The Remaining: Fractured Part 42

Jim stepped forward. "Fine! I'm tired of you acting this way! You wanna hit me? Hit me!"

And LaRouche did. He grabbed the rifle and ripped it out of Jim's grip, clumsily and drunkenly, but still too fast and too forceful for Jim to stop it from happening. Then LaRouche smashed his s.h.i.+n as hard as he could into the outside of Jim's thigh, crunching the common peroneal nerve and making Jim's knee's buckle. Then, almost as an afterthought, he slammed the b.u.t.tstock of the rifle into Jim's nose, breaking the bone and knocking the man backward, gla.s.ses flying off.

LaRouche stood there over him as Jim squirmed around on his back, moaning and groaning and touching his bleeding nose. LaRouche swayed, feeling the fiery burn suddenly returning to his stomach. He burped and tasted whiskey. Still too p.i.s.sed off to really care. Not about a bleeding ulcer, and certainly not about a bleeding nose that deserved everything that it got.

He yelled. Didn't care about the volume. "f.u.c.k you, Jim! f.u.c.k you! I made a f.u.c.king bad decision! You think I don't f.u.c.king know that? You think I'm drinking to make it all go away? Bulls.h.i.+t! I know this s.h.i.+t doesn't go away! It's on me forever! On me! Forever! That's why I'm drinking, Jim!" He held a tight fist up. "So maybe this f.u.c.king vice in my guts will stop squeezing so I can sleep!"

Jim tried to struggle up, but LaRouche just shoved the other man back down to the ground with a boot to his chest. "People f.u.c.king die! People especially die in war!" He shoved a finger in the center of his own chest. "I know this, Jim. You don't. You might think you know it because you watched some f.u.c.king war movies, but I f.u.c.king know it. G.o.dd.a.m.n intimately. I made a decision. It turned out to be a bad one. Get the f.u.c.k over it and move on!"

Jim rolled away from LaRouche's boot, and the movement was too quick for LaRouche to react. Instead he just stumbled back, still holding the rifle, while Jim lurched to his feet, still holding his nose, taking his hand away and looking at the blood. "Yeah. You made a decision. Against the advice of everyone around you."

"It's not a f.u.c.kin' committee," LaRouche growled. "You got a problem with doin' what I say, you shoulda stayed back at Camp Ryder. I can't drive you back there now, but I can put a f.u.c.kin' bullet in your head, you f.u.c.king insubordinate piece of s.h.i.+t."

"Insubordinate?" Jim actually laughed at him. "Insubordinate? For what? Because I don't want to follow the orders of a man that is clearly not in a stable frame of mind? You're not General Patton, LaRouche. You're just some guy that Lee put his faith in, and clearly that was a big mistake." Jim spat blood onto the ground and reached a hand out. "Gimme back my rifle."

LaRouche ejected the magazine and tossed it and the rifle in separate directions. "f.u.c.k your rifle."

The objects clattered in the darkness.

For the span of about two seconds, the two men just stared across a distance of about ten feet at each other, LaRouche's face without expression, a simple challenge, as though to say, what are you going to do about it? And the ex-priest lowering his head, his face hardening, growing dark.

Jim sprinted across the empty s.p.a.ce between them and slammed into LaRouche before his hobbled reflexes could respond, pitching both of them to the ground. LaRouche rolled, trying to get off his back and turn Jim over, but the sheer force of the attack was overwhelming. Jim grunted and panted and gasped like a wild animal in a death match, grabbing LaRouche by the collar and slamming his face with elbows so that stars spun in the corners of his vision, then rearing back and simply hammering at him with balled fists. LaRouche tried to ward them off, tried to block them, but he would have been more successful if he'd been sober. The blows slipped through his defensive postures and hit his face, his head, repeatedly. And it seemed like it was nonstop, like Jim was working through some raw explosion that had been building up like a volcanic blast over the course of the last few months. Everything that he had been through simply came out of him in a single, headlong rush of violence, and it all pummeled straight into LaRouche.

LaRouche tried to remember his training from the guard. Very simple hand-to-hand combat techniques taught to him what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Buck the hips. Trap the arm. Roll.

He thrust his hips up, causing Jim to sprawl and catch himself with his hands planted in the ground. In the same movement, LaRouche snaked his right arm up and around Jim's left arm, pinning it close into his body. Then he put a hand on Jim's shoulder and rolled with all the force he could muster. Jim tumbled over with a grunt and suddenly LaRouche found himself on top.

