What Survives of Us (Colorado Chapters Book 1) (20 page)

“Behave.” He said mildly, before he settled back with his dainty feet stretched out in front of him.

Grace could no longer control the shaking – her arms, her legs, her stomach – all jumping uncontrollably.  Her vision started to dim, and she realized she had been holding her breath.  She released the pent-up breath as quietly as she could and focused every bit of her considerable brain power on breathing. 

In.  Out.  In, deeply, filling her lungs with oxygen and life.  Out, completely, breathing out carbon dioxide and toxins.  She sent her concentration then to her adrenals, little glands on top of her kidneys, and willed them to stop firing, willed her
lower back to relax, willed herself away from fight-flight-or-freeze and back into observation.  She could not afford to check out, could not afford to disassociate from this situation, as easy as it would be to let that happen.  She needed to understand these men.

They were talking when she tuned back in, reporting in to the boss one by one.  She listened fiercely, determined to remember every tiny detail.  She had not fully assembled the big picture yet, so she had no way of knowing what information was relevant – best to just store it all. 

The bean counter was in mid-report, consulting his clipboard, describing the goods they were most in need of:  prescription medications, especially antibiotics, antidepressants and painkillers, water purification systems or chemicals, gasoline generators, and medical personnel.  That last made Grace flinch; not a good sign, when human beings were discussed as goods to be procured.

The sleeping man roused around long enough to detail the surveillance measures he was in charge of, speaking of watchers at high points in the city and on the roofs of the buildings downtown, and of monitoring the activity of soldiers from Fort Carson.  He finished his report and was already dozing back off before the man next to him began to speak. 

In a voice so soft it was hard for Grace to hear, the giant with the huge shoulders and the shaved head spoke of keeping peace and solving disputes in the refugee camp.  His efforts in organizing the creation of new latrines, as well as teams to clear the nearby houses of the dead were succinctly described before he concluded his brief report. 

By contrast, the wiry, dark-haired man next to him couldn’t shut up – talking in a rapid-fire mix of Spanish and English so heavily laden with military jargon, Grace didn’t
understand half of what he was saying.  She thought he had something to do with explosives – he talked with great enthusiasm about taking out two Humvees from a convoy out of Fort Carson with a single IED – but the rest of what he said was beyond her.

When he finally wound down, the little man next to her began to speak, and it took Grace a few moments to realize he was talking about her.  About the night she had been taken.

“The kid she was with rode off – Larry swears he winged him, but Larry swears that every time someone gets away.  He probably ran back out on the plains where they came from, which is too bad.”  He gestured with his little foot at the haunch of meat turning over the fire.  “This is the last of the horse the cowgirl was on – we could have used the meat.”

When his words sank in, Grace couldn’t help herself; she leaned over, and quietly vomited up every bit of food and water she had consumed.  If the men noticed, none of them said anything.  She couldn’t stop the memories that had started flashing like a slideshow – blood, coating her hands; blood, coating Button’s chest; her rattling, wheezing groan; her terrified, rolling eyes.  And Quinn’s hoarse scream.

Grace straightened back up when she was empty, and kept her eyes down, resolutely down, desperately down.  She would not look at what was left of Buttons, roasting on that spit.  She could not feel right now.  To feel was to die, she was sure of it.  Breathe.  In.  Out.  Focus.  Survive.

When the buzzing in her ears quieted, the little man was still talking.  “Dumb bitch got the cowgirl here all fixed up, which was our deal – she gets the night off.  And I don’t know about ya’ll, but I’m getting sick of her anyway.  She tries too hard.”  He raised his voice to a falsetto.  “Do you like that?  Should I do it again?  Just tell me what you want – I’ll do anything.”  A few of
the men chuckled, and the little man continued in his normal voice.  “Anyway, the fighter should be dead in a day or two at the most – I helped her along, and we’ll let her rot right where she’s at.  It’ll keep the other two in the right mindset.  And that’s about it.”

