The Remaining: Fractured Part 55

Going to see Deacon Chalmers, whoever the f.u.c.k that was.

Do you want to die, or do you want to live? LaRouche had pondered the question ad nauseum and come up with no definitive answer. There were benefits to both. Downsides to both. It was almost as though he just didn't care. Like he would rather someone else make the decision for him. He was tired of trying to control the uncontrollable. Maybe it was best to let go. Ride the river, instead of fighting the current.

Do you want to die, or do you want to live?

Maybe he wouldn't even be given the choice. What a relief that would be. If Deacon Chalmers simply took his head off with a battle axe and was done with it. Or whatever the f.u.c.k these people did. He wasn't sure. Of course, the concept of death made a cold little worm of fear wiggle its way through him. It was an unknown. It was a mystery.

So he simply walked along with them, compliant as he could possibly be. Save for the constant jockeying of that single question-to live or die-his mind was otherwise blank. Every once in a while he thought of Jim and Wilson and the rest of them. Even Camp Ryder sometimes. But mostly those felt like dreams. Like they'd never really happened.

He heard voices off to his left. They were women's voices and they spoke quietly. The hush of them was what got his attention, the way their voices were riddled with fear. He turned his head and lifted it, trying to see through that narrow slot. He got a glimpse of a cage made of wood and rope and the impression that it was huge. Dozens of desperate faces crowded the bars. Women's faces. Some of them were older, but many of them younger.

Clyde pushed his head down. "Keep your eyes on the ground."

The hard-packed dirt turned into a narrow path. Dry, wintered gra.s.ses crowned either side of this little walkway. Not much more than a footpath. They slowed and LaRouche could see some wooden steps ahead of him. He navigated them, Clyde's hand pus.h.i.+ng him gently upwards. Then the hand grabbed his shoulder, halting him.

"Stop here," Clyde instructed.

There was the sound of fabric being pulled back. Boots on wooden planks, slowly walking towards them. A voice, slightly rough around the edges, but undeniably kind. The inflections were warm, not hostile, as LaRouche had expected.

"Clyde. Who's this?"

"Deacon Chalmers, sir." Clyde's voice was nervous. "We caught this man moving through the woods, just west of the bridge."

"Hmm."

LaRouche watched two old, worn-out motorcycle boots stop right in front of him.

"Let's take the blindfold off, yeah?" Deacon Chalmers suggested.

"Yes, sir."

LaRouche felt Clyde's fingers working the knot at the back of his head, untying it. The blindfold fell away and LaRouche closed one eye against the daylight, squinting the other painfully. The light was harsh and painful and it reminded LaRouche that the toxins from a bottle of whiskey had not been completely removed from his system. He felt almost instantly nauseous.

"Whoa." Deacon Chalmers faced him and laughed. He was a medium sized man, but one of those men who seems too big for his body, like the charisma for a much larger man was mistakenly given to him. He wore a beard, but well-trimmed. His hair pulled back into a short ponytail. "I thought I smelled bourbon when you came up, but the eyes don't lie, do they?"

LaRouche supposed that meant that his were bloodshot, bleary, puffy. They felt that way.

"You hungover, son?"

LaRouche nodded slowly.

"I understand." Deacon Chalmers leaned back away from LaRouche and took a long, hard look at him, crossing his arms over his chest. He wore a leather jacket and a black bandana around his neck with white printing on it that LaRouche suspected would be a skull if the image were flattened out.

Deacon Chalmers is a former biker, apparently.

"What's your name, son?"

"Everyone calls me LaRouche."

"Everyone?"

"My..." LaRouche was about to say friends, but he didn't suppose that he had many of those left in the world now. "People."

"Your people?"

"No. Just...people."

"Do you not have any people, LaRouche?"

"No."

"You have G.o.d, my friend."

LaRouche didn't respond. Wasn't really sure how to. He wasn't trying to be rebellious, or to prod at Deacon Chalmers. Frankly, he just didn't have it in him at the moment for such things. In this particular case, he was just blank. He had no words.

"Kneel down, LaRouche. I'll kneel with you."

LaRouche considered it for a moment, then slowly lowered himself to one knee, then both. Deacon Chalmers followed suit so that the two men were on their knees, facing each other. Chalmers put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a look of pity, the look that any missionary might give a Stone Age savage.

"LaRouche, I'm going to have a very honest conversation with you." He lowered one of his hands down to his side and when he raised it again it held a large, silver revolver. LaRouche watched it glide towards him and for some reason he felt very little. Some slight apprehension, but muted. Nothing like he should have felt.

Chalmers, one hand still resting grandfatherly on LaRouche's shoulder, placed the revolver against LaRouche's temple. "LaRouche, I do not know your background. I do not know your sins. Only G.o.d knows these things. And G.o.d is who I answer to. I cannot allow evil to be a part of my body, and so I cannot allow an evil person to enter my fold. However, I am obliged to offer every sinner a choice, just as it was once offered to me."

Deacon Chalmers slipped his finger into the trigger.

LaRouche met his gaze, and he felt very calm.

