Redaction: The Meltdown Part II (11 page)

Christ Jesus! “Toby!” he shouted. “Get out of the rain.”

The preschooler’s lower lip shook and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Papa Rose squeezed his eyes closed. Damn him and his temper. If God needed proof that these two shouldn’t have been placed in his care, that should have provided it. He’d made an orphan cry. What kind of low-life did that? He peeked through his lashes.

Toby hunched his shoulders and hung his head.

His silence was a sucker punch to a glass jaw. Fisting the bags in one hand, Papa Rose stepped forward and swept the boy up with the other. “Sorry I yelled at you. I just don’t want you to get sick.”

Thin arms looped around his shoulders. “You still my Papa Rose?”

No! Never! With tears pricking his eyes and nose, he stumbled under the awning. He tightened his grip on the boy. Just to keep him from falling. Nothing else.

“Sure,” he rasped.

Toby laid his head on Papa Rose’s shoulder. “I yike my new papa.”

Emotion lodged in his throat cutting off his oxygen. Black rimmed his vision.
Set the kid down, get on your motorcycle and ride away. Far away. Where you can’t hurt anyone ever again
. His feet carried him to the fueling island. The boy’s wet hair soaked through his black tee-shirt and warmth thawed the ice around his heart until it cracked. Memories escaped the prison he’d built—wet kisses, sticky hands, even the hardheaded wisdom of his clueless teenage daughter.

Ageless children in glass tombs. His to watch forever, but never to touch again.

Never to tell them that he was sorry.

“You cryin’ Papa?” Toby’s words sealed the cracks with the precision of a laser.

He blinked and his tears disappeared in the water running down his cheeks. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he felt it settled like a rock in the pit of his stomach. “Me? Nah. Why would I when I have you?”

Toby lifted his head and frowned at the ground. “My mama cried lots. It made her not so hungry, sos I eats her food.”

He sank to the concrete island before his legs gave out. Not even the finest medical care had saved his children. Nothing could. The disease had been too new, too unusual. He kissed Toby’s hair then set him on the ground. “I hope you’re not planning to eat my cookies all the time. Cuz, I have to say, I really like cookies.”

“Me, too.” Toby rubbed his belly. “I yike the choc’late chips bestest.”

“Chocolate chip, you say?” Setting his belongings between them, he unknotted the garbage bag. The scent of laundry soap wafted from the darkness. God bless those ladies who’d cleaned his clothes with boiling pool water.

“Yep. Choc’late chip.” The boy craned his neck to peer inside the bag. “I can eat two whole big ‘uns ‘fore my tummy hurts.” He thumped on his hollow stomach.

“That many?” Papa Rose dug out a pair of socks, two empty MRE bags and a flannel teeshirt. Setting the items on the bag, he peeled the jacket off the kid.

“How many do you eats?” Eyes narrowed, Toby spun around as he was unwrapped.

Was the kid worried he was going to steal his cookies? Then again, it wasn’t as farfetched as it should be. Others had stolen far more. “None.”

“Nuh-uh.” Toby crossed his arms and shivered.

He rolled up the tee-shirt’s hem to the neckline and tugged it over Toby’s head. “I don’t like chocolate. My favorite is the shortbread.”

The child’s scrawny arms poked through the sleeves. “How comes you don’ like choc’late?”

“Don’t know.” He released the shirt and the hem fell to the boy’s knees and the sleeves dangled past his elbows. “I’ve never liked chocolate.”

“That’s weird.”

He tucked Toby back into the jacket. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you my chocolate chip cookies and you give me your shortbread. Deal?”

Not that he had any intention of taking food from the kid’s mouth. Talking silly helped him remember this was someone else’s kid. As soon as they found another group of survivors, he’d palm the kid off.

“‘Kay.” Toby thrust out his hand.

Papa Rose stared at it for a moment before swallowing it with his big one. So soft, so fragile. It hurt to breathe. He pumped the lad’s hand once then dropped it. The boy’s whole body moved.

“Now let me see those feet.”

Setting one hand on his shoulder, Toby balanced on one foot and kicked the other at him.

He cradled the icy skin, slid the sock over it, then folded it back down, so the cotton doubled in thickness. Next, he shook open one MRE bag and slipped it over the sock. “Okay, put your weight on it.”

Toby giggled but obeyed. “It feels weird.”

