But the only response that Lee got was Jacob's grip quickly fading, the hands that Lee held soon hanging there, limp. Lee looked at them, then dropped them, almost threw them away from himself and rocked back on his heels. He swore loudly, angrily. Looked around him to see if there were any threats that had crept up on him while he was distracted.

Motion drew his attention up. At the front gate, a man hobbled under the broken section, dragging his left leg behind him. As he moved, a jagged piece of chain link fence caught the brim of his Yankees ball cap and it fell to the ground. The man turned back as though to get it, but then looked up and saw Lee staring at him.

"Greg," Lee churned, with all of the bitterness that could be imparted by a single word.

Greg turned away and began to run, as fast as his wounded leg would allow him, kept looking back to see if he was being pursued, his arms pumping madly to make up for the momentum lost on his wounded leg. For a second or two, Lee just watched him, thinking about what Marie had told him about Jerry and Greg and Arnie and their whole f.u.c.king team, and everything that they'd done at Camp Ryder. All of the ways that they had ruined what Lee had built. All the harm that they had done to the people that Lee tried to protect.

And then Lee thought about Shumate.

Thought about how loose ends always come back to haunt you.

No loose ends this time.

Lee began to run after him.

CHAPTER 42: WHAT IS REQUIRED.

In three steps, Lee pictured all the things that Greg had done. How he had worked alongside Jerry to overthrow everything that Lee had spent blood, sweat, and tears creating. How he was complicit in the murder of Bus, and the murder of Keith Jenkins. But mostly, it was how he had hurt the people that Lee called his own. Those that were dead, and those that still lived.

Lee hit the gate, slid under it with a single hand steadying himself on the ground, the harsh gravel rasping through the knees of his pants and breaking the skin. He came up on the other side with barely a loss of momentum and continued after Greg. He was already gaining on him, Greg's wounded leg slowing him to about half the pace of Lee.

f.u.c.k it, Lee decided. I'm just gonna shoot him.

He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Empty.

As he ran, he looked down, hands slapping his chest rig for a spare magazine as he dropped the one in the rifle. But he had no more spares. He'd used them all up. He was out of ammunition, and too d.a.m.n late to turn back now. He began to unsling the rifle from around his shoulders, preparing to toss it.

Maybe ten yards ahead of him, Greg fumbled in his waist band and he stopped abruptly and turned. Something small and black in his hands. Lee already knew what it was and put the brakes on his all-out sprint to catch up to Greg.

Pop.

Lee felt something hit his side. He didn't stop to look at the damage. He gripped the rifle by the stock, holding it like a baseball bat and he hurled it at Greg's face. A wracking pain split through his stomach. The rifle spun through the air and Greg tried to avoid it by raising a hand to ward it off, but it struck him anyways with a nose-breaking clatter and Greg stumbled back, stunned.

Lee had already closed the gap. He leapt, his body horizontal, and he speared Greg right in the midsection. The two collided, air leaving lungs with an explosive hoomph. They landed in the dirt, rolling violently across the gravel, their scrambling feet kicking up dust and rocks. Lee grappled for the gun in Greg's hand, as Greg contorted his wrist, trying to get a close range shot off at him.

Lee grabbed it by the barrel and shoved it up and away from him. It was a small, subcompact semi-auto of some kind. It went off with an ear-splitting crack, so close to Lee's head. Lee felt the slide work under his finger, ripping some of the flesh away, but he managed to hold his grip on it and the action jammed, failing to cycle back all the way and leaving the spent casing unejected in the chamber.

With both of Lee's hands wrapped around the gun, Greg saw his opportunity and slammed Lee in the face with an elbow. Lee wasn't sure how many times and in how many ways his nose could break, but he felt another crack and excruciating pain shot through his face, back into some parts of his skull that he didn't even know had nerve endings. It jarred him, almost to the point of unconsciousness, and he felt his strength suddenly drained out of him simply from the magnitude of the pain.

Greg didn't waste time or give Lee any chances. He rolled Lee onto his back and put his free hand on Lee's chest, pushed the pistol up to Lee's head with the other hand and without thought, with the complete intention to kill Lee then and there, he pulled the trigger.

It mushed in harmlessly. It had never been reset.

Lee had recovered enough to act on it before Greg could truly wrap his brain around the weapon's malfunction and how he was going to fix it. Lee seized Greg's wrist with both hands, and used the only weapon he had left. He already knew what he was going to do. He'd already decided on it. Brutality was required.

