The Remaining: Fractured (45 page)

“If things go bad, there’s not anything that Tomlin can do about it,” Angela said. “He’s outmanned and outgunned from the outside in. Jerry’s been putting up all these barricades on the fence-line…” she shook her head. “We’d need to coordinate something. But it’s gonna be tough without any real-time communications.”

Marie smiled sadly. “Sounds like Captain Harden rubbed off on you.”

Angela dropped her gaze to the ground and she felt Lee’s absence hard in her chest, like being alone and out of your depth. Like trying to be an expert in subject matter completely foreign to you. Six months ago, she was a housewife and a mother. Now she was trying to lead people into a fight.

Marie saw the look in her friend’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Angela looked up and took a deep breath. “Is there any other way to do this?”

Marie just shook her head slowly from side to side.

Angela swallowed all those small, terrified feelings. The world was changing. And she was required to change with it. “People are gonna get hurt, Marie. There’s no way around it. But I think that more people will be hurt if we don’t do anything. I think Jerry will kill us all. I think he’s malicious, but worse, I think he’s naïve. And I think the course he has us on will kill us if we don’t stop him now.”

Marie nodded. “I’ll gather the intel and get it to Tomlin. You focus on talking to folks. We need people on our side, Angela, or we might as well just try to find a way to get ourselves out of here.”

“There’s people on our side,” Angela said firmly. “They’re just too scared to speak up.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to give them some courage.”

“I know,” Angela said plainly.

Marie turned. “I’ll get up with you later.” Then she walked away as abruptly as she had the previous night, leaving Angela feeling keyed-up and tense. She still had no idea who Keith had spoken to, and so she didn’t know who might have sold him out to Jerry. Speaking to anyone would be risky. But without them she had nothing.

At the fire pit, Sam was on all fours, head bent low to the ground, blowing steadily into a bundle of smoking tinder. At the bottom, a dull glow began, brightened as he blew, then yellow flames leapt up. Sam leaned back on his heels, smiling.

Angela gave him a thumbs up. “You’re getting good at that, Sam.”

His smile faltered and she knew that it was Keith who had taught him.

She knelt down by the fire with Abby and Sam. They prepared their usual breakfast of oatmeal. Even that was running low. Sometimes she’d put raisins in to give it some flavor, but she’d run out a few weeks back. Kept meaning to get more—either by scavenging or trading. She knew that Abby and Sam preferred it, but they never complained if it wasn’t there. They rarely complained about anything.

She looked at her daughter, her girl, crouched down next to a fire and satisfied simply to be warm after a cold night. It filled her heart up and shattered it all at once to see her so happy with something so simple. She wanted to give her more, but there was nothing else to give. Food and warmth was all she had to offer her own daughter.

“Guys,” Angela said, mixing the dry oats in with a bit of water before she put the pot on the fire. “I’m gonna let Ms. Jenny watch you guys after we’re done with breakfast, okay? Just for a little bit.”

Abby smiled knowingly. “Ms. Jenny’s got a boyfriend.”

Angela glanced at her. “Why do you say that?”

“There’s a man in her house at night.”

“Oh?” Angela rolled her eyes. “Well, Jenny is a big girl, and that’s none of your business.”

Sam glanced up at Angela. “Why is Ms. Jenny watching us?”

Angela slid the pot close to the fire. “I’ve got to talk to some people.”

Sam nodded soberly, as though he knew exactly what she was talking about.

***

Jenny stared at Angela for a long moment, then bent slowly to tie the laces of her shoes. Most everybody had found the value in a good pair of boots. But Jenny insisted on wearing sneakers. A dirty old pair of white Reeboks. She sat now on a camping chair that was the only seat in her shack, set beside the pile of blankets that served as her bed. Angela stood awkwardly by the door, Sam and Abby beside her, and she watched her friend knot, then double-knot the laces, then stand up.

“Angela,” Jenny’s voice bore some edge. “What are you doing?”

“This has to happen,” Angela said, resolutely. “There’s no way around it.”

Jenny grimaced and looked away.

“Lee was building something here…”

“Lee’s dead,” Jenny said suddenly.

