Trail of Tears (7 page)

The soldiers had moved on ahead of them as
he had struggled while carrying April but, now that he was free, he
felt a bit useless. He knew he was only sixteen but he had managed
to survive and save April while the bodies around him testified
that many adults in the community had not. He wanted to go up to
the soldiers and offer his help but he didn’t want them to laugh at
his offer in front of April. He also didn’t want to move away from
April. She was very vulnerable—not being able to hear or speak—and
he worried something might happen to her if he was too far
ahead.

He needed a weapon though. It was all well
and good that the soldiers were armed but going up against thralls
was different than other humans and these soldiers hadn’t been
awake that long from the serum. He had no idea if they had ever
seen a thrall or what they could do. It was easy to underestimate
the thralls. He hoped that the number of bodies on the floor gave
the soldiers an idea of just how dangerous the thralls were, but he
wasn’t going to trust his and April’s lives to them entirely.

He looked on the ground, hoping that one of
the dead might have dropped a weapon but he couldn’t see anything.
April looked over at him and cocked her head to the side
questioningly. He mimed swinging a bat and shooting a gun and she
nodded and began to search as well. Robert Seager wished he had
learned to sign better so he could talk to April more in depth, but
there had never been a need before the vampires and since then he
had been busy with the Wolverines, a pack of teens and kids who had
formed their own club. He had thought that it was important to be a
big man in the group, and he had sparked against Conor Ricks too
often as they had jostled for Emma’s attention. It was only when he
had seen Conor with the strength to join Harris and the others that
he had realised how petty he had been. Even April had stood tall
and supported Harris, despite her being deaf and mute. She had
trekked across the state line and fought with Harris and the others
while he remained safely tucked up at home.

He had spent a lot of time examining his
reasons for staying and had finally been able to admit to himself
that he had been too scared to join Harris. Once he was finally
able to admit that he found that he saw things differently. He had
been delighted to help Emma and the others as they searched for the
traitor. For once he had felt useful, a part of something
worthwhile. And then Jack had been killed and the reality of their
situation had hit very close to home.

On top of that the thralls had nearly
invaded their community and Harris’ group had come back without
Harris. And those who did manage to stagger home were shot up real
bad. Ricks was close to death and his world had suddenly become
more terrifying. He had seen April come back with Sandra Harrington
and the others. Despite their exhaustion and obvious worry about
Harris and Warkowski, he had seen the survivors stride into camp.
They had achieved so much and April had walked among them with her
head held high. Somehow she had changed from someone who existed on
the fringe to someone who really belonged and contributed. In her
he had seen what he wanted. Not just to get to know her but to
achieve as she had.

He had cajoled Emma to teach him some basic
signs, but had not yet summoned the courage to approach April. He
had hoped to ask her to dance at the ‘welcome home’ party but
events had spiralled out of control. He had seen April being swept
away in the sea of panicked people. She had looked so frightened
and lost that he knew he had to do something. He looked over at her
now as she searched for a weapon and he marvelled as to how she
managed to cope. To be cut off from the world in a silent bubble
must be difficult at the best of times but in such apocalyptic
times it must be terrifying.

Her hair was short, crudely cut and uneven
around the ends, though most of the women in the community wore
their hair short now. It was just too difficult to keep long hair
without the accoutrements of the years before the fall. Her eyes
were the darkest brown he had ever seen and he found himself lost
in their depths whenever he spoke to her. He could see that she had
pulled the ends of her hair back behind her ears but they kept
falling forward as she moved. He could see the set of her jaw as
she pulled the errant strands back behind her ears, and he smiled
as they slipped forward again. She caught him looking at her and he
dropped his eyes quickly and continued searching.

