Redaction: The Meltdown Part II

Part II

The Meltdown

By Linda Andrews

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Linda Andrews

Published by Linda Andrews at Smashwords

Cover Design by Linda Andrews

Photos by Marijus Auruskevicius, Svetlana Romanova

Edited by Serena Tatti, story-editor.com

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my husband, my critique partners and beta readers

Thanks so much for sticking by me

through the books many edits.

A special thanks to:

Kimberly Adams—wife, mom of three and US Air Force vet—for your insight.

Dan Shaw, US Navy (retired), for being a voice at the other end of cyberspace!

Evvere Anthony, Arizona National Guard vet, your encouragement means so much!

Dian Napier for the perfect title suggestion.

My editor, Serena Tatti, for doing the impossible—understanding grammar!

Chapter One

Day 7

After Anthrax Exposure

Is that where we’re going, Missus S?

Audra Silvestre checked the rearview mirror of the bus. Snores and raspy breathing came from many of the survivors traveling with her. A pair of wide brown eyes in a chalky, half-covered face stared back at her. Oscar Renault. She’d had the pudgy, pimply-faced twelve-year-old in her class last year. Between his ADHD and his mother’s insistence that he was the perfect child, she’d decided to give up teaching. They had been the last straw in a baleful.

The notion seemed pathetically pitiful now. Thankfully, she hadn’t told anyone.

You sick, too, Missus S? Oscar slid off the seat behind her and scooted forward on his knees, seemingly unaware that he’d asked another question without having an answer for the first one. Snot left dark trails down the thighs of his worn, dirty jeans sticking in the aisle. His hand shook and he wrapped it around the pole on her right.

No, Oscar. I’m fine. Her words puffed against the bandanna covering the lower half of her face and whispered hot, moist breath back at her. Clammy sweat beaded her forehead and her stomach cramped from the overwhelming odor of excrement. Hopefully it was from the slops bucket in the back and not…anything else. Unfortunately rolling down the window to blow away the stench wasn’t an option.

You sure? He wiped his nose on the back of his hand before scraping it off on his jeans.

I’m sure, she reiterated for the fourth time in the last five minutes. But God knew how long she’d be healthy. How long anyone of them would be.

She was going to die.

And one of these kids, probably Oscar who now hovered closer than her shadow, would infect her. The steering wheel jerked under her hands and she clamped down. Nails dug into her palms and her fingers cramped as she guided the big yellow bus half on the shoulder and half off the interstate.

You think you won’t not get sick again? Oscar perched on the edge of his seat, scabby knees poked through the holes in his pants as he hung practically in the aisle.

Her skull throbbed from the double negative. Proper English didn’t really seem so important at the end of the world. Still… I’m sure I will get sick this time. Especially since so many are sick again.

But it hadn’t happened that way the first time. She’d stayed in the school nursing the sick, cooking meals, forcing folks to eat, then recording the dead and handing them over to the military for mass burial. For six months, she never caught the Redaction—the influenza pandemic that had killed thirty-five percent of everyone worldwide. She’d never come down with a sniffle, sneeze or cough.

Surely, she wouldn’t be so lucky this wave.

Why don’t you rest a bit? We’re still a long way from the soldiers.

Oscar opened his mouth but no words came out.

Movement in the mirror caught her attention. Faye Eichmann prowled the aisle, heading straight for the front. White hibiscus petals painted the hot pink fabric of her designer dress. The long skirt fluttered around her toothpick legs. Pink and red plastic bangles clinked on her bony wrists while chunks of diamonds winked from her ears, throat and fingers.

The fortune in jewels was meant to ensure she could buy food and shelter. Audra was pretty sure it would get her killed. The influenza wasn’t the only thing out there murdering innocents.

Oscar folded himself into the seat and shrank away from the diamond-encrusted harpy.

Too bad she couldn’t do the same. Audra stared at the dozens of cars abandoned on the blacktop. Maybe she could pretend dodging the vehicles took up all her attention and ignore the middle-aged woman.