There was a scrabbling of hands, and LaRouche wasn't quite sure what was happening. He only knew that whatever Jim attempted to do, he was opposed. And it seemed that Jim was trying to reach for something, though LaRouche couldn't tell what it was. They fought back and forth for control of their arms, but Jim managed to slip one out and his hand reached through the gra.s.s, looking for something.

A rock. A rock to hit me with.

He's gonna try to brain me with a rock.

And in that moment, it became very real in LaRouche's mind. He pictured Father Jim on the ground below him, grabbing a loose stone, one with a sharp edge, but still enough heft behind it to do some damage. And then swinging it-panicked, not thinking about the consequences of his actions-just swinging it with everything he had and catching LaRouche right in the temple, right where the bone is thin, and crus.h.i.+ng his skull, immediately knocking him unconscious, his brain jarring around violently inside its sh.e.l.l of bone. Bleeding. Oozing out of his ears. Swelling up and crus.h.i.+ng his brain stem, killing him just as surely as a bullet would.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h.

He's trying to kill me.

It was part panic, part cold dread, part remorse, part anger. Everything swirling around and causing him to hesitate, which only made his panic worse, made it overcome him as he watched Jim's hand reaching through the tall gra.s.s around him and he wasn't able to think about anything else but that hand, looking for that rock, trying to brain him, trying to kill him.

To kill him.

To kill him.

LaRouche ripped backwards and then with his left hand posted on Jim's chest, he drew his Beretta M9 with his right hand, put it point-blank onto Jim's cheek, and then pulled the trigger. The blast of it was jarring. The gore spilled out onto the ground. Sudden and absolute stillness followed, save for the peripheral twitching of Jim's fingers through the gra.s.s.

Oh my G.o.d...

Oh my G.o.d I killed him.

This can't be happening.

This isn't real.

"Jim!" LaRouche cried out, his voice suddenly choked as he struggled to his feet. "f.u.c.k you, Jim! Wake the f.u.c.k up! I didn't even...I didn't...Oh my G.o.d...Oh my G.o.d!"

The world spun around him madly. An angry carousel. A bad trip. Just blurs of colors, if sudden and earth-shattering regret had a color. There was no possible way that that had just happened. There was no way that it had come to that. No way that Jim had tried to kill him-dear G.o.d help me-and there was no way he had just put a bullet through Jim's head.

It was Jim.

Father Jim.

LaRouche reached down, dropping the pistol and grabbing Jim with both hands. He shook the body, though he knew that it would make no difference. "Jim! f.u.c.king stop! You motherf.u.c.ker! f.u.c.king stop! That's enough! That's f.u.c.king enough! G.o.dd.a.m.n it! You never f.u.c.king listen! You could never f.u.c.king listen to any G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing I say! What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?"

He stood up, grabbed his pistol off the ground, turned in random circles, his free hand gripping his forehead like he was trying to keep some fragile structure from falling apart. He couldn't help himself, he kept looking at the body lying on the ground, hoping that it would spring back up, do something, even argue with him-please, just do anything but lay there. So permanent.

He bent over without warning and vomited. Tasted the blood from his ulcer.

How am I going to explain this? I can't. I can't explain this. I can't lie about this. I just don't have it in me and they're gonna know. They're gonna know that I killed him. Wilson and Dorian and all the rest of them...I won't be able to trick them. They'll know that I killed Father Jim. f.u.c.king killed him. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I f.u.c.king killed him!

And he wasn't sure whether or not he had imagined it or whether it was real, but he thought he heard movement coming from over the hill, from the direction of the convoy.

The gunshot. They must have heard the gunshot.

He wanted to try to explain, wanted to try to convince them all why he had killed Father Jim. He wanted to try to make them see it from his perspective, but each time he tried to think about what he was going to say, it tasted fake and unbelievable. All the logic, all the reason that was left in him after the whiskey had washed it all away, it bled out of him with the rising panic and all he could think was that he had to get away from the body. He had to get away. He had to get away as quickly as he could.

Holding his pistol in his hand, he ran.

Wilson startled awake. Someone was knocking on the window, repeatedly, rapidly. He looked around, confused after being ripped from the deepest point of sleep. It was still completely dark outside, and as he looked around he couldn't see LaRouche or Father Jim in the truck with him, and he felt their absence like a swelling fear.

