Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) (9 page)

I knew the town didn’t run by the grace of God alone and that sooner or later we’d have to help out, but I didn’t expect them to put our asses to work the very next day.

All of the four hundred or so women who’d slept at the gym—Karla and I included—stood in line in front of one of ten desks lined up outside, awaiting our job assignments. A sheet of paper with two or three letters scribbled on it had been taped to each desk. We each lined up according to the first letter of our last name.

The same depressing red halo hung in the sky, its pale light aggravating my drowsiness. I’d barely been able to sleep, tossing and turning on the thin mattress I shared with Karla. My senses had been on edge throughout the night, expecting to hear demonic roars and gunfire outside at any second. At least Lala managed to sleep despite my restlessness. Even from afar, glancing at her as she waited in line in front of the desk labeled “L-M-N,” I could tell that her hazel eyes had regained some of their spark.

Not all of it, of course. She’d prayed for the well-being of her dad—and my parents—first thing that morning. I couldn’t help crossing myself along with her when she finished her prayers, even if I didn’t join her.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees since the previous night. We’d been given a hot bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, along with a steaming cup of weak coffee, all of which tasted glorious just for being hot. Many of the refugees rubbed their hands and fidgeted in place to keep warm as they stood in line. A faint cloud of condensation formed in front of my face whenever I yawned. If the ominous solar eclipse didn’t end soon, we’d end up freezing to death during the night.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though. The numbing weather had forced me to take only a brief shower, so I’d managed to snatch up some pretty nice clothes afterward. At least I had
that
going for me. I left the changing room the proud owner of a warm black peacoat and matching flat boots, which were quite sensible despite the gratuitous buckles tacked on along the sides.

I’d have to rethink my motto. Perhaps “
Slow
beggars can’t be choosers” would have been more accurate. I tried picking out some clothes for Karla—whose shower dragged on—but the plump lady in charge of that area pointed out that it wasn’t allowed. The shotgun-wielding woman’s advice to keep a low profile echoed in my head, so I didn’t argue. I bit my lip as I saw my friend shivering in a shabby light-blue jacket while she waited in line.

Almost an hour later, I finally stood before an old man wearing thick, round glasses seated behind the desk labeled Q-R-S. Apart from a white wool sweater, he had a brown scarf and thin gloves to keep him nice and toasty.

“Good morning. Could you give me your name, please?” he asked.

“Rebecca Stirling,” I said, my hands buried in the pockets of my jeans.

He rummaged through a stack of at least forty white booklets on the desk, each one the size of a passport and held together by two staples. After a few seconds, he placed one of them in front of me. My name had been written on its flimsy cardboard cover using the kind of elegant longhand I’d only seen on wedding invitations. Since no one can write by hand worth a damn anymore, I could see how it was a good idea to put the old folks in charge of the town’s records. Not quite as elegant was the symbol printed over my name: a cross standing on an open book, surrounded by flames, with a crown floating over it.

“That’s… that’s not the town crest, is it?” I asked, leaning over it.

The man chuckled and shook his head. “No, it’s the symbol of Brother Tim’s New Jerusalem’s First Prophetic Church. As you might be aware, the name suits it perfectly. I couldn’t believe it myself, but the man had ten thousand of these booklets made, just waiting to be filled up, before this mess began. A bold move, considering only twenty thousand people lived in our humble town. We’ve only received about five thousand guests so far, but it’s starting to look like we might even run out of booklets soon.”

“So, more people are still reaching this place? Like, from the city?” I wondered if there was still hope of my parents walking into town.

“Not so much from the city, I’m afraid, but from other towns around the island.” He lowered his eyes and opened the booklet. My personal information had been written out on the first page in the same beautiful writing—including my religious affiliation, of course. A blank space had been left on a corner, presumably for a photograph. “Is all of this accurate?”

“Yeah.”

He flipped over to the next page, which had a table printed on it with each day of the week in the header and a blank grid underneath.

“Okay. Now, all you have to do is get the person in charge at your work station to sign and stamp the square for the morning and afternoon shifts each day. You’ll get a day to rest, but it won’t necessarily be Sunday, depending on your assignment. It’s very important that you don’t lose this, since you’ll need it to claim your meals from now on, and our security volunteers might request it to prove you didn’t sneak into town. Understand?” He frowned a little.

“Sure, I get it.” I flipped over the next few pages, each with the same grid printed on them. The booklet had enough pages to last me two or three months. My heart sank when faced with the prospect of staying in New Jerusalem that long.

“Now, then, do you have any particular skills which might be useful around here, Rebecca? We’re especially interested in people who might know a bit of gardening, first aid, cars, or electronics.”

I stared at my boots, racking my brain to think of anything useful I’d learned in my seventeen years on earth. Anything I'd learned while sleepwalking my way through school was out, obviously, and I doubted that the knowledge of makeup and fashion I'd picked up from my mother and various magazines would be appreciated all that much. I wasn’t like Karla, who had her whole life planned out. Apart from some vague fantasies of playing professional sports, or marrying a young, handsome oil baron, I'd never really thought about the future all that much. I'd always assumed I’d just get an office job, like my parents—slowly climbing the corporate ladder through brown nosing and intrigue.

The man tapped his fingers on the table. I was about to admit defeat when I remembered the skill that had helped me survive without my career-minded parents around the house for most of the day.

“Cooking. I can cook.” After a few years of eating sandwiches and microwave lunches, I’d decided to teach myself how to make real food by imitating sarcastic British chefs on TV. I probably wouldn’t have found work at a five-star restaurant anytime soon, but by post-apocalyptic standards, my dishes might as well have been fine cuisine.

The old man shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we’ve got all the cooks we need for now. Can you think of anything else you could help us with? Even less practical skills, like in painting, music, or even writing would be appreciated. After all, man shall not live by bread alone. We really could use some inspiration around here.”

