There was simply no way to know. He couldn't just go to the hospital and have his blood work done. Have a nice old doctor in a white coat with kind eyes explain to him the situation. No, he would just have to wait and see. He would have to wait, and agonize, and think about it at night, and see if he got sick, just like everyone else that had been infected, hoping against hope, until they were wracked with fever chills and losing their minds, but still just conscious enough to know that they'd been infected for sure and that there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing they could do about it.

He shook his head. And if you can't do a d.a.m.n thing about it, there ain't no point in worrying.

He thought it resolutely enough, but it didn't take away the doubtful feeling in his stomach, and in his mind, the future of his life past the next two days became a black unknown. Something theoretical. Something intangible. Like there was no purpose in planning for anything past that point. No purpose in planning anything except for how you want to be taken out if s.h.i.t went downhill.

Bullet in the head, he thought. That would be best.

Or kamikaze it. Go out in a blaze of glory.

"Hey," a voice brought him back.

He turned and found Father Jim walking up behind him. His pace was slow, methodical, almost hesitant. Like he feared drawing too close to LaRouche, and that alone gave LaRouche a twinge of irritation. LaRouche snapped the map closed, forced the jutting feelings down. He had no reason to be mad at Father Jim, or anyone else for that matter. His short fuse was his own problem, and it needed to be controlled, not unleashed on anyone that looked sideways at him.

"Jim," he nodded. "What's up?"

Jim folded his hands in front of him. "How are you?"

"I'm dandy."

Jim gave him a grim smile. "We have disagreements. That doesn't mean we have to be opposed to each other. We're both on the same team, even if we sometimes think things should be done a little different."

LaRouche thought of some choice retorts, thought about pointing out that it really didn't matter what Jim's opinion was. Thought about pointing out that Jim didn't have much experience in these things, and that LaRouche had been in a combat theater, in a third-world country, not so different from this. But all of these smart arguments fell flat, because there was no comparison to this world and the old world. There was no comparison to this LaRouche and the old LaRouche.

LaRouche folded the map, meticulously lining up the creases. "You know, you get to a certain age in your life and you think, 'This is it. This is the person I am'. And I used to think that I knew who that person was." He glanced up at Jim. "I'm not saying that I'm having a personality crisis or any bulls.h.i.t like that. It's just..." he squeezed his fingers together like he was trying to grasp some fine, invisible filament that floated in the air. "...I can't remove myself like I used to. I can't put these things on someone else. I can't point to some big old chain of command standing behind me and say, 'I'm just following orders. If you don't like the way s.h.i.t went, talk to them'. They're not there anymore. It's just me. It's just us. And there's no support, there's no one else to rely on." LaRouche pointed out to the horizon. "We're f.u.c.king alone out here. And every decision that I make, I have to make for us. Not for whether I think it's going to be comfortable, or whether it fits into my personal, mental image of how I saw myself, or even if it fits into my personal code. All that ain't s.h.i.t right now, Jim. Because I can tell you right now, if my decisions land us in a bad spot, and you're lying on the ground, bleeding out and staring up at the sky, you ain't gonna give a s.h.i.t about the morals behind what decisions I made. All you're gonna be thinking is that I made a decision, and it was the wrong f.u.c.king decision. And it got you killed. And all the wives and children back at Camp Ryder? They don't give a s.h.i.t about some sleazebag refugee and his daughter. They just want their husband and father back. And I cannot-I will not-remove myself mentally or emotionally from that."

Jim's eyes were sad. "You can't keep us all alive by sheer willpower. Only G.o.d..."

LaRouche cut him off. "I'm not getting into an existential debate with a priest. G.o.d will understand that I'm putting in my best effort here."

Jim smiled wanly, nodded, and looked away. "I understand."

Maybe you do, maybe you don't, LaRouche thought.

"We've given the man food and water. Reunited him with his daughter."

"Fantastic."

"You should talk to him. See what he has to say."

"Yeah." LaRouche let out a beleaguered breath. "I suppose I should."

Wilson and Joel stood with the man when LaRouche approached. The others sat on the tailgates and b.u.mpers of their trucks, eating from food of their own creation, or dipping into the supply of MREs for a taste of good old processed food that made them feel like there was still civilization out there.

LaRouche took a good look at the man in the overalls and white thermal shirt. He seemed young to have a four year-old daughter-only in his mid to late twenties. But he also had that weathered look of a farmer, and in LaRouche's experience, most men in that culture didn't wait too long to marry and have kids.