Knocking.

He turned to the window and was startled at the sight of Dorian standing there. He fumbled with the k.n.o.b, then dropped the window. He took a breath to ask Dorian what the h.e.l.l was going on and why in G.o.d's name he was tapping on his window in the middle of the night when it wasn't even his turn to be on watch. But Dorian began speaking before Wilson had a chance.

"There's something wrong," Dorian pointed out towards a field adjacent to them. "Just heard a gunshot. LaRouche walked out there by himself like, over an hour ago. And then I think Father Jim went after him. And I just heard yelling, and then a shot."

"s.h.i.+t." Wilson shoved the door open, began pulling on his gear. "This isn't good."

He just kept thinking, Father Jim and LaRouche...alone.

"Should I wake up the others?" Dorian asked.

Wilson slung into his rifle, checked the chamber. "Yes. Get everybody on standby. But just you and me and one other person go out, you got that?"

Dorian nodded, then ran down the convoy, smacking windows with the palm of his hand and yelling, "Everyone up! Grab your gear and standby!" At the rear of the convoy, he pointed to another man as he climbed sleepily out of his vehicle and motioned for him to come with. Wilson knew the man only as Tim, and the sum of his knowledge about the man was that he hung out with Dorian a lot. They jogged back to Wilson, rifles in hand.

Wilson jerked his head towards the field, and took off at a steady double-time, Dorian and Tim behind him. As he moved, he couldn't stop his mind from trying to explain what Dorian had told him. And there wasn't a feasible explanation that wasn't bad. There was not a good reason why there would only be one gunshot, which was the thing that worried him the most. A flurry of gunshots at least would have meant a battle. But just a single gunshot...

He reached the top of a small rise and looked down the slope of the other side. It was an expanse of old, neglected cropland, and then forest. And beyond the forest would be the river. But Wilson saw the scene as clear as if it had been illuminated by a spotlight: the matted gra.s.s around a small boulder. The slump of a form, lying on the ground.

"s.h.i.+t." He broke into a run. "s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t."

He hesitated as he drew close, perhaps out of caution, or perhaps because he just didn't want to see what he knew was lying there. He didn't want it to be true, but the facts jittered around in his chest and made him sick.

He stopped a few feet from the body. He grabbed his face, then raked his fingers back to his neck. He didn't bother to bend down and check for a pulse. He could see the brain matter coming out of the top of Jim's head, a thick tube of it curling on itself like meat forced through a grinder.

"Is that Father Jim?" Dorian cried, his voice breaking.

Tim gaped. "What happened?"

Wilson couldn't stop a sudden sob, an abrupt burst of emotion. He threw his head back and tried to strangle it off through bared teeth, but couldn't stop. He knew what had happened. It didn't take a f.u.c.king detective to figure it out. And even through the blur of his tears he could see the path through the field-matted gra.s.s where someone had just run through it. It led away from the scene, and further away from the convoy. Towards the forest. Towards the river.

Wilson began to pace. Trying to catch his breath.

Behind him, Dorian and Tim remained silent.

His eyes kept going to that little trail through the gra.s.s. It had to have been LaRouche. He went through the gra.s.s. He ran from the scene. And then Wilson thought, should I go after him? What if something else had happened? What if they'd been attacked and someone had shot Jim and taken LaRouche hostage?

One shot. He shook his head furiously. One f.u.c.king shot.

If they'd been attacked, there would have been more than one shot.

He stood still for a moment, stretched his chest out and sucked down a deep enough breath to break through the dread and the panic and settle him enough so he could speak. But he could feel the weakness in his voice. Hated himself for it. So he blew that breath out, and tried another. Finally he felt strong enough to turn to Dorian and Tim.

"Grab Jim and take him back to the convoy." He stared at them, wondering what to say next. There would be rampant speculations. The rumor mill in small groups is viciously effective. If he didn't give them an explanation for all of this, they would imagine one up. But he couldn't tell them the truth. Partially because it was a heady accusation to make on what amounted to little more than a gut hunch. And partially because he knew it would destroy them. It would destroy the morale. There were those that felt strongly for Father Jim, and others felt strongly for LaRouche. He wasn't going to turn them against each other.

He turned away from Dorian and Tim because he struggled to lie to their faces. Maybe not too much of a lie: "I think Sarge is in trouble."

