you?” Quinn asked.

“I guess the real question is why should you help us
again
?” Herb asked.

“I didn't tell you much of anything that would be useful, and I'm not going to be tricked again into giving anything more.”

“Nobody is trying to trick you. I'm confused why you would be so loyal to people who abandoned you for dead, but even more I am wondering why you'd be loyal to people who no longer exist.”

“Yeah, that's right, you killed them all.”

“They say seeing is believing—I have something to show you.” From his coat pocket Herb pulled out a stack of Polaroid snapshots and handed the photos to him. I moved around so I could see them. Almost instantly I regretted it. They were images taken of the carnage at the bridge. I wanted to avert my eyes, but I couldn't. The prisoner flipped through the pictures: the rubble at the bottom of the gully, the ripped-apart bodies, the crushed and shattered vehicles tossed about like toys.

“This could all just be fake,” he said. His words didn't match the tremble in his voice or the look on his face. It was like all the blood had drained away. He knew it was real; he just didn't want to admit it.

“I guess I'm getting old,” Herb said. “In my day that would have been proof enough. I guess what I'm going to ask will convince you that you should talk.” Herb opened his jacket, revealing his pistol, then pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. “Does this look familiar?”

“So you know how our base is laid out.”

Herb was holding a hand-drawn map showing a dozen or more buildings, the landing strip, and the perimeter fence. I recognized it but was surprised by the detail. Had somebody gone and scouted it out, or had Herb just remembered it from our flights over top?

“It would be helpful for us to know what is in each of these buildings,” Herb said.

“If you've destroyed everybody, why don't you just walk in and find out yourself?” he asked.

“We haven't killed everybody. We counted close to five hundred bodies. As you are well aware, when they came out to attack us, they would have left behind a force to protect the base. Subtracting the bodies accounted for, that force would be around one hundred and twenty people, from the overall number you previously divulged.”

I saw Quinn's expression flicker. Herb was giving a not-so-subtle message that Quinn had already betrayed his people and given us useful information.

“What I want to know is exactly what these buildings contain. I would prefer to spare the stocks of weapons and supplies that have been accumulated,” Herb said.

“But you want to know which buildings contain the barracks because you don't plan on sparing those lives,” Quinn said.

“No, I don't,” Herb said. “Would you spare them? We need to strike quickly and kill as many people as possible.”

“And you expect me to help you do that?”

“That would be most useful.”

“I'm not helping you. I'm lots of things, but I'm not a traitor.” He was becoming louder, more agitated. This wasn't working.

“To be a traitor is better than being a fool. They would kill you in a second to live. I think you should have loyalty to yourself.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Your survival is dependent on our survival,” Herb said.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“If that was our intent, it could be done like that,” Herb said. He leaned forward and pinched the IV line leading into the man's arm. He then released it. “You're alive because we believe in life.”

The man laughed. “And you're here to ask advice on how to kill my friends.”

“You're a fool if you think any of those people are your friends. The only two friends you have are right here in this room with you. We're the reason you're alive, the reason you'll stay alive, and I'm here to ask for information that will help us live and, in doing so, help you live.”

“And telling you would be like signing my own death certificate. Once I've told you, I have no more value. That's why you've kept me alive, isn't it?”

“That's not how we work,” I said. “You have to believe me.”

“I don't believe anything either of you two say. You're no different from us, no different from everybody else trying to survive. Maybe you're going to kill me, and maybe you're not, but I'm not going to tell you anything … not anything more!”

Herb let out a big sigh and slowly got to his feet. I went to do the same, but he placed an arm on my shoulder holding me in place.

“I understand what you're saying and feeling. Tell you what, I'm going to give you a few minutes to think—”

“A few minutes isn't going to make a difference!” Quinn spat out.

“Humor me. In the meantime, would you like a cup of coffee?”

Quinn didn't answer, but he looked interested. Cups of coffee were getting rarer and rarer, as supplies dwindled.

“I'll go and get us all a cup,” Herb said. “Adam, I know how you take yours. Quinn, what would you like in yours?”

“Um, two sugars and black, please.”

“Just like I take mine,” Herb said.

That wasn't how Herb took his coffee, but I'd learned that Herb didn't say anything without a reason. He was trying to befriend Quinn by sharing something. How strange, offering a cup of coffee when a few seconds before we were discussing an attack and killing a hundred people.

“Adam, you are armed, correct?” Herb asked.

“Of course.”

“Good, I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Herb hustled out, leaving us alone. I suddenly felt very vulnerable despite the prisoner being cuffed to the bed and me being armed. I slid my chair slightly away from Quinn.

“Does he really think I'm going to sell out for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“I think he just wants a coffee,” I said.

“The coffee I'll take. Here, you might as well have these back.” He went to hand me the photos and I hesitated before finally taking the stack.

“Is that the first time you saw those pictures?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I thought so. I could tell by your reaction.”

“I didn't know it was that obvious,” I said.

“You're not the only one watching. I guess you weren't there.”

“I was there,” I said. “I saw the bridge come down. I was the first one at the bottom—well, Herb and I.”

“I'm surprised. If you saw the real thing, why did the pictures bother you so much?” he asked.