In a puff of sour sweat and faded perfume, Faye stopped next to Audra. With her feet apart, she braced her hand on the metal rail. Why couldn’t people have pulled off to the side of the road when they’d broken down?

Because they were sick, dying or dead. Audra winced as the stench of the woman’s smelly pits momentarily overrode the odor of the slops bucket. Bad enough she had to wallow in her own stink, why did the woman feel the need to share hers when she asked rhetorical questions? It certainly has slowed us down.

Up ahead a black Ford pick-up truck tilted in the dip between the North and Southbound lanes of Interstate Ten. Its driver hung halfway out the open door. The stillness of his body didn’t relate his death as did his hands, swollen like black oven mitts, dangling an inch above the weeds. Of their own volition, her eyes checked the passenger side when she passed. Two dead children lay on their backs in a mat of weeds, their bodies bloated in the weak sun. Flies swarmed around them, laying larvae that would devour the soft tissue with surgical precision.

We’re up to seventeen.

Wincing, Audra forced her eyes on the road and jerked on the wheel. Faye wasn’t callous; she just coped differently. Lots of folks didn’t want to get chummy with anyone, especially the sick, because of the risk of loss. It was understandable. It pissed her off.

Nice driving.

She shrugged off the sarcasm. Parents weren’t much different than their teenagers—rude, difficult and unwilling to learn. God, she hated being a teacher almost as much as she hated this new world. I’ve learned a thing or three in the last nine hours.

Nine hours from Tucson to Phoenix when it used to take only two and a half. Her stomach cramped. And what did it gain her? This place looked no safer than where she’d come from, than where she’d passed through. Add in the intermittent belch of the air-raid sirens plus the lack of people and the creep factor spiked off the charts.

You’re a cool one, Audrey.

Taking a deep breath, she let the name slight pass and focused on what was important—surviving until she could dump her busload of sick onto the soldiers and get on with her life. She maneuvered into a lane completely free of vehicles. Maybe she’d be rid of them faster than she thought. Her foot stomped on the gas pedal and the bus picked up speed. Seventeen sick isn’t that bad. We have nearly forty people on the bus.

And if this flu worked like the last one, most of those seventeen would survive. She sucked on her bottom lip. But this infection didn’t seem to be playing by the same rules. They’d left quite a few corpses behind in the school cafeteria. Much more than a third.

Faye leaned forward. Her floral bodice gaped open and a strand of pearls dribbled out. They swayed from side to side. "That’s the number of dead on the bus. Not that you care. You’re immune."

Audra released her bottom lip with a pop. But there’d only been fifteen sick when they’d left last night. She would know. They all crowded around her like she was their personal lucky rabbit’s foot. Ask the rabbit how lucky he felt. No wait, you couldn’t, the rabbit was dead.

I care, and there’s no telling if I’m immune this go round.

Faye snorted. Light and shadow played across her face, highlighting her crow’s feet and the frown lines around her mouth. Doesn’t look like heading for Phoenix was such a good idea from where I stand.

In the distance, pillars of black smoke dwarfed the skyscrapers wicking scarlet flames ever closer to the sky. The sunrise had painted a fuzzy, jaundiced ball over the jagged Superstition Mountains to the East. Ebony storm clouds spread like spilled ink on the western horizon and were cleaved apart by cracks of lightning.

Her nightmares were far more pleasant than this new world. They also contained fewer people, less rats and no out-of-control fires that were supposed to contain them. Soon she could walk away from it all. She just had to find the soldiers.

That’s Phoenix. We’re going to Mesa. Lifting her hand, she pointed out the right side of the bus.

The vehicle tilted as many passengers shuffled closer to the windows and pressed their noses against the glass. Seventeen may be dead but the rest were awake and, aside from a few snuffles, she hadn’t heard a single cough. How could that be?

Oscar ducked under Faye’s arm, crawled over the yellow line and sat on the top step. He swayed from side to side as he looked out the folding door’s spotted panes of glass.

At least the fires seem to be out. Faye tucked her pearls back into her dress.

