The Remaining: Fractured (53 page)

Despair flooded her veins, like an injection of lead, weighing everything down.

No, no, no!

He unfolded the paper, pulled his head back to focus on the words. “Oh my, Angela. This seems like…well…this seems like a plan to stage a little bit of a coup. Here, let me read it to you: ‘Midnight tomorrow. Be ready. Secure The Square. We will take the building. First shot is GO’.” He looked up from his reading. “You know what Angela? That really…” he shook his head disdainfully. “…that really just pisses me off. That just sounds suspiciously like you’re trying to take over Camp Ryder, Angela. Like you’ve been plotting against me, just like I asked you not to do. And now your chickens are coming home to roost. Just like I always said they would.” He stepped over to her, his haughty composure regained for the time being, and he knelt down so he was at eye level with her. “Who wrote this to you Angela? Who’s gonna help you take me out? Who are the other people in Camp Ryder that were gonna help you?”

Angela could only stare at the floor, feeling her pulse throbbing in her hands, and thinking,
don’t tell him anything. You can’t tell him anything. He doesn’t know about Lee, he doesn’t know about Old Man Hughes, or Katie, or any of the others. You can’t tell him anything
.

Keep staring at the floor. The dirty concrete and crappy laminate tile—strange that she’d never noticed the tiling in this room. She’d always been big into flooring. Spent a lot of time and money putting custom floors into her old house where she lived in her old life where things like custom floors mattered. Hardwood floors in the living room. Large, stone tiles in the kitchen. Small, ceramic tiles in the bathrooms. So she always noticed floors, but she’d never noticed the dingy floors in this office. She found herself staring at them and wondering where the stain from Bus’ blood had gone, and thought that it said something about Jerry that he would take the time and effort to erase that reminder from his floor.

Bus I’m so sorry! I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t do it.

I fucked it up.

Jerry shook his head. “Aww…Angela…it’s just absolutely heartbreaking to see you like this. Just so…shattered.” He sighed. “But, we have work to do. And I made a promise, didn’t I? I told you how we were going to deal with this problem. I gave you an abundantly clear warning about all of this, and you chose to ignore it. So, what kind of a man would I be if I went back on my word now?”

Panic.

She couldn’t sound strong anymore. “Jerry, don’t…”

He looked up at Greg and Arnie. “Go get the kids.”

CHAPTER 34: THE KIDS

Sam didn’t know what was going on. He knew Angela had been taken, but he didn’t know by who. He pictured Greg, because Greg had already threatened them, and it only made sense. Or maybe they were punishing Angela because Sam had told her about Mr. Keith. Maybe they were going to kill her just like they killed Mr. Keith…

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The flavor of the fear became stale in his mouth, and eventually he grew numb to it as his hand crept closer to the rifle. And all the while he could still hear the tiny movements of the man that was in the shanty with them. The man that never said anything. But Sam could hear the air going in and out of his nostrils, he could hear the rustle of fabric when the man shifted positions.

Is he watching me?
Sam thought. He wanted badly to turn and look. Maybe if the man faced the other way, not paying attention, then Sam could make a move for the rifle. But then if Sam was caught looking, he didn’t know what he would do from there.

He probably doesn’t think I have a rifle
, Sam thought.
No one expects a fourteen year old to have a rifle.

What am I going to do when I get the rifle?

I’m going to shoot him.

You’re going to shoot him?

Sam pictured it. Painted the scene in vivid detail in his mind. Pulling out the rifle. Pointing it at the man. Pulling the trigger…he got as far as the big
bang
and then couldn’t picture it after that. He’d never fired the rifle at anyone. Just squirrels and rabbits. Mr. Keith said that’s all it was meant for—squirrels and rabbits. He said the bullet was too small. Just a .22 caliber.

What if it doesn’t kill him?
Sam was suddenly terrified by that prospect, and conveniently, his mind was quite capable of picturing his failure where moments before he’d drawn a blank. Now he pictured pulling the trigger, the little yellow blossom at the end of the barrel, the bullet hitting the man right in the chest…and doing nothing.

