Reaper's Run
Author: David Vandyke
Date: 2013-06-29 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Fiction; Apocalyptic; Post Apocalyptic; Dystopia; Science Fiction Fantasy; Fantasy; Action; Military Fiction; Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic; Thrillers; Military; Alien Contact
Description: When US Marine Sergeant Jill Repeth's blown-off legs begin to regenerate, she thinks it's a medical miracle. But the breakthrough that heals her war injuries is exactly what the government desperately wants to hide - by any means necessary. Hunted, she must cross an America wracked by strife, to try to find a family who may already be dead. Reaper's Run is an origins story and apocalyptic novel, the beginning of one warrior's journey from tactical cop to freedom fighter and beyond. It leads the reader into the acclaimed Plague Wars science fiction series. This book contains a bonus post-apocal
Publisher: Reaper Press

Table of Contents

Author’s Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
The Last Man

Copyright © 2013 by the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, except for brief excerpts for the purpose of review or quotation, without permission in writing from the author.

Thanks to my friends and fellow science-fiction authors B.V. Larson and Vaughn Heppner, for their tireless encouragement, and for persevering and showing me the way.

Thanks to my readers – my lovely wife Beth, my brother Andrew, my friends and fellow authors Ryan King and Nick Stephenson, for their excellent critiques; their feedback has made me a better writer and this book a better novel.

Cover design by Jun Ares

Formatting by  LiberWriter.com

BOOKS BY DAVID VANDYKE

Plague Wars series:

The Eden Plague Book 1
Reaper's Run: A Plague Wars Novel
The Demon Plagues Book 2
The Reaper Plague Book 3
The Orion Plague Book 4
Cyborg Strike Book 5
Comes The Destroyer Book 6

Stellar Conquest series:

First Conquest: Book 1 - Contained within the anthology Planetary Assault

Desolator: Book 2

Tactics of Conquest: Book 3

Look for them at your favorite book provider or visit www.davidvandykeauthor.com

Reaper’s Run

A Plague Wars Novel

by

David VanDyke

Author’s Introduction

This novel draws from The Eden Plague and The Demon Plagues, books one and two of the Plague Wars series, but 95% is new material. Its chronology fits between those two stories. Whether or not you’ve read the other books, I hope you enjoy the story of Jill Repeth’s escape across an America growing rapidly darker and uglier. If you think “it couldn’t happen here,” well: I hope you’re right.

The Eden Plague for Dummies, by B. B. Larson – Online Excerpt

Greatness tries to change the world. Small-mindedness resists, reacts – and ordinary people get caught in the gears. Usually they are ground up and spit out, but sometimes, once in a while, they win through to change the world.

The long-awaited apocalypse arrived not with a bang but with a slow-motion, grinding crash. It began with irrational fear in the minds of men, a self-fulfilling prophecy of overreaction that brought the world to the stuttering brink of annihilation.

It started with a man named Aaronovsky, a secret Jew that kept his Talmud and his Torah behind a false panel in his miserable little apartment on a bleak biological warfare research base in the middle of Siberia. This one man had the courage to respond to anonymous messages that showed up on his computer, and keep the conversation hidden from his Soviet masters.

Whoever was on the other end provided information on how to build a prototype virus that might save humanity: from illness, from death – perhaps even from itself. It was an amazing feat of genetic engineering, decades ahead of its time. Unbeknownst to him, this information, this communication, was of extraterrestrial origin – but that is another story.

For long years he used the knowledge, and the laboratory, to create what eventually came to be known as the Eden Plague. That he did it right under his supervisors’ noses was a testimony to his courage and determination. Unfortunately, he did not have time to complete his work. The virus he had made, though amazing, was imperfect.

No one living knows exactly what happened, but in 1989, politics intervened: the Soviet Union fell apart, and its technologies were stolen, its scientists and research trafficked to brutal regimes with oil money, and the almost-miracle disappeared into a black hole.

That is, until it surfaced in the form of some samples of tissue, a whole human head, and a canister of a virus, in an abandoned biological facility buried in the Iraqi desert. There it had waited until someone, probably local salvagers, found it.

From there its path wended murky, but eventually it fell into the hands of an ambitious CIA man, a spymaster in the classic mold – an old-moneyed New England dabbler named Jervis A. Jenkins III. He believed in putting wealth and power to use, and in this experimental biotechnology he saw a source of both.

Keeping the secret even from his own superiors, he created a small, closed corporation to investigate the germ that showed the potential to heal and to extend life. If harnessed, it would be of immeasurable value. Who wouldn’t give everything they owned to conquer cancer, AIDS, even old age itself?

But the so-called Eden Plague had a flaw – at least, from Jenkins’ point of view. Not only did it heal the body, but the brain and even mind as well. Test subjects changed for the better; their morality tended to improve as a so-called “virtue effect” took hold. Were the virus to be distributed, crime, drug addiction, selfishness and misuse of power would drop precipitously, and for those like Jenkins, this was a drawback they could not stomach. If corruption was stamped out, so would his unchecked exercise of power over his fellow man.

Additionally, because the agent of change was a communicable disease, it could not be controlled. Easily transferred from person to person, in its present form it was useless for his selfish purposes. The virus had to be modified – “perfected” – to get rid of this virtue effect, and also its easy transmissibility. Only when it could be controlled, withheld for the elite who could pay, and held out like a carrot to the hoi polloi, would it be publicized.

Then the world would beat a path to his doorstep, cash in hand.

The elder Jenkins’ major mistake? Bringing in his son and namesake to manage the corporation. When Jervis A. Jenkins IV botched his attempt to recruit Air Force combat lifesaver Daniel Markis into the program, he set off a chain of events culminating in the Eden Plague spreading throughout the world.

But just like Jenkins, the national power structures, especially the people at the top, were not ready to allow such a revolution in their societies. The U.S. tried to burn the virus out with nuclear weapons on its own soil and that of others who could not retaliate, as did the Russians and the Chinese. Especially in these three superpowers, Eden Plague carriers, or “Sickos” as they were labeled, were hunted down, rounded up, locked away – or worse.

Chapter One

Aboard Royal Princes Cruise Line’s Royal Neptune

Sergeant Jill “Reaper” Repeth, US Marine Corps, started the day as she always did, with a protein shake and one hundred pull-ups on a tension bar she had brought aboard and set up in the doorway of her room’s balcony. Facing out to sea looking over the railing, her head and shoulders rose and fell, eyes on the horizon. Her lungs expanded, pumping the fresh sea air in and out.

It is great to be alive, she told herself, one of a series of mantras of encouragement. Twenty-five and still alive. Every day above ground is a good day. Every day I am not being shot at is a good day. She believed these things more today than on some other days.

Jill Repeth was a One Percenter. Most Marines didn’t know about them, because most Marines weren’t female. Only a small fraction of the Corps was composed of women, because unlike the other services, the Marines didn’t bend its physical standards very much to admit them. Measure up or leave.

But the One Percent was an unofficial secret club of female Marines that strove to outperform the men – that could, would and did beat them at their own game. Marathoners, triathletes, gymnasts, distance swimmers, biathletes. Thus One Percent, because perhaps one in a hundred already fit Marine women could do it – could perform at this Olympic level of physical prowess.

The cruise line had given her a private room on a middle-high deck, something she would have struggled to afford if she hadn’t been selected through their “Wounded Warriors” promotion that provided free cruises to the nation’s war-damaged service members. Jill was glad of that privacy as she finished the hundred, hardly more winded at the end than at the start. Taking that as a good sign, she knocked out another fifty before stopping.

That was more than she’d ever done before at a stretch. Perhaps it was because she had an advantage over the average Marine, male or female; she weighed at least twenty pounds lighter than normal. Missing everything below both knees put less strain on the cardiovascular system. Absent lower legs didn’t need blood and oxygen.

Stay positive, stay focused. Ever since the mortar shell that took her feet and shins, that’s what she told herself.

Dropping gently to the deck onto her buttocks, she maneuvered with wiry-muscled arms and leg stumps over to her prostheses. Sitting on the floor, she strapped them on, fiddling and adjusting for a longer span than usual. She finally got them to some semblance of stability, and wobbled to her artificial feet.

Jill stared down at the legs and the metal-and-plastic structures. They didn’t feel right. Her good mood evaporated. Some days the damn things just didn’t sit well on her, and it looked like this would be one. She wasn’t even going to turn on the microprocessor control and servos that helped her walk and run with a semblance of normalcy. She still hoped she could work up to a marathon again. Maybe with those bladerunner things.

Jill sat down on the bed and took the prostheses off, rubbing at the end of the stumps. They always itched a bit, but today they positively screamed to be scratched. She did so, vigorously, and then looked more closely at them. If she didn’t know better, she would swear that the stumps had lengthened slightly.

Maybe they were just swollen.

She shrugged to herself. Rather than fight with the artificial legs, she phoned for a wheelchair pick-up. She’d come back after breakfast and fiddle with the things. She was starving.

An hour later, after bolting down everything she could shove into her face, she returned to her room, bewildered. The ship had gone crazy, in a good way. People claiming to be cured of cancer. A blind man now seeing. A paraplegic standing up and walking. People talking about the Second Coming of Christ, seeing the Virgin Mary on their walls and their pizzas, gossiping about miracles.

Well, nobody had disappeared off the ship, so at least that ruled out the Rapture. Other people spoke of a viral video some had seen before the ship’s internet went down, where a man named Daniel Markis claimed to have released a curative disease that everyone could have.

Jill stared down at her stumps again, and wondered.

***

Jill peered out over the balcony rail. The object of her gaze was the US Navy frigate Ingraham, keeping station to windward at about two nautical miles distance. Beyond, hull up on the horizon perhaps twelve miles off floated a Landing Platform/Dock amphibious assault ship, probably the USS Somerset. It was this ship that held her frustrated attention.

She lowered herself down from her hold on the railing; she had been perched there with her hands taking all her weight. Settling into the comfortable deck chair, she picked up her small 5X optical binoculars. Jill cursed herself for not bringing her 18X electronic monsters, but she hated to carry a month’s pay around on a Caribbean cruise.

The LPD leaped into view, the angled, radar-deflecting planes of its superstructure identifying it as one of the most modern ships of the US Navy. She was familiar with the type, having served a Fleet Marine Force tour on her sister ship, the USS Arlington.

Twelve miles away. Just sitting there for the last two days.

Food aboard the cruise ship had dwindled, and was now rationed; Jill had recognized the impending problem as soon as the vessel had been detained. She had taken pains to smuggle everything that would keep back to her cabin and stash it in anticipation of making a break, but her stock would run out shortly, and there was no sign of them being allowed to land or disembark.

The announcements aboard ship had said they were quarantined because of a “dangerous disease.” That dangerous disease had apparently cured cancer, blindness, even old age among those aboard, and had started to regrow her legs. Between the official word and the Daniel Markis video, she decided she believed the latter.

Hunger became her constant companion. She didn’t know why for sure. Her caloric intake had exploded; for a triathlete like her, that was a sign something was seriously out of whack. The appetite must have something to do with the miracle disease.

She looked down at the strange pink skin down there, contrasting with the tan that ended just below her knees. The nubs couldn’t bear her weight without excruciating pain, and they wouldn’t fit her prosthetics anymore, so she had used the wheelchair service a lot. Reaching down to scratch the itchy growth, she pushed aside thoughts of why it had happened, or even how, and concentrated on what she had to do.

Night began to fall over the Atlantic. Making her final preparations, she wrote a letter to her parents in Los Angeles, leaving it addressed on the table for the steward to find. She ate as much as she could hold, and put the rest into the waterproof bag, along with her combat utility uniform, her wallet and ID, and the jury-rigged prostheses. She had ripped the expensive electronic guts out of them and she now had something that she could use, if barely. Padded with pillow-stuffing and cut-up blankets, they strapped onto her stumps and allowed her to stand, even walk gingerly, as long as she could take the pain, and look somewhat normal in her uniform.

A bottle of ibuprofen went in as well, and a few other odds and ends. Then she sealed it up and put it in her rucksack. Wet suit on next, a stylish blue and green never intended for clandestine work, but it was all she had. Then the scuba gear she had brought to use – she thought – for recreation; her combat knife; and a rucksack strapped in reverse to sit over her belly. Lastly the swim fins, reconfigured to fit her regenerating stumps.

Levering herself up to the rail, she looked out between the slats at the two ships, now visible mainly by their navigation lights. Earlier she had seen hovercraft embarking and disembarking out of the combat well at the back of the LPD. Now she could see a strobe and running lights from a helo landing on the flight deck at the rear, one of a continuous droning above and around the ships. She had seen Hornet and Lightning naval fighters high overhead earlier in the day, so there was a supercarrier out there somewhere too, running combat air patrol.

She took several deep breaths, wondering if she was making the biggest mistake of her life. Hell, there’s an old Corps saying, she thought. 'The worst plan executed quickly and violently is better than the best plan not executed at all.'

Far better to do something than to do nothing.

Facemask and regulator on, she hoisted herself up to the railing, looked at the water thirty feet below, and launched over the rail like a gymnast. Balling up, she wrapped herself around the rucksack, holding her hands to her face to shield the delicate apparatus from the impact. The sea struck her like a cold wet fist, and she fought to stay out of sight below the surface, fought to get the mouthpiece settled and clear it of water. For a moment she just floated beneath the waves, recovering her breath.

Then she began the long swim.

She navigated by lights from the ships. At first she steered by the brilliant glare of the bright cruise ship behind her, easy enough to see through the water above her head. All she had to do was keep going directly away. A half hour later, when she couldn’t see it any more, she cautiously broke the surface to get her bearings and adjust.

Her stomach already complained; she rolled over on her back and pulled a plastic coffee can out of a rucksack pocket, gulping down the cold spaghetti and meatballs packed inside, shoving it into her mouth with her fingers. It was the best she could come up with for eating on the trip; she hoped she had enough food to last. A half-liter of water followed.

The surface swim seemed interminable; even with the fins, she estimated it would take four to six hours to reach the LPD. The critical variable was the hunger, the thing she'd had to learn to live with and manage for the last few days. How often would she have to stop, how much would she have to eat – would her food and water run out? She laughed to herself at the idea of being thirsty in the ocean.

Eating every thirty minutes, she burned calories at a prodigious rate.

The answer came after three hours. Ingraham was far to her rear; she had bypassed it by a good mile, having no desire to be spotted and caught. It appeared that no one had even considered the possibility that someone would swim away from their floating prison, particularly not in the direction of their captors. But now she’d eaten the last of the food outside the waterproof bag. It looked like about an hour to the LPD. She wished she could ditch the scuba tank, but she might need it at the other end.

A half hour later her gut demanded food again, and she didn’t have anything accessible to give it. If she opened the waterproof bag, she would flood everything inside with seawater – the food and her uniform in particular. She clamped down on the discomfort, bringing the discipline of a lifetime of triathlon into play. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. No pain, no gain – no pain, no brain. Pain is a feeling, and Marines don’t get issued feelings.

Two hundred yards from the stern of the LPD, the starving wolverine in her belly cramped her up completely, curling her into a fetal ball. She ground her teeth, pushing through the pain. She put her head under water and screamed. She pounded her thigh, trying to distract her nervous system.

Looming above her, the ship showed nothing except for its navigation lights. Uncramping just enough to propel herself to the stern, she hoped that someone didn’t pick that moment to look out into the dark water and see her in the moonlight. She forced her legs to push her closer, finally rounding the corner.

The well ramp had closed.

She groaned, fighting the cramps and starvation. Pulling out a water bottle, she drank, hoping the fluid would ease the sensations. She cursed herself for not thinking of putting something with nutrition in the containers – protein shake, orange juice, anything. Milk would have been ideal. I’m such an idiot.

Lesson learned, if she lived to remember it.

The cramping eased for a moment. Looking around she found a steel rung inset into the stern. More rungs led up the side, and she measured the climb with her eyes. Fifty feet, maybe. No way would she make it, especially not with the gear. She closed her eyes for a moment, hanging on grimly. Ketosis soured her breath as her body scoured her bloodstream for something to metabolize.

Only one choice. She had to get to the food inside the waterproof bag.

Levering herself painfully up on the first rung, she sat on it and wrapped her left arm into the one above. Clinging on crudely, she forced her right hand’s cold knotted muscles to open the rucksack strapped to her belly, then the bag inside. She grabbed the first food packet she encountered. Greedily she stuffed crackers into her face. A feeling of relief and well-being spread like a drug; she could almost follow the sugars through her veins as they reached outward from her insides, quieting her screaming tissues.

A rumble went through the ship, a vibration felt rather than heard. Grinding and clanking sounds startled her, originating from somewhere very near. She hastily sealed up the waterproof bag and slipped back into the water, just in time.

Light blazed above where she had just rested, and she slipped the scuba regulator back in her mouth, breathing on tank air. The great dark slab of the well ramp laid itself rapidly down onto the surface of the water nearby, forming a smooth transition for hovercraft inside to leave the ship.

A moment later an enormous dark shape swept by just feet from her, an LCAC hovercraft shoving her downward with tremendous force, spinning her like the undertow at a riptide beach. As quickly as it had come, it was gone, off into the Atlantic night, and the ramp began to rise again.

This was her only chance. Her legs pumped, driving the fins against the sea with all of her strength, aiming for the joint at the base of the ramp, from the side. There was no time to worry about being spotted; she had to get out of the water and on board.

She rolled over the enormous hinge and into the wet well. There was only three feet of water inside, and as soon as the ramp closed it would drain. She swam sidestroke in the shallow water, pushing herself up against the side rail, and then wormed her way forward. She was still hidden by the sea water, the dimness and the looming machines, but soon she might have nowhere to hide.

It’s good to be good, but sometimes it’s better to be lucky. She got lucky.

The only person in sight was a sailor sneaking a smoke, facing into the corner opposite her across the vast open space. Parked vehicles hid her exit from the water, and the noise of the starting pumps covered any sound she made as she dragged herself up the access ramp. She climbed onto a ladder – nautical terminology for any stairway aboard ship – and upward into one of the compartments tucked up along the walls. Once out of sight, she just breathed for a few minutes, resting after her ordeal.

Dry and safe enough, she ate her fill, stripped off the wet suit, and changed into her uniform. On a ship this size, one more Marine would be almost anonymous. The trick would be when to make herself known, and to whom.

This was as far as her planning had carried her.

Her MOS, Military Operational Specialty – until she lost the legs – was 5816-3RT, Military Police Special Reaction Team member, similar to civilian SWAT. The problem with such a small specialty was that her circle of contacts was limited. 3RT people tended to keep to themselves. She hoped to either find someone on this ship’s 3RT she knew, or just depend on the tight-knit community to shelter her in the face of her unlawful actions. Still, there were some violations that could be ignored by the loyalties and traditions of the service; she hoped that unofficially rejoining a deployed unit would qualify.

She slipped the prostheses on last, grimacing as she strapped them tight. Another four pain pills and a gulp of water, and she was on her feet. She stowed her gear behind a stack of firefighting equipment and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

Down into the enormous ship she tottered, holding onto railings and moving slowly. Sweat broke out on her brow, and she fended off two concerned inquiries with explanations of recovering from food poisoning. She didn’t like the way the people looked at her; she had chosen that illness as an explanation precisely because it was neither unusual nor contagious.

These people seemed on edge. She realized the crew must have been told the same lies about a deadly disease aboard the cruise ship, and they were jittery. Maybe going to the 3RT wasn’t the best choice. She suddenly realized whom she might be able to trust – by law, custom and regulation.

Five minutes later she was leaning against the chaplain’s door. She hoped he would be a calm, sensible sort that could keep his mouth shut. If she were lucky, she would get a Catholic priest. Priests had reputations for keeping confidences, and closing ranks. For this, she needed someone unshakeable.

The door opened to show a pleasant, pink, thirtyish face attached to a short, chubby body with dirty blonde, collar-length hair. She stared at the Navy Lieutenant’s bars on the right lapel of the woman’s combat cammies, and the cross on the left, disoriented by preconceptions. Her name tag read "Forman."

“Can I help you?” Lieutenant Forman’s accent exuded culture: New England – Boston perhaps, or Maine. It reminded Jill strongly of Katherine Hepburn, before the quaver, or maybe a Kennedy.

“Yes, ma’am. Permission to enter?”

“Of course, Sergeant.” The chaplain stepped back, then closed the hatch behind Repeth as she gingerly tottered in. “Please, sit. Are you ill?”

Jill sat. “No, my prostheses are giving me a bit of trouble.” She reached down to thump on her boots, bringing forth a decidedly artificial sound.

“Ah. Well, here we are. Coffee? Tea? Soda, or some juice?” She gestured at a compact coffee maker that sat upon an equally tiny refrigerator. “Privileges of the ministry.”

“Juice would be great, and if you happen to have anything to eat…I missed chow.”

Forman slid a tin of shortbread cookies off a shelf near her feet, opening it and setting it on the desk within reach, then pulled out a cold can of orange juice for Jill, a coffee cup for herself.

“You have the look of someone with a lot on her mind.”

Jill stuffed two cookies into her mouth, drank the juice in one pull. She gazed at Forman from under lowered eyebrows. “You don’t know the tenth of it. But before I go on…how confidential is this conversation?”

“As confidential as you want it to be.”

“And what if I told you I had done something unlawful? Would you stick to that?”

Forman sat back, blowing on her hot coffee, contemplating. “Are we talking capital crimes here?” She smiled, obviously only half joking.

Jill stared, intent. “I don’t think so. Mostly just Article 92.”

“Failure to obey a lawful order. I can tell you then with ironclad certainty that my lips are sealed.” She took a drink of her coffee, made a face. “It’s this ship’s water. I ran out of bottled a while back.”

Repeth took a deep breath. “All right. I choose to trust you.” A pause. “I am not assigned to this ship.”

Forman’s eyebrows flew up in surprise, and she sat forward, putting her chin on her fist. “Really? That’s a new one, not that my military career is particularly long or distinguished. Do tell.” Her eyes sparked with the cheeky joy of shared secrets.

Jill shook her head angrily. “Ma’am…six hours ago I was looking at this LPD from the railing of that cruise ship you have under quarantine. I just swam twelve miles, I’m hungry, and I’m not in the mood for girl talk. And there is no disease aboard that ship. At least, nothing…nothing bad.”

Forman opened her hand to drum her fingers on her own cheek, staring into Jill’s eyes, as if seeking truth. “Dear me. Dear me. Sergeant, I never thought to say this, but I am at a loss. What do you want me to do?”

“Ma’am...I haven’t a clue. But I’m exhausted. I need food and rest, and I’m holding my head up by sheer willpower. Is there somewhere…”

“On a ship? We both know that every space is spoken for. You might be able to join the crew as a transfer in and get away with it for a few days…”

“Just let me eat and sleep, then I’ll be able to think straight. Please?”

Forman pondered for a moment. “Take my cabin.” She gestured to a door in the back of the tiny office. “No one will disturb you. I can sleep in my chair if need be. I’ll go get some food to go from the mess.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Jill stumbled to the cabin’s bunk, falling asleep as her head hit the pillow.

The wolverine in her guts woke her up. Faint light from the open office door illuminated food cartons next to the bunk. She wolfed down their contents – sandwiches, fruit, potato chips, milk – then rolled over and went back to sleep.

A long black time later, a giant club struck the ship like a gong, throwing Jill out of her bunk and onto the deck. She yelped as the impact twisted her wrist, then again as she put her weight on the prostheses. She gave up and went back to one hand and two knees, crawling along the heaving deck to the doorway.

Chaplain Forman sat on the deck as well, holding her head. She would have a nasty shiner soon, above her right eye. The two women stared at each other, and then Forman clawed her way to her seat behind the desk as the PA came to life.

“Now hear this, now hear this. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands General Quarters. Condition Zebra.” They felt the ship get under weigh, the sound of the screws churning at flank speed, maximum revolutions.

“I have to go to my station in the infirmary. You stay here!” Forman pointed severely at Repeth with an emphasizing finger.

An hour of sweat later the chaplain returned, teeth clenched. “The scuttlebutt is your cruise ship just exploded. Lost with all souls. One of the corpsmen said they saw streaks of light from the sky, then it just vanished in a fireball. Someone should be court-martialed. The Ingraham was a lot closer than we were, and has been gravely damaged. Their wounded are being medevacked to us. I have to get right back.”

“You know what this means, don’t you, ma’am?”

“It means the US government just murdered three thousand innocent people because they thought they were sick. They must have been extremely frightened to do something like that. Though perhaps they have a right to be. Terrorists just detonated two nuclear weapons on US soil: one in Los Angeles, another in West Virginia.”

Sergeant Repeth gaped in shock. “Nukes? Los Angeles? What the hell is going on? Just what…” She trailed off, stunned.

“Something rotten in the state of Denmark, methinks. I have to go.”

Jill just raised a shaky palm as Forman left, not looking. She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, damning her leaking tear ducts. Los Angeles. Her whole family was in Los Angeles, her parents and her little brother and uncles and cousins...

She waited as long as she could, until the ship secured from General Quarters and the watertight doors and hatches were allowed open and the ship slowed; they must have gotten word they were not under attack after all. She wondered why the two naval ships had not been told to move away before they sank the cruise ship.

Her first concern was more information. She also needed more food, and to move the illicit gear she'd stashed back in the compartment. Angrily she shook her head, throwing the tears off, wiping her eyes with her sleeves. She stood up, gritting her teeth against the pain, and strode out into the passageway.

The ship blurred busy around her, sailors and Marines scurrying about with extreme sense of purpose. The amphibious well filled with people checking landing craft and gear, loading armored vehicles aboard the huge hovercraft, chaining them down to hardpoints on the decks. She saw live ammunition being hoisted into the tanks and personnel carriers.

The commotion hid her, just one uniform among hundreds, hurrying about a task. She climbed the ladder to the compartment where she'd hid her gear, using mostly her upper body strength, and then struggled back down with the rucksack, everything stuffed inside it.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.” He was smiling, handsome, cheerful and dark. She saw Staff Sergeant’s stripes, and “Gaona” printed on his name tag.

“No, I got it.” She grimly struggled on.

“Come on, Sergeant. You know, chivalry isn’t really dead.”

“With all due respect, Staff Sergeant, you can stow that shit where the sun don’t shine. I pull my weight.” At that moment, the jury-rigged prosthesis on her left leg failed her, twisting sideways under the pressure of walking down the ladder steps. She would have fallen had he not caught her, setting her gently on the deck, along with her rucksack.

He looked at her lower leg, then her face, then back again. “You should be screaming about now, so I’m going to guess that’s not your real leg. I mean, that’s…” Confusion showed on his visage.

She bit back her embarrassment to growl, “It’s a prosthesis. I need to re-secure it. Just help me get out of everyone’s way.”

Accepting his support, she hobbled a few yards on one leg to a spot against the bulkhead. Once there she pulled up her trouser cuffs and began redoing the bindings. “Thanks, Staff Sergeant. But you don’t have to do any more. I’m good.”

Pursing his lips he nodded, then shrugged as he pointedly read her name tag. “Okay, Sergeant Repeth. I’ll see you around.” His tone was playful.

She watched him walk away. Just as good-looking from this angle, and he knows it. Oh, Jill, give it a rest; not the time for the libido to act up. Funny, she’d been feeling friskier the last few days. Maybe it was from the…the whatever-it-was that was fixing her legs.

Boot and straps again secure, she stood back up and hefted the rucksack down the passageway toward the chaplain’s berth. After dropping that off, she made her way to the nearest mess. The galley crew was in full swing, and she loaded up on everything she could, demolished the whole tray, then did it again. She didn’t think she could get away with a third; one of the mess ratings had looked at her strangely the second time through. Fortified, she stumped down the passageways to the other enlisted mess and went through the line there too.

This time she could eat slowly enough to listen to the scuttlebutt. She chose a spot close to a group of sailors in uniforms somewhat crisper than average. She thought they were part of the CIC, the Combat Information Center, nerve center for operations aboard. Maybe they would know what was going on.

“The Old Man said it was a kinetic strike.”

“Kinetic strike of what?”

“Inert reentry vehicles. Like nukes but just made of metal.”

“No way that could have blasted that cruise ship like it did.”

“Dude, those things come in at fifteen thousand miles an hour. Mach 20. I ran the energy on my computer – it’s way enough. Like manmade meteors. I’m surprised it didn’t take Ingy with it.”

“It almost did, from what I hear. Two dozen dead and fifty wounded.”

“Somebody screwed up bad. They should have had her move away.”

“If they wanted it gone, why didn’t they just have us do it? With a missile or the guns or something?”

“Dunno, man, dunno. Maybe all them civilians on board. Glad I didn’t have to push that button.”

“Oh, yeah. That would suck. So where we going now?”

The sailors all stared at the questioner, a young junior enlisted rating, but no one spoke. Security prohibited talking about operational details, such as their destination, outside of secure spaces.

“Sorry.”

“That’s what I always tell them you are.”

“What?”

“You’re sorry.” The sailors laughed.

Jill finished her third tray and sidled away before they noticed her eavesdropping. Replete at last, she went back and got a to-go carton for later.

When she slipped into Chaplain Forman’s office she found the older woman staring at her shipnet computer screen. “Come here,” the lieutenant said. She pointed at an open e-mail.

“All hands, pass this message. Sergeant Repeth report immediately to the Personnel Support Detachment.”

“Someone must have noticed you weren’t on the manifest.”

Jill growled. “Gaona.”

Forman looked a question.

“Just a nice guy that tried to help. Probably tried to look me up at Personnel and found out I wasn’t in the system. Now they’re trying to find me. There goes my anonymity. F– umm, freaking do-gooders. Sorry, ma’am.”

“I’ve heard salty language before, Sergeant. I’m sure Jesus did too.”

“Yeah, lots of people talking about Jesus on that cruise ship. Didn’t do them any good…ma’am, I need to get off this ship. I need to get to somewhere that I can plausibly rejoin from – I can say I missed reboarding – that I got drunk and got left behind in the Bahamas or something. Do you know where we’re headed?”

“Yes, and I think I know how to get you off the ship. We’re going to Norfolk to transfer the injured ashore on to Bethesda. That’s how you’ll go – as combat wounded.”

Jill looked at her doubtfully. “That seems pretty iffy. I don’t have any fresh wounds.”

“You’ll have a concussion. Disorientation, you can’t think straight. It will be the perfect cover. And I’ll attend the wounded. Nothing more natural. I’ll make sure you get left alone. Then, at Bethesda, you’ll disappear in the shuffle.”

“Ma’am…that sounds like it will work. Can I say, you’re the most…unusual chaplain I’ve ever run across?”

“Why, are most of them you have met cowards?”

“No, just more sticklers for the rules, I guess.”

“I never much liked rules. I didn’t like my father’s rules,” – she pronounced it ‘fahtha,’ the New England Brahmin coming out strongly through clenched teeth – “so I married a Navy man. After a while I found I didn’t like my husband’s rules much either – or his skirt-chasing – though I did keep his name after the divorce. Better than ‘Jenkins,’ and a bit less conspicuous. But then I found God, or perhaps God found me, and I decided to go to seminary, to be a chaplain. I still didn’t much like rules, so I made sure the only ones I respected were really His, not the ones that mankind had tacked on to the religion.”

“That…that makes a whole lot of sense, ma’am.”

“I’m glad you approve,” she said drily. “If we’re going to be co-conspirators, you might as well call me Christine.”

Sergeant Repeth squirmed. “Ah…I’m not really comfortable with that, ma’am.”

Forman’s tone turned ironic. “God forbid I trespass on the sanctity of Marine Corps sensibilities. Suit yourself. Just remember, I’m not a line officer, I’m a Navy chaplain. You’re permitted.”

“All right…Christine. Thank you.”

“You can thank me when you’re ashore and gone.”

“Ma’am…Christine, can you see if you can check on my family? They are in L.A…I’d like to know if they’re…how they are.”

The chaplain looked at Sergeant Repeth and swallowed a lump. “Sure, Jill. Just as soon as I can.”

Repeth sat back, some of the knot of worry finally unraveling. Like any good Marine, she hated being without a plan. Now she had one, or at least, half a one. After she got back to where she belonged…her mind shied away from the future. Some part of it knew she wouldn’t like it when it arrived.

The next morning Forman dropped a sack on Jill’s bunk, waking her up. “Sit up. We need to give you a good wrap and disguise.” She opened the bag, pulling out gauze, bandages and a soft neck brace. Soon, Repeth was swaddled in enough of the material to hide her identity, save the last part across her eyes.

“Did you find anything out about my family?”

“Jill, I’m sorry. Communications are swamped. There are half a million people dead in LA, and the authorities there are way behind the power curve. Here, eat this. It might be a while before I can feed you again.” The chaplain handed her a carton full of scrambled eggs, sausages and biscuits. While Jill was eating, Forman dumped the Marine’s rucksack and started making two piles. “You can’t get caught with anything incriminating. That means the scuba gear and anything with your name on it except your neck wallet. Shove that down your panties and tell anyone that asks you lost it in the attack, until you get clear. Where were you stationed, anyway?”

“Quantico.”

“Good, that’s just down the road from Bethesda. I assume that if you make it home you have uniforms and other gear?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Let’s go, get those prostheses on.” The chaplain started to help, then stopped as she looked at the exposed stumps. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was new skin. Right there at the tan line. That’s very strange.”

Repeth licked her lips. “Uh…I didn’t tell you everything, because…because I’m not sure I even believe it myself.” She cleared her throat. “I think it is new skin. New skin and more, new everything. I think my legs are, uh, regrowing themselves.”

Christine sat down suddenly, reaching out a hand to gently touch the baby-pink nub. “That’s…that’s amazing. Miraculous.”

“Yes. I think it’s why they killed all those people. There were things like this happening all over the cruise ship. Blind people that could see. People with terminal cancer cured overnight. A paraplegic got up out of his wheelchair. And this. I guess regrowing – regeneration – takes a bit longer, but I think in a few months I’ll have new feet.” The younger woman’s eyes were pleading, begging the chaplain to let her have a chance at being a whole Marine and a whole person again.

“And that’s what they are trying to cover up. But why? You aren’t some kind of monster.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a secret worth killing for. It’s going to take smarter people than me to figure that out. I just know that I don’t want to be locked up in some lab.”

“You won’t be if I can help it. We stick to the plan. This doesn’t change anything. In fact I’m more sure now than I was before. Something big and rotten is going on, and I’m going to find out what. And fight it. My family is wealthy, and has contacts. Maybe it’s time to use them.” The chaplain looked very determined.

They heard an announcement over the PA, calling for the patients to be prepped for medical air transportation to Bethesda National Military Medical Center. Hurriedly strapping Repeth’s prosthetics on, they walked carefully through the passageways to the auxiliary infirmary that had been set up in one of the cleared cargo holds. Ratings stepped out of the way as they saw the chaplain and the walking wounded Marine. The two slipped in among the hustle and bustle of the doctors, nurses and corpsmen, and got Jill horizontal on a cot as quickly as possible.

Forman fended off several helpful medical professionals, insisting this one was fine, just combat stress and a lingering concussion. When asked for her name, she said, “Jane Doe. No ID, no dog tags, no memory. Bethesda can take her fingerprints and DNA and look her up in the system.”

Everyone was too busy prepping the patients to pursue it further.

Several six-man teams of Marines carried patients to the cargo lifts, then up to the flight deck to be loaded onto MV-22 Osprey tilt-rotors. Lieutenant Forman sweated and watched as they worked their way toward her and Sergeant Repeth, finally surrounding the cot and reaching for the lift points.

One man stopped short. “Hey, this is Sergeant Repeth, the one they were looking for.”

Forman saw the man’s name tag read “Gaona.” Thanks, Murphy. Mind racing, she whipped him with her raised voice. “That’s right, Staff Sergeant. She’s concussed, she’s suffering from combat stress, and she’s in no condition to be bothered with you like last time. Now take charge of your detail and put your hands on that cot and lift, damn you, one, two, three, lift, and march your asses up to that aircraft or by God I will have your stripes – and you too, Corporal, don’t think I won’t, you men ought to be ashamed of yourselves, I should file charges for sexual harassment, for abuse under cover of authority. I thought Marines had more discipline than to be sniffing around a wounded female like horny butt-monkeys looking to hump everything in sight – h’ut, two, t’ree, fower, keep your eyes front you stinking pus-poxed son of a guttersnipe streetwalker or I swear I will have you locked up at attention in front of the Sergeant Major and he won’t be anywhere near as nice as I am…”

She hardly took a breath as she vented her bile in a running monologue, channeling her drill instructors and her abusive ex-husband and her lacrosse coach and that DI in Full Metal Jacket, calculated to stun and overwhelm the men until they loaded Repeth aboard the humming Osprey VTOL transport. Forman followed Jill onto the aircraft, where her blazing eyes dared anyone to interfere with her patient.

***

The transport team was sweating and only too happy to get away from the most cross-grained and viper-tongued minister of the Lord they had ever encountered.

“What the hell was that all about?” muttered one Marine once they were out of earshot.

“Must be a lesbian thing,” said another nervously.

Staff Sergeant Gaona coughed, then spoke in a stentorian voice. “Belay that, Edwards. This is the new Corps. Embrace the rainbow.”

After a distinct pause, all six of them burst into gasping, raucous, relieved laughter. When they could breathe again, they headed down to pick up another patient. The corporal said, “Remember, Staff Sergeant, that Chaplain'll be coming back eventually.”

“Oh, shit. And she knows my name.”

***

On the Osprey, Forman strapped Jill in – Navy chaplains afloat were trained in as many medical-assistance tasks as possible – and shook with relief when the aircraft finally lifted. She bowed her head and said a heartfelt prayer of thanks, certain now that Jill would get away. She resolved to have a little talk with one Staff Sergeant Gaona when she returned to the ship.

Bending down, she spoke directly into Jill’s ear. “Take this,” she said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “Memorize it if you can, then get rid of it. It’s an anonymous email drop I set up when I was going through my divorce, so I could communicate with my lawyer without my husband snooping. If you avoid any distinctive keywords, you should be able to contact me through it without the NSA picking it up. Only use it if you have to.”

Jill nodded, opening it up to commit it to memory. When they landed, she handed it back to Christine with a confident nod.

Chapter Two

National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland.

Inside the female head – what the Army would call a latrine – Jill pulled her eight-point cap from her cargo pocket and her neck wallet from her panties. Looping the packet of ID, money and cards back over her head, she then shrugged on the utility tunic she’d swiped from a wounded fellow Marine’s ruck. “Raznowski” read the name tag, with a corporal’s insignia. A little big, but it would have to do.

That was probably the worst thing about this whole exercise – to steal, even if she thought it necessary. She consoled herself with the belief that it should be reported lost or damaged in transit and replaced by the Corps.

After strapping her prostheses up tight again, she stepped out of the stall and washed her face and hands, checking her appearance. Good enough for a cursory glance, and one more Marine in a military hospital was likely to go unnoticed. Sliding out into the hallway, she turned and walked quickly for the stairs.

Eight floors later she wobbled to the bottom on her false legs. She’d done the last four flights parallel-bars style, with her hands on the rails, pausing as others walked by, nodding and smiling and hoping they did not inquire too closely.

After tightening the bindings up again, Jill opened the door to the lobby. It bustled with people, with the smells of the coffee kiosk in the corner and fresh bread from the sub sandwich franchise along the wall. It was all she could do to ignore her increasing hunger and not get in the line for a foot-long, but there was no telling how soon they might start looking for her. After an internal struggle, she simply walked out.

The first and most important order of business was to get lost, so she stumped carefully over to a waiting base shuttle bus and got on, not caring where it went. There had to be something to eat somewhere.

The bus made several stops on the base, then drove out the gate. She could see Humvees with M2 .50 calibers mounted, guarding the entrances, and long lines of vehicles waiting to get in. Fortunately, they did not seem to be checking the outgoing vehicles – yet. Though martial law and a state of national emergency had been declared just days ago, the national capital region was still sorting itself out.

Traffic felt light outside the installation, even in the middle of a weekday, and there seemed to be a cop or an MP vehicle parked at every intersection. Jill wondered what they thought they were securing against – more “terrorism,” presumably.

Given that she had witnessed the deliberate murder of three thousand people on the cruise ship, she wondered about the nukes in West Virginia and Los Angeles, and the lengths people in her own government would go to control secrets.

Thinking of LA brought another wave of grief and fear for her family. She’d grown up on some tough streets, been part of a gang until she’d joined the Corps. With her mixed-Latina looks, she’d never quite fit anywhere – until the Marines taught her what it meant to be a warrior, and serve something greater than herself.

Though there were at least fifteen million people in the greater Los Angeles area, and perhaps only – only! – half a million casualties from the nuclear detonation, she couldn’t shake the terror that almost everyone she loved in this world might be dead.

Maybe they are all right. She kept telling herself that.

Jill resolved to try to call them as soon as possible, then discarded the notion. From what she’d heard, on the television in the ward and the radio on the bus, anyone showing “unusual medical symptoms” was being detained and quarantined. A call to her family might lead back to her or, more importantly, throw suspicion onto them. As a military police member, she knew the security mentality well; anyone associated with a suspect was automatically under suspicion.

No, she’d not make that call. Better to have them believe she’d died on the cruise ship. Maybe Gaona’s inquiry and the records associated with it would get buried under an avalanche of more important things for the overstretched military to do.

The bus she rode pulled up with a squeal of air brakes and she looked up from her musings to see a Metro station. Getting off, she settled her cap on her head and looked around, searching for any sign of something to eat.

A burger place beckoned at the end of the block, but her stumps were already screaming inside her badly-fitted prostheses. She looked longingly toward the fast food, then thought about the long ride home to Quantico. Her healing body wanted food every hour, needed it really – with this thing that was going on inside her.

“Can I help you, Corporal?” a voice at her elbow asked. Jill turned to see a tall, staggeringly handsome Army captain, in neat utility uniform with a holstered sidearm. He glanced at her chest, but she was used to that in uniform – that’s where her military name tag resided. His read “Muzik.”

It certainly isn’t my huge rack, she chuckled to herself, not with a triathlete’s low body fat. She saluted sharply, and he returned it automatically, raising his eyebrows expectantly. God, he’s gorgeous.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Have to take a chance here. She reached down to thump on her artificial right leg, then the left. “Just got released and haven’t totally got the hang of them yet.”

His brow furrowed with sympathy. “That sucks. IED?”

“Mortar round. Iraq.”

“I thought we were pretty much out of there?”

“I’m an MP, and we’re still helping with their police. ‘Troop withdrawal’ doesn’t include trainers. Those poor local schmucks get it from all sides. Glad to be home.” The truth came much more easily than any lies, and Jill found herself glad to talk with someone.

