Here We Stand (Book 2): Divided (Surviving The Evacuation) (23 page)

The door needed work, too, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. There was no FBI notice admonishing against entry, nor crime scene tape. The door was open, but that might have been done when Jonas came to loot the house. He pushed. It swung inward.

Inside, it was almost as he remembered it. The meager provisions he’d forgotten to clear out of the store cupboard were gone, as were a few utensils, blankets, and sheets. The newest of his all-weather jackets was missing, but the more comfortable one remained. As he changed into his own clothes, he thought through what he’d seen. The meaning was obvious. The people who’d come here weren’t FBI. They’d worked for Addison. Perhaps they’d even planted some evidence in the house, to be discovered at a later date when it would further incriminate him. He glanced up at the low ceiling. It might be up in the crawlspace. There was no point looking for it, at least not now.

He folded the clothes he’d borrowed from Jonas and went back outside. The hidden room was the only real improvement he’d made to the house. He removed the bench from the back porch and lifted up the decking. The gap beneath was filled with broken planks. On each were a few spots of paint. They formed a pattern that told him no one had taken them up since he’d been here last. At least, if they had, they’d put the planks back in exactly the right place.

Quelling the return of that familiar sense of paranoia, he removed the planks and opened the hatch. Everything was there, just as he’d expected. The rifles, the ammo, the server. Even the alarm looked intact, though without power and with no cell network or internet over which to send a signal, it was utterly useless. He carried the weapons into the house and then went back for the server. He left the planks lying loose on the ground, but put the decking back in place, and the seat on top of that. Not thinking about the future, or the past, he sat down to watch the sea.

He must have drifted off to sleep because he was woken by the roar of the waves. They seemed to be loud, growing louder. It wasn’t waves. It was something mechanical. He stood, jogging toward the front of the cottage, expecting to see someone driving up the track. He was at the side of the house when he realized he was wrong, and what the sound was. It grew louder, changing into a world-encompassing buzzing. He looked up in time to see a blue and red helicopter appear from the north. It flew low, not over the cottage, but above the road, and it was heading to the village.

Was it rescue? Had help come? For a moment he believed it, but out of all the places in the world how would anyone know to come to this exact spot? Trying to believe it was only paranoia, he ran back inside and grabbed an M16. Surely he could be wrong. He loaded the gun and pocketed a spare magazine. He knew he wasn’t wrong. He knew this time it wasn’t paranoia. There were few lights at night, barely any smoke during the day, no radio signals going out, and no reason for anyone to come here. No reason but him. Wishing he had a weapon more powerful than an automatic rifle, he ran back out of the house and along the track.

The distant tone from the helicopter had changed. Had it already landed? He wanted to be wrong. He hoped he was wrong. He knew he wasn’t. Powell hadn’t been at the industrial site when the bombs had fallen. If Tom had survived, then why couldn’t he? There were two zombies on the road, lurching slowly toward the village. He fired two hasty shots before he had the range. Three more shots and they were down. He saw another drifting through the trees four hundred yards to the north. There wasn’t time to deal with it. Not now. He ran.

The satellite. It had to be the satellite. Powell had used that to track him before. In the heady joy of having found survivors, of finding Helena alive, of surviving the nuclear blast, he’d forgotten about Powell. And the man’s agents had been here, to the cottage. He knew precisely where to come. Tom pumped his arms, sprinting furiously. More than that, he remembered Powell’s threat just before he’d captured him. Powell had guessed where the fire truck had been heading.

He saw the barricade ahead. Only Gregor stood behind it.

“Did you see?” Gregor called. “Did you see the helicopter?”

“Help me move the wire!” Tom snapped back, cutting his hands as dragged the planks across the road.

“It’s help. Help’s come,” Gregor said. “I knew it would!”

Tom had managed to move the plank a few inches, giving him a narrow path down which to walk. Walking heel to toe, the wire snagging on cloth, ripping into skin, he eased himself toward the barricade.

“Where’s Helena?”

“She went to see,” Gregor said. “But she didn’t seem happy.”

