Those Who Remain (Book 2) (5 page)

I roll my eyes, moving to take my backpack. “You can’t be crazy if you are right, Pete. I spent a month running around, barely managing to stay alive. I’m not paranoid; I’m still alive. And we did rest. Like a lot. You can’t walk a mile without sitting down. Don’t act like we didn’t stop every time you wanted.”

“Yeah, after I almost had to beg,” he spits out, getting up. “Now that we are here, you don’t need to be so afraid, okay? Dad said… He said it was safe.”

“Well, he’s dead. Sorry if I don’t take his word on that.”

Peter lunges forward before I can realize what I had just said. He’s slow, so I move to the side just in time to avoid his grasp. He trips, falls, and rolls down a slope just behind the tree I was resting on. He disappears from my view, and I yell his name. I run over to the ledge of the slope, eyes running over the bushes for any sign of him.

“Where are you? Peter? Answer me.”

For a brief, horrible second, I think the worst has happened, but then, he calls for me.

“I'm stuck. Laurie, my ankle… It hurts. I can't move.” His voice cracks and he waves so I can spot him.

Crap!

“Okay, it's okay. I'm coming down. Don't worry.”

Each step I take, my heart beats faster. Using my hands to move down, I reach him with only a few scrapes and cuts. He's down in a ditch, sitting against the earth. His ankle is bent in a weird way, twisted. Peter greets me with a frown and wince. I crouch next to him, placing my hands on his injured ankle.

“Hey! Don't touch it.”

“I need to touch it, so I can fix it. It's okay, I know what I'm doing.”

He stares at me, white with fear, when I take it firmly and place the other hand on his leg. “Wait… What—”

Crack. He screams. I hope I did it right, my only experience with fixing broken ankles was on a training doll. Mom used to teach first aid to volunteers, and I liked going with her, watching her work. It was fun pretending to save people.

When I look up, Peter is out cold. My hands find his cheeks, and I shake his head. He's limp and unresponsive. I sigh and try climbing up the ditch alone. I grab some vines and force my feet up. I fall, and fall, and fall again. My butt hurts, and the palms of my hands are red from the friction. My clothes are full of dirt, my body’s tired, but I prepare myself to try again.

“What are you doing?” Peter slurs, a hand on his forehead.

“I’m trying to climb up.”

“What about me? You can’t leave me behind. Don’t leave me alone down here.”

I bite my lip, feeling my cheeks get hot. “I’m not. I just wanted to get our stuff before some animal eats everything.”

“Help me up. I want to go too.”

Crouching down, I offer my shoulder for him to support himself. He's heavier than I imagined, but I help him stand up. He tries to put his injured foot on the ground, but yells at the pain and we almost lose balance. I steady both of us using the ditch’s wall of dirt.

“I don’t think you can climb up, Pete.”

“So what do we do, then?”

My eyes go the top of the hole we are stuck in. “You wait here. I’m going to bring back our stuff. I can use our clothes to make a rope and pull you up.”

He frowns at me. “You have to promise you won’t leave me here after you reach the top, okay?”

“I promise. Just boost me up, so it’s easier.”

We nod at each other. I move close to him, placing my hands on his shoulder. He’s looking right at me, big blue eyes fixed on my own. My cheeks are probably red again. Peter boosts me up using his hands and I climb up against his body, my feet on his shoulders. I’m embarrassed by the contact, but try to concentrate on reaching the upper vines.

I’m almost there when I hear the steps and moaning. A shadow passes over me, and I spot a bald head, full of lumps, moving around near us.
Crap.

“Pete,” I whisper. “Peter, I’m going down again.”

“Why?” He yells. “What’s going on?”

I want to strangle him, really.
Why’s he so loud?
I climb down, he helps me and my body slides against his, before I plant my feet down on the ground again. His hands are on my waist, and for a long time we just stare at each other.

“Laurie, what happened—”

I place two fingers against his lips, pointing up. We hear footsteps. Peter nods and moves us closer to the ground. Dirt and grass fall inside the ditch as a group of monsters pass us by. We wait, holding our breaths. For maybe hours, we do nothing, not moving a single muscle and with our bodies pressed against the raw earth. Finally, only the sounds of crickets and the wind remain.

Only after being sure we are safe that every single part of my body wakes up, feeling his hand touching me and his breath against my neck. I'm not the only one bothered by this, as he moves away quickly, as much the ditch allows.

“How's your ankle?” I ask, voice weak. “Does it still hurt?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. We should try to climb up again.”

I shake my head. “It’s too soon. They will hear us.”

He doesn't answer, and the pause reminds me of how we ended up down here in the first place.

“I'm sorry about what I said,” I mumble, hugging myself. “About your Dad.”

“Why did you do it? You know… You know how he died. It wasn't his fault. He was shot.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just—”

“You think I suck, don’t you?” I’m about to argue, but he continues, “I know I complain too much. Get tired all the time and do dumb stuff like falling into ditches. Sorry. If you want to leave me behind, it’s okay. I get it.”

“I don’t. Really. Besides, the ditch thing was kind of my fault.”

“Okay, I guess. So, friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.”

A cold breeze forces me to hug my knees, back against the earth. I look up to the sky, hidden by the trees around us.

“If you had a lightsaber, which color would you pick?” Peter asks, moving to sit next to me.

