The Remaining: Fractured (34 page)

For the moment, everyone was silent.

Harper looked out the window. Just looked at the passing buildings with the mold creeping up on the siding, steady and insistent. And he shook his head, and his voice was just a whisper, barely audible to anyone but himself. “What the hell is happening to us?”

CHAPTER 21: BRUTALITY

Lee stared up into the sky as it turned from bright sapphire to a deep, murky cobalt. Like he was descending into the ocean, staring up at the dwindling brightness of the surface waters. He felt it too, like the compression you might feel on that descent—the sickness and fever crowding around him, making his brain fuzzy. The chill like that of cold waters that the sun hasn’t touched in eons.

I’m good to go
, he kept telling himself.

His mouth moved to the silent words.

His brain conjured a spliced series of images from his life. Nomex gloves giving the thumbs up. Eyes unreadable behind reflective visors. A medic shining a light into his eyes after an IED went off. The plunging feeling in his gut just before they hit a door. Near-delirium caused by cold and exhaustion and hunger, somewhere in a Florida swamp. All of these things preceded and followed by the same words.

I’m good to go.

I’m good to go.

Lee tilted his head, just slightly. The last sliver of sun shot the western horizon through with an infected-looking pink. A small, localized wound that didn’t reach too far into the sky. It was almost dark. He listened and could no longer hear the sounds of the infected moving about below, and he could not recall when he’d last heard them. He could only hear the quiet thrum of the van, still sitting there, idling next to the curb. He thought he’d been in and out of consciousness, but wasn’t quite sure. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe he’d been asleep for days. Time seemed like a slippery concept.

Gut-check time
. He didn’t need to take his pulse to know that it was fast and weak. He didn’t need to run his tongue around his mouth to know that it was dry as paper. He was sick. He was dehydrated. These were facts that he knew without having to think about them.

You’ve got…
It took mental pressure to squeeze some math out.
Maybe ten hours left? Before you collapse. Maybe twenty-four before you actually die.
He was fast approaching the point of no return. The point where he would need more than some water and antibiotics to keep himself alive. He would need an IV and medical attention, and he had about the same chances of getting that as winning the lottery.

Oh yeah…

A hint of a smile cracked his lips, caused them to bleed.

I did win the lottery once.

He thought of Frank. He thought of the gas station where they found the water that saved their lives, and the last scratch-off ticket, possibly in the world. A winner, no less. Payout of $100. Lee had kept the ticket, though he couldn’t remember where it was now. Maybe he’d lost it.

He leaned up, felt his head pounding, but managed to right himself into a sitting position. Deuce lay at his feet and looked up, as though he was surprised to see Lee awake. As though he’d already counted him out and was simply sitting by his side, providing that last bit of comfort before he stopped breathing.

Lee touched the dog’s neck. Scratched it with numb fingers. “Good boy,” he whispered. “But I’m still here.”

This is me dying, but I’m not dead yet.

He looked down at himself.

A rifle in his lap. One full, thirty-round magazine.

A knife in his pocket.

Three hostiles: Shumate, James, and the Quiet Man.

Based on the sound of Shumate’s voice, he thought they were in one of the buildings across the street and nearby the van. The fact that they hadn’t made a break for the van was proof that Shumate intended to make good on his promise that Lee would not leave the town alive. With the horde gone out of the street, it was possible that they were already making their way over to Lee, trying to find him before he had a chance to escape under cover of darkness.

And of course, there were the infected. However many there were. He hadn’t taken a look when they’d been down in the street, because he feared that Shumate and his crew might have been watching the rooftop, waiting to take a shot at him when he poked his head up. But their presence nearby meant that noise was an issue. A sustained firefight was not an option. Using the rifle at all was only an option if he could knock out all three hostiles in a relatively short period of time and make it back to the van and out of town before the infected found him again.

So there was the knife.

Lee pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it. A trusty KABAR. Wood handle. Worn blade. Still sharp. Good tip. He spun the blade in his palm—regular grip to inverted—and dropped it. Tried again. Dropped it again. Tried a third time and got it. Felt a little more confident.

