Trail of Tears (11 page)

Their cries drifted to him even over the
howl of the wind. Snow blinded him, or was it ash? No matter, he
imagined he could hear their skin peeling, their bones splintering
and growing back stronger than before. A thought suddenly caused
him to pause. What would he do when the fires below finally died
out? Would the radiation that would cling to the area for hundreds
of years be enough to sustain him and his chosen or did they now
need the cleansing flames? He didn’t know and the uncertainty made
him uncomfortable. His mind began to drift to other concerns, to
how he would tear through his enemies, the council…

He forced his mind to concentrate on the
fires below. He had noticed it was becoming harder to think too
long on one thing, his mind tended to wander. That was dangerous.
He would have to be careful. He would talk to Ventredi. His
Lieutenant was good at thinking and planning.

If the fires died, he would create more.
This country was covered in nuclear facilities. All he had to do
was ignite the spark and the searing fires would spring to life
once again, consuming the old world with them.

He imagined a world in flames with their
power sustaining him and his chosen. Was that his destiny? To set
the world alight, to destroy the old and bring a new birth? Was he
the first of a new breed or was his destiny to herald in the true
end of the world?

He saw the first of his cabal emerge from
the flames below, their faces and features changed. He could see
from their expressions that they felt the power he had from his
rebirth. They could now join him as his apostles. He would send
them forth to spread his rule and between them they would bring a
new dawn to all vampires. He looked down at the flames, still
raging, consuming everything. He frowned. He saw five, no six
figures rise from the shimmering heat haze.
Where were the
others?

He saw a figure in the distance struggle.
The vampire’s form was shifting so fast that he could barely
maintain an upward momentum. It was as if he had lost control of
his abilities. Another form stumbled from the flames, but a sudden
flash of fire engulfed him and the figure fell screaming. Two more
figures struggled to rise and slowly drew closer. Von Kruger’s
expression of triumph was still frozen on his face as the first six
transformed vampires passed him. They were full of their new power
and energy and completely unaware of what was happening to the
others. They rushed into the air, revelling in the sunlight.

Four figures were visible now; one of them
struggled to rise with the body of another vampire weighing him
down. Von Kruger recognised Ventredi as his Lieutenant helped a
younger vampire out of the flames. Ventredi glared at Von Kruger in
accusation, but this was not the time. Von Kruger swooped down to
help the others and they limped out of the searing flames. Von
Kruger’s mind swirled with questions. It was obvious that not all
vampires were to be chosen by the flames. But half their number was
a huge attrition rate indeed. His domination might not be quite as
assured as he had thought.

The room stank of unwashed bodies and fear.
Conversations droned everywhere; some cried, others shouted only to
be hushed by friends or family and still others stared blankly
ahead cutting themselves off from those around them. Peter Harris
looked out over the sea of faces and despaired. They had been
attacked by a small patrol of these thralls and over five hundred
of their number lay dead or dying. How many more were already on
their way? The dust had hardly settled on the attack when the call
had come out to come to the auditorium. Not everyone was here, of
course. Many still roamed the corridors and searched the outposts
for loved ones. Medical staff worked feverishly to save those who
had been shot, trampled or injured from shrapnel. There still a
number of people recovering from the serum that Sandra had brought
back from the power plant. These people were like babies, totally
helpless for the first few days and required a lot of resources to
look after them. Still others packed the small room that served as
Father Reilly’s church, praying, shouting their anger or pleading
for deliverance from this nightmare.
Had any of it been worth
it?
All the deaths and suffering of the last year, had any of
it been worth it if such a small number of thralls could come among
them and cause such death and devastation?

Faces swam in Harris’s mind of the dead.
Familiar names like Steele, Carlos Ortega, Dee Ratigan, and Rodgers
he had carried for some time, but now he had to add Denis Jackson,
Delilah Franklin and Adam Wilkins. Where would it end? He still
didn’t know if Sandra would survive; she had lost so much blood and
their reserves were so low. Those who had survived were so in shock
that they did not think about donating blood so it was a slow
process getting the resources they needed to heal the wounded. But
they couldn’t corral the survivors to take their blood, wasn’t that
the very thing they were fighting against? But to lose even one
person due to the lack of a transfusion was unthinkable. That was
one of the reasons for the meeting. The other was to decide what
the hell they were going to do.

Outside the temperature had plummeted and
the rain had turned to snow. At first it had not stuck to the wet
ground and work to identify the dead and bring them to the
designated burial area had continued. But it was so cold now that
the pools of rain had turned to ice and retrieving the bodies was
impossible. Many of the dead were still lying at their posts,
already freezing, silent sentinels guarding them for eternity. It
seemed a poor reward for saving the lives of the people in this
room but there just wasn’t time.

An estimated five hundred dead, the
corridors were already beginning to stink. How could they bury them
all? Was a bigger force already surrounding them? Harris had sent
out patrols to check their perimeter but the weather was delaying
their return. At least he hoped it was just the weather. Philip
McAteer had been in the last batch of people Harris and the others
had rescued so Harris didn’t know him. He had become the main
military figure in the community while he had been gone but, to his
credit, he hadn’t batted an eyelid when Harris had thrown out the
orders. A few of the men had looked to McAteer for confirmation but
the man had merely nodded and the patrols had gone out.

Harris had pulled McAteer aside and
apologised for taking over, but McAteer was a professional and saw
the wisdom of the patrols. He had asked for the courtesy of a
heads-up before Harris reorganised anything else though and Harris
had readily agreed. He was amazed that Regan had had the foresight
to put McAteer in charge at all, but the story behind that would
have to wait for another time.

They’d had a few reports from messengers
some of the patrols had sent back with initial findings. There was
no sign of any further forces, but visibility was poor and a storm
was coming in so they could not relax.

