The Remaining: Fractured (52 page)

She couldn’t see. A burlap sack over her head. Smelled of dirt and must. A hand scrabbling up into the burlap sack, like a spider trying to get at her face, but it held a cloth and it forced it into her mouth, tasted salty and oily, the fingers scraping against her teeth as they shoved it down her throat so that she gagged.

She was rolled onto her belly, and the knife stayed with her, cutting into her skin just slightly with the movement. Beyond the sting of the blade, and the rustle of the burlap sack over her head, she could hear almost nothing. She could see no light coming in through the fabric. They were doing this quietly. They did not want to be seen or heard.

Abby and Sam. Abby and Sam. What about Abby and Sam?

The peculiar thought that,
Maybe this is Lee! Maybe he’s just trying to get us out of camp without being noticed…

But she knew that it wasn’t. She knew that Lee would never do something like this. She knew that this was someone else, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something—she wasn’t sure what—had gone horribly wrong, and she began to go through all of the ways she might have fucked up and all of the ways she might have been found out, began to formulate excuses for each one, trying to make them sound believable, trying to craft them into something that sounded truthful, but it was difficult to focus on anything but the blade sawing tiny increments into her skin.

Still frozen by confusion and fear, she didn’t even remember the piece of paper in her grip until it was ripped away, and then her heart felt like it just stopped, like everything inside her body just seized up, her blood freezing in her veins.

No! No! Not the note!

The sound of paper unwrapping.

“My, my…” a soft voice. “This is very interesting, isn’t it?”

Duct tape wrapped around her wrists. Once. Twice.

Tight. Cutting off circulation.

“Get up,” the voice said.

There was no need for the command. Several pairs of hand hauled her to her feet and began to half-carry-half-drag her, and she could only assume they were taking her out of her shanty.

The kids the kids the kids…

As if reading her deepest fear, another voice whispered, “What about the kids?”

A pause.

Then: “They’re still asleep. Don’t wake them up, but don’t let them leave.”

“What if they ask about their mom?”

“I don’t know. Make something up.”

Then she was moving again. If she would have not had the burlap sack over her head, she would have seen what the men that had taken her could not see. She would have noticed the minor differences in the bodies of Abby and Sam. Because she knew how they slept from countless hours of watching over them. She would have known the difference, as any mother does, between when her child was truly asleep…and when they were faking it.

***

Sam’s eyes were wide open. He faced the opposite way, and he could almost feel the presence of the strange man inside their shanty. Every huff of his breath, every scrape of his boot on the ground. The stink of him which Sam could smell from the other side of the room. All of it made Sam’s back prickle with goose bumps as though the man was
right there.

He felt wetness on his hand and looked down.

Lying beside him, Abby’s chest heaved up and down. Her eyes were stretched wide, tears pouring out of them and touching Sam’s hand, which was clamped over her mouth. He met her eyes and slowly pursed his lips, forming them to say “ssh” but never making the noise.

He closed his eyes very deliberately, then opened them again and hoped that Abby got the message. She apparently did, and she closed her own eyes and kept them that way, though she was squeezing them shut and it wouldn’t fool anyone if they bent for a closer look. Her chest still rose up and down rapidly, and Sam could feel the hammering of her little heart against his arm. Almost twice as fast as his own. He could feel her nostrils flaring against his finger as she fought with herself to stop crying.

Moving so slowly that for a second he wondered if he was even moving at all, Sam began to slide his hand off of Abby’s mouth, towards the edge of the blanket where every night he stashed his rifle.

***

Angela could tell where she was going. She could smell the distinct odor of the interior of the Camp Ryder building, and she could hear the clang of the metal steps under her feet, leading up to the office. The sack over her head was completely unnecessary. Maybe just being used as a scare tactic. She tried to think about this, tried to minimize it and bolster some courage out of herself. But she was terrified, and she could not deny it.

Three thoughts, bouncing around frantically:

Jerry knows.

He’s going to hurt me.

He’s going to hurt Abby and Sam.

The thoughts continued incessantly, over and over. A perpetual motion machine.