Still not a good option.
Three against one was bad odds either way. Three armed men against one with a knife was worse, regardless of his training and experience. You could be the baddest motherfucker in the world, and it would still be long odds. Tack on that he was weakened with fever and dehydration, and Lee had doubts.

Maybe if he had more time. Maybe if he could set up a defensible position on this rooftop or the next. Take them out as they came for him, and then be able to stick around while he waited for the infected to go back to their hole. But he didn’t have that kind of time. His body wouldn’t let him wait that long.

He supposed that escape was an option. Running. Hiding. Maybe he would make it out. The odds were better for that than a fight, for sure. He’d been trained to evade capture from worse people than Shumate and his crew. But Shumate was a painful reminder of something he had learned long ago. That loose ends always come back to bite you in the ass.

Shumate had tried to hurt Lee. Not once, but twice. And Lee would be damned if he would give him an opportunity to do it a third time. Lee would not show restraint. He would not show mercy. Those were the policies of a world with order, and he did not live in that world. What Shumate would receive would be what he had given.  

So he threaded the knife and sheath onto his belt. Checked the chamber of his rifle to make sure it was loaded. Then he slung it on his back and stood up. It took a moment for the light-headedness to go away. He told himself it was okay. Told himself that it was better this way. And when the faintness left him, he was calm. His breath was even. His hands were steady.

I’m good to go.

I’m good to go.

***

They stood in the attic space of the building directly across the street from where they believed Captain Harden to be. Shumate, James, and that motherfucker that never had barely anything to say. He’d introduced himself as Aaron, though James didn’t believe that was his name. He didn’t look like an Aaron to James and he’d failed to answer to the name on more than one occasion. “Aaron” generally seemed shifty to James.

The longer he sat in that attic space, half covered by the brick wall, half peering out of some murky glass, trying to spy movement on the opposite rooftop, the more James became restless. His thoughts were restless, his body restless. His mind flitted from spot to spot, his knees always jumping, his feet always tapping out some rhythm or another.

Night was when Shumate wanted to make a move. Night was dangerous, though the infected had gone away. Night was when they would be expected to hunt down and kill some fucking Navy SEAL, Special Forces motherfucker that didn’t seem like much to James, but who Shumate spoke about like he was something.

James searched his memory of the man for anything that seemed more than a beaten-down vagrant, anything more than a skinny coward. But there was nothing. Aside from the guy managing to escape Shelley and Kev. Which wasn’t hard, James didn’t think. Considering the fact that he’d probably made his move when the two were fucking. They had some sort of something going on, James was pretty sure.

Of course, James had tagged it a couple times. That’s for damn sure. But Kev seemed to be the main man for Shelley, and everybody knew it. James had to put up with “sloppy seconds,” as Shumate liked to call them, but after a month or so with no pussy around, it didn’t seem so bad.

So, super-secret government agent-turned homeless dog-whisperer, makes his move while Kev is balls deep in Shelley, and manages to take ‘em both and get away. James nodded to himself, silently talking the fear out of his head. Bringing Captain Harden back down to size. Because knocking over two people while they were fucking wasn’t that impressive. This guy who Shumate thought was dangerous…he wasn’t that impressive.

He was skinny.

He was sick.

He seemed half-crazy.

And James could deal with crazy.

Donald Weathers had been crazy. He’d been an alcoholic and a bum, with a few screws loose. He lived in the woods behind the corner store about a quarter mile from James’ old high school. Begged everyone coming and going for spare change and slammed King Cobras all day. The later it got, the more aggressive he got. By evening, he would paw at people’s arms. Cuss them out if they didn’t give him anything.

It was the closest convenience store to the high school, and naturally, if you skipped class, or if you had a car and an empty period, it was the place to be. Unless Donald Weathers was hanging around, begging. He smelled bad, he looked horrible, and most of the girls were scared of him. And it’s not fun to skip class without a girl.