CHAPTER 33: ABDUCTED.

Somehow, sleep came to Angela, but in a disquieted form. It hovered over her and she wanted it to cover her, but couldn't control her mind from las.h.i.+ng out, throwing it off of her what felt like every ten minutes or so. She kept waking up, hoping desperately that it would be dawn. She kept thinking about what she had to do, as soon as the light showed itself. She kept thinking about how she was going to gather the nine people that had agreed to take a stand with her-Marie, Jenny, Katie, the Mathesons, the Scharfs, and the Crowleys. She had to figure out a place for them to meet and quickly coordinate with whatever Lee had planned for the following night.

And then her mind would be off and running, trying to think of how on earth Lee had survived, trying to figure out what he had survived, what he had been through the last few days. Was he just with Old Man Hughes' group the entire time? How had he dealt with the Eddie Ramirez situation?

The entire time, she held the folded piece of paper in her hands, clutched there and growing damp with the sweat from her hands. The message that it held, written by Lee, who was so unbelievably close and alive, but she hadn't even seen him yet.

Tomorrow night.

Midnight.

All of this went on behind her flickering eyelids while she half-slept. The sleep was purely an action of physical exhaustion while her mind raced on, tapping its foot and waiting for her depleted body to catch up. The emotions that she felt were muted by the sleep, but they were there nonetheless, like things b.u.mping on the underside of a rickety old boat. There was fear-plenty of fear. But there was also a sort of breathlessness that came when something you wanted so badly was within reach, and yet so vulnerable that it might disappear if you looked away for one second.

More vulnerable than she knew, actually.

It was with this tumult of thoughts that she awoke. Not much in those few seconds after waking made sense to her. She only knew that it was the sound of boots crunching on gravel that had awaken her, and then there was a dark figure standing in her doorway-not Marie because it was too big to be Marie. Then there were others, and they came piling in and seized her before she could say anything. A calloused hand closed her windpipe, cutting off her cry of fear to a squeak and then a cold blade touched the skin of her neck and a colder voice told her, "If you make a sound, I'll slit your throat."

She couldn't see. A burlap sack over her head. Smelled of dirt and must. A hand scrabbling up into the burlap sack, like a spider trying to get at her face, but it held a cloth and it forced it into her mouth, tasted salty and oily, the fingers sc.r.a.ping against her teeth as they shoved it down her throat so that she gagged.

She was rolled onto her belly, and the knife stayed with her, cutting into her skin just slightly with the movement. Beyond the sting of the blade, and the rustle of the burlap sack over her head, she could hear almost nothing. She could see no light coming in through the fabric. They were doing this quietly. They did not want to be seen or heard.

Abby and Sam. Abby and Sam. What about Abby and Sam?

The peculiar thought that, Maybe this is Lee! Maybe he's just trying to get us out of camp without being noticed...

But she knew that it wasn't. She knew that Lee would never do something like this. She knew that this was someone else, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something-she wasn't sure what-had gone horribly wrong, and she began to go through all of the ways she might have f.u.c.ked up and all of the ways she might have been found out, began to formulate excuses for each one, trying to make them sound believable, trying to craft them into something that sounded truthful, but it was difficult to focus on anything but the blade sawing tiny increments into her skin.

Still frozen by confusion and fear, she didn't even remember the piece of paper in her grip until it was ripped away, and then her heart felt like it just stopped, like everything inside her body just seized up, her blood freezing in her veins.

No! No! Not the note!

The sound of paper unwrapping.

"My, my..." a soft voice. "This is very interesting, isn't it?"

Duct tape wrapped around her wrists. Once. Twice.

Tight. Cutting off circulation.

"Get up," the voice said.

There was no need for the command. Several pairs of hand hauled her to her feet and began to half-carry-half-drag her, and she could only a.s.sume they were taking her out of her shanty.

The kids the kids the kids...

As if reading her deepest fear, another voice whispered, "What about the kids?"

A pause.

Then: "They're still asleep. Don't wake them up, but don't let them leave."

"What if they ask about their mom?"

"I don't know. Make something up."

Then she was moving again. If she would have not had the burlap sack over her head, she would have seen what the men that had taken her could not see. She would have noticed the minor differences in the bodies of Abby and Sam. Because she knew how they slept from countless hours of watching over them. She would have known the difference, as any mother does, between when her child was truly asleep...and when they were faking it.