“So…again, can I help you?” The sun returned to his face.

“Sir, I hate to be coddled, but what I really need right now is food, and the end of the block looks a long damn ways away.” She pointed at the burger place.

Captain Muzik laughed. “Well, Corporal Raznowski, I can’t leave my post, but we got MREs in the Humvee.” He gestured at a nearby armored utility vehicle with double whip antennas and a 40mm grenade launcher in a cupola, manned by a nervous-looking private.

Jill smiled with relief. “Deal. Mind if I sit down in it while I eat?”

“Of course. You make it?”

“I made it fifty yards to cover crawling with my feet blown off. I reckon I can make it ten on these pins.” She stepped over to the Humvee and pulled one back door open, resting her butt on the seat without swinging her legs in. Soon she chowed down on twelve hundred calories of Uncle Sam’s finest field food – Meals, Ready to Eat, also known as Meals Rejected by Ethiopians. She found they really weren’t that bad when the body believed it was starving.

“So Captain,” Jill asked between bites, “tell me the latest.” That seemed a safe enough question.

“Hmm well, nobody really knows anything. The two nukes got everyone spooked and there’s a lot of people getting detained. It’s a good time to be in uniform; at least we’re more or less above suspicion.” Muzik peered at her from under his cap with a mock-severe expression. “You’re not a Sicko, are you?”

“A what?”

“You know. Infected. Someone with the Plague.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling the bastards now?” Jill tried to convey the right sense of black humor. “Do I look sick? You wanna see my stumps?”

“No, that’s okay. To tell you the truth, I don’t know I could even tell if someone was. Hear a lotta rumors about what it is, like…like people turning into hippie peaceniks or pod people. Doesn’t sound like any Marine I ever knew.”

“Right.” Jill casually plucked another MRE out of the box on the Humvee floor and slid it into her cargo pocket, the door hiding her motion from Muzik. It won’t be long before this hunger will be a symptom they’re looking for, she thought. Best not to be too obvious. “Well sir, thanks very much but I gotta be going.” Standing up, she saluted once more.

Captain Muzik returned the courtesy, saying, “Good luck, Corporal.”

“Cap’n,” the 40mm gunner abruptly broke in from above, “something’s up.”

Muzik and Repeth turned to look in the direction the private pointed. Around a corner two blocks away came a procession of hundreds of people, perhaps thousands, yelling something and waving signs with anti-government, anti-martial-law slogans. Some pumped fists, and some carried sticks with no signs attached. More kept coming toward them, and some outliers, mostly young men, jumped on cars or kicked over garbage cans.

All the uniforms nearby, whether military or cops, nervously checked their weapons, and moved instinctively out of the mob’s path. “Everyone keep calm,” Captain Muzik called to his troops in a ringing voice. “As long as they are peaceful, do not fire.”

“They don’t look peaceful, sir,” Repeth said as several youths smashed a parked car’s windshield.

“I’m not going to shoot people for a little property damage, Corporal,” Muzik said in a cold voice. “You’d better get inside the Humvee. Lock the doors.”

It stuck in her craw to have to be protected, but she knew he was right. With her legs the way they were, and no weapon, there wasn’t much she could do. She wasn’t sure she could shoot American civilians anyway, unless they were trying to kill someone.

They’re just scared, she told herself. Like me.

“Get on the radio,” Muzik said to her when she had climbed in. “The CEOI is right there with callsigns and frequencies. Tell Battalion what’s happening and we need riot control squads.”

“Roger,” Repeth responded flatly, reaching for the radio handset.

“What?” Captain Muzik shot her an annoyed glance.

“Yes, sir, I got it.” But what’s got him? she wondered.

Repeth saw Muzik shut the armored door and move to the other side of the vehicle, putting it between himself and the mob that had overturned a pick-up truck and now chanted rhythmically, “Kill-the-cops. Kill-the-cops.”

Uh-oh. She tried to reach the next higher headquarters on the frequency listed, but all she could hear was chaos on the nets. She got a brief response, she thought, before someone else stepped on her transmission.

She popped the door on the safer side open enough to yell, “I can’t reach anyone, and it sounds like there are riots breaking out all over. Battalion is swamped.”

“Crap,” Muzik responded, then said louder, “Dammit!” The mob had turned toward them. He drew his sidearm. “Lock the vehicle!”

Repeth immediately did so, checking all the doors and looking up at the private standing in the 40mm cupola. “Better unbuckle, kid. You don’t want to be lashed into position if they roll this vehicle.”

“Hell with that,” he muttered, sweat streaming down his bone-white face. “Hell with that!” he repeated, and without orders, opened fire with his grenade launcher.

“Shit!” Repeth yelled as the weapon’s loud stuttering filled the compartment. “Cease fire, cease fire,” she ordered, hammering with her fist on the man’s leg. He paid no attention, but continued to rake the mob with 40mm grenades.

The first shells did not detonate. Launcher grenades require approximately thirty meters of flight before arming, and the soldier was firing at people closer than that. The heavy cylinders slammed into people, breaking bones and knocking them down, but none exploded.

At first.

Then one lucky shot missed hitting anything or anyone, striking the street sixty meters away, right in the center of the crowd. To Repeth’s surprise, it burst into a cloud of white mist, and the rioters nearby coughed and covered their mouths and noses, eyes and sinuses streaming.

Tear gas. Thank God. I thought he was firing explosive rounds. Other grenades popped, and soon the entire area filled with acrid fumes. Her eyes stung, and she grabbed a protective mask on the seat next to her, putting it on in well under the requisite nine seconds.

It did not matter that the shots were not lethal. Like a living being with one angry mind, the mob gave an inarticulate scream and turned from rioting to killing rage.

Men surrounded the Humvee, and climbed up to beat the struggling, screaming soldier on his perch behind the grenade launcher. Blood spattered into the interior. Repeth could see sticks, rocks and even a machete chopping, chopping.

Grabbing the gunner’s assault rifle racked below, she aimed and fired upward, shooting for arms and legs, trying to drive the mob off the soldier before they killed him. Only when his severed head fell into the interior did she stop. They couldn’t get past his harnessed body to reach her, and the three or four she shot deterred the others for a moment.

Instead she felt the Humvee rocking as the mob sought to overturn it, but the squat, heavy vehicle resisted their efforts at first. If they got coordinated and all on one side, though, they would succeed.

Shots rang out from the direction of the metro station where Muzik and his troops had fallen back, but she heard none of the full automatic that would indicate anyone had blown it like the gunner. From what she could see, the cops and soldiers had taken cover, only firing if the mob threatened them directly. She felt a brief flash of pride at their discipline, amazed that only one young troop had lost his head.

That had been enough, though. The Humvee now bounced like a low-rider on hydraulics, and she knew that if it went over, they would drag her out and butcher her. She would be forced to shoot to kill to try to save her own life, and the thought nauseated her.

That’s odd: killing those trying to kill me never bothered me before.

Then Repeth had no more time to think as she scrambled into the driver’s seat and punched the starter. Given options among death, shooting to kill, or driving, she chose the last. Putting the truck into four-wheel-drive, she goosed the diesel engine, lurching a foot or two forward. Then she did it again, trying to give the mob a chance to back off.

Instead, this seemed to increase their rage. A miasma of blood and death and cordite rode the air, and faces and fists plastered themselves against the bulletproof windshield. Hate-filled screaming washed over her, causing terror to shoot through her different from any fear she had felt in war.

There seemed to be no choice. She floored it.

Bodies crunched and cries turned from rage to fright as she powered across a carpet of human flesh. It lasted only a moment, then she was clear of the press, trying to avoid running down any more civilians.

She saw a uniformed cop being dragged from her shattered vehicle and changed her mind, deliberately slamming the two rioters aside by opening the driver’s side door as she drove into them. “Get in!” she screamed hoarsely at the policewoman through the mask, then cursed as she forgot she had locked the other doors tight against the mob. “Crawl across me!”

The cop did just that, throwing herself in and clawing across Repeth’s lap with reckless abandon. As soon as she could, the Marine clamped the door shut and floored it again, racing between burning vehicles and groups of rioters.

“Holy shit, is that someone’s head?” the woman squeaked, looking down at the floorboards where the thing had fallen.

“Yes, and that’s what these people will do to us if we don’t get out of here,” Repeth replied.

“Turn right at this next intersection. There’s a fire station…there.”

Repeth turned, powering across the corner lawn to pull up next to the front door of the firehouse. Off the main drag there seemed fewer people, though smoke and a sense of impending doom filled the air. The door opened and two burly firemen with axes and helmets stepped warily out.

Repeth pulled off the mask. “Go on, I have to get back to my unit,” she lied, and the cop nodded.

“Thanks, Miss, you saved my life,” she replied.

“Just one cop to another, officer.”

The woman hopped out and was quickly whisked into the safety of the station. Repeth roared away, then pulled over on a side street. Taking a deep breath, she ran her hands through her hair and rubbed her eyes, feeling the residual sting of the tear gas. What the hell am I going to do? The world is going mad, and this is just going to cause them to clamp down more. If they know I’m a “sicko”…what will they do?

Trying to think, she glanced around and noticed the head again, and realized she had to get rid of the body. She wasn’t ready to give up her transportation yet, even if she would probably have to abandon it eventually. A Marine with a false nametag alone driving an Army Humvee was uncertain enough without adding a corpse.

Struggling with the harness, she eventually pulled the headless body down from the cupola and inside, placing it and the head into the seat directly behind her. Looking around, she saw a boy of about ten in dirty jeans and not much else watching her from his perch on a tree limb. Solemnly, he waved.

Repeth waved back as she drove off, wondering what he thought of what she was doing. She tried to think where she could dump a body.

The urge was strong in her to go back and find Captain Muzik, to return his man’s corpse and his vehicle. It tore at her sense of honor to be running off, leaving the officer in the lurch, but to do so would be to rejoin a system that had become her enemy. At best, she would be cast loose on her own again with legs that hardly worked and no transportation. At worst…no, she did not want to be locked up.

Checking the fuel gauge, she saw that it showed full, so she decided to just drive, for now. Using the GPS mounted on the dash, she programmed it for Los Angeles and hit GO.

It’ll be a miracle if I get that far, she thought with a dark laugh, then began giggling almost uncontrollably as she started to come down from the stress high. At that moment, driving a stolen Humvee with a decapitated body in the back seat toward a nuked city three thousand miles away just seemed hysterically funny.

Noticing a sign, she detoured toward the Potomac and found an access road leading down between high earthen walls. In a wooded declivity, she quickly rolled the body out, consoling herself with the fact that she did not murder the kid – it was his own panic and the mob’s reaction that did it.

Her rationalization didn’t help much.

The GPS took her west on I-66. Checkpoints stopped civilians but waved her Humvee on through without a second glance. Eventually she reached I-81 south, running through the heart of the Shenandoah Valley. Its beauty wavered surreal in her eyes, with light traffic except for military convoys of five to fifty vehicles. Stopping only for take-out food, she drove steadily for several hours. Somewhere around Wytheville, where I-77 crossed, she ran low on fuel and pulled over at a truck stop.

After using the restroom and buying two much-needed burger meals to go, she climbed back into the driver’s seat and ate while she thought about her options.

Use her credit card for a fill-up – if it was not blocked – and she could make it another 300 miles or so. Otherwise, ditch the vehicle and start hitchhiking, perhaps on semi trucks. Truckers were usually a patriotic lot, and would probably have no problem with giving a servicewoman a lift.

Unless they thought she was running.

They wouldn’t even have to think she was a Sicko. One of them might report her as a potential AWOL, running from her duty. Life had turned crazy enough right now that such things must be happening.

A few always ran when the shit hit the fan.

She decided to try to fill up.

Repeth’s heart pounded as she swiped the card in the reader. “Come on, come on,” she chanted as it processed, and then the words came: Dispense Fuel. She gasped with relief, grabbing the hose and jamming it into the tank, then realized how stupid she’d been as she looked toward the rear of the vehicle. A row of six five-gallon cans sat strapped to the back, resting on the bumper.

Nothing for it now, she thought, then checked the canisters. Each can was full, so she went back to filling the tank, looking around nervously. No one seemed to be paying her any attention, so she took another risk and walked over to the ATM on the wall and took out as much cash as it would let her, four hundred dollars. She wondered what paper money would be worth in the coming months.

Back on the road, she drove with one hand and ate with the other. Night threatened to fall, and quickly, as the Appalachians loomed to the west. Fumbling, she eventually found the lights, but just after crossing the Tennessee border, the Humvee began to make ugly noises underneath.

It didn’t sound like the engine, but Repeth was no mechanic, so she slowed down and pulled in to the next truck stop.

Like most such places, it had a repair shop, and after taking a look, the good ol’ boy there with the nametag that said “Willet” shook his head and his attached NASCAR cap. “Ma’am, you done messed up the transmission. It 'pears you been drivin’ locked in four wheel drive for I dunno how long on a paved road. Ain't made for that.”

“Crap. Can you fix it?” she asked.

“Two, mebbe three days to get the parts, with things as they are now. I could call Bristol to the National Guard there. They could come tow ya. Mebbe you could beg another Hummer off them in trade.” The man spat a stream of tobacco juice off to the side, managing to look sympathetic doing it.

“Yeah, give me the number and I’ll do that. Will it go a little farther?”

“Five or ten mile, prob’ly. After that…” He shrugged.

“Thanks, ah, Willet. That a first name or last name?”

Willet laughed. “You ain’t fum aroun’ heah, is you? That’s mah first name. Last name of Hunt. Pleased ta meetcha.”

“Get me that number, Willet?”

“Yes ma’am.” He rustled around in the office for a moment, found an actual paper phone book under a pile of actual newspapers, and scribbled down a number. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks, Willet. You’re a true gentleman.”

He spat again. “Aw, shucks, ma’am,” he said, and winked. “You in Tennessee now. We’s all gentlemen till we get riled.”

Repeth tipped her hat to him, leaving the mechanic rubbing his greasy hands with an equally greasy rag and chuckling. She hopped into the Humvee and tossed the phone number onto the seat next to her, and then drove around the back side of the massive truck plaza and parked as far from the garage as she could. By the time the vehicle was found, she hoped to be long gone.

Slinging the dead soldier’s assault rifle, she emptied his rucksack and stuffed it full of ammo and MREs. She wished she had a pistol, but the only one she had seen had been on Captain Muzik’s hip. Looking at the blood-splashed interior of the Humvee, another wave of guilt washed over her. Desertion, theft, desecration, mishandling of firearms and ammo, misappropriation of government property…the list went on and on in her mind. Now she was about to abandon a deadly weapon – the grenade launcher – and several hundred rounds of ammo.

Picking up the slip with the phone number, she sighed. Can’t let some civilian get ahold of this stuff, she thought, and trudged back to the well-lit central building to buy a new prepaid phone. A quick call to the National Guard number to report the abandoned Humvee eased her mind. Then she went looking for a ride.

With no idea how to do this, Jill looked around and spotted a scantily-clad woman looking an old thirty and smoking in the half-darkness near a line of idling semis. “Hey,” she said to the working girl.

“Looking for a date, honey?” the woman asked, cocking her hip.

“No, I’m not…I mean, I like men. No, I just would like to talk to you a minute.”

“Time is money, honey.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Jill pulled an ATM-fresh twenty out of her wallet and passed it to the woman. “Look, I need a ride on a truck going south, but I’ve never hitchhiked before. Just tell me the system.”

The woman ground out her cigarette on the pavement and made the money disappear. “Okay, honey, it’s simple.” She pointed. “Over there is mostly northbound, over there is mostly southbound. If they’re idling with the curtains shut or the lights in the cab are off, don’t bug them. If the curtains are open or they’re sittin’ in the driver’s seat, they’re fair game. Just knock on the door and talk to ‘em.”

Jill nodded. “How do I make sure they don’t think…I mean, that I’m not going to…”

“Pay your way in trade?” She laughed tiredly. “Don’t worry about that, honey. Dressed like that, with a gun, nobody will think you’re working. Why don’t you just wait until a convoy comes through? Or over there,” she pointed, “there’s some Army guys in a truck.”

“Um, no.” Jill stepped deeper into the shadows.

“Ah…” The woman held out a pack of cigarettes, then lit one when Jill declined. “AWOL, huh?”

“I’m not deserting, if that’s what you think,” Jill retorted angrily. “My family was in LA and they won’t tell me anything. I just want to find out what happened.”

“Yeah. You and a million other people. So I guess you don’t know anything either.”

“Not really. I was on a ship until a couple of days ago.” Suddenly Jill realized she was talking too much, out of loneliness or fear perhaps. “Hey, thanks, I gotta go. Take care.”

“Yeah, honey. You too.

The third trucker Jill talked to agreed to give her a lift, eyeing her uniform and weapon. She offered him a twenty. He sniffed and took it, saying, “Get in.” Big, bearded, burly, about forty-five, and he smelled of cigarettes and, strangely, lemons.

Inside the roomy cab she settled into the big passenger seat with her feet stretched out. She massaged her upper legs, then as the rig got moving she lifted her trousers at the bottom to scratch where the stumps met the prostheses.

“Woah,” the trucker said in surprise. “How come you didn’t get out when you lost your legs?”

“The Corps is my home,” she answered. “And what’s the point of getting out, trying to find another job? We take care of our own.”

“You don’t look like you’re bein’ taken care of, darlin’.”

“Sometimes you gotta take care of yourself.” Jill turned away from him and rummaged in her ruck for an MRE to eat. Afterward she stared out the window at the night rushing by. Eventually her eyes closed and she slept.

***

If she hadn’t been so exhausted, and lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the rolling wheels, she’d never have been caught unawares. It was only the feel of cold metal against her cheek that finally woke her.

Looking up, she saw the business end of her own assault rifle wavering in front of her face. Jerking, she backed up against the door, staring wide-eyed at the truck driver, whose name she did not even know, holding it one-handed with his finger on the trigger and the safety off. His other hand loosened his belt.

Glancing around, she realized he’d pulled the truck over on a side road in the middle of nowhere. No lights but the moon and stars were visible, and the trees closed in as if conspiring to hide the commission of sins.

“Now darlin’, let’s just do this nice and easy. I’ll have me my fun and then you kin go, and nobody gets hurt.”

Jill was about to threaten to report him when she realized that was about the stupidest thing she could do. The whole country was falling apart and a man who would rape might also murder.

“Hey, you could have just asked nicely,” she said with a show of equanimity.

“Naw, you don’t understand. I like it rough. I’m gonna like it when you squeal. Just shrug them pants off, then turn around. Don’t even look at me. Better for both of us.” He smiled, showing oddly even teeth through his beard.

Her mind racing, Jill reached down and rapped her prostheses. “Hard to get my pants over these things. You’ll have to help.” She unbuckled her belt, then pulled the utility trousers down to her knees, extending her booted false feet toward him, past the assault rifle that still pointed at her.

“Oh, hell,” said the man disgustedly. “Forgot all about those.” He looked confused for a moment, then mumbled, “I guess no cripple ain’t gonna give me too much trouble.” Leaning the rifle against the driver-side door, well away from her, he reached for her legs.

Instead of cooperating, she popped the door lock on her side and tumbled out of the truck cab, landing in a wet ditch. Her athleticism saved her this time, and she rolled on her hands and arms, and then scrambled crawling into the woods.

The trucker hollered with rage, and then jumped out of the cab with the rifle in his hand, but she snaked on her elbows and bare knees down a draw, then rolled upright behind a tree. While he blundered around looking for her, she yanked the trousers back up, buckled the belt, and then worked her way away from him as quietly as she could.

Cursing inside, Jill realized she had now lost her weapon – a Marine’s cardinal sin. She should have looped the sling around her wrist and leaned on it as she slept. What’s more, the bastard had her ruck full of supplies. She racked her brains trying to remember if she left anything that could identify her, but did not believe so. At least she still had her neck wallet, an MRE in her cargo pocket, and her prepaid phone.

After a couple of minutes blundering in the woods, the man gave up. Probably smart enough to realize he can’t leave his truck unattended, in case I circle back around and turn the tables. That was very tempting, but she swallowed her anger and desire for vengeance and stayed put, watching from a distance until he drove away. Then she found a dry spot in the cool Tennessee night, and dozed until morning.

Chapter Three

Sounds of an engine nearby woke her up. Warily she looked around, spotting an old pickup truck pulled into a turnout nearby. Two big men with shotguns got out as the engine shut off, and a large muttish hound jumped out of the bed and made a beeline for her.

Crap. She hid behind the tree and hissed at the dog to go away. Instead, it bounded and capered around her.

“Hey, you, come on outta there.” At least, that’s what she thought it sounded like, as thick as the man’s mountain accent was.

Hands visible, Jill eased from behind the tree and looked at the two men. Both held their shotguns negligently, not pointing them at her. One looked to be about twenty, and the other, the one who had spoken she thought, about forty. The elder stood tall and wide, perhaps six four and two fifty. The younger looked only slightly smaller.

“Howdy, Miss. Kin we he’p you somehow?”

“Ah, yeah,” she replied. “I was…” Jill ground to a halt, suddenly aware of acute hunger. Even without hard physical activity, the thing within her demanded to be fed as it slowly rebuilt her legs.

She started again, after sitting down and pulling out her MRE, the only thing she had. “My name’s Jill, and I was riding in a truck. With a trucker, I mean, hitchhiking. I fell asleep and when I woke up, he had pulled off here and had a gun on me. He was going to rape me, but I got away.”

The dog nosed her interestedly as she tore open the thick food-packet plastic. “Sorry, gentlemen, I’m really hungry. And thirsty, too. Any chance you have some water?”

“Got beer,” said the younger one, and went to fish in a battered cooler in the truck bed. Walking over, he handed it to her as he pushed the dog away. “Go on, Klutz. Go on now.”

“Thanks.” She popped the top and guzzled. Despite the liquid’s warm temperature, she said, “Best beer I ever tasted.”

“First one o’ the day allas is,” he replied. “I’m Jimmy, by the way. This here’s my pa, Big Jim.” He squatted and held out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, gentlemen. Looks like you’re not much smaller than your dad, though.” Jill shook his hand backward, then shoveled beef stew into her mouth with the long-handled spoon provided.

“Yes ma’am.” Despite his outrageous accent, rough clothing and appearance, the young man had a nice smile, and his teeth looked healthy. “What?” he asked.

“Guess I expected you to have a dip in,” she mumbled as she dug for gravy.

“Naw. That stuff’ll kill ya.” Jimmy grinned at his father, then stood up. “Well, we was gonna go do a bit of duckin’, and we’re already late. Wanna come along?”

“Jimmy,” the older man said in a warning tone.

“Oh, come on, pa. We cain’t just leave her here.”

“Oughter take her to the sheriff. She gotta report that rat bastard.”

The younger Jim stared for a moment at the older in disbelief.

“I didn’t say we would let him see us. Just drop her at the corner and she can walk to the station.”

“Now wait a minute, gentlemen,” Jill said. “The way things are in this country right now, I’m sure your sheriff has a lot more important things to do than talk to me. I can’t even give him a license number off the truck. No harm, no foul.”

Now both men stared at her, then glanced at each other. “Uh-huh,” said Big Jim slowly. “Well, I guess you kin come along with us if’n you like. You ever been duckin’?”

Jill shook her head.

“Well, we’ll show you how it’s done.”

***

Jill sat in the shotgun seat of the pickup truck on the way back from the duck hunt. Seven birds, along with Jimmy and Klutz the mutt, rode in the bed. The dog flapped his long tongue alongside her head right by her open window, enjoying the breeze through the trees.

Up into the hills they wended their way, down old paved roads that turned to gravel and then dirt. For some odd reason, these two – well, three with Klutz – had taken to her like the proverbial ducks to water. Sure, she was used to dealing with men like brothers in the Corps, suppressing her femininity in favor of the warrior culture, but this was something more. In just a day of sitting in a blind and shooting at birds, it appeared she’d been adopted.

They didn’t ask too many questions, and they’d given her a few knowing looks, which she studiously ignored. They’d fed her from their cooler, simple fare but wonderful. “Ma’s a great cook,” Jimmy had said, and his bragging justified itself. She ate fried chicken wrapped up in brown paper, cold potatoes and butter, cole slaw and corn bread and pecan pie, and sipped from a bottle of what they called “corn squeezins.”

White lightning. Moonshine. Maybe that explained their reticence to talk to the sheriff.

Normally not much of a drinker, she imbibed because alcohol also yielded calories. She noticed she had lost another pound or two in the last couple of days. Looking at her hands was like staring at sticks with skin on them. Perhaps that explained these hill folks’ sympathy – they probably thought she was starving and on the run.

Ironically, they were not wrong. Her reasons were just not what they must think.

Eventually they pulled up in front of what Jill would have termed a cabin, given its setting. On closer inspection she had to call it a house, because there was nothing recreational about it. A dull yellow clapboard thing with a corrugated metal roof, it seemed almost a part of the landscape.

Tucked into the hollow between two hills, a functioning farm surrounded it. Garden plots alternated with fruit and nut trees, a henhouse, rabbit hutches, and a barn. A bit farther back looked like several acres of corn. To her amateur eye it seemed prosperous, at least in food, though probably not in cash. Another old pickup truck was parked off to the side.

Once they had stopped, Jill could see a boy of perhaps twelve sitting in a chair on the oversized front porch. He waved with a strange motion of his hand, as if something impeded him. Klutz jumped from the back to charge up the steps and press his head into the kid’s lap, and he petted the dog clumsily.

From the front door stepped a tired-looking woman similar in age to Big Jim, and a pretty young one of perhaps sixteen in a homemade flowered dress. The former held a pitcher full of lemonade; the latter, a stack of beat-up multicolored plastic cups. Both set their burdens on a rough wooden table that occupied one side of the wide frontage and pulled chairs back to sit around it.

“Got seven!” Jimmy called enthusiastically as he picked up the birds in both hands. “We kin have a couple tonight. Got a guest, Ma,” he continued, waving in Jill’s direction. “She eats like Cousin Bee-Bob and looks like to blow away in a stiff breeze, so maybe we should make three or four. Ain’t gonna keep that long in this hot weather anyway.”

Jill didn’t find it all that warm, perhaps eighty-five. On the other hand, she didn’t see any electric or phone wires leading to the house. Perhaps they had no refrigeration beyond the water from the creek she could see running down the hillside behind the farm.

“You come on up here, honey,” the older woman called. “I’m Sarah McConley, this here’s my daughter Jane. The boy over there’s Owen, but he’s one o’ God’s simple children.” She took Jill’s hands in both of hers, her eyes kind. “Oh my, you do look like you could use some fattenin’ up. We’re common folk, but the good Lord has blessed us with food and kindness. You set y’self down now.”

Jill had little choice in the matter, as Sarah kept hold of her hands until she sat. “I’m Jill,” she replied as she was gently maneuvered into position. “Jill Repeth.”

Sarah blinked quizzically. “What’s that name there on your shirt?”

Color drained from Jill’s face as she realized how she’d tipped her hand, but she really did not want to lie to these people. “Something bad happened…I had to get away, so I borrowed this. I’m not…” She ground to a halt. I’m not what? A criminal? A deserter? Face it, Jill, that’s exactly what you are.

She started again. “I haven’t hurt anyone, but I did run away.” She unbuttoned the tunic, balling it up and stuffing it into a cargo pocket, for some reason not wanting to wear that lie anymore.

Sarah pressed her lips together in thoughtful disapproval, but didn’t pursue the matter further. “Jane, you keep Miss Jill here company while I start a-working on dinner.” She went inside.

Jane smiled broadly and poured lemonade out in five tall, well-worn plastic cups, setting two aside and handing one to Jill. “I just love having company. Hardly anybody comes up here.”

Jill tasted the lemonade, then drank half of it down. Cool but not cold, it confirmed her conjecture about the lack of refrigeration. Nevertheless, it tasted wonderful. “Thank you. I’m happy to be here. Everyone’s been so nice.”

“It’s the Lord’s kindness, that’s all. Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you, the Good Book says.” Klutz’s tail thumped on the porch as if in agreement.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Jill responded, unsure how to take these folks. The banjo line from Deliverance played in the back of her head, and something in her wondered if anyone could really live this simply. Had she encountered the same family in her own LA neighborhood, she would have thought they must be cultists of some sort, but here, in these hills…it all seemed to fit.

“Do you go to school?” Jill asked.

“O’ course I do. We ain’t billies, you know. Ma and Pa both graduated from high school, and they say maybe I can go to the junior college down in Morristown, if’n I can get a scholarship and state aid. They got a program for vocational nursing. I already take care of Owen, mostly, so it can’t be all that hard. O’ course, with everything like it is…”

Jill turned in her seatto look more closely at Owen, and realized that his chair had wheels on it. Not exactly a traditional wheelchair, rather, it looked like something home-made from bicycle parts, but sturdy nonetheless.

Owen made a sound something like a grunt or moan, and looked at her with a smile on his face, She got the distinct feeling there was more inside him than he could express. “Hello, Owen,” she said, and was rewarded with a clumsy wave and another inarticulate but cheerful sound.

“He wants to come on over. Will it bother you?” Jane asked.

“Of course not,” Jill replied. “But could I trouble you for a little something to eat? I seem to get hungry a lot lately,” she said, watching closely for Jane’s reaction.

“Here you go, Miss Jill,” Sarah called as she backed out the door holding a large bowl in each hand. “Figgered you’d want something before the ducks got done, which will be a couple of hours.”

Cheese and butter and bread filled one bowl, and freshly washed peaches the other. After she wheeled Owen over to the table, Jane plucked one of the yellow-orange orbs and sliced it all the way around the middle with a little paring knife, handing half to Jill. Cutting hers small, she fed Owen and herself alternately, a piece at a time. He chewed open-mouthed and laughed, clapping his hands together.

When Jill bit into her peach half she thought she’d found heaven on Earth, and devoured it and another whole one right away. Then she started on the bread and butter and cheese.

“My, you are a hungry thing.” Jane’s voice held no criticism, only the kind of innocent wonder Jill hadn’t experienced since her childhood. She smiled, embarrassed, but that didn’t slow her feasting down. Her body screamed for calories, protein, and fats, and hummed with pleasure as her stomach filled.

The men had disappeared into the barn, where Jill caught glimpses of them tending to animals. She thought she could see cows, barn cats, and it looked like a pig and some piglets occupied an enclosure to the side, well downwind.

“Jane, get us some t’maters and squash, will you?”

“Yes, Ma,” Jane replied. Turning to Jill, she asked, “Watch Owen, will you? Just make sure he don’t get ahold of nothing sharp, and only give him a small bit at a time. He can choke if’n it’s too big.” Without waiting for a reply, Jane hurried off to one of the garden plots to pick tomatoes and yellow squash, putting them in her flipped-up skirt.

Jill looked at Owen. and Owen looked back at Jill. His eyes danced, and he grinned. Someone’s trapped in there, she said to herself. She wondered what it was exactly that afflicted him. Was it a cognitive disability, or only physical, like Stephen Hawking?

“So Owen, can you understand what I’m saying?”

The boy squealed, pawing in the direction of the food.

Jill took a piece of cheese, but Owen shook his head. “Peach?”

Squeal.

She cut one of them up, keeping the little paring knife well out of reach, and began to feed him. She knew so little about people like this…how much was delayed development due to lack of a special-needs program? And how much was intrinsic, brain or body betrayal?

Her musing was cut short by Jane’s return. The girl sat down with bowls of washed vegetables to begin cutting them up for cooking, producing another small knife. Soon they were chatting like sisters. For a time, Jill forgot that she was on the run, forgot that her family might all be dead, forgot that her second family, the Corps, would consider her every action since contracting the disease aboard the cruise ship to be unlawful, even treasonous.

By the time dinner was ready the sun was going down behind the hills, though not behind the true horizon. It made for a long sunset, pleasant breezes, and enough light to sit outside on the porch and talk. The table overflowed with food, but everyone seemed determined to eat all they could.

“So you two are farmers?” Jill asked the men at one point. “Or do you have some other jobs?”

“Oh, we do a little of this and a little of that,” Big Jim replied, his face studiously neutral.

“I do some construction now and again for cash,” Jimmy volunteered, “but with a place like this, well…something always needs doing.”

Jill grunted, picking up the jar of “corn squeezins” from which the men had fortified their lemonade, and looked at Jimmy across its open top. He smiled back at her as if sharing a secret, but it seemed a very open secret to her. Then she caught Sarah’s glare and realized that perhaps not everyone was in agreement about the stuff. She put the jar back down and shrugged apologetically.

“You know what’s funny?” Jill asked without meeting anyone’s eyes. “I’m a cop. I’m a military police sergeant. I should be chasing down people like me…people like me. Whatever that means. I never thought anyone had an excuse to run from their own government, but…”

The men chuckled, and even Sarah and Jane looked amused. Big Jim spoke. “Girl, you in Tennessee. Ain’t nobody knows more about resistin’ the gubmint than us. In the War of Succession we saw county against county and town against town – families divided, brother against brother. We had two gubmints to resist, and we made the most of it. Virginia had the biggest battles, but Tennessee had the bitterest. So don’t you worry none; we ain’t much on bowin’ to no gubmint, not when it comes to right an’ wrong.”

The adults – lumping Jane in that category – nodded, and Jill suddenly realized they were trying to reassure her, to tell her something: that they wouldn’t turn her in, and perhaps, that they understood.

“Jane girl, go get the radio, would you please?” Big Jim said. He turned to Jill, “We been listenin’ to the goin’s-on from the Knoxville station. Terrible, terrible things, some of it. Riots all across the country. Martial law. Feds confiscatin’ people’s guns just when they need ’em most. Troops ever’where. We always knew it would happen, didn’t we, dear?”

Sarah nodded, fingers plucking at her needlework. “Just got to hold out ‘til the Lord returns and sets things to right.”

“Now Ma,” Jimmy protested, “this ain’t no Armageddon. Lots of places went through worse than this.”

“Either way,” Big Jim intervened, “we’ll do the same. Keep an eye on our own and our neighbors.” He cocked his head at Jill and furrowed his brow. “You reckon to stay here a spell, or move on soon, Miss Jill?”

Jill opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Staying hadn’t even entered her thoughts. How could these people afford to take care of her, and how would she repay them in turn? “I’ll stay for now, if you please,” she found herself responding with relief. “As long as you’ll have me, until I have to move on. I’ll try to earn my keep.”

“That you will, girl,” Big Jim said contentedly, sucking on his briar pipe.

Jane returned with a radio, setting it on the table and then cranking a handle on it a dozen times. “Survival set. Charges its own batteries.” She switched it on. “Only gets the one station though.”

…And that was Brenda Lee with “I’m Sorry” on your country oldies station. Now we bring you a public service reminder that if you see something, say something! Tell a police officer, tell your local, state or federal officials. What should you tell them about? Anyone who has had a miracle recovery, or who seems to be hungry all the time, might be infected. Anyone who seems furtive, or has a sudden change in behavior, or who pulls their children out of school. Anyone who speaks against the government, or protests against it, should be reported. Anyone who your neighbors are calling a “Sicko,” must be reported. If you don’t know who else to contact, call the Centers for Disease Control at 1-800-336-132.

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Then the station returned to playing old country songs. Big Jim reached over to turn it down, staring at Jill contemplatively as he puffed on his pipe.

A chill went through her. He knows, or at least suspects. Just stay calm, Jill. These people took you in. They’re not going to suddenly turn around and give you up. Besides, they don’t even have a phone. And there is no fear in this family, only love. If they were twisted, they couldn’t hide it.

She hoped. Everyone seemed to be watching her as the daylight and the conversation faded.

Eventually Sarah went inside and artificial light soon shone from inside the house, harsh white glare from a gas lantern. Jane stood up to clear the table and Jill started to get up to assist when Jimmy put a hand on her arm. “Mebbe you can just watch Owen while we do this, Miss Jill.” He picked up dishes and followed the others inside, leaving Big Jim staring at her.

“Don’t worry, girl,” Big Jim rumbled as his eyes gleamed in the night. “We ain’t gonna turn you in. You ain’t mean no harm to us, and we ain’t mean no harm to you.” He took his pipe out of his mouth, fragrant smoke swirling from it toward her nose. Owen sneezed and moaned, waving his hand. “Oh, pardon,” he said, and changed seats to send the smoke away from them. “I imagine you kin use a firearm, ma’am? Other than a shotgun, I mean?” He’d let her take a few shots at ducks that first day, but she’d missed every one.

“I grew up in East L.A., sir. I joined a gang when I was thirteen, and enlisted in the Corps when I turned seventeen. Spent two years deployed to the desert, fighting off insurgents and training foreign police. What do you think?” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

“Nuff said. I hope it don’t come to that, but with things goin’ the way they is, nuc’lar weapons and all, people bein’ rounded up an’ quarantined…”

“Sir…Big Jim, aren’t you worried about the disease?”

He puffed on his pipe a moment. “They got the internet in Jane’s school, you know. She saw that Daniel Markis fella on the tee-vee, tellin’ about the miracle germ. For a couple days, afore the gubmint took over the news stations, she heard all kinda stories, about people getting’ cured. The cancer, the black lung that got all my cousins over in Cold Creek, heart attacks goin’ away, even my uncle Clyde that allas was a little teched in the head, they said he was talkin’ like a normal person. Clyde got taken away, and my cousins took to the hills. If the disease is so bad…I think roundin’ folks up is worse.”

Jill’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t swallow. Impulsively she took a gulp of the white lightning straight from the jar, coughing a little. Once the spasms passed, she straightened, looking Big Jim in the eye. “I want to show you something.”

Big Jim held up his hand. “Mebbe you want to show everyone.”

“You’re in charge here…”

“Yeah I am, but we’re a family. Smart man don’t leave his family out, less’n he has to.” He grinned. “Not if he wants a peaceful home.”

Jill cocked her head and picked up her lemonade, looking at Big Jim over the rim of the cup. “Well, I may not be family, but I know how to follow orders.” She put on his accent for a moment. “A smart sergeant don’t buck the system less’n she has to.”

“Amen. Why don’t we go inside?” Big Jim stood up. “Here we go, Owen, goin’ inside for family time.” He wheeled the chair and the boy into the doorway, clattering over the threshold. Klutz dodged ahead, bumping into the doorframe on the way.

Jill followed, entering the home for the first time. As expected, the room was rustic and unpretentious, but in the light of the lantern hanging from an overhead beam, it blazed richly with homey decorations. Needlework Bible verses competed with pastoral scenes done in oils, exquisitely carved animals, some painted and some not, and lots of other artistic crafts. Photographs, many old, in black and white and sepia, hung on the walls.

“This is amazing,” she said, looking closely at the nearest wall. “Who did these?”

“The womenfolk did the sewin’. Pa paints, I carve,” Jimmy explained. “Got to have somethin’ to do, don’t you think?”

“What do you do for fun, anyway?” Jill asked. “No television, no computer, no internet, no phone…I see you have some books, and some boardgames.”

Jimmy shrugged. “We get by. None o’ those things was around a hunnerd years ago, even fifty years ago some places in these parts. People got by.”

Big Jim wheeled Owen into a place obviously his, next to the unlit hearth. Klutz padded over to sit at his feet. The boy craned his head around, looking at everything as if checking to see it was all in place. “Unnh!” he said emphatically, making a motion toward one part of the wall.

“That’s right, Owen. I moved the pictures.” Sarah walked over, and then switched two small photographs into each other’s location. “He knows, you see. He remembers everything, and can tell when something’s out of place. If I really want to change something, it’s some time before he takes to it.”

“Autism, sounds like,” Jill remarked.

“Yes, that’s what the doctor said, but it don’t matter what you call it. It’s just Owen.” The older woman walked to a bookshelf and took down a large leather-bound Bible, handing it reverently to Big Jim.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he said, then leafed through it as if looking for some particular passage. “We allas read a bit of the Good Book after dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Even if I did, I sure wouldn’t be complaining to these good people, Jill thought.

“Janie, could you please read for me? My eyes are a bit tired today.” Big Jim handed the Bible over to his daughter. “Right there, where the bookmark is.”

Jane smiled, and in a clear sweet voice, read, “The Good Samaritan.” Then she proceeded to relate the parable of a man set upon by bandits.

Left to die, a priest, and then a high-status Levite, passed him by and did not help, Finally a Samaritan, of despicable ethnicity and heretical faith to the Hebrews of the time, was the only one to render assistance. In fact, he paid for the man’s care and promised to return to check on him.

“You know,” Big Jim said in a casual tone, “we’s the Samaritans here. Ap’lachian folk. Get laughed at on the tee-vee, less’n they like our bluegrass pickin’.”

The rest of the family nodded, and Sarah said, “Amen.”

Jill couldn’t fail to get the message. Unless their whole lifestyle was a lie, they had truly accepted her into their family, in a way that usually happens only when the very foundations of society get shaken. She found tears of relief in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I have something to show you, though. You’ve been so good to me…I want to be honest with you. It might…well, if they ever come for me, I want you to know the truth about these people. These ‘Sickos,’ as they are calling them.”

Reaching down, she rolled up her utility trousers, exposing first her boots, then the prosthetics that filled them. Eventually she worked them all the way up to her knees, exposing the skin of her stumps, showing pink at the extremities. Then she began unstrapping the left one.

The McConley family murmured sympathetically as they saw, and Jimmy let out a hoot of surprise. “If that don’t beat all. I never woulda knowed if you didn’t show us. You walk around all right.”

“As long as I don’t have to go far, I can stand it. But the fact that I lost my feet isn’t really the interesting part.” Jill finished unstrapping the left artificial foot, and set it aside. Lifting her leg with her hands, she flexed her knee, the stump waving up and down. “Perhaps I should have done this in the daytime, with better light. You’d be able to see that the bottom inch here is pinker than the rest, like new baby skin. I lost my legs over a year ago, and nothing like that happened, until now.”

She took a deep breath and went on, finding them staring at her in fascination. “I was on a cruise ship a few days ago. One morning we woke up and there were miracle cures all over the ship. I heard rumors of some video that said it was a germ that did it. Then the Navy showed up and quarantined us. Food began to run low, and people were eating more. That’s what the disease did, I guess. I know I got hungry a lot. I decided I didn’t want to wait, so I swam to a Navy ship nearby and sneaked aboard. I blended in to the crew, contacted a chaplain, and she got me off with the wounded.”

“What wounded?” Jimmy asked.

“After I left the cruise ship, they blew it up. Killed everyone aboard. Damaged another warship doing it.”

The family gasped. “This is worse than I’d thought,” Big Jim rumbled.