There were no weapons though, just row after
row of bodies. Their faces were contorted in pain and terror and
there was blood everywhere. He made his way over to April and was
careful to approach her from the front so he didn’t startle her.
She looked at him hopefully but he shook his head. She reached up
to draw her hair back again, her fingers leaving a red smear on the
chestnut strands. She was about to continue searching when he took
her hand and shook his head. He could see the pain in her eyes, the
sense of loss and helplessness and he couldn’t subject her to that
any longer. He motioned for them to leave the searching and follow
the soldiers and she nodded slowly and followed. Despite the death
around him, Seager couldn’t help feel a pleasant skip of his heart
when she kept her hand clasped firmly in his. They made their way
further into what had been their home that had now become a charnel
house.

Emma Logan made her way slowly across the
wasteland. Each time she heard a burst of gunfire she was tempted
to run into the fray. Each shot fired meant that her Conor, her
mother or her brothers could be dead. There were so many helpless
children in the compound and the thralls didn’t care what age they
were. They wouldn’t even be interested in taking prisoners, if
their latest intelligence was accurate. The thralls had split from
the vampires and no longer wanted to have to guard thousands of
humans. The fewer humans there were the less food the vampires
would have. But she couldn’t help anyone if she rushed in and got
herself killed.

These thralls were different from the normal
foot soldiers. These bastards moved like shadows, they approached
their objective in co-ordinated lines of attack, and had made short
work of the human defences. It would be just like them to
leave…

She saw the thrall to the side of the main
entrance and let a cruel smile touch her lips. She suspected they
might have left a few thralls to cover their rear. She saw another
movement and then a third as the thralls came together and made
their way towards the entrance to the compound. They were sneaky
bastards. She had seen McAteer and his men enter five minutes ago
carrying a limp form between them, and these thralls had waited for
them to move far enough into the compound so they could take them
from behind.

If she had been a few minutes earlier she’d
have been cut to pieces by them. Fate was a cruel mistress. The
thralls slipped silently into the compound, their jet black forms
moving like wisps of smoke. She checked the load in her XM8 and
slipped silently after them.

* * *

McAteer laid Sandra down on the floor when
they moved past the first corner in the corridor. He signalled for
his men to check out the way ahead and laid his gun down while he
examined his charge. She was very pale but there was a weak pulse.
If he didn’t stop the bleeding she would be dead by the time they
cleared out the thralls. He ripped her jacket and shirt open and
saw two holes in her side. He rolled her and she groaned, her eyes
fluttering open and then closing again. One of the bullets had torn
out the other side and blood was seeping steadily from the wound.
The second bullet must still be inside and that wound was only
trickling.

He tore his pack open and pulled gauze and
bandages out. He placed the gauze against the wound in her back and
then wrapped the bandages tightly around her. She woke up screaming
in pain and then fainted almost immediately. She didn’t have long.
The bandage might slow the flow of blood but it wouldn’t stop it.
It wasn’t like a leg wound where you could cut off the blood flow.
He looked up to see where his men were. Bullets whacked into the
wall just beside him and masonry splashed into his eyes.

He dropped to the ground, furiously blinking
as he tried to clear his vision. He grabbed for his weapon but his
fingers gripped nothing. The noise was ferocious. Each shot seemed
like an explosion in the cramped corridor and he could feel the
wake of the bullets as they passed close above him. His eyes
cleared a little and he could see blurred shapes moving closer.

Shit, how could I have been so
stupid?
A bullet tore at his jacket and he continued to roll
away from the thralls. A bullet ripped along his leg, tearing a
furrow through the flesh and slamming into the wall beside him.
Pain shot through him but he continued to roll. Unfortunately, he
was also moving away from Sandra and his weapon. Suddenly he
slammed into a wall. His eyes finally cleared and he looked up and
saw the thralls smile as they approached him. One of them moved
over to check on Sandra and the other two came closer to him,
taking their time. He moved his hand down his leg slowly. If he
could wipe the smile off their faces he could die happy.