Angela’s head pulled back like she’d been stabbed. “I…”

“He’s dead and so is Bus, Angela. We haven’t heard back from Harper and LaRouche—and Jerry told us he’s tried to contact them—so God knows what happened to them.” Tears came up in her eyes. “Look, I liked the old times too. But that’s what they are. Old times. They’ve come and gone. We have to make new friends now, Angela. We have to accept certain losses.”

Angela gaped. She thrust a finger out in a random direction, as though her woes were some omnipresent force. “What’s going on out there is unacceptable, and you should realize that. I can’t believe these words are coming out of your mouth! I can’t believe you’d just write everything off, just like that!” Angela blinked rapidly. “And you don’t know that Lee is dead, Jenny. And he hasn’t abandoned us either. Until I see a goddamned body, I won’t believe any of that shit that Jerry’s trying to sell. And neither should you!”

“I’m not…” Jenny hung her head. “I’m not siding with Jerry. You should know that I’m on your side. I just get tired of fighting these things, Angela. I just want to stop worrying about it. Let someone else take charge.”

“I’m taking charge,” Angela said. “And if you don’t want to be a part of what I’m doing then that’s fine. All I’m asking you to do right now is watch the kids for a little bit. If you don’t want me to tell you why, or give you any other information, then that’s fine. You’re just doing me a favor. And don’t say another word about it.”

Jenny sniffed. “Okay.”

“So can you watch Sam and Abby?”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Of course I can. I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t. I just…I worry about you.”

Angela shook her head. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I won’t take long. Just a couple of hours.”

Jenny nodded. “I’ll either be here, or in the medical trailer.”

Angela hugged the other woman tightly and then she departed, kissing Abby, and squeezing Sam’s shoulder before ducking out of the shanty and into the bright, cold, morning sunshine. She looked left and right and started down towards the shanties that were nearest the fence line. She knew exactly where her first stop would be.

She found Katie Malone stepping out of her shanty, bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over her head and a thick coat over that. She clutched a small pot in her hands and nearly dropped it when she turned and saw Angela.

“Jesus!” she gasped.

“Sorry,” Angela said, touching the other woman’s arm. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. How are you?”

Katie nodded, brushed some hair back. She looked beleaguered. Her eyes were clear and dry, but she had the worn-out look of someone who didn’t get much sleep. She looked around as though searching for an appropriate answer, the expression of someone who has a lot of things to say, but all of them too personal and inappropriate to be shared between simple acquaintances. Finally she just gave the obligatory, “Fine. Thanks.”

Angela motioned towards the flap that Katie had just closed. “I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast. But can we talk?”

Katie seemed to consider it. She looked at her pot, the contents of which Angela couldn’t determine. Then she looked around. “Okay. We can talk.”

The two of them ducked back into the shanty and Katie stood stiffly in the center and set the pot down on the ground. Angela stood with her back to the door. Katie looked her up and down, not in an unfriendly way, but sizing her up as though she hoped to pre-determine what Angela had come to say.

Angela sighed. She knew she would come to Katie first, but she hadn’t really planned out what to say, or how to broach such a sensitive conversation. As much as she thought she could trust Katie, there really was no basis for that opinion outside of the fact that she was Nate Malone’s wife, and Nate had been a staunch supporter of Lee and Bus.

“It’s no secret that I don’t see eye to eye with Jerry,” Angela said simply. “That’s putting it a little lightly, but there it is. Our conversation can end right now, if you’re not comfortable talking about it.”

Katie crossed her arms. Raised her chin slightly. “Go on.”

Angela clasped her hands together. “How do you feel about Jerry?”

Katie’s jaw worked. “Angela…it’s not a secret whose wife I am. And it’s not a secret how Nate felt about Jerry. And now Nate’s gone, and Jerry is trying to tell me that he’s tried to make contact, and that Lee and Harper and LaRouche have all abandoned us here.” Her eyes became very intense. “That’s fucking horseshit and you and I both know it. You and I both know that Jerry hasn’t done anything with that radio, and probably deactivated it. Because that’s the type of idiot he is. And if that motherfucker ever comes near me and tries to say one goddamned word, I swear I’ll knock his teeth down his throat.”