Chalmers spoke calmly, earnestly: "Listen to my words, because I'll only say them once. In exchange for your life, will you renounce this world and all of its evils? Will you repent for the sins you have committed against G.o.d? Will you commit yourself to the Lord, the one true G.o.d, and his Son Jesus Christ, the Almighty? And in so doing, will you serve with purity and sanct.i.ty, and with faithfulness and truthfulness? Will you promise to fight for the Lord your G.o.d, against all the wiles of Satan, and Satan's people, and thereby extinguish evil from the world and return this country to a path of righteousness?"

LaRouche lowered his gaze, still blank on the inside. An empty vessel.

"Make your choice, LaRouche," Deacon Chalmers said gently. "No one can decide for you. Will you repent, son? Will you make these promises?"

LaRouche took a deep breath. Like he was smelling the world for the last time. Tasting it. Soaking it in. Then he raised his eyes to meet Deacon Chalmers, and his voice was solid and steady.

"I will repent."

CHAPTER 44: RATTLESNAKE.

Lee sat in the office of the Camp Ryder building, surrounded by the people that he trusted the most. Tomlin, Angela, Marie, Old Man Hughes, Nate, and even Devon. There were others as well-people like Kristy Malone, and some of the others who had supported Bus and Lee from the beginning. A man from the group that had come with Jacob from Smithfield.

There was a certain silence that had fallen over those gathered. It was the silence of reeling after a shockwave. Their eyes remained fixed upon Lee, and Lee had lowered his eyes to the floor because he could think of no more appropriate place for them.

Lee took a deep breath, and continued. "Tomlin and I have discussed it, and we agree that it's very unlikely that we'll be able to find Eddie Ramirez and recover my GPS."

"So," Kristy Malone rubbed her head. "There's no, like, override code or anything? There's no other way you can get into the bunker without the GPS? No back door coding? Nothing?"

Lee shook his head. "It was built to be that way. The whole mission, the whole structure of it is based around the coordinators maintaining control of the bunkers. The GPS unit needs the coordinator, and the coordinator needs the GPS unit. If one of those is missing, then you're just not getting in a bunker. Period. No way around it."

Kristy turned her attention to Tomlin. "Well, you're a coordinator, aren't you? Don't you have a GPS unit?"

Tomlin shook his head. "My GPS is only good for the bunkers in South Carolina. Besides that fact, at the very outset of this thing, Major Darabie, our commanding officer, took control of all of the GPS units and they are now essentially useless. All except Captain Harden's. Until it was stolen, anyways."

"And Major Darabie sent Eddie Ramirez?" Nate clarified, joining up with his wife.

Lee nodded. "Guys, if there was a way that I could fix it, I would be doing it. You know that I wouldn't give up, especially on something this big. You know that I'd probably get myself killed over it if there was even a small chance that I could catch Eddie Ramirez and get that thing back. This is just..." he held up his hands, let them fall into his lap. "...It's just the way it's going to be. We're going to have to work around it. We're going to have to find other ways to adapt. It's going to be a whole different ball game, food and supplies-wise. We're going to have to figure out a sustainable agriculture system by this coming spring, and we're going to have to do overtime on scavenging to get us through the winter."

"What about weapons? Ammo?" Nate asked. "Everyone's running short."

Lee glanced at Tomlin. "That's where this Colonel Staley will come in."

"The Marine guy?"

Lee nodded again. "Obviously, he's expressed his desire to meet face-to-face with us. Which I take to mean he wants to make sure we're not a bunch of psychos before he sends men and supplies to help us. But he's going to be a possible source of all kinds of weapons, ammunition, ordnance, maybe even vehicles and fuel."

Old Man Hughes cleared his throat. "But we don't know this guy."

"No," Lee shook his head. "We don't."

"So he could be some wannabe despot, scoping out our s.h.i.+t and figuring our weak spots?"

Lee smiled grimly. "All due respect, Mr. Hughes, that s.h.i.+p sailed before I even got on the radio with him. They've got air superiority and probably a lot more trained fighters and warfighting equipment than we do. If they wanted what we have, I'm pretty sure there wouldn't be s.h.i.+t we could do to stop them."

"So, basically, we don't have a f.u.c.king choice?"

Lee shrugged. "Not if we want to have a fighting chance."

Old Man Hughes considered it for a long moment, scratching the gray stubble of his beard. "Join or die, huh?" he said.

Lee smiled without humor. The image came to mind of the old yellow flag that bore the ill.u.s.tration of a rattlesnake, divided into thirteen sections. Written on the body of the snake were the words JOIN OR DIE. A revolutionary call to arms and the meaning was clear: They could put aside their differences, come together and fight...or they could remain divided and allow themselves to be destroyed.

Lee nodded. "Yeah. Join or die."

Camp Ryder was in quiet chaos. After the meeting, Lee watched from the single window in the office as the grounds below him swirled with activity, and from the disorder he could not tell whether it was falling apart or coming together. Rather like the pieces hung suspended in the air.