“Orange, I guess.”

I can see him rolling his eyes, now that he’s closer. “Everyone wants red, green or blue. Why can’t you pick a normal color?”

“Because I like being different.”

He laughs and shakes his head. Again, I feel a smile forming on my lips. I like the sound of his laugh.

“This is cool, right?” He says after a few seconds of silence.

“What?”

“Us, being friends. It’s cool we can talk about this stuff. Helps forget what’s out there.”

I nod. We don’t say anything else. The sun finally sets. My head falls on his shoulder, and his hand finds mine in the darkness. He falls asleep, but I can’t. This ditch isn’t safe. Our food is still up there. We don’t have any water and his ankle won’t get better in days. We are going to be slow and loud now. Easy prey for animals and everything else. I look up, wondering if I can climb the vines alone, then I turn to Peter beside me. For a second, my heart races. I would leave him behind.

My eyes close, and I shake my head.
I can't do that
. But before I fall asleep a question won’t leave me:
Why not?

The Hunter's Daughter V

December 18th, Friday, 12 am

I reach Redwood by midnight. The knuckles on my hand are white against the steering wheel. A heavy truck blocks the Main Street, so I steer my own car around it. The town that greets me is the same one I left behind. The buildings are, at least. There are no signs of the usual folks strolling around chitchatting in front of Old Joe’s or playing cards by the sidewalk while having a drink.

“You are too late. You should’ve taken the faster route back to town,”
Father’s voice rings inside my head.

Fearing the worst, I park the truck behind the pizzeria, inside Old Joe’s open garage. He still kept the keys below a trashcan. With my bad shoulder and arm, I can’t walk around carrying heavy bags of weapons and ammunition, so I get out of the truck only with a SIG Sauer hidden in my back, below my T-shirt, and an AK-47 over my left shoulder. The assault rifle model has been used for close combat for years now and is the favorite weapon of guerrillas and warlords, because it’s relative cheap and durable.

Not my choice of weapon, but we need to speak the same language. These idiots have to see I’m not joking around.

Now, if I were an invading small army, where would I be right now? Holding hostages in an easy controllable place, while a few others raided the town for supplies. My best bet is the school. The basketball court, maybe, since it provides a way to intimidate people: take one from the crowd and shoot the person where everyone can see.

I approach the school by the back, climbing the fire escape stairs to the roof and surveying the building surroundings on higher ground. No patrols, no snipers perched on roofs. Sloppy. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought.

The basketball court has a glass ceiling window that I use to peek inside the school. People move around between bedrolls; some are reading and playing cards by candlelight. Not exactly the scene I was expecting.

I climb down back to the ground, moving crouched to the back doors of the court. My eyes search for clues through a small gap between each door. It’s my ears that solve the mystery.

“Don’t worry, Frank. I know they are fine. They must be. Now rest, please. You need to be well-rested if things go wrong.”

My old principal’s voice is exactly as I remember: comforting, but strict when needed. I’m happy to see Mrs. Terrence is still alive and well.

There is a brief moment of hesitation, before my hands push the doors open. People turn around and stare at me. This is far from the first time I draw their attention. By now, I’m used to their whispers and badly hidden gasps. I stroll between bedrolls and surprised people to reach Mrs. Terrence.

“Lily? Oh my goodness. Is that really you?” She almost runs to me, a smile so big it makes me embarrassed. “Thank God! I’m so happy you are here.”

I nod, feeling my cheeks warm a little. I’m used to the stares, not people actually being happy to see me. “Hi, Mrs. Terrence. Everything all right?”

She looks at me from head to toe, eyes lingering on the AK-47. Under normal circumstances, I would expect a lecture about caution and not scaring off people. Today, I can see in her eyes she’s a bit disappointed, instead of shocked, by my carelessness in bringing an assault rifle to school.

“Yes. For now. Is this…?” She points at my gun. “Is this all you brought? Where’s your father?”

Her question chokes me from the inside. I try not to let my voice crack too much. “He’s not coming.” I adjust the rifle’s strap over my shoulder to hide my shaking hand.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps he’ll change his mind later.”

Mrs. Terrence was always nice. I liked her husband too. They used to come and visit Mom on Thanksgiving. Danny was too shy, apparently. More likely, he was too scared of the deer heads on our walls. The smell of Mrs. Terrence’s turkey and Mom’s apple pie used to mean happiness. Not anymore.

No matter how nice she was, she had no clue how my Father’s mind really works.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I mumble, before changing the subject. “I have a pickup truck full of guns and ammo back at Old Joe’s. I didn’t know how bad the situation was. Couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

“Smart. You did well.”

“So, what
is
the situation exactly? Where’s Roger?”

She turns her gaze to the ground. I tense up. Mrs. Terrence never avoids anyone’s eyes.

Not Roger. It can’t be Roger.

“They aren’t back. Yet. I… It’s still early. I’m sure they are fine.”

He’s alive. Or was. I’m not too late. Maybe. I relax.

“Back from where?”

Mrs. Terrence explains their plan: grab some those infected people and use them to dispatch the forces before they even reach town. It’s an okay idea, but like any okay idea, it can go south quickly. Stepping inside enemy territory without knowing the lay of the land can end up being a huge mistake.

“How many men did Roger take?”