“It’s Armageddon coming for sure,” Sarah declared.

“Now honey, we don’t know that,” Big Jim cautioned. “But it sure ‘nuff looks like bad times. Miss Jill, we can see you’re not some crazy person. Whatever it is, it ain’t a bad thing, far as we kin tell. Mebbe the gubmint will figger it out, and things’ll calm down. Best we just be careful, keep you out of sight, and wait. Stay out of the way.”

“Thank you,” Jill said yet again.

“Don’t thank me yet, girl,” Big Jim replied with a smile. “Like I said, you’ll earn your keep. As much as you eat, you’ll have to.”

“You’ll never meet anyone that works as hard as I do,” Jill declared. “I’m no invalid, and maybe…” She gave voice to her greatest hope: “Maybe I’ll actually grow my feet back.”

“Wouldn’t that be a marvel,” Jane exclaimed, throwing her arms around the other woman.

Jill replied, “Yes, it would. And now, folks, I’ve had a really long day. Does anyone mind if I get some sleep?”

Murmurs of assent came from all, and Jane showed Jill to a room with two beds. “We’ll have to double up, though. That there bed’s Owen’s, and we cain’t disturb his routine, so you can sleep with me, head to foot, like we did when we was little. You mind?”

“Oh, Jane, you can put me in the barn and I won’t mind.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Jane replied seriously, rearranging the bedclothes and retrieving a pillow from the closet. “Here you go. Sleep well. We’ll try not to disturb you when we come in later.”

Jill climbed into the bed and slept, not waking until the morning sun peeked over the hills.

Chapter Four

Days passed into weeks in a pleasant haze for Jill. She watched Owen a lot, freeing the rest to work the farm. They moved her into the barn loft, after she proved to them that she could handle the ladder just fine. Their excuse was to give her privacy and not crowd their two-bedroom house too much, but it also occurred to her that if someone showed up unexpectedly, she might at least have a chance to keep out of sight.

She explored the hills behind the land as best she could, taking short painful trips upward with Klutz romping along, eventually to find a hollow with a cave-like overhang that might hide her if she needed to run. There was also a small obvious basement beneath the barn, and a genuine working root cellar beneath the house.

Sometimes the two men would spend the day away in one of the pickup trucks, with no explanation. Usually the bed would be full of corn, heavy five-gallon buckets, and other things when they left, empty when they returned. Jill guessed they were servicing their still, and were smart enough to keep it well away from the farm.

In three weeks her stumps had lengthened to the location of her former ankles. She wondered if they would just keep growing longer: if the disease that they now called the “Eden Plague” would know when to quit, or start making ankle joints.

Jane had brought the disease’s name back from the church the McConleys attended, whispered in the usual gossip that nothing could stamp out. She also told Jill about some people whose old folks had suddenly passed on, and of new “cousins” that showed up unexpectedly. A deputy that attended, a relative of the number of interknit families in the region, had quietly warned people to keep quiet and not rock the boat.

The radio lied but the gossip told of things getting worse instead of better, especially in the cities; of neighbors turning each other in, of quarantines with no cure and no one returning, of men who came in the middle of the night and took people away. Some said more nuclear weapons had been used, by terrorists or the Russians or Chinese, or even by the US against its own citizens.

Jill had no trouble believing it.

One day a pickup truck full of young men in uniform shirts drove up, wearing black armbands with some kind of spiky red symbol on them – perhaps a trident. Jill climbed the ladder to her loft, hand over hand, to watch through the board cracks. They talked to Jimmy for a moment, then Big Jim came out onto the porch and they talked some more. Finally the group drove off, looking unhappy.

Once they were gone, Jill hurried over, her heavily-modified prosthetics hurting more than ever. “What was that?” she asked.

Jimmy replied, “Unionist party. Wanted us to come to some meetin’ they’re havin’. I told them I’d think about it.” He glanced at his father, who nodded in approval.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jill almost exploded. “These are the people that are the most anti-Eden-Plague. They’re fascists. They’ll take away all your rights, and you’re thinking about joining them?”

“Simmer down there, girl,” Big Jim said, an edge to his voice. “That’s exactly why Jimmy’s gonna go see what they have to say. Keep an eye on what’s goin’ on. If’n we spit in their faces right off, who do you think they’ll come after next?”

Jill took a deep breath. “I understand what you’re saying, but…” she trailed off. “We can’t let them win.”

“We’ll do what we can, girl, but I ain’t gonna get my family killed by bein’ no martyrs.” He pointed a finger at Jill, and she realized he’d never been stern with her, never been anything but kind…until now. “You become part o’ this family, and you told me you knew when to take orders. So as the head o’ this family and as your boss both, you need to fall in line. You don’t know nothin’ about nothin’ aroun’ here that we didn’t done teach you, so you gotta trust us on how to handle this. Amen?”

Jill lowered her eyes. “Amen, boss.”

“Good.” He stared at her for a moment more, then glanced at Jimmy, and then his wife and daughter. Sarah gave a slow nod, so he went on, “Come on out to the barn, girl. We got somethin’ to show you.”

Jill looked at the women’s faces, seeing no fear, only determination. Wondering what this was about, she walked gingerly after the two men as they led her to the barn. “I already know about the cellar,” she said with a hint of defiance in her voice.

“Do you now?” grunted Big Jim. Ignoring her and the visible cellar door of heavy planks set in the floor, the two men stepped over to get behind an old broken-down tractor that sat in a corner. From the side, they lifted and it tipped with surprising ease, holding it precariously balanced on two of its rusted wheels.

Jimmy reached down to pull up a trap door while Big Jim held the tractor in place. Jill walked over and examined the setup in wonderment, realizing that the antique was gutted of its heavy parts, and was thus much lighter than it looked, needing not more than a couple of hundred pounds of dead lift to get it up on its side. One healthy person could probably do it, in fact.

Looking below, she saw a dark opening and a ladder. “Come on down,” Jimmy said with a grin, and went in before her. “Don’t worry, this here lever will lift the tractor up if it gets closed. Got gears and ever’thing.”

Jill followed, and soon found herself on a dirt floor in another, separate stone-walled basement. Jimmy reached for a flashlight and turned it on. The space was small, but boasted a triple bunk bed, and what looked like food and water for a few days. Other supplies – a lantern, fuel, books, linens – rested on shelves along one wall. A tiny plastic portable toilet sat in a corner.

“This place has been here since the days of the War,” Jimmy said.

“War?”

“Civil War, you’d say.”

Jill gaped. “That’s…”

“More’n a century and a half, I know.” Jimmy turned to look Jill in the face, shining the flashlight against the floor. It gave him a devilish look, even more so when he grinned. “We McConleys is Abolitionists from way back. This here’s a gen-u-wine piece of the Underground Railroad. ’Course, the supplies and furniture’s newer.”

“My God…”

“When all that stuff happened, and you showed up, well, we figgered we might have to revive some of the old ways. We ain’t had nobody to stow yet, but if’n things keep gettin’ worse, mebbe we’ll be hidin’ Eden people. So now you know about this place, and you kin hop in here if’n you have to.”

Impulsively she threw her arms around Jimmy, who reciprocated after a moment. “Thank you, Jimmy. You’re…you and your family…”

“Mm. I’ll have to take you here more often, I think,” he chuckled in her ear.

Jill pulled her head back to look at him. What the hell. She kissed him gently. “Yeah, maybe,” she breathed.

“All right you two, break it up,” Big Jim called from up above, laughter in his voice. “Any courtin’s gonna be done up here in the light o’ day.”

They broke their clinch with embarrassment, then climbed back up the ladder and watched as Big Jim closed up the hide. Jimmy and Jill swept dust and hay back to remove their traces while the older man walked out of the barn ahead of them, leaving them alone.

“Listen, Jimmy,” Jill began. “I like you, but that was just something I did on impulse. I don’t know how you do things around here, so I just want to speak plainly: I’m not sure what it was, all right?”

Jimmy smiled gently. “It’s all right, Miss Jill. I’m twenty-two. I kissed a few girls in my time. Even done a couple other things with ’em I don’t never tell my ma about. You ain’t gotta worry about no shotgun weddin’.” He stepped toward her, stopping within easy arm’s length. “On the other hand, I do like you. If’n you stay, well…reckon I ain’t against it.”

“Okay, Jimmy. That’s fair.” Jill nervously pushed her lengthening hair behind her ears. “You’re a real gentleman, you know that?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m from Tennessee. We’re –”

“– all gentlemen till we get riled, right?” They laughed together, and walked out of the barn toward the lunch waiting on the porch.

***

A week later Jill’s nervous idyll took another unexpected turn.

As Jimmy finished a plate of pork with cracklins, courtesy of one of the young hogs, he remarked, “I shore do have an appetite lately.”

Jill and Big Jim glanced sharply at the younger man, then at each other. Jill’s face whitened.

Big Jim leaned over to lift up the sleeve on his son’s t-shirt. “Scar’s fadin’,” he said.

Jimmy pulled the sleeve back and craned his head to look at the outside of his shoulder. “Well I’ll be doggoned. Why…” Then the color drained from his face as well. “I got it, don’t I?”

“Imagine so.” Big Jim pushed his own plate away and began to pack his pipe.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Jill exclaimed, heartfelt.

“What did you do?” Sarah asked sharply.

“Simmer down, Sarah love,” Big Jim interjected. “They just been courtin’ a bit, the way young folk do.”

“That’s what the radio said – the disease is passed by close contact,” sister Jane remarked. “So Jimmy,” her eyes lit with a sibling’s joy in another’s discomfiture, “you been smoochin’?”

“Just that once, and it was all my fault,” Jill broke in, glaring at Jane. “My fault,” she repeated. “We haven’t done anything like that since.”

Sarah took a breath and seemed about to explode when Big Jim spoke. “What’s done is done. We knew a day like this had to come sometime, though I’d hoped to delay it a fair bit.”

“What do you mean it had to come?” Sarah asked, unable to contain herself. “She should have been more careful!”

“I mean,” Big Jim said heavily, “that eventually we’d have to give it to Owen, don’t you think?”

That stopped Sarah in her tracks. She turned to look at her youngest son as his eyes roamed here and there, and she breathed, “Oh dear Jesus I pray, you’re right, James. It could fix him. He could be normal!”

Big Jim lit his pipe and puffed. “Cain’t do it now. Not with things the way they are. It’s one thing for Jimmy’s scar to go away, but if Owen got cured and someone saw him…they’d round us all up.”

“Then we go on as before. We just be careful,” Jimmy declared. “I’ll taper off going to the meetings. I’ll tell ’em I gotta work the farm. We just got to buy enough time…” He abruptly stopped, as if he’d said too much.

Jill looked from Jimmy to Big Jim and back. The elder was imperturbable as usual, but Jimmy seemed embarrassed. “What?” she asked.

“Well, I figgered once your feet got better, you’d be moving along, goin’ to Los Angeles to find your family.” Jimmy eyed his empty plate, and reached for another slice of bread and butter, not meeting Jill’s eyes.

“I…I hadn’t thought that far. I suppose you’re right, that’s what I should do. I’ll go, just as soon as I can.” Stupid, Jill, she scolded herself. Every day you’re here, you put these people in danger. Now you’ve infected one of them, and that can’t be undone. At least with you gone they can blend back in to their own society, or run for the deep-woods mountains like their cousins.

***

UNIONISTS TAKE POWER IN STUNNING MASS PARTY DEFECTIONS read the headline on the newspaper Big Jim dropped on the porch table. “Found that in a trash can when I went into town,” he rumbled.

Jane snatched it up, skimming the headlines and then summarizing, “It says elected officials are changing parties all over in the middle of their terms.” Jill noticed the girl’s accent and dialect faded as she read. Perhaps this was her school persona coming out.

She went on, “It says the new party has gained a bare majority in the House and Senate, and if the President doesn’t switch too, he’ll still be voted out next election. Says the whole country is turning against the infected people.” Jane glanced at her brother and Jill. “It also says that the same thing is starting to happen in Canada and Mexico. There’s a column here where the writer believes there might even be some kind of co-governmental arrangement.”

“Mexico and Canada’d be damn fools to join the US in anything like that,” Jimmy declared. “They have their own ways of doing things.”

“Might be good for Mexico,” Big Jim said. “Might clean up some o’ that corruption.”

“Yes, like the Nazis made the trains run on time,” Jill muttered darkly.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, girl. I’m jus’ sayin’, there’s a little good in most bad, and the other way ’round too. This country is too big and there’s too many ornery people for the crazies to take over for long.”

“Long enough, James,” Sarah said. “You always see the bright side of things; that’s why I married you. This time…things are really getting worse. Them Hastings boys have taken to wearin’ that Unionist uniform all the time, runnin’ around and scarin’ people, makin’ them give ‘political contributions.’ I heard they burnt out some poor black folks on the other side of Shandy that wouldn’t pay.”

“Like to see ’em try that here,” Jimmy growled.

“Rather they didn’t, son,” Big Jim disagreed. “Rather if trouble jes’ passed us by.”

“But Pa, we need to do something!”

Big Jim nodded. “And we will, son, but not with violence, unless we got no choice. No, the best thing we can do is stay out the way, help who we can, keep our eyes open and our mouths shut. That goes for everyone. When Jill gets her feet back, when she’s able to get up and run for the hills, then mebbe we can take a few risks. Y’hear?” He stabbed his pipe stem at Jimmy. “You want this fine young lady to get taken away?”

“No, Pa,” Jimmy said miserably, suddenly looking twelve instead of twenty-two under his father’s stare.

“How are your legs now, Jill?” Jane asked, changing the subject.

Jill had showed her just last night, but she answered, thankful for the diversion. “It looks almost like I have baby feet, and I can’t put my weight on them at all. It’s a good thing that I have this,” she went on, slapping her palms on the wheels of the chair they had built for her. “I figure another two weeks and I may be able to walk, three or four and I may be almost normal.” And then I’ll go, she heard the unspoken subtext.

Klutz stood up and pointed with his nose, his ears cocked, then barked once.

“Pa?” Jimmy stood up, looking out toward the valley below. “Someone comin’ up the road.” Now that he pointed it out, they could all see a plume of dust as a vehicle made its way up the gravel-dirt track that led up to their farm.

“Jill, get in the special hide. Jimmy, run her over there and toss her things in after her. Everybody keep your guns handy. Jane, run and get a coupl’a jars o’ corn squeezins out of the larder, put ’em on the table there, and then go get a whole case from the cellar and put it in the kitchen. Sarah, see what kinda grub you can rustle up quick. Hop to now.” Big Jim stood up, reaching for his shotgun he kept leaning in the corner on the porch.

“Don’t see why I’m getting’ food for some fool flatlanders comin’ up uninvited,” Sarah muttered as she went inside.

“Come on, Jill,” Jimmy said as he wheeled her down the ramp and off the porch, racing for the barn. She held on tight, and assisted as much as she could when he lifted the tractor and helped her down the ladder. A moment later her duffel bag and bedding tumbled down into the hole as Jimmy made sure nothing incriminating remained in the loft. Then the tractor came down, sealing her in, and Jill sat down quietly in the dark.

For the first time since the trucker tried to rape her she felt afraid. She imagined some runaway slave of so long ago doing the same, longing for freedom, relying on the kindness of strangers, fearing a return to hell on Earth. Why couldn’t people let each other have the gift of the Eden Plague, its healing and its promise, if they chose to?

Jill knew the answer already. She’d seen it in the Corps, and in the gangs before that. Power itself, to those who had it, was more important than anything else, or anyone. It didn’t matter whether the wielder was a slave owner, a pigheaded officer or a politician. As soon as they got power, and felt afraid of losing it, then they would abuse it, and to hell with the people that got hurt.

She saw now that the Eden Plague would take away their power by taking away an enormous source of dependency. If no one needed medical care, and everyone had their head screwed on straight, how could they be made to fear? How could they be manipulated? Of course the ones on top right now would resist, by whipping up that fear before it was too late, to drive out the infection, even kill those who had it.

But what could she do here? Obviously she would have to leave. Somehow she had to help fight this thing, this situation. Like she wished people had fought the Nazis when they took over, or the Bolsheviks, or McCarthy, or…she ran out of examples. But where could she go? She’d only read a few obviously censored newspapers, and listened to one radio station, for the last several months. No internet, nobody to talk to except the McConleys. Once she got out, she’d have to find somewhere in the world that Eden Plague people were accepted as normal. Then…then she’d find a new gang, or a new Corps, to join.

Thinking about that drove a dagger through her heart. The Marine Corps was her family…except for the Repeths back in Los Angeles, if they even lived. Except for the McConleys, too. It seemed she was doomed to keep losing her families, and the tears began again.

Some warrior you are, Jill, sitting here sobbing like a little girl. She felt so helpless, with useless feet. It would have almost been better to live with the prosthetics for the rest of her life; to have never gotten the Eden Plague. Then, as during all tough times, she reminded herself that this would be over with soon, and she would come back stronger, faster, better, like she always did.

Someday soon.

***

Jimmy took one last look around the loft and barn before sprinting back to the house to rejoin his family. He saw that Jane had her Ruger .22 across her lap, hidden a bit by the porch rail. Two quart jars of white lightning sat on the dinner table, along with a plate of yesterday’s persimmon cookies and a big bowl of apples.

Pa had his Remington under his arm, standing on the porch steps, and he could see Ma had her Smith and Wesson .38 long barrel visibly tucked into her waistband. For a God-fearing woman she was a dead shot with that thing, he knew. Jimmy retrieved his pride and joy, a .308 Browning lever-action rifle, from inside the front door. With a magazine that held ten of the heavy rounds, he knew he could knock down an equal number of targets in quick succession.

Around the last bend came a truck, and not a mere pickup; he saw a flatbed two-ton fitted with slatted sides, a dozen men packed into it. All of them wore the deep-blue Unionist shirts with black armbands, those points-down red tridents emblazoned upon them. As soon as the truck stopped in a cloud of dust, the men jumped out, one of them with chevrons yelling orders as if they were all in the Army. He took three men with him and headed for the barn without asking permission. Klutz ran over to them, capering and barking with delight to have visitors.

Jimmy could see they carried a variety of weapons comparable to his family’s – shotguns, rifles, handguns. He recognized several from the meetings he had attended, especially their leader, who hopped out of the passenger seat. That one wore the double bars of a captain, though the last time he saw the man he had been a sergeant recently discharged from the National Guard. Guess he gave hisself a promotion, he chuckled to himself.

“Harry Whitcomb,” Jimmy said as the man walked forward hitching up his pants. “How you doin’ ol’ son?” He tucked his rifle in under his arm, but knew he could have it up and aimed in a flash.

Harry’s belly fell down over his waist despite being no more than thirty, and two .45 automatics depended from his gun belt, one on each side. He hooked his thumbs just inside the holsters with his palms resting on the closed flaps in implied threat.

“Don’t how-you-doin’ me, Jimmy. This here ain’t a social call.”

“I kin see that, Mister Whitcomb,” called Big Jim from the porch step. “What cause you got bringin’ all these armed fellers onto my land? Might wonder whether you’d done forgotten ’bout the arrangement me an’ yer pa have.”

“Now settle down, Big Jim. This here’s just precautionary, you might say.”

“P’cautionary about what?” Big Jim reached over a casual left hand to pick up a quart jar. Popping the top, he took a sip and smiled. “Drink?”

Harry licked his lips and shook his head. “We got orders to search the place.”

Big Jim shrugged and put the jar back down on the table. “Yer loss.”

“Whose orders?” Jimmy demanded, his temperature rising at the highhanded treatment of his father. Pa had called Harry “Mister” and the man had come back with “Big Jim,” as if Pa warn’t twelve years older and a respected man in these parts.

“Unionist party orders. We gotta check every place for Sickos and traitors hidin’ out.”

“Well, son,” Big Jim said with a frown – no more “Mister” – “your men kin check the farm all they want, long as they don’t mess with nothin’. Then you kin come inside and check the house. Then, since there ain’t nobody here that don’t belong, once you do that you can all have a nice drink and some cookies and be on your way.”

“I’ll check in my own way and in my own time, thank you,” Harry blustered.

A moment later he found himself frozen, staring at the wrong end of Big Jim’s 12-guage from a range of about six inches. Jimmy had never seen his pa move that fast. He raised his own rifle, jacking a round into the chamber with an audible clack, and aimed at the nearest of the bully-boys. Beside him, he sensed Jane and Sarah doing the same.

“You best tell your friends to keep them hands away from them firearms if’n you don’t want your brains spattered all over that truck o’ yours, Captain Whitcomb.” The way Pa said it made the word a sneer. “And ever’ one’ a us kin pick the eye out of a fly at fifty yards. I’ll bet you dollars to damnation ever’ one’ a y’all is down with a bullet in him before any o’ my family is even winged.” Stone-cold menace dripped from Pa’s every word, and a shiver ran down Jimmy’s spine.

“Stand down, boys, stand down,” Harry said, his voice squeaking. Those who held long guns made sure to point them at the ground; those with handguns holstered them, some with dropped jaws and nervous hands. Whitcomb himself showed a stain on his crotch that spread slowly down his trouser leg.

Big Jim continued, “Now each one’ a you boys is gonna walk over and put them weapons down in the truck bed, then go over there by the pear tree where I kin see y’all. And you,” he called loudly, “with the three men in the barn. The first shot and your boss is dead, y’hear? Come on outta there and nobody’s gonna get hurt.”

“Do it!” screamed Harry over his shoulder. His face ran with sweat.

Reluctantly the sergeant and the three men walked from the barn toward the house, to drop off their guns at the truck and stand over with the disarmed mob. Klutz, apparently sensing the tension, ran over to stand at Big Jim’s side.

“Jimmy, get Harry’s pistols,” Big Jim ordered, so the younger man plucked them from the holsters, carefully staying out of his father’s line of fire or background. “Toss ’em in the truck bed there.”

Once Jimmy had done that, Big Jim tucked the shotgun back under his arm, barrel pointed half-down. Then he put his left arm around the shaking Harry Whitcomb and walked him gently over to sit down at the porch table. He then slid the jar of hundred-proof over to the man and ordered, “Drink. You look like you could use a jolt.”

Harry reached for the jar with both hands and took a gulp, then another, his eyes never leaving Big Jim’s. “Thanks,” he rasped, moving as little as possible, like a mouse under the gaze of a snake.

“Now you see? No need for trouble here. We’re all friends, all local folks. We know how to work things out without comin’ onto one another’s land and scarin’ each other’s family. Why, I reckon your ma’d be plumb frightened out of her wits if a dozen boys come up on her little place with guns, don’t you think?” Big Jim’s eyes bored into Harry’s until shame joined fear on his face. “I don’t care what kinda p’litical party y’all are with now, that don’t do away with common courtesy, now does it?”

Harry shook his head miserably, looking more like a bashful little boy all the time.

“Take another drink there, Harry. Now, I ain’t gonna hold this against ya. I ain’t even gonna tell your pa or, heaven forefend, your ma, ‘zackly how you jes’ acted. We’re jes’ gonna all have a nice drink and some cookies and forget this ever happened, ain’t we?” Big Jim patted Harry’s shoulder like he was his own son. Jimmy kept his eyes and rifle on the mob, but he couldn’t help a grin stealing onto his face.

“All right, Mister McConley. I ’pologize for comin’ up here like I did.” He took a deep breath and seemed to regain some composure. “But I still would like to take a quick look inside – just so’s I can rightly say I did it, you understand.”

“O’ course, Harry, o’ course you can. Tell your boys to come on over and have a swig and a cookie while you and I take a look inside.” Big Jim guided Harry up out of his chair, his large calloused hand never leaving the man’s shoulder, and on into the little farmhouse. “Look here; there’s Owen. You seen Owen before, ain’t ya? See, if’n them Sickos was around, if’n we’d got that disease, Owen’d be all different now, don’t ya think?”

“Sure, Mister McConley, you got the right of it.” Harry stared at Owen, who grunted and waved a twisted hand.

“Go ahead, Harry. Take a look in all the rooms, even the closets. You want a gander in the root cellar?”

“No sir, no, won’t be no need for that, Mister McConley,” Harry hastened to assure Big Jim. “Just had to truthfully say we checked, you understand.”

“O’ course, Harry. Oh, look at that.” Big Jim prodded a wooden box packed with straw. “There’s a case full’ a corn squeezins. I bet if you spread that around a bit, your boys’d forget all about this little…” Big Jim seemed to search for a word, “this little misstep on your part, as your mama’s cousin the sheriff might say.”

“Oh, yes sir,” Harry said eagerly, picking up the heavy box. It clinked as he hefted it, and the man unconsciously licked his lips.

“Jes’ don’t forget to bring one jar home for your folks,” Big Jim added as he followed Harry back out onto the front porch again.

By now the first two jars had almost been emptied, and every man had a couple of cookies or an apple, or both, in his hands, bashfully munching away under the stern gaze of the McConley matriarch. One of the men was actually trying to start a conversation with Jane, who seemed to be struggling not to smile. When Harry showed them the box full of moonshine, they gave a cheer, and the mood changed in a moment from uncertain to festive.

“All right you boys, git on up in that flatbed there and head back on down the mountain,” Big Jim said with an expansive smile, but never letting go of his shotgun. “Our poor ol’ hearts had jes’ about enough excitement for one day.”

The group turned as one for their vehicle, some mumbling thanks and goodbyes. Jane winked at the one she’d talked to, and he blushed. Everyone else waved as they drove out of sight, forcing good cheer onto their faces all the way.

Then they all collapsed into chairs. Sarah laid her pistol down on the table and clutched her knees. Jimmy whooped, and then put the rifle safety on, leaning the weapon against the rail. Big Jim set his shotgun back in the corner where it usually stood. Jane unloaded her .22 with practiced fingers, hardly bothering to look at the mechanism, a cold expression on her face that belied her flirting a moment before.

Owen gave an inarticulate cry from inside, and Klutz wuffed. Jane hastened to roll the boy out onto the porch, which seemed to content him.

“Sarah darlin’, I believe I’d like a drink. We got another jar somewheres?”

“Yes, James, we do.” Not even a hint of her usual disapproval colored her voice this time, and when she brought back the jar, she poured a healthy slug into a water glass and drank it down herself. “For medicinal purposes,” she explained, deadpan.

Big Jim wisely said nothing as he took a gulp, then passed the container to Jimmy.

“Oh, Lord. Jill!” Jimmy cried suddenly, jumping to his feet.

“Settle down now, son. Another few minutes in the hide won’t matter. Let’s make sure they don’t talk themselves into tearin’ back up here to have another go at us. I don’t think they will, but shame kin do funny things to a man, once he’s not under the gun anymore.”

Jimmy sat back down, but fidgeted ceaselessly for long minutes. Finally Big Jim said, “Son, you go take the old pickup down to the end of the drive,” – that was more than three miles, ten minutes at normal speed – “and take a look, make sure they really left. If’n ya see hide nor hair of ’em, you hightail it back. Bail out if’n ya have to, leave the truck. Ain’t nobody gonna catch you on our own land. I’ll see to Jill.”

“Yes, Pa,” he responded eagerly. Probably just giving me something to do, he thought, but he did not care, and he grabbed his rifle and the ignition key off the hook inside the door and ran for the pickup truck.

By the time he got back, Jill and Big Jim and Jane and Owen were sitting on the porch. “No sign of ’em,” Jimmy called as he hopped out.

“Let’s hope they learnt their lesson,” Big Jim rumbled.

“For now,” Sarah said, bringing out another pitcher of lemonade. “Evil’s got them boys, and no amount of shamin’s gonna make it stick.”

“Aw, Ma, they ain’t so bad,” Jimmy protested.

“Not by theirselfs they ain’t, but they’s like a pack of big stupid dogs. They will tear apart whatever their master Satan tells them to, and don’t you forget it, James Aaron McConley Junior.” Sarah shook a wooden spoon at her son for emphasis. “It don’t take much for the Devil to lead the weak-minded and unbelieving into the ways of Hades, and I ain’t talkin’ about a bit o’ fornicatin’. I’m talkin’ about beatin’ and rapin’ and killin’ and burnin’ folks out, you mark my words.”

“Ma!” Jimmy was appalled at his mother’s diatribe, which made it all the more powerful in his mind.

Big Jim spoke. “All right now, Sarah dear. That scare they had oughta hold ’em for a while, and I’ll go over tomorrow and talk to Tom Whitcomb. Give him a kindlier version o’ what happened, make sure it don’t happen again. Remind him if’n he wants his corn juice, me and mine got to be left alone.” He nodded to himself as he took out his pipe and pouch.

“I’m so sorry this happened, Mister McConley,” Jill said.

“Don’t you ‘Mister McConley’ me, girl. You’re family, just like my own.” He smiled at her and tears came into her eyes. “Wouldn’t anythin’ been different had you been here or not.”

“But I do have to go as soon as my feet are healed up. Being here puts you all in danger.”

Sarah put a hand on Jill’s arm. “You stay as long as you need to, and go when you must, Miss Jill.” Klutz’s tail agreed with her.

Chapter Five

Late summer turned to peaceful autumn on the McConley farm. The air breezed crisp as leaves reddened and yellowed, and the family lit a fire in the hearth for the first time that year. The ever-present knot inside Jill’s stomach finally loosened itself as she began to feel whole again.

Literally.

She stared at her feet every morning, watching them turn from buds to baby appendages to strange gnarled troll limbs, eventually to something that really belonged to her. Every day she gingerly tested them out, putting a bit of weight on them until the pain told her to stop.

One day she let go of all support and stood.

Victory! she crowed inside, but remained stoic on the surface. Standing wasn’t running, and no matter how many pull-up and sit-ups and careful push-ups with her shins braced on a padded railroad tie she did, she wouldn’t be whole until she could run.

Once her routine had consisted of thirty to fifty kilometers, three days a week, and ten just to keep limber on the off days, interspersed with lots of swimming and bicycling. She’d swum in the creek’s deep pool in the back, and it felt good to eel under the water with all four limbs moving freely, but it was still nothing like training, nothing like being really fit and at the top of her ability.

The first time she’d walked from the barn to the house the family had stared, then burst into raucous cheers. They’d hugged her and congratulated her, though Jane had started to cry, and Jimmy had looked a bit distressed.

They know this means I’ll leave soon.

Jill had gently kept the young man at arm’s length, for reasons both practical and intangible. She had no birth control pills anymore, and even if she had, who knew whether they would be effective with the Eden Plague dominating her body’s metabolism? Other methods might have worked, but it was just safer to simply put the whole thing on hold. She liked Jimmy and before the world went mad she probably would have been happy for a roll in the hay, but now, things had changed.

Before, she probably wouldn’t have thought much about the emotional consequences to such a short-term fling. Now, she thought of the heartache getting in deep and then running off would cause them all, and she just couldn’t do it. If everything worked out, and she came back, perhaps…

It wasn’t long before Jill could take short hikes, with boots laced tight to give the new feet support. Her muscles strengthened rapidly, far more quickly than she expected. It has to be the Eden Plague, she thought. Building muscle was a process of tearing and healing, and no matter how hard she trained, she healed overnight…as long as she got food.

One morning Jimmy invited himself along. He carried his rifle and a wanderer’s bag slung over his shoulder. “Got some things ta show you,” he said with a secretive grin. Jill found herself returning the expression, filled with the sheer joy of healthy physical movement. “Klutz, stay!” Jimmy ordered as they set out, leaving the dog standing forlornly on the porch.

Up the hill behind the house they went, then wended their way into what the locals called mountains. Having grown up near the southern tip of the Sierras and having seen the Afghan heights, Jill thought this branch of the Appalachians barely qualified, but they were rugged, thickly forested, and confusing to anyone who didn’t know them well.

After four or five miles he led her up a steep hillside to a forested ledge that concealed a deep dell with a stream and a pond. Pulling aside brambles, he showed her an opening in the hillside, then entered it. He pulled out a flashlight and handed her another, both modern long-lasting LED models.

Switching them on, they proceeded into the side of the mountain, up a twisting cave that after a hundred yards debouched into a cavern with a still, shallow pool. Inside, Jill saw a dozen large waterproof plastic bins and twice as many small closed barrels. “Supplies,” Jimmy said. “Enough to keep us goin’ for a while.”

‘How long have you had this here?” Jill asked curiously, lifting the lid on one of the bins. It was packed tight with cans of lantern fuel.

“Oh, the cave is an old McConley secret. Pa and I brung this stuff up here after the first nukes went off. Took us a couple a’ dozen trips, too. Only time I’d a wished we kept horses, or maybe mules. But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Jill almost asked him why they’d never said anything about this place before, but stopped herself, because the answer was obvious to the practical-minded: there was nothing to be gained by her knowing, and what she didn’t know, she couldn’t tell if she was questioned.

“Come on.” Jimmy led her into one of several tunnels, all of which showed signs of having been worked – the floors smoothed, corners rounded, protrusions broken off to make for easier transit. The one into which they walked led upward, twisting and turning. At one place they had to wiggle through on their bellies.

“There’s more tunnels than I ever explored, and five or six exits that I know about,” he explained. “D’pendin’ on how hard we was pressed, we could live here for a while an’ come out later, or keep on goin’ up into the higher country. But you’ll like this.” After fifty yards of relatively flat easy tunnel, they emerged into another cavern, larger than the one below.

A stream ran through this one, into and out of a pool, exiting in a rush down a dark hole at the lower edge, but that wasn’t the most interesting aspect of the cave. Along one side sat what was obviously a moonshine still, though Jill had never actually seen one. Big kettles and copper tubing, propane tanks, tubs and buckets and jars. Boxes rested on shelves, along with all sorts of other implements and items whose function she could only vaguely guess at. A metal pipe ran up into the ceiling, for a chimney, she thought.

“I don’t imagine you carried all this up from below,” Jill remarked.

“Nope.” Jimmy walked across the floor, crunching gravel beneath his boots, and pulled back a heavy canvas curtain that covered an opening. On the other side she could see a short tunnel and sunlight through a screen of bushes. “There’s an old mining road that runs nearby, that we can get up with a truck if’n you know the way. If’n we just need to come up to work it, we walk. Don’t make but thirty or forty gallons a month. We’s careful, and we ain’t greedy, but it brings in some extra cash, and lubricates some dealins.”

“I reckon so,” Jill replied, looking around at the arrangement. “I never knew people could…” she ran out of words. “This seems like we just traveled back a century – bootleggers and revenuers, Prohibition. Now it’s just…quaint.”

“Guess so. On the other hand…” Jimmy pulled back another curtain along the rock wall, revealing another room. He waved Jill forward to look.

Inside she saw a small office, with bookshelves – and a computer. It was outdated, certainly, perhaps fifteen years old, but a cable and its power cord ran around the base of the wall and out the door, from there hidden by duct tape and dirt. Jill turned to Jimmy and punched him in the arm. “You’ve been holding out on me! You aren’t such a simple hick after all!”

“Never said I was. Pa says it’s always better to have people underestimate you. One way to do that is to adopt the dialect of the simpler folk around you.” While his accent had not diminished, his diction had abruptly improved.

Jill’s jaw dropped. “Wow. What else don’t I know about you?”

“A fair bit, but that’s as may be. The next question you’ll ask is ‘why.’ Pa wanted to keep our upbringing and lifestyle simple, oriented around our family and hard work. He wanted us to use machines, not have them use us. So he kept the high-tech stuff up here. We got an antenna that gives us access to the internet through cell networks, we got a water-powered wheel and generator, also a gas generator and a battery bank, and some solar cells in a hard-to-see spot up top. We got television too. Makes workin’ the still less of a chore.”

“I’m flabbergasted.” Jill waved her arms helplessly. “You just upended my world, Jimmy.”

He stepped closer, looking into her brown eyes. “Enough to give me a chance? Now that you know I’m not just a dumb hillbilly?”

“What? Oh…no. I never thought that.” Did I? She reached out to place her hands on his shoulders, but more to keep him there than to draw him closer. “Look, Jimmy, it’s just terrible timing. I’m going to go soon, to try to see if my family is…is still even alive. That means leaving. If I make it back here…then I promise I’ll give you a chance. Give us a chance. Okay?”

Jimmy nodded slowly, pain and frustration in his blue eyes. “Okay…but you said you ain’t even seen them since you joined the Corps. All you did is e-mail. How come you suddenly can’t stand not to travel across the whole country? And if you get caught, you’ll end up in some cell somewhere and…what’s the point? Why not just stay here? We’re your family now!”

Even though she wanted to take Jimmy in her arms, Jill shoved herself away from him with a flick of her wrists. “I can’t explain it any better than I already have. It’s just something I have to do. Now I told you I’d come back when I could, and you’ll just have to be patient. If this Eden Plague thing is really like the rumors say, we’ll live hundreds of years and not get old, so we both have time. Time for things to change. Time for people to come to their senses, and get used to us Sickos. Time to figure out that we’re still the same people, just a little bit kinder, a little bit smarter, and a lot more durable. Now let’s please quit talking about it, all right?”

He sighed and turned away. “All right.”

Crestfallen was a weak word for how Jimmy looked, but Jill told herself that it had to be said, and it had to be done. Giving in now to the way she felt, or might have felt, would just complicate things, and she would never be sure that it wasn’t just fear and stress and the supercharging Eden Plague underpinning everything, rather than love.

“Come on, Jimmy. I’m not saying ‘no,’ just ‘wait’.”

“Ha. That’s how Ma says God answers prayers when you ain’t ready for what you want.”

Jill laughed gently. “Your mother is a wise woman, I think.” She turned toward the computer. “Can you turn this on? I’d love to see what was going on in the outside world.”

“No, sorry. It’s too dangerous. It piggybacks on a cell phone tower signal, or somesuch. We have to only use it from time to time, and not too much, or the phone company might think it’s worth their time to track us down. Next time we fire it up, though, you can.”

“All right.” Jill looked wistfully one more time at the old machine, then said, “Come on, let’s get back…unless you have more amazing revelations.”

“No, no Revelations, unless it’s the Apocalypse already.”

“Was that a joke?” Jill slapped Jimmy on the shoulder.

“A lame one. Here, let’s go outside and eat.” He led her through the curtain, down the short tunnel past more screening bushes and onto a wooded mountainside. Finding a spot in the sun on some rocks, he took off the satchel he carried and handed her a chicken salad sandwich.

Homemade mayonnaise and chopped pickles on fresh-baked bread made it the best meal she’d ever had, except for every other meal since arriving at the McConleys. Real hunger, not the pale imitation the average office worker experienced, was truly the most amazing flavor enhancer. She washed it down with spring water from her canteen.

Jimmy pointed to the left and downward after he’d finished his first sandwich. “See? There’s the mining road. The trick is to make the cutover hard to see. You have to actually go above and past it a hunnerd yards, turn around at a wide spot, and come back. Then you can see it easier, but we allas brush out the tracks and spread some fallen branches. Nobody found it yet. But on foot, we go that way.” Jimmy then gestured to the right along the grade, at a faint trail.

Jill nodded, peering archly at the satchel. “What else you got in there?”

“Got ’nother sandwich, some apples, a half-dozen oatmeal cookies. That oughta hold us until we get back for lunch.”

“Oughta.” Jill chuckled again, reaching for more food. Once they had finished everything, they set off down the mountainside.

Eventually the trail rejoined the one they had originally come up. Jill turned to orient herself and thought she could see where the hidden ledge and dell must be, but even so, she couldn’t pinpoint it.

“Right there,” Jimmy said, pointing it out as he came back to stand beside her.

His arm brushed hers and she shivered with suppressed pleasure in the cool autumn breeze. Not yet, she scolded herself yet again, and patted his shoulder absently. “Come on, let’s go,” Jill said. “There’s work to be done, and then I want to take a swim.”

“Sounds good. Race ya down!” Abruptly Jimmy took off down the slope, satchel flapping, rifle in one big hand. Jill followed, whooping, and trying to figure out how she could beat him. The only thing she could think of to do was stay close so as not to lose the track, and then try to sprint past him to the finish.

Several miles of heart-pounding trail running later they crested the final hill and the farm came in sight. Jimmy slowed in front of Jill and put an arm out to prevent her from running past, and then he pulled her aside under the trees. “Wait. Something’s not right.” He jacked a round into the chamber of his lever-action .308 and glided forward to a position overlooking the homestead.

From almost four hundred yards, their perfected Eden vision allowed them to easily see a truck and an SUV parked next to the family’s two pickup trucks. At least a dozen figures in black uniforms were spread out, looking around. They appeared different from the Unionists, with helmets, standardized weapons, and no armbands.

Searching, perhaps.

Jimmy surged forward, jogging down the path, rifle at the ready. “Wait,” Jill said urgently. “We have to make a plan.”

“We gotta get close enough to see what’s going on,” he replied, slowing to a fast walk. “If they’re just looking for moonshine or doing a routine search, we’ll wait it out.”

“And if not?”

Jimmy stopped to turn and look at Jill. “We do what we gotta do. You okay with that?”

Jill nodded. “Yes. We can’t let your family be taken away. But Jimmy…I’ve been thinking about this for a while. First, the Eden Plague will heal us if we don’t get hit too bad. I’m tactically trained. You’re not. You’re a fine shot but you don’t have the honed instincts for close combat, so you are going to take up the best position you can a hundred yards out. You know this area, so you pick a good spot. Then I go in.”

“And then?”

“I’ll sneak into the barn and get my weapons, or I’ll take one of them down and use his. You watch me the whole way in. If they spot me and I make this hand signal,” she pointed her finger and thumb like a child pretending to have a gun, “then you shoot, center mass low, and you keep shooting as long as you have targets. Don’t get fancy and try to go for head or weapon shots.”

Jimmy angrily replied, “At a hundred yards I can put one through an eye!”

Jill grabbed his arm and shook it. “Shooting human beings isn’t like plinking bottles, or even killing a deer. The first time your gut really knows that you just ended a human life, you’ll find it a whole hell of a lot harder to pull the trigger. So you try to think of them as targets, not people, and shoot center mass, low. They might have chest plates, and under stress you’ll tend to pull high, so it’s always better to put one into the dirt than to go over; at least it will scare the shit out of them. Got me?”

“I got you.” He jerked his arm resentfully away.

“Don’t go all testosterone on me, Jimmy. This is my job, and I’m damn good at it. Now you have to do yours like a pro. Be patient. Be cool, don’t panic, and when you shoot, shoot straight.”

“Okay!”

“Okay. Good luck.” Without further words, she turned to scurry forward, low through the light woods and brush that surrounded the farm. Up ahead she heard Klutz barking, an angry sound.