LaRouche scratched his neck, regarded the man placidly. "What's your name?"

"Jackson." The man put an arm around his daughter. "This is Tessa."

LaRouche forced a smile for the sake of the child, but dropped it when he turned his eyes back to Jackson. "We need to talk. Alone."

Jackson looked at his little girl, then at Father Jim, who he apparently was comfortable enough with. Jim gave him a very small nod as though to tell him that he was not in any danger. Jackson squeezed his daughter's shoulder. "Sweetie, can you stay here for a minute? I'll be right back."

Tessa looked hesitant, but nodded.

Jackson rose and LaRouche directed him between an LMTV and a Humvee so that when they stepped through they were outside the circle of vehicles. LaRouche stopped, rested his hands on the rifle slung across his chest.

Jackson wrung his hands. "Listen, I'm sorry...I had no idea."

LaRouche waved him off. "Forget it. That's not what I'm here to talk about."

"Okay."

"We can't keep you around," LaRouche stated simply. "We're conducting a very specific mission, and there's no room on board for you and your daughter, understand?"

Jackson opened his mouth as though to protest. He stared at LaRouche, saw the deadpan eyes, saw that LaRouche would not be impressed by whatever he had to say, and then he closed his mouth. "So what are you going to do with us?"

"Well, I'm not gonna leave on the side of the road," LaRouche grumbled, then added under his breath, "No matter how easy that would be." He twiddled his thumbs. "Your group must have known some other groups of survivors. We can take you to one of them."

Jackson looked unsure. "s.h.i.t...we only knew two or three of them. There's no telling if any of them are still alive. The Followers have been tearing us apart, man." he looked up. "You guys look like you know what you're doing. Weren't you the guys that...?" he cut himself off, a look of terror and shame pa.s.sing over his features.

LaRouche shifted his weight. Tilted his head. "Jackson..."

The younger man looked away, his chin quivering.

LaRouche shook his head as though he'd just heard sad news. He turned and spat on the ground. His mouth was dry, his spittle frothy. He fished in his cargo pocket for his packet of Red Man. It was down to its last bit of tobacco. He opened the pack, took a pinch for himself, then offered it to Jackson.

The young man declined, then hung his head.

LaRouche replaced the pack. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled.

"Look," Jackson said defensively, still not meeting LaRouche's gaze. "We didn't have a f.u.c.king choice."

LaRouche shrugged. "I'm not judging you."

Jackson breathed shakily. "They took another group of survivors a few days ago. They were a little further west of us, near Fremont. So, we thought we might be in the clear. We knew that The Followers were coming out of the east. Thought maybe they skipped over us. Maybe they wouldn't find us. But then yesterday morning..." He looked up, tears glistening on his lower eyelids. "There was no time. I didn't have time to do anything. I just shoved Tessa out the back of our tent and I told her to run. Didn't even tell her I loved her. Couldn't put a coat on her, or shoes."

He buried his face in his hands for a moment. His shoulders shook, but when he removed his hands, his face was blank. "I just...came out with my hands up, because I didn't want to die. They were going into everyone's shacks. Killing them if they resisted. Dragging the cooperative ones like myself out in front of the farmhouse." His voice took on a slow, monotonous tone, almost hypnotic, as though he spoke these memories out of a nightmare. "Took the women and children away. Tied ropes around their necks. Shot them if they tried to run, or fight. Then they made us do this weird...oath...and we had to get down on our knees. But some of the guys wouldn't kneel...so..."

LaRouche gave the man the only compa.s.sion that he could muster: he leaned forward, touched him on the shoulder, and shook his head. "We know."

Jackson nodded.

LaRouche looked off into the surrounding woods. "So you were with the group that we hit yesterday."

Another nod.

"And you just came back here?"

"Yes. I ran back here, but I...I was too afraid to go in. So I just sat in the woods and stayed quiet. Hoped that Tessa would show up." He rubbed his forehead. "When I saw her get out of ya'll's truck, I didn't know what to think. But Father Jim seemed so kind to her...and I couldn't just let her go again. So I came out of the woods." He glanced at LaRouche. "I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do. And I didn't know there were infected that close to me in the woods."

LaRouche sighed, but couldn't think of much else to say, except, "Well..."

"So, aren't you guys going to help?"

LaRouche tongued the tobacco in his cheek. "Help with what, Jackson?"

"Help us with The Followers."

LaRouche made a humorless chuckling sound. "Jackson, let me be completely honest with you. There are many, many times more of them than there are of us. It's simply not a situation that we have the time or resources to handle."

