The Remaining: Fractured (61 page)

“Abby?” she called out.

“Mommy!”

They were coming up the stairs.

Angela wanted desperately to see her little girl, to hold her, to kiss her, tell her that everything was going to be alright. But in the same moment she feared what Abby might look like, feared what expressions might cross over her when she saw how badly her mother had been beaten. Could she even tell her daughter that everything would be alright? Everything was not alright!

“It’s not okay,” Angela said, beginning to sob. “This is not okay. I can’t get out of this…”

Abby reached the top of the stairs, Jerry following close behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Abby was in hysterics, her face flushed from crying, her chest hitching up and down, and when she saw her mother sitting there, her eyes went wide with shock and she took in a big breath and began to scream.

Jerry turned back to Kyle. “Get in here and restrain this girl!”

Kyle looked in like he was scared to even enter the room. “Jerry…”

Jerry spoke through clenched teeth. “Restrain the girl.”

Kyle lowered his head, reached out and put both hands on Abby’s shoulders.

Jerry stood in front of Angela, grinning. “Where to start, where to start? You think I should hurt you and make her watch, or hurt her and make you watch? You tell me. What’s gonna be most effective in this situation? I’ll let you choose.”

Angela looked at her daughter through the tears in her eyes and saw her stricken face. She had never seen her mother so damaged. And now this? Now all of this? It was just another little piece of Abby, withering away. The Abby that she knew and loved, taking another step away from her, another step farther out of her reach. Damage that could not be undone.

I can’t do this anymore! I can’t do this, dear God, I’m so sorry but I can’t do this!

She hung her head, sobbing. “Don’t do this,” she gasped between sobs. “Just let her go, Jerry. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

CHAPTER 39: THE ASSAULT

Lee waited. Crouched in the woods, he stared straight ahead and could just barely see the side of the Camp Ryder building. He stared at that building and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not the same person he’d been when he’d first seen it months ago. He’d grown colder. His thoughts were darker. His inclinations more violent. But perhaps that was what he needed to be. Perhaps that was what the world required of him.

Marie stirred behind him. “What’s taking so long?” she whispered.

Lee felt the same impatience, but he knew better than to give in to it. “We just have to wait. Tomlin will initiate us.” He leaned back, looked behind him at Devon and Nate. “You guys ready when the shot comes?”

Devon and Nate nodded stiffly, their eyes fixated on the woods in front of them.

“Devon, you ready with the bolt cutters?”

He picked them up out of the leaves in front of him and held them up, snipped them a couple times in the air like an over-eager barber. He tried to smile, but it looked shaky and unsure on him. “Ready, Cap.”

Lee nodded, faced forward. Closed his eyes and tried to center himself.

You cannot be who you were.

And maybe that’s best.

***

Greg worked his way along the second row, followed by three of his guys. Two of them stood there with rifles ready, but not held aggressively. The third held a large duffel bag from which protruded a few rifles—two of the M4s they’d received from Captain Harden, and a hunting rifle. The bottom of the bag swayed with ammunition. So far they’d spoken with two families, both of which were staunch supporters of Jerry and while they raised an eyebrow at the request, they seemed to be convinced by Greg’s statement that, if they were not going to help with guard duty or fighting for Camp Ryder, that they should help the men that were by giving them much-needed equipment. It was this sort of pseudo-patriotic sacrifice that most people went for.

Now he came to Kristy Malone’s house. The first person that he knew didn’t support Jerry. Not only that, but he was positive that she was a supporter of Bus and Captain Harden—after all, her own husband was out there with Harper’s group, wasn’t he? Out there trying to complete “The Mission” for Captain Harden.

For a brief moment of clarity, Greg stood there in front of the shanty that belonged to Kristy and Nate Malone and he stared at it, taking in the old, graying pallets that were used as walls. The tarps and plastic to seal out the weather. The pieces of corrugated roof over the top to give it that little extra staying power. It was a nice shanty.