Old Man Hughes' group conducted a "house-to-house" sweep to make sure there was no one left in the shanties, hiding and ready to start shooting when they least expected it. There were no shots, and no yelling, but instead a sort of tension, as families were found and it was apparently arbitrarily decided whether they were friend or foe, whether they were to be detained or not.

Those who were suspected of working with Jerry stood to the left of the Camp Ryder building, not bound, but simply watched closely by the group of survivors that had come with Jacob from Smithfield. The two groups eyed each other uncomfortably, the Smithfield group seeming out of place, while Jerry's people seemed resentful, as though they were being occupied by a hostile force.

Lee stared at them, wondering what he was going to do with these people. Where was the line between mercy and common sense? Would he even be able to see it when it was right in front of him?

A cold nose, touched his hand.

Lee looked down, found the tan dog standing at his side. Deuce had been on the first Humvee that had entered Camp Ryder after the place had been declared secured. Surprisingly enough, he'd allowed Old Man Hughes-and only Old Man Hughes-to put a leash on him and lead him, limping on his broken and splinted leg, into the Camp Ryder building.

Lee smiled, faintly, and scratched the dog's neck. "Good boy."

Hughes still stood in the room, and though he could not see out the window, he knew well enough the scene that Lee had been looking at. "We'll figure all of this out. We'll find a way."

Lee nodded, tried to show some resolution, but felt it slip away from him. He looked back up and out through the window, his hand still idly touching Deuce. "Hughes, could you do me a favor?"

"Sure. Watcha need?"

Lee drummed his fingers on the windowsill. "When you get the chance, try to find Jacob's things. There should be a backpack with a notebook inside of it. I'd like you to bring that to me, if you find it. There's something important in it."

Hughes looked at the floor, solemn at the mention of Jacob. "Yeah. I'll check."

Lee nodded. "Thanks."

Hughes left the room, his footsteps down the stairs slow, almost plodding.

Lee turned back to his view. Camp Ryder. All the polarizing aspects of humanity stuffed into a fishbowl for him to observe and consider. From one man's view, it was the bad guys that stood to the left, and the good guys that stood to the right. From another's perspective, it was the betrayed that stood to the left, sulking, while the betrayers celebrated to the right. The invaders and the invaded. The oppressed and the oppressors. Right or left, it didn't matter. Ask ten different people, five would point in one direction, and five in the other.

As he watched this silent tragedy, he recognized a face standing in the middle of the two groups. It was Jenny, and even from this distance Lee could see the distress on her features. He could see her red, swollen eyes. She stood there at the edge of Shantytown, staring at the Camp Ryder building. She wrung her hands and looked from right to left, as though trying to decide which group she belonged in.

Angela appeared, walking out of the Camp Ryder building. Lee could not see her face, but he knew her from the slope of her shoulders, and from the unruly head of blonde hair that never stayed where she put it. She did not look to either side, but instead went straight to Jenny. Angela stopped a few feet from the other woman, and they appeared to exchange words. Jenny's hands covered her face and her shoulders shook violently. Then Angela put her arm around Jenny, like a friend or a sister, and she guided her to the right.

CHAPTER 45: THE LINE.

Major Abe Darabie sat quietly on a chair beside the window. His face had weathered in the months since the outbreak of FURY. It was severely lean, less from starvation and more from stress. The dark circles under his eyes, already prominent in his olive complexion, made his eyes seem cavernous now. The only thing that kept him from appearing like a stick figure was his beard. Thick and jet black, it added size to his features, much like a lion's mane.

He chewed the cuticle of his right thumb. The skin was haggard from constant picking and biting. A nervous habit he'd developed, his thumb had become a barometer for others to judge his mood. Today his thumb was raw to the point of bleeding. His M4 lay across his lap, his free hand draped over it, fingers tapping the upper receiver. One boot kicked up onto the windowsill. Wiggling away. Eventually wiggling free of the sill, and it would drop down. He would kick it back up again, and begin wiggling once more.

Outside, the Tennessee mountains seemed bearded by the white clouds all around them. The pa.s.s that this little highway ran through, crossing the border from North Carolina into Tennessee, was shrouded in fog, which was common this time of year. It gave everything a bleak, gray aspect. But worse, it muted sounds and reduced visibility.

The building he sheltered in was an old gas station. Some mom and pop place. No other gas stations for sixty miles in either direction-a fact which was still displayed prominently on the small sign that lay toppled, half in the road. It also advertised Grandma's Pickled Eggs.

"Only gas station for 60 miles! Grandma's Pickled Eggs! Yum!"

f.u.c.king Tennessee, he shook his head, spit a little morsel of his cuticle skin out onto the ground.

"Don't spoil your appet.i.te," a voice remarked behind him.

Abe leaned back, eyed his partner. Captain Lucas Wright leaned against the counter, his rifle slung onto his back as he flipped casually through an old nudie magazine he'd located under the cash register. He was an odd looking character, not at all what you would expect from a highly-trained operative, formerly tasked with the preservation of the state of New York. He was short and stout, bright red hair, ruddy, freckled skin, and eyes that were a kind of odd version of hazel, perhaps closer to "tan" or "golden brown." He was talkative, but not overly loud, and he had no perceptible accent.