Pretty soon it'll just look like a giant f.u.c.king junkyard, and we'll burrow into the trash at night like f.u.c.king moles. He wrinkled his nose. Develop our own f.u.c.king language. Start f.u.c.king our relatives. Fifty years and we'll be deformed and inbred. Gibbering nonsense when they find us.

Luckily, Jerry's plan for complete isolation wouldn't last.

But it suited Greg for now.

He stood at the flap of blue tarpaulin, rapped his knuckles on a piece of wood. "h.e.l.lo?"

From inside there was shuffling and whispering.

"Are you kids alright in there?" Greg asked, his voice concerned.

A little girl's voice: "Sam, I'm scared. What's going on?"

Then a slightly older, boy's voice: "Who's there?"

"Hey, it's Greg," he leaned on the shanty. "I don't really think you know me, but I saw you running across the field and...well, it looked like you might be in trouble. Is everything okay?"

"Go away."

Greg clenched his jaw. Not the reaction he hoped for. Clearly, the caring adult tactic was not going to work. Either this kid was a suspicious little f.u.c.k, or he'd seen Kyle and Arnie with Greg and a.s.sumed they were all part of Keith Jenkins' murder.

Time to change tactics.

"Buddy, you know this is just a tarp between us, right? If I wanted to barge in and hurt you, I would have done it already. I'm just trying to talk to you, see what the problem is. But if you don't come out and talk to me..."

The tarp shifted. Then pulled aside.

The kid's brown face looked up at Greg with a combination of fear and contempt. "What do you want?" he said, almost a harsh whisper.

"It's Sam, right?" Greg asked. He considered smiling, but decided against it. Faking it wasn't going to fly. It was time for plain, old honesty. It seemed to be what this kid would react best to.

"What do you want?" Sam repeated, more insistent this time. "If you try to come in, I'll scream. Don't try to touch me. And take a few steps back."

Greg's eyes tracked quickly down to the tarpaulin, noticed the slight poke of something touching the blue plastic, and realized the kid was holding a gun on him. Greg almost wanted to laugh at the little s.h.i.t, but his requests were fair enough. And he had to give him props for being on point. He held up his hands and took a single step back. "How's that? That make you more comfortable?"

Sam stared, lips tightening.

"How about you lower that gun you got pointed at me," Greg said quietly. "I already told you, if I was here to hurt you, I'd've done it already."

Sam looked a little unsure, but lowered whatever he held behind the tarp. "Fine. I'm not supposed to be talking to you."

Greg sighed. "Sam, you seem like a straight-up kid, so I'm not gonna bulls.h.i.t you. I'm gonna talk to you like I'd talk to any other man, okay?"

"Okay."

"What were you running away from earlier?"

"Nothing."

"Sam..."

"Nothing."

"Okay, maybe you thought you saw something bad..."

"I know what I saw," Sam spat. "And I know you're with them."

Greg looked left and right, then leaned forward slightly. "You didn't see s.h.i.t. You thought you saw something, but you in fact did not see a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing. You know how I know you didn't see anything? Because there's nothing there to see. Because if you go behind the building, there's nothing there. You can feel free to go look yourself. Nothing."

Sam's eyes had abandoned the contempt and now only showed fear.

Greg leaned farther forward, lowered his voice. "You know how else I know that you didn't see anything? Because if you ever told anyone what you think you saw, then we'd be forced to kill Angela. We'd have to kill her with a f.u.c.king iron pipe. Hit her across the head until her brains started leaking out of her ears. And then we'd have to do the same thing to Abby, but she'd be easier because little kid's skulls are soft. h.e.l.l," Greg held up his hands. "I could probably just crush her skull between my hands. I don't know. Maybe I'd use a rock."

Tears in Sam's eyes now. He shook violently.

Greg straightened, checked left and right again. There was no one there. "You understand what I'm saying, Sam? You know you're not safe. You know there's no one in this camp that's on your side. You know that no one would believe one little kid over three adults. Especially since you've got no way to prove it." Greg held a finger to his lips, tapped them twice. "You stay real quiet, Sam. Real quiet."

"I don't understand," Angela said, finding herself in a chair, bewildered. "You're not letting anyone out of the gates." She didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it did.

Jerry tilted his head back. "We're not gonna use this as a sounding board to air your grievances, Angela." He put a finger to his chest. "I know that I've b.u.t.ted heads with Keith, and don't even get me started on you, but at the end of the day Keith is a part of this group, and no one seems to know where he is. Can we focus on that for now?" Jerry shook his head in apparent disgust. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Uh..." Angela thought about it. "Breakfast, I think. We ate breakfast together."