She was shoved to her knees. Her fingers tingled painfully from lack of blood circulation. Her pulse was a heavy
bam-bam-bam
that seemed to shake her entire body. A hand grabbed the hood and ripped it from her head, taking a few strands of hair with it and causing her to cry out, the noise coming as a muffled sound through the gag in her mouth.

She opened her eyes. It was the office, just as she suspected. Dimly lit by a single lantern sitting on the desk, and beside it, Jerry staring at her, his face all cold angles and sneers, arms clamped across his chest. His sawed-off shotgun laying on the desk next to him. Those two, big, 12-gauge bores staring at her like dead men’s eyes.

Jerry looked right at her and smiled, a cruel look that scoured the edges of his face with wrinkles that seemed more severe because of the angle of the light. He looked at someone or something to her left.  Angela followed, almost didn’t want to, but couldn’t help herself. There, against the back wall of the room, eyes red and face tear-stained, cheek swollen and red and beginning to bruise just under her eye, stood Jenny.

Angela tried to ask her what she was doing there, but the first word was just another incomprehensible murmur behind the salty rag stuffed into her mouth, and the rest of her question died halfway up her throat like someone had choked it off. Immediately the blank, faceless fear of the moment changed. It morphed into something else. Something more sinister.

Oh my God,
all her organs flip-flopped over each other, her heart jumping into her throat, stomach sinking down, and everything else just squirming uncomfortably. She knew what this was about. No use denying it. No use acting like she didn’t know
exactly
what had gone down, what had led her to this point.

Goddamn you, Jenny!

She forced her face to be stony, eyes to stay blank.

I won’t give Jerry anything. I won’t give him anything.

Jenny was much worse. She opened her mouth, and her saliva was thick from weeping so that it strung between her parted lips like slime and made her look even more despicable. “I’m so sorry,” she said breathily.

Angela looked at her sharply.

Jenny’s eyes fell.

“She wanted to give us some half-truths, and a couple pieces of straight up bullshit,” Jerry said boredly. “So Arnie convinced her otherwise.”

To Angela’s left, she could see Arnie standing there out of the corner of her vision, smirking like he’d just heard an inside joke. He put a hand on the jiggling loose skin that flopped around his stomach. What used to be his beer gut. Was it funny to him? Was the situation humorous?

Angela craned her neck to see behind her, and she could see Greg standing next to Arnie, regarding him with an expression that bordered on disgust. But it was an expression that lasted only for a moment, and then it was gone. Buried. Put wherever things go when you can’t show them to others. He stared doggedly at the wall, his mouth tightened just slightly.

Jerry propelled himself off the desk and gestured to Jenny, contempt evident in his eyes. “Angela, your friend here has really been just…invaluable.” His smile turned to a mock-surprised grin. “I mean, I didn’t even know that Greg and her had a thing, until he came to me and told me that she gave him this…amazing bedroom confession.” Jerry winked conspiratorially at Greg. “You know how it is. Pillow talk and all.” Back to Angela, bent over slightly, like he wanted to project his voice into Angela’s face. “Apparently they’ve been fucking each other this whole time! Who knew?”

He laughed. Ha ha. Just hilarious.

“Ah, well. It’s a complicated situation, and who am I to mess with love, right? Do I feel like maybe Jenny has more to tell? Sure I do. But out of respect for Greg, I’ve decided to get that information from you, Angela.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Jenny’s just…a go-between. But you?” he wagged a finger. “You’re the troublemaker, Angela. You’re the lynchpin. You’re the little cog that’s turning all that clockwork behind my back.” As he spoke, his face went deadpan, and then a vein began to bulge under his eye and suddenly he leaned into Angela’s face again. “Behind my fucking back, Angela. Just like I asked you not to do.”

He clenched a fist in Angela’s face. “I’m trying to build something here. Why can’t you understand that? I’m trying to take something broken and make it into something
better
than we’ve had before. Something better than we’ve experienced with Captain Harden, and all the warmongering bullshit that came before him and which he insisted on propagating. But you…” he pinched his thumb and forefinger together fiercely, so the knuckles turned white and he spoke through clenched teeth. “…you just insist on fucking everything up for me! You seem to be determined to ruin everything that I’m trying to do here and you’re quickly becoming a problem that I have very limited options to deal with.”