One day around two o’clock, Donald Weathers was out begging at the same time that James drove Carry Umpstead into the parking lot in his recently acquired 1998 Ford Mustang. Carry Umpstead with the mediocre face, and the big tits. Because when you’re sixteen, your eyes don’t travel much farther than that. And all James wanted to do was go inside and show off by using his fake ID to get them some Marlboro’s, and if he felt really lucky, maybe even go for some Bud Lights.

But Donald Weathers had been hitting it hard that day. Maybe he’d received more contributions than normal and had taken a few extra forty-ouncers. He stumbled up to James’ new Mustang and he completely ignored James and went straight to Carry Umpstead’s open window. He leaned in, filling the car with his stink and began pawing. Not just pawing, but grabbing.

Carry swatted his hands away and rolled up the window. No harm no foul, James thought. And Donald stumbled away, cursing loudly at Carry and calling her every name under the sun. And James hoped to God he would just go away, because if James were being honest, it wasn’t just the girls that were afraid of Donald Weathers. It was James too.

But Carry just sat in the car, looking at James like he was the biggest piece of shit for just sitting there. Like he didn’t have a hair on his balls. Like she was suddenly embarrassed to be seen in his Ford Mustang. But James just stepped out of the Mustang and went inside anyway, his heart beat slamming, not wanting to even look Donald Weathers in the eye, and feeling ashamed that he hadn’t done anything.

Carry wasn’t too interested in James after that. Stories were embellished. Rumors were spread. People around high school started looking at James differently. Because he hadn’t stuck up for the girl. Because actually, as the story was later retold, Donald Weathers had been grabbing
James’ balls
, and James was too scared to do anything—another version of the story was that he was gay, and enjoyed it—and that Carry had to step in and defend James.

Naturally, the stories didn’t sit well with James.

Even the true ones.

So one night in early fall, James got his courage up with a six pack and two friends, and they drove out to the dead end of Polk Mill Road, where it led into the woods where Donald Weathers lived. They found him living in a little shack, but he was already passed out, surrounded by a mountain of empty King Cobra bottles. The fact that James’ tormentor was asleep would not be acceptable, because this was all being videoed on one of their phones, so that James could prove he wasn’t the coward everyone thought he was. So they woke old Donald up and he came out swinging. Whether he was aggressive because he was crazy, or because he knew even in his drunken state that being surrounded by three teenagers in the middle of the night was a recipe for disaster, James would never know. But he easily dodged the man’s drunken blows and he pushed the old fucker down onto the ground and commenced to beating the fuck out of him.

They left him there in the woods, bleeding and unconscious, and James knew it was a strong possibility that Donald Weathers later died on that forest floor, because no one saw him again after that. But James didn’t care. Because he had his proof. And his manhood had been reestablished.

So whenever James thought of Captain Harden, smelly and filthy, his ragged beard clumped with dirt, he just pictured Donald Weathers, and he remembered that crazy isn’t scary at all. Crazy is just crazy. And he wasn’t afraid of crazy.

Shumate leaned out from his position of cover on the other side of the window overlooking the street below. He peered through the dirty glass, then nodded, barely visible in the waning light. “It’s just about time, gents.”

Aaron sidled out of the shadows. “How you wanna do it, Boss?”

Shumate leaned on his rifle, buttstock like a kickstand. “Me and you are gonna cross.” He looked at James. “You’re gonna cover us from here, until we have the interior of that shop cleared. Then we’ll call you across and handle this motherfucker.”

James fidgeted. “It’d be easier just to leave his ass up there.” He said it like he thought it was the best idea, like going across to kill the man seemed unsporting, like shooting a rabbit with a 12 gauge. “Fucker ain’t gonna live too long as it is. Let’s just get in the fucking van and get out of here.”

“No.” Shumate spat. “I’m not leavin’ this up to chance. I shoulda killed that motherfucker once already. He got away, and now I’m having to pay for it. He ain’t getting’ away again. No fucking way. We gotta kill him now. Tonight. No exceptions.”