Not with that much smoke still billowing. Great belches of gray rose from the ground, obscuring any buildings except those along the freeway.

There’s nothing on the freeway that would burn. But the bridges and overpasses could collapse. Tucson had taught her that. Yawning, Audra shook her head to try to clear it. Tears raced to her eyes blurring her vision. She blinked them away. It had been a long night.

Oscar twisted at the waist to look at her. What if all the soldiers are dead?

Then we salvage what we can and push on. She slapped on the turn signal. Weaving through a handful of abandoned vehicles, she worked her way to the right hand lane. Someone had cleared enough space for her vehicle to merge onto the 202. She hoped it was the military and not some parasite laying a trap for travelers.

To where? Faye shot back.

Audra sighed. Like I have all the answers. Most of you didn’t listen to me when I was trying to teach your little ingrates English, yet now I’m supposed to know everything. Not everyone in the military can be dead. Someone flew those Army choppers and Air Force planes. We saw them just this morning and they were heading north.

A lucky guess on her part since they’d set out last night. Of course, not everyone had gone with them. Most had stayed behind at the school. They weren’t her problem now. Neither were the two buses who hadn’t made it beyond Casa Grande. And, if they reached the soldiers, this lot wouldn’t be either.

She wouldn’t feel guilty about leaving them.

North could be Flagstaff for all we know.

A muffled sob rose from the back. Either someone new was sick or they’d discovered the person next to them was dead.

I can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t… She clamped down the thought. The opposite of can’t was death. She refused to die. Then we will go to Flag and find them.

And how are we going to get there if we can’t go through Phoenix?

I’ll find a way. Audra clamped her jaw closed. She’d go to Timbuktu to get rid of the woman. The engine grumbled as she climbed the onramp onto the Santan freeway. Merging, she blinked. The freeway was deserted. Four empty lanes as far as her eye could see. True, blowing smoke reduced that to a mile or so, but she’d take it.

Missus S?

What is it, Oscar?

I’m glad we came with you. His heel tapped out a beat on the floorboards. You’re smarter than anyone I ever knowed. You can get us through this.

Well, crap. Why did he have to go say something like that? Now, she couldn’t throw him off the bus, let alone correct his improper English. Most of the half-covered faces in the rearview mirror nodded. Thank you, Oscar. I hope you’re right.

For all our sakes.

I am, Missus S. He leaned against the dash and drummed on his leg. I am.

She cleared her throat and blinked rapidly to clear away the tears. Stupid smoke must be getting in her eyes.

Breaker. Breaker. Two. Eight. This is seven-niner. Come back.

Audra rolled her eyes at the gibberish crackling through the child’s walkie-talkie strapped to the dashboard in an old blue jean’s pocket. Mrs. Rodriquez had certainly thrown herself into bus driving with enthusiasm. Her passengers quieted and expectation hummed in the air. After seven hours of near silence someone outside their bus spoke, too bad it wasn’t a radio broadcast with an update.

Can I answer, Missus S? Oscar jumped to his feet. Steadying himself, he clutched the bar near her head, snagging a lock of her hair in the process.

Heat burned along her scalp at the pull. Leaning toward his hand, she eased the burn a little bit. Sure.

Faye snorted and plopped down on the seat behind Audra. An adult should answer it. That toy is the only thing keeping us together.

She was the only thing keeping them together. For some strange reason, people listened to her, followed her. Good Lord, when would it end?

Duct tape protested when Oscar pulled the walkie free. A corner of the empty pocket folded over. He squeezed the black button on the side and held the toy against his mouth. This is bus twenty-eight, er, I mean two-eight coming back to you seven-niner.

Good morning two-eight, Mrs. Rodriquez chirped.

Audra twisted her hands on the wheel. How could someone be so happy so early in the morning and without coffee, especially when they’d been up all night driving?

We’re running low on gasoline.