As she approached, she could see one man looking over the pigpen fence. He jerked back at something inside. If Jill knew the old sow, she’d lunged at him. She didn’t like strangers getting near her half-grown offspring.

Using the distraction, she crept forward with all her skill. She could now see the man’s uniform was jet black, with the American flag on both shoulders. His appearance seemed neat and military, unlike the local party thugs who had visited them before. Their trucks looked uniform as well, painted with unit numbers, a government crest of some sort, and the words “Security Service.”

She’d heard about this new paramilitary, formed by an expansion and reorganization of the Department of Homeland Security. How they could not see the irony of calling something that would inevitably be nicknamed SS was beyond her. Perhaps that just spoke to their fanaticism and ideological blindness. From what she could tell, the far left and the far right had both gone around the bend to the other side and met in the middle, and this was the result.

Four SS men stood near the trucks, between the barn and the house. Owen, Big Jim and Sarah sat on the front porch, two guards behind them. Another, apparently an officer by his dress and demeanor, seemed to be questioning them. Jane should be coming home from school soon, walking up the three miles from the main road where the bus picked her up. Jill hoped she spotted the men and would stay out of sight.

For now, she decided to watch and wait. Maybe, if they were lucky, the detachment would go away after asking their questions.

Or not. It didn’t take long for their methods to reveal themselves.

She watched the officer ostentatiously slip on a pair of black gloves, and then he struck. Not Big Jim, not Sarah even.

Owen.

He backhanded the boy across the face, flinging a spray of blood. Owen howled and held up ineffectual arms to cover his head. Big Jim surged out of his chair, only to be clubbed down by rifle butts. Sarah threw herself on her husband, and she was clubbed in turn, until the officer yelled for them to halt. Klutz sank his teeth into the officer’s leg, and one of the others reversed his assault rifle and shot the dog, who dropped onto the porch as if poleaxed.

So that’s the way it is, she thought, and clamped down on her sudden rage. I hope to hell Jimmy doesn’t start shooting. Unless they kill someone, they can always get the Plague and be healed. But I can’t just stand here. I have to acquire the tools I need, if we’re going to go up against ten to one odds.

Drawing her combat knife, the one she’d kept in her boot through all of her adventures, she did something she’d thought about, even tested. She ran the blade down her forearm, creating a shallow slash, and wiped the profuse bleeding all over the blade like spackle on a trowel.

She knew the arm would heal within moments, and now the weapon she might have to use on someone was coated with her fluids – filled with the Eden Plague. Everyone she stabbed would eventually heal, easing her conscience about the danger of killing – and would also produce more Plague carriers. In essence, it would force them to defect, or be interned as well, draining the resources of the fascists.

It was far better than killing them, really, no matter what her outrage told her.

With knife in hand, Jill eased forward in a combat crouch, freezing when the man turned toward her, moving when he turned away. It appeared as if he had been placed to watch this sector, but had made the cardinal error of getting out of sight of his fellows. There couldn’t be more than twenty SS here, not enough to really cover the whole perimeter.

When she got as close as she could, behind the last screen of bushes, she took a deep breath, waited until the man turned away, then rushed him silently.

As a cop, she’d never stabbed anyone before. All of her blade work had been theoretical, or defensive, aimed solely at disarming a knife-wielding attacker. She’d heard that a straight blade to the kidney was ideal to incapacitate. The pain and shock involved usually paralyzed the diaphragm for long enough to finish the man off, lethally or not.

At the last moment she realized that the man had a vest on beneath his shirt – a thin one, undoubtedly just enough to stop pistol rounds, but it would likely turn her blade. In a split second she changed tactics, bringing her hands together to grip the knife’s hilt with both. She lifted it and brought the pommel down on the back of the man’s neck, just to the right of the spine, beneath his helmet.

He staggered and fell, letting out a low grunt, and she leaped on him with both knees. Adrenaline surged through her and she swung double-handed at his neck and face, trying to knock him out. She couldn’t think of anything else to do.

It took her four blows, and he was bloody and breathing shallowly when she finished. Ugly and poorly done, she thought, and suppressed a wave of nausea. She’d killed before, with an assault rifle, fending off insurgent attacks on US training and assistance forces, but it was never this close up and personal.

She found she really did not want him to die. He was a fellow American, misguided perhaps, but probably not evil. Just a grunt. So she did what she had intended before, and sliced him shallowly, on his forearm, twin to her own wounds. Hopefully that would transmit the Eden Plague.

Quickly she dragged the man inside the barn out of sight before running back out to retrieve his assault rifle. The odds just got a lot more even in Jill’s book. She made a big come in gesture toward where Jimmy should be, then went back to the fallen trooper and began to strip off his clothes.

By the time she had his black pants and tunic off, Jimmy slipped inside the barn. “I’m too big for those,” he whispered.

“Not for you. For me.” She pulled the trousers on over her own, bloused them in the boots with their strings, then donned the man’s armor vest and tunic. Everything was large, but by cinching up the belt she made it fit. Fortunately she had pinned her hair up for the hike so once she put the helmet and equipment harness on, she made a fair imitation of an SS trooper.

She hoped.

“Did you see what they did to Owen and Ma and Pa?” Jimmy asked, his voice anguished.

“Yes. So we take them down. That means keeping cool. We can give them all the Plague and they will heal up. Just keep that in mind.” Jill reached down to smear some dirt from the barn floor on her chin and face.

“Right.” He squeezed his Browning and looked around furtively, unsure.

Jill ordered, “Go up to the loft and toss me down the .45. Keep the shotgun up there with you. Take a sniper’s position back as far from the window as you can while still able to see your targets. Keep moving from position to position. That way they won’t be able to pinpoint you.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked in a hoarse whisper from the top of the ladder.

“Don’t whisper,” she said in a low tone. “It carries farther than a quiet voice. I’m going to walk out into the open and take down as many of them as I can, by surprise. As soon as I start shooting, you pick off any target you see, especially those behind me. Center mass low, remember? Right in the gut is the best thing, okay?”

“Okay.” He turned away and retrieved her weapons hidden in the loft, tossing the .45 and two full magazines down. She thrust the pistol into the back of her waistband and dropped the ammo into her left front pants pocket. Then she cleaned off her knife, slipped it back into its sheath and eased over to look out across the farm.

Jill would never even have considered what she was planning if she hadn’t known the Eden Plague would give her an edge. Even if they ended up in a draw, with everyone shot and wounded, she and Jimmy would recover rapidly, while the SS men wouldn’t. She performed a slow scan, fixing everyone’s position in her mind, and then called softly up, “Here I go.”

Stepping out the back of the barn, she popped open the ammo pouches on her captured harness, tucking the covers back out of the way and making sure the magazines were loose and handy. A standard load of six thirty-rounders, plus the one in the weapon, gave her two hundred ten rounds. More than enough.

She held her captured assault rifle casually pointed down, but with her hands in position on the grips, and strolled around the corner of the barn. Helmet tipped down, she looked out from beneath its rim, opening her mind and eyes to the positions of her targets, just like on the tactical range.

Targets. That’s all they are.

“Hey, Smitty, you look shitty,” someone called in her direction. That was the signal; in a moment they would recognize that Jill was not Smitty. She brought her weapon up, flipping the selector lever to Fire with her thumb, and shot the speaker just below his visible chest plate.

Before he hit the ground, she took down two more standing near him, pop – pop. Working outward and moving rightward in a tactical crouch, she circled the trucks and shot the fourth man in the leg as he tried to take cover, then drilled him in the back as he fell.

With the four at the vehicles out of the way she turned toward the house, scurrying forward, rifle locked to her shoulder, eyes open looking over her sights. A bullet flicked at her heel. Jill barely noted heavy .308 shots sound from the barn; she had to trust Jimmy to keep them off her back.

In front of her on the porch, three standing targets and three prone friendlies occupied her arc of fire. The leftmost target aimed a rifle her direction and fired just as she did. Her shot took the man in the stomach, the high-velocity rifle bullet punching through his vest without difficulty.

His shot struck her in the center of her forehead.

Unlike the vests, the helmet she wore was made to stop assault rifle bullets up to 7.62mm, and so it saved Jill’s life. Her head snapped up with the impact and she fell onto her back, instinctively flattening and rolling, trying to regain some kind of firing position. Rounds from target two kicked dirt around her as she scrambled under one of the McConley pickup trucks, then recovered her feet on the other side. Bullets slammed into the sheet metal and smashed through the vehicle’s windows.

Using one of the vehicle’s side mirrors, she saw target two fall, his head exploding as one of Jimmy’s precision shots rang out. Whether he was showing off, or merely had forgotten her instructions, she had no time to wonder. She turned to scan behind her toward the woods, just in time to see Jane, in a flowered frock and tennis shoes, club an SS trooper down with a tree branch. He’d been aiming at Jill.

Jill waved her emphatically back. “Keep to cover, Jane!” she yelled, the need for secrecy long over. Jane nodded and slipped back into the bushes with her improvised weapon.

Checking the mirror again, she saw the SS officer drag Sarah to her feet and, using her as a shield, backed into the house. Big Jim stirred on the floor, and Owen sobbed in his wheelchair.

About half of the possible twenty troopers had been taken down, Jill believed. Now she had a hostage situation, but could not wait it out. The officer might have a radio or satphone, and she couldn’t allow him to regroup his men.

Only one thing for it. She charged the house.

He couldn’t control Sarah and engage Jill effectively with a pistol. Her vest and helmet and the Eden Plague gave her an edge. As long as she didn’t get shot in the face, she should be able to take the man down.

Two handgun rounds struck her as she rushed through the death funnel of the doorway. One hit her vest like a punch to the chest, hardly noticed due to adrenaline and concentration. The other burned hot fire along her thigh, a nasty flesh wound.

Inside, the officer had his left arm encircling Sarah’s neck, while his right pointed his pistol at Jill. Most attackers would have ducked behind something and looked for a shot, hoping to get the hostage-taker to run himself out of ammo. With her advantages, though, she’d already decided on a different course.

Spiraling to her left and forward, she advanced quickly with her rifle sights fixed on the man’s exposed right shoulder. He fired one more time, and the shot took a piece of Jill’s right ear off.

Then she had him.

From two feet away, impossible to miss, Jill’s bullet shattered his exposed right shoulder joint. Shock and pain caused him to drop his pistol and Sarah both, and as soon as he was clear, she put another round into his stomach. Then she kicked him in the head, ensuring he was out.

Checking Sarah, she saw that the older woman was incoherent and concussed, with one pupil dilated huge, so Jill did what she had planned, if it ever came to this.

With her left hand, she smeared her fingertips into her thigh wound, coating them with ichor. Then she stuck one of them in Sarah’s mouth. Disgusting, perhaps, but if the rumors were true, her blood contained even more of the virus than her saliva, and one good kiss had passed it to Jimmy. This should infect the older woman, and perhaps save her life.

She did the same with the unconscious officer, then scuttled over to the front door. Big Jim looked at her from floor level, still stunned, but he had begun grimly crawling toward the entrance. Jill grabbed his collar and dragged him inside, then fed him a taste of her blood as well.

Next, she grabbed Klutz and dragged him inside. He still breathed, and she shoved a bloody hand between his teeth to coat his tongue. She had no idea if the Eden Plague worked on animals, but it seemed worth a try. Then she stood up and went back to work.

Scanning quickly outside, she spotted two troopers moving toward the barn, left and right, closing in on a flurry of gunfire inside it. Odds were that the remaining SS men would focus on the sniper that was picking them off one by one, and so now it appeared Jill was on the outside of the action, looking in.

Aiming carefully, she popped the one on the left, seeing him fall. Swinging right, she fired but missed her right-side target as he dove forward. A moment later he was out of sight behind the barn.

Using the reprieve, she grabbed Owen’s wheelchair and rolled the crying boy into the house. She saw that Big Jim seemed aware, if badly injured. She kicked the half-conscious SS officer in the side of the head again to make sure he wouldn’t cause any more trouble, and then relieved him of his belt that carried several leather cases, like a police officer would wear.

One case held handcuffs, with which she expertly cuffed the officer’s hands behind his back. Another held a walkie radio, which she slipped into a pocket. Then she extracted two magazines and retrieved the fallen man’s pistol from the floor, pressing the weapon and ammo into Big Jim’s hands.

“I have to go finish them off,” Jill said to her surrogate father.

Big Jim nodded, taking the weapon. “Go,” he grunted hoarsely. “Kill the bastards.”

Jill nodded, though she wasn’t going to follow his wishes; at least, not intentionally. The rumored virtue effect must be damping down her sense of outrage and desire for revenge. It didn’t matter: leaving them alive and infected would be vengeance enough. That would consign them to being abused by the very system to which they had sold themselves.

Swapping in a full magazine, she set her assault rifle for three-round bursts. Now that her enemies were fully warned and waiting, firepower mattered more than surprise. Nearly as effective as fully automatic, this setting was far more controllable and gave her an easy way to track her ammo expenditure. She only had to count to ten as she fired off each thirty-rounder by threes, then drop the empty and insert the full one.

A look out the door showed movement in the trees to the right and left of the barn, but no clear targets. Intermittent firing continued, sounding like half a dozen weapons, maximum. Because Jane was somewhere to her left, she went out the back door and rightward, counterclockwise along the edge of the farm, hoping to flank and roll up the enemy.

Hang in there, Jimmy, I’m coming. Jill sprinted up the rows of vegetables, quickly entering the tree line, then turned left, resuming her gun-up tactical advance. Her thigh burned like fire, but it appeared only slightly impaired and already the bleeding had stopped. She’d also avoided the worst of the shock she should be feeling: Eden Plague again.

She mentally thanked her instructors for making her one of the best; these men, though competent enough, fought hardly better than the half-trained insurgents in the sandbox.

As Jill approached the barn she spotted two targets. One fired his rifle into the wall of the barn near one of the small loft windows. It appeared he had no target, but was just providing harassing fire. The other faced her direction, a very young man, eyes searching, and he spotted her movement just an instant later than she saw him.

She revised her estimate upward slightly – at least they were keeping rear security – even as she lined up on his lower torso and fired a burst. Her bullets dropped him and his weapon stuttered skyward on full auto. Twigs and leaves dropped around her as a dozen rounds sliced through the foliage above Jill’s head.

The other SS man was a veteran, she guessed; at least he did what it took to survive, dropping forward to the ground, out of sight in the bushes. Jill fired several bursts into the scrub to the left and right of his position as she cautiously advanced. He would have been smarter to keep watch himself, she thought, and let the kid fire into the barn.

Jill swung wider to her right, away from the barn, instinctively believing her opponent would not scramble toward that building with his other enemy inside. With her weapon at the left oblique she tried to anticipate his position, circling, circling…

There. A flash of dark movement. She expended the rest of her magazine and dropped down on one knee to reload, then resumed her advance. In a moment a leg came into view, moving slowly, painfully. Jill quickly swept her weapon through three hundred sixty degrees, checking around her, before rushing forward to see the wounded veteran, a man of perhaps thirty, pull a pistol from his thigh rig and try to point it in her direction.

Her cop instincts took over and she hissed, “Freeze!” When he failed to comply, she put a shot through his forearm, and the handgun jerked and fell into the dirt. He moaned and his head dropped back. It appeared he had been hit three or four times even before her last shot, and she mentally saluted him.

Tough bastard.

Rubbing the sticky blood around her healing thigh wound, she shoved some of it in the man’s mouth. In other circumstances she’d have bandaged him, tried to save him, but gunfire still stuttered from the barn and she had to come to Jimmy’s aid. This instinct was confirmed when the boom of a shotgun replaced the hard crack of the .308.

They must be getting close to him.

Reloading again, she hurried for the back of the barn, skirting the hog pen. A hole had been knocked in the heavy boards, and it appeared empty; mama pig must have gone berserk with the firing and smell of blood, and broken out with her yearlings.

One man stood in the back door of the barn, looking inward, and she shot him in the kidney. He dropped like a stone. Charging inside, she was just in time to witness a flurry of automatic fire from two men on the ground floor as another climbed the ladder.

Jill picked the man off the top of the rungs, then turned to blast the other two. She took down one before the other shot her in the chest, knocking her off her feet. Her assault rifle went flying. She felt like a mule had kicked her, her vision grayed, and she felt unable to breathe. Lung shot, she thought as she lay on her side, and, this is shock for sure. Apparently there were limits to what the Eden Plague could do, and she’d just found them.

She lay still, watching the remaining trooper approach her with rifle aimed at her head. Her only chance at this point was to seem nonthreatening, too wounded to fight back. “Hello,” she croaked, trying to put some femininity into her voice. “How’s the security business?”

Maybe he won’t shoot a woman, or at least he’ll underestimate me. Come on, Jimmy, now would be a good time to use that shotgun.

The hoped-for blast didn’t come. The SS trooper kicker her in the belly, then in the head, breaking the helmet strap and sending it flying. Her hair came loose of its bobby pins, but it didn’t seem as if the man cared about her gender. He kicked her again, and this time, she blacked out.

***

So close, she thought as she came to. One, maybe two guys left. Opening her eyes, she saw she was still in the barn, with her wrists fastened painfully to one of the supporting posts. The baling wired that confined her also cut off her circulation, and both hands seemed completely numb. It felt like the .45 in the back of her belt had been taken away, but at least she could breathe now. The Plague had done its work.

Whoever had tied her up must have thought she was not going anywhere, lung-shot and concussed. He would be coming back for her and the rest for sure, with reinforcements.

She also felt as if she was starving. Fortunately she had put on some fat during her enforced inactivity, but she felt it draining away as her body scoured itself for available materials and calories.

That was a secondary issue, though, compared to survival.

Jill began working at the wire, moving her arms and body in an attempt to bend the metal. Unlike rope, steel would fatigue if she could work it back and forth, twist it enough times. It would be a long tough job, but she knew she could eventually do it.

If she had enough time. She wondered where the last man had gone.

Someone appeared in the doorway. Jill tried to focus on whoever it was, and then realized she must be concussed, because her vision blurred and it appeared she was looking at an angel.

Then the figure stepped closer and out of the sunlight. “Jane,” Jill said with relief. “Get this wire off me. What happened to the rest of the security men?”

“A healthy one drug a couple wounded men into the smaller truck and drove hell-for-leather on down the road.” Jane dropped to her knees and began to unwrap the steel wire. “Even if they have a radio, we should still have at least fifteen minutes before anyone can get here, thirty if they don’t.”

“Unless they have helicopters. We have to get everyone away, up to the caves.”

Jane looked at her in surprise. “You know about them?”

“Jimmy showed me today. Good thing, too. Come on, hurry up.” As soon as she was free, she laboriously climbed the ladder with her feet and elbows, already knowing what she would find. If Jimmy had been able, he would have been the one setting her free.

Jill’s faint hope she would find him alive but incapacitated was dashed when she saw the young man’s head shattered on the loft floor like a dropped melon. One of the hundreds of bullets that had been fired blindly into the upper room had taken him down. It was just bad luck, and she let loose with a stream of profanity worthy of a drunken sailor, to cover the anguish she felt at his loss.

“Jill!” Jane cried. “What…is it Jimmy?” She began to climb the ladder, but Jill pushed her back down.

“Yes, and you don’t want to see. He’s dead for sure.” Jill stepped off the ladder and hugged the girl. “Leave him there as a testament, to show these people the price they’re going to pay for what they’re doing. Besides,” she said, picking up her fallen assault rifle, “there’s no time to mourn. We have to go now.”

The two ran across the yard, past the lone truck. Dead and wounded men littered the area, and Jill felt sick with reaction and the killing, more so than she had after similar firefights with insurgents. “Go see to your family, Jane. I tried to infect them with the Eden Plague.”

As Jane ran to the house, Jill took out her knife and gashed her left index finger’s tip, then methodically dripped blood into every man’s mouth she thought had a prayer of living. Though several were conscious, none resisted, watching her like mice in fear of a snake. “If you’re lucky, the Plague will take hold and you will live,” she announced loudly, “but I wouldn’t go self-reporting as Sickos if I were you.” She could think of no better punishment.

Jill turned toward the house, to see the McConleys emerging from it. Big Jim and Sarah stood and walked without difficulty it seemed, and Owen…did too. His eyes and his expression seemed clearer, and full of wonder. His parents each tightly held a hand, and the smiles on their faces contrasted strangely with their current plight.

“He’s getting better already, praise the Lord,” Sarah called when she saw the realization come over Jill.

“That’s great, Sarah,” she replied, “but we have to go to the caves, now. Get some walking shoes on and we have to get going.”

“She’s right,” Big Jim rumbled. “Jane, watch Owen. We’ll go in two minutes, out the back door.”

He led them inside, where he grabbed an old canvas bag and began throwing items into it – fresh food, a blanket, clothing, shoes and sundries. Sarah did the same with a pillowcase, handing one to Jill. Soon they all were laden with as much as they could carry.

“Let’s go,” Big Jim said, seeming stronger by the minute.

“What about Jimmy?” Sarah asked sharply. “Where is he?”

Jill and Big Jim exchanged saddened glances. She knew the big man had already figured it out. “Jimmy’s gone, Sarah darlin’,” Big Jim said gently, wrapping his wife up in his arms. “Him and Miss Jill done the best they could, but now we got to go.”

Silent tears leaked from Sarah’s eyes, but she nodded and picked up her load. “All right. I’m ready.”

“Then let’s get goin’. We’ll eat as soon as we’re out of sight.”

This reminded Jill of the sharp pain in her belly as her need for food made itself felt. She picked up the pitcher of lemonade that stood by the sink and drank as much as she could hold, easing the problem somewhat. She passed it around.

Owen spoke, suddenly. “Klutz,” he said, pointing at the faithful canine lying on the rough wooden floor, then sinking to his knees to cradle the dog’s head. His four-footed friend ran his tongue over the boy’s hand one final time, then he went slack with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Jill said, her voice cracking. “I guess the Plague doesn’t work on animals.” Owen began to cry softly. “We have to go,” she said. “We don’t have time. Whoever comes here will take care of Klutz.”

Jane pulled Owen away, speaking softly in his ear, and then they left out the back.

“Can’t we take a pickup?” Sarah asked.

“No,” Jill answered before Big Jim could. “They’ll follow fresh tire tracks, and if they get a helicopter up here they may find it. Much better to go on foot.”

Into the tree line they hiked, retracing Jill’s route as she flanked the barn. She detoured to take a look at the two men she’d shot there, finding the younger one staring sightlessly at the tree branches above. The older one, the veteran, was not where she’d left him, and she lifted her assault rifle, looking around. Hopefully he’d run off, or been one of the ones that got away.

“Stop,” she heard a man’s voice from behind her say.

Damn. Slowly she crouched and laid the assault rifle and the stuffed pillowcase on the ground, and then held her hands out to her sides before she turned.

The man sat propped against a tree, with brush on either side of him. She’d walked right past him, for he’d chosen his spot well. He held a rifle trained on her, braced on his knee.

The man looked to be in bad shape, Plague or no Plague, but his grip on the weapon was steady. “What did you do to me?” he asked. “I should be dead.”

“Would you rather be?” she retorted. “I gave you the Plague to save your life. You’re a Sicko now. An Eden. We’re the same, you and me. I am…I was a Marine. You’re a combat veteran; I can tell. Do you like what your country has become?”

“I’m not a traitor,” he ground out.

“Then shoot me. What’s stopping you? And then when your buddies return, they’ll lock you away, because they won’t see you anymore. All they’ll see is a Sicko. Just like every time this ever happens – Japs, Jews, blacks, Bosnians, ragheads – dehumanize the enemy, then round him up and murder him. Well I’m still human, and so are you.”

His mouth worked, then he turned the weapon away from her. “You got a point. So what now?”

“Right now you can let us go and take your chances, or you can come with us.”

“Jill!” Sarah said from behind her, where she and the rest of the McConleys had been watching the tableau. “We can’t trust him. And he killed my boy.” She burst into tears, falling to her knees with her pillowcase sack.

“Miss Jill is right,” Big Jim said to her as he squatted down. “Everyone with the Plague is now on our side. We’re all runaways together. We lost Jimmy. Maybe this man can help fill his shoes.” The older man stood up and stepped forward, dropping his sack and shifting his shotgun to his left hand. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Clayton, sir. John Clayton.” He rolled painfully to his feet, supporting himself on the tree he had been resting against, and stuck out his hand. “And I’m powerful sorry for my part in this. I know it’s no excuse, but…well, when the shooting starts, you shoot back at the guy shooting at you.”

Big Jim wiped his hand on his trousers for a moment, then set his jaw. “I understand, John. I forgive you.” He glanced at Sarah. “Jimmy’s mother’s gonna have a mite harder time, though.”

“I want him with us. Someone go get him,” Sarah wailed.

“We’ll do what we can,” Jill broke in. “We really have to go. Clayton, can you walk?”

“Not very well yet.” Clayton looked around. “Are there any more of us alive and infected?”

“Yes, back by the truck there are two or three.”

“I have to help them.”

“Dammit, we don’t have time,” Jill said.

“Just tell me where to go. We’ll follow after you.”

Jill cursed again, but fully understood the man’s loyalty to his brothers in arms. Turning to Big Jim, she said, “Go ahead. Jimmy showed me the cave. I’ll stay here with these men and lead them in. And we’ll take care of Jimmy.”

Big Jim nodded to her. “Give me that sack. You gather all the guns and ammo you can and bring everything with you, hear?”

“Got it, boss.” Jill agreed, grimly satisfied now that everyone’s goals aligned. She watched for a moment as the McConleys started the hike up to the caves, then turned to Clayton. “Come on, John. You got any rations in that truck? You’re gonna get damn hungry soon.”

She helped him limp back toward the mess in the center of the farm, leaving him to talk to his men when she realized the one Jane had clobbered hadn’t been dosed with the Plague. Fortunately he was still out, so a quick cut and a few drops of blood solved that problem. She dragged him back over to dump him with the rest.

Five SS troopers had survived to become Edens, including Clayton. One she recognized as the man who had shot Klutz. “You,” she said, pointing with her assault rifle. “You see this dog you killed?”

“Yeah,” he replied, clutching his healing stomach. “Sorry.”

“You want to stay to be interned, or you want to come with us?”

His mouth worked, and finally he said, “I’ll come with you.”

“Then here’s your penance. You’re gonna pick up that dead dog and carry it all the way up to our hideout, and when we get there, you’re gonna bury him in a nice grave so that a twelve year old boy can grieve properly. You got me, soldier?” At that moment Jill felt as close to troop abuse as she’d ever gotten, and he must have seen it in her eyes, for he lowered his own and nodded, clearly ashamed. He got up and began wrestling the ninety-pound corpse up onto his shoulders.

“All right, men,” Clayton spoke up. “Like the lady said, you can stay and get locked up, or you can come with us, because I’m going with her.”

The other three looked around at each other, then as one stood up from their resting positions. “We’ll go,” one said. The others nodded.

“Good. Then grab all the weapons and ammo you can carry and bring them to the barn. There’s one more thing I have to do.” Jill left them to their salvaging, walking resolutely over to the barn.

Inside lay two dead cows, and the barn cats were already sniffing around at the smell of fresh meat. Jill opened the henhouse and let out all the chickens, then did the same with the rabbit hutches, taking no more than a minute. Then she began breaking open hay bales and scattering the straw.

Next Jill steeled herself, and then climbed the ladder. She forced herself to look at him one more time, with the flies gathering already around the sticky, blood-soaked boards. Blinking back tears, she picked up his beloved Browning, and the shotgun he died clutching, and then backed down the ladder.

On the ground, she grabbed a fuel can and opened it, waiting for her little squad. Once they arrived laden with weapons and ammo, she upended the gasoline onto the straw, tossing it into the pile, then took another and began to lay a line of flammable liquid out the back of the barn. “Get on ahead of me,” she instructed, and when they were all a hundred feet away, she asked for a lighter.

A moment later, fire streaked toward the barn, sending the barn cats running. A muffled whump and a puff of smoke signaled the structure’s ignition. “Viking funeral,” she whispered. “Best I could do. Goodbye, Jimmy. Hope you find that Heaven your ma talked about.”

Less than a minute later, flames had engulfed the old wooden structure. “Come on, men. Even discounting your former buddies, the smoke will draw people from miles around.” Jill turned toward the hills. “Follow me,” she said.

Chapter Six

Four weeks later

Jill hugged Owen first, looking into his bright inquisitive eyes. “Be good, little brother,” she said.

“You too, Miss Jill,” he responded shyly. “Thanks again for letting me out.” She knew what he meant; out of the prison of his body, and his brain’s broken biology.

Jill said her goodbyes to each in turn: dour Sarah, smiling more now as the age lines fled from her face; gentle giant Big Jim, looking more like his dead son Jimmy every day; Jane, seemingly the least affected by the Plague, though at seventeen she had little to rejuvenate.

“Clayton.” Jill shook hands with the man who, with four of his fellows, formed the nucleus of a resistance cell in this area. They struck from the high hills and hidden valleys, stealing supplies, damaging military equipment, and infecting everyone they could.

“Reaper.” He smiled, his eyes less haunted now that he had come to terms with what he’d done, and Sarah had explicitly forgiven him. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to be the son she had lost. “We’re going to miss you.”

“Me too, but I can’t stay. I know it makes no sense up here,” she tapped her head, “but it makes sense in here.” She patted her heart. “I have to find out what happened to my family.”

“I know.” He squeezed her hand one final time and let it drop. “Good luck, and good hunting.”

“Not me,” she replied grimly. “I’ve killed enough for one lifetime. Anyway, I’m a cop at heart. I’m not cut out to be an insurgent. All I want to do is go back to being a cop, in an America that isn’t murdering its own people.”

“Too late, I think. We’ll have to fight the Unionists to bring the real USA back. When you’ve found out what you need to know…remember us, all right?”

“Yeah,” Jill replied. “I’ll do what I can, from wherever I’m at. And remember to get in touch with the contact I gave you. The person on the other end of that email is completely trustworthy. Helped me escape. Just remember what I said about avoiding keywords that the NSA might pick up on. They can’t read everyone’s email, so the trick is never to get flagged.”

Clayton nodded. “I got it. We got it. Now you have to get going, before these folks start bawling.” He looked a little teary himself.

Jill smiled one last time, hoisted her rucksack, and walked out of the cave into the Tennessee Appalachians. She consciously resisted the urge to look back, but sensed their loving eyes upon her until she was down the trail and out of sight.

Night fell as she walked, the sun lingering below the mountainous horizon, shedding a long twilight. After dark, the moon allowed her to see well enough, perfected Eden eyes picking out every root and rock. Eden ears heard every night cry, the hoot of owls, the piping of bats that normally only children could. Fully fuelled, her body felt like a smooth-running machine.

The trail she had planned took her through a series of lightly-populated areas, many of them state parks – Cove Lake, Frozen Head, Obed, Cumberland Mountain – eventually debouching near Huntsville, Alabama, nearly two hundred miles on foot. As long as she had food, though, she should be able to make twenty to forty miles a day, assuming she didn’t run into any trouble.

A stolen GPS would keep her on track, and a faked Security Service ID card should get her through anything but a high-level database check. She had food, fluids, and camping gear, and the burner phone she had bought so long ago.

The one thing she didn’t have was a gun. With her cover as an SS trooper on vacation, she might have been able to get away with it, but she had decided it was more risk than it was worth. Her combat knife would have to do.

She’d learned one lesson at least during the long swim from the cruise ship. Now her ruck and her pockets were packed with high-nutrition items – protein powders, nutrient bars, MRE packets, home-jerked deer meat, smoked fish and duck. She sincerely hoped that she would never feel that gut-ripping hunger ever again.

As she hiked, Jill wondered about the rest of the world. Apparently whole nations had embraced the Eden Plague, or at least, didn’t have the security apparatus to keep it under control. The poorer they were, the more likely that it spread like wildfire, becoming accomplished fact. Now formerly corrupt and terrifying places like the Congo and Zimbabwe, Sudan and Colombia and Rwanda, nearly overnight had become functioning nations. Without the load of medical costs, and with the Eden Plague’s virtue effect dramatically reducing corruption and crime, the only problem many countries now faced was food supply.

However, the world had always produced enough food. In most cases it was transportation, distribution and economics that caused shortages, and those issues remained. The world was still a long way from perfect, but it seemed like it was getting better, despite the tremendous disruptions, and resistance from the fearful elites.

They’re afraid of change, Jill realized. Afraid that disruptions in the markets and healthy, long-lived populations would erode their traditional power bases. Like the Unionists, reactionaries throughout the world are exploiting fear to maintain power.

She camped that day in an out-of-the-way nook in the mountains, with no fire and no tent, just some brush to hide her. Insects seldom bothered her, and she wondered if that was a Plague effect as well. Even if she did get bitten, the bites healed so fast they were no trouble.

Traveling by night and sleeping by day gave her a lot of time for similar thoughts. An earbud and a radio no bigger than her thumb let her pick up a lot of information, though most of it was obviously censored. Even so, some things leaked through.

The USA, even under the Unionists, still claimed to be a republic. The Constitution might be getting trampled, but it was not yet completely gone. Courageous judges, statesmen, clergy and legal organizations fought rearguard actions, trying to limit the tide of lies and fear sweeping aside citizens’ rights.

They seemed to be losing.

In the past months, tensions with the Chinese had run high, and the paranoid North Koreans launched a missile at Japan. Though shot down by interceptor missiles, Tokyo immediately revealed that it was even now assembling one hundred atomic warheads from secretly prepared components, and would defend itself with nuclear weapons if necessary.

Shortly after, seven more nuclear detonations occurred on American soil. Though blamed on terrorists, speculation ran rampant that some enemy state had supplied the bombs – China, Russia, or North Korea being the usual suspects.

The Unionists pushed for more Federal police powers, and the rump Democratic-Republican coalition, now joined out of sheer political necessity, was happy to oblige. More surveillance, more arrests without charges, more curtailment of rights naturally followed.

By the time Jill got to Huntsville, the USA had become a police state. Less than one year from Infection Day, the world had convulsed and remade itself, and most Americans didn’t care. They were too busy trying to keep food on the table, money in the bank and themselves above suspicion to be courageous.

Most people were sheep.

Jill remembered a resistance training exercise she had participated in. She and the rest of her MP platoon had been run through a prisoner-of-war scenario for three days.

Despite briefings, despite education, and despite knowing full well it was only a training exercise, many if not most of the troops had found themselves complying with their “captors” instructions in all things, with little question or resistance. Videos shown afterward had been eye-opening and embarrassing, as Marines seemed to make statements denigrating the United States, their officers, and everything they had sworn to uphold, with just a bit of trickery, persuasion, and selective video editing.

Why? Afterward, she had deduced the answer, the same answer: most people followed authority figures, especially if backed up by force and even the veneer of legitimacy. Add fear and misplaced patriotism and the recipe was complete, and no one was more susceptible to this seductive stew than young military troops, trained to follow orders.

In fact, in the exercise, she’d seen junior personnel ignore the lawful orders of their own officers and NCOs in favor of the “captors’” instructions, completely ignoring the Code of Conduct that they should have internalized. How much more likely was it they would follow despicable orders that proceeded from those same officers, whose careers, whose lives, or even whose families were threatened?

Jill understood. If the Corps was your family, what do you do when your family betrays the very things it is supposed to uphold and defend? Without another family, some kind of support system, what could one poor Marine, or soldier or sailor or airman, do?

Now she realized that, although she loved the Corps, the Corps did not love her. God might love her, if He existed the way Chaplain Forman believed. Her family might love her, and her new family, the McConleys, certainly did. Beyond that…she just didn’t know.

She made it two hundred miles in five days without trouble, traveling from sundown to sunup and a bit more. Park rangers generally did not walk trails at night. At most they might drive around and check campgrounds and scare the bears away. They were easy to avoid.

But near Huntsville, her luck ran out.

Jill had planned to make her way west by hitchhiking, by bus, or even perhaps by “borrowing” a government vehicle if she thought she could get away with it. The corridor between I-20 and I-40 seemed ideal; smaller state highways that would be watched less, perhaps, but still with a heavy presence of truckers.

This time she resolved not to let anyone get the drop on her. This time she was ready.

As so often happens, it was just bad luck that tripped Jill up. She’d made it to Monte Sano State Park overlooking the Rocket City of Huntsville – home of both the Marshall Space Flight Center and the Army’s Redstone Arsenal. As the sun came up over the Von Braun Astronomical Society’s observatory, a pickup truck with Alabama State markings came into view on the forested road.

Perhaps if she hadn’t been tired, been more alert, or if the park ranger had had her lights on, Jill would have had time to dash into the woods and hide, as she usually did. Then again, what was one more hiker in a state park?

Jill kept cool, nodding as the truck passed her going the other way. Her heart dropped and her adrenaline surged as it swung around to pull up next to her.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” called the middle-aged female ranger out her passenger window. “Can I ask what you’re doin’ here?”

Jill put on her best clueless smile. “Hiking?”

“The park is closed right now, ma’am. Been closed to the public for almost a month.” The woman stared at Jill with a strange mixture of suspicion and concern.

“All right. I’ll go back.” Jill made as if to turn around.

“Wait a minute, please,” the ranger called with a hint of authority in her voice. “Can I see some ID?”

“Sure,” Jill said with false cheerfulness, and dug out her fake SS card, handing it in the window across the passenger seat.

The park ranger looked it over front and back. Her face twisted sourly as she returned it. “Would have thought you’d have heard the advisories, Ms. Clayton. Or did you think just because you people control the processing center, you have the run of the park? Closed means closed.”

Jill hid her confusion. Obviously something was going on of which she was unaware, and she found herself in the middle of it. In any case it appeared the woman did not like the SS, which was a plus in Jill’s book.

“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” Jill replied. “I promise I’ll head right back out the way I came in.” She held out her hand for the ID.

“And what way was that?” The ranger’s face sharpened suspiciously, holding onto the card.

Jill realized she’d made an error, and tried to cover it with as much truth as possible, which she knew was always the best way to lie. “I’ve been hiking and traveling on leave, and my GPS led me to your lovely park. I’m sorry I intruded.” She changed her tone from apologetic to matter-of-fact. “Now I’m going to go. I don’t like to throw my weight around, but I am a federal agent and I don’t have to put up with harassment from fellow officers. Feel free to file a report. Now please return my ID card.” She gave the ranger her best no-nonsense stare, the one she reserved for stupid suspects who couldn’t follow simple instructions, holding out her hand insistently.

Instead of returning it, the woman’s face soured even further and she barked a vulgar expletive. Then she put the truck in gear and roared off, leaving Jill standing by the side of the road without the fake ID.

Shit. She’s going to take the ID card straight to her office, maybe her superiors, and report me, and it won’t be long before they figure out it’s a fake, but my picture is real. Then they’ll match biometrics and might come up with who I am…

It had been a calculated risk putting her own picture on the fake ID but she had seen no way around it. The photo they had used was as low-resolution as they could make it without arousing suspicion, and maybe that would slow them down, but she had to assume they would come up with her identity eventually, and her status in the federal military databases would change to “Deserter.”

With little idea of the park’s layout – the GPS did not provide much detail on such installations – Jill just had to make a judgment call. She wanted to go west down the mountain, to lose herself in the city of Huntsville, and she saw no reason to change that goal, except that she would have to somehow get past the closed park to do it. Skirting it north or south would lengthen her travel time. Unfortunately she had only a hazy idea of where she was and what the terrain looked like between here and there, so she decided to head straight on through in minimum time. With her triathlete’s fitness and Eden strength and speed, she could cover a lot of ground in under an hour; probably a lot more than the park ranger would expect.

Tightening the backpack’s padded hip belt and shoulder straps, she began to run as fast as she could down the road the truck had taken. She kept her eyes open for signs or buildings, and at the first fork in the road she kept right, away from where the signs indicated the park was. Presumably the park ranger had taken that road and even now had begun the process of petty revenge upon the uppity SS agent she’d accosted.

If she only knew.

Two minutes and half a mile later, Jill passed a road and a sign marking an exclusive mountainside housing tract. A late-model high-end SUV turned out from the drive and accelerated away in front of her. Already sloping slightly downward, the grade steepened, and soon she ran as fast as she ever had in her entire life, on the smooth asphalt surface. Only the pack thudding on her back hindered her, and that not very much.

Two more cars passed her, and the second driver slowed to take a look in its rear-view mirror. Jill realized that she must seem rather odd, running flat out with a backpack full of gear. She had to get off the main road.

At the next curve she spotted an access road to the right and a water tower thirty yards back in the trees, so she slowed down and took it at a jog, making sure no cars were in sight when she did so. The driveway led to a chain-link fence, but also continued around the enclosure as a partly overgrown graveled track. Following it, she was happy to see it twisted and turned down the mountainside, perfect for her purposes.

A half mile later she came in sight of another stand of homes, and looking out from the hillside she could see Huntsville spread out before her. She was running out of rough country to hide in. Soon suburbia would be her jungle.

Finding a place among the bushes with cover in all directions, she dropped her pack and stripped out of her hiking boots, shorts and shirt. She put away the dusty ball cap that held her pony tail, and then donned tightish jeans, walking shoes and a clean t-shirt. A windbreaker and a large leather handbag completed the ensemble, and she shook her dark brown hair out, letting it cascade around her shoulders.

After putting a selection of essentials into her pockets and bag, and sliding her sheathed knife into the small of her back, she drank as much water and ate as much food as she could wolf down, then buried the backpack in a shallow hole.

Then Jill simply walked out of the woods and onto the sidewalk, past people beginning their days – driving away to work, starting sprinklers, sending their children to school. She looked like one of them now, perhaps a college student on her way to the bus stop, or an employee of someplace local enough to walk to.

Eventually she came in sight of a divided highway, and what she really needed: a bus stop. Once on the vehicle, she was able to pay the driver for a transfer ticket to the main station downtown, which shared space with a long-haul passenger line.

Looking around the local terminal, she could see a couple of SS guards, but they just seemed there to show their presence. On the other side of the busy yard, though, she watched as uniformed officers checked IDs and tickets as passengers boarded each long-haul bus.

They sure aren’t making it easy, she mused, and sat down on a bench to survey their routine. As a cop herself, she was naturally familiar with the theory and practice of securing a transportation hub, and so she figured she might be able to spot a hole to exploit.

She found it.

As usual, it resulted from the simplest of things: human boredom, complacency. The long-haul company’s uniforms were all similar, porters and maintenance workers and drivers, with only some minor differences. Everyone had photo badges clipped to their chests or on lanyards around their necks, but the busy maintainers generally had them tucked inside their shirts or into pockets so as not to get caught on things as they scurried around performing their duties.

