Outbreak (30 page)

twenty-four

Eli

Owen couldn’t have picked a worse meet-up spot if he’d tried.

According to my interface, the church is on the far side of the town, which means we either have to take a wide path near the highway or risk showing our faces downtown.

The highway is definitely the safer choice, but it would take at least twice as long. Going through town seems to be the better option.

After a hasty breakfast of half-cooked noodles boiled over the dying fire, Harper and I start making our way down the cliff. By the time we reach the outskirts of town, the heat is back in full force, and it feels as though I’m melting into the cracked earth.

We pass the block with the sandwich shop where we found Owen, and I begin to get a strange prickle of unease on the back of my neck.

We haven’t encountered a single drifter yet, and it seems too good to be true.

On the next corner, we stumble upon a brown clapboard tavern with “McNally’s” spelled out along the side in cheery white letters. A few faded posters advertising different beer brands are plastered inside the dusty windows, and there are half a dozen cars parked in the crumbling lot out back.

It’s too bright to see if there are people inside, but my skin is tingling with nerves.

Just then, the tavern door flies open, and a flurry of male voices escapes. I pull Harper behind a dumpster and crouch down out of sight, hoping the drifters don’t hop in their cars and drive around the block.

“No screwups this time.”

“Malcolm said everything is in place.”

“But last time —”

“Last time we didn’t have a contingency plan.”

“I’m just saying . . . the whole project was delayed because we lost our man on the inside.”

“Well, Travis was a dumb motherfucker.”

“If you say so.”

My breath is caught in my lungs, and my grip on Harper’s shoulder is so tight that she eventually squirms free. 

Three drifters stride into view, heading down the street in the same direction we were going. They’re all dressed like Owen and toting serious-looking rifles, their heads bent in conversation.

“You think they were the only ones in there?” breathes Harper.

“No. But we can’t wait around to find out.” 

I glance nervously up at the sky. The sun will be directly overhead in less than an hour, which means we need to hurry if we want to reach Owen on time.

I wait a few more seconds to make sure there aren’t any stragglers leaving the tavern and make a break for the rear of the building. Harper follows me down the next street, and we continue our journey to the far side of town.

We catch sight of a few more drifters loitering outside of buildings, but they’re all too preoccupied to notice the scuff of our boots or our shadows moving behind parked cars.

Finally, the downtown gives way to blocks of older homes with chain-link fences and dried-up lawns. There’s a donut shop on one corner and a dry cleaner on another, but there’s little else in the way of businesses.

Slowly, the historic neighborhoods with presidential street names turn into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac of nearly identical houses. 

Here, the streets all have nature names like “Bear Creek Court” or “Alder Drive,” but there are no alder trees or bears in sight.

We seem to have entered some sort of pre–Death Storm development. Every house is built from the same palette of light beige, hunter green, and burnt orange, with clean lines and archways meant to appear modern and luxurious.

The perfect emptiness gives me a shiver. These houses don’t feel abandoned — they feel as though they were never lived in.

Harper must be getting bad vibes, too, because she picks up the pace and cuts through the dead yards with a purposeful look in her eyes.

We reach the edge of the development, which is flanked by a low stone wall that reads “Cactus Ridge.” That’s when I see the church.

Owen sure wasn’t kidding when he said we couldn’t miss it. It’s one of those crescent-shaped megachurches that takes up the span of an entire city block.

If it weren’t for the twenty-foot copper cross adorning the glass entryway, I might have mistaken the place for a shopping mall. There’s a massive parking lot out front and a dried-up fountain flanked by overgrown desert plants.

Harper and I exchange a puzzled look. I’m not sure why Owen would have dragged us all the way out here, but I suppose it’s as good a landmark as any. I’m just about to move out when Harper grabs my arm.

At first I don’t understand why she stopped me, but then I hear voices. Two husky drifters stride into view. They’re moving toward the church at a brisk pace, and we watch them cross the parking lot and go inside.