Attention turned to the boss.  He hadn’t spoken a word or asked a question while his generals reported in, and he sat now – still flanked by both of his silent thugs – hands templed by his mouth, lightly stroking back and forth across his lower lip.  After a moment of silence, he spoke in a soft, southern drawl.

“Good.  Let’s get the show on the road, then.”

All of the men rose.  A couple of them disappeared into the shadows and came back carrying bottles of beer.  The thugs set up a card table, and the boy deftly swung the haunch of roasting meat away from the fire.  The little man came to stand beside her.

“Okay.  Who’s first?”

Everything inside Grace went still.  This was it.  She ticked through the key points Bri had told her, then discarded them.  She’d heard what these men thought of the other girl.  Trying to please them wouldn’t help her.  Grace kept her eyes down, panting, teetering precariously on the edge of self-control.  Her original plan was no good, and she had no time to come up with another one.

The sleepy man yawned and stretched, then shuffled over.  “I’m in.  I like ‘em fresh.  Dumb bitch is gettin’ skunky.”

“I’m in, too.”  The loudmouth stepped forward, and ran his hand over Grace’s ponytail, then down her cheek.  “Pretty dark hair and eyes, just like I like.”

She jerked away.  She couldn’t help it.  The action earned her another glancing slap from the little man, and a satisfied snicker from the loudmouth, who reached to caress her again.  This time, she forced herself to hold still, though every muscle in her body shook with the effort.

A coin flashed in the air, the loudmouth crowed in triumph, and Grace’s mind went completely blank.

It happened, right there in front of God and everybody, only a few feet away from the bonfire.   Worse than the attack, worse by far, was Grace’s inability to control her own mind.  The blankness came and went, interspersed with flashes of terrible clarity:  The flinching, crawling of her skin as the man roughly tugged her clothes off.  One side of her naked body freezing, the other crisping.  The casual eyes watching, as men munched on roasted horse, laughed at each other’s jokes and played cards.  The smell of beer and spearmint on the loudmouth’s breath, the tearing pain, the humiliation that permeated all but the deepest, steel core of who she was. 

At the end, Grace turned her head away from the ridiculous, blissed-out contortion on the loudmouth’s face, and her eyes focused on the boss.

He sat on the fringes, not taking part in any of the activities, not watching the rape, though his eyes brushed by occasionally.  He was watching his men, listening to their byplay, analyzing their interactions and actions.  His eyes lingered on the sleeper, sprawled out and open-mouthed in his camp chair, and those eyes narrowed slightly before moving on.  Every once in a while, his gaze would sweep slowly around the darkness beyond the light of the bonfire before returning to his men.

Click.  Click, click, click. 

Grace’s brain detached from what was happening to her body as the puzzle pieces snapped together.

This was just a show.  This wasn’t about lust or debauchery.  This was a display of power, a method of maintaining control.  She and Bri were just props – here’s what’ll
happen to your women if you cause any trouble – just as the boy turning the spit was an example as well – look what we’ll do to your children if you don’t do what we say.

Before the next man took the loudmouth’s place, Grace’s realization had set her free.

Not entirely, not a retreat into the oblivion of disassociation, or the comfort of memories like Bri had advised, but she was able to leave all but the most rudimentary connection to her body behind.  She moved her arm when it got too close to the fire, shifted her body when she was told to, but the bulk of her focus spread outward in concentric circles.

She memorized every word she heard.  She noted which men lost at cards, which ones drank too much, and which ones just pretended to drink.  She watched how they interacted with each other, noticed where there was camaraderie and where the joking stopped just short of disrespect.  And she analyzed which of them took more than one turn with her, and which had to be goaded into it, which ones touched her with unnecessary roughness and which were covertly gentle.

By the time it ended in the wee hours of the morning, Grace had the beginnings of a plan.

              The early morning sun was glowing softly through the red walls of the tent when Naomi’s eyes snapped open.  The sound came again, a rasping swish, a rubbing along the side of the tent.  Naomi propped herself up on an elbow, trying to listen past the thunder of her heart.  Macy slept on, oblivious to the sound of something investigating the perimeter of their tiny, flimsy shelter, looking for a way in.  