These men and women fuelled and serviced the vehicles, cleaned them and dumped the sewage from their tiny restrooms, invisible and ubiquitous. The SS guards ignored them even as they slipped on and off the buses, doing their jobs.

Bingo.

Jill marked the “Authorized Personnel Only” door that many used. It probably accessed the break and locker area. While most of the workers going in and out wore the uniform, a few did not, and no one paid them any mind either. With at least a hundred employees on duty at the terminal, not counting the drivers, any thought of checking each busy person’s badge every time had long ago broken down.

Getting up, she went into the local terminal gift and sundries shop, buying a navy-blue lanyard. She put it around her neck and slipped its badgeless end clip inside her windbreaker.

Resolutely she strode across the wet October tarmac, skirting the line of buses, walking as if she belonged there. An SS guard glanced at her briefly, but his eyes lingered more on her tight jeans than her face. Straight toward the door she marched, timing her entrance to follow a uniformed employee in. The woman didn’t even glance behind her.

Still walking as if she knew where she was going, Jill quickly found the women’s locker room. Happily, it contained full facilities including showers, and there were a few empty lockers.

Slowly she began undressing, watching for her opportunity. It took almost fifteen tense minutes, hoping no one would notice her dawdling, before a woman roughly her size came in to change out of uniform. Luckily she did not shower, but threw on a sweat suit and left quickly.

Using an abandoned towel she found to hide what she was doing, Jill took out her knife and slipped it through the cheap padlock on the woman’s locker. A careful steady twisting popped it open, and in moments Jill pulled the stolen uniform coverall over her clothing. Her lanyard end, stuck into a zipped upper pocket, simulated possession of a badge, and her handbag she wrapped in the towel, and then jammed it under her arm. Hopefully no one would question the bundle.

It was the work of a moment to select a bus going west, with “Memphis” on its electronic display, and slip aboard, ignored by the ticket-checker and the SS guard nearby. Only a few passengers had boarded so far, so Jill stepped into the tiny restroom near the back and stripped off her coverall, rolling it up in the towel, leaving herself back in her street clothes.

Taking a seat far to the right rear, she stuffed the bundle far underneath and then ate a protein bar and drank some water from her big handbag. She slouched down against the window and closed her eyes. Most people didn’t bother the sleeping.

It was only when there came a commotion at the front of the bus that she began to worry. A middle-aged woman was holding a heated conversation with the bus driver. Looking down the long aisle, Jill could see the bus was now packed full, and in a flash she realized what must have happened.

While passengers were not assigned seats, the total number of tickets sold would not exceed the number of places. The woman was complaining that she had no place to sit.

Jill knew the next thing that would happen was a person-by-person check of tickets, possibly with the SS watching closely.

Trapped! Every nerve screamed to get off the bus and run, but she kept outwardly calm and casually stood up, slipping into the restroom again. If only no one noticed…

Though she hoped her ploy would work, inside the restroom she prepared to be taken, the way she had rehearsed many times. She’d already pre-concealed many useful items about her person, such as hobby knife blades sewn into her collar and other seams, and notched fine piano wire that would slice through wood or flesh inside her shoelaces. Now she took out a handful of tied-off condoms containing other things, and swallowed them. If they did not perform an X-ray, she should be able to recover them later. She also dumped her knife in the trash slot. Then she started eating and drinking everything she had left.

A knock on the door dropped her heart into her stomach, and as she finished the last of her food, she put on her best smile and waited, on the off chance they would go away. The knock came more insistently, then a curse and a rattling. Eventually the door opened to show a maintenance worker and an SS guard, with two more visible behind.

“Come with me, please,” the hard-faced man said, and Jill sighed and shrugged.

“Okay,” she said brightly in her ditziest voice.

He snapped handcuffs on her wrists in front, then used them to pull her along off the bus.

“Come on,” she whined, “I’m broke and trying to get to Memphis. It’s not a federal offense.”

The three SS officers took her into a holding area, one small bleak room of two, and fastened the cuffs to a lock in the middle of a bolted-down steel table. Then a woman wearing latex gloves searched her and took all the obvious things from off of her, but none of her well-concealed items. No body cavity search yet, but she was ready for it.

Then they left her there for an hour.

When they came back in, Jill knew she was done. The cat-cream smile on the hard face of the female SS captain, the smirks displayed by her muscular sergeants, and the nervous look the technician gave her as she took a blood sample gave it away. “Positive,” the man said after three awkward minutes.

“Take this Sicko to the processing center,” the captain snapped. “Standard protocol.”

One sergeant lifted a dart gun and shot Jill in the neck. She jerked with the pain, but did not resist. Her vision tunneled and she felt dizzy, and then someone threw a hood over her head. She blacked out.

Chapter Seven

Jill came to in stifling heat, which seemed strange for early November. The reason became instantly evident, as she felt people pressing up against her. She lifted her now-free hands to take off the hood, stuffing it into her jacket pocket. As a prisoner, almost anything they let her keep might prove useful.

Around her she saw at least sixty people crammed into the interior of what must be the back of a semi trailer. The dimensions fit, and she found herself next to the doors, in a corner. Everyone sat or lay against each other, and as far as she could tell there were no facilities, or even lamps. Cracks around the doors and what looked to be air holes punched in the ceiling provided the only light. The structure vibrated with the idling of a diesel engine.

Sweat poured down Jill’s face, the same as others around her. She was about to try to talk to the woman closest to her when their prison lurched into motion. Immediately some relief from the heat came as moving air filtered into the interior, and she breathed deeply. The trailer tipped as it descended a slope, the truck’s engine whining as the driver braked with its resistance. The prisoners flopped left and right as the vehicle rounded switchbacks. They appeared to be descending a mountainside.

Jill thought back to the words of the park ranger – something about the SS and a processing center in the park – and the irony struck her. She must have ended up back in Monte Sano State Park to start her journey – to where?

Carefully she reached down into her trousers and extracted the stretched condom containing the GPS from the only place she could have hidden it. Needs must when the Devil drives.

Sliding it into her windbreaker, she turned it on, but it could not lock onto its satellite signals, probably because of the metal roof. She turned it off and slipped it into an inside pocket.

Raising her head, she met the eyes of a lean, scarred-faced man of about forty-five, with a day’s growth of stubble. Jill smiled, but the one he returned had nothing of reassurance in it. She told herself not to worry; they were all Eden Plague carriers in here, and the virtue effect should limit or eliminate any serious problems among the prisoners.

At least she hoped so. Humans could overcome almost any taboo or conscience if pushed too far. She idly wondered whether she could ever resort to cannibalism if she was starving badly enough. It was a question no one was likely to be able to answer until they actually faced it.

And what made her so sure everyone here had the Plague? Perhaps they had tossed a few common felons or political prisoners in with them. After all, while Jews were the most well-known target of the Nazi holocaust, they also interned and killed or sterilized other “undesirables,” – communists, homosexuals, activist clergy like Dietrich Bonheoffer, “gypsy” Roma, even single mothers who weren’t “Aryan.”

Jill suspected any number of grudges had been recently settled by turning in friends and neighbors for any available offense. Also, infecting and interning some of the hardcore prison population in the camps might seem like a viable solution to hard-pressed bureaucrats.

Or perhaps not bothering to infect them. She resisted glancing at the scar-faced man again. If he had the Plague, those marks would have been healed, and he’d look younger, unless he just recently got infected. Mentally she marked him as a wild card; someone that could help or hinder her plans…plans to escape.

***

Four hours later they were let out at a rest stop under the close eye of a busload of SS. The troops had blocked off the entrances so only the detainees could access the restrooms and drinking fountains. Long lines formed immediately, exacerbated by the unwillingness of a couple of frightened people to leave their toilet stalls. Nonsensical, perhaps, but Jill could feel the fear coming from her fellow prisoners like waves of heat.

Once she’d had her turn, she sidled over to the scarred man. Now she could see blue monotone tattoos up and down his arms and peeking from under his collar. Prison ink, using the oily color from ballpoint pens, laboriously hand-drawn with sewing needles.

He didn’t look at her, but he was certainly aware. “What?” he asked, lighting a cigarette.

Interesting, that they let him keep those. “You don’t have the Plague,” she stated.

“Nope. Why would I want it?”

“Make you stronger, younger, heal faster.”

“Make me a pussy.” He took a deep drag.

“I’m infected,” Jill said casually, and then turned to him. Without telegraphing, she shot a straight right to his jaw. It hurt like hell; she thought she might have broken her hand. She’d certainly broken the first rule of street fighting: never hit your target’s head with your naked fist. It tended to do more damage to the hand than to the opponent.

In this case it put the thin man down, but not out. From his hands and knees he shook his head like a dog, then roared as he came to his feet, but Jill was already fifty feet away. She had turned and speed-walked as soon as she’d struck him, and the SS guards were already converging on the troublesome man with truncheons. As expected, they’d marked him as a felon and been ready.

Instead of fighting back, he covered up and curled into a ball, just protecting his head, belly and groin. After a short beating, they left him alone, as Jill thought they might. They had no mandate to respect their prisoners’ rights, so they just punished anyone who got out of line and then backed off.

Jill walked warily over to the bruised and battered man, now lying on his back with his knees up. She squatted down near his head, just out of easy reach. “I bet that hurt,” she said conversationally.

“What do you want?” he coughed.

Not, ‘Why did you do that?’ Definitely an experienced inmate.

“Do I seem like a pussy?” Jill asked, glancing around. A couple of the guards watched from a distance, and one licked his lips.

“Guess not,” he replied.

“You’re a hard case, probably a lifer,” Jill stated. “Somebody got sick of you causing trouble and transferred you to the Plague detainee system, right?”

“Guess so. So?”

“So I’m a cop. How’s that for funny?” She smiled without humor. “That means I know guys like you, inside and out. I also know law enforcement inside and out. You obviously know prisons inside and out. Together, we could get the hell out of this trap we’re in.”

He turned on his side and coughed again. Blood spat onto the concrete. “How’s that gonna work? I’m all messed up. Think they broke some ribs. Might have nicked a lung.”

Jill grinned. “Oh, I think we can fix that. What do they call you?”

He held up a forearm with a picture of a coiled snake. “They call me Python, ‘cause I’m long and skinny, but once I got ahold of you, you’re dead.”

“Excellent. You can call me Reaper, because I’ve sent so many sons of bitches like you to hell.” Melodramatic for sure, but she knew bravado backed up by violence was the only thing that impressed men like him.

“You don’t sound like any lady cop I ever knew.” Python rolled to his knees, and Jill stood up, offering him the hand she’d hit him with. It had stopped throbbing, and if she had to hit him again, she wanted to use a fresh one.

“Let me show you my ink,” she said as she helped him to his feet. She unzipped her windbreaker and bared her left shoulder, where the fouled anchor of the Marine Corps blazed in red and gold. “I’ve probably killed more people than you have.”

“Kill for your country and you’re a hero. Kill for yourself and you’re a criminal.” Python spat more blood and coughed, putting his palms on his knees.

“Just the way it is. Come on, thin man, let’s load up.” The guards blew whistles and herded the people back into the truck. She let him lean on her, but remained alert to treachery. By the informal felon’s code, as far as she understood it, he should have accepted her as someone to respect…or at least, he’d fake it for as long as it took to recover and stab her in the back.

Inside, she muscled them into her same corner, suppressing her feelings of guilt at shoving these sheep around. But she was a sheepdog, and always had been. Sometimes the herd needed some nips on their asses to keep them in line. She also felt it important to keep looking tough in her new partner’s eyes.

Once they sat down shoulder to shoulder, Jill turned to Python. “Now I’m going to do something you’re gonna like, but don’t let it go to your head. Either of them.”

“What?”

Jill put both hands behind the man’s grizzled neck and pressed his mouth to hers for the deepest kiss she could manage. After a moment of surprise, he responded, bringing his palms up to her breasts, but she broke the lip-lock and then grabbed his thumbs, pulling his hands away. “Like I said, chill out, big boy. Plenty of time for that later.”

I don’t like playing with a man’s urges, she thought, but right now, I’d stretch my principles quite a lot to get out of here.

“You’ll be feeling a lot better soon, because I just gave you the Plague,” Jill continued. “Unfortunately you’re also going to get hungry, but I can’t do much about that.” Talking about it reminded her of the gnawing pangs in her own belly. She wondered whether the SS would feed them or just let them waste away. From what she understood, the internment facilities were not death camps, but then again, that kind of thing could be covered up for quite a while.

“Guess I got no choice now.”

“Nope. Deal with it.” Jill sighed, blowing air out of her cheeks. “Let me tell you a story.” She noticed heads turning her way, watching, listening, so she raised her voice. “Let me tell everyone here a story, since we don’t have much to keep us entertained. I hope you remember it, and keep telling it, because in it, our government murdered three thousand innocent people, and maybe a lot more. It’s about a Marine in the military police, who was helping to train Iraqi security forces…”

***

Late the next day, threescore hungry, tired people found themselves herded through the gates of Internment Camp 240. Black-clad SS lined up with truncheons, and used them on several people who didn’t move fast enough.

Give people a little power, and they will use it, and not usually for good.

Jill stayed close to Python, but not too close, trying to give the guards nothing out of place to focus on. Right now they were alert and primed for trouble. The time to do something different, anything against the rules or to create an advantage was later, when they were lulled by the routine.

On the other hand, standard POW doctrine said the best time to escape was early on, before things got too organized, and when there might still be holes in their procedures. Somewhere, sometime she should be able to find a sweet spot, between the disruption of newness and the dullness of routine.

Surreptitiously checking her GPS confirmed what she already suspected from the harvested fields of cornstalks all around: the camp was in Iowa. More precisely, to the northwest of the town of Osceola, which was forty or fifty miles south of Des Moines. She could see several farmhouses, but no activity. Perhaps they had been evacuated.

It was a prime spot for a prison camp, with nothing but rough fields in all directions. A few wooded gullies offered the illusion of cover, but she had no doubt there was very little in the area the SS had not thoroughly reconnoitered. Once outside the double barbed-wire fence, where would the average escapee go?

They were herded into lines to be processed. First they passed through large communal restrooms with no walls between toilets. Under the watchful eyes of hard-faced female guards, they did their business. Jill considered putting the GPS back in its hiding place, but she did not know whether a body cavity search still awaited, and decided to abandon it. She set the little box down beside her toilet, one of the few places not easily visible, and left it there. Better that she not be caught and marked as knowing anything special.

She also made sure she retained what was in her bowels, hopefully until she had some privacy to retrieve the things inside.

In the next building they were checked once more, but still with no body cavity search. There seemed to be a lot of prisoners in the camp, and relatively few guards. Perhaps they didn’t have enough manpower – or at least, enough people willing to do this kind of work. Perhaps they relied on the Eden Plague virtue effect to minimize any trouble. Perhaps they thought the people were all sheep.

Jill tried to recall what she knew about the internment of Japanese civilians in World War Two. It was probably a closer analogy than Nazi concentration camps. Hopefully the point of this facility was not extermination…at least, not now. Things might change as the “Eden Problem” spread, and if the Unionist party ever took full power.

After processing, the men and women mingled again. They’re going to have a population explosion in about nine months if they aren’t careful. That thought led her down dark paths as she considered just how the SS was likely to prevent it. Forced sterilization, at least vasectomies for the men, seemed like the easiest method. She wondered if the Plague could reverse such a surgery.

At the last station, she received a shrink-wrapped package the size of a large pillow. It looked like it held bedding and a few sundries. She also received an electronic card with a number on it. “Don’t lose that, or you won’t eat,” the clerk said. “Next!”

Jill exited the building into the interior of the camp. “What now, boss?” Python asked as he walked up to her, hands thrust into jeans pockets in the cold breeze.

“Recon the camp. You go left, I’ll go right, along the fence line. Come back through the middle and meet right there.” Jill pointed with her chin at what looked like a chapel building, easy to spot for its plain spire.

Jill’s man nodded and turned to stroll the fence counterclockwise, and she did the same on the other side. She counted at least forty two-story barracks on this side of the camp, along with dining halls, muddy ball fields with bleachers, a laundry, a separate shower building, and a large supply store that sold basic necessities like soap and towels. All the buildings looked to be prefabs, hastily thrown up with no foundations, no drainage, and rudimentary sidewalks made of discarded wooden pallets. It would be hell when it rained.

Inside one near-empty barracks building she added up the bunks. More than one hundred double racks meant at least two hundred people per, eight thousand on this side of the camp. Room for sixteen thousand in this place alone, then, and a lot more could be crammed in if necessary.

Rounding a corner, she came upon two rough-looking young men. Their eyes widened on seeing her, and they moved to obstruct her way. Each had a two-by-two board about the length of a baseball bat, and prison ink on their arms.

Great. Convicts preying on Edens.

Quickly, Jill put her back to the wall beside her and glanced back the way she had come. Another man, older than the first two, blocked her retreat with a shiv in his hand.

“Don’t start no trouble now, missy,” one of the younger ones in front of her said. “We just want the packet. Give it to us and you can go.”

Letting them have it might have been the smart play, but everything Jill had ever heard about prisons said that backing down was a sure-fire way to look weak and be preyed upon. Even if this place hadn’t turned into a hellhole yet, she wasn’t about to let these bastards help it along the way.

Instead of talking, she dropped the package into the dirt and took three quick strides toward the older man. While most people are more afraid of a knife than a club, Jill knew that two men with sticks were far more dangerous than one with a short blade.

The man slashed at her with the knife and backed up instinctively, clearly not ready for her aggressive move. She avoided his swing easily and kicked at his knee, connecting solidly. He fell with a grunt of pain.

One down.

Jill immediately turned and ran toward the opposite building’s wall, knowing the two bat-men would be rushing her from behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw one helping the man with the knife, and the other following her with stick raised.

The older one must be the leader of their little bandit gang, and the younger one had given in to his instinct to please his boss. Bad move. Turning around, she put the wall on her right, her attacker between herself and the other two, so she could see them all. When he swung, right-handed baseball style as she expected, she jumped back, and his stick slammed into the building.

Instantly she reversed and kicked upward, aiming at his groin, but happy to come in a little high and drive the ball of her foot into his belly. He bent over with a whoosh of breath so she grabbed his medium-length hair, driving her knee into his face. Something broke, and he dropped senseless onto the ground.

Jill picked up the stick, hefting it as she walked toward the other two. “Who’s next?” she asked cheerfully.

The younger man started for her with his stick, but the older one grabbed his elbow. “No,” he said. “Let’s go.” The two men slunk off around the corner, leaving their compatriot to his fate.

Jill stood over the fallen man and thought for a moment, and then she worked a tiny hobby blade out of a seam in her jacket collar, the kind that fitted into a handle the size of a pencil. Using it, she stabbed her wrist over a vein and squatted to splash the resultant gush of blood into his half-open mouth. Then she picked up her package and left, her thumb sealing the cut for the minute or two it took to heal.

Jill waited for Python for fifteen minutes at the side of the chapel. When he arrived, she told him about her encounter. Then they compared notes on the camp. The only major difference in his side seemed to be that instead of a supply store it had an indoor auditorium seating at least a thousand.

“Looks like we find our own place,” Python rumbled. “Lots of people have staked their own spaces with hanging blankets and scrounged materials. I checked out eight or nine buildings. Some are full of families, and the men are not letting anyone that doesn’t live there inside. One had only women, with the same setup. One with a bunch of hard cases had no security at all, but I had to kick the shit out of two guys to get out.”

“It’s a new camp,” she said. “Not full yet. Wild West still. There is probably no prisoners’ administration, no central authority. Many of the people are Edens but until all the troublemakers are infected, it’s going to be a dangerous place.”

“Yeah. I saw three roving patrols of a dozen SS each, with riot armor, truncheons, beanbag air guns and radios. All the firearms are outside the fence. There’s also a command post inside the auditorium.”

Jill nodded. “Yeah. I saw ten or twelve troops around the supply store. I wonder what passes for currency here?”

“Camp scrip.” Python handed her a small piece of printed plastic. “Everyone gets a weekly allotment in cash. There’s some inside your packet. Also I saw normal money, and barter – cigarettes, candy. Like any jail. Inside is inside.”

“Yeah. So, any ideas on where is safe to crash?”

He shrugged. “Maybe someplace with couples?”

“Good idea. Let’s go look.”

They’d lost count of barracks buildings when they found what they were looking for: a half-full building with young people, mostly paired off. A few had babies, and there were a few groups of teenagers trying to look tough and uncaring. Mostly they seemed forlorn and lost. Jill and Python claimed an area for themselves.

One of the items Jill retrieved on her first toilet visit was a tiny multi-tool. Using its pliers, they partly dismantled four bunked beds and built a corner enclosure they could pull inward, creating some security when they slept. It also yielded some short, heavy lengths of steel pipe that could be concealed in waistbands and used as weapons.

“All right. I’m starving,” Python said. To Jill he looked sallow and unhealthy, and she realized he must be running on empty as his body healed the damage she’d inflicted on him.

“Yeah, me too.” They found the nearest cafeteria and used their cards to gain entrance.

Once inside they were allowed once through the serving line, the food dished out by sullen trusties under the watchful eyes of more SS guards. They exited with their trays from the service area into a communal dining room with more guards.

Jill and Python ate ravenously as they observed their fellow detainees. Almost everyone else consumed all they had immediately. Jill wondered how long before they would be allowed to eat again – a certain number of hours? Three times per day? A few people slipped fruit or other portable food into pockets, and the guards did not seem to care.

It interested Jill to classify those who saved food. One category included parents whose children did not eat everything. Uninfected hard cases seemed to do it often as well. She guessed their caloric needs were less than an Eden, and they would barter or hoard what they could. A third type of people simply looked thin, even malnourished. She wondered about those.

Once they had finished eating, they went back to their bunks in the barracks block. No one had disturbed their bedding, and they’d brought everything portable, such as soap and scrip, with them in their pockets.

A half hour of conversation with their new barracks mates gave them a lot of information about the routine of the camp. Meals could be had three times a day, once during each eight-hour period. Some ate late and then early, to feel full. Some spaced their meals out equally. Almost everyone seemed hungry all the time, and food was the most valuable commodity in the camp.

That explained the parents saving food for kids, or just for later, and the hard cases, for barter. Jill wondered again about those she dubbed “skinnies.” What was their story? Nobody in their barracks knew, or had even noticed.

***

A week later Jill and Python found out, by the simple expedient of following one of them. He skulked into a nondescript barracks building no different from any other, except for two things. It was one of the closest to the edge of the camp, less than fifty yards from the fence. It was also controlled by men and women with a certain look about them.

A military look. Jill could spot them a mile away, and they had it.

“I think we just found our escape committee,” she said, nudging her sidekick as they watched from well back.

“How can you tell?” Python seemed to be genuinely curious.

“How can you spot a con?”

He shrugged. “Just a look they got.”

“Right. I can spot military. It’s also close to the wire. And you see that guy carrying in a board? I bet we see another couple of boards, or maybe metal from bunks, brought inside in the next few minutes.”

They watched, and it was just as Jill had said. “I think they got a tunnel in there.”

Python snorted. “What do they need a tunnel for? There’s only two hundred guards on site at any one time, and ten thousand people. We could just grab pipes and beat down the wire if we could get people organized.”

“These people aren’t cons. Only one in fifty, one in a hundred is going to stick his neck out. A tunnel is low risk, high payoff.”

“So why the skinnies?”

Jill replied, “They’re giving up some of their food for the workers. Hard work means extra calories. Doubly so for those with the Plague.”

“They could have enough if they got more people to contribute.”

“But then more people would know about it. There have to be informers among us, probably some of the hard cases, paid off in cigarettes, extra food, scrip. Maybe drugs.”

“Yeah,” Python mused. “I’ve seen some meth around. Also a few phones.”

“Those won’t do us any good. Besides, they’ll all be bugged. It’s easy when there’s only one tower in line of sight.” Jill pointed off in the distance at a tall structure, perhaps five miles away, on a low hill. “So forget about that. We just need to get out.”

“So…we join this escape committee?”

Jill motioned Python back, and started walking around, not wanting anyone to notice their scrutiny. “What do you think we should do?”

His forehead wrinkled in thought. “If we muscle in, we’ll have to do something. Dig, or give up food, or something. Also, if they get caught, we do too. Some of the troublemakers already been put in solitary.” The confinement blockhouse stood outside the wire, an ugly windowless rectangle with steel doors. Those who spent time there came back cowed and starved.

“Yeah. I don’t think they’re following the Geneva Conventions inside there, either. So, I’m with you. Let’s not get caught. But we can still help.”

“How?” They turned a corner and walked over to the inside track along the wire, where many of the detainees strolled. It was the closest they could get to feeling unconfined.

Jill replied, “We can gather food, and supply it to them. We just have to figure out a simple way to keep our distance. And I have another idea, but it’s going to be a lot trickier. I’ll tell you about it later, when I’ve thought about it some more.”

“Well I got an idea about the food. We can charge for security.”

Jill glanced crossways at Python. “What?”

He shrugged. “We’re already running the muscle for our barracks building. Might as well charge the straights something for it.”

“Python, I need you to think like a cop on this one, not a con. Be a sheepdog, not a wolf.”

He laughed. “Me? A cop? You’re kidding.”

Jill stopped and faced the thin man, now a lot less grizzled and scarred. “I got news for you, Keith. Yeah, I know that’s your name. Don’t ask me how. You’re a different person already. You’re still a hard case, but I bet the thought of murdering someone in cold blood twists your guts up.”

He looked uncomfortable, shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

“Look,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, the first time she’d touched him with anything like affection since she’d passed him the Plague. “Violence has its place in the world. I know, because I spent my youth in a street gang and then I joined the Marine Corps. I’m not asking you to be weak. I’m telling you that you can be strong and good at the same time.”

Then she kissed him, for real. “Let’s go back to the barracks.”

He swallowed. “What about getting pregnant?”

And that proves you’ve changed, Keith my Python. The old you wouldn’t have even cared.

“I think we can have some fun even without that risk.”

***

“I can’t believe this is working.” Python shook his head. “Getting everyone in our block to chip in food…don’t make no sense.”

“Fear isn’t the only human motivator,” Jill replied. “Altruism, kindness, or just enlightened self interest work too, otherwise who would give to charity?”

“Tax breaks,” Python ventured.

“That helps,” she admitted, “and getting your name on a plaque, things like that. But some people just give because they want to help people. Or they believe in karma, or God, or something like that. What goes around, comes around.”

“And payback’s a bitch. Okay.” He looked at the pillowcases of food they’d collected from the nearly two hundred people in their building. It had become a popular block even before they organized better security, after Jill and Python had dealt with a couple of attempts to extort their fellow prisoners.

The place even had a waiting list, because Jill had organized a score of the men and a couple of the women into a neighborhood watch. Half the collected food went to them, adding roughly twenty percent to her unofficial security officers’ diets. It was only fair, since they did work the hardest.

The other half of the food filled the two pillowcases they carried. Now that one part of her plan had worked out, Jill was ready for the next. “Let’s go.”

Python didn’t ask where.

They approached the escape barracks as night fell, but before the lights came on. It was the best time to move around unseen. A challenge came from the side door they’d chosen: “Whatta yous want?”

“Boston or Philly?” Jill asked.

“Neithuh. Woostuh. I’m still askin’, whatta yous want?”

“Got something for you.” They set the pillowcases down on the steps of the entranceway, and turned to walk away.

“Hey, what’s this about?”

“Ask your boss,” Jill replied over her shoulder. They rounded the nearest building just as the lights began to glow along the fence line, throwing harsh shadows inward.

The next night they returned to the same building, different door, a few minutes earlier. This time they dumped the pillowcases, leaving the lookout to scramble as loose fruit, rolls and cookies spilled over the steps.

The third night they stopped by the side door of the nearest barracks and waved the lookout over. He ignored their gestures, but after a few minutes, a dark-skinned woman walked out past the watcher and over to them.

She looked young, as all Plague carriers did, except for her eyes, which seemed ancient. And she didn’t smile. “What’s this about?” she asked.

Jill gestured at the food. “We need our pillowcases back. We can’t give away two every time we bring you supplies.”

“And why the hell are you giving us supplies?”

“For your tunnel rats.”

The woman’s jaw worked, and she looked as if she would explode. Then she mastered herself with an effort, putting on a bland smile, and sat down on the steps next to them. Blazing lights came on just then, aimed inward on poles around the outside of the fence, and from dim twilight the three were plunged into deep shadow, shielded by the buildings.

“So who are you?” the woman asked.

“I’m Reaper. This is Python,” Jill replied.

“Convicts.” Disdain tinged her voice.

Jill only laughed. “Convicts might be your salvation.”

“Convicts might be informers. We can’t trust anyone that isn’t an Eden.”

Jill snorted. “Oh, it’s a noun now? Edens, Sickos, Unies…labels. Doesn’t mean you can trust all Edens either. You think Edens are immune to fear or bribery, or threats to their kids? I bet the goons already know about your tunnel. We figured it out our first week here.”

“So why are you helping?”

Jill rolled up her sleeve, showing her the tattoo that perfected Eden eyes could see in the dimness. “Because I’m not a convict. I’m a Marine. It’s my duty to defend my country against all enemies, foreign or domestic. These enemies seem pretty domestic to me. And it’s my duty to escape.”

“What about him?” The woman glanced at Python.

“He’s with me. That’s all you need to know.”

The woman nodded slowly. “Okay. You can call me Cee. We’ll take your food, and thank you for it. What do you want in return?”

Jill smiled. “Two assault rifles and ammo would be nice.”

Cee snorted. “Fat chance.”

“Okay, then, how about information? We haven’t heard much news in a while. If anyone gets out, where is there to go?”

“Mexico and Canada…one of the Caribbean islands. Any other country, really, except China and Russia. Most places have no policy against Edens, so at least we wouldn’t be rounded up.” A light breeze began, bringing them the smell of earth and farm.

Jill nodded, musing. “And after you get some people out and running?”

“We have a few plans.”

“I don’t want details, Cee. I just want to know you have some kind of objective other than merely crossing the wire. We’re in the middle of a whole lot of nothing, and the little towns nearby won’t be hard to search, unless the entire population is noncompliant.”

Cee licked her lips. “I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you. I only just met you.”

“Whatever. But from being on the other side of this situation, I’ll tell you that the best time to stage your escape is when something changes – the bigger the better. Anything that disrupts the routine will provide an opportunity.”

“Understood.”

Jill turned to look the woman in the face. “And one other thing, since you asked. The thing I really want is a tipoff when you go. Twelve hours, even six.”

“You don’t want to go with us?” Cee seemed surprised.

“Oh, hell no.”

Cee waited for Jill to go on but she did not continue, so the dark woman shrugged and stood up. “All right. I’ll send a runner by your building on the day before.”

“Fair enough.” Jill held out her hand to shake, then Python did the same, surprising the other woman.

“Good luck,” he said, and Cee gave him a quizzical look before she walked back to her barracks and her tunnel. “Didn’t know quite what to make of me,” Python said when she had gone.

“That’s how I want it. Keep ‘em guessing.” Jill slapped him on his shoulder, grown rock-hard with surplus food and the exercise regimen she demanded. “Let’s go.”

As they walked back to their block, Python asked, “I thought you said before you wanted to go to L.A. Now you’re asking about Mexico and stuff.”

“I did a lot of thinking about that. I’m not just listed as AWOL anymore. I’m in their records as infected. My biometrics, my fingerprints, probably my DNA…it’s too dangerous. Whatever happened to my family, I can’t help the dead, and I’d be just causing trouble for any survivors. You too, for that matter. The best thing I – we – can do now is just get away to somewhere that doesn’t lock up people like us. Then maybe we can think about fighting back.”

“I’m all right with that,” Python replied.

“How come you never talk about your family?” she asked him as they walked.

“I treated them like shit. They don’t want to see me. I don’t blame them.” He sounded regretful.

“Well, it’s never too late. My old man wasn’t happy with me running with a gang. If I hadn’t joined up, he’d probably have thrown me out of the house anyway.”

“He must have been happy when you enlisted.”

Jill nodded. “Yeah, he was proud of me, but I was so angry at him that I didn’t talk to him for years. And now…now maybe it’s too late.”

“You just told me it’s never too late.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

The security men at their block door nodded to the pair as they entered their well-run barracks. People immediately started to approach; Jill had become a de facto judge and jury when anything was in dispute. She sighed, and said, “Give me five minutes, folks.”

Chapter Eight

Six weeks later

Despite all best-laid plans, something went wrong. It always does, Jill thought as sirens wailed in the middle of the night, waking her and Python from a sound sleep. They rolled out of bed and dressed hurriedly. Most of the detainees streamed out of the barracks, but he and she climbed up the improvised ladder they kept ready, and out the ceiling hatch onto the sloping roof. From there, they could see a lot of the camp.

SS guards poured out of their own living quarters on the other side of the main gate, toting weapons and jumping into every available vehicle. “It looks like they woke all three shifts up,” Jill remarked, craning her neck as she held onto a ventilation duct at the apex of the roof. “Something big.”

It wasn’t long before they could see that the troops had spread out around the outside of the camp, driving Humvees and trucks through the empty cornfields with lights blazing. Eventually about half of the available manpower concentrated itself off to the northwest.

Python got it first. “That’s near the tunnel block.”

“Shit. You’re right. Do you think they went early? Nobody told us. Damn.” Jill spat a few more choice epithets. “And no way we can break out now, not with a Humvee every fifty yards and the lights on. Why didn’t they tell us?”

“Maybe they thought we were informants.” He shrugged.

We could have taken the lights down, we could have organized diversions, we have improvised wire cutters to cut through and slip away in the confusion…damn you, Cee, we could have made you successful, or at least, not the fiasco this will be. Jill kicked the ventilation duct in frustration. “Let’s go talk to our block. Nothing to see here.”

Back inside, Jill coordinated with her building’s guardians, as she thought of them, telling them to keep the entrances secure and try to persuade people to come back and go to bed. Now was not the time to step out of line, not with the SS cocked and locked and jumpy as hell. Then she and Python settled back to wait, and eventually to sleep.

When the sun came up, winter-late, she sent her people out with instructions to gather information about what had happened. Soon she had pieced together the story. “You called it,” she said to Python. “For whatever stupid reason, they went last night, and they all got caught. They should have told us, and they didn’t. They should have gone at nightfall to maximize their hours of darkness, but instead they went at two in the morning.”

“Were the guards waiting for them?”

“No, but they got alerted quick, so Cee was right about that. Someone ratted them out, just not us.”

Python smacked a fist into his palm. “So much for your grand diversion.”

“Yes, but now we have to worry about the crackdown.” Jill looked him in the eyes. “You know it’s coming.”

“Always does. They let the camp run easy for a while, but now whoever’s in charge has to make a show of strength, and punishment.” He picked up an apple, stared at it, then bit. “Gonna get interesting,” he said around a mouthful.

It didn’t get interesting until the next day, after an uneasy night. That morning the word spread after the usual pickup of food supplies for the dining halls: rations were being cut by one third; that is, one full meal a day. Additionally, the guards announced a curfew. Everyone would be confined to their barracks blocks between sundown and sunup.

And one more thing she had more or less predicted. All infected internees would soon be implanted with birth control devices, among a range of choices, or they could opt for sterilization. She wondered how long before the choices would evaporate and the SS would choose the cheapest and most permanent final option.

Jill expected – hoped even, that this would cause a surge of unrest, but if most people were sheep, then most Edens were lambs. Without a direct threat, their sense of outrage did not translate into action, and the virtue effect’s suppression of violent impulses rendered the critical mass needed to form a mob extremely unlikely.

Insight flashed through Jill, then, about why the camp had been so easygoing until now. To a certain extent the SS must have believed their own propaganda – which was always a danger of having too much control. They had thought that Edens wouldn’t even try to escape or resist in any way, but making people less selfish and violent didn’t mean they were always passive.

She herself didn’t feel any inhibitions on her own use of force, except if it was intended to kill: then, she experienced a physical revulsion. But compartmentalization was part of any warrior’s mentality, and so as long as she kept her goals, reasons – rationales, anyway – firmly in mind, she had no problem inflicting corrective action on those that deserved it.

Her conscience remained clear, and that was all the Plague seemed to care about.

Jill wondered about people who simply had no consciences – sociopaths, psychopaths. Would the Plague repair their brains? What if the abnormality was psychological and not physiological? What would people like that look like? Could they even be identified?

She filed those thoughts for later.

Immediately Jill did away with the contribution of food for the guardians. On two thirds of the former diet, every Eden would soon begin to waste away; in effect, starving. Normals – those few left in the camp, as infection naturally only went one direction – could get by on a lot less.

But most of those normals were hard cases, and were not likely to give up anything.

That would have been another benefit of organizing a mass tunnel escape. Leaving the ration cards behind in the hands of designated leaders could have provided a food surplus, at least for as long as it took the guards to sort it all out. That could have been stored against another contingency.

Now everyone would just grow weaker and weaker.

Jill turned to Python. “We have to act soon, on our own. Every day from now on, we’ll be less capable. And we can’t train hard anymore, because we won’t have the calories.”

“Yeah. We can stretch that out with the camp scrip we got stashed,” – they had built up a savings account from contributions – “but food prices are gonna go up. A lot.”

“Do you have any ideas on what we can do that won’t prey off people here?”

“Yeah.” He looked at her speculatively. “If by ‘people’ you mean the sheep. That leaves the hard cases. Get control of them and their ration cards, and there’s more food for everyone. Might get ugly, though.” He finished his apple, core and all, discarding only the stem.

“Too ugly,” Jill said, shaking her head. “We’re not equipped to keep them locked up, even if I could stomach starving them for our own benefit.”

“Who says we let them live?” Python grinned an evil grin. “Just kidding, boss.”

“No, but what you say has some merit. It’s given me an idea.”

“What?”

Jill grinned an evil grin of her own.

***

Python and Jill approached the hard cases’ block in the early afternoon. Though their number had dwindled, there were still forty or fifty of the convicts that preferred to live together, instinctively afraid of the Edens – of contamination, perhaps, or of being turned into sheep.

Or of being cured of their sick desires.

Behind Jill and Python, ten of their guardians waited, close enough to intervene if things got out of hand. At the bottom of the front steps the two stopped, looking up at the tattooed man that sat keeping watch. From inside the block Jill could hear the sounds of grunting and group encouragement – weightlifting, or a physical contest, she hoped.

“What?” the man asked disdainfully.

Python said, “We need to talk to Drake.”

“Drake don’t need to talk to you,” the bull-necked bruiser replied.

“Why don’t you let him decide?” Jill cocked her hip suggestively.

“Don’t need no Sicko whores, either.”

“Tell him we got something he wants.”

“What?” The man stood up, towering over them from the top of the steps.

Python shook his head, slowly. “For Drake.”

Finally the hard case grunted and signaled for another to watch the door while he went inside. A few moments later a fit man in a sleeveless undershirt stepped out. He looked about forty, with thick hair and intelligent eyes. Muscular, but not massive. Jill knew that somehow this man managed to keep these men in line and working for him, so he had brains as well as brawn.

“I’m Drake,” he said, wiping his sweaty hands on a towel. Unlike his underlings, he seemed devoid of bravado. “You are?”

“Python. This here’s Reaper. We have some information for you, and a proposition.”

Drake nodded, looking closely at them both. “Come in.”

Python smiled. “No thanks. How about we sit down at that table over there, where your boys and ours can all see us.”

Drake stared coldly at them for a moment, then turned to speak back through the doorway. “Get Fish.” A moment later a broad man with scarred knuckles stepped out, and the two convicts walked over to the nearby table.

Jill and Python went to the other side, and they sat down together. Drake stared at Python expectantly, until he made a motion with his eyes at Jill. “Ah, so you’re the boss,” the felons’ leader said to her. “His type I know. He’s been inside. But you…you puzzle me.”

“The same to you, Drake. I’ll enlighten you. I’m a military cop. The only thing I did wrong was get my legs blown off in the desert and then get infected with the Plague. You know what?” She lifted a trouser leg to show the two-tone skin of her calf. “I’m damn glad I did, because now I got new feet. Your turn.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed, and he took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one. He didn’t offer them to anyone else, not even his lieutenant. “I ran a little smuggling operation down south. I still have some connections, even here. I can get things no one else can.”

“And to the hard cases, you’re the devil they know.” Jill reached over to pluck the cigarette from his fingers with two of hers. Although she didn’t really smoke anymore, she had in her youth, and so managed not to cough as she drew a lungful before starting to hand it back.

“Keep it,” he said. “I’ll put off getting the Plague a while longer.” He took out another and then lit it. The whole time his eyes never left hers. “You got balls, I’ll give you that, lady. What you want?”

Jill handed the smoke over to Python, who took it eagerly. “I want what everyone else wants. Out of this hellhole.”

“Hellhole?” Drake laughed. “This place ain’t so bad. Frickin’ country club compared to a supermax.”

“It’s not bad yet, but with two meals a day, food’s going to get tight. Can you keep all of your guys happy?”

“Probably. For quite a while.”

“With your connections, right,” Jill deliberately mocked. “But then there’s the attrition problem.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Jill continued, “Attrition means –”

“I know what it means, Miss Reaper. I’m a well-read man. You mean that every now and again, one of my guys gets the Plague, and I lose him. But eventually they’ll ship some more hard cases in, and I’ll have reinforcements. And I prefer this arrangement over a supermax pen, even with the crackdown. So again,” Drake pounded his index finger on the table in time to his words, “what – do – you – want?”

“I have a plan to get out. You need to get out. Nobody but you is likely to want out. Me and Python, we’re different, but most of these people are sheep. By the time they get their courage up, it will be too late. They’ll be weak from lack of food. Eden metabolism is too fast. We can’t store fat the way the uninfected can. On the other hand, we can regrow limbs, so…” Jill shrugged.

“Get out how?”

Jill shook her head. “Not yet. Need to build some trust first. Bring four or five guys who can keep their mouths shut to the back corner of chow hall nineteen, tomorrow at two p.m. We’ll show you from there.”

“So you can jump us?”

Jill snorted. “In broad daylight? And where am I gonna get ten guys willing to attack you? My boys here do all right as long as they’re defending someone, but a well-read man such as you should know that Edens aren’t very good at making unprovoked assaults. Unlike yourselves.”

Drake took a drag. “Two it is, then.” Then he handed her the half-full pack of cigarettes.

She accepted it with a nod of thanks, knowing the gesture represented a step forward. Drake and Fish got up and strolled back into their block, and Jill and Python rejoined their own men, returning to their barracks.

They spent the evening preparing.

***

At two they met as planned, Jill, Python, Drake and five of his men. The convict leader’s bodyguards were just a formality to make him feel safe; she wasn’t planning to test them.