Audra bit her lip. The happy pronouncement was battery acid in a wound. No gas. No go. No soldiers. No safety. No rest. She eyed her own gas gauge. The red needle flirted with the bar just a hair above empty. The tank had been full since the schools were prepping to return to action when the Redaction had returned. She eyed the roadsign, mentally tallied the distance between them and the targeted campus. How low are you? We’ve got twelve miles to go.

I’m near to coasting. The chirp dulled in her voice. And we have no idea how long the last twelve miles will take.

Three other voices echoed Mrs. Rodriquez’s concerns. That made every driver in the convoy. Audra tapped her brakes as the smoke thickened.

We can’t stop here! Lurching to her feet, Faye swayed while standing on the yellow safety line. I hear rats.

Gray clouds pressed against the windshield and the sound of squeaks penetrated the bus. Rats. Audra’s toes curled in her cowboy boots. The flames herded them. She leaned forward until the steering wheel cut into her belly.

Do you see the fire?

Bending, Faye braced one hand on the dash. Her head turned from side to side. It’s everywhere.

Which meant they couldn’t stop or even slow down.

Oscar clicked the on/off button, punctuating the rat serenade with static. What do you want me to say, Missus S?

Ask if anyone sees flames. Her eyes strained to detect the red tongues of fire high above the sloping concrete walls. Rats streamed down the pink surface but didn’t swarm in a panic. Still, if they pulled off too soon, they’d be overrun and eaten by the fleeing vermin. Cold snaked down her spine. She’d seen it before. Please God, don’t let me ever see it again.

Missus S wants to know if anyone can see where the fire is.

In the smoke breaks, I can see some intermittent meatball in marinara sauce, Mrs. Rodriquez answered.

Oscar giggled.

Audra swallowed the bile in her throat. Whoever referred to the rat roadkill as food should be shot. Spaghetti and meatballs had been her favorite dish until they’d coined the reference. She doubted she’d want to eat it ever again. And her problem still wasn’t solved. They needed to know where the fire was.

I think I see flames in my rearview mirror. Jacqueline Silvestre’s voice drifted through the walkie. Would someone please verify?

Audra inhaled a slow breath. Despite everything they’d been through, her mother wouldn’t simply make a statement lest she offend a stranger. Not that she minced words with her daughter. Oh, no, Audra was issued commands every time they met or spoke. She should have stopped listening to her mother years ago. Heck, even ten hours ago would have been smart. Then she wouldn’t be in charge of this group. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and eased into the center lane. But as soon as she found the soldiers all that would be in the past.

Good call, Jackie O, Mrs. Rodriquez confirmed. We’ve passed the fires.

Audra smiled at the nickname. No one would have dared abbreviate Jacqueline Silvestre’s name back in Washington D.C. or compared her to a Democratic First Lady. The Silvestre lineage dated to the Founding Fathers and so did the family fortune. They bled Republican. Welcome to the new world, Mother.

I think we should go another mile up to be safe, then exit, Mrs. Rodriquez sang. What say you, Princess A?

Oscar grinned showing teeth he’d yet to grow into. That’s you.

I know. Audra winked at him and scanned the horizon. Unlike from some people, the title was practically an endearment when the older lady said it. Besides, the smoke did seem thinner.

Exit? Faye flapped her scrawny arms. Why exit? We have all the fuel we need in the last bus. We can stop right here on the freeway. No need to get off.

Audra ignored her. Advice was so easy to give when no one asked for it. Especially when everyone already knew it.

What should I tell her?

She slapped on the turn signal and made her way to the right hand lane. Tell her we’re going to fill up.

The buses followed her lead and swerved.

She shifted in her seat. Maybe she could empty her bladder and stretch a bit. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long to refill from the barrels on her mother’s bus—the one carrying the last of their food and many of their belongings.

Plus a few corpses.

The corpses. She sucked on her bottom lip. What should she do with them? Leaving them on the side of the road seemed so callous, especially when rats prowled for a meal. But carrying them further was out of the question—they could be contagious. The scent of fecal matter drifted by. Her gut threatened to exit her mouth. And there was the matter of the slops pot. The five-gallon bucket they used as a potty needed to be emptied.