He lunged out and bit down on Greg's wrist. It was not a bite to inflict pain, or to simply scare Greg into getting off of him. It was a bite to inflict as much damage as possible, and Lee buried his face in the man's wrist, and Greg began to shriek. Lee pushed his teeth into the meat between the radius and ulna bones of the wrist and when he could feel the hard, gristly cordage of Greg's tendons between his teeth, he jerked back with his head. He could feel the gristle in between his teeth, could feel the tendons snapping as he clamped down and ripped back. Blood squirting into the back of his mouth.

Greg recoiled backward, nearly catapulting himself off of Lee. The pistol went flying from his grip as his hand contorted into strange shapes and flopped around like a thing possessed. Lee gagged and coughed out the chunks and tendrils of Greg's flesh and kicked the man in the chest, sprawling him backwards. Greg rolled, came up hunched over his arm, cradling it and screaming.

Lee launched himself for the pistol on the ground, landing stretched out on his left side, right onto the gunshot wound. Bright, lightning pain scorched him, but he reached out his left hand-his weak hand-because it was the closest, and he wrapped his fingers around the gun.

Lee's eyes were focused on the gun. But he could hear Greg, he could hear the wordless roar, and the sound of dirt and gravel sc.r.a.ping and shifting as Greg came at him, determined not to let Lee get the gun up. Lee held up one foot, trying to ward Greg off while he brought the pistol into his chest and racked the slide, clearing the jam. The spent casing flew out, a fresh one slamming into the chamber.

Lee felt his foot being swiped out of the way and he felt the heavy bulk of Greg landing on him. He rocked his hips up, gritting through the pain in his core and side, and he wrapped one leg around Greg's midsection. He tried to get the other leg around, but Greg put his elbows down into Lee's thigh, pinning it and spiking his femoral nerve.

The one leg was enough, though. It was enough to keep Greg from posting up on him. Greg thrust his arms forward, his one good hand grabbing ma.s.sive handfuls of Lee's clothing, the fingers digging viciously into the skin, desperate like a wild animal. Like he was trying to claw his way up to Lee's chest, reaching for the pistol.

Lee pulled the pistol as far back as he could, then looked down the line of his body. He saw Greg, his head at about waist level, staring up at Lee with his teeth bared, mouth wide open, an incredible mask of rage and pain.

Lee punched out with the little subcompact pistol and fired.

The bullet entered the corner of Greg's right eye, splashed through his cranial cavity, and erupted out of the back of Greg's skull, near the spine. Greg instantly was still, all the weight of his body crashing down onto Lee, and everything that was in his head began coming out, pouring over Lee's midsection.

Lee just sat there, staring at the mess of it and trying to catch his breath. He felt his whole body trembling and he wasn't sure whether it was cold or exhaustion or adrenaline. For a moment, all he could hear was his rushing blood, but as his heart seemed to downshift, another sound came to him. The sound of feet pounding through the woods. Crashing through brush. Lee stretched out onto his back, looking at the world upside down, holding the little pistol out with both hands. Finger on the trigger. Ready to go again.

"Whoa!" A familiar voice. "Easy, Buddy. Friendly fire."

Tomlin standing there, breathing hard from a sprint, holding his bolt gun in one hand, the other waving at him.

Lee relaxed slightly and took long, deep breaths. He smelled the air. Tasted the dust and the scent of stone. Loam and leaves from the nearby forest. The sharp tang of cordite that clung to him. And blood. Familiar. Intimate. Bitter.

Some of it his. Most of it Greg's.

Lee wiped his mouth. Pulled a piece of Greg from his tongue and shuddered violently. But he didn't think about what he'd done. He didn't contemplate the savagery of it. And perhaps that was a victory in and of itself. But it was a cold one. A broken one. That there was not enough left of his old morals, or that he had strangled that part of himself into silence. He didn't know and didn't care. He'd done what needed to be done.

He'd done what was required of him.

Tomlin looked out into the trees. "C'mon, we need to get out of the woods."

Lee leaned up, pushed Greg's body off of him. Almost immediately his midsection grew cold as the blood that soaked his clothing cooled in the air. He rolled painfully onto his side, and lifted his jacket to look at the wound in his side. Two little red pock-marks, separated by about six inches of flesh, one entering just above Lee's left hip-bone, and one exiting just under his bottom ribs. The flesh between the two holes was swollen and puffy-looking.