Nor did she believe they would do anything to her or Python. The risks to them – Plague contamination, being spotted by watching guards – were too high, especially in broad daylight.

“Follow us,” Jill said, and led the men causally into one of the communal male showers, one with an “Out Of Order” sign on it, guarded by four of her people to make sure everyone stayed away.

Inside, the hard cases looked around warily as Jill walked over to the small central drain grate, and lifted it.

“What, you gonna fit through there?” one of the cons scoffed, and the rest laughed. Except Drake. His eyes narrowed, and he watched.

Jill took out her multi-tool and used it to pry up an adjacent floor panel, about a foot across. Beneath it they could see two feet of space, and then a subfloor. “If we need to, we can pry some more of these up, cut our way through, and then have a reclosable hatch to access the ground under this building.”

“Another tunnel? They’ll be looking for that. Besides, we’re damn near in the center of the camp.” Drake had stated his doubts, but was still listening.

“Ah, but let me ask you. Where does the waste water go?” Jill tapped the shower drain.

“Sewers? There’s some kind of treatment plant off to the east about a mile.”

Jill nodded. “Yes. That’s one reason they constructed this place here, I believe. To take advantage of the new waste plant that serves Osceola. And like any lowest bidders, the building contractors cut as many corners as they could. I’m sure they were under tremendous time pressure, and digging costs money.”

“So?”

“So they didn’t dig.”

Drake growled, “Get to the point, Reaper.”

Jill held up a forestalling hand. “Okay, short version. Old three-foot concrete irrigation pipes run right under this camp. One of them goes almost straight to the plant. Instead of digging a mile-long trench, I’m pretty sure the contractors cracked the pipe and started shoving ten-inch PVC through it, then did the same at the other end to connect to the facility. Or, perhaps, just ran the raw sewage into the irrigation system, but if that were so, I think we’d smell it more than we do.”

Drake smiled. “So if we can get into the pipe, we can scuttle almost all the way to the plant, and dig out there.” He laughed. “Ready-made tunnels. How did you know?”

Jill made an over-there gesture. “I saw the standpipes out in the fields. Those ten-foot-high things sitting in the middle of nowhere? But if you look close, you can see they line up, following the irrigation pipes. They relieve pressure on the system, otherwise it would burst from time to time. All I had to do was figure out where they crossed.”

“Beneath us.”

“Within ten feet of here. We just have to dig, then break through, and after that, bust out the other end. For that I needed muscle; people like you guys who can work hard on short rations.”

Drake nodded slowly. “It could work. Okay, I’ll go along with you for now. We dig, we bust into this irrigation pipe, then we see what’s what. After that, we’ll decide.”

“Fair enough. My guys will secure this place and set lookouts, since it’s near our block. We’ll smuggle in improvised tools for you. We’ll figure out where to get rid of the soil. You just have to rotate your guys in to dig. They’ll undress and work in their underwear, then shower and put their clothes back on to make it all look normal. You can come by any time to check. We’ll put everything back together at night. Deal?”

“Deal.” Drake stuck out his hand. “Kinda wish you weren’t infected.” He held onto hers a moment when she clasped it. “You’d make a hell of a business partner.”

Jill squeezed his in return. “You never know,” she answered, “but let’s stick to the business at hand.”

***

The breakthrough came quickly, on the third day. Lack of hard heavy steel slowed them down, but eventually the four inches of high-grade concrete yielded to the chipping by dismantled bunk poles, free weights, and a smuggled ball-peen hammer. Once they’d made the first hole, widening it took only another shift.

Jill and Python took their turns working hard. Both lost more than five pounds a day, and began to seem severely underfed, if not yet malnourished. Drake didn’t comment on it, but it was clear he’d noticed, and even took a turn himself, probably to show his men he wasn’t to be outdone.

Murphy never sleeps. Occasionally, though, he focuses his attention on the enemy.

Just before noon, one of the lookouts told Jill he’d heard something was happening at the SS complex out front, so she told the crew to keep digging while she and Python meandered over to have a look, along with half of the internees. For once the guards did not yell and threaten the people back, so they lined the cyclone-and-barbed-wire inner barrier, watching. Any break in the routine made for a relief from boredom.

Instead of pushing to the front, Python boosted Jill up on top of the chapel roof. She then gave him a hand up. They fended off a couple of like-minded joiners, afraid of attracting too much attention.

From their perch they could see military buses arriving, eight of them, along with a similar number of five-ton trucks. Troops of some sort disembarked and began to unload the cargo carriers, stacking duffel bags and plastic equipment cases neatly on the side of the parking lot.

Jill shaded her eyes with her hand. “They’re not Marines, or Navy…I don’t think they’re Army. Air Force?”

“What would the Air Force be doing here?”

“They have Security Police. Some good ones, too, matter of fact. I’m guessing these aren’t regulars, though. Air National Guard? And notice, no weapons, no tactical vehicles.”

“Huh.” Python seemed just as puzzled as Jill.

After more than an hour of sluggish activity, Jill told Python to stay and watch, while she went back to the breakout team. She found Drake there, looking for her.

“Something’s up, they tell me,” he said as she arrived.

“Yes. Looks like about three hundred Air National Guardsmen arriving. No idea why. But it could be the perfect time to bust out, when something is happening and the SS is distracted.”

Drake looked skeptical. “More guards mean they can cover more ground.”

Jill explained, “More newbie personnel mean more confusion. I say we try to create an exit in the pipe today or tomorrow, and leave tomorrow night at sundown. And Drake,” she grabbed him by the arm, “don’t tell anyone we’re actually going until the very last minute, and then leave your ration cards with the ones you’re leaving behind.”

Drake’s face blanked as he shook off her hand. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Jill stepped in close to hiss in his ear, “If you don’t, they’ll go running straight to the guards. Don’t do it because you’re such a sweet guy. It’s payoff to keep their mouths shut, and it will buy us all time, as the system sees your cards still being scanned.” She paused. “You were going to kill them, weren’t you? But there’s no need.”

Drake put his palm on her chest and shoved her away. “I said, I’ll think about it. Now back off.”

Jill shrugged and nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on what’s going on. Maybe I can find out something useful.” She headed back to the chapel and Python’s observation point.

When she rejoined him, Python said, “SS is loading up.” He pointed at lines of black-clad guards carrying gear to the trucks, and then boarding the buses.

“You got a good count?” Jill asked.

“Almost three hundred incoming, about the same outgoing.”

“Half the SS, then. For some reason they need them elsewhere.”

“Yeah,” Python said. “Setting up another camp?”

“That would make sense. Keep some experience here, backfill in with called-up Guard. This is good news, Python. Very good news. And they wouldn’t be boarding the buses if they weren’t leaving today. The guard force is going to be all screwed up, or at least thin, for the next while.” She turned to speak softly in his ear. “We’re going tonight, no matter what the convicts do.”

Python smiled.

***

Just before night fell, Jill and Python made their way to the tunnel building, each with a bagful of equipment. “We’ll sneak back later,” her sidekick told the crew of lookouts. She found it hard to lie to her faithful sheep, so she let him do it.

It was time to abandon this flock. Perhaps not forever, but for now.

As they opened up the floor, Python asked, “Do you think Drake will let them live?”

“The ones he’s keeping inside his block? I planted a bug in his ear. I hope he sees it my way.” From glimpses through the doorway, she’d realized the convicts kept haggard women, and possibly a few men, prisoner inside. Probably as sex slaves. Also, each one had a ration card they could exploit.

Jill and Python had gone around and around on the subject. They both wanted to rescue the captives, but had finally concluded the best way to do that was to have the convicts take themselves out of the way by escaping. Hopefully this would give the SS fits at the same time, and possibly divert resources from chasing him and her as well.

“I’m still not happy with leaving them behind,” Python grumbled.

“You want to wait one more night and try to go when they do?” It was the first time she’d really given him a chance to second-guess her, and it clearly made him uncomfortable.

“No, I guess not.” He resumed dismantling the floor.

“Think you’re skinny enough now?” Jill asked. Hard work and deliberate lack of food had reduced her five-foot-eight frame to under a hundred pounds. Python was two inches taller and perhaps only ten pounds heavier.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he replied.

Three minutes later they dropped through to the space beneath the building, and began to replace the concealing floor from below when they saw a flashlight shine from above.

“Well, well,” came Drake’s voice. “Glad I thought to check on things. You wouldn’t be thinking of selling me out, would you?”

Jill looked up at him but kept back out of the way. “No, Drake. We’re just leaving a bit early, and by a different route. Good luck, and goodbye.”

“Wait…just because I’m interested.” He squatted down at the hole, turning the light away so it wasn’t shining in their faces. “Tell me how. You can’t possibly break out of the pipe from the inside, not just you two skeletons.”

“Sorry, Drake. If you’re going to rat us out to the SS, we’re not going to make it easy on you.”

Drake stared. “I won’t, but I understand why you’d think that way.” For some odd reason he sounded disappointed. He seemed to care what Jill thought of him.

Perhaps that will be enough for him to spare his captives.

Drake covered up the hole with the modular tiles, and they heard him leave.

Once they had dropped down into the big irrigation conduit, they saw the PVC sewer pipe within, just as Jill had predicted. It led off to the east, toward the treatment plant, leaving the irrigation pipe relatively clean and dry. Because they had broken in near an intersection, they had a choice of three other cardinal directions as well.

First they donned improvised knee pads, gloves, and taped tiny battery-LED lamps to their foreheads. Then they turned south, directly toward the SS compound.

Jill had made careful estimates, and now they counted their steps – if that was what a unit of crawling on hands and knees could be termed. They passed a standpipe above at one hundred yards, and an intersection at two, then another standpipe at three, and finally they came upon more PVC descending at nearly four hundred.

When they’d seen three more vertical pipes drilled through the concrete from above they knew they were under the SS compound. A score of yards farther they reached another intersection, where they rested. PVC sewer pipe ran off to the east from here as well.

“What do you think?” Python asked, apparently more to fill the time as anything.

“I think you’d have made a good tunnel rat,” Jill said cheerfully. She took out a water bottle and a sandwich from her satchel and ate ravenously. “Eat,” she ordered. “With this kind of caloric expenditure we’ll need it.”

“Right.” He gladly followed her orders. “Glad we saved up during our diet plan.”

“It better pay off, or we’re going to be two very unhappy moles.” Jill slapped the concrete pipe wall. “Like Drake said, no way we’re breaking through this.”

“Don’t worry, boss. Your plan will work.”

“Damn well hope so.”

After a few minutes they pushed on south. One hundred yards later they found their objective: a standpipe above their heads.

“I can see stars,” Python said, peering upward.

“Soon we’ll see them in the open.” Jill unwrapped the grappling hook she’d formed out of bunk parts, and tied it to the length of parachute cord she’d smuggled in so long ago.

The line was thin, but had a test strength of five hundred fifty pounds, plenty for her purposes. Whittled dowels tied every foot provided something to grip with hands and feet. The only question was: were their bodies thin enough?

The standpipes were eighteen inches inside diameter. They could certainly fit, but could they climb?

Without fanfare Jill made her first, experimental throw. The hook fell far short. Because the standpipes stood ten feet above ground level, she had to launch the thing more than twelve feet straight up and have it catch, with the ability to swing it only three feet to gain momentum.

“We should have brought that collapsible pole you thought of,” Jill said after several tries. “But it would have been awkward as hell.”

“Let me give it a shot.” Python did no better.

“All right. Plan B. I climb up the standpipe. You can push me part of the way. Then I have to power up the last part, and I’ll hook the line on when I get there for you. Get on your hands and knees.” When he set himself beneath the hole, she pushed herself in, arms up and holding the hook, line dangling down. She stepped up on his back, then widened her elbows, and braced her feet and knees up inside, supporting her own weight.

“Okay, get up and grab my feet, my ankles or something, and start pushing.”

Python did, awkwardly lifting. Jill used his strength to move upward as far as she could, then braced with her hands and forearms. Then she lifted her feet again, and set them against the sides, aided by his hands. Soon she stood on his palms as he extended his arms straight up.

“You all right?” she asked.

“No problem. I can do this forever.” His voice held no strain, so she believed him.

“All right. I’m going to try to throw this thing up. It’s only about three more feet, but I got almost no way to swing it.”

The fifth time she managed to get it caught on the rim, and with the line, climbed to the top. Once there, she boosted herself onto the rim and settled the hook solidly. She looked around at the cold, overcast Iowa December and wondered when the first snow would arrive. It was a week to Christmas.

“Send up the gear,” she said quietly. Soon she had brought everything up on the line, and dropped it gently to the dirt below, then jumped down. Just a football field to the north she could see the SS compound and the internment camp beyond, lit up like an outdoor stadium. Fortunately all the light pointed away from them. They should be invisible.

Python climbed the line easily, hand over hand, and came down the same way. He flipped the hook off the rim and caught it. “Lamp,” he said, removing his and turning the tiny thing off. She did the same. “We’d feel pretty stupid if they caught us because we were wearing ‘catch me’ lights on our foreheads.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “You ready to run?”

“Gonna really suck if we don’t come across a vehicle to steal.”

Jill grimaced. “We could try for an SS vehicle. They don’t even have a fence around their parking lot.”

Python stroked his chin. “That’s not a bad idea…”

“I was kidding.”

“No, really. Who’s going to notice a vehicle gone, with all the new people and the comings and goings?” Python’s eyes shone with reflected floodlight as he looked northward. “They’ll just assume someone else has it, running errands or whatever. They might not miss it for days.”

Jill thought for a moment. “All right. We’ll take a look. Let’s go.”

They crept across the field, crawling the last forty yards until they were in among the fifty or sixty various trucks, SUVs and Humvees there. The parking lot was poorly lit, and the vehicles haphazardly arranged.

“Damn,” Python muttered at the first SUV. “This model has kill chips. Can’t hotwire it without a bypass module.”

“How about a Humvee? All we need to find is one without its steering wheel chained…” She opened the first one she came to. “Like this. What schmucks. I’d have their asses if they were my troops, leaving their vehicles unsecure.”

“Down!” Python hissed, and they flattened and rolled under the Humvee. A truck with a half dozen troops in the back pulled into a parking spot twenty yards away, and they dismounted. With the driver and passenger in tow, they gaggled back toward the main SS building, rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Don’t even think it,” Jill said in a low voice as Python stared at them. “We don’t need weapons bad enough to risk getting caught. Stealing this Humvee is already dangerous.” She watched the eight men’s feet as they dwindled in the distance, then said, “Come on.”

They slipped into the vehicle, Jill in the driver’s seat. Once she was sure the patrol had entered their building, she hit the starter and a moment later the diesel rumbled to life. She didn’t wait, but immediately pulled out and turned on her lights. Leaving them off might have helped avoid being spotted, but if they were seen, someone would wonder what she was doing driving dark. Most people saw what they expected to see, and wouldn’t think a Humvee leaving was unusual.

She hoped.

Only when they were headed south on state route 169 did Jill finally relax. She let out a whoop, and grabbed Python by the back of the neck with elation. “Free at last, free at last, thank God I’m free at last!”

“I didn’t know you were religious,” Python remarked.

“It’s from a speech by Martin Luther King,” she replied. “Although right now I’d join the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster if it helped us get away.”

“Amen, sister. Preach it.”

They both began to laugh, and didn’t stop for a while.

Chapter Nine

“What are we going to do for money?” Python asked as they neared St. Joseph, Missouri.

Jill handed him a roll of bills the size of a packet of candy mints. “Three hundred. Should get us a tank of gas and some food.”

“Where the hell did you hide this?” he asked.

“You don’t want to know.” Jill chuckled.

“We’re pretty ratty looking, too,” Python went on. “We need some new clothes.” It was true; even discounting the dirt from crawling all over and under Iowa, they’d been wearing more or less the same few outfits for months.

“Truck stops see all kinds. We need to pick up the interstate while it’s still dark.”

“Right. I-29 South it is.”

“There’s irony for you,” Jill said. “We’ll pass within ten miles of Fort Leavenworth.”

Python didn’t respond, just slumped down in his seat. Then after a while he said, “I’m not going back.”

“Of course not.” She spotted a sign and turned the Humvee onto the on-ramp for the interstate.

“No, I mean it,” he said, turning haunted eyes toward Jill. “I’m done with prisons, even wimp-ass prisons like Camp 240.”

“I’m with you, Keith.”

“No, look, Reap, you’re not getting me. Dammit, what’s your real name, anyway?”

She took a breath. “It’s Jill.”

“Thanks, Jill. But listen to me good. I am not going back in. Whatever it takes. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You can’t think that way. No matter what happens, we have to survive. Now that we can live to a thousand, so they say, we can wait the normals out.”

Python snorted. “Or they can just torture us for a longer time.”

Jill glanced at him, saw the resolve and determination in his eyes, and for the next half hour she worried silently.

“Truck stop.” Python pointed.

“Right.” Jill took the exit. “You go in and pay for the diesel, and pick up two sets of clothes, sweats or something. I should fit anything you do, except shoes. I wear a women’s nine, man’s eight. Don’t forget socks, and a couple of ball caps. And get a couple of shower tokens.” Soon she pulled up at a pump in the truck section, away from the cars where the Humvee and their mismatched appearance would draw more stares.

Once she had pumped the vehicle full, she parked behind some semis, gathered her belongings, and met Python inside.

The hot shower felt incredible; water in the camp had never been more than warm, and was often barely above freezing. Ten minutes later she rejoined her partner in matching outfits of cheap sweats and hoodies. Their next stop was the burger joint inside, where they ordered eight meals in go boxes. They wolfed down two each while bagging the other ones for later, another decided contrast to the bad, bland camp food.

Thus fortified, they headed out to the Humvee.

Jill grabbed Python’s elbow and steered him off at an angle when she saw what waited where she parked. Two SS vehicles sat next to their stolen truck, and several uniformed troops milled about.

“We’re blown,” she said as they walked across the tarmac toward the on-ramp where the semis made their long runs up to cruising speed. “We have to get out of here right away, before they lock the place down.”

“Gonna hop a truck?” he asked.

“Exactly. Flatbed with something on it would be perfect.” They walked quickly into the bushes that lined the on-ramp, out of sight of any onlookers, or the drivers. Jill was sure the truckers were wise to unwanted riders, but she also knew they would not expect hers and Python’s physical capabilities. Probably as soon as they had achieved fifteen or twenty miles an hour they would be watching the road, not their mirrors.

She let five or ten trucks pass in the next couple of minutes, getting a feel for the right place to get on, and crept through the bushes to set up.

“Lowboy,” Jill said as a heavy hauler revved through its first few gears. It carried a large earth mover, chained down but not covered. Fortunately it was a standard load size, without an attendant safety vehicle. “This is it.”

As it came past them, they dashed out of the undergrowth and ran up on the trailer from directly behind, to minimize their exposure to the driver’s vision. Then it was a simple thing to sprint up and climb aboard, even carrying a sack each. Soon they had settled in the lee of the airstream behind the behemoth’s steel treads.

“You sleep,” Jill told Python, hooking a leg over him to make sure he did not roll with the sway of the trailer. “I’ll wake you up later.”

He didn’t argue, but pillowed his head on his sack and went out like a broken bulb.

***

“Where are we?” Python asked as he started to sit up. Dawn’s early light was upon them.

Jill’s restraining hand kept him down. “We’re on I-35 coming up on Wichita. Stay down and still. I don’t want anyone spotting us from behind and alerting the driver he has ride-alongs.”

“Okay. I’ll stay awake, you get some sleep.” He pulled his sack from under his head and began to awkwardly rummage in it, pulling out a crushed food carton to eat flattened burger and cold fries.

Jill nodded and closed her eyes, exhausted.

She awoke as she felt the truck decelerating. Looking through gaps in the caterpillar tread, she saw the semi had turned off for a truck stop. Beyond the plaza she could see the edge of a municipality, presumably Oklahoma City.

“Get ready to jump off,” she warned. When the truck decelerated enough, they dropped off the back. A trucker behind them eyed the couple with disinterest as he drove past.

Glancing around, Jill couldn’t see any SS or police presence. Even so, she steered Python toward a picnic area away from the service building. “I’ve been wondering how they picked up on us before, and I have a guess,” she said.

“Besides two scruffy people getting out of an SS Humvee?”

“Yeah, well that’s the other possibility, bad luck. No, I was thinking biometrics. Our faces are in databases now. Maybe they tap in to the security cameras around the building, via the web. With martial law powers, I’m sure the Security Service is sucking up every bit of data it can.”

“So how do we beat that?”

Jill’s eyes narrowed as she rummaged in her dirty satchel, coming up with a burger and couple of stray fries. “Stay away from cameras. Stay hungry. Stay off the grid.”

“Okay. I’m getting used to starving.” He opened up his own bag and found a burger of his own, and half a cookie. “We’ll need water eventually, though.”

“Radiator refill hose,” Jill said, pointing with her chin. She finished off a plastic bottle and put its cap back on the empty.

“So what now? Steal a car, hop a truck?”

“Neither. Let’s see if I can find us a ride.”

“Why you?” he asked.

“Duh.” She unzipped her hoodie, tied up her t-shirt to show her rock-hard abs, and stood up. “Because most truckers are straight. But hey, if you want to look for one that isn’t…”

“Okay,” he said, putting up his hands. “I’ll refill the water bottles.”

“Keep your head down and your hood on. There are cameras above the pumps.” With that, she walked off to talk to truckers. Five minutes later she had secured a ride, but not with her bare midriff; it was her Corps tattoo that did it.

The driver looked about fifty, corpulent but still muscular, with ink on his arms that matched hers and a lot more. “Name’s Greg Hadley, Gunnery Sergeant, USMC, retired,” he said, shaking hands with them both. He turned Python’s arm over, holding onto it to look at his tattoos. “You been in,” he stated.

“Yeah, but I’m reformed now, boss,” Python responded humbly, and Jill almost snickered. Any con worth his salt knew when to suck up.

“As long as my sister in arms says you’re okay, you’re okay by me,” the man declared. “I was in the Gulf, you know,” he began, and for the next three hours he regaled them nonstop with war stories.

Now I know why we got the ride: he wanted an audience. Cheap at twice the price, Jill thought.

As they approached the Fort Worth area, the traffic began to slow down until it was creeping along. Up ahead they could see flashing lights from at least a dozen vehicles.

“Bad accident?” Greg asked, peering ahead.

Jill’s Eden eyesight reached farther. “No, looks like a checkpoint of some sort. Gunny, it’s been great, but we have to go.” She nudged Python to open the passenger door.

“Yeah, I don’t blame y’all,” Greg said wistfully. “Good luck, and stay away from Laredo.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Jill said. “Take care of yourself.”

“Ain’t nobody else will,” he replied with a wave.

They hopped off the running boards onto the shoulder next to the long line of traffic and then walked a few steps off into the verge. “Now what?” Python asked in exasperation.

“We go back, split up. You cross the traffic and walk along the other shoulder. They may be looking for a couple like us, or it may be a routine roadblock. Once you get parallel to the back of the line, where the cars are moving a bit, come on back.” Jill turned to walk northward as Python worked his way across the stopped traffic.

Once he had rejoined her, she pointed toward some nearby woods. “Let’s go there. I have an idea.”

As they descended the embankment they could see some sort of grand stadium-like structure off in the southwestern distance. “I think that’s a racing track. NASCAR or something,” Python remarked.

“Good,” she responded cryptically. They picked their way across a cattle fence and crossed a pasture, eventually approaching a small herd of beef loitering near the tree line. The animals stared as they walked past and into the forested draw. On the other side, they found more field and pastureland, and they hurried along dirt roads, giving farmers on tractors friendly waves.

Some squinted suspiciously, but most of the folks seemed pleasant, or at least Texas-polite. Jill remembered she’d done some training at Corpus Christi and the culture shock had been severe. At first she’d wondered whether they were all faking it, but eventually came to understand that the cool Angeleno disdain she thought of as normal was as alien to the Lone Star State as their genuine respectfulness was to her.

Two women on gorgeous Palominos overtook them, tipping their Stetsons with sheepskin-gloved hands. It was a great day to ride, chill but sunny. “Mornin’. Where y’all headed?” the leather-faced older one asked with innocent curiosity.

“Los Angeles,” Jill replied with a casual smile. Always stick as close to the truth as possible, she thought.

“Los Angeles, West Virginia, Anchorage, Vladivostok…bad business. Pandora’s box.”

Jill connected the dots. “I’m sorry…Anchorage? Vladivostok? Do you mean they got nuked?”

“Yep, and a few more places I can’t pronounce, in China and Russia and some o’ those Stans. Kablinkistan or something. People goin’ crazy.” Her gelding tossed his head, as if agreeing. “How you folks travelin’?”

“Hitchhiking, but the guy who gave us a lift made us get out before the interstate checkpoint. Guess we made him nervous.”

“Everyone’s nervous nowadays,” the pretty younger one echoed sympathetically. “Getting so you can’t go anywhere in your own country without some jackbooted thug from back east asking for your ID.”

“They’re not using Texans for local security?”

The older rider snorted, a sound that expressed disbelief and disgust. “Security. Don’t need no goddamned Federal security. The Rangers and sheriffs do just fine. Now they’re talkin’ about violating posse comitatus, callin’ up Texas Guard for duty up in Iowa and Nebraska, them camps, usin’ ’em against American citizens.” She patted a six-gun in a holster tied to her leg. “Reckon they might end up with a leetle uprisin’ here soon.”

Jill licked her lips and narrowed her eyes, not sure how far she could trust this outburst of local spirit. While she was dithering, Python made the decision for her.

“Is that a railroad line I see up there?” he asked, shading his face with his hand.

“You got good eyes there, sir,” declared the elder. “Union Pacific comes through here, transits Fort Worth, and there’s a spur that heads to El Paso and parts west. You thinkin’ about hoppin’ freight?”

Python shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Well,” she looked down at him speculatively, “you’re gonna want an express. Bypasses the rail yard. You’ll know it from three locomotives, y’hear? Two or one, it’s gonna stop in town. Three or more, generally speaking, gonna go through on the bypass.”

“Thanks,” he responded.

“Yes, thank you,” Jill seconded. “What should we call you?” she asked.

The rider shook her head. “Best don’t call me nothin’, ma’am. Best we just say so long and happy trails.”

The younger woman burst out laughing, and Jill did too. “You didn’t really just say that, did you, mama?” she guffawed.

Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “Just a bit of fun. You folks take care now.” She clucked her horse into a trot, and her daughter did the same, waving over her shoulder.

“You know, people like that give me hope we’ll come through this all right,” Jill said.

“Yeah,” Python agreed. “Would be nice to have a place to call our own…you know, ride horses and stuff.”

Jill turned to Python in surprise. “I didn’t know you rode.”

“I don’t, but I can learn.”

Impulsively Jill hugged him. “Yes, sir, you can.” A kiss from her lit up his face. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find an express train to hop.”

Chapter Ten

It had taken a long day of searching for a good spot, where the train had to slow before a descending corner, and then more waiting for the early nightfall to hide them jumping aboard. They drank water from a running stream, but did without food, hungry all the time.

They climbed aboard a flatcar without incident. Snuggling up next to construction machinery against the cold airflow was starting to seem routine, and the smells of West Texas mingled with the odors of diesel and grease.

“Home stretch,” Python said, his mouth close to her ear. “We should have asked more about the border.”

Jill turned to him so they could converse, practically rubbing noses. “Not if we’re supposedly heading for Los Angeles. We got two choices. One, try to slip through at a busy border crossing. They didn’t used to check outgoing Americans. Or two, try to cross at some lonely spot at night. You heard anything that would help make that decision?”

“No. I’ve been inside for twelve years, remember?”

“What do you think, then?”

Python chewed on his lip. “I’d rather take my chances at night in the open. They could have face cameras, blood tests, fingerprinting. We got no ID anyway.”

“We could try to get some in El Paso. I’m sure you can find someone who makes them.”

He laughed. “All the good fake IDs are made south of the border. The only things you can get here barely fool bartenders.”

“All right, night crossing it is.”

They looked up at the skies for a time, clear now that the glow of sunset had faded and they had left the lights of Fort Worth a hundred miles behind. “I ain’t seen stars like this in a long time,” Python said. “Prisons don’t like cons outside in the dark.”

“And your eyes are like a kid’s again,” she responded.

“Something else is like a kid’s again,” he half-joked.

Jill smiled and kissed him. When he stayed silent, she asked, “Run out of words?”

“I got enough words. A few of them just for you.”

Jill put a hand up to his mouth. “Not until we’re safe.”

Are you even intending to keep that implied promise? she asked herself. You crossed that line already but…why? To keep him loyal? To reward him? You don’t love him…do you?

She didn’t know how to answer herself, so she put such thoughts out of her mind and rolled into his embrace. The rhythmic jouncing of the flatcar made her body wish for a full joining, but in her rebellious mind, she remained glad that was verboten. It gave her conscience some salve to believe it wasn’t really real until that last act took place.

Besides, she hadn’t the energy, and probably neither did he. She felt dreadfully weak, her body’s fuel reserves as low as they had ever been.

From time to time they saw traffic off in the distance, lines of headlights and truck running lights that seemed to crawl, though she knew they must have been doing seventy. For hours they paralleled what she believed to be I-20, and passing through towns they shrank back deep into the shadows of the caterpillar treads for fear that some stray gleam might betray them. Jill was grateful for the tip about the express train; it dodged a lot of potential trouble that local stops would have brought. Now and again they passed an eastbound, and clung to one another as the cold winds buffeted them.

Eventually the long train diverged from the freeway again, rails running out into the badlands west of Pecos. Moonlight illuminated scrub-covered hills as the engineered grade cut straight through them. By this time her tongue felt swollen from thirst. They needed water, and food, soon.

After more than an hour of suffering, they passed through a final notch to see the interstate off in the distance – I-20 or I-10, she thought, depending on where they rejoined the big roads. Should have had Python buy an old-fashioned paper map at the truck stop so long ago, she thought, rather than relying on memory.

As they approached the line of vehicle lights perhaps half a mile away, the train slowed through a curve. It appeared that instead of crossing the interstate, the railroad would pick up parallel to it again.

“Get ready to jump off,” Jill yelled. “This might be the last slowdown before El Paso.” He nodded, and they stuffed their meager belongings back into their pillowcase sacks. “Protect your head and roll,” she instructed.

At the sharpest part of the curve, they leaped off, despite the ground rushing by beneath them. Jill estimated they were still traveling at thirty miles per hour, and the impact knocked the breath out of her. Rolling through brush and over rocky soil tore skin off her arms, back and knees. She clamped down on the pain and told herself to be thankful for no worse injury.

Python was not so lucky. His right wrist was sprained at least, possibly broken, swelling up quickly. She knew that without food and water, the Eden Plague would mindlessly try to heal him. Like a stupid construction crew that tore down good buildings to repair bad, the disease could not be shut off.

Jill supported him as he walked, grimly stomping over the broken ground toward the freeway. It seemed the only source of what they needed. Perhaps someone would stop and help them. She started concocting a plausible story about their car breaking down in the hills and having to walk out to the interstate.

She also resigned herself to the possibility she might have to steal the car of whoever stopped, or even kidnap them for a short time. One of those might be the only option. She couldn’t let someone call the police or an ambulance.

The irony of possibly mugging a Good Samaritan did not escape her, nor did it make her feel any better.

They stumbled along across country, closer and closer to the divided four-lane. Off to the right Jill could see an overpass, and she inferred on and off ramps from the truck she could see exiting. It cloverleafed around and headed away from them on a road only visible because of the vehicle itself, toward a cluster of lights about a mile south.

“You see that?” Jill said huskily, barely able to talk. “Whatever it is, it’s better than trying to flag down a car on the freeway. Any facility should at least have water faucets.”

Python just mumbled something unintelligible and kept plodding, holding his arm. Shortly they came up to the freeway, and they waited unsteadily for a break in the westbound traffic. When it came, they shambled across the lanes and into the divider.

The cold took its toll, as well as thirst and hunger. In the arid southwest, winter days were pleasant but the nights could easily dip to just above freezing. Jill’s body screamed for calories, reminiscent of the swim that had begun her odyssey. For agonizing minutes they waited for a break in the steady eastbound traffic, then ran across when they could.

“Come on, Keith, only a mile to water, and maybe some food. Gotta be something.” They stumbled down the grade into a field of sage and weeds. Jill felt as if she was floating, her feet operating on automatic as her eyes glued themselves to the harsh lights on widely spaced poles ahead.

“I hope that’s not a camp,” Python muttered.

“No way. Not enough light, and they wouldn’t put it so close to Mexico.”

“How far?” he croaked.

“Dunno. Just a few miles, I think. That was I-10; I saw a sign. It parallels the border. Worst case, we can drink from the Rio Grande.”

“Not sure I’m gonna make it.”

“Don’t give up on me yet, Python. You are far too badass to quit now. Just put one foot in front of the other.”

It seemed like forever but was only minutes before they approached the mysterious group of buildings. These resolved themselves into eight to ten huge yards, each with a long low central open structure and a couple hundred black-and-white cattle. In the center of it all stood a larger, closed building. A dozen trucks of various kinds stood in a parking lot next to it. Most of the light came from there, with the rest of the complex soaking up moonlight.

“It’s a dairy,” Jill realized aloud. “Feed and water in those long sheds, and they get milked twice a day in the big building.”

“Water,” Python croaked, and began struggling over the retaining fence around the nearest corral.

“Not yet. We’re too close to the main building. We might be seen. Let’s go around the perimeter to the farthest one.” Jill grabbed him and pulled him to the left, along the fence line.

Two hundred yards later she felt it safe to cross the barrier, and they trudged through the dimness atop drying dirty manure, aiming at the end of the feeding shed farthest from the central building. Its roof stood at least twenty feet high, providing shade and space for cows, and for trucks to pull up, to drop off feed and other supplies.

When they reached it, Jill and Python found troughs of relatively clean water, kept full by floater valves. They plunged their heads into the life-giving fluid, sputtering and drinking until they could hold no more. Most of the sleeping animals ignored them, but a few lowed mournfully, a sad sound of protest against their domain being invaded during the sacrosanct night.

“Now the feed,” Jill said, feeling herself strengthen already. “Must be some around here…” They split up and searched until they found a line of bins that looked like they would dispense grain. They found a few leftover buckets-full of stuff that they ate, unsure of its provenance. It smelled like food but tasted like wood.

Jill mused, “Silage, I think. Ground up corn with the cobs, stalks and all. Mostly these cows eat hay, but silage adds protein.”

“How do you know all this stuff? I thought you were from the city?”

She replied, “If you grow up in California, at some point you’ll go on a school field trip to a dairy. It’s agribusiness. The state produces more milk and cheese than Wisconsin and more beef than Nebraska.”

“Okay, teach. But this stuff ain’t gonna be enough.”

“I know, but it’s all we got.”

“Why don’t we go try to steal a truck? Then we can go to the nearest town and get drive-through,” Python said.

“Hell, no. That’s asking for so much trouble. We can make it. Here, suck on some of this.” She took out her multi-tool and chipped a piece off a whitish block.

“What is it?”

“Salt block. Mostly salt, some sugar and minerals. Keeps them drinking, keeps them making milk.”

Python put it in his mouth and hummed with pleasure. “Makes me thirsty again.” He headed back for the water troughs, while Jill choked down a couple more gulps of silage, and dumped some more into her sack. Then she drank water again alongside him.

“Let’s go. Home stretch. Just a few miles, and then a swim.”

“Swim?” Python stopped short.

“Yeah, the Rio Grande is the border.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay.”

“You can swim, right?” Jill asked.

“Sure, I swim like a fish.” He didn’t sound sure.

Jill clapped him on the back. “Come on, snake. Let’s go. And remember, like you said, anything’s better than being caught. No matter what, we’re getting across.”

Python didn’t reply, just put on a burst of speed across the dirt and manure to escape from the corral over the fence. She followed him, and was just starting to relax when she heard the roar of an engine.

Looking back, she saw a pickup truck speeding along the outside of the dairy behind them. It turned the corner and picked up speed, chasing them from two hundred yards back.

“Run off the road,” Jill cried, and they turned left out into the scrublands, away from the dairy. The truck braked nearly to a stop in a cloud of dust, then turned its headlights toward them until they speared the two in their beams. A moment later they heard a rifle shot, and a bullet kicked up dust near their feet.

“Separate, get out of the light, keep running!” Jill screamed, and turned right while shoving him left. Several more shots came before they got far enough away to be out of easy sight.

“They’re not supposed to shoot at people fleeing!” Python grumbled as he rejoined her in the dim moonlight.

“This is a new country, with martial law and all the fear. And besides, Texas is an HNK state.”

“What?”

“He Needed Killin’. That’s the standard defense against manslaughter. Basically, if you see a crime in progress, you can confront and use any level of violence necessary to stop the felony from taking place.”

“That’s crazy!” Python said.

“Really? Texas has one of the lowest rates of violent crime in the nation. You were a hard case. Would you ply your trade here?”

“I’d look for an easier state,” he replied vehemently.

“I rest my case.”

“Okay, maybe not so crazy,” he conceded.

Jill held up a hand for silence, pulling Python to a stop. “I hear an engine again.” She looked back, but saw no headlights. “I got a bad feeling. Let’s run some more.” They sped up, jogging along a track that seemed to go in the right direction. She had no idea how far the border was. It could be five hundred yards or five miles, but she knew it was close.

The sound of a revving motor came louder and louder, but they still could not see anything. Stumbling over gorse and sage and other woody scrub, Jill caught a glimpse of something off to her right, movement and reflection in the light of the dairy behind them. It was a vehicle, some kind of light truck or SUV, running blacked out, jouncing over the rough terrain.

“Border Patrol, I bet. They must have night vision goggles, or infrared,” Jill yelled. “Somehow they can see us. Get lower down, and ditch the sacks.” She crouched and ran that way, feeling the fire of straining muscles with a surfeit of lactic acid and without enough glycogen. Python followed behind, his breathing ragged.

The sound of the engine steadied off to their right, not growing closer, but gradually getting around in front of them. “They’re trying to cut us off,” Jill panted. “Angle right. We’ll come across behind them. They won’t expect that.” They continued their bent-over scramble. Soon they seemed to be following in the wake of the hunting vehicle, and then it moved off to their left.

A subwoofer pounding alerted Jill to another problem. “Helicopter,” she said. “They’ll have infrared for sure. Keep going. We have to keep going.” Python said nothing, the only sound his labored breathing.

The aircraft arrived fast, from the northwest, the same direction from which the vehicle had come, probably from El Paso. Jill could see its running lights and strobe. Had she been armed, she might have used those markers to show them what fools they were, but as it was they hardly made a difference. The two could not run fast enough to dodge its range of vision.

The aircraft roared over them at low altitude with a blast of rotor wash, then climbed a couple of hundred feet as it turned back. Undoubtedly it had spotted them, so Jill straightened up. “Run now! Fast as you can!” They sprinted over the broken ground, miraculously avoiding anything more than brief spills and the tearing of sharp-thorned shrubs.

The helicopter came to a hover overhead and they saw the truck heading back for them, directed from above. Darkness loomed, and they thought all hope was gone, when the ground fell away in front of them. Suddenly they found themselves scrambling and rolling down a slope, toward an unnaturally flat stretch of ground in front of them.

This was no impediment to the helicopter, which hung overhead like an unavoidable angel of doom, but the truck slammed to a stop at the edge of the semi-cliff and they could hear yelling as searchers dismounted.

At the bottom of the slope, they bolted out into the open, only to find themselves suddenly ankle-deep, then up to their knees, in water. What they had thought was level ground in the darkness turned out to be river.

“This is it!” Jill cried as she stripped off her hoodie. “Swim, Keith, swim!” She waded farther out, until she was up to her armpits.

Checking backward, she noticed Python had stopped. “I lied, Jill,” he said in an agonized voice. “I can’t swim to save my life.”

Irrationally, she came back toward him, frantically trying to think of a way out of this mess. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have tried to go across in town!”

“It doesn’t matter. You have to get away. I deserve anything that happens to me, but you have to go!” He backed awkwardly to the shore, regaining dry ground where he stopped. “Go, swim, damn you! I’ll buy you some time, so don’t waste it. I love you Jill!” he cried, and then he was gone, running eastward along the shoreline.

Her heart tore within her, but she could see the line of four or five armed border guards coming down the slope. He was right; it made no sense for both of them to get caught. She swore to herself that she would figure out a way to come back for him, to come back for all of the unjustly imprisoned people that a frightened nation had made its scapegoats. Then she turned back to the river.

Shots rang out on the shoreline, and she turned to sidestroke, swimming so she faced eastward, straining to see what Python’s fate would be. A blaze of gunfire, muzzle flashes in the night, showed that either he had gone down fighting, or they were not interested in taking prisoners. Her tears mingled with the water that surrounded her.

He said he couldn’t go back, but I have to believe he might be alive.

Jill rolled over to begin a steady crawling stroke across the slow-flowing Rio Grande, when the first bullets smacked into the water near her. Startled, her training did not fail her as she gulped a breath and dove under, swimming frog-style beneath the surface. Suddenly, brightness blazed around her as the helicopter turned on its spotlight, its infrared now useless.

She stayed under as long as she could, then popped up for a breath. More splashes in the water showed they definitely had given up on the idea of arrest, and would be content to kill her.

Kill me for what? Escaping their clutches? It’s proof that genuine law has broken down, to use deadly force against someone who is no threat to them. Ironic, how the worm has turned: Americans frantically trying to make it into Mexico.

One of the bullets poked hot into her calf, its momentum slowed but not stopped by two feet of water. Her lungs burned within her and she kicked off her cheap tennis shoes, all but wrecks now anyway. Another gulp of air and she stripped off the rest of her outer clothes, leaving nothing but bra and panties.

Pushing herself as far as she had ever done, she stayed under until she had to rise, thankfully outside of the circle of the helo’s searchlight. Several deep breaths restored her somewhat, enough for another dozen yards beneath the surface. Then she did it again, and again, in increasing darkness. It appeared they had lost her, or given up.

Coming to the surface to swim, she saw a low bank in front of her, and reached down with her foot to find the river bed. Something sharp stabbed a toe as she tried to get purchase, but she ignored it, just grateful to have made it to the other side. Once she reached the waterline, she stopped to rest, just lying there with her head in the dirt.

Something rustled above her head, and she rolled over to look upward into the faintly dawning sky. The silhouette of a uniformed man with an M16 blocked her view as he bent over to look at her closely. “Hola, Señora. Bienvenidos a México.”