Jerry nodded. "Yeah, not many people saw him after that."

Angela's eyes narrowed. "Wait...who brought this up?"

Jerry blinked twice, a shadow of something pa.s.sing over his eyes, then he seemed to right himself, and he leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "No one brought it up, Angela. In fact, to be completely honest, I had Greg and the guys looking for him. Wanted to touch base with him. Maybe see if you'd been running your mouth, despite our conversation." Jerry smiled, a thin, cold-blooded thing, like a lizard. "So imagine my surprise when Keith..." Jerry feigned shock "...is suddenly missing!"

Angela felt chilly and hot at the same time. She knew where this was going and didn't like it one bit. She held up her hands. "Jerry, I didn't say anything, I swear to G.o.d..."

Jerry heaved himself off the desk, was close to her in a single step, seemed like he towered over her. His voice was severe, but frighteningly controlled at once. "Don't you f.u.c.king lie to me, Angela. I'm so sick and tired of your f.u.c.king lies, and you going behind my G.o.dd.a.m.ned back. Where the h.e.l.l is Keith? Where the h.e.l.l did he go? Are you planning to go next? Who else? Who else have you talked to? Who else are you spreading your f.u.c.king lies to?"

Angela bolted out of her chair, knocking it over. She moved backwards, putting an arm's length of distance between her and Jerry. "You stay the f.u.c.k away from me!" She pointed at him. "And you stay the f.u.c.k away from my kids!"

"Where's Keith, Angela?" Jerry advanced on her.

"I don't know!"

"Who else have you been talking to?"

"I haven't said anything!"

Jerry kicked the chair she'd knocked over. "Then why don't I f.u.c.king believe you?"

Angela's chin trembled as her lips clamped together. She was still afraid, but she refused to show it. She refused to let this creature think that he could get the best of her. She gathered every bit of her steam and took a step towards him again, putting her pointed finger right in his face.

"f.u.c.k you! f.u.c.k you, Jerry!" She shook her head violently. "f.u.c.k you for accusing me of this s.h.i.t! You're just looking for a G.o.dd.a.m.ned reason to send Greg and his cronies after me! You wanna take me out? Be a f.u.c.king man and stand me up in front of everyone and do what you think needs to be done. But don't play these games with me! Just stop!"

She'd spoken without truly considering her words, and as they left her mouth, she tried hard not to show apprehension that he might call her bluff, might just drag her out into The Square, execute her on the spot, and deal with the consequences. And honestly, she had to ask herself, would there be any consequences? Would any of these people in this camp stand up for me?

But Jerry just nodded, smiled, then retreated back to his desk.

Someone sniffed, loudly.

Angela turned, found Greg standing in the doorway, behind her.

"Were you able to find Keith?" Jerry asked, once again the picture of calm composure. "Did you look everywhere?"

Greg's eyes flitted between Angela and Jerry, as though he were trying to piece something together on the fly, but he nodded. "Uh, yes. We looked everywhere."

"I was just asking Angela here if she had any idea where he might have gotten off to." Jerry sat down in his chair. "But she claims not to know anything."

Greg just nodded.

Jerry waved his hand at Angela. "I'm done with you."

I'm done with you? I'm f.u.c.king DONE WITH YOU?

Angela seethed, her anger causing her vision to blur and her hands and feet to tingle as her body prepared her for what it saw as an imminent physical conflict between them. In her mind, she was across the room, clawing his eyes out of his sockets, ripping that shotgun from him, putting both barrels into his chest, just like he did to Bus, watching his insides. .h.i.t the back wall...

Jesus!

Angela looked at the floor, shocked at herself.

And something else.

She bit her tongue. Turned and exited the office, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, and in those pockets, balled so tightly that her nails dug into her palms and her knuckles ached. Was she shocked that she was capable of thinking these things? Maybe...

But there was that other feeling.

Something like gratification.

It glowed in her belly like imagined vengeance, made her thoughts dark, turned her mouth down at the edges, and gave her pleasant features a hardness that she could feel settling onto her like an exoskeleton, like it was encasing her inside of herself. Perfectly form-fitting. Almost the same person. But just slightly different. Changed, in some very small, but very important ways.