“I’ll bet.” He rummaged in his duffle until he found a roll of half-finished duct-tape. Using his thumb, he found a neatly folded corner. He sucked air into his iron lungs. Miranda, his wife always ended the tape that way.

“Hows they ‘posed to say on?” Toby waggled his foot and the bag and sock slipped down.

Shaking off the past, Papa Rose ripped a foot of tape free. “You’ll see. Now put that foot down again.”

Toby’s face scrunched up. “Is it magic?”

With the roll end swinging like a pendulum, he reached into his boot and pulled out a knife. The blade sliced cleanly through the gray strip and the cardboard roll plopped to the ground.

“Gots it.” Toby hopped then crouched, catching it before it left the island. He twirled the circle around in his hands then used it as a chunky bracelet.

At least that would keep the kid busy for a few seconds. With one hand, he gathered the top of the bag around the boy’s ankle, loose enough to pull off but tight enough to stay on. Next, he wrapped the tape around the MRE bag, securing it in place. “How’s that feel?”

He looked up and his heart stopped.

With his tongue held firmly between his teeth, Toby folded over the corner of the tape. “All better.”

Beaming, the little boy held out the roll to him.

Get a grip. Lots of people folded over the corner. Lots
. Slowly, his heart tried out a beat, then two. Finally, it eased into an galloping rhythm. Papa Rose ignored the tremor in his hand as he accepted the gift. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “How’s the new shoe?”

Toby glanced down. Raising his covered foot, he shook it. The bag wiggled a bit but didn’t come off. Next, he hopped three times. “Cool!”

Dropping the duct-tape, he picked up the lone sock. “Okay, let’s get the other one on.”

“‘Kay.” Holding up his unshod foot, Toby balanced by setting his hand on Papa Rose’s shoulder.

The slight weight pressed down on him. He quickly constructed a second shoe and chucked the tape into the bag. “There. All done.”

Toby hopped along the island until he reached the next gas pump. “New shoes. New shoes.”

“I forgot how little it takes to make them happy at that age.” Falcon darted out of the double doors. His rifle hung from his shoulder and a handful of white bags dangled from his hands.

Papa nodded and concentrated on rearranging his belongings. Children were so vulnerable, got sick so quickly. He licked his dry lips. Died with such a soundless whimper.

“You got something for me to wear?” Jillie stood in front of him, arms wrapped tight around her torso and legs wrapped around one another. Her teeth chattered behind her blue lips.

Falcon held out a bag. “Found these. Something should fit.”

She swapped the white grocery sack for the small bar of Brainiac’s bar of soap. “Any shoes?”

Papa Rose held up two MRE wrappers. “Got your customized pair right here.”

“Excellent! I haven’t had a new pair in a long while.” She smiled. Blood wept from the graze at her temple. “Be right back.”

Turning on her heel, she padded toward the side of the building.

“Yo, Brainiac.” Falcon shoved a handful of clean bags into Papa Rose’s gut. “Check out the bathroom for the lady.”

“Aye, aye.” With a palm flash, Brianiac jogged through the rain to the side of the building.

Jillie splashed through the puddles then disappeared around the corner of the building.

Hinges squeaked. “Bathroom is clear. Hey, where’s my soap?”

“I gave it to the bald dude.”

Papa Rose shook his head. Maybe he should change his name. He eyed the blood red ink blooming on his arm. What was the point? His past would never free him.

Falcon snorted. “Hey, bald dude, given any thought to how we’re going to transport the munchkins?”

Toby jumped off the island. His plastic shoes crinkled as he landed. Dark wisps of hair hung in his brown eyes. “What’s a munch’in?”

“That’s you, little man.” He tossed a pair of clean socks from hand to hand. Damn but the kid looked so innocent and trusting. Lightning fractured the low-lying clouds and highlighted the lines of rain streaking down. A snare drum of thunder chased hard on its heels. He had to find a way to get rid of the kids.

Soon.

“I’s Toby, not a munch’in.” The preschooler shook his head. With knees bent, he swung his arms back and forth then jumped the six inch the curb.

“Papa Rose?” Falcon snatched the socks out of the air. His dark fingers dug into the white ball of fabric. “How we going to transport the munchkins?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “The boy will ride in front of me on the bike, and the girl will hang on from the back.”

“Is it safe?”

He’d told his wife it was and their children had never gotten hurt. “I’m willing to pick another curtain, just tell me which one.”