Jill started to cry, whether from joy or grief or just exhaustion, she was not sure. The Spanish she had learned so long ago from her grandmother came back to her, well enough. “Gracias Señor. Solicito asilo en México por favor.”

“Si, bella dama. Ven conmigo.” He held out his hand, and she took it.

Epilogue

Tunjo, Colombia

Jill curiously examined the unmarked compound and compared it to the address on the piece of paper the Mexican civil servant had given her. It appeared to be the right place, and she saw several gringo faces behind the fence, along with people of other races. She walked up to the gate and pushed the button on the intercom, and waited.

The Mexican Federales had put her in a holding camp not much different from the one in Iowa, except that in this one, people also got to leave. Buses rolled up every day, names were called, and off they went to some form of resettlement. In her case, they'd sent her here, with a plastic bag of basic supplies and this address.

A man in khakis walked out of a nearby steel-framed building and let her in when she showed him the paper. He read it carefully before handing it back. “Military experience?” he asked as he shut the gate behind her.

“Semper Fi,” she responded, baring her left shoulder.

“Excellent. We need women.” With that cryptic comment he led her into the battered windowless warehouse. Inside, makeshift walls had been erected, reminding her of a temporary barracks on a deployment. People came and went, mostly men, all with the look of warriors.

“What did you do?” the man asked as they threaded their way toward the back.

“3RT. Tactical police and training.”

He grunted, a sound that might have held pleasure. “Doubly excellent. I’m going to make an executive decision and take you straight to The Man.” She could hear the capitals.

He knocked on a nondescript door, and then stuck his head inside. “Sir, I think I got a Class One for you. Jill Repeth. Marine Corps.”

From inside she heard a male voice say, “Excellent.” Apparently that was a buzzword around here. Her escort shoved the door wide open and motioned her to enter the room, and then closed it behind her, leaving her alone with its occupant.

Bright black eyes in a sharp face greeted her, beneath a severe buzz cut on a man shorter than she by at least two inches. His height seemed immaterial, for he filled the room with a presence, a force that told her this was someone to be reckoned with.

He held out his hand with a smile. “Hello, Miss Repeth. I’m Tran Pham Nguyen. You may call me Spooky. I’m putting together a special unit for covert operations within the United States. Interested?”

A slow smile filled Jill’s face. “Oh yes sir. Yes sir; you bet your ass I am.”

The End of Reaper’s Run. If this is your first Plague Wars book and you enjoyed it, please continue with Book 1, The Eden Plague, here: http://amzn.com/B008EMKJ6Q

If you enjoyed what you've just read, please consider leaving a review at http://www.amazon.com/David-VanDyke/e/B008EZHPC4/

David VanDyke’s other works are available at www.davidvandykeauthor.com or at your favorite book vendors

***

Read on for a bonus novella by Ryan King, a post-apocalyptic tale of one man’s struggle in the aftermath of disaster.

The Last Man

by Ryan King

Copyright © 2012 by Ryan King

Rolling waves crashed onto white sands with a calming rhythm while fat seagulls squawked and soared in warm morning breezes. Sam loved the sea, always had. He supposed in another age he could have been a sailor, now it was really too late and too dangerous.

It was the middle of spring and already getting uncomfortably hot in Key West. Almost past time to move north to his summer residence at Cape Cod, he figured. It was also a safer place to spend hurricane season than on the exposed southern tip of Florida. He gazed out on the beautiful ocean as The Pack barked and ran, playing in the surf. His dogs made him smile; he didn't want to think about where he would be without them.

The little car was packed; they wouldn't go too far before walking would be necessary. Sam had tried several times to clear a path along the Seven Mile Bridge, but it was an impossible task. He imagined that span would be clogged with old cars until it collapsed from rust hundreds of years from now. At least the cars weren't filled with bodies. Most of the refugees had made it off of the bridge before dying...or jumped into the ocean.

A boat would be more practical, but he wasn't that good a swimmer and didn't have much experience with the sea. A motorcycle would be easier to get in and out of cars on the tight span, but an experiment with a motorcycle several years ago had gone poorly and scared him beyond recovery. Any type of serious accident now would be his death, it wasn't like he could go to a hospital or wait for help.

He had used a bicycle on occasion, but it didn't allow him to carry much gear and the dogs tired after running behind him for several miles. Walking or driving were really the best options and that meant a short drive to Old Seven Mile Bridge followed by a long walk.

Sam whistled for the dogs. As usual Molly was first, the big yellow lab was eager to please. Tanner the black cocker spaniel, Dusty the medium-sized mongrel, and Scotch the giant grey Irish wolfhound followed. As was typical, Sam had to coax Raven the male Doberman who stood there looking at him from a distance as if to say, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, come on you mutt!" yelled Sam.

Raven suddenly sprang into action and ran in long loping strides to catch up with the rest of The Pack who were piling into the old Toyota hatchback. Sam shut all the doors and went around to the driver's side. After selecting a CD from his travel music folder, Bob Marley's Greatest Hits this time, he cranked the little car and began driving north.

It had taken him several years after the Great Plague to settle down into some sort of routine. The first few months had been the worst when the cities stank to the heavens with dead bodies and scavengers of all sorts multiplied by the millions to feed off all the meat. Following the scavenger population explosion, the bodies were mostly consumed and then without a ready source of food, the animals had turned desperate. Sam had been terrified of going outside and never without a gun. It had taken nearly a year for the excess animals to die off and for the environment to reach some sort of natural balance again.

Sam drove past a car with a picked clean skeleton in the driver's seat. Even after all of these years, he didn't like being around the dead. It wasn't superstition or fear of getting sick, it just made him sad, and he didn't like being sad. Before the plague there were all sorts of ways to distract yourself from being sad, but not so much anymore. Sadness could kill you as quickly and surely as a bullet, which was another reason he was grateful for The Pack. They always made him smile, especially when he was feeling down. He looked away from the skeleton, let Bob Marley sing to him, and drove on.

As he approached the long bridge, Sam had to more carefully navigate his car around abandoned vehicles. Finally, he could go no further and parked the car in his usual reserved parking spot. He let the dogs out and piled his gear into a small wagon exactly where he'd left it over four months earlier when he'd crossed the bridge from the north. It was crusty with salt and grime, but still serviceable. Sam conducted a final check of the car, ejected his CD, rolled up all the windows, and left the keys in the ignition. He filled the large metal wagon with gear and put on his pack.

Before starting across the bridge he donned his wide brimmed hat. The sun was already shining brightly and although Sam was as tanned as leather, his bald pate was sensitive to the sun. He also threw on his expensive designer sunglasses for good measure and began pulling the wagon.

The Pack followed along with him like an entourage and he thought this would be as close as he'd ever come to feeling like some famous important person. He imagined the dogs as paparazzi or reporters or groupies eager for his attention, and he smiled at his own silliness. The dogs revolved around him, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind like planets around the sun. The exception was Raven who was far out in front on point. The large Doberman seemed to feel it was his duty to warn his master of any danger or exceptionally exciting stuff ahead.

They continued steadily north out over the water. Sam wanted to cover the seven miles before noon which meant a steady pace and no long stops. It normally took less than three hours, but he wanted to make it in two and a half. Crossing the bridge was a necessary evil; he didn't like being out on a thin strip of concrete and metal in the middle of the ocean. Sam realized this was probably ironic given his love for the sea, but he knew he was an extremely complex man. He took a swig of water from the thermos and chewed on some dried fish as he trudged along pulling the wagon behind him.

Suddenly Sam saw a figure dart from between two cars to his front and then vanish in the maze of metal. He froze and stared. Sam began going forward again straining his eyes, but saw nothing. Raven was alert and unconcerned.

A phantom. His brain playing tricks on him. It was happening more and more often now. He supposed if he could find a psychiatrist to talk to they would tell him it was totally normal and his brain's way of dealing with the loneliness. Normal or not, it scared him a little and reminded him too much of countless horror movies. Sam strode on even harder.

He stopped twice to pour water out in a bowl for the dogs and to stretch a little. His body was lean and muscular, but tired easy. Probably from a lack of carbohydrates he reasoned. He could hunt, fish, and scavenge for just about everything except carbs. It was hard to find those and the first things the mice and rats seemed to go for in the groceries.

Before the sun was straight up in the sky they reached the other end of the bridge. The jeep was right where he'd left it before. He threw his gear into the back and heard the dogs start barking like mad.

Sam turned to see a ten-foot long alligator coming up out of the low ground towards them. It was still pretty far away, but seemed intent on pushing itself forward. He hollered for the dogs to come to him and stay back, but they didn't listen. The wild animals had no fear of man now. Sam chuckled, the animal kingdom had no fear of the man now. He could easily get away, but was afraid one of the dogs might get too close to the alligator and get hurt.

He walked over near the creature which opened its large maw at his approach. Sam drew the Colt .45 automatic from the holster at his hip and shot the gator three times in the head and then once more when it moved again. He started to leave, but then had an idea.

Grabbing his hatchet and a trash bag from the jeep, he went back and chopped off the gator's tail while the dogs sniffed the animal cautiously. Dinner tonight would be delicious. He cut the tail into smaller portions and put them in the trash bag, tying it at the top. After cleaning off the hatchet in the grass, Sam tossed it and the heavy trash bag into the jeep. He then inspected the vehicle's underside and engine making sure everything was okay.

Satisfied, Sam coaxed The Pack into the jeep. He then climbed in himself and disengaging the emergency brake, letting the jeep roll down the steep hill he'd parked it on. After several seconds it gained momentum, and Sam dropped the gear shift into first gear and popped the clutch. The sudden jerk and jolt were followed by a satisfying rev of the engine. Sam stopped the jeep and raced the engine for a moment to charge the battery. He then put on his seat belt, and pulled onto the highway to go get supplies.

Grogan's Groceries was Sam's normal stop after crossing the bridge. He could pick up supplies and also hand crank gas into the jeep and the spare gas can. He decided to fill up on gas first while the dogs jumped out and explored. While monotonously hand cranking the gasoline, Sam gazed around him noticing the leftover signs of anarchy from near the end. Most of the time he did not really see such things, they blended into background noise. The billboard near the road was partially burned as if a Molotov cocktail had been hurled against it. He could still read where someone had spray painted "This is the End?" in red letters across an advertisement for tractors.

Looking around Sam could recognize other signs of the apocalypse. He didn't want to see them but seemed unable to help himself. Abandoned cars in odd positions littered the parking lot, many of them filled with skeletons. Some of the cars had the windows still up and were filled with dried out mummies. Sam turned his eyes away quickly when he thought he saw a car seat in one of the mummified minivans. "Get a hold of yourself Samuel," he said out loud and noticed he had been cranking gas out onto the pavement, the jeep's tank and extra container full.

Sam cursed and put the crank away wiping his hands off. He walked over to the front of the grocery store grabbing a shopping cart from the parking lot. Although he had been in this store dozens of times, and knew the layout well, he still loathed going into these dark spooky buildings. It was best to get in and out as fast as possible. Sam pulled out his flashlight, opened the door, and pushed the cart through. He closed the door closely behind him to keep the dogs out afraid they would chase rats and maybe get bit. They whined at the front door while he walked further into the darkness.

The smell hit him like a bucket of water. It had been years since the power had gone out, but old meat, rotten eggs, and spoilt milk combined in a devilish cocktail of nauseating vapors. Sam pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, but it didn't help much. There was scurrying all around and Sam did his best to ignore it. The store was of course ransacked during the panic near the end, but not as bad as most. Sam went first to the popcorn, looters seemed to have universally snubbed the kernel. It was one of the few sources of carbohydrates that didn't go bad and the rodents didn't eat up. He threw about a dozen bags into the shopping cart and calculated there was enough left for several more trips. He then went to get bottles of oil to cook the popcorn. Next were various canned and jarred goods, bottles of fruit juice, spices and salt, canned dog food, sugar, tea, and other random items. He was even able to find several bags of pasta and rice the animals hadn't gotten into yet.

Time to get out of here. He could hear more scurrying around him and even thought he saw someone at the edge of his vision. Got to go, he told himself trying to stay calm as his heart raced. Sam turned off the flashlight, closed his eyes, and said, "There is no one there." He opened his eyes again and felt better. No need for the flashlight now that he was finished and heading towards the lit front entrance. Before leaving he checked the tobacco section and picked out a few of the better cigars. They were likely long stale but better than nothing. He almost went to the wine and liquor section, but decided against it. Alcohol made him sad and had almost killed him before, best to play it safe. Besides, looters nearly always cleaned out the alcohol first.

Sam pushed the door open and breathed in the fresh outside air. The dogs danced around him as if he'd been gone forever. He gave them pats and smiles and they were content. They would miss him if anything happened to master he knew. That was something at least, his existence served some purpose.

He loaded the supplies in the back of the jeep and then grabbed each dog one at a time. He put on a new flea collar and gave them heart worm medicine he'd picked up inside the store. Sam didn't know much about dog health, but wanted to do whatever he could, especially given their unusual diet. On impulse Sam took one of the heart worm tablets himself. Not bad, he thought chewing the soft meat flavored tablet.

The dogs jumped into the jeep, not willing to be left behind. All except Raven who stood a distance away. Sam yelled for him and Raven just stared back solemnly before breaking into a smile as if to say, "Ah, gotcha boss," and came bounding over to leap into the passenger seat of the jeep, forcing Molly into the back.

Sam got behind the wheel, put his seat belt on, and this time inserted a Gypsy Kings CD into the player. He cranked the jeep and after carefully checking to make sure there was no oncoming traffic, pulled out onto the northbound lanes of the highway.

He drove slowly out of habit. Although the road was wide open, and he could see for miles, you never knew when a storm could have blown a limb down or large cracks in the pavement may have appeared. Better safe than sorry and besides he wasn't really in a huge hurry to get anywhere. It was strange he thought that he had spent most of his life rushing around frantically from one thing to another and now there was hardly any reason to rush at all.

The ocean was still to the right, but the highway began to angle further in towards the interior of the state. This was one of the areas of his journey he disliked. Miami was up there ahead and he absolutely had to avoid that tomb of horrors filled with dusty memories and gigantic flying cockroaches. But avoiding the city meant taking a route further west into the edge of the everglades.

The vast swamp scared him. Every trip either up or down this route the everglades appeared more wild and primeval. Sam could easily image a dragonfly the size of a kite or a T-Rex come charging out of the mud and ooze after them. He saw an abandoned car's license plate with a manatee on it. At least the manatees are probably doing okay he thought. Without motorboats to cut them up, there were likely whole giant manatee herds out there somewhere. Sam wondered how they got along with the enormous alligators and dinosaurs.

He already knew where he would stay that night. It was the same place he camped each time he traveled this route. There was a rest stop ahead on high ground. It was still close enough to the swamp to make Sam nervous, but far enough away that he didn't think alligators would come up there. The rest stop also had a giant concrete fire-pit. He had learned the hard way about the importance of fire safety. Last year he had nearly created a giant forest fire around himself in Pennsylvania and didn't want any repeat performances of that near disaster.

Gypsy Kings sang on and relaxed him. He had never learned Spanish, but he imagined they sang of days gone by and the hopes of seeing loved ones again, if not in this world, then in another.

***

He used the last of an old bag of charcoal he'd previously stashed at the rest stop to cook up the alligator steaks on one of the communal metal grills. He seasoned the delicious meat with lemon pepper and garlic salt, his favorite combination. Sam cooked all the meat so he would have leftovers for several days.

A mosquito buzzed around his head and he pulled out a packet of matches from his pocket and ate two match heads. He had read in a survival book that the sulfur in the matches would come out his pores and drive insects away. It seemed to work, he thought.

The fire raged in the pit as the sun set. He liked a large fire at night as long as it could be contained and there was enough wood available. Sam used to build large bonfires by day to signal anyone to his existence, but the constant disappointment had been too much to bear and he discontinued the practice.

He set alligator steaks out on paper plates for the dogs and threw another large piece of bleached wood onto the fire. The Pack woofed up their food while he finished cooking the rest of the meat. He put a couple of the choice pieces on a plate for himself and then set the others aside to cool and store in Ziploc bags for later.

Sam ate silently while staring into the fire thinking of nothing in particular. After finishing the alligator steaks he opened a jar of pickle spears and ate several before putting the rest away for later. He then pulled out a pan and carefully popped popcorn over the fire pit. The Pack perked up, popcorn was one of their favorites. Sam could almost feel his body respond to the carbohydrates and felt a little bit sleepy even though it was early. He washed everything down with a bottle of fruit juice and then cleaned up the cooking utensils.

The dogs were beginning to settle down for the night in positions close to the fire. Sam realized he had better lay out his sleeping bag soon or all the best spots would be taken. He pulled his bag and pillow from the jeep and seeing the clear and beautiful night sky, also grabbed the telescope. It was the most compact and powerful one he could find and was perfect for gazing up into the heavens and nights like this.

Sam set up the tripod and aimed the telescope towards the inner part of the Milky Way. Should have been an astronomer, he told himself. He stared at the amazing cosmos going from star cluster to star cluster wondering if there were others out there like him. He lit a stale cigar and felt a little less alone in the vastness of the universe around him.

His eyes finally grew tired and the cigar was finished. Sam put the telescope away and took off his boots. He was about to lay down when he saw two figures run from behind the jeep into the woods near the highway. Both had long black hair, and were holding hands. One was a child.

Sam stood suddenly knocking over the telescope. The dogs looked up at him quizzically and he realized the figures weren't real. "Damn, stop it!" Sam said as he put his fists to his head. He picked up the telescope and went about lying down for sleep intentionally not looking around the campsite. The dogs would warn him if there was anything that needed his attention.

As soon as he was in his sleeping bag, Molly and Tanner came over and lay against him sharing their warmth and comfort. Sam closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it was a long time coming. He gazed up into the vastness of the cosmos until he faded into sleep's blessed oblivion serenaded by the song of the frog and cricket.

***

Sam liked the jeep because it had four-wheel drive and was light making it ideal for going off-road around most of the abandoned car bottlenecks. The few times the jeep had gotten stuck in soft mud or dirt, it had been relatively easy to pull the jeep back up to the road using the winch on the front bumper.

They traveled steadily north over the next few weeks, staying as close to the Atlantic as possible. Sam frequently consulted road maps and chose scenic routes near the sea over larger roads or more direct routes. Many of the paths he had traveled before, but some were new as were the sights.

One morning he awoke to a ball of smoke in the sky to the north. Sam almost didn't believe it at first, but after rubbing his eyes several times convinced himself the smoke was actually there. He raced north at a pace that wasn't entirely prudent. Around noon, and after many wrong turns and dead ends, Sam found the source of the fire. A large barn on a dairy farm was burning with great fury and Sam even felt the wall of heat from the road. After a careful search he determined no one had been around for years. It probably started by a stray spark, or a compost pile heating up, or even a stray bolt of lightning. What it wasn't, was a sign from another human being. Sam choked down his disappointment and got back on his path.

Sam now had a little bit of a problem. The problem was he was no longer sure exactly where they were. In his excitement, he had simply followed the smoke in the sky and stopped consulting the maps. He could tell where north was by his compass, but that still left a lot of unknowns.

They continued to drive generally north on numerous back roads and forgotten highways until the sun sank low into the sky. Sam was close to pulling over in a field to make camp when he saw a sign ahead that read "Town Limits - Carthage, Population 1,492 - Best Little Town in East Florida!" They passed the sign and drove toward the town center. Sam considered stopping at a gas station on the edge of town, but he was near full anyway having steadily siphoned gas out of abandoned cars along the way. Besides, light was failing and night was coming on strong.

Carthage had an eerie feeling about it, thought Sam. None of these old towns were like freaking Disneyland or anything, but this one seemed somehow off. It was as if instead of being dead it had unfinished business to settle. Sam would prefer to explore and see what this was about, but the sun was almost down and he didn't like moving about in the dark. They were approaching some sort of park and Sam decided that would be as good a place as any to camp for the night.

He drove the jeep up into the park under several majestic trees and turned off the engine. The dogs jumped out and went running off to explore. Sam didn't worry, they rarely went too far and would be back when he started cooking. He began gathering firewood and picked a spot out from under the trees for their nightly blaze.

He got the fire going just as the final rays of the sun were fading from the western sky. One of the biggest shocks to Sam after the world ended was how hard it was to start a fire. No boy scout, he had always assumed a lit match in combination with dry wood produced a roaring and satisfactorily warm fire. He was soon disillusioned and learned that starting a fire was work...unless you used lighter fluid or gasoline and Sam felt guilty about wasting that limited resource. It wasn't as difficult as it had been in the early days, though Sam still felt slightly spent after successfully getting a fire going.

He piled up a few nearby rocks and logs to create a support for the metal grating he used to cook on. He laid it over the fire and then poured an extra large can of baked beans into a saucepan and set it on the grating. They hadn't had fresh meat for several days and Sam knew they would need some soon. The sheer work of hunting, killing, and preparing meat had been as great a surprise to Sam as preparing a fire had been.

The Pack straggled back in, drawn by the smell of the beans. Sam opened cans of dog food and poured them out into a couple of large bowls and the five canines attacked their dinner with enthusiasm. He stirred his beans and then ate them right out of the saucepan.

Sam was just getting ready to clean the empty pan when in near unison the dogs started going berserk. Raven and Scotch were in the front facing the darkness of the town center, the others a little behind. All of them had their hackles standing straight up. Sam began to shine a light towards what they were agitated about, but heard strange grunting animal noises and instead went to the jeep and took the M1 carbine out of its case. He checked to make sure it was loaded and turned around to see the dogs backing away from some sort of monster entering the circle of firelight.

Sam was uncertain of exactly what he was seeing. There were three or four of the monsters that he could see and they were gigantic, easily the size of buffalo, but longer like a hippo. They stared at him with intelligent eyes over wicked tusks and long noses. Sam realized with a shuddering shock that they were pigs. Pigs larger than any pig should ever be...and unafraid. The lead animal strode forward and stuck its snout into the pan so recently filled with baked beans and began making slurping noises. The others gathered around and Sam could see another four or five materialize out of the darkness further back.

He jumped into the jeep and called for the dogs to follow him. For once Raven didn't hesitate, nearly knocking Sam over in his eagerness to get away from these nightmare monsters. The lead pig had finished licking out the pan and cast it aside. Another giant pig incredibly began chewing up and eating the pan. The pigs sniffed the air and approached closer to the jeep containing the smelly man and loud annoying dogs.

"This is total bullshit!" screamed Sam at the swine. They approached and stuck their long snouts into the open sides of the jeep opening their mouths to try to get a hold of anything edible. Sam had had enough, he leveled the rifle at the pig closest to him and shot the animal in the head at point blank range. Blood flew from the animal and it looked at him with concern and then evil intent. It leveraged all its weight against the jeep and pushed.

Sam felt the light jeep lift up on its side and he nearly panicked. If they ended up on the ground the pigs would have them for sure. He fired again and again at the lead pig until it finally stopped pushing the jeep and stumbled away before falling down, its head crashing into the fire. The other swine without hesitation moved forward to begin feeding on their dying brethren.

Sam was repulsed and wanted to shoot at the monstrosities, but was afraid it would attract their attention. They were already staring at him with intelligent curiosity while they dined and Sam felt as if he were somehow the entertainment piece of dinner and a show. The dogs had also thankfully ceased their crazed barking and now simply whined and growled.

The smell of roasted pork was somehow nauseating. The pigs feasted and tore apart the giant animal, fighting with each other over the choicest portions of entrails. Sam and The Pack watched the spectacle fearful and horrified for long hours.

Finally the monsters had cleaned the carcass to the bone and were satiated enough to have little interest in the smaller game in the jeep. The pigs wandered off into the darkness to pursue other piggish activities.

Sam and The Pack remained in the jeep and continued their vigil throughout the long night, awaiting the blessed light of the dawn.

***

The next morning they drove on into town. Sam wanted to be away from this place as fast as possible, but the quickest way was north through dead Carthage.

The body hanging by a rope around its neck from the railing of a water tower caught his attention first. It was hard to believe that after all of this time a body could resist decomposition so much that it actually could hang, but there it was. On the tower this corpse, or another, had painted in large black block letters, "Abandone hope all ye who enter here" and followed this up inexplicably enough with a giant smiley face.

At the town center, in front of the old courthouse, Sam slammed on the brakes and just stared. There was a pile of charred bones as high as the second story of the courthouse. It must contain hundreds of bodies, thought Sam. A bucket truck stood beside the pile, itself partially charred, several dead bodies in the bucket itself. The piles had been disturbed and trampled upon, likely by the pigs.

Sam felt sick to his stomach, but before he could turn away he saw three tall wooden stakes in the ground with blackened earth around them out to about fifteen feet. Blackened bones littered the ground at the base of the stakes. He tried to look away quickly but before he could saw a charred human skull no bigger than his fist seemingly cradled in the protective charred boney hands of an adult.

Driving fast, much too fast. Sam heard loud moaning noises, but couldn't figure out where it was coming from. He could hardly drive for Molly sitting in his lap licking his face. Sam finally let his foot off the gas and just let the jeep coast until it stopped in the middle of the road. Tears were streaming down his face.

"Oh God, what happened to us?" Sam asked. "Why is it all gone and why am I still here? If it's the freaking apocalypse you forgot something!" he screamed into the sky. "You forgot to take me! Do it! Take me!"

Sam hung on the wheel and sobbed. Molly's insistent licking in his ear would not be denied. He grabbed the dog by the neck angry, but ended up hugging her close caressing and drawing comfort. He eventually got himself under control, wiped his eyes and looked up. Rachael, his dead wife, was standing there in front of the jeep, smiling and lovely, her long dark hair still in the breeze.

"Not now, honey," whispered Sam and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was gone.

***

The math was irrefutable, yet still not borne out by practical observation. Even if the plague had been 99.99% fatal to all those infected, making it by far the most deadly pathogen even seen, there should still be thirty-five thousand survivors in the United States alone and sixty million survivors worldwide presuming a 100% exposure rate. But where were they?

The East Coast was the most densely populated region of the United States. If there were survivors, then some of them should be here. Sam had gone up and down the entire coastline a half dozen times and seen no evidence of other survivors. Could he really be the only one left alive? Wouldn't it be more likely that all of this was some sort of delusion? Maybe he was dying too, or in a coma from a car crash, or dead already and this was hell.

If he were the only survivor, what had made him different, he asked himself. He hadn't just survived infection; he had never even gotten sick. No one knew what the disease was and in the end they called it The Plague, which was as apt a name as any. The signs of the disease were high fever, painful sores, and delirium, but what made it truly deadly was the fact that an infected person was a carrier for nearly a week before showing any real signs of infection. In months The Plague had swept the globe.

Sam suspected that the suddenness of the disease, and the total lack of immunity by humans, indicated the disease was manmade. The fact that all animals were immune strengthened this hypothesis. Someone must have screwed up royally, he thought.

A blood test to confirm infection was quickly developed, however it only served to ignite chaos and panic once it showed nearly everyone carried the disease and would die in a matter of days. Those days were a nightmare to Sam. Parents killing their children to prevent suffering. Roving gangs of madmen wandering the streets killing, maiming, and raping with abandon. At first there was a pathetic effort to dispose of the bodies. Mass graves soon led to giant furnaces which turned into whole fields piled high with bodies hosed down with gasoline from fire department pump trucks before going up in a giant fireball of ineffective cremation. Eventually, even the thin veneer of civilization collapsed. Police, soldiers, doctors, firemen, government leaders all evaporated into the futility of wasted life and the certainty of impending death.

Sam never bothered to even get the test, just assumed he was infected like everyone else and would die soon. He'd been away on business, unable to get home or even call. Mass transportation came to a standstill and the roads and highways were thin ribbons of clogged hellish brutality in a vast landscape of death and rot.

He supposed the only thing that kept him from killing himself like so many others was the thought of getting home to his wife and daughter before the end. Countless occasions he almost died anyway due to near accidents, wanton violence, or sheer chance.

As everyone around him died off and the world became more still, Sam let himself feel some hope for his family. Maybe he was alive because of something genetic, so Rachel and Barbara could be immune too. They might be alive and holding on in their house in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Getting home consumed his being. He had long ago tried to blot out that journey. It was a voyage over a dead landscape covered in bodies where the rats and roaches had quickly multiplied by the trillions to consume the rotting stinking flesh. Giant plumes of smoke lifted into the air in every direction and on some days dirty ash fell from the sky like snow. Sam learned to avoid habitation and highways, traveling mostly cross country and only entering buildings out of great necessity.

Williamsburg lay on a peninsula cut lengthwise by only one real interstate and this road had become more of a killing zone that most. Sam remembered this highway was frequently packed bumper to bumper each weekend in normal times and at the end, millions had clogged this already ineffective escape route. Sam had no other choice but to travel down this highway. The surrounding land was narrow, swampy, and thickly wooded, so I-64 was the only real option.

He spent most of the time walking over the hoods and roofs of cars, trucks, and vans covered in others' belongings, some clearly necessary for survival, others pure vanity or delusion. At night he would stay in one of the many recreational vehicles on the highway after dragging the dead inhabitants outside with as much respect and tenderness as he could summon. He would eat what was stocked in the vehicle's kitchen heated by propane tanks and he could usually even get a shower.

It took over a week to cover the sixty miles in this manner. When he finally made it to his neighborhood, it looked almost normal. Bodies were few and only a couple of the houses had burned down. Sam made his way to his house and family with trepidation.

He began running when he saw his home and started yelling for them. His cries startled a flock of crows and his cries echoed back to him unanswered. Dead windows everywhere greeted and watched him.

Rachel had loved this home, they both had. It wasn't too big and in a nice area with a beautiful view. They had bought it with the intention of growing old in it together and of it being the last house they ever owned. They had been happy and content here, Sam realized as he stood at the front door. An envelope was taped to the green surface with 'Samuel' written in Rachel's beautiful looping cursive.

Sam reached out and took the envelope with shaking fingers and pulled out a folded letter filled with more of Rachel's writing. 'Samuel, my love,' it began. 'I pray you find this letter and are well. Barbara and I have the plague and know what that means. At least we have each other. I hope you are not alone at the end. If you get home soon and are not infected, please, if you love me, do not enter! There is nothing you can do for us and we want you to go on, even if that means without us for as long as you can. Your love and the life we have lived together has been more than I ever even hoped to dream for. Farewell my love, you will see me again I promise. Rachel and Barbara.'

He dropped the letter with shaking hands and a photograph tumbled out of the envelope. Sam reached down and picked it up. It was a picture of the three of them that summer on the beach. One of those wonderful moments that they had taken for granted, back when they had believed happy days would stretch out before them without end.

Sam put his hand on the door knob and found it locked. He got ready to knock down the door but was racked with sobs. He could imagine them lying in there together in bed, loving and comforting each other until the end, but dead and decaying now. His brain couldn't stand the thought, and he knew if he saw them like that right now it might drive him insane.

Instead he turned and walked away from his home and his family, but not for the last time.

***

Tanner the old spaniel died not long after they crossed into Georgia. Sam dug a small grave and buried the old dog determined not to cry and cried anyway. The rest of The Pack seemed to also mourn and share the sense of loss. Tanner had been the first member of The Pack, finding Sam in the early days when he wasn't sure if he wanted to live or not. To say that the dog probably saved his life wasn't an overstatement.

Sam had learned that when he was down or depressed, he needed something to change his attitude and later that same day found what he was looking for. He'd always disliked bowling but didn't hesitate to pull into the nearly deserted parking lot of the Plainsview Bowl a'Rama. Sam forced the door open with a small crowbar from his tool bag and opened the doors wide to allow in as much light as possible. The building hadn't been ransacked like most others and looters likely overlooked the bowling alley as an end of the world target of rampage.

He started to walk down the lanes, all of which had their pins in neat pyramid order, before he saw the concession stand. Sam pulled the flashlight out of his pocket and saw the kegs of beer hooked to electric dispensers. It was likely warm and flat, but what the hell. He popped the automatic tap off the top and found a hand pump to put on. After several minutes of fiddling with a contraption he hadn't had much interaction with since college, he was pumping warm foamless beer into a clear plastic cup.

He stood up and admired the beer in the dim light. The dogs had already grown bored with him and were exploring the far reaches of the bowling alley, probably munching on old popcorn or a stale hotdog bun. Sam slowly put the cup to his lips and sipped. He was careful to moderate his expectations and expected the beer to taste like old socks or stale mouse turds. It was delightful. He drank down the first cup in several long swallows, belched, and pumped another.

"Probably the carbs my body's reacting to," he said to the dogs who didn't contradict him. He killed the second beer, pumped another and headed towards the bowling lanes feeling pleasantly tipsy.

Sam's father had watched bowling on the television with an intense concentration Sam could never understand. He supposed that was one reason he had never really enjoyed the game. Still, he'd had his share of dates and knew how to bowl.

He set the beer down on a table near the first lane and found a good sixteen pound ball that fit his long fingers. He considered going to look for bowling shoes, but the idea of sticking his feet in shoes that hundreds of others had worn had never appealed to him even before the end of the world. Who knew what type of super mutant athlete's foot had flourished in those shoes since. Hiking boots it would be and hopefully no one would hold the poor score against him.

Sam walked up to the arrows and tried to remember everything he could about the proper form. He looked over the ball at the pins far down the dark lane concentrating. Swinging his arm back in a smooth arc he stepped forward bringing the ball even with his body and then out in front releasing in one fluid motion. He thought he'd put too much spin on it, the ball teetering on the edge of the gutter for a long second, before it pulled back towards the center and struck the front pin off center. Sam couldn't believe it, a strike.

"Holy shit," he said as he stepped one lane to the right and heaved another ball down the lane. Another strike. "You've got to be kidding me," he said to the dim cavernous room.

Sam stepped one more lane to the right. There wasn't a sixteen pound ball nearby, so he made due with a fourteen. It didn't make a difference, another strike.

"Are you guys seeing this?" Sam yelled out to the dogs. Molly and Raven lifted their heads to look at him, and uninterested went back to their much more fascinating doggy diversions.

Pure luck, he thought. He'd never been that good a bowler. Not once in his life had he gotten two strikes in a row, much less three. Maybe there was something to the beer. He'd made fun of calling any activity that involved consuming large amounts of beer and pizza a sport. Now he thought maybe he had been a little too hasty.

Sam finished the beer, got more and picked out another ball. He carefully and deliberately threw another strike. Man, if I'd known the secret of beer before I would have been the freaking world-class bowling champion of the universe, he thought.

He got a little cocky on the next lane and only knocked down eight pins, but got the spare on the next throw. Of the fifteen lanes he ended up getting nine strikes, five spares, and left only one pin standing in the entire building.

Sam realized with a start that he was at the very far edge of the bowling alley furthest from the front door. Not only was it dark this far in, but it looked like it was close to nighttime outside.

"Shouldn't be getting dark yet," he said out loud, "far too early." He whistled for the dogs and jogged to the entrance. Outside the sky was menacing and pregnant with heavy impending rain. Worse, the wind was picking up and Sam saw a bolt of lightning in the distance a few seconds before a loud thunderclap scared both him and the dogs.

He ran over to the jeep with the dogs following and began putting the plastic sides and cover on. Sam had only done this a couple of times so his hands were clumsy and uncertain, especially with the beer in his system. Finally the cover was on and he got in behind the wheel relieved. He counted the dogs cowering with him, practically in his lap whining. Only three.

"What the hell?" he yelled in frustration seeing Raven wasn't with them. He whistled and after scanning the surroundings saw the dog cowering in the bowling alley, looking out at him with fear and even a bit of guilt.

"Come on buddy," yelled Sam as a sudden splatter of hard rain hit the jeep. Raven stared back at him and Sam would almost swear the dog shook its head at him.

He jumped out of the jeep annoyed and little afraid as he was hit by the heavy wind and rain. "This right here is a bunch of crap," he said to himself running towards the dog that jumped up and seemed relieved to see its master. Raven was shaking and had his ears and nubby tail down so low Sam's annoyance evaporated. He patted the dog and grabbed his collar pulling.

Raven suddenly realized what master's plan was and didn't want any of it. The big dog planted its feet and pulled back. Sam cursed and grabbed the collar by both hands while the dog pulled in the other direction. There was a moment of total equilibrium. Then suddenly the collar came off from around the dog's neck and lay in Sam's hands. He fell back towards the door and Raven rushed over with his wagging stubby tail and licked his face.

He was getting really nervous now. The wind outside sounded like there might be a tornado or something being cooked up and the other dogs were likely beside themselves. He ran outside to the jeep and briefly considered leaving the infuriating dog before dismissed the idea. Instead he cranked the jeep up and carefully backed it towards the entrance of the bowling alley, getting as close as possible by pulling up onto the sidewalk.

Sam left the vehicle again and went inside. He picked the big dog up and began carrying him to the jeep. Raven saw master's diabolical plan and started struggling. Sam nearly lost control of the dog with only a short distance to go and ended up heaving Raven into the back of the jeep. The dog landed on its four feet like a cat and looked at him as if to ask what all the trouble was about.

Closing the back flap securely, Sam went and got behind the wheel only then seeing the danger they were in. Directly in front of them, perhaps a half mile away, was a thick funnel cloud descending from the swirling dark mass of sky. Sam popped the clutch and the vehicle stalled.

"Really?" asked Sam to no one in particular and had an urge to laugh at it all. He carefully cranked the jeep and put it into first gear pulling away from the bowling alley as limbs and leaves began to fall all around.

He had heard that you were supposed to head away from a tornado at ninety degree angles and not run directly from it. He thought this was good since he really didn't have much choice and had to follow the road. Sam checked for oncoming traffic, pulled out onto the two-lane road to the right heading north as fast as he could.

Trying to stay calm and not have a wreck he drove while checking his rearview mirrors. He didn't see any tornados, though he knew that didn't mean anything, one could be right over his head that very minute. Getting more nervous by the second, he passed an old underpass on the right and slammed on the brakes. He backed up quickly and then pulled the jeep into the hollow in the ground passing beneath an old railroad track.

They waited with trepidation for a quarter of an hour before Sam thought it was probably safe. He got out of the jeep and walked out from under the shelter. He was soon drenched by the rain, but the wind was no longer swirling and fierce. He decided the immediate danger had passed. He still wasn't going to stay outdoors that night if he could help it, and night seemed to be coming on early already.

He backed the jeep out onto the road and continued into the small town of Plainsview. Sam saw a school, a church, and a library. He immediately dismissed the school and the church. Both had been major gathering places for the dying at the end, one for shelter, the other for comfort. He drove towards the library. Very few people had wanted to check out War and Peace or A Tale of Two Cities with only days to live and he expected the building to be empty.

Sam left the dogs in the jeep while he busted open the locked door and walked in casting his flashlight beam around quickly. It didn't appear too bad and besides choices were getting slim. He went back out, herded the dogs into the library while grabbing his backpack and the oil lamp he'd recently discovered.

After lighting the lamp, Sam looked around and was almost scared out of his wits by a miraculously well preserved mummy at the receptionist desk. This lady had been in her late sixties or seventies judging by her silver hair. She sat upright and balanced at the desk with an open book before her. He saw the usual signs of sickness and pain. Yet she appeared calm and dignified even in death.

He took a deep shuddering breath and carried the lamp to check out the rest of the building. There were no other bodies and a small stock of food, bottled water, and a cot were in the back. The old librarian had evidently made this her residence at the end. She had calmly died among her books. Sam wanted to dismiss her as silly while at the same time he felt oddly proud of this unknown lady who had remained true to her charge until the job was finished. Admirable or not, he didn't want to spend the night with her looking at him.

Sam went to the cot and picked up the blankets there and walked back to the librarian. With extreme care so as not to disturb the frail corpse, he wrapped the blanket around her and picked her up in his arms. The body couldn't have weighed more than sixty pounds and she was obviously a slim small woman while alive.

He carried her into the back room and laid her with care on the cot. Not knowing what else to do, he went back to the desk, retrieved the book she had been reading, and started to put it into the cot with her. A glance at the cover caused him to drop it in astonishment.

He had heard of the author. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein and he had even visited the castle in Darmstadt, Germany that supposedly inspired her tale, but this book of hers he had never heard of.

It was called The Last Man. Sam reached down and picked up the book and looked back at the librarian. He pulled the blanket up over her face and walked back into the main library room as the outside darkness won out completely over the day. Rain and wind buffeted the windows and walls of the small library.

Sam rummaged in his pack and gave each of the dogs an energy bar he'd raided from an outdoor shop a week ago and then opened one for himself. He took the lamp over to one of the old leather couches and sat down to read. The dogs finished their energy bars and then jumped up on the couch beside him to settle down for the night.

He opened the book with nervousness, uncertain what he would find. Sam read the story late into the night. It was also about a plague that destroyed mankind, but unlike Sam's tale it did so slowly with the main character painfully and expectantly alone in the end. It was a dismal tale, and Sam realized he had hoped for a happy ending. Maybe the man found someone else. Maybe the plague went away. Maybe it wasn't the end.

This story ended like Sam knew his would with the hero alone, sad, and dead. Sam closed his eyes and slipped off to exhausted and hopeless sleep.

***

They eventually had to abandon the jeep at the Ogeechee River. Sam had grown quite fond of the vehicle and even thought he might be able to drive it at least as far a Virginia, but it was not to be. He finally encountered a bridge so clogged with cars and lacking a way around that he was forced to move on without the faithful vehicle.

He found a serviceable SUV on the other side that, after siphoning gas from other vehicles and trying several batteries, he was able to start. Sam had to make three trips back across the bridge to transfer all his gear, and the dogs trailed him all the way providing moral support without any real substantive help.

They were gradually making their way back towards the coast while still trying to avoid the major cities. Summer was approaching and the heat would become uncomfortable this far south in a month or so. Sam wondered how people could have survived in such blistering heat and humidity before the advent of air conditioning. Just thinking about the coming summer made him start to get a little dewy.

He saw a large department store off the interstate ahead and decided it wouldn't hurt to change clothes now that he was thinking about it. He pulled up to the front of the store and felt absurdly guilty about parking in the handicap spot. Sam stepped out followed by The Pack who were always eager for a new adventure.

Big department or warehouse stores were best. Although usually ransacked during the panic of the last days, they weren't gutted due to their sheer size. Also, these stores often had large front windows allowing in light making the interior only dim instead of scary dark. The front glass door had been smashed and hung on one hinge. Sam walked carefully in the front door sweeping glass out of the way with his boot to keep it from cutting the dogs' feet.