Tom reached the moveable gate and pushed it across. “There’s a zombie down the road. Keep watch for it.”

“Wait,” Gregor said, but Tom was already sprinting over the bridge and toward the village.

Please let me be wrong, he thought. The sound from the helicopter changed again, getting lower, softer, as the rotors slowed. Please let me be wrong. Ignoring the stinging pain in his legs, he ran until he reached the low crest and the village below him. The helicopter had landed on the patch of asphalt that became an outdoor market during the height of summer. It looked as if everyone had gathered nearby, though all were staying some distance from the helicopter.

He slowed his run to a walk and raised the rifle, trying to catch his breath so the barrel would stop wavering. His finger curled around the trigger, but he held his fire. He needed to get closer. He had to know. The helicopter was a civilian model, but it wasn’t the same one that had been at the industrial site. It was slightly larger, and on the side was a gold logo in the shape of a stylized wave. The door opened. A figure wearing a military uniform got out. Even from the distance, Tom saw it was ragged, worn, stained. A couple of people in the crowd stepped forward. A few more stepped back. Tom kept walking, but held his fire. He had to be certain. He could still be wrong.

The soldier had a sidearm at his belt, but his hands were empty. The next uniform to climb out held a rifle one-handed with the barrel pointing down. Tom was a hundred yards away now. The pilot stepped out, followed by a fourth military uniform, this one also wearing a helmet. The pilot raised a hand, waving at the crowd.

The barrel of Tom’s rifle lowered an inch. The pilot reached into the helicopter and picked up a rifle as the fourth figure removed his helmet.

“Powell!” Helena’s voice echoed above the crowd. A shot was fired, but not from Tom, nor from the guards. It missed. The second one hit the pilot in the chest. The other three took cover. Tom was too close to the crowd now fleeing in every direction and he’d lost the elevation that would have given him a clear shot. He ran forward, rifle raised. There was a third shot, but he couldn’t see who fired it. Powell and his men opened fire, shooting indiscriminately into the crowd. Tom didn’t have a clear target so he aimed at the helicopter, emptying his magazine into metal and glass. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people fall. He heard them scream. He heard others yell.

He ejected the magazine and slotted the spare into place. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No haven anywhere in America, except this one. It was being destroyed, and it was his fault. He ran, firing burst after burst, and realized that he was almost alone in the open. A helmeted figure rose from behind the helicopter’s skids, a pistol in his hand. Tom pulled the trigger. It clicked. The magazine was empty. He dropped it, but before he could reach the holstered .45, the man’s head was blown apart by a shot that came from somewhere to Tom’s left. Tom drew the pistol. The last guard reared up. Tom fired, emptying the magazine into his chest.

“Powell!” he bellowed as silence descended. The shooting had stopped.

“Powell!” he yelled again, ejecting the magazine and slotting a fresh into place. The only sound was the screaming of the injured and the sobbing of the dead.

He saw the man’s legs underneath the helicopter. For a moment, he thought Powell was dead, and then a foot twitched.

“Get out!” Tom barked. He grabbed at the man’s ankle, tugging him from under the skids.

“You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man?” Powell asked, cowering.

Tom would, but he held his fire. He glanced around. He saw Kaitlin, a hunting rifle in her hand, walking across the lot toward the bodies. He saw Jonas bending over one. No one was approaching them. He turned back to Powell.

“It’s just you and me, Powell. Why did you come here?”

“To end this,” Powell said, pushing himself into a sitting position with his legs bent, his hands held across his knees. “You know, I said you should have been killed years ago. Your old family friend did like things done in far too complicated a fashion.”

Tom raised the gun, but stilled his rage. There were too many questions that had to have answers. “How did you find me?”

“Where else would you go? The satellites confirmed it. That fire truck was like a signpost.”

“Where did you come from?” Tom asked.

“You mean is anyone going to come after me? Everyone is dead, Mr Clemens. America is gone. The country is in ruins. It’s all your fault, you know. If you’d simply played your part, even now, our nation would be rising from the ashes. Instead, you clipped the phoenix’s wings. It will never fly again.”