Miz R, we’re pulling over, Oscar shouted into the walkie.

The rest of her passengers scuttled to their seats. Three of them raised their hands.

She shook her head. Once a teacher… Yes, Haley?

An eight-year-old in a red jumper stood up, crossed legs and wedged a hand against her private parts. Can we get out, Miss Silvestre? I have to pee.

Yes. Ignoring the shoulder, she guided the bus up the ramp. They needed facilities, hopefully the kind with running water. Grab your buddy and stay close to the parent assigned to watch you. If they are still alive. I don’t want anyone getting lost, you hear?

Groans interspersed the ‘yes, Missus S’.

Pit stop sounds delightful, Princess A, Mrs. Rodriquez twittered through the walkie. Mr. Know-It-All says we could try for the Burgers in a Basket. He says they were opened for a few days and will have laid in a supply of cooking oil we can use to conserve our biodiesel supply.

Cooking oil for biodiesel? That didn’t sound right. Audra braked at the top of the ramp. But then what did she know? She taught English not science. Okay, I’ll keep an eye out.

Cars jammed the intersection. Flies swarmed some—a sign that their occupants slowly rotted inside. The stench of death clung to the pervading smoke drifts. She glanced right then left. Two gas stations stood across the freeway. Would one of them have batteries to power their radio? Surely, there had to be news somewhere.

I see one, Missus S. Isaac jumped on the floor. I see one.

She followed the direction of his pointing. On the south side, along with a string of stores, sat a gas station and a Burgers in the Basket. Wood boarded up the windows of the gas station and only the eight remained of the eighteen-ninety-five price tag for a gallon of regular gas on the milky sign. Gang tags stained the stucco walls in bloody hues. At the restaurant, faded posters proclaimed the arrival of toys for the new movie Hatshepsut.

Grand reopening signs hung from the eaves of the grocery store and fluttered in the breeze. Empty carts scattered across the rutted parking lot. Here and there, tall weeds sprouted above closely cropped greenery. A narrow strip of asphalt had been cleared through the metal bottleneck, funneling them to the restaurant. The skin on her neck prickled. Please don’t let this be a trap. Please. Please.

Cranking the wheel hard, she eased onto the gas pedal. The front fender scraped black paint off the side of a BMW. Metal screeched as she pushed the car back against the median. Maybe she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of driving a bus. Hopefully, no one was around to hear.

As soon as the bus straightened out, she pulled the steering wheel in the other direction. An ache spread from her clenched jaw and tightened her scalp. Who was the idiot that designed such a tight turn? She jerked backward when the bus jumped the curb. Her hand shot out and her fingers curled into Oscar’s jacket, keeping him on his feet.

Whoa! His dirty nails dug into her arm.

Why don’t you put the walkie back and sit down? She rolled through the empty gas station bays.

With a shrug, he tucked it back into the jeans pocket on the dash then smoothed the fabric flat and fiddled with the tape. By the time he’d finished, the bus had coasted into the fast food joint’s parking lot.

Kids. She shook her head and shifted the bus into park. A check in the rearview mirror showed that Mr. Johnson hadn’t stirred in his seat.

Faye grabbed Oscar by the scruff of his neck and shoved him toward his seat, catching Audra’s eye. He passed around four this morning.

Fear banded her lungs. He’d been recovering yesterday. Well, the day before yesterday. Still, she couldn’t remember the Redaction killing so fast or folks seeming to recover then getting worse. She shook off the thoughts. She’d think about it later, when they were safe with the soldiers. Do you want to check for strangers?

Shaking her head, Faye glanced outside. I’ll watch over the children.

Great. Audra ran her fingers through the keys in the ignition. She had to go outside. With shaking fingers, she undid her seatbelt. The metal buckle clunked against the floor but she barely heard it over the pounding in her ears. Slowly, she turned in the seat. Her legs tingled from the change in position. Get me the flashlight.

Why? It’s not dark outside.