"What do you mean you don't have the time?"

LaRouche narrowed his eyes. "I mean I don't have the f.u.c.king time. There are bigger things at play here. Much bigger things. You want my advice? You tell me another group of survivors. A group that hasn't been knocked over by The Followers. And when we drop you off, you gather everyone you can, and every weapon and every supply that you can, and you head west as fast as you f.u.c.king can. 'Cause there ain't s.h.i.t I can do about The Followers, and if you decide to stick around, then it's just a matter of time before you're nailing someone to a f.u.c.king telephone pole, or getting hung on one yourself."

"What about my daughter?"

"Your daughter isn't my concern," LaRouche replied, blandly. "I already saved her once. The rest is up to you." He looked at the other man pointedly. "You're her father."

Jackson looked like he had just tasted something sour. "And what if I don't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Where to find another group of survivors."

LaRouche shrugged. "Then we leave you right here, Jackson. One way or another, you're gonna be out of my hair."

Jackson looked down, inspected his worn out, dirty boots. "Parker's Place," he muttered.

"What now?" LaRouche leaned forward.

Jackson spoke up. "Parker's Place. It's another farm. About thirty people there. Few miles north of here. Last I heard, they were doing okay." Jackson met LaRouche's gaze. "If you take us there...I would appreciate it."

"Okay." LaRouche sniffed. "We can do that."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so LaRouche turned away from him and stepped back towards the circle of vehicles. He didn't have much appet.i.te, but he knew he needed to eat something. As he stepped between the Humvee and the LMTV, Jackson's voice stopped him.

"I, uh..." Jackson started, then paused until LaRouche turned to face him. "I heard a few of them talking. The tall, older guy. I think he was in charge." Jackson kicked at a loose chunk of concrete in the road. "This isn't an expansion. They're not trying to...you know...take over the world."

LaRouche eyed him, wondered how f.u.c.ked this man's brain had become in the last twenty-four hours. "Sure seems like that's what they're doing."

Jackson shook his head. "They're being driven west."

"Driven?"

"Something is pushing them this way." Jackson looked around, shrugged. "Don't know what it is, though."

LaRouche felt a cold certainty settle in his stomach. Bet I know what it is.

Instead, he just flicked a salute to Jackson. "Thanks."

Wilson and Jim sat on the tailgate of their Humvee, sharing a packet of Chips Ahoy that Wilson had long-ago lifted from the glove box of a vehicle. They didn't bother checking the expiration date-just sniffed it to make sure it didn't smell offensive, and then split the pack.

Jim closed his eyes as he chewed. "What was my problem with these things again?"

Wilson shook his head. "I never had a problem with a cookie."

Jim inspected the half-cookie pinched between his fingers. "A while ago, I would've declined these when you offered them. Something about trans fats, or what not. Now I don't even remember what trans fats were, or why I cared about them."

Wilson smiled. "Yeah. They don't make 'em like this anymore."

"They really don't," Jim said wistfully, looking at the last bite with some regret.

Wilson sucked on his teeth. Glanced at the ex-priest. "Listen...I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have snapped at you, especially in front of a stranger." Wilson crumpled the blue wrapper in his hands. "We shouldn't show division when dealing with people we don't know."

Jim made a noncommittal noise. "It's just..."

"I know."

"Yeah."

Wilson sighed.

Jim glanced around. "I really thought he was gonna do it."

"Shoot him?"

"Didn't you?"

Wilson's lips quirked, but he didn't seem to have a solid answer. "He gets a little intense."

"That's a nice way of putting it." Jim snorted. "If he'd've pulled that trigger, that man's brains would be all over his daughter. She would have watched us murder her father after she asked for our help and we promised that we'd give it."

"Cut the man some slack, Jim," Wilson said. "He just got infected blood in his mouth."

Jim looked unconvinced. "I don't think you can contract it that way."

"Would that make you feel any better?"

"It wouldn't make me feel like I needed to shoot someone."

Wilson looked his companion in the eye. "Jim. You're my friend. And I'm asking you as a friend. Please don't push LaRouche. The last thing he needs right now is to be worrying about looking over his shoulder at us-the people that should have his back no matter what."

Jim looked pained. "I understand that. But I'm not just gonna allow him to murder someone in front of me." He leaned in to Wilson, his voice growing harsher. "For G.o.d's sake, he already tortured and murdered one man! It's bad enough that I'm still following his orders when I'm doubting his mental stability, but I absolutely will not just stand by and watch him do it right in front of me!"