“You betrayed the cabal, didn’t you? You and Addison. He schemed to put himself on top, and you planned to kill and usurp him.”

“How can you betray a conspiracy?” Powell replied. He placed his palms on the ground and pushed himself to his feet.

“Stay down!” Tom barked.

“Addison was a pawn, just as Farley and Sterling were,” Powell said, raising his hands above his head. “Not too dissimilar to what Maxwell was for you. Addison’s betrayal didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. None of this does. You may have destroyed this country, but you did not destroy us. The cause lives on, eternal.”

“What? Hiding out in some bunker? Where?”

“A bunker? Oh, no. The world is a big place, Mr Clemens. So, as I said, I came here to end this. I didn’t start the gunfight, nor did I want to. I didn’t come here with violence in my heart. But what do you want, Mr Clemens? A trial? An execution? Or would you prefer a prisoner exchange?”

“Your life in exchange for whose?” Tom asked.

“There’s someone you need to speak to,” Powell said. He turned around and reached into the helicopter.

“Don’t!” Tom warned.

“It’s a radio, Mr Clemens,” Powell said, holding a small black box up by a corner. “Mr Clemens. Mr Sholto. Thaddeus. There is someone who wishes to speak to you.”

He held out the box. Tom stared at it. Powell tossed it at him. Tom fumbled the catch, taking an involuntary step back, and caught the glint of something metal in Powell’s other hand as the man leaped.

Tom managed to grab Powell’s wrist, holding the knife back, but the man’s momentum pushed them both over. Tom landed hard, Powell on top, and the man had his other hand on Tom’s gun hand, holding it down as the knife’s gleaming blade inched closer and closer.

“I told you,” Powell hissed. “I wanted—”

But before he could finish, he was pulled back and off. Tom saw Jonas throw Powell up and down onto the asphalt. He saw Jonas level his gun and fire three times into the man’s chest.

“No judge, no jury,” Jonas said. “Just me.”

“No.” Tom said. “No.” He pushed himself up, and over to Powell’s body, but the man was dead. He ran to the helicopter. There was no radio beyond the microphones built into the helmets.

“No. No. No,” he hissed. He walked back across the cracked lot and picked up the object Powell had thrown at him. It was a small black plastic case. Inside were iodine tablets.

“What?” Jonas asked. “What did he say? What are you looking for?”

“Tom!” Kaitlin yelled. He looked up. She was crouched over a body fifty feet away. He knew who it was long before he reached her. Helena lay unmoving, though her eyes were open. A red stain spread across her chest.

He reached down and took her hand. It was already cold.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said.

“Tom?”

“I’m here,” he said, leaning closer. Her eyes didn’t focus.

“I never found Jessica,” Helena whispered. “I wish I had.” She gave a rasping cough. “I looked for her. That’s important. I did what I could, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Tom said. “You went looking for her, and she knew that. Your sister knew that you wanted to make amends. She knew that, Helena. Helena?”

She was dead.

He wanted to bellow. He wanted to scream. It shouldn’t be like this. Not her. Not here. Not now. Kaitlin went to help with the other injured. Tom stayed on his knees, trying to think of something to say, of anything that might give meaning to Helena’s death.

“It’s over,” he finally said. And it should have been. There should have been time to grieve, to repent, to regret, to revel in victory, or dwell on Powell’s last words. There wasn’t time. Instead, there was a shot. Then another. They came from the north.

“Zombies.” He was running before he realized, and halfway to the bridge before he remembered he was unarmed save for the bowie knife at his belt. He didn’t turn back.

Gregor stood on the barricade, hunting rifle in hand, firing shot after shot down the road. With the sheet-metal gate closed, Tom couldn’t see what lay beyond, but he could hear it. Even the crack of the rifle couldn’t drown out the sound of hundreds of feet, of hundreds of sighing, gasping dead mouths. He ran to the barricade, and up the steps. Standing next to Gregor, he realized he was wrong. There had to be thousands of them. A long thin column that stretched as far the eye could see, and probably a lot further.