Really? Was the woman so dense or was she desperate to get behind the wheel? God, what if she took off, leaving Audra behind? She flexed her fingers. Faye wouldn’t take off without the supplies or fuel. For protection from unfriendly strangers.

Children lined up behind Faye—each doing a unique potty dance.

Faye spun around but didn’t make an effort to move. Can someone pass the flashlight forward?

Like a green baton, they passed it overhead until it reached the front of the bus.

Faye was smirking when she turned again. Here you go.

Audra’s palm closed around the warm metal. Thanks. If it’s safe, I’ll radio for the children and you can empty the slops pot.

Faye gasped.

If Audra had to risk her life, she shouldn’t have to lug the poop as well. Squaring her shoulders, she tugged on the metal handle and the doors folded back. Warm air rushed in. Under the ever present smoke, she detected the faint odor of calamari thrown on a hot charcoal grill. Her stomach clenched.

Somewhere close by, people had burned.

Please don’t let them have been alive at the time. She finished the prayer as her boots scraped asphalt. The last buses in the caravan pulled up until they bracketed the fast food restaurant. A man in a gas mask and camouflage exited the bus behind her. Eddie swung his shotgun left then right then rushed her.

Exiting bus seven-niner, a man in a dirty business suit waved his pistol in the air then jogged to the area behind the bus. Principal Dunn sure did like acting like a desperado, then again, after twenty-nine years, maybe he hoped he could shoot some of the more difficult parents as payback. She hoped it didn’t get him killed. A moment later, a trim woman in torn jeans and an oversized AC/DC tee-shirt jumped off the bus. Tina, her former teaching assistant, gave her a thumbs-up, swung her Louisville slugger for a moment before setting it on her shoulder.

Eddie puffed like Darth Vader as he slid to a stop next to her. A snakehead tattoo throbbed over his carotid artery. We got twenty-two dead, Princess.

She winced. Only he made princess sound like an insult. But she was above such things. She was a Silvestre.

Seventeen for us. Audra set her hand against her bandanna as the wind tried to sneak under the fabric. Her ears pricked and her heart tripped over a beat. Did she hear voices?

Tina sprinted from Principal Dunn’s side to join them. A sheriff’s deputy in faded khakis replaced her and tamed the pistol waving.

We have ten dead on our bus. Principal Dunn thinks we can put them in the gas station. She jerked her chin at the boarded up building. Her blue surgical mask slipped and her almond-shaped brown eyes widened as she shoved it back in place.

A hot wind bent the weeds and shook the busses. In the distance, something exploded.

Audra flinched and faced the noise. Black smoke belched from a neighborhood across a vacant lot. Evil red fireflies danced in the cloud. The sparks landed on the shingle roofs.

Frown lines appeared on Tina’s forehead. I wonder what caused the explosion.

People. Eddie wheezed. "If we stay here too long, they’ll find us. We need to complete our business before they attack."

Chapter Two

Why? The man on his right wailed.

Trent Powers’ fingers tightened, crinkling the pages of the Bible. Five minutes. Couldn’t he have just five fucking minutes without some sniveling, sick bastard demanding his time? This was that damn Marine’s fault for mistaking him for a man of God just because he carried a Bible.

And what had it gotten him?

A ride with the unwashed masses of the world, dismissed by the powers that be, relegated to human cargo in a military convoy.

He should have corrected the ugly Lieutenant Sally Rogers when he first arrived at the camp. Should have but didn’t. That Marine had fucked up his plans by recognizing him, withholding food unless he kept up the pretense. Slutty Sally had encouraged it, seducing him with the promise of power. And now he was stuck.

Without power.

Surrounded by whiners who hadn’t the decency to die.

How could they not see he deserved better than this. Relaxing his hand, he dragged it down the page and watched the words exposed by his index finger. Would the idiot believe he was reading? Would he leave Trent in peace?

It had worked once.

He swayed with the motion of the truck, bumping shoulders with his neighbors, driving a sharp elbow into soft flesh. The storm compressed the air, adding humidity to the body odor, sickness and the noxious gases expelled by the corpses stuffing the back of the truck. Canvas slapped his shoulders and neck in time with the wind and the hard wooden bench drove splinters into his ass.