The thrall over by Sandra kicked her in the
ribs and she moaned softly but didn’t wake up, and he shrugged and
placed the barrel against her forehead. Suddenly there was a load
bark and McAteer jumped, expecting to feel a bullet slam into him
but instead the thrall standing over Sandra jerked. The corridor
filled with noise, the retorts hurting his ears. The thrall
shuddered but began to turn toward the firing. They were such tough
bastards; it took a lot of bullets to put them down.

The other two thralls were also turning. The
figure standing over Sandra suddenly took a round in the head and
he dropped like a stone. The other thralls had already turned by
the time his would-be rescuer had brought a weapon to bear and the
noise level increased as three weapons roared. The thrall on his
left jerked back and stumbled but recovered quickly and the noise
of the XM8 stuttered and then stopped as his rescuer was forced to
seek cover.

McAteer ripped his knife from his boot and
leapt at the closest thrall. His leg buckled. His wound must have
been deeper than he had thought and, instead of taking the thrall
high and slashing at his throat with the knife, he slammed into the
figure’s legs. The thrall grunted and they both fell. McAteer
pulled with all his strength on the knife, ripping through the
thrall’s thigh but the bastard fought back as if he didn’t feel the
pain. There were a few seconds of frantic punching and slashing and
McAteer was suddenly sent sprawling against the far wall. He hit
the concrete hard and his head spun as he tried to get his feet
under him. He lunged but was too disoriented and he ended up
missing the thrall with his outstretched hands but his legs caught
the figure as he fell, bringing the figure down with him. McAteer
let out a yell of pain and anger and he hacked wildly with his
knife. Blood spurted into his eyes and clouded his vision. He felt
pain in his leg and something hit him in the shoulder like a
sledgehammer. His left arm went dead but he continued to slash and
gouge and kick. He couldn’t see anything and his ears still rang
with the noise of gunfire. He was sent flying through the air and
felt the wind knocked from him as he hit something hard. He slumped
to the ground and then pushed himself up but his leg wouldn’t
support him.

He wiped at his eyes desperately but there
was too much blood. He was able to make out a figure in front of
him and he leapt up bringing his knife arm around and down. He
slammed into a figure and he heard a high pitched scream. He roared
as he used the pain to fuel his aching muscles but somewhere in his
mind the scream registered.
Thralls didn’t scream like that. Had
the figure said his name? How could he?
He was too far gone
though and his arm swept down for the killing stroke. Something
gripped his arm and struggled to prevent its downward arc; he
fought against it, trying to use his momentum to finish the strike.
He heard shouting, that high-pitched scream again, but he was lost
to the battle lust. He felt himself being pulled away and then a
great weight pressed on to his chest. He heard more screaming. It
was so close he felt the spittle on his face and then the words
finally started to make sense.

“McAteer,” the voice screamed at him.
“They’re dead; stand down you fucking idiot.”

He felt a hand wipe away the blood and he
looked up into Grier’s face. He felt the adrenaline seep from him
as the words finally cracked his madness. He looked up into Grier’s
face and slowly nodded. Suddenly he felt the weight on his chest
lift and he was being pulled into a sitting position. He saw Emma
Logan being helped to her feet; the poor girl had cuts on her arms
and blood on her shoulder. His brain finally caught up.

“Of Jesus, Emma. I am so sorry, I …” he
couldn’t finish. This tiny girl had taken on three thralls to save
him and he had attacked her like an animal. Grier was already
pulling her shirt away from the knife wound in her shoulder and
applying bandages where needed. He sat there panting as he watched.
His leg hurt like hell but he was too shamed to even consider
asking for attention. His men looked at him with an uncertainty he
had never seen before, but the look in Emma’s eyes was more than he
could bear.

* * *

Patricia Lohan stood in the main auditorium
and listened as the bursts of gunfire grew louder. She had sent the
children out through the south exit, Phil Regan had volunteered, of
course, to lead the children to safety. She snorted. They were
better off without that bastard anyway. Initially she had thought
he was the shortest route to power within the community but recent
events had forced her to rethink her strategy.