Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) (10 page)

She held me even tighter and pressed her face against my chest, muffling her sobs. She shook her head.

An hour later, my eyes still stung from crying, but my chest no longer ached as it did when Amy first declared my classmates, teachers, and even the girls from the softball team dead. She didn’t go into details, but she didn’t have to. I remembered my escape from the city and imagined their familiar faces taking the place of the strangers butchered all around me on those hellish city blocks. Out of all the hundreds of people at our school, only three of us made it out alive.

My sorrow proved fleeting. It scared me, but the only emotion left after I’d shed my tears was guilt—guilt over being one of the “lucky ones.”

I could only imagine what went through Amy’s head as she moved her tall, slim body backward and forward, puffing as she kneaded the laundry. Her thin lips remained in a rigid, straight line, with only a slight crease between her eyebrows. In contrast with the other girls around us, who at least chatted sporadically as they worked, she kept her reddened eyes fixed on the clothes in front of her. Amy might not have been my friend—far from it—but it still hurt to see her so defeated.

“Looks like you’ve got the hang of this,” I said, imitating the rhythm of her kneading. With the sleeves of my coat rolled back, my forearms felt cold, and the freezing water numbed my hands, but I tried to smile. She didn’t acknowledge me and kept staring at the filthy water swirling in her basin.

“Amy, you okay?” I asked a few seconds later, leaning in close to her.

“What? Oh, yeah… I guess.” She looked at my pale, wrinkled hands.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you at the school gym where Karla and I are staying. Did you just get here?” I asked, resuming my work.

“No. I’ve been here for two days already; I was sent over to a vacant office building by the center of town.”

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, hoping to detect some sort of emotion on her face, but she remained stoic. I wondered whether she was very strong or on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Oh. Hey, maybe Karla and I should ask for a transfer, then. That way we could be together.”

“Sure.” She sighed, her work uninterrupted.

“Besides, it looks like they’ve got much nicer clothes over where you’re staying.” I pinched the soft fleece of her burgundy pullover.

Amy stopped squeezing the laundry and stared at me, finally displaying some emotion. She shook her head and gritted her teeth as her breathing became labored.

“You… you callous bitch,” she whispered.

“Hey, Amy, I’m sorry. I was just kidding.” I placed a hand over her arm.

She swatted it away. “Of course you were. Everything’s always a big joke to you, isn’t it? My friends are dead. I have no home to go back to… no family. It’s just a matter of time for those monsters to get here, and then what? We’re going to get killed, just like everyone else back home.”

She went back to work but soon burst into tears, her cries loud and bitter. The squishing of laundry ceased as two hundred women stared at me, scowling and whispering, as if it was my fault she’d lost it over a stupid joke.

“What?” I shouted, struggling not to start sobbing myself. They all just shook their heads and carried on with their jobs.

She’s doing it again. She’s turning everyone against me, that stupid bitch!

“I’ve lost almost everything too, you know?” I whispered to Amy. I took my basin and moved to an empty table where I wouldn’t hurt anyone else’s precious little feelings… and where no one could see me cry.

***

Once we got our lunch break, Amy and the other laundry girls left without me, shooting poisonous glances in my direction, the girls crowding around Amy as if protecting her from the heartless monster that’d made her cry. I overheard their plans to attend Brother Tim’s sermon before having lunch, so at least I’d be able to eat in peace if I went to get my food straight away.

The girl’s spite hurt, but nowhere near as much as the stinging pain in my lower back. I’d been pretty confident in my ability to get through the day with relative ease, but after three hours of repeating the same motions over and over again, my wrists ached as though I’d broken them, my shoulders felt sore, and my hands were raw from handling the detergent-soaked clothes.

At least Mrs. Thompson stamped and signed my booklet, even if she warned me against causing disruptions in the future. I flipped through its remaining empty pages as I marched along the town’s main street toward the clinic where Karla worked. I felt like tearing the booklet to pieces. I regretted not leaving with Martin the day I arrived in New Jerusalem. Maybe I'd have found my parents in some other town by then…

It was too late for that now, though. Leaving the safety of New Jerusalem just like that and wandering around the island by myself was too reckless, even for me.