She kept her head down as she walked down the stairs and out of the building into the cold winter air. It slapped her face, bit at her nose, made her teeth ache. She didn't want to look up, didn't want others to see this strange expression on her face and wonder-or worse-ask questions. She didn't want to speak to a single G.o.dd.a.m.ned soul, just wanted to stare up at the ceiling of her little hovel. And if she were being straightforward with herself, she wanted to cry. But it was like that thing inside of her that was capable of producing that type of emotion had somehow shriveled up and died.

Her thoughts flew, like debris caught in a tornado.

This has got to end. I have to end this.

And where is Keith? What happened to Keith? Is he alright? Did he get hurt out past the fence? How did he get out past the fence? What if they find him? What if he tells them about what I said to him? What if Jerry comes after me? What if Jerry comes after Abby or Sam?

I have to end this.

I have to end this.

She slipped into her shanty and found Abby and Sam on the bed, crying.

CHAPTER 17: THE FATHER.

They followed the dwindling smoke trails in the sky to find the settlement. An old gravel eas.e.m.e.nt led them back through acres of abandoned crops and a decrepit mobile home to a spread of land rimmed in a giant square by trees. In the northwestern corner stood what could only have been the settlement.

The three columns of smoke had died to a single, black streak, and this lifted from the rubble of what had once been a farm house. The husk of a front porch faced LaRouche and his convoy of vehicles as they navigated the pitted drive. Bits of gravel pinged their tire wells, the cha.s.sis swaying back and forth through deep potholes that a bad storm season had washed out of the ground. Overgrown weeds and small brush sc.r.a.ped the undercarriage.

Splayed out in front of the smoldering farm house was a collection of slap-dash shelters of every type. LaRouche could see tents, cars, a Winnebago, several structures constructed of tarp and sc.r.a.p wood, much like the shanties at Camp Ryder. All of them were destroyed in some way. The tents trampled, the shanties and the Winnebago little more than charred husks.

LaRouche spit a stream of tobacco juice out of the open pa.s.senger side window. The smoky air smelled briefly of the mola.s.ses-like tang of Red Man. He reached out with his left hand, touched Wilson's arm. "Slow up."

Wilson brought the convoy to a halt.

LaRouche looked out the windows, craning his neck to get a 360-degree view. Then he looked into the backseat, where the little girl from the side of the road sat in Father Jim's arms. She didn't look directly at LaRouche when he looked at her, just kept staring out the window, her small lips twitching, but her face otherwise remaining blank, like her soul had already up and left her.

"This your place?" LaRouche asked her.

Her eyes met his for a fraction of a second-just a flicker of recognition.

Father Jim gently squeezed her upper arm. "Sweetie, is this where your family was?"

She nodded. Looked down at the floor.

"It's okay," Jim soothed.

LaRouche grabbed the radio mic from its cradle and keyed it. "Ya'll stay back," he told the rest of the convoy. "We're gonna push forward a bit. See if we get a reaction."

A string of m.u.f.fled affirmatives came over the radio.

LaRouche looked at their new pa.s.senger. Joel was seated in the back left, days of sweat and dirt causing his Q-tip hair to look limp and off-white. LaRouche pointed to the turret. "Go ahead and get on that thing. Stay sharp, but only shoot at clear hostile targets. Don't want you cappin' some nice citizen 'cause you thought they were infected."

Joel nodded and clambered up into the turret. "I got it, Sarge."

LaRouche pointed forward. "Take us in, Wilson."

The Humvee rumbled forward again, splitting off from the convoy, an empty stretch of worn gravel and mud growing between them and their friends. They drew closer and closer to the wreckage of what had once been a home for G.o.d-knew how many people, and LaRouche leaned forward in his seat to see over the hood. In the trampled paths between the shelters and the still-burning farmhouse, where the daily pa.s.sage of feet had worn the gra.s.s down to hard-packed dirt in the span of a few months, LaRouche could see the bodies.

Bodies on top of each other, like they'd been sorted through and separated into piles, though LaRouche could tell that was not the case-in each pile he could see the small limbs of children along with those of adults, both men and women. Three bodies in this pile. Four in that pile. All situated next to some shelter or another.

Families.

They were the ones that had run and hid, LaRouche realized. Maybe they fought back. Maybe they were just killed for sport. But they died inside their little shelters, and then were dragged outside and stacked up, each beside their own little hovel, be it a tent or a station wagon or something cobbled together. Their blood mixing, making mud, preparing the earth to receive them.