A long, sorrowful sigh escaped my lips as I eliminated each of the man’s suggestions in my head. My drawings used to get me nice long chats with the school counselor when I was little—probably thanks to my dad and his passion for war movies, which he’d watch while I played on the carpet next to him. I never had the patience to learn to play an instrument, and writing was never really my thing either.

“Well, I played in my school’s softball team. That’s probably not what you mean though, is it?” The man pushed his glasses up his nose, cleared his throat, and smiled as he took a thick file from a drawer.

“Don’t worry, Rebecca; I’m sure there’s lots you could help us with.” He flipped through the file and then stopped at a page and nodded. “There. We’re a bit short staffed in the laundry department. Go over to the pavilion by the lake and talk to Mrs. Thompson—she’ll show you the ropes.” He handed me the booklet after writing my new job title—Laundry Assistant—the name of my supervisor, and the place and time in which I had to show up. Doing the laundry used to mean sorting my clothes and sticking them in a machine. I suspected things would be a bit different now.

“Okay. Thanks.” I stuck the booklet inside my coat pocket.

I walked away and waited by the side of the road for a few minutes while Karla got her booklet. She practically skipped over to me.

“So, what job did they give you?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know. She puffed her reddened cheeks with a broad smile and held out her booklet as if it was the winning lottery ticket.

“Medical Assistant. They’ll probably have me filling out paperwork and changing bedpans, but maybe I’ll learn a few things along the way. What about you?”

“Laundry,” I said, looking at my feet.

“Hey, that’s not too bad. At least you’ll be working outside next to a beautiful lake.”

“Yeah, the blood lake. I’m sure it’ll be lovely to splash around there, particularly in this weather. See you later, okay?”

***

I marched over to a long, wooden pavilion by the crimson lake. It was large enough to hold at least three hundred people under its sloping blue-grey roof. Inside, there were several rows of tables upon which plastic basins were lined up. Almost two hundred people labored over each basin, all of them women. It seemed a bit unfair but hardly surprising, considering the ages of the people in charge of assigning us our jobs.

A hollow thumping and a strong smell of soap followed me as I crossed the wooden floor. The women glanced at me in silence while squishing their laundry. Most of them seemed to be around my age, although their sunken eyes and unsmiling, careworn faces made them look older. I walked up to a middle-aged woman with short, glossy black hair, wearing a beige plastic apron. Judging by the way she scurried from one woman to the next, briefly miming the way they should be doing their work without actually doing any work herself, I figured she was the one in charge.

“Hello… Mrs. Thompson?”

“Yes?” She seemed tired despite her tasteful makeup.

“My name’s Rebecca. I was sent here to help out.” I handed over my work booklet.

She skimmed it for a second and, without a word, headed over to the table at a corner of the pavilion. I strode after her. Mrs. Thompson placed my booklet inside a drawer. A small windup alarm clock sat on the desk. It was a few minutes after nine.

“Okay, Rebecca. This is your first day, so we’ll make an exception, but if tomorrow you’re not here by eight a.m., don’t bother showing up at all. Is that clear?” She looked at me with both hands on her hips.

“Yes, Mrs. Thompson. Eight a.m. Got it.” I had to fight the temptation to give her a military salute. I’d need her stamp and signature to get my next meal, and that morning’s oatmeal wouldn’t placate my hunger for long. “By the way, at what time do we leave for lunch?”

“You haven’t worked a single minute, and already you want to leave?” She sighed. “You get off at noon and return at two. That should give you plenty of time to have lunch… or you could listen to
Brother Tim’s
sermon if you prefer.” She rolled her eyes. Clearly, the woman wasn’t a fan of the town’s prophet.

Before I had time to respond, she strode over to some plastic barrels by the lake, just outside the pavilion. They contained heaps of clothes, roughly sorted by color and submerged in soapy water. Mrs. Thompson handed me an empty basin from a stack next to them.

“This isn’t complicated work, but it has to be done properly. Just fill the basin with the dirty clothes and knead them for a couple of minutes. Pour the dirty water on an empty barrel—
not
into the lake—and give the clothes a good squeeze. Then just rinse the clothes using fresh water until the soap’s gone.”

I couldn’t help noticing her finely manicured nails as she went over the entire process, pointing at the barrels and wringing the air in front of her. A look at the elegant yellow sweater and flower-patterned dress she wore underneath the plastic apron made me seriously doubt she’d ever done any washing up in her life. I still nodded enthusiastically through her explanation. Maybe I didn’t like my new boss, but unskilled beggars can’t be choosers, either.

I filled my basin with cold, soggy clothes and went back to the pavilion, carrying it with my arms outstretched to keep my coat dry. My shoulders ached as I walked between the rows of laundry assistants, turning my face from left to right, looking for a spot where I could work.

Oh my God.

The basin slipped off my fingers and smacked on the floorboards as the sight of a familiar face sent an electric jolt throughout my body. Water splashed all over me and onto the women nearby. They shrieked and protested.

“What do you think you’re doing, silly girl?” Mrs. Thompson said, thundering over to me.

“Amy?” I stared at the girl in front of me.

“Rebecca…” Her thin, pale lips trembled, and tears flowed from her dark-green eyes. “Oh my God—you’re alive!”

She staggered toward me, brushing back her long, blonde hair with a shaking hand. Her slender arms wrapped themselves around me, squeezing out the air from my lungs with unexpected strength. Still reeling from the shock, I could only pat her back as the girl who’d bullied me for years wept on my shoulder.

“I… I thought you were dead,” she said in a faint, phlegmy voice.

“Me too,” I said, returning her embrace, tears finally making their way down my cheeks. “What about the others, Amy? Are they here, too?”