What the hell?

I glance at my interface. It’s five ’til noon.
Why would Owen tell us to come here if the place was crawling with drifters?

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Harper murmurs.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Do you think there are more inside?”

“No idea.”

She doesn’t say it, but we’re both thinking it: This feels like a trap.

Harper doesn’t take her eyes off the courtyard in front of the church. Minutes pass in tense silence, but we don’t see any more drifters. I check my interface. It’s five after.

“You think he meant another church?” she asks.

I raise my eyebrows and swivel my head toward the enormous cross. “I think it’s safe to say he was talking about this one.”

“Then why —”

“I have no idea. Let’s just check it out. If the drifters are inside, we’ll turn around and head back to the cliff for the night.”

“Are you crazy?”

I sigh. “I know it looks bad, but Owen wouldn’t set us up. If we stay out of sight, we can go up to the church and just see if he’s there.”

Harper still looks wary, but she nods and draws her weapon. I know she’s only going along with it to humor me, and I love her for that.

Stepping over the low stone wall, we leave the shelter of Cactus Ridge and jog across the empty four-lane road. As our feet slap against the reddish flagstone, I can’t help but feel as though the cross is throwing an extra-large shadow over me.

The entryway is all glass, but from our angle of approach, we can see directly into the lobby without showing ourselves. There’s no one inside, but that deep feeling of unease is still weighing on my chest.

I reach for the handle, but Harper nudges me in the shoulder.

“Are we really doing this?” she whispers.

I hesitate. This situation smells like ten miles of bad road, but Owen is expecting us. And as dangerous as this meet-up seems, it was his one condition for going along with our plan. 

I sigh and grip my gun tighter. “We don’t really have a choice.”

Judging by the look of dread in Harper’s eyes, I can tell she thinks this is a trap. But Owen is my brother, and that has to mean something.

“Let’s go.”

The glass door slides open without a sound, and Harper and I slip into the lobby.

Every muscle in my body is poised for an attack, and Harper seems just as tense. Our footsteps echo in the vast empty space, bouncing off the high ceiling and the shiny tile floor.

Then I hear a low buzz coming from the sanctuary. The heavy oak doors are closed, but there’s no way I’m imagining the hum of a crowd.

I signal Harper to stay behind me and approach the doors slowly. My hand closes over the thick handle, but before I open the door, I hear a muffled
thud
and a slight scuffle behind me.

I wheel around — prepared to shoot whomever I see — and nearly have a heart attack.

Harper is engaged in a struggle with a man I can’t identify. He’s doubled over from a nasty elbow to the face, and Harper just back-kicked him in the groin. 

She winds up to strike him over the head with her gun but stops short when she catches sight of his face. It’s Owen.

“
What the hell
?” she hisses, turning bright red.

“I was about — to say — the same — thing,” Owen moans quietly, trying to hide the pained expression on his face.

“That’s why you don’t sneak up on people,” Harper growls, fixing Owen with the defiant look she usually reserves for training.

I can’t help it. I grin.

“Christ,” Owen spits through his teeth.

“Watch it,” I say, glancing around at all the crosses adorning the doors and walls.

Just then, the hubbub behind the door grows louder, and I remember why we’re here.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” I ask, jerking my head toward the doors. “You asked us to come knowing there would be Desperados here. So what’s the deal?”

Owen shakes his head, still recovering from Harper’s defense maneuvers. “It’ll be easier to just show you.” 

He straightens up with a grimace and starts walking stiffly toward a smaller side door I didn’t see when we walked in. I still have a bad feeling about this, but now that we’re here, I have to admit I’m curious. 

This no longer feels like a trap; it feels like some sort of initiation. And as distrustful as Owen is, his inviting us here is a big deal.

The door swings open, and the wave of sound intensifies. Owen leads us up a narrow flight of stairs and turns to face us. 

“Stay out of sight,” he breathes.

Then he pushes the door open, and the wave of sound almost bowls me over. 