Greg smiled, forlornly. This was the world that they lived in. When, with a little wood and plastic, you could be the proud owner of a
nice fucking shanty.
Only four months removed from central air conditioning, big screen TVs, disposable everything, and a 1000-square-foot-house just being too damn small.

Four months. How quickly, and how far they had fallen. What made anyone think that they could fix that? What made Captain Harden and Harper and LaRouche think that with some ordnance and a can-do attitude, that they could reverse the tides that had turned the United States of America into one big goddamned homeless camp?

Hopeless.

If you had half a brain, which Greg believed that he did, then you would find a new way. You would not try to get back what was obviously gone. You could not recreate that life. You had to make a new one, and you had to figure out a way to thrive in it.

Eventually, Camp Ryder would be his. Jerry would be a long-forgotten problem, and Greg would reap the rewards of salvaging the world around him. If anything could be rebuilt, it was the mechanical aspect of the modern world, and in order to rebuild mechanical things, you had to have scrap. You had to have salvage. Greg was on the cusp of having enough manpower and guns to exert his plan, to take the salvage, and to monopolize the last commodity this world had to offer.

But right now, he was still Jerry’s lackey. And he was content to do that for now. He was a patient man. He could wait for the right time. Wait for the right opportunity. No use jumping the gun early, so he would do what Jerry asked him to do, and he would do it with conviction. Because a lot of his goals matched up with Jerry’s, and disarming the populace of Camp Ryder was only going to make it easier to kick them the fuck out when the time came.

But then you had Kristy Malone. You had the wannabe “Freedom Fighters.” People that still believed in the good old US of A, and thought that they could resurrect that sad, rotting corpse. These were the people that were going to be a problem.

He knocked on the wood. “Kristy! It’s Greg! Can you come to the door, please?”

There was a rustle inside.

The hair on the back of Greg’s neck stood up. He took a step away from the shanty, trying to make sure that his shadow did not play across the tarp, giving away his location. For some reason he pictured Kristy just behind those thin plastic walls with a shotgun leveled at his shadow.

“What do you want?” Kristy barked from inside.

“I’d like to talk to you face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”

“I mind.”

Greg looked back at the others. The man with the duffel lowered it to the ground, unslung his rifle. Greg spread his feet just slightly, slipped his hand onto the grip and his finger hovered over the trigger. “Kristy, can we not make a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be?”

“Can you just leave me the fuck alone?”

“C’mon, Kristy.”

“So, no? You can’t leave me alone?”

Greg swore under his breath, held his weak hand up in a signal for the others to get ready. They slid over, stacking up behind him. “Kristy. I’m not playing around.”

“Greg…why don’t you go suck Jerry’s dick, you fucking lapdog? Come in my house and I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”

Greg raised his rifle. The hand that he held up sank down and took the foregrip of his rifle. He tightened everything up.
Dammit, I’m gonna have to take this bitch out. Not what I was hoping to do.

But that would be Jerry’s PR nightmare, not his.

He took a step, and then a series of odd things happened to him. First, he registered a rifle shot. It boomed, then crackled and rolled, the sound of a bullet traveling a long distance. He thought for a half second that it was Kristy, but no, that shot had come from a long way off. There was another half second when he heard someone in the camp screaming, and then there was another
boom-crack-zip
, and then the entire world around him was suddenly alive with gunfire.

He didn’t know what to think in that singular, frozen moment. He could see straight down the row of shanties to the fence. Beyond it, in the woods, he could see the little bursts of gunsmoke—it wasn’t Kristy shooting at them, it was someone in the woods!—and he whipped around to look behind him and two of his men fell, one with a hole in his gut, the other holding a spurting neck wound, while the third lay flat on the ground, screaming.

Greg turned, put one foot in front of the other, about to launch into a dead sprint to anywhere else. Then his calf exploded. He didn’t really feel it. It was more like a tug, like someone had tripped him. He just watched the world shift onto its side as he fell over, then he looked down at his leg, wondering what the hell had just happened, and saw the ragged exit wound on his shin, pieces of flesh exploded outward, little bits of bone shards blooming out like some gruesome flower.