I kept marching toward the clinic. The shops lining the main street were in the same quaint style as the houses around town but lacked their charming lawns, and each shop stood next to the other right against the cracked sidewalk. The glass panes on the large store windows had been shattered during the earthquake, but elegant wooden signs or canvas awnings still hung over them, displaying the stores’ names. I studied each one carefully as I neared the address that was written in Karla’s work booklet, but the clinic turned out to be really hard to miss. Its large green sign had only the word “Clinic,” written in plain white letters.

Well, that’s creative.

The two-story building had a wooden exterior, its planks painted a creamy white color. A short flight of brick stairs led to the entrance. I climbed the stairs to the open door, and a faint stench flooded my nostrils. By the time I crossed the clinic’s threshold, my eyes were watering. The smell of disinfectant, sweat, and worse hung so thick in the air I could almost feel the vapor brushing against my face. I probably would’ve lost my meager breakfast right then, but what I saw inside left me stunned.

Dozens of people had been packed inside the cramped clinic so close together that there was only a narrow corridor left to walk in. They moaned and cried, following me with tearful eyes as I made my way inside. Many of them had really nasty injuries, their blood seeping through makeshift bandages as they squirmed on foldable cots or even mats on the floor. Some just lay still, their fingers twitching every now and then. I unbuttoned my coat. The suffocating warmth of so many people crammed into such a tiny space made me sweat.

I soon found Karla, standing over a whimpering old man. A pile of bloodied bandages lay at her feet. She cleaned a large gash on the man’s arm, which was covered in a disgusting yellow paste. She’d removed her jacket, and the white blouse she wore underneath was sprinkled with dried blood. Her uniform consisted only of a disposable medical mask covering her face. Judging by the way she kept turning toward the ceiling to take deep breaths, the mask didn’t help cover the odor given off by the man’s gruesome injury.

Apart from her, just three more medical assistants—two guys and a woman, all dressed in normal clothes—tended to the wounded. Only a black man with greying hair and a stethoscope hanging around his neck looked like a doctor. He wore a stained white coat over similarly dirty jeans and a yellow polo shirt.

I inched my way through the crowded clinic, trying not to disturb anyone, and gently placed my hand on Karla’s shoulder. She recoiled in fright but didn’t drop the blood-soaked cotton ball at the end of the tweezers she had used to clean the old man’s wound.

“God, you scared me, Becca. What are you doing here?” She swept her gaze around the room, looking nervously at the other workers as if my being there were some sort of crime. They only glanced at us and carried on with their tasks.

“Sorry. I just got off my job and was wondering if you wanted to go and have lunch,” I said, trying not to stare at the old man’s festering wound.

“No, Becca. People are dying here; I can’t just leave Dr. Johnson and the others while there’s so much to do. I’m sorry, but maybe we’ll see each other later, okay?” She focused her attention back on the old man’s wounded arm, frowning. A gleaming coat of sweat covered her forehead as she wiped the gash with precise motions, so gently and confidently that the old man barely groaned.

The smell of spoilt milk alone weakened my knees. “Sure, Karla. I understand. See you later.” I turned around to exit the clinic and came face-to-face with Dr. Johnson. The patients’ pitiful moans had muffled his steps. I recoiled in much the same way Karla had done earlier.

“Are you a friend of Karla’s?” the doctor asked with arched eyebrows. He placed a weak smile on his face. His small, tired eyes were half swallowed by the bulging bags beneath them.

“Yes, I was just seeing if she wanted to go to lunch, but I had no idea of how bad things were over here. I’m really sorry for disturbing you.” I meant it, too. Obviously I couldn’t complain to Karla about my job after witnessing her nightmarish working conditions.