The man lifting his own gun, apparently unimpressed by Sam’s squirrel and rabbit gun, and shooting him with bigger bullets. Bullets meant to kill larger animals than rodents. Bullets meant to kill people.

And then it suddenly became much more real.

Oh my God, I could die.

Someone opened the flap to the shanty, sending a spike of adrenaline like an electrical current down Sam’s spine. A quiet voice, barely audible over the pounding of his heart.

“They still asleep?”

“Yeah.”

He’s distracted. Now’s my chance. I have to do this now.

I can’t do this. What if I get shot and die?

How does Captain Harden do it? I wish I had asked him how he did it…

“Wake ‘em up and bring them to the office.”

Hesitation. “Why?”

“How the fuck should I know why? Because Jerry said so.”

Resignation. “Alright.”

Footsteps in the gravel.

Now! Now! Now!

Sam lunged, screamed at the same time: “Abby run! Run! Run!” She sprang to life like a jolted cat, rolled and suddenly disappeared underneath the tarpaulin wall of the shanty. His hand closed around the grip of the rifle and it felt clumsy, unwieldy, like some strange alien weapon that he’d never touched before in his life. His entire body was so overpowered by the adrenaline surge, that he almost couldn’t feel anything. His hands, his fingers, they felt like he wore oven mitts.

He rolled, pointing the rifle up. Still screaming, but now without words. Just terror.

The man, right there, stepping back, shocked and—was he scared?

Sam struggled to find the trigger, thinking,
Where’s the trigger? Where’s the trigger? I’ve shot this thing a bazillion times! Why can’t I find the trigger?
And not once did he think about the man staring down at him. Who he was or how many times they’d passed each other while they went about their business, or whether he had kids that played soccer with him and Abby. He didn’t think about the deed, or the killing, or the consequences, or the fact that he was outgunned with his little .22 caliber rifle, or the fact that he had never killed anyone before. He didn’t think about it mostly because he didn’t have time.

He found the trigger.

Pulled.

Bang
.

Pulled.

Bang
.

The man jumped backwards, trying to get away from him. And like a dog when the rabbit runs, Sam couldn’t stop. He jumped to his feet, and he just kept firing, still unthinking, unfeeling, almost elated now. Firing, firing, firing, and the man trying to get away, struggling, stumbling, clawing at the earth to get away, and then he started screaming too, and that was what got Sam.

The screaming. A man, screaming. High-pitched, like in the funny movies when the bad guy gets hit in the crotch. But this wasn’t a movie. The bad guys never died in the funny movies. They never got shot. This was real life, and he was really shooting this guy. He was shooting him, and he was killing him.

I’m killing him.

I’m killing him.

He didn’t feel bad about it.

He felt ferocious.

The man was still alive, still screaming. Laying on his side, struggling to get away. Terrified of Sam, just absolutely, strangely, intoxicatingly terrified of him. Sam had never had anyone afraid of him before. It felt good to be feared. It felt good to shoot this man, to see him so desperate. It felt good to make him pay, because he was friends with Greg and Jerry, and so he was guilty of everything Greg and Jerry had done.

Sam stared down at the man and all he could think to say was, “You’re gonna die now!”

The man whimpered.

Sam’s tunnel vision opened just enough for him to remember that there was another man. He’d taken a dive when Sam started shooting, but he’d be back in a second, and this time he’d be shooting. It wouldn’t be as easy as the first one, not to mention Sam didn’t have any bullets left.

He almost didn’t want to turn away from the dying man, wanted to watch it happen for some reason. But he forced himself to look away, then dove for the ground and under the plastic wall of the shanty. It was cold inside, but it was colder outside, and it slapped his face and soaked his skin like diving into a cold pool. He rolled, got up onto his feet and started running.

He yelled, breathlessly, “Abby! Abby!”

He turned a corner—the next row of shanties—and he could see Abby’s small form, running down the row, towards the center of Camp Ryder. He didn’t know where she was going, but he didn’t really know where he was going either. He was running, that was all. The entire world was his enemy now, and he needed to get away.

