Aftermath (28 page)

Shumate’s eyebrow twitched up. “You know what doesn’t make sense? Who the fuck leaves a pickup truck full of supplies just lying out in the open, unguarded?”

“
We left two men there,” Harper explained. “Their names are Doc and Josh.”

At the mention of the names, Shumate and LaRouche looked at each other with a dreadful silence that made Lee feel rubbery. Shumate suddenly avoided eye contact. “By the way, Milo called me on the radio. He wanted me to tell you that he has a guy named Doc, a friend of yours, and he’s going to execute him if you aren’t here when he arrives.”

Lee wanted to feel what should have been shock, sucking the wind out of him, but instead all he felt was a sinking, wretched disappointment, a positive knowing, a confirmation of dreadful things you already knew but didn’t want to admit to yourself. That was why Doc hadn’t answered the radio. Milo had found them. And he hadn’t mentioned Josh, which meant he was probably dead, or dying. And the pickup truck, full of supplies they had risked their lives and killed to get, they were all gone, sucked up into a tornado named Milo.

And inside of Lee, he didn’t know whether the fire was so hot it felt cold, or whether he just wasn’t feeling anything at all. He didn’t know whether to be crushed with the disappointment or explode with rage. The two equal and opposite forces pressed at each other and sandwiched Lee in the middle so that he just stood there, staring at the red emergency lights above the door and wondered why ever in the fuck did he take this job? Was the destruction of humanity the will of God and Lee was just a modern-day Jacob, wrestling stubbornly and fruitlessly with an angel over the wreckage of America?

Maybe Father Jim would have an answer for him.

Lee found himself looking at Shumate again, and when he spoke he heard his voice like he had water in his ears. “Let Harper and Miller leave. You’ve got no business with them. You’ve got me. You’ve got what Milo wants. Unless you’re going to stand and fight with me, then let them go, and leave me the fuck alone.”

Shumate seemed unsure, an expression that crossed his face often and seemed to fall into place there like a wheel finding a well-worn rut. He looked at LaRouche who was staring at him intensely.

“
I can take them,” LaRouche said. “Milo doesn’t know about them, so he can’t be mad.”

Julia stepped forward. “You have to let them go. My sister’s there. We can help each other.”

Shumate finally nodded. He pointed a finger at LaRouche. “But Milo’s gonna be here any minute. You need to move them out before he gets here.”

LaRouche didn’t waste any time. He produced a big knife from his vest and instructed Harper and Miller to turn around. The two of them looked stunned, but they didn’t argue. Lee didn’t want them to argue. He wanted them to be gone. The less they said the better.

LaRouche cut through the duct tape binding their hands together. The two of them looked at Lee, rubbing the stickiness off their wrists. When they looked like they were trying to find something to say, Lee just shook his head. “Go. I can take care of myself.” Lee looked at Shumate. “Let them take my pack, but keep that black box you got out of my pocket. I’m just going to assume Milo knows about it anyway.”

Shumate seemed to consider this for a moment while LaRouche ushered them out of the door. Eventually, he nodded. Perhaps the deputy figured that if he was trusting Lee this far, and if Julia and LaRouche thought he was being truthful, he may as well go with it. Lee also assumed that Shumate might be trying to remedy as much of the relationship between him and Camp Ryder as possible, in hopes of still getting his hands on some diesel fuel.

Everyone had their motives.

Julia turned to him before she walked out. “Thank you.”

Lee didn’t respond, and she left the room.

Shumate was the last one. Before he closed the door, he stopped and looked at Lee. “I’m sorry about all this.”

Lee thought about choice words, but in the end only stared at Shumate, his eyes full of hatred. When Lee once again had nothing to say, the deputy sheriff looked down with that familiar look of shame and uncertainty and closed the door, plunging Lee back into the dim red darkness.

CHAPTER 16: BREAKING POINTS

Harper and Miller followed LaRouche as he marched back down the hall towards where they had first come into the hospital. Each man walked along with his hands clasped together as though they were still bound. Their gaits no longer confident but subdued. To their right, the woman that was apparently Marie’s sister rushed passed them and fell in step with the sergeant.

“
How far are you taking them?” she asked.

LaRouche looked at her, already knowing where this was going. “You’ve got too many people here relying on you.”

“
I don’t want to be here anymore.” She lowered her voice. “Shumate is going to get us all killed. I know he thinks he’s saving us, but you know as well as I do what happens with people like Milo. They keep taking and taking until there’s nothing left to give, but by then we won’t have anything left to fight him with.”

LaRouche stopped and spun on her. “You want to fight Milo? I’m with you on that. But running off to another camp is not the way to do it. The people here need you, Julia. And if you truly are serious about fighting, and not just trying to get away from Shumate, then you’ll stay here. I think your sister has some pull in the other camp, but she’ll have no basis to send help if you’re there with her.”

Julia considered this. “Leave me one of the radios from the captain’s backpack then.”

LaRouche regarded Harper as though he maybe should ask them permission. But he didn’t. He just nodded. “Fine.”

They walked to the nurses’ station where Javier and the Cajun man stood. They’d emptied the contents of Lee’s backpack onto the counter and were poking through everything, handling the explosives with caution, well aware of what they were.

LaRouche spoke with a bite of anger. “Pack that shit back up.”

Javier pointed to the array of gear. “He’s got fuckin’ grenades, man! We could really use those!”

LaRouche took a warning tone. “Pack it up, Javier.”

Javier shrugged and began placing the items gingerly into the backpack. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying...we could have used them.”

Cajun spoke up. “What’s goin’ on?”

“
I’m taking these gentlemen back to their camp.”

“
And what about the other guy?”

LaRouche shook his head. “Milo wants him. And Shumate plans to give him up.”