Tomlin bent over it. "That hit any bones?"

Lee lifted his hips a bit, then maneuvered into a sitting position. It was painful-very painful-but not pulverized-hip-bone painful. He shook his head. "No. Think it's just skin and muscle."

"Well, s.h.i.t..." Tomlin extended a hand to Lee. "That's nothing."

Lee accepted the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. He steadied himself on Tomlin, blinking rapidly to clear his head, fighting off a bit of faintness. "Did they take the building?"

"I think they got it, buddy," Tomlin said, taking a few steps away and stooping to retrieve Lee's rifle. He held it up to Lee. "Haven't heard any gunshots from inside. Hopefully that's a good thing."

Lee put the sling of his rifle over his neck, looked down and regarded the dead man lying in the road. He stood there for just a second or two, watching the blood soak into the ground. He did not feel remorse or regret for the man. But he did feel a heaviness. A gravity.

"Come on," Tomlin prodded, pushing him gently towards Camp Ryder.

Lee stumbled along. "He had a kid," Lee said as he walked. "And there are others. Others just as guilty as Greg. But they still have children. Still have families. How the f.u.c.k are we gonna deal with that?" He spat in the dirt. "Everyone's all f.u.c.king intermingled."

Tomlin just shook his head silently, kept looking behind him to make sure that there was nothing stalking them. Ahead of them, barely visible past the gates, a small crowd had formed, watching in a sort of daze as Lee's team led two men out of the Camp Ryder building, their wrists bound behind their backs. They forced them to sit in front of the building, prisoners. They were quickly joined by a third and a forth.

"How are we gonna treat 'em?" Lee said. "Criminals? Enemy combatants?"

"We'll work on it." Tomlin said, quickening his pace just slightly.

Lee shivered a little as the wind continued to chill the blood on his clothes. He didn't think he'd lost that much blood, but then again, he didn't feel quite right either. He could feel the hot and cold flushes over his skin. The tingling sensation across his face.

And G.o.ddammit everything hurt.

Nose and stomach complained the loudest, but it seemed his entire body was at least grumbling at him. Protesting. Getting ready to throw in the towel. You can be big and bad all you want, but at a certain point, the body just starts to break. It is not built for days on end of combat, with little sleep and little nutrients, and too many wounds to fix, too many infections to fight off.

Tomlin slowed a bit, turned to look at Lee. "You gonna make it?"

Lee waved him off. "I'm f.u.c.kin' fine."

Tomlin nodded. "Good to go?"

"Good to go."

Ahead of them, Lee could see others were pouring out of the Camp Ryder building now. The sound of voices spiked as families and friends found each other alive. Some of them were supporters of Lee. Others were supporters of Jerry. There was also the sound of weeping. Lee would not have deluded himself to believe that the day could have ended without tragedy. It was simply unavoidable. It was the cost of doing business. All of the men who had allied themselves with Jerry, who had fought against this action, they had families, just like Greg. And their wives, their children, they would gather around the bodies of their husbands and fathers and they would scream and tear at their hair. And there would be still others who had simply gotten caught in the crossfire. Innocents.

Cost of doing business, Lee kept telling himself.

They navigated the broken gate and began walking towards the cl.u.s.ter of people in front of the building. Lee stared at it, thinking of how easily the infected hunters had vaulted over it. Thinking of how easily they could come inside Camp Ryder any time they wanted. These people were not safe anymore. And if Lee had figured it out, so would others. It would only be a matter of time before that fear began to invade people's conversations. The fear that they would wake up one night being dragged out of their beds by sinuous arms and slathering jaws. The fear that no place was safe.

We'll have to build higher, Lee thought. We'll have to adapt our defenses.

As he and Tomlin approached the gathered crowd, heads began to turn. Fingers were pointed. Eyes went wide with surprise. Some reactions were good. Others bad. Some people shouted and clapped, broad smiles over their faces. Others stared on sullenly and murmured amongst each other. As Lee and Tomlin made their way through the crowd, they searched faces, and perhaps half of the people drew away from them, while the other half grabbed their hands and shook them, slapped them on the back and told them what a great f.u.c.king job they did.

Lee wanted to feel elated.

Mostly he just felt exhausted.