At their feet, Hades’ head lifted, and a basso growl rumbled in his chest.  Persephone’s head rose as well, though she didn’t growl.  The rubbing stopped, and a moment later, a familiar, obnoxious “meow” made Naomi collapse onto her back, breath bursting from her chest in relief.

              Macy stirred.  “Was that Ares?  Is he back?”

             
Naomi rolled on her side to face her daughter, eyes assessing, voice light.  “Sure sounds like it.  That was his ‘I want breakfast NOW!’ meow, I’m sure of it.”

             
Macy giggled and stretched, speaking through a giant yawn.  “Gosh, mom, he’s going to be ticked when he finds out you didn’t pack any kitty chow.”  Though she’d slept from early evening until well past dawn, her eyes were ringed with black and sunken.  She cuddled close.  “I’m not ready to get up yet.  Let’s pretend I’m a baby.”

             
Naomi closed her eyes, resting her cheek on Macy’s soft, bright hair, their bodies curled together like halves of a whole.  She had played this game with both her girls – it was their way of saying they needed to be held close, to be cuddled and babied, just for a little while.  Macy still asked to play at ten.  Piper had rejected the game at six.  So different, her girls.

             
As always, thoughts of Piper made her rub the center of her chest; where there had been connection, now there was just slicing pain.  She wasn’t gone, like Scott.  But something was dangerously wrong.

             
Macy’s voice was soft.  “You’re thinking of Piper, aren’t you?”

             
Sensitive little soul.  “Yes.”  Here in the tent, so far from anything resembling the “normal” she had known, it was safe to speak of it.  She shifted to look at Macy’s face.  “Can you feel her, honey?  I’ve tried, but she’s…disconnected.  I don’t know what it means.”

             
Macy’s eyes were distant and peaceful.  “She’s locked deep inside,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.  “She’s being forged by the fire.  She’ll either burn or be made new.”

             
The hair on Naomi’s nape rose, but she was finished with avoiding the changes in both of them.  It took too much effort, and it didn’t make those changes go away.  “I wish I could feel her like you do.  I wish I could
know
things, so I’d know if she’s going to be okay.”

Macy’s eyes shifted to gaze at her steadily.  “Nobody can know what will be, not for sure.  I think I know what
could
be, sometimes.  But that can change really fast.”  She was silent for a moment.  “I miss Daddy. I can’t see or feel him as well anymore.”

“Any idea why that is?  Do you think he’s moving on, to the next place?  How did you say it – stepping through the veil?”

“No.  I still feel him with us, but I haven’t seen him since we left home.”

“Does it hurt him, staying here?  Is it dangerous?”

“You mean, could he get stuck?  Yeah.  But I don’t think he will.”

Naomi twirled a strand of Macy’s soft hair around and around her finger.  Now that she wasn’t freaked out, this was fascinating.  “Why not?”

“Because he’s not like the ones that are stuck.”

“Do you see them a lot?  Ghosts?”

“Now I do.  Before everybody got sick, I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them.  I just didn’t know what it was.”

“Is it scary?”  Naomi conjured a combination of
Poltergeist
and
Sixth Sense
, and she frowned.
“They can’t hurt you, can they?”

“No, they can’t.  Sometimes they startle me, but they’re not really scary.  Most of them are just moving on – they haven’t stepped through yet.  There have been a lot of them lately.  I’ve seen a couple that were stuck though, and they’re sad.  They don’t really understand what has happened to them.”

“Wow.”  Naomi stared at the ceiling of the tent, thinking it all through.  “So you’ve changed and I’ve changed, but in different ways.  I wonder if other people are different, too?  I wonder if Piper is?”

“She is.”  Macy looked up at her.  “She’s going to be really different when you see her again, Mama.  You’ll be different, too.”