Cajun snorted and spat. “Fucking weasel.”

Harper watched the exchange in silence. It appeared to him that Shumate was losing control here at Smithfield. As well-intended as his actions were, people did not want to labor under the threat of violence from Milo. Harper knew if he were in their position, he would feel that it would be better to fight Milo and get it over with, than to wait until all their strength had been bled dry.

Yes, Shumate was losing control of this group.

But LaRouche was gaining every inch of it that slipped out of the deputy’s fingers. LaRouche might not view the other survivors as equal—likely he had been part of the detachment that was meant to protect them until evacuations could be made—and he probably viewed them as pitiful civilians. But those civilians looked to him for answers, the same way Harper found himself looking to Captain Harden.

When the pack was full again, with the exception of one long range radio, LaRouche handed it to Harper. He noticed that someone—probably Javier—had re-threaded the straps that they’d cut. He swung into it, shocked at the weight of it. Captain Harden had made the pack look like it weighed no more than 20 pounds or so, but it was at least twice that. Harper felt not only the physical weight, but the figurative weight of the burden of Camp Ryder’s survival being passed over to him. Only Harper was not a soldier. He did not know what to do in these situations. And now he would be returning empty handed once again, without the rifles and ammunition and food and medical supplies that would have brought Camp Ryder back from the brink.

Harper thought he might break down right there.

But then Miller was there next to him, patting him on the back. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Bill.”

LaRouche led them forward. They exited through that same door that led to the stairwell, then up two flights of stairs to the last landing. LaRouche took the stairs quickly, and when he opened the door at the top, he moved through with urgency, his eyes scanning the horizon. Harper assumed he was looking for signs of Milo’s arrival to gauge how much time they really had.

They moved swiftly to the car and piled in, Harper sitting up front this time, where he had to move Captain Harden’s rifle out of the way. As he sat, he looked at the rifle and all of the switches, buttons, and levers. It reminded him somehow that he was not up to the task, that he could not fill the shoes of the man that came before him.

But he would try, dammit.

LaRouche cranked the old Chevrolet and it started faithfully.

The tires on the car chirped slightly as he rushed the vehicle down the several levels of the parking garage to the bottom. As they sped out from underneath the shadow of the garage, they were all silent and focused, eyes trained as far out as they could see, dreading a glimpse of Milo’s convoy rolling up to the hospital. None of them wanted to think about what Milo would do to them or the survivors inside the hospital if he caught LaRouche smuggling them out.

Up ahead, Harper saw the skeletal remnants of the decontamination domes, and the checkpoint they had passed through on the way in. LaRouche slowed down just enough to navigate these safely, but then sped back up when he hit the main drag. He took side-streets that Harper didn’t recognize from their trip in. They made a right on a two-lane street, the tilted sign declaring it North Street. Harper watched ransacked houses on his left, a wide open cemetery to his right. Amongst the tombstones were bodies, lying as though they had found a suitable place to rest and were now awaiting burial.

They made a left-hand turn on Third Street and it was more houses to either side, a mish-mash of styles, old and new, and recently renovated. The hazards were light on this road and Harper got the impression LaRouche knew what streets were clear for quick traveling and which were not. They approached the intersection of a main thoroughfare and it was at that moment that an old habit saved their lives.

Lost in a tumult of thoughts, LaRouche drove on autopilot. The same way Harper could remember he would drive home from work, thinking about different things both good and bad, and then suddenly he would be home with no recollection of the drive he had just made. Somehow, without thinking, he’d managed to avoid collisions, stay on the road, and stop for all the stops signs and traffic lights.

In the dead world of Smithfield, there was no need for traffic safety, as there were no other cars to worry about but the one you were driving. But in that state of instinctive driving, LaRouche’s subconscious mind registered the intersections, the traffic signals (even though they were dark), and the broad white line where you were supposed to stop.

And LaRouche applied the brakes, slowing down for that stop.

With faint note of curiosity, Harper asked, “Why you stopping?”

LaRouche realized what he was doing, even as he looked both ways down the intersection—first right, then left—and he prepared to take his foot off the brake and continue on when he saw the movement far to their left and several blocks down.

He straightened in his seat and squashed the brakes. “Shit!”

Harper and Miller were instantly alarmed, grabbing up their assault rifles.

Several intersections east of them, moving in the opposite direction, the three men observed a green Humvee rumble past, the distant figure of a man on top, pointing the .50 caliber machine gun dead ahead. Following this, were three pickup trucks.

“
It’s fucking Milo,” LaRouche whispered, as though he could be heard.

As the last of the pickup trucks passed through the intersection, Harper’s hand shot out, jabbing at the air with a pointed finger. “That’s our truck! That’s our truck! Milo’s got our truck!”

Miller was beside himself. “We gotta get it back, boss!”

LaRouche looked at them both like they were crazy. “Are you kidding me?”

Harper didn’t realize he was grimacing. The thought of trying to get their pickup truck back was horrendous, it spiked his blood pressure and reminded him of those days in the office when something bad was coming down the pipeline. But oh, this was so much worse. The juxtaposition almost choked a weird laugh out of him. A stressful day two months ago was when the boss was mad at you because you fucked something up. A stressful day today was when you had to get in a gun battle so you could feed your family.

My, how times change...

“
We gotta get it back!” Miller repeated, as though Harper hadn’t heard him the first time.

It would be so much easier to go back to Camp Ryder, a coward, but a coward with no bullet holes in him. It would be easier, and it would be safer. Just to give up. Give in. Resign yourself to your fate. Gather your family around you and starve to death eating dirt and twigs and all the stupid shit people do when they are trying to ease that gnawing ache in their stomachs. Yes, even that seemed better than trying to get the truck back.