They reached the front steps of the building and stopped there in front of the four prisoners kneeling on the ground. Nate and Old Man Hughes stood with them, rifles ported but ready. When Nate saw Lee and Tomlin, his eyes immediately went to the b.l.o.o.d.y mess of Lee's midsection, saw the hole in the fabric of Lee's jacket.

"Holy s.h.i.t, Cap." He pointed. "You're shot!"

Lee cleared his throat. "I'm fine. Are these the only prisoners?"

Nate blinked rapidly, then shifted his gaze from Lee's wound to his face. "Uh...yes."

Lee nodded, then pointed to the gate. "I need that gate fixed immediately. Put guards on it until its secure, and then we need to talk about how to increase the height..."

"Lee."

He turned, found Angela standing on the stairs, Sam in one arm and Abby in the other. She descended slowly, a little unsteady on her feet. Her face was a swollen wreck. Blood scabbed around her nose and mouth. One eye nearly puffed closed, the skin around it shining purple and red.

He met her at the bottom of the steps to the Camp Ryder building. They approached each other cautiously, as though each feared the other was a mirage. They stared at each other for a moment, until Lee reached out and carefully touched the swelling around her face.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Sorry for what?" she wiped her blood-crusted nose.

"I wasn't here."

She reached forward and put an arm around him. It was stiff at first, Lee frozen as though he could not remember how to be around her, and he feared that perhaps that part of him had been killed off with the rest of his old self. And perhaps a part of him feared that she would see it. She would see the ugly changes in him, that he would not be able to hide it from her, and she would fear the new creature he'd become.

But she looked right at him and pulled him close anyway. And it was the smell of her that made it real. It was acrid with sweat and stress, but it was her, and there was an odd, subconscious familiarity to it. The two of them leaned on each other, and they were what they were. Just wretched people with nothing left. That's all any of them were. Just a bunch of desperate vagrants, broken and reprobate, with nothing in the world to call their own. Nothing but the people that they could reach out and cling to.

Angela's shoulders shook only once, and when she pulled back from Lee, her face was calm. She looked at Lee, her eyes travelling briefly over his face and they did not recoil from what they found. And Lee thought he saw in her some of the very same coldness that he knew was in himself.

"You're here now," she said.

"Angela," Sam's voice was quiet and sober at their side.

Lee looked down and found the kid eyeing his wound.

"I think Lee needs a doctor."

Lee put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm fine."

Angela pulled back, looked at his midsection with wide eyes. "Lee..."

The doors to the Camp Ryder building flew open behind them and Devon came partially out. He looked around, seemed to be slightly surprised at the gathering of people. Then he found Lee's face and he waved to him, his expression urgent.

"Captain! You need to come in here."

Angela pulled away from Lee, her expression clouding as though she knew what they had found inside the building. As though on some level she was sickened by it. She took a single step back, then put her arms around Abby and Sam again.

Tomlin appeared at Lee's side, touching his elbow gently. Lee looked at Angela and the two exchanged a brief, unspoken message. Lee nodded, just slightly, and then ascended the steps alongside Tomlin. At the doors, Devon ushered them through, careful to close the door behind him.

Lee stood there in the entryway and looked around bitterly at the building. It was all a defiled memory. He recalled the warm smells of Marie's cooking, even remembered the underlying mechanical odor favorably, the smell of heavy grease and old, used engine oil that undercut everything in the building. Stains that time had a hard time erasing. And the warmth of it, from the cookfires, and from the people that were always jammed in here, cl.u.s.tered about, talking, commiserating, sharing their woes, their struggles, their triumphs. The rumble of conversation. The office up the stairs to the right and the stillness that could always be found there. Bus sitting behind his desk, stressing over small things. Always thinking about what was best for Camp Ryder. A staunch supporter of the people. At all costs. Even until the end. This place of refuge where Lee went, retreating from the harshness of the world outside. This place that could be solitary and temple-like in the dead of night, when everyone slept. This place that Lee had called home.

Now it was smeared with blood. Now the smell of it was cold and heartless, and the walls screamed of murder. Now it was simply a cement box. A tomb, full of silence and chill.

There was another man there, standing outside of a door at the far end of the giant open s.p.a.ce. He was one of Old Man Hughes' people. He held his rifle up, pointing into the room.

"What is it?" Lee asked, his voice brittle.

Devon clenched his jaw. "We found him."