He stared at it for another moment, until the bullets popping into the dirt around him snapped him back into real time. He rolled onto his belly, as flat as he could make himself, the rifle trapped underneath him and gouging against his skin, though he could barely feel anything but the growing fire in his left leg, like it was being brought to a boil and he knew that true agony was coming.

He began to crawl.

***

The two sentries had been walking along, carefree. Tomlin did not look at their faces, did not think about how young they were, or whether they had families or loved ones inside Camp Ryder. He would not allow himself to humanize them. It did him no good. It did nobody else any good. It was only a recipe for self-torture in the future. They were simply Blue Shirt and Green Shirt.

Or Blue and Green, if you prefer.

So he put the reticle on Blue, accounted for the downward trajectory, and the distance, and held up two mil-dots. No wind to speak of, so he held the vertical line of the crosshairs right in the middle of Blue’s body and breathed out, felt his body reach that one second or so of complete stillness in the moment between breaths, and slowly applied pressure to the trigger.

Follow-through
, Tomlin reminded himself, keeping his eyes on the target.

Blue took the bullet in the chest, toppled over, most likely instantly dead.

No follow-up shot necessary.

Green began to panic.

Tomlin worked the bolt, seated another cartridge. The second shot was a little low and right, clipping Green in the side, and now the other snipers were firing, a fusillade of shots. He wasn’t sure what they were shooting at, couldn’t see Shantytown behind the Camp Ryder building, but it wasn’t his concern. He was focused on Green. His target grabbed his side, started trying to run. Tomlin slapped the bolt again. Fresh cartridge. Green was running now. Tomlin held the mil-dots two-by-two, leading his target just slightly. Fired.

Green fell. Tomlin watched him for a moment, unsure where he’d struck the man, but fairly certain he wasn’t getting up.

He hoped that Lee was moving to the fence, but he didn’t look. He kept his scope trained on the building and on the areas around it. That was his responsibility. That was his lane of fire.
Watch your lane. Always watch your lane.
He racked a new round into his rifle, waiting for the next target to show itself.

Waiting…

***

Lee ran for everything he was worth. The shots had been fired. The fight had been initiated, and there was no turning back now. His only option was forward. The others could retreat, they might have that in them, they might have the capability of giving up and not living the rest of their lives in shame for it, but Lee could only move forward. For him, his life had suddenly been distilled down into two very simple paths. In an hour’s time, he would either have taken the Camp Ryder building, or he would be dead.

Over their heads, Tomlin took another shot—the distinct
zzzip
of the bullet splitting the air over their heads, followed closely by the
whu-POW
of the rifle report. Lee didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop or falter. Tomlin’s shots ringing over their heads was like a bullwhip spurring him on. He had to get there. He had to get to the fence.

Through the woods, Lee could see the fence drawing closer as he ran for it, still about 50 yards out. It was an eight-foot fence, and the fortifications here were sparse, leaving large gaps that could simply be cut through to make a man-sized hole. Lee looked behind him as he closed the distance with the fence, slowing just slightly to allow Devon to take the lead.

“C’mon, Devon! It’s on you!”

Devon thrust himself past Lee, bolt cutters held out in front of him as he ran, like he intended to simply ram them through the fence. Lee and Nate flanked him in the last few yards, Jacob taking up the rear of their breaching element. The fence seemed to rise up to meet them in that last few steps.

Lee hit the dirt on one knee, like a runner sliding into first. He hit the fence, then backed up off of it just in time for Tomlin to fire another shot over their heads. He brought his rifle up, keeping far enough off the fence that the barrel didn’t get entangled in the mesh, and tried to scan for what Tomlin was shooting at. He couldn’t see anything.

On the other side of the fence there was a section of dirt that had not-so-affectionately been named the “Back Lawn” of the Camp Ryder building. It was here, in this 30-or-40-square yard area of red clay and gravel that they housed the single cargo trailer where they stashed all the broken, defunct machinery that they thought they might find a use for in the future.