He needed out of here, needed to be restored to his rightful place. But how? The inner circle seemed comprised of only two people—a United States Marine Corps General and the bitch who stood for the Surgeon General. Both of them had consigned him back here with the losers of the world. The words on the thin paper blurred. Not that it mattered—the Book was boring and contained horrible English. He’d stopped attempting to read it hours after he’d acquired it.

If it wasn’t for the money tucked in the pages, he’d have let it burn. He ran his index finger down the paper. A ridge of hardness bumped against the pad. Was it another fifty dollar bill? Or… His palms itched. Or maybe another hundred? He’d already found three of them. He followed the soft edge to the middle of the page. Five would be nice. Ten hundreds would be better. He licked his lips. Maybe he could pretend to pray over the dead and take a quick peak.

He could use a little alone time.

Reverend? The man on his right barked and tugged on Trent’s sleeve.

His finger left the corner of the hidden money. Shit! The assholes wouldn’t leave him be. Flattening his palm against the open pages, he glanced into the narrow aisle running the length of the truck bed.

Hanging from the metal ribs, flashlights swung in an epileptic rhythm to the lumbering personnel carrier. Rain tapped tentatively on the canvas, raising liver spots on the drab green and brown covering. Near the open back of the truck, a trio of men and two women wearing dark stained scrubs and crooked surgical masks hovered over a man. Blue stained his lips and his lungs rattled with each wheeze and gasp. One woman picked up his wrist, settled her finger against the pale skin inside his cuff.

Why did they bother? Nothing they did helped. He was a dead man; he was just too selfish to die.

Others, equally sick, leaned against each other haphazardly and clung precariously to the benches. Near the cab, a handful of dead lay in fetal positions, stealing valuable space from the living.

The corpses should have been thrown out the back. They could be contagious. They could get him sick. Trent pressed against the truck wall and adjusted his face mask. Maybe that’s why the powers that be had sent him here. He snapped the book closed, the small breeze stirred his hair and he smoothed it flat. If that was their plan, they would have to come up with a better one.

He refused to die.

Hey! The man on his right drilled his index finger into Trent’s bicep. I’m talking to you.

He sighed. Whining was not talking.

The medical team glanced in his direction. One man took a step toward him.

He raised a hand. Great, that’s all he needed—another sick, mewling bastard wanting to hear God’s word, wanting him to sit next to him and hold his hand until the asshole passed on. He had better things to do with his time. He needed to find a way into the inner circle.

The male medic gave him a slight nod then turned back to his team.

Since they were going to leave him alone, Trent could work on the more immediate problem. He turned to his bench mate.

Fleshy bags hung under the man’s bloodshot eyes. Skin dripped from his narrow cheekbones as if the fat had melted rapidly from under it. His long nose pointed to his thin lips and yellow, crooked teeth.

Did you need something? He’d be damned if he said ‘my son’ or other such bullshit. It should be enough that he stooped to talking to the scum of humanity. Soon, he’d be sitting all comfy in the air conditioned Humvee, stretching his legs out as much as he wanted. He just needed a moment to plan his rise.

His neighbor scratched the black stubble on his receding chin. Red rimmed his tan eyes and tears blotted the ash-coated mask on his face. Why, Father?

Father? What the hell! He looked young for thirty-six. Far better than this middle-aged asshole. His mouth opened just as his brain made the connection. Damn, he must be tired to not have caught on quicker. I’m not Catholic.

Therefore not a priest or father. Unless that bitch Sally had assigned him a denomination. He pinched the hasps on his mask until the metal dug into the bridge of his nose.

The loser nodded and his jowls swung to and fro. Why, Father? Why is God doing this?

Trent squeezed his eyes closed a minute. Telling the loser that he deserved it was out of the question. That slut Sally had taken him to task when he’d mentioned it yesterday. Not even fucking her twice had dispelled his anger. He smoothed his hair, skimmed the shell of ash. If the preacher he’d stolen the sermon from wasn’t already dead, he would kill him.