              “It makes me sad, that you know these things.”  Naomi’s throat tightened.  “All I ever wanted was to give you a safe, happy, normal childhood.  It’s all I ever wanted for both you girls.  I can’t give safe or normal to you, not anytime soon.”

“Mama.  It’ll be okay.  I promise.”  Then Macy smiled her sly smile.  “But if you want to make it up to me you could use your animal voodoo on a beautiful white Arabian horse and tell her she’s mine forever.”

Naomi laughed and relaxed again, curling around her daughter, closing her eyes, enjoying the warmth and relative comfort of their little tent world.  Just a little while longer, and she’d get up and get them underway.  Goodness knew, they could both use the rest.

They had been walking for two days.  Macy tired so swiftly, even though she tried to hide it.  The first day had been the worst.  As advertised, the first section of Barr Trail was brutal, especially for a recovering invalid and a plump housewife.  By the time they reached No Name Creek, they had been advancing in ten step increments:  walk for ten steps, rest for a few minutes, then walk on.  Naomi would have stopped right there, but she didn’t want to make camp next to a water source – who knew what animals might visit.  They had spent the night in the ruins of the Fremont Experimental Forest, pitching their tent by the concrete foundation of a long-gone building.  The manmade structure had comforted Naomi as she laid awake most of that night, starting at every sound and trying not to think about how easily they could die up here.

The second day had been better, thank goodness.  The hike through Hurricane Canyon Natural area and behind Mount Manitou was so much easier, she had actually looked up once or twice to appreciate the spectacular beauty of their surroundings.  It had been such a wet spring, the ripening summer was lush and full, right on the edge of blossoming into its full beauty.  And quiet – Naomi had never known such quiet.  Whenever they stopped to rest, the only sound was the soft hush-hush of wind and the trilling call of an occasional bird.

As the day wore on, the trail got faint and harder to follow.  When they finally reached the sign marking the way to Heizer Trail, Naomi had used the last of her courage to hike from one faded pink or orange ribbon to the next.  A hard scramble up a steep slope, and they were home free: at the top of the trail that would take them down into Cascade.  Macy had fallen asleep in a
patch of shade and Naomi had pitched the tent right there.  Better another night in the wilderness than to press on and risk further weakening Macy.  She figured they only had about three miles to go, most of it downhill

Today.  They could be in Woodland Park and at the cabin today, if all went as planned.  Naomi smiled.  It might be a little early to feel triumphant, but she allowed herself the indulgence.  Fat and inexperienced she might be, suffering from weeping blisters, raw chafing and a multitude of screaming muscles, but by thee gods, she would get them through this.

They drifted and dozed a while in silence.  Every now and then Ares would yowl, but letting him in was out of the question – their little tent wouldn’t survive a brawl between a Rottweiler and an exceptionally large, half-feral tomcat.  After a while, Macy stirred and spoke again. 

“I wish I could talk to the animals.  I could get Hades to eat my vegetables.”

              Naomi yawned and tweaked her daughter’s nose.  “He’ll eat just about anything – I don’t think you need any special powers to pull that off.  And I don’t really talk with them, not in words.  I feel what they feel, and sometimes I sense what they can sense.”

             
“Can you do it on purpose?”  Macy snapped her fingers and made a kissing sound, and Persephone left Hades’ side to wriggle up between them, quivering with delight.  She cuddled the little dog close, and Persephone licked her chin over and over in an ecstasy of love.  “Can you tell what’s she’s sensing right now?”

             
Naomi titled her head to the side, considering.  Why not?  Now that she had accepted this as her new reality – if she was nuts, so be it – it could be incredibly useful to connect with the dogs at will.  “I’ll try.”

Naomi focused on the little dog, stroking her golden butterfly ears, and immediately felt the shift. 
Love, such love
.  That she had been expecting, and protectiveness towards Macy.  Persephone’s head lifted, and she gazed into Naomi’s eyes. 
Anxiety.
  As Naomi watched, Persephone repositioned herself, curling up against Macy’s midriff.  She met Naomi’s eyes again and whined softly. 