He straightened. “And don’t think for a goddamned second that all of this is my fault. This is
your
fault, not mine.” He took a step towards her. “I tried to reason with you, didn’t I? And I was very forthright with you, wasn’t I? And I explained to you exactly the situation as I saw it, and I laid out for you in no uncertain terms the circumstances under which I was willing to
allow
you to continue to live here at Camp Ryder. The circumstances under which I was willing to
allow
your kids to live in peace.” He grabbed her by the chin, tilted her face up towards him and he towered over her, and she got the strange inclination that he intended to spit into her face. But he only spoke, his words calm enough, but belying the undertone of rage that simmered in his voice. “Didn’t I, Angela? Didn’t I explain it quite clearly?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Jerry snatched a handful of her hair and yanked it back so her head was forced up towards him, then he ripped the gag from her mouth. “Answer me!” he screamed in her face, his skin instantly darkening into a bloody red. “Didn’t I tell you how this was going to happen?!”

She groaned against the pain, looking up at him and feeling every ounce of her wish that she could kill him. There was no thought of getting away. No thought of what Greg or Arnie might do if she lunged for him. The only thought was that if her hands were free, she would kill him. Somehow. Some way.

Bite his carotid arteries out.

Shove thumbs through his eyeballs.

Lee had not taught her any hand-to-hand combat, but he had offered her one piece of advice when it came to down to a fight. “Shooting is clean,” he said. “It allows you to kill someone from a distance, and that affects you less emotionally. The more distance, the less real it feels. But with a knife…with a club…with your bare hands…it gets very real. And it’s very scary. Most people won’t do it, because they’re just not like that. But if you’re ever in a situation when it’s life or death, Angela, you just remember that it doesn’t matter how you kill someone. Dead is dead. They’re just as dead when you shoot them from a hundred yards as they are when you shove a screw driver into their ear, or brain them with a rock. So you do what you gotta do—tooth and nail—to make sure that they die and you live. And there’s never any shame in that, no matter how dirty you do it.”

At the time, it turned her stomach.

But times had changed.
She
had changed. In a thousand ugly ways, she had changed. Or maybe it was just dormant in her, laid underneath layers and layers of civility, and gradually unearthed from the erosion of this savage new world. This ragged aggression, more animal than human. More mindless than logical.

Like the infected…

But the rage of it gave her strength. Set her teeth. Flared her nostrils. Made the pain shuffle off into the background of her mind. She looked right into Jerry’s eyes, and she spoke what boiled up in her. “I remember you saying that people would talk if you hurt me. People might turn against you.”

His face quaked with a spasm of anger.

She strained against the fist pulling her hair, just to show him that the pain wasn’t controlling her. “Is that why you snatched me up in the middle of the night? Is that why you sent your little crew after me when everybody had gone to sleep, when no one was there to witness it? Is that why they put a knife to my throat and told me not to make a sound? Because you’re scared, Jerry? Is that it? You’re scared?” She stuck her chin out. “Because you know they’d drag you out into The Square and beat you to death.”

He twisted her hair. “You cunt…”

“This isn’t what they signed on for, Jerry!” she yelled. “You’re all alone on this one, so you better keep this shit quiet…”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“…Because you’re gonna have to answer for what you did here, Jerry! You’re gonna have to answer for it
real
soon, and you don’t want too many witnesses lining up against you!”

Jerry reared back and slapped her hard across the face. Hard enough to topple her to the ground.

He stood over her, pointing a finger down into her face.  “You think you got it all figured out, huh? You think Camp Ryder is just one step away from kicking me out and going back to business as usual? But we’re not as dumb as you think we are, Angela. And you’re no fucking genius. No you’re not.” He produced a piece of paper—the same piece of paper that had been ripped from Angela’s grasp when they’d taken her. “Let’s read, shall we?”