Owen disappears around the corner, and I move a little closer to Harper before following him through.

We emerge onto a balcony with enough extra seating to accommodate everyone in Recon. There’s no one on this level, but Owen finds a seat in the shadows so he can observe the congregation without being seen.

The room more closely resembles a stadium or amphitheater than a church. The seats are staggered the way a movie theater’s would be, arranged in a sloped semicircle around a stage. Another enormous cross takes up half of the far wall, and judging by its pearly finish, I’d guess the entire thing lights up.

The lower level of the sanctuary is half full of drifters, who look very out of place. I’m sure the residents of Cactus Ridge never wore tank tops, bandanas, or cutoff shorts to church, but those seem to be the only pieces of clothing the Desperados own.

Some of the drifters are chatting happily like old friends, but others are arguing in clusters of five or six.

Then I hear the large doors open again down below, and a hush spreads over the disorderly group. Owen yanks on my arm, and I move into the shadows on the other side of Harper.

A tall, wiry man strides toward the stage, and the drifters scramble to find their seats.

When the newcomer turns to face the crowd, my heart thuds loudly against my ribcage. I’d recognize that pointed, ratlike face anywhere: It’s Malcolm Martinez.

The chatter dissipates quickly, and Malcolm raises his arms out to his sides like the damn Messiah.

“Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming.” 

There’s a soft rush of murmurs in the crowd.

“It’s so good to see you all here.” Malcolm pauses dramatically, surveying the group like a proud father. “Today is a day for celebration. We have disenfranchised American citizens gathered here from as far east as Kansas . . . as far west as California . . .

“I want to thank you for your bravery . . . your determination . . . and your commitment to our family.”

I want to puke and roll my eyes at the same time. This feels like some sort of drifter brainwashing summit, and Malcolm is clearly the puppet master.

Leave it to Owen to throw in his luck with these people rather than trusting his
real
family. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to convert me or just demonstrate the drifters’ strength, but either way, he brought me here for a reason: He doesn’t plan on holding up his end of the bargain.

In that instant, everything becomes extremely clear. Owen might not want to cooperate with my plan, but I don’t need him — not really. Jayden would be equally happy with another dead drifter — the man standing less than a hundred yards away.

I glance over at Owen, who’s watching Malcolm with a sort of grudging respect. I wonder if Jackson is somewhere in the mix or if it would be too dangerous for him to show his face in the crowd of Desperados.

I’m leaning against a square pillar, which provides just enough of a barrier to block me from Owen’s view. 

Slowly, I draw my gun and point it at Malcolm’s head.

I am
so
going to hell for this. I probably won’t make it ten yards before I’m struck by lightning for shooting a drifter in a church. But at least Malcolm will be dead, and Harper will have a chance of escaping Constance’s threats.

One shot — one shot is all I have to take out Malcolm, grab Harper, and get the fuck out of here.

If Owen doesn’t want my help, he’s on his own. He’ll probably be blamed for the shooting, which means he’ll have to disappear whether he wants to or not. 

This solves all our problems. 

But then a sharp shock reverberates up my arm. Two strong hands redirect my gun, and before I can react, Owen is shoving me against the wall. I grunt as we struggle for control of the weapon, but he twists my hand painfully until the gun clatters to the floor.

“What are you
doing
?”

“What I should have done the first time I met him!”

“
Are you insane
?” Owen hisses. “We’d never make it out of here alive if you shot Malcolm.”

“Well, Harper and I won’t be alive for long if we go back empty-handed,” I snarl, throwing him off me.

“That’s why I brought you here!”

I don’t listen. I don’t pause to consider my next move. I just lunge for the gun.

Unfortunately, Owen has always been stronger and just a little bit faster. I don’t get within a foot of the gun before I feel the scrape of a boot against my face.

He didn’t kick me that hard, but the force is enough to make me lose my balance and slam face-first into the baseboard.

Harper gasps, and I shake my head to clear the sudden fuzziness.