Anxiety.  Separation.  Fear.

Naomi frowned, trying to determine what was agitating the little dog.  Gradually, she became aware of a scent, something…not right.  It wasn’t decay, nor was it dirt or filth of any kind.  Naomi groped for a word to describe what she was perceiving.  It was… imbalanced… toxic… dysfunctional.

Macy heaved a deep sigh, hugging Persephone closer, and Naomi stared at her in sudden, horrified comprehension.  What she was smelling was
disease
.  And it was coming from Macy.

She sucked in a huge breath, her mind scrabbling like a rat in a maze.  Could the plague have damaged her body somehow?  She had to get her to a doctor, get some tests run.  Maybe she should just check her into a hospital until they figured out what was wrong –

The air left her lungs explosively as the reality of their situation kicked her in the chest.  No doctors.  No hospitals.  No help.

“Mama.”  Macy’s voice was soft and calm.  “Mama, look at me.”

Naomi met her gaze, and there was just no way she could hide her terror.  With shaking hands, she caressed her daughter’s hair, her soft face, her shoulder, everything she could reach.  She could feel her face twisting as she tried to control her emotions, and pulled Macy close, sandwiching Persephone between them.  Macy’s body was warm, but so, so frail, and Naomi thought her heart would burst in an agony of fear. 

“Baby girl.  You need a doctor.  We need to find a doctor.  You just need some medicine and some time, and you’ll be right as rain.”

Macy leaned back and looked at her.  She didn’t ask “why,” didn’t question her mother’s statements.  She knew.  She
knew.  
“We’ll be in Woodland Park today.”

  Naomi couldn’t stop stroking her, frantic to reassure herself.  Her little girl.  She was here, and warm, and alive.  She had survived the plague, she would survive this, too.  Her baby.  “Will there be a doctor there?  Is that why you wanted to go so much?”

Macy smiled, but her eyes were solemn.  “There will be people who can help us.  I know that for sure.”

Naomi shut her eyes.  It was so hard to keep breathing.  She forced herself to move, suddenly desperate to get underway.  “Let’s get our breakfast and go.  I’ll take care of the dogs while you go to the bathroom.”

She crawled out of the tent, her movements stiff and jerky, a combination of overused muscles and terror.  She understood, now, Persephone’s unwillingness to leave Macy.  The little dog never let Macy out of her sight.  Even now, Persephone trotted on Macy’s heels as she made her way to the area they’d designated “the bathroom.”  Naomi tilted her head back and glared up at the rich, blue sky.

“You listen to me,” she hissed.  “You listen, God.  You will not take her from me.  You will not.  You will not.”

The mantra ran non-stop through her head as they ate breakfast and packed up, and as they hiked through the morning.  She managed what she hoped was some natural-sounding conversation with Macy, who was enchanted with the views – Pikes Peak, huge boulders, and when they reached the top of Cascade Mountain, the North Pole Amusement Park and the city of Cascade, far below.

You will not.  You will not.
  She couldn’t make it stop.

“Look, Mama.”  Macy was pointing.  “That’s 24, isn’t it?”

“It is.” 
You will not. 
She was terribly afraid she would start screaming it soon.  She had to hold it together.  “Looks like it’s blocked heading down into Colorado Springs, but not going the other way.  We’ll know more when we get to Cascade.”

She decided it was a good spot for a snack, a drink of water, and a rest.  The dogs settled down in a patch of shade, and Macy curled up with them, feeding them little bites of the granola bar she was supposed to be eating.  Naomi sat down heavily on a cool boulder and pretended not to notice, for the time being, that her daughter’s snack disappeared a delicate bite at a time between the two dogs.

Ares had been slinking along with them since they broke camp, ghosting in and out of the woods, and he slid to Naomi’s side now.  He hadn’t asked for affection since the night she had inadvertently joined her senses with his, and it pleased her to be back in his good graces.  Purring, he brushed back and forth against her leg and stroking hand, a blessed distraction.  For the moment, at least, the mantra in her mind quieted.