“Come to order,” Phil Regan’s voice was
drowned out by his own clattering of a wooden gavel. There were
hundreds of people packed into the room, pressed against each
other, all of them terrified, and the Council on the raised plinth
did not instil confidence. Each of the members looked bedraggled,
hollow-eyed and just as terrified as the people looking to them for
deliverance. Regan sat in the centre and was flanked by Ian Phelps
and John Kelly. The three looked far less dishevelled than anyone
else and Harris wondered where they had spent their time during the
attack. It certainly had not been standing with Patricia Lohan or
Ben Thackery putting their lives on the line for the children.
Lohan’s chair was empty; she was still recovering and had two very
protective nurses watching over her. Philip Scholes and Paul
Williams made up the next two seats and then a woman Harris had
never seen before. Penny Arkwright occupied the last seat.

Regan seemed like a deer caught in
headlights as the room quietened and everyone looked to him. Harris
didn’t envy him. He and Regan had always been like flint and stone,
sparking in almost everything, but Harris never doubted that the
man tried to do his best. Yes, he was a coward and yes, he was weak
and easily manipulated by others, but he did try.

“We have experienced a terrible tragedy
today,” Phelps began, his face infused with just the right amount
of sadness and compassion. “I know you all have questions and we
will answer what we can but after this meeting you must trust us
for to act on your behalf. There are decisions that have to be made
immediately that will decide the fate of everyone here. Decisions
that cannot be questioned, or voted upon at every turn.” He paused
as he scanned the gathering. “We are the duly elected council and
we ask that you trust us to make these decisions on your
behalf.”

Harris frowned. Martial law was what he was
talking about. He agreed that the council could not have their
every decision voted upon, but he hoped that they would listen to
advice before deciding on their course. Accountants, especially
ones who had spent most of their time before the vampires had come
in a drunken state, did not make good tacticians.

“How did they find us?” someone shouted and
others yelled encouragement.

“We don’t know,” Phelps raised his hands and
motioned for silence. “It might have been pure chance or maybe we
ran one too many missions; we will never know. That’s not important
now.” Harris almost choked. Phelps had very neatly hinted that
Harris and his missions had very probably brought this disaster
upon the community. He saw a few people look towards him in
anger.

Stories of his return and his part in saving
them were at odds with their belief that he had brought this
terrible judgement upon them. He was convinced that if he wasn’t
fully armed and dishevelled from the fighting that they would
attack him. Of course, it helped that Warkowski stood beside him,
looming over the crowd and glaring at anyone who might try.

“We have to decide what we do now,” Phelps
continued. “We will listen to all suggestions and then we will make
our decisions for the good of all.” The room filled with
suggestions, each one drowning out the next, and Regan had to bang
his gavel until the shouted advice was brought under control.

Harris was amazed. Most of the advice
cantered around how to make their community more secure from attack
or how to get everyone across town to a new home. Didn’t they
realise that they couldn’t stay here, not in this city, not even in
this state?

Harris was bursting to speak but he didn’t
know how his thoughts would be received. Would they tear him
apart?

“Are you not going to say anything, my
friend,” Warkowski had remained silent until now.

“I’m not sure they will listen,” Harris
sighed and then the decision was taken from his hands.

“Mr. Harris,” Phelps raised his eyebrows as
he spoke, “you have been remarkably silent. Surely you have
something to say.”

Harris glared at Phelps. Many of the people
in the room now turned to regard Harris but he wasn’t entirely sure
what he was reading in their faces.

“I’m not certain you will want to hear what
I have to say.”

“I did say we would listen to all
suggestions,” Phelps replied and smiled like an alligator, all
teeth and no compassion. “Surely these good people deserve to hear
you wisdom.”

Harris knew what Phelps was trying to do but
Phelps was right about one thing. These people did deserve to at
least hear the stark reality of their situation.

“First of all,” Harris began and he could
see Phelps’ smile grow wider. A trap can spring two ways though and
Harris had learned from the last time he had been railroaded. “No
one has mentioned the weather.” Harris looked out at the faces
watching him and read their confusion. “I am sure you have all
noticed that it’s getting colder. Soon we won’t be able to grow
crops or even walk outside. The storms are increasing in frequency.
There’s a storm outside right now, coming in from the north and
bringing with it colder winds and whatever radiation is still
airborne. I don’t think better defences will help much when that
poison falls on your children.” People began to mutter but Harris
wasn’t finished.

“Adam Wilkins is dead and with him any hope
of sustaining the wireless shield so there is no more protection
from the vampires. Added to that, the thralls who attacked us were
an elite force. They were sent to search this area, most likely as
part of a larger search grid to try and find us. The fact that they
are dead means Carter now knows where we are. Building defences or
moving across town won’t save you. He will hit you with everything
he has, tanks, rockets, and swarms of thralls. You won’t last a
half day. You need to move. Away from the radiation, away from the
thralls, and away from this weather.”

The room was silent. He could see that his
words had hit the crowd hard. Now that the words had been spoken,
though, people finally had to consider them.

“Are you mad,” Phelps asked him incredulous.
“Move over two thousand people? Where to? The children wouldn’t
last in this cold. We would be caught out in the open, annihilated
by vampires from the air. Really, Harris, I expected more from you.
And scaring us with the threat of radiation is a low blow. There is
no guarantee that it will come this far as you are well aware. The
rains would have washed a lot of it into the ground around the
blast.”

Harris shrugged. “No, I’m not mad, Ian. The
radiation is a real threat. The distance to the blast site isn’t
that far with these northern winds. The rain will have dampened it,
sure, but the smaller particles are still hanging in the air above
the storm. As they come to earth the winds could pick them up and
carry them here.