He headed straight for the infant section and found the largest package of baby wipes he could before going to men's cloths. Sam picked out an outfit he liked, fully recognizing his efforts at color coordination were wasted. He then striped all his clothes off after emptying his pockets. Tearing the packaging off the baby wipes he dug down into the middle where they were still damp and baby fresh. Sam used nearly all of the damp baby wipes to clean himself off, surprised at how brown the wipes were since he didn't feel that dirty. Rachel would be mortified.

After cleaning himself he pulled off the tags and stickers of the new clothes, putting them on carefully in case there were any creatures squatting in the hidden interiors. Wow, clean fresh clothes felt good, he thought. He should really do this more often. Dusty the mongrel watched him with interest and he thought it wouldn't hurt to give the pack a bath every now and then either. Maybe he would do that on his day off.

Sam carefully put his belt on with all his Batman-like accessories and weapons and also refilled his pockets. He next grabbed a small overnight bag off a nearby shelf and went to look around. They didn't need anything except maybe some more dog food, still it never hurt to check.

He found a pharmacy in the back and was angry at himself. Every single time he was near a pharmacy he thought to stock up in case he got sick but realized he didn't know anything about drugs or medicines and could poison himself if not careful. It would be so easy to pick up a pill or drug guide from a bookstore and know what he was getting. He had probably been in this exact same situation a dozen times and just kept forgetting to get the book. Maybe it hadn't actually happened, he thought. Surely he wasn't that forgetful, maybe he was just imagining it or going a little nuts. "Oh great!" he said out loud with a laugh, "like that's better somehow."

Sam grabbed some aspirin, lip balm, vitamins, and energy drinks regardless. He next went to the sporting goods section not giving the toy or electronic sections a second look. Sam had all the ammo and guns he needed but liked to look and see if there was anything of interest in the outdoor section. He had berated Rachel for years about "shopping" without a clear idea of what you were looking for and realized he was doing the exact same thing now.

On a whim he picked up a compound bow and tested the draw. Too strong. He picked up another that looked his size and found the draw manageable. He picked up an arrow, notched it to the string and pulling it to his ear letting it fly at a mattress display across the store. Sam decided shooting the bow was great fun and loaded box after box of arrows into a shopping cart along with the bow. He also grabbed a few bottles of propane for those nights he didn't feel like building a fire and then went towards the front of the store again.

He whistled for The Pack and they came out of various corners of the store, Molly barking to the others to re-emphasize the master's wants. They loaded up their booty in the SUV and got back on the road heading northeast to the sea.

Sam saw a firework stand and thought how much fun it would be to set off fireworks for the 4th of July. He then decided that old, wet, mice-eaten fireworks were exactly the sort of end that would befall the world's last man in a Greek tragedy. Sam laughed at the absurdity of it all and then slammed on the brakes in sudden panic.

He realized he had no idea when the 4th of July was. Hell he had no idea what today was. Sam had been keeping track of the days in an old notebook, but couldn't remember the last time he had actually done this or where the notebook even was. He could guess what year it was from counting the seasons, but he wasn't even totally sure of the month. Sam started shaking and moaning and rocking back and forth. The dogs whined and licked at him, but he didn't notice them.

How could he not even know the date! The rational detached part of his brain tried to calm the rest of him down, telling him it was no big deal, but the short-circuiting part of Sam's brain mounted a full head-on offensive. Fear shrank his vision into a dark tunnel with menacing bird wings on the periphery. With relief, Sam had an alluring idea. He pulled out his pistol, flicked the safety off and stuck the muzzle to his head. Sam's finger was tightening on the trigger as tears rolled down his cheeks when he felt a touch on his shoulder. The dogs were bumping into him in the tight quarters, but he knew this was different. He looked over and saw Barbara his daughter in the passenger seat.

"It's okay daddy," she said with a smile and pushed the pistol away from his head. "You were never good with dates anyway; it's just the stress of everything that's getting to you."

Sam choked with emotion, couldn't speak, and only stared at his little girl, so grown up like the teenager she had been before the end.

"Don't worry about any silly calendar or dates," she laughed, "you got somewhere you gotta be or something? Tickets for a concert or baseball game?"

"No," he finally got out around tears, "but I won't even be able to remember your birthday, or my wedding anniversary, or Thanksgiving for God's sake!"

Rachel shook her head, "Well I guess you'll just have to remember all those things every day."

Sam felt his daughter leaving him and refused to look away as she simply faded before his eyes, incredibly patting Molly on the head at the end. She had loved dogs so.

"Yes, indeed," he said. "Why not?"

He went to a grocery store and he was able to find canned turkey, cranberry sauce, boxed stuffing, gravy in a jar, and even some powdered mashed potatoes. After getting his food and cooking supplies, he turned back towards the river, back tracking until he found a scenic park overlooking a bend in the slowly moving water.

It was only a little after noon, but they were done for the day. It was a holiday, no more traveling on Thanksgiving he decided. Sam prepared his feast on one of the grills and then ate with relish until he was near bursting, even letting the dogs have their fill.

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon listening to James Brown on the SUV's CD player while he fired arrows down the length of the river until they were all gone.

It was one of the best days he'd had in a long time.

***

He had just recently discovered audio books and couldn't understand why he hadn't thought of them earlier. Nothing made the monotony of driving fade like a fascinating tale. He also yearned for the sound of another human voice and forgot for a while that he was alone. Whenever he exhausted his supply of audio-books he would stop at another library and pick out more. Sam learned about the Peloponnesian War, how to make his love life more satisfying, how to enhance his memory, listened to a biography of Adolf Rupp, and dozens of works of fiction.

They continued northeast for several more weeks hitting the sea and then having to bounce back into the interior in order to proceed north and avoid the large coastal cities. Some of these cities actually appeared to still have fires going. Or maybe they were new fires like the dairy barn, he thought.

Georgia gave way to South Carolina which gave way to North Carolina. The days were getting much longer and hotter. All of nature seemed to rejoice in the end of winter and not notice the absence of mankind.

Sam decided to visit the Outer Banks in North Carolina. He knew he would be in bad shape if a storm caught him, but the weather was calm and he'd learned how to read a pocket barometer and spot the signs of impending bad weather.

Although he had traveled this coastline before, he was surprised at how much had changed. Many of the piers and houses near the water were now gone. Thick piles of blown sand covered parts of numerous roads causing detours. Sam even saw a gigantic cruise ship turned nearly on its side at rest not far out from shore. It hadn't been there a year ago and must have been totally adrift for years in the ocean before currents and waves washed it up on the coast. He thought about taking a boat out to explore the ship, but dismissed the idea after imagining all the confined bodies aboard.

Sam loved beach bars and the ocean, one of the reasons he stayed near the water as much as possible. He allowed himself to stop at a beach bar around noon each day, but limited himself to two drinks, presuming the bar's alcohol supply hadn't been looted completely. He never visited these bars in the evening because the temptation was too great to have more than his two drinks and then be unprepared for the night.

There were fewer bodies near the ocean and Sam supposed it was because they had either been washed out to sea or covered by blowing sand. He didn't want to think about all the crabs who likely dined on the multitude of human flesh available.

He was surprised one morning in his tent on the beach by the dogs barking their fool heads off. Sam imagined being attacked by more giant feral pigs or maybe a huge sea turtle, and looked out of the tent with rifle in hand. What he saw made him smile in surprise. Dozens of horses played and ran in the surf and sand. They were a hodge-podge of different breeds, colors, and sizes along with what might have been actual wild ponies. The equines seemed unconcerned with the barking dogs or the strange human-like creature whose appearance may have stirred memories of days gone by.

Sam fished on the beach each evening and was astounded at the number and size of the fish he caught. He supposed nature was recovering rapidly without mankind's demand. After lots of trial and error he'd learned that cooking fish was easier than he had been making it. Initially he'd tried to de-scale and fillet the fish, but soon learned it was easier to just stick a pole or branch in the fish's mouth and then lean it over a fire. The charred skin would peel off easily and he could chew the meat right off the bone.

After about a week the distant horizon showed signs of storm clouds and the pressure on the barometer began to drop. He could have probably sought shelter and rode any storm out, but decided to play it safe. He headed back towards the mainland and continued further north, again on unfamiliar roads.

Making his way gradually on secondary routes around roads blocks and through sad dead towns, Sam encountered a scene that wasn't foreign to him, but one he hadn't seen outside of a major city. At the North Carolina and Virginia border he had a strange feeling something wasn't right. Traffic was clogged along the road, but fortunately the median was clear and the ground dry allowing them to drive between lines of abandoned vehicles.

Sam saw large white tents ahead with giant red crosses on them. He next saw barriers blocking the road and providing a perimeter around the tents clear of vehicles. The inside of this perimeter was piled nearly knee high with bones upon bones and the ground underneath appeared to be still moving with vibrant insect and rodent life. Sam tried to avert his eyes as he saw a roach the size of a gerbil crawl out of a skull's eye socket. He .looked away from the field of bones and saw about a dozen tanks and armored personnel carriers facing him with Virginia National Guard stenciled on the sides.

"They shot them down," Sam explained to The Pack who didn't understand or care what had happened here. "Likely closed the borders as if that would do anything and both the military and the civilians terrified out of their minds went at each other. It would be tragic if death weren't already inevitable for them." Sam laughed at his own cleverness looking at the dogs, but his wit was lost on them.

He hated backtracking worse than just about anything in the world, but there was no way in hell he was going to drive over those bones and that pit of purification. Sam imagined the SUV sinking into the dirt and all those roaches, ants and other unspeakable scavengers covering him. He shuddered. They turned around and went back the way they had come.

It took most of the day to get back to a major intersection which allowed them to continue further west in order to then turn north again. He stopped to check a map and the dogs jumped out to explore. Sam, focused on the map, thought nothing of it. An unfamiliar bark in the distance brought his head up sharply. He heard Scotch's barking in return and it was alarmed, a warning. Sam whistled for The Pack, but only Tanner and Molly came to him. He put them both in the SUV as he heard the unmistakable sounds of animals fighting in the nearby field.

Sam was terrified as he ran towards the sounds. He came through the thin woods to see Scotch and Raven surrounded by a motley pack of thin angry dogs. Several of the dogs appeared disoriented and shaky on their feet with foam dripping from their mouths. Sam realized with horror that they were rabid. He stopped in his tracks and drawing his pistol fired a couple of shots into the air.

Most of the dogs ran off, with Raven in pursuit. Sam yelled at the stupid dog to come back, but Sam saw that one of the rabid ones turned towards him. The black and tan bull mastiff mix looked at the man for a moment and then began trotting towards him. Sam saw that Scotch watched and stood unsteadily with blood soaking the fur around his neck from several bite wounds.

The rabid dog's eyes were glazed and appeared to have difficulty focusing, yellow foam hanging from slack jowls. "Oh shit," said Sam as the dog came closer which only served to vector the dog in to the sound of his voice. Sam pointed the pistol at the dog with shaky hands and fired a shot which missed. He fired another and missed. The dog was right up on him snapping at his body. Sam reacted out of fear striking the dog sharply on the skull with the pistol butt and hearing a solid crack. The rabid dog dropped to the ground and looked up at him panting heavily. He felt a moment's compassion for the dog, but then saw Scotch stumbling towards him on unsteady legs. Sam shot the rabid mastiff in the head.

Raven had returned with his stubby tail wagging and evidently unhurt. He ran up and pranced around Sam as if to say, "That was fun wasn't it?" Scotch had meanwhile stretched out on the ground panting heavily.

Sam went to Scotch and saw the giant wolfhound's bleeding had slowed, but the wounds looked nasty as if the dogs had bit down and chewed before releasing. He didn't know if the bites had come from one of the rabid dogs but he had to assume the worst. Scotch lay on his side and licked Sam's hand looking up at him with trusting eyes.

He holstered his pistol and scooped up the giant dog, staggering under the weight back to the vehicle. Sam had to lay the dog in the grass while he opened the door and Molly and Tanner jumped out to join in the fun. He loaded Scotch in the backseat carefully and then after much frustration was able to get the rest of The Pack into the SUV.

It was getting dark, but Sam was afraid the giant wolfhound wouldn't make it to morning. He needed to find a vet clinic. He hoped it wasn't too late to get a rabies shot into the dog and maybe save him. Sam consulted a map and saw the nearest town was ten miles to the south. He backed the vehicle around and went towards Clifton, Virginia.

Getting to the town was the easy part. He didn't like driving in the dark, but luckily the roads were clear except for a few herds of deer. Finding the vet clinic in the town was almost impossible. Although it was a small town of about eight thousand people, it spread out for several square miles and without street lights or directions he felt like he was trying to find his way home without a map.

He finally pulled over and broke into an office building and rummaged around through desks until he located a phone book. Sam pawed through the aging pages and found there was a Hob's Veterinary Clinic on 3rd Street.

He ran back out to the SUV and discovered Scotch shivering and whining. He drove fast through the center of town, crisscrossing streets looking at signs until he saw one that said 2nd Street. He turned right and naturally enough the next street was 1st Street. Sam cursed and spun around the other way.

Once at 3rd Street he turned towards the greatest concentration of buildings, but again this proved incorrect. He was exiting the town without seeing the clinic before turning around to head the opposite direction, nearly panicked. Sam raced down 3rd Street faster than he had driven any vehicle in years.

Nearing the opposite town outskirts, he was almost losing hope when he saw a green on white sign for Hob's Veterinary Clinic which also evidently served dual purpose as residence for Doctor Hobs. Sam pulled the vehicle right up onto the front lawn nearly crashing the vehicle into the front porch.

He left the dogs in the SUV while he went to the door with the crow bar and hammer. Adrenaline made the lock easy work. Sam rushed through the house and found the clinic in the back. He flashed his light over a medicine cabinet and after several frantic moments saw vials for Imrab Large Animal Rabies Vaccine. Sam didn't bother trying to pry the case, simply smashing the glass with the hammer. He pulled out the vial setting it on the table and then found a syringe. The vial had no directions on dosages, so Sam just decided to wing it, drawing about a fourth of the vial into the syringe. He ran back outside to the vehicle and found Scotch either sleeping or comatose. He plunged the needle deep into the dog's flank and injected the medicine.

Scotch whimpered slightly and Sam carefully removed the dog and carried him through the house to the clinic in the rear. His back would be sore or maybe even locked up the next morning, and he knew he was lifting the gigantic dog mostly on adrenalin. He proceeded cautiously by memory through the house since he'd left his flashlight in the clinic. Once inside, he laid Scotch carefully on the table and went back out to the SUV for his pack and the oil lantern and ensured the other three dogs were inside the house.

Sam went back to the big wolfhound with the lantern and stroked his head. He seemed drowsy and Sam hoped that was a good sign. He found some antiseptic and bandages and cleaned the wounds and, as best he could judge, none were deep enough to need stitches. Just to be safe he also gave Scotch an injection of antibiotics, hoping the dosage was close to correct.

He looked around, not sure what else to do. There was an actual fireplace in the living room and a neat stack of wood. Sam used some lighter fluid and started a quick fire for light and to take the chill out of the house. He again staggered under Scotch's considerable bulk and laid him on a blanket near the fire. Sam dropped down close to him and hugged the dog tightly.

After a few minutes he felt the other three dogs settle in close around them. Eventually they all fell into a troubled sleep.

***

Sam had never been much of a coffee drinker, but he needed some the next morning. His back, arms, and legs were killing him and he threw down two aspirin before he could even begin the process of making coffee. He'd heard of cowboy coffee, although he'd never paid much attention to how it was made and had stuck exclusively to instant since the end. After boiling water with immersed coffee grounds over the veterinarian's gas grill, he sipped the concoction with trepidation and admitted it wasn't bad. The old vet even had some powdered creamer and sugar.

He had awoken that morning to the familiar groaning and fake growling that indicated the dogs were playing, though not too rough. Sam smiled, then remembered where he was and what had happened the previous day. He rolled over and saw Scotch was still lying down, awake now and with mouth open growling up at a prancing Raven in mock combat.

Relief flooded through Sam. He didn't know if the dog was out of hot water, but he looked much better and that was enough for now. Sam coaxed Scotch up onto his feet and saw he could walk slowly at first, and then more firmly. He took the dogs outside so they could go to the bathroom and then brought them back inside for a breakfast of pasta, rice, and beans cooked on the gas grill.

After the dogs ate he laid Scotch back down by the fire which had grown low and wasn't needed with the rising sun. Sam went into the clinic and looked at the rabies vaccination in the light of day and eventually found an unopened box of the same medicine with a small paper pamphlet accompanied by more directions. He discovered the Imrab Large Animal Rabies Vaccine was actually for large farm animals like cows or horses and each vial was a dose. Sam did a quick calculation in his head and realized he had given Scotch too much but wasn't too far off the mark. Thank God, he was a monster of a dog.

He looked around for other types of rabies vaccinations and couldn't find any. Evidently Doctor Hob specialized in treating farm animals. Sam hesitated then did some calculations on a piece of paper in the clinic. He carefully measured out an amount in a syringe and injected the vaccine in his own thigh. Sam next filled the same syringe with varying amounts of the vaccine and stalked the dogs until they were cornered and gave them each the vaccine. He doubted rabies vaccines were much different for large animals than they were for small or humans. He wasn't going to go through this again and he packed up a few boxes of the vaccine and some syringes just in case.

They rested there that day. Scotch seemed to be doing well, but Sam didn't want to rush him. The big dog would let him know when he was ready to move on. Besides, where the hell did they really need to be?

He explored the house, found no corpses and was grateful for that. The vet may have been out on a call when he succumbed to the disease himself. Sam had seen many examples of medical personnel who worked themselves without rest, taking care of others until they finally succumbed to the plague.

The vet had a detached workshop behind the little house and Sam explored inside. He had taken wood shop in high school and knew his way around all the typical machines and tools. Doctor Hob was clearly an accomplished woodworker. There were several pieces of furniture in various stages of completion and noticing a commonality he realized that the doctor had made many of the finished pieces in the house himself.

Near the back of the shop was a small table with an attached bench covered in small carvings. Sam bent close and saw there were dozens of incredibly lifelike animal carvings, shaped and polished with love and care. There were several horses, deer, squirrels, rabbits, a pig, cows, bulls, birds, cats, a raccoon, sheep, and even a small bear. There were also several dogs and Sam saw a small spaniel sitting on its flanks with its mouth open in a smile. It looked just like Tanner. Sam picked it up, placed it in his pocket and walked out of the shop, closing the door behind him carefully.

What of all the master works of man, Sam asked himself. What of works of beauty like in the woodshop or of Rembrandt, or Michelangelo? What of them now? Would archeologists or an alien race discover them millennia in the distant future and wonder about this creature called man? What would they think or conclude? Sam pulled the spaniel out of his pocket and looked at it closely. Hopefully they will think the best of us and not judge too harshly, he thought and went to check on The Pack.

***

Sam was shocked at how quickly things he had considered relatively permanent were disappearing. He passed over a bridge spanning a small river and the water was already rushing up against the underside of the supports. The culprits were a colony of beavers who had built a gigantic dam a hundred feet downstream from the bridge. When Sam and the dogs got out of the SUV to look at their handy-work the rodents barked at him and stared threateningly like gang members guarding their territory. He knew he would not be able to come this route again, the river would become a lake soon and cover the bridge. They drove on and away from the jeers of the beavers.

The beavers caused him to wonder what was now happening with the hydroelectric dams. Were they shut down, unable to run without the careful hand of humans, or could they possibly be pumping out electricity unconcerned that it wasn't used? Did turbines still turn powering lights and charging batteries? Sam wanted to think so and the image was so strong and appealing, but dams were mostly to the west. He had no interest in going west away from his...well, away from the sea.

This led to another thought which was not nearly so appealing. How about nuclear power plants? What about all that nuclear fuel, evaporating the water in the cooling tanks and now exposed, heating up and radiating like the sun. Eventually the rods would melt down into the earth and there would be a radioactive meltdown caused by an inevitable chemical chain reaction. Hell, there could have already have been a meltdown. Maybe there were nuclear plants already dispersing radioactive clouds of invisible particles and poison rain. There was so much that had been created that wasn't meant to run on its own, but who could have foreseen everyone would just one day disappear? He hoped there was some sort of safety mechanism in the nuclear plants that prevented the scenario he'd just envisioned.

Sam noticed a giant decrepit billboard on the side of the road. He could see it had originally advertised a restaurant with the best pancakes in the state, but was smeared with red painted letters saying 'The End is Near! Repent Before It Is Too Late!"

He rarely noticed the graffiti and signs of the end, his brain had developed an internal filter that allowed it all to simply become invisible most of the time. He didn't like to see such things because it reminded him of the end times, all the chaos, fear, and death. Sam had lived like a small rodent, hiding and coming out of cover with great trepidation. In those days if two people saw each other they were as likely to try to rape, torture, and kill each other as pass on their way.

Sam had killed his first man only a week after the National State of Emergency was announced. He was trudging out of the city with thousands of other refugees, no one talking or even looking at each other as the dreary incessant rain poured down on their cold bodies. A crazed, and perfectly healthy-looking, teenager had rushed from out of a knot of refugees directly at Sam brandishing a dirty knife. Sam was startled and had the lunatic instinct to turn away, that maybe if he didn't make eye contact with the onrushing menace it would go away.

Fortunately, a lady with a shopping cart went in front of the attacker and he spilled over her cursing and swinging his knife wildly, breaking Sam's paralysis. Sam dropped his heavy pack and turned to face the insane kid holding the baseball bat he picked up in front of him like a shield scared out of his wits. He'd never even been in a fistfight in his life and this nut was trying to stick a knife in him. The really unbelievable thing was that the refugees flowed around the two, politely giving them more space, and then simply continued on their way as if nothing was happening.

The youth stood up crouching, knife low and insanity in his eyes, "You took my sister you bastard! I saw you!"

Sam was relieved, the kid obviously had mistaken him for someone else. "Look, son, I don't-"

The boy stepped inside of the bat's range and swung the knife incredibly fast. Sam stepped back instinctively and instead of the blade cutting his throat it only sliced a deep burning gash in his bicep. He looked for a place to run, but there was none. He searched for help in the crowd, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. Sam caught a glimpse of two police officers on the top of a building watching casually while smoking cigarettes. He caught the eye of one who looked back at him with a dead uncaring face.

Sam felt burning across his knuckles and almost dropped the bat. The boy was coming on fast and low. Adrenaline flooded Sam and he swung the bat in a wild arc which caused the desperate kid to slow his advance and step back. They stood staring at each other waiting for an opening, for the other to make a mistake. The boy's patience gave out first and he leaped forward thrusting the knife at Sam's chest.

Sam's instinct took over and his mind was blessedly cleared for a split second. He had been something of a baseball star in high school and even played softball up until several years earlier. Age had taken away his speed and ability to field well, yet even up to a couple of years ago he still had the power and coordination to put a softball over the fence once or twice a game.

He stepped back with his right foot and swung with all his power at the onrushing kid's head striking the boy's forehead with the sweet spot of the bat. The hit felt wrong, like hitting a watermelon. He looked down and saw the boy crumpled in a heap at his feet, his head no longer recognizable.

He looked up at the police and the one who had met his eyes earlier moved his cigarette to his mouth and gave Sam a polite and silent golf clap. Sam dropped the bat and threw up all over the wet pavement. The refugee bubble was already starting to close back up around them, and people stepped over the still warm body of the teenager.

Sam picked up his pack and the bat and kept moving, his disgust and loathing masked by the cold rain. It was not the last man he would have to kill in the days to come.

***

They found an RV park that afternoon. Sam liked RV parks because they had plenty of propane and clean water. Additionally, getting bodies out of an RV was easier than out of a house. It also seemed less personal, less invasive to the corpses' lives and memories somehow.

He probably could have continued on a little farther, but wanted to make sure Scotch got plenty of rest and sleep. The big wolfhound never slept while riding in a vehicle unlike the other dogs.

Sam found the biggest and nicest camper and discovered the door unlocked, a good sign. There were no bodies inside, it appeared to be a mess but un-looted. He checked the gas and water level and found them both at least half full. Sam took a shower and put on new clothes he had procured earlier that day. He then went outside and cranked open the big awning on the side of the camper and started a fire, more for comfort and light than cooking since he could use the camper's stove. He set out a lawn chair and enjoyed the fading sunlight while smoking a stale cigar. Scotch rested on a blanket nearby while the rest of the pack sniffed around the perimeter.

As the last rays of sun faded from the sky, Sam heard mosquitoes buzzing and ate a couple of match heads. The sulfur that was coming out of his pores was from the match heads he had eaten the previous night, but the mosquitoes always reminded him.

He went into the camper and rummaged around in the cabinets until he found several plastic bowls and then went out to the SUV. He pulled out four cans of dog food he'd found at the vet's and plopped one into each plastic bowl, setting Scotch's next to him on the blanket. Sam also filled up a larger metal bowl with clear water out of the faucet and set it out beside the big wolfhound.

Now it was time for Sam's dinner, one he had been anticipating all day. Back in the very rear of the vet's cabinet, Sam had found an extra large can of chili. It had literally been years since he had chili and it was one of his favorite meals. Before The End he wouldn't have dreamed of eating the slop that came out of a can, but now he bet it would taste just exactly like heaven.

He put the chili in a pan and on the gas stove to heat. He'd also found a sleeve of crackers at the vet's he planned to have with the chili. Sam opened the plastic and smelled. It smelled off and he popped one in his mouth experimentally, but almost immediately spit it out. The cracker tasted like it had been mixed with some sort of chemical. How could crackers go bad, he asked himself? Weren't they just stale bread? He tossed the sleeve of crackers outside onto the fire, not wanting to attract rodents.

Sam dug through the cabinets for another bowl and in the back found a nearly half-full bottle of real Jamaican rum. He pulled it out and was tempted to try it, stopped himself, and instead pulled out a large red glass Pyrex dish. Sam spooned some of the bubbling chili into the bowl and then turned the stove eye to low. He grabbed a spoon and went outside to sit by the fire.

The chili was divine. He gobbled it down licking the inside of the bowl and went back inside for more. He hadn't yet stepped inside before he knew something was wrong. Stomach cramps nearly doubled him over with pain. He went into the bathroom and tried to make himself throw up, but very little came out and he had to spin around quickly to void from the other end. "Damn!" he yelled out. Must have gone bad. Hopefully it was just some little bug and not something serious like botulism. He didn't have any medications for food poisoning, another stupid mistake he had made. How could he possibly be this dumb and still be alive, he asked.

Sam climbed slowly out of the confined toilet and went to turn the stove off and actually did succeed in throwing up into the sink and then couldn't seem to stop dry heaving. Brown liquid and undigested beans looked back up at him accusingly. Sam's knees were wobbly and he had to grab the edge of the sink to hold himself upright.

He needed to lie down for a little bit and then he'd be okay he reasoned. Sam gingerly made his way over to the unkempt bed and let himself drop onto the soft surface. His breathing was heavy and he started to shiver with fever. "This is bad," he said out loud before throwing up all over the floor.

***

People were in the camper with him. Scary people. Whispering fluttering shadows hovering around his bed. The Pack was nowhere to be seen. Sam lifted his head and was instantly racked by pain and nausea. He almost laughed, was this really how it was going to end?

A face materialized out of the shimmering darkness. It was Barbara his daughter, but she looked dark and in distress, not quite real like before.

"Darling?" Sam asked holding out his hand.

The shape moved forward, but didn't take his hand, "We waited for you daddy. It was so scary, but we knew you would come for us, but you never did."

Sam felt like he was choking, "I was...I was trying to get to you. It was-"

"We died terrified and alone because of you," said the face with venom.

He was angry now, "You're not real. You're not my daughter. You're just the delirium, or my guilt, or bad freaking chili!"

Barbara's face vanished, but the shape remained and Rachel took her place.

"How you feel baby?" she asked.

Sam smiled, "Not good, this might be it."

"Not yet," she said. "You're not done."

"I think so. It's been fun and all, but I'm tired of being afraid and alone. Tired of doing nothing for no reason. Tired of living and just waiting to die."

She reached out to caress his cheek and he could almost feel her, "You would leave us there in our house, our bodies to never know a proper burial or rest. You would walk past our home a dozen times and not love us enough to overcome your own fear and weakness. Is that really the sort of husband and father you are? Is that really the sort of man you are?"

He started to answer, but the shape moved away into the mass of swirling darkness moving around the other end of the camper. Sam even thought he saw the crazed boy he had killed with the baseball bat a lifetime ago.

"I'm delirious," he said. "Probably dehydrated too. Need water."

With a herculean effort, he pulled himself upwards and swung his feet to the floor. He stood and almost slipped and fell on his own smelly puke. Sam made his way carefully over to the sink and turned on the faucet and cupped water into his mouth using his hand. His body sucked up the moisture, but his stomach immediately wanted to expel the liquid.

He looked out the window and saw the fire outside burned down low. All the dogs were piled together around Scotch on the blanket. He had shut the camper door the last time he came in which was why they weren't in here with him. Sam loved his pack, they would have chased away these demons if they were here with him.

His eyes caught the bottle of rum again and a memory stirred. Years ago he had gone on a business trip to Romania where the locals would not let any meal pass without a digestive of a fruit brandy called Palinka. They claimed the fiery strong alcohol was actually a health drink that maintained proper digestion and ensured long life. His host later explained to him that for generations people had to eat things that were not totally free from germs or bacteria. He swore on the benefits of Palinka, even explained that alcohol in general was a poison that the human body was able to filter out of its system. Germs and bacteria could not survive in alcohol and thus pouring this poison into the stomach killed them. He said it was as simple as that. Sam had scoffed and laughed at the time, thinking they needed better food hygiene. It seemed at least worth a try now.

With shaking fingers he pulled down the bottle of rum and spun the cap off. He took a generous swig of the rum and almost threw it back up, but held it down. He then took another slow steady drink and put the bottle on the counter.

Sam ignored the dark wraiths around him and stumbled out the door to the jubilant dogs who pranced around him barking as if they thought they would never see him again. He lay down on the blanket beside Scotch and the other dogs soon settled in around him.

If he were going to die, he would die with this friends and not a bunch of ghosts, he decided as he drifted off to feverish stillness.

***

The night was eternal and he wasn't sure if he slept or only drifted in and out of various stages of delirium. By the next morning he was no longer shivering, although everything felt weak. Maybe he would live after all.

The dogs were undaunted and were ready to be off on another adventure. Sam carefully and slowly fed them, got himself some water, vitamins, aspirin, and lay in the lawn chair wrapped in a blanket. He remained this way most of the day, no longer nauseous or racked with diarrhea.

At some point he fully woke and the sun was in the opposite part of the sky. He looked around and saw Scotch wasn't on the blanket anymore. He tried whistling and it came out as a pathetic sound like a tire losing air. He tried again and it was stronger. Raven came around from close behind him, on guard of course. The other dogs barked from nearby and came running up to visit him. Sam basked in their affection and felt better still.

He pushed himself up and looked for something to eat. Sam was afraid of any canned goods now, although most were still likely good, but how was one to know? He needed to find fresh foods and hunt, trap, and fish more. He had been lazy and it had nearly cost him dearly. For now he would have to settle for boiling some rice he'd found in the cabinet. That should be easy on his stomach.

After eating he felt well enough to build up the fire for the night. He wouldn't sleep in that camper filled with the smell of his sickness and the spirits of his guilt. It was warm outdoors anyway and the sky was clear. He fished out the telescope and gazed at the sky until going to sleep and resting deeply.

The next morning he felt almost normal and was eager to be on his way. He knew exactly what his destination was now, maybe what it had been all along. Every trip up and down the coast he had lingered longer and longer near Williamsburg, always finding a reason not to stop. Maybe this was why he couldn't move away from the coast. This time he intended to stop this endless dance.

He wasn't going to try to go down I-64, that was still a nightmarish scene. There were smaller roads and a few other routes. Sam couldn't go anywhere near Norfolk, although that would likely be the easiest route. He could just imagine the piles of death and decomposition there. Instead he would cross over the little two lane bridge near old Jamestown.

Sam traveled north and east for several days before coming to the bridge, half fearing and half hoping something had happened to it, maybe destroyed in a storm. It was still intact, but the two lanes were hopelessly clogged. He took the SUV as close as he could and then parked on a hill, maybe he would come back this way someday and need the vehicle.

Loading gear into the wagon he had carried all the way from Key West, he put on his pack and started walking down the middle of the bridge clogged with three lanes of vehicles. The dogs stayed close to him with Raven out on point as normal.

On the other side of the bridge Jamestown National Park emerged, the site of the first permanent settlement in America, a horrifically swampy and disease-filled location with little room for crops or grazing animals. A place where for the first one hundred years of its existence, five out of seven settlers died within their first year of arrival. It looked peaceful enough now, but Sam was uninterested. He had taken the tours and he moved on steadily towards his destination.

Sam found a pickup truck with a camper top he was able to get started and filled up with fuel. He drove onto the old historic scenic road and was surprised at how few abandoned vehicles he encountered. He supposed it was because the scenic road didn't really lead anywhere other than to connect the triangle of three historical sites: Jamestown, Old Williamsburg, and Yorktown.

He slowly made his way to their neighborhood and street and not much had changed since he'd visited it last almost six years before. The old maple in the front yard had fallen down in some windstorm, missing the house by inches. Even the windows appeared unbroken. He got out of the truck and walked to the front door and remembered the letter and photo on the door, both of which were tucked away safely in his pack. No notes or instructions this time.

Sam had misplaced his keys years ago but knew there was a spare hidden inside a small stone rabbit in a planter near the door. He picked up the rabbit and took out the slightly tarnished key. He put it in the lock and had to work it back and forth for several minutes to get the lock to turn. It finally did, and Sam forced the door open with his shoulder and heard the weather stripping around the door come unsealed from the wood with a loud sucking sound. Stale pent up air rushed past him, and he left the door open. The dogs shot into the house and started sniffing around. They seemed fascinated by the smell of master everywhere.

Memories flooded through him. The happiest times of his life had been in this house. He and Rachel had raised a girl here. They had comforted each other when they had lost little Jimmy at only one month old. Life here had been so wonderful that he was now ashamed he had taken it for granted. He had always assumed it would go on forever and even looked for better days ahead failing to appreciate what he had. Sam had violated one of his grandfather's favorite axioms, 'Boy, don't try to get happier than happy. Just happy is rare enough.'

Sam spent some time looking at the pictures on the wall and the mantel. He smiled and even cried a little. They had loved each other and known they loved each other. They were dead now, but it wasn't his fault. It wasn't even his fault he hadn't been here at the end, just chance, one of the ways things worked. It might have even made dealing with the end worse if they were dying before his very eyes and he wasn't even getting sick. That sort of emotional guilt could destroy you. No, it was better this way he thought...at least he was going to believe that because it was the only option available.

He finally summoned the courage to walk up the stairs to their bedroom. Somehow he already knew Rachel and Barbara would be together, and he was right. He found them in the master bedroom, huddled in bed. Time had taken away the pain and rigor their faces certainly showed at the end. Dead dry skin stretched over bones and their faces were no more horrific than thousands he had seen before. Sam understood that these two husks were not his wife and daughter, they were both long gone. These were just the tangible memories of their brief time in his life and on earth. He was grateful for it.

Sam pulled the blankets up over the heads of both bodies. He then went out to the shed and selected a shovel off a hook on the wall. There was only one thought of where to bury them. The garden was Rachel's favorite place and Barbara would want to be close to her mother. He dug one deep grave for both of them, taking his time and resting frequently while drinking some instant tea he'd found in the kitchen cabinet.

When the grave was finished he went upstairs and, wrapping the blanket around the bodies, brought first Barbara and then Rachel down, laying them carefully in the open grave. He picked up the shovel and thought to say something, but he had already said it and wherever they were, they certainly knew what was in his heart. He shoveled dirt over his family and patted it down flat.

He had a morbid urge to stay the night in his house, then was afraid he wouldn't be able to leave, would stay there and die, calling up resting spirits to haunt him for his own need. No, he would let the dead rest and move on himself. There was nothing more to do or see in this place. It was no longer his home and never would be again.

***

They camped out that night at Yorktown overlooking the river and the next morning crossed the giant bridge going north again. Summer was nearly upon them, and Sam paused in the middle of the bridge to look up and down the river. It was beautiful and peaceful.

At the other end of the bridge, Sam was excited to find another jeep that worked. He rolled the plastic sides down, loaded up his gear and the dogs before he got going.

They had only been driving an hour or so before Sam saw smoke far to the west. He stopped and pulled out his binoculars but couldn't really see anything. West was away from the ocean, he thought. Probably nothing more than another barn on fire, or a brushfire set off by lightning, or his wishful thinking.

Sam deliberated for a moment and then smiled. He looked at the map and turned the jeep around to backtrack to a western road. It was probably nothing, but who knew, it might be someone else. It might be another person, and he might not be the last man after all.

He put in a random CD from the jeep's visor case, turned the music up loud and headed off down the road singing and hopeful.

The End of The Last Man

Ryan King is a writer of post-apocalyptic stories like the novella No Kinda Life and the novel Glimmer of Hope. He also writes other genres of fiction. Find all of his work at his Amazon page.

Read on for an excerpt from the next Plague Wars novel in the series, The Demon Plagues:

“Prep the gas.”

Doc turned a wheel on a steel tank. A faint hissing began as a valve released a colorless, odorless, tasteless soporific gas into the interior of their own submersible. Between their Plague and the filters, the team would be able to operate in the stuff for a while. If not, stims would keep them awake until it wore off.

Spooky stared at the hatchway of the sub below for a full minute. “It’s opening,” he finally observed. The hatch below swung back and he shone a powerful flashlight downward to blind the crewmen below.

An annoyed voice came from below. “Hey, they didn't say anyone would be coming down. Can you get that light out of my eyes?" His voice trailed off as the heavy gas drifted silently downward into the larger submarine. Two thuds came in quick succession.

“Go.” Spooky led the team, dropping like a gymnast down through the tube, barely touching the rim to break his fall. Muzik handed down another heavy metal pressure tank and the colonel manhandled the container of compressed sleep gas down onto the deck next to a ventilation intake. He opened the stopcock, beginning its hissing release into the rest of the sub. The others followed rapidly, exactly as rehearsed.

Two crewmen sprawled awkwardly near one of the open pressure doors, empty cardboard boxes dumped on the deck. It looked like they had planned to receive some fresh food from the real rescue module. Doc put a portable tranquilizer gun against each of their necks and pulled the trigger. Compressed air shot Eden Plague and sleep drugs into their bloodstreams. In eight hours they would wake up new men.

“Let’s go, we’re on the clock.” They split up, each team with a separate mission.

Jill darted through her chosen hatch, Doc Fitzhugh right behind her. They passed two more unconscious crewmen, and Doc doped them too. Down two narrow ladders and past a dozen more crew members in various states of unconsciousness. One had tumbled through a floor hatch and broken his neck. Jill grabbed her companion’s webbing, hauling him away from the fallen man despite his hoarse whispered protests.

“No time for heroic measures, Doc.”

“If I could EP him, then do CPR for long enough, he could live!”

“Sorry, this is too important and you know it. No time. Just dope him, maybe he’ll get lucky.”

Doc shot the fallen man with his trank gun and Jill dragged her comrade forcibly down the corridor.

Thirty seconds later they ran up against a closed pressure door. Jill put her eye to the tiny vision port and swore under her breath. “I see two guys up and around. The gas hasn’t got here yet. They don’t look concerned but that could end any moment. Help me get this thing open.”

She twisted the dogging handles and they both seized the lockdown ring. Like the perfectly-maintained machine it was, the wheel spun on its axis several turns until it slammed to a stop. Jill was already pushing the heavy door open.

Aiming low, she fired a short burst at each of their feet from her PW10, a FreeCom submachine gun specially designed for the Needleshock ammo. Sounds like ripping paper accompanied the groups of ten or a dozen needles that stitched across their calves. Some bounced off the deck and ricocheted around the room, discharging their capacitors as they struck anything conductive. One fragment stung her cheek. The two crewmen convulsed as they fell, out cold.

“Damn, I told them we should have developed a lower-velocity round for these soft missions. Put on your ballistic glasses. We can’t afford to lose eyes, even for a little while.”

“Right.” Doc popped a dose in each of the fallen, then began rooting around in his waist pack. “Not something I thought I’d need right away…ah, here it is.” They slipped on the clear eye protectors.

“Come on, come on, where’s the air system? Is that it?” This comment was just to get Doc moving on his next task; he tended to start woolgathering if he was allowed to think too much. Jill slapped the tall metallic cylinder for emphasis and then moved to the other hatch to peer out the thick glass vision port.

“Whah…”

Jill turned around to see Fitzhugh swaying on his feet. “Dammit, Doc, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Here…” She grabbed his aid bag and located a stim. Removing the cap she slammed the big exposed needle into Doc’s thigh, pouring a maximum dose into his system to counter the gas.

“Ow, okay, I’m good now, I’m good.” He took the needle back from her, replacing the cap and sliding it back into his aid bag. “Damn, my heart’s beating like a jackhammer.”

“Doc, shut up, pay attention and do your job. Get that stuff into the air system.” How she wished they had been able to find a special operations medic of some kind, but Doc had a ridiculously long list of technical skills, and that overrode purely operational concerns, given the eight-person limitation.

“Right.” He popped the enormous housing, feeling the air rushing past now that the seals weren’t dogged down. Opening a lockblade, he cut a hole in the material of the man-sized cylindrical filter. It took him several minutes, as the material was over a foot thick. When he finally broke through, the suction almost took the knife out of his hand.

Jill was ready with the tank. A pressurized plastic canister the size of a small fire extinguisher, instead of carbon dioxide it held Eden Plague suspended in a tranquilizer that would aerosolize and spread throughout the sub. Doc stuck the nozzle into the hole, opened the stopcock to start the fine spray, and let the suction pull it into place like a cork in a bottle.

Jill keyed her UWB mike. “EP-sleepy deployed, no problems.”

Clicks of acknowledgment echoed in her earpiece.

***

End of The Demon Plagues excerpt.

***

BOOKS BY DAVID VANDYKE

Plague Wars series:

The Eden Plague Book 1
Reaper's Run: A Plague Wars Novel
The Demon Plagues Book 2
The Reaper Plague Book 3
The Orion Plague Book 4
Cyborg Strike Book 5
Comes The Destroyer Book 6

Stellar Conquest series:

First Conquest: Book 1 - Contained within the anthology Planetary Assault

Desolator: Book 2

Tactics of Conquest: Book 3

Look for them at your favorite book provider or visit www.davidvandykeauthor.com

If you enjoyed what you've just read, please consider leaving a review at http://www.amazon.com/David-VanDyke/e/B008EZHPC4/