So he ran after her, as the camp seemed to rouse itself all around them, the shouts and gunfire causing heads to poke out of shanties and flashlights to spear the darkness, and concerned voices to ask, “What the hell was that?” and “Is everyone alright?”

He ran by them all, too scared now to stop. The elation rolled off of him, evaporating in the cold air. Everything that was left was sickness and dread. Every person in Camp Ryder was now aligned with Jerry and Greg and Arnie, in Sam’s mind. And if he let any of them catch him, he was absolutely positive that they would kill him.

What happened? What did I do?

He ran. Abby ran, and he went after her. She looked behind her, eyes wide, blonde hair flying about like it was caught in a hurricane wind. She slowed just slightly, waiting for him to catch up, her mouth was wide open, gasping for air, trying to form words.

“Sam! What’s going on?”

Sam caught her, grabbed her by the oversized hoodie she always wore to bed that draped over her like a nightgown. “Ssh!” he hissed, then pulled her between two shanties.

Shouting now, coming from the direction of their shanty. Angry shouting. Panicked shouting. People running. Cursing. Sam sorted through it all, tried to think about what Captain Harden would do. What was the situation, and how could he make it better? How could he fix it? He’d heard enough from eavesdropping when Angela and Marie talked. He knew that Old Man Hughes was out there, though he didn’t know where. And he knew that Captain Harden was with him.

Angela had been planning something. And now Jerry had her.

He had to get to Captain Harden and Old Man Hughes. He had to tell them what had happened. After all, they were just in the woods, right? Just outside the gate. That’s what he’d heard Marie and Angela saying. All he had to do was get out of the gate, get into the woods. He wasn’t sure what came after that, maybe he would just run and yell for Captain Harden and Captain Harden would find him.

He leaned out from behind their hiding place and looked at the front gate.

The guard ran, Sam guessed towards their shanty. Leaving the gate unguarded.

He put an arm around Abby. “We’re gonna run, okay? We’re gonna run for the gate and I’m going to open it and then we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”

Abby’s eyes were wild. “Okay…okay…”

Sam watched the guard disappear into the rows of ramshackle huts. “Go!”

They ran for the gate, Sam holding Abby’s hand in a death grip, tugging her along, looking back over his shoulder as he ran, the rifle in his grip growing heavy and causing his arms to ache. He could see the shapes of men running through the rows, congregating around their shanty, fanning out from there, looking for them. They all held guns. Rifles ready to shoot him and Abby.

Gotta get to Captain Harden. Just gotta get to him…

They crossed into the open air of The Square, exposed. Shouts behind him, but he wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or not. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe they were shouting about something else…

He looked behind him, saw a figure running towards him, rifle raised.

Don’t shoot me! Please don’t shoot me!

He hit the gate, the heavy reinforcements rattling languidly, despite his panic. He yanked at the gate, tried to pull it open, but it was secured by a length of thick chain, a heavy padlock linking one end to the other. He pulled at the lock, as though his skinny arms might break the steel. He began to weep in desperation, yelling at the lock.

Gunshots behind him. He flinched, hunkering down. The bullets struck the gate just above his head and he cried out, falling to his knees. Two more gunshots struck the gate and Abby started screaming loudly, high-pitched, wordless.

Sam didn’t know what else to do. He was caught. He was trapped. He had no bullets left in his rifle. He threw it away from him and held up his hands, sinking down to his knees. “Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!”

Footsteps behind them, pounding up close.

Abby was suddenly whisked away from him, screaming and reaching out to him.

He tried to get up and reach for her, but something hard hit him in the face.

He watched the world upend, but couldn’t feel himself lose his balance. Then he lay on his back, his brain tingling, his ears ringing, and Greg stood over him, shaking his head and murmuring, “Goddamned kids…”

***

The door to the office burst in and Greg came through, face rigid. Behind him, Arnie stood at the top of the stairs and pointed down at some unseen person or persons. He yelled in that odd, almost squeaky voice of his: “You keep those little bastards locked the fuck up! And if there’s anyone in the building that ain’t a part of our crew, you kick ‘em the fuck out!”