Some man of the cloth, he turned out to be. He’d made Trent believe that people wanted to hear they deserved this living Hell, that they had to atone for their sins, that only he, the gatekeeper to God, could provide salvation.

He’d been tricked.

The man on his left hacked into the crook of his arm before collapsing against the side wall. It’s Judgement Day. That’s why. We’re dying because we’ve sinned.

Trent’s ears perked up and warmth flooded his limbs. The lying preacher that had run the homeless shelter had spoken of Judgement Day. Twisting at the waist, he inspected the man on his left. Perhaps, he had not selected his audience correctly.

Tell me I’m wrong, Reverend. A black tee-shirt strained against the beer gut hanging over his belt like an old woman’s tit. Sour sweat leaked from his overlarge pores and invaded Trent’s space cushion. Dirk Benedict.

The only difference between Dirk Benedict and the bums he’d had the misfortune to meet was that this man seemed to be better fed. But that didn’t rule out his usefulness. Trent hugged the Bible close. Maybe some good would come out of this after all. Brute force often came in handy and fools with low brows tended to have rudimentary intelligence—perfect for manipulation. Why would I do that, Dirk?

The loser on his right stiffened. One claw-like hand wrapped around Trent’s bicep and jerked him around. Are you saying my wife deserved to die?

Trent turned on his seat and faced the aisle. All five members of the medical team faced him. Damn the asshole! Concern etched lines in four faces, but the fifth sharpened with interest. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the woman leaned closer.

He sifted through his memories. Shit! She’d been watching him. No doubt, the bitch in charge had ordered it. He sat up a little straighter. So Mavis Spanner had noticed his worth. Had he blown it when he’d tried the preacher’s message on the medics. They certainly hadn’t been receptive. Not that he’d expected any different. The fools treated women as equals, took orders from a woman.

He’d have to be careful. Clearing his throat, he dismissed the medics. If Mavis Spanner had recognized his worth, she might see him as a threat. He couldn’t have that. Not yet anyway. Not until he had an action plan.

No, he’s not saying that your wife deserved it. Half-moon shapes burned into his skin from the grip but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t have the spy moving closer, not when he’d just found a patsy in Dirk. Leaning the Bible against his belly, he raised his hands up like he’d seen the preacher do. I’m saying we’ve lost our way and this is the Almighty’s method of getting our attention.

My wife didn’t deserve to die, the loser blubbered.

Of course, she did! He’d sat next to her and listened to her whine and sob until she had the decency to die. Feeling the spy’s eyes, Trent patted the man’s hand. No one is saying that.

Dirk snorted and folded his flabby arms over his oversized belly. The black cotton fabric gave up the fight and rolled up, exposing swirls of black hair on gelatinous pale skin.

The loser swiped at the tears leaking from his eyes. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t.

Trent scratched at the scab at his temple. Why was the man blubbering on? The woman wasn’t much to look at alive. At least dead, she kept her mouth shut.

Finally, the loser pushed off the bench. The wood creaked. He released it and shuffled toward his wife.

Dirk stretched his feet out.

The loser stumbled over the work boots and fell onto the man across the aisle. The sick loser barely grunted from the impact.

Sorry. So sorry. The loser smoothed the man’s clothes and straightened. He shambled the two feet to the corpse pile and dropped to his knees, scooping up his late wife’s hand and holding it close.

Dirk grunted. What a loser. Why would anyone cry over a woman? Treacherous bitches the lot of them.

Exactly. Trent smoothed the cover of his Bible. I’m Reverend—

Benjamin Trent. I know.

Damn. Trent forced a smile and held out his hand. Hadn’t he told the bitch in charge his name was Trent Franklin? He’d have to find a way to correct her assumption when the cow sought him out. And she would. She had to. Since she’d sent someone to spy on him, she must know that he was too important to be kept down with these losers.

Dirk engulfed his hand in a fleshy prison, pumping his arm three times.