Angela nodded firmly. “Well, we need to talk.”

***

LaRouche and Wilson didn’t have time to teach the survivors from Parker’s Place how to use the rifles. Some of them were already familiar with the AR platform, and others had prior military service and were at least nominally informed about how to take it down and put it back together. From the group of nearly forty people, ten received rifles and 200 rounds apiece.

Jim wanted to give them more, such as food and medical items, but that extended LaRouche’s generosity far past its breaking point. Or perhaps he simply rejected the idea because it came from Jim, and lately LaRouche found himself tuning the man out, immediately categorizing everything the man said as
bullshit.

LaRouche took solace in the fact that in this particular situation, Wilson appeared to side with him. As Machiavellian as it seemed, Wilson agreed that the survivors from Parker’s Place were only valuable as a buffer between them and The Followers. Giving them the weapons was a strategic decision, not a humanitarian effort. Jim didn’t like it, but he shrugged it off and LaRouche was grateful for that. He had enough on his plate without worrying about butting heads with the ex-priest every damn step of the way.

LaRouche stayed out of the way of the entire transaction and the farewells and the thanks. All of these people—Parker’s Place and LaRouche’s group alike—acting like they were lifelong friends. As though the simple fact that they were both alive somehow gave them all the common ground necessary to develop a lasting friendship.

LaRouche didn’t want a friendship with any of them. They were walking dead men. Just a matter of time before The Followers wiped them out.

Strange how even the definition of friendship had changed. A friend was no longer someone that you liked, or got along with. A friend was someone you believed would still be breathing in another month. No use wasting all that effort. No use exposing yourself to more heartache than you already had to deal with.

Maybe he had grown hard-hearted. Or maybe he took things harder than everybody else. Maybe he tended to internalize things more. Case in point, he didn’t see anybody else developing bleeding stomach ulcers. Sometimes he felt like he was tapped into deeper, swifter currents, while everyone else splashed around in the shallow waters and looked at him and wondered why he wouldn’t lift his feet off the ground.

Because he knew he’d be swept away.

Only way to stay present was to stay rooted.

Stay focused.

Their mission was to blow bridges, not make friends. When and if Captain Harden ever showed up then he could decide whether or not to make nice with the folks from Parker’s Place. But as of right now, they were headed north to the Roanoke River, to blow their first bridge, where Highway 45 crossed the river. If all went well, they would reach it before nightfall. If they made good time, perhaps they could get started setting charges before dark. Either way, the bridge would be rubble by tomorrow afternoon.

LaRouche ruminated on these things while he stood at the right side of his Humvee, leaning his back against the passenger’s side door and itching for some Red Man. He reached into his pocket and took out the pouch, the desire for a little buzz winning out.

“How you feelin’ this morning?”

LaRouche glanced up. Found Wilson standing there. “Fine,” he said, and tucked a wad of tobacco into his cheek, brushed his fingers off on his vest.

“No aches?” Wilson’s eyebrow went up, prodding. “No fever? No chills?”

LaRouche shook his head. “Nope. Seems I’m in the clear.”

Wilson shrugged. “Well…I’m glad.”

LaRouche snorted. “Go ahead and say it.”

“What?” Wilson laughed. “Say what?”

“You were right. Can’t contract it like that.”

Wilson held up a staying hand. “Now hold on. I never said you couldn’t contract it like that. I’m sure if you get enough infected blood in your mouth, you can get the plague. But based on what the guy from Virginia said, that’s the least likely method of infection.” Wilson clapped a hand on LaRouche’s shoulder. “But you never know. I’m glad you’re in the clear. And some people might say that you overreacted, but I’d like to see how they’d act if they got infected blood in their mouth.”

LaRouche smiled, a rare expression. “Thanks, buddy.”

Wilson looked behind him at the column of vehicles. They were all sitting at idle. The faces of LaRouche’s crew could be seen behind the obscuring reflections of the windshields. Off to the side, the people of Parker’s Place stood around and watched. The new owners of the rifles stood up front, weapons held across their chest proudly. Father Jim was the last to leave, still shaking hands with people.

“Think everyone’s ready,” Wilson hefted his rifle and shifted under the weight of his rig.