“Actually, I think it would be best if you took her with you. It’d do Karla a world of good to take a break.” He walked over to her. “We’ll take over for now, Ms. Lagos. Don’t worry about coming back until after you’ve had lunch, okay?”

Karla took off her paper mask, a worried frown on her face.

“But Doctor—”

“Listen, I really admire your commitment, but you’ll be of no use to anyone if you burn yourself out,” he said.

Karla looked around at all the people suffering in the cramped beds, bathed in blood and sweat. She gulped and nodded. Dr. Johnson handed Karla her jacket and led us outside. I took a deep breath of the cold air, and the faint sickness in my stomach slowly faded away. Karla bit her lips as she zipped up her jacket.

I looked back at the clinic. “What happened to all those people? Did the monsters attack them or something?”

Karla followed my gaze. “No, they come from nearby towns. Most of them had their homes come crashing down on their heads during the earthquake. I’ve heard the other clinics around town are even worse off than here.” She sighed before looking at me. “Listen, Becca, I appreciate you coming over to get me, but I’m needed here. I’m the youngest assistant, so Dr. Johnson’s acting all fatherly toward me, but from now on, just have lunch with the other laundry girls, okay?”

“Oh, yeah, about that… Amy’s alive.”

Karla’s eyes opened wide, and she took a step toward me. “Amy’s alive? Why didn’t you say that before? Where is she? Is she all right? What about the others?” She stepped closer with every question.

“She’s fine. A bit shaken, of course, but fine.” I took a step back. “I think she’s gone to listen to Brother Tim’s sermon. Do you… do you want to go and talk to her?”

Karla hesitated for a moment, lowering her head and pursing her lips. Amy wasn’t exactly Karla’s best friend, either, and as a staunch Catholic, she couldn’t have been thrilled about going to an evangelical sermon, but she soon nodded. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

***

We had little trouble finding the place in which Brother Tim did his preaching. Although his church had originally been just a small wooden building near Main Street—built in the colonial style, all painted in white—the pastor now gave his sermons in a football field at the outskirts of town. Thousands of people already gathered there, facing the bleachers at one side of the field. The crowd buzzed like a rattled beehive.

Dozens of armed locals wearing white armbands patrolled along the running track circling the football field in groups of five or six. One of those groups approached us as we walked toward the crowd. A tall man wearing jeans and a striped blue shirt asked for our ID booklets, while a stern-faced woman patted us down, looking for weapons. Seeing how they’d treated some of their non-Christian “guests,” it seemed like a wise move on their part.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see more of our Catholic friends joining us here. I’m sure you won’t regret it,” the man said as he handed our booklets back to us.

“Yeah, we’ve heard lots of good things about your pastor,” I said after glancing down at the large gun holstered by his side. Karla nodded politely. The man let us through with a creepy smile pasted on his face.

We made our way through the crowd, looking for Amy. Many of the people around us were frenzied, their hands in the air, swaying from side to side as they mumbled prayers with tears in their eyes. Only a few scattered clusters of people remained aloof, looking ahead with their arms crossed or their hands inside their pockets—probably fellow refugees, given their haggard faces and somewhat mismatched or badly fitting clothing.

No one paid us any attention as we squeezed by. Their gazes were fixed on the man standing on the bleachers. Even in the middle of the football field, surrounded by the feverish congregation, it wasn’t difficult to hear his clear, confident voice. It seemed he barely had to raise it—as though he spoke inside my head. I ignored his words, concentrating instead on finding Amy among the sea of enraptured faces, but I couldn’t find her. Our search soon took us within only a few feet of the town’s supposed prophet.

Brother Tim stood on a wooden platform built at the top of the bleachers, its support beams hidden by a skirt of silky white fabric. Not a single strand of his blond hair fell out of place as he paced the stage, addressing the audience. His fierce blue eyes shone almost as brightly as his pearly white smile. He had no podium and carried nothing except a plain, leather-bound bible. The rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt allowed him to emphasize every word he spoke with a forceful gesture, yet not a drop of sweat could be seen on his youthful face.