The point of Falcon’s yellow bandanna flopped over his eye. With his free hand, he smoothed it back. “Maybe we can find a group of survivors and… you know.”

“Yeah.” He knew. Their suicide pact hadn’t exactly gone as planned. They were having a hell of a time getting to the dying part. His gaze slanted to Toby. “Right now we need to focus on finding gas or there won’t be any survivors. Just corpses that glow in the dark.”

Falcon tugged a folded up paper from the back pocket of his jeans. “You think radiation poisoning is as bad as the Doc said?”

“Worse.” Brainiac sauntered through the rain, his M-4 cradled in his arm. “I’ve seen videos of exposure victims. It isn’t pretty.”

Papa Rose grunted. Guys like him didn’t deserve pretty.

Falcon shrugged. “There’s always plan B.”

Eating his gun? That was too fast. Men who put their own wants above their family deserved to suffer. The man who brought the Redaction to Phoenix deserved to suffer.

A bullet to the brain was out of the question for him, but he’d make sure the ex-green beret was buried before signing up for a nuclear tan.

Holding the knotted plastic bag over her head, Jillie slipped around him and under the safety of the awning. Her bare feet slapped the cement. She drew to a halt beside them and held out her hand. “I’ll take my shoes now.”

“Here you go, Miss Thang.” Falcon placed the socks on her palm.

“What’s plan B?” Brainiac crouched by the bag. His long fingers raked the contents from side to side and found the sliver of soap sweating inside a baggie. Pinching it between his thumb and index finger, he lifted it free then tucked it into his breast pocket.

They wouldn’t tell the squid their plan.
He
had something to live for. While Falcon busied himself with unfolding the paper in his hand, Papa Rose supplied an answer, edited for small ears. “Kiss our butts goodbye unless we find fuel to keep the power plant running for another four days.”

Brainiac grinned, revealing the gap between his two front teeth. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Well, while you’ve been thinking, I’ve been planning.” A gust of frigid air shook out Falcon’s folded paper. It snapped flat.

No, not paper. Papa Rose leaned closer. Neat grid lines carved up the top. Leave it to a spec ops guy to find a map. Red x’s marked the corners of some streets. Glancing over his shoulder, he noted the names hanging from green signs at the intersection, picking it out on the map. The red mark had a black line running through it.

Brainiac caught the flapping edge and pulled it taut. “What’s this?”

Falcon rolled his eyes. “It’s a map. Don’t they teach squids anything?”

“Kinda hard to navigate with a map in a sub.” Papa Rose nodded to the sailor. “They don’t have windows so they wouldn’t know to turn right at the mermaid or that something is due south of Atlantis.”

“Ha. Ha.” Brainiac folded his arms across his chest. “We use computers to navigate in a sub. Very, very expensive computers.”

“This is old school GPS.”

“Great, great-grandfather’s school.” Brainiac poked one of the x’s. “What do those mean?”

Falcon smiled. “Please say we didn’t let you tag along for your brains.”

Papa Rose’s inside cramped. Maybe the squid wasn’t as smart as they thought. He eyed Toby before his gaze skipped to Jillie. She sat on the dry island, adjusting the MRE bags over her feet. Damn, they needed to find survivors to dump the kids. “Those are gas stations.”

“Oh.” Brainiac blotted at the water beading on the muzzle of his rifle. “How do you know where they are? Did you live around here?”

A muscle flexed in Falcon’s jaw and he squeezed his eyes closed for a minute.

Damn, the squid had gotten personal. Had he forgotten rule number one? The apocalyptic version of ‘don’t ask; don’t tell’. “Look B—”

“Yeah.” The raw words emerged from Falcon. “Yeah, I grew up around here. A lifetime ago.” He cleared his throat. “But I know where the stations are because I consulted a phone book. I picked the chains, not the mom and pop shops, since I knew most of the chains were slated to open.”

“Oh.” Brainiac raked his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, dude. I—”

“B!” Christ Jesus. The squid didn’t remember rule number two. No apologies. Life was too short.

Jillie looked up from adjusting her new shoes.

“S’alright.” Falcon pointed to a black line near the x marking their current location. “This is the most efficient route to take. We should be able to find gas along there somewhere.”

He hoped, maybe even prayed a little. For the munchkins’ sakes, not his own.

“But that’s just it!” Brainiac bounced on the balls of his feet. “I don’t think we need to look any farther. I think we have gas right here.”