The Famished Trilogy (Novella): Bailing Out into the Dead Read online

Reece clucks his tongue. “Major Lame can handle it.” Major Lame was part of a unit stationed in Birmingham and had been friends with Mac. We found him when he was covertly contacting Sierra Vista. When I was able to communicate with him, he had no qualms about joining up with us. I don’t know his real name because he went MIA and is a bit paranoid. Every time I’m around him I can sense exactly why Mac got along with him. It took me a long time to trust him. I’m not too sure of Lame’s story, but I know something happened to him because he pretty much stays drunk. At least he’s a functioning drunk. He’s whipped my ass on several occasions and made me better at combat, so he knows his stuff. That’s why keeping the team in Colorado fit and ready is his only job.

  “I’d feel better if one of us goes to Colorado, Reece.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Bunyan.”

  “But Gwen—”

  “Understands.”

  After giving them all a seething look, I climb into the backseat of the Jeep. I pull my hood over my head as if I’m going to sleep, but we all know I won’t.

  Chapter Two

  I stare out the window and snap from my daze when we pass a familiar mobile home park on Highway 90 a few days later. It’s dilapidated with cracked roads and overgrowth through the rocks that used to be lawn in the old life. The trailers are mostly rusted out with broken windows and flappy awnings that hang on by a screw or two. Unlike the residences, shops, and miscellaneous buildings in Sierra Vista that have been boarded up for future use, this lot reeks of relinquishment. Abandoned and forgotten forever.

  The welcome wagon committee waits for us. Some of the team arrived earlier today to alert them. I immediately recognize Nastas, standing tall, proud, and quiet above the rest. He takes part of the Sierra Vista council and helped us when we needed it the most, back when we traveled to Montana for Mya and survivors who were unknowingly nothing but walking test subjects for the revolutionists. Nastas’ compassion is what I like most about him, but it’s also his weakness. We’ve destroyed dozens of labs and have saved thousands of people. We’re doing a lot to help those survivors, but what good does it do if nothing is being done to prevent it?

  Nastas’ teenage daughter, Hanna, jumps up and down in excitement beside him. I wave at her. She mouths, “See ya soon,” as we drive by. We park at the welcome center. It used to be a medical center—still is, but it’s used as a quarantine of dorms and a small clinic. It’s way better than sitting and sleeping in a tent in the middle of the desert while they “process” you.

  As always, everyone’s checked and double-checked for injuries before they’re cleared for admission. Most times, we try to bring in some survivors to keep the council happy. The general switched my focus, and by proxy the team’s focus, when the labs at the compounds no longer held anything of importance—their research on vaccinations and the virus. I’d say the revolutionists were catching on, but the general insists it’s just a precaution to keep their secrets intact. In a way, the change brought some relief. Bringing in hundreds of survivors at a time proved trying, to say the least.

  I’m waiting on the nurse in a gown with my extra-large braid hanging over my shoulder. I rub my arm against the painful wound I received from the chemical foam. Under the lights, it’s angry red and oozing. Shit. When did that happen?

  “Kansas.” The blond nurse smiles when she enters the sterile room. I’ve never had this nurse before. “How are you feeling?” She immediately listens to my heart and lungs, all the while scanning my skin with a sharp gaze.

  “I have a chemical burn, but other than that, I feel fine.”

  She zeros in on it and nods before gently feeling around the edges. “Second-degree. We can treat it. No problem.” She starts writing in my chart and I recognize her as a survivor we brought in. I’m thinking Seattle since there were so many that round, but maybe New York. Her lack of regional dialect leaves me clueless. “Any bug bites?” I shake my head. “Come in contact with any bodily fluids?”

  “Famished blood.”

  Her expression turns serious. “On your wound?”

  My lips tighten. It’s a precautionary question, but it still insults my intelligence. “No.”

  “Good. No contact with anyone’s saliva?” I shake my head again. “Sexual intercourse?”

  “Sadly, no and not from lack of wanting either,” I grumble.

  She laughs and looks to my chart. “You’re healthy. And you’re on birth control. I’m sure there’s someone out there for yo—” She falters at what? I’m not sure. Either it’s old habit of living at a revolutionist compound or she might assume she’s making a faux pas.

  With her sympathetic demeanor, I know it’s the latter. She’s thinking of Rudy. Everyone knows Rudy even if they came after our Montana mission and have never had the pleasure of meeting my gold-hearted brute. Mainly because he and I, and the rest of the team, gained notoriety for wreaking havoc with the revolutionists and setting events in motion to right the wrongs. We’re history in the making, as Glinda says it. And everyone thinks he’s dead. Besides a select few, that is.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” I twirl an end of a dreadlock around my finger, feeling one of the four homemade wooden beads I keep in my hair. The smooth surface brings a small amount of comfort.

  She gives me a nervous giggle. “So, you’re not sexually active? Just to be clear.”

  Sometimes, but I give her my standard response so I don’t raise suspicion. “I get the birth control administered in case I get raped.” I shrug. She nods, writing in the chart again. “I can work with that.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Oh, uh—” She continues the list of questions before clearing me for admission into the community.

  I’m wiped by the time I open the door to my house. I drop my heavy pack on the floor by the door and do a weapon check in all my hiding places. My mail is stacked on the kitchen table. Next to it is a sheet of paper with a green check mark indicating Sander made a sweep of my house and it was clean of bugs. A red check mark would’ve meant there were bugs but clean now. I rub my neck. I always feel so wound tight here—unable to relax. It’s been a while since we’ve found a bug and whether it was the council or not, I don’t know for sure, but I do know it wasn’t the general. I did my own sweeps for a while, untrusting of Sander, but he’s proved himself time and time again.

  There’s homemade cat nibbles scattered around Dex’s bowl on the floor, but the rest of the house is clean. Between Gwen and Julie, Dex and my house are taken care of while I’m on missions. I tsk for Dex but he doesn’t come out from anywhere. I check out back where he likes to lounge on the porch and windowsills but nothing. He’s either at Julie’s or he’s out doing his part to keep cats from going extinct.

  The team used to gather here right after missions. We’d eat, drink, and celebrate, and then we’d all wake and gather for a big breakfast. It all stopped long ago when everyone tired of trying to cheer me up, when they tired of my constant silence. I’d rather be alone than spread my misery, anyway. I want them to be happy. Some days their wellbeing is what gets me out of bed. Okay, most days. My time here only brings on bitter feelings and resentment, which in turn makes me depressed, no matter how healthy I eat or how much physical activity I endure. So, I can’t bring myself to blame them for not wanting to be around me.

  I’m worn out, tired of making decisions, tired of gaining a bit of hope, and then having it all dashed out in the blink of an eye. I feel like a hamster on a wheel. I’m going and going, but going nowhere. Yeah, we’ve saved people, brought them to a normalcy close to what they had before so they can live, have families, and be a part of a working society. But the more compounds we destroyed, five more would pop up. More pregnant women. More babies being born less than completely healthy. The number of stillborns are outrageous. The more time passes, the worse things get.

  More virus. More injections. More famished.

  No vaccine.

&n
bsp; The zombie from the chemical plant. Since Mago bestowed this ability on me, I’ve learned how they all feel—even rogues have a slight—not a hum—but a buzz.

  I know I need to dig deep into that damned zombie and I will, but right now, I’m too tired to care. Plus, I need to update the general. In the spare bedroom sits some computer equipment. I’m careful not to keep anything on it anymore that I don’t want the council knowing about, so it’s mostly for appearances.

  Sitting at my desk, I dial General Stevenson via satellite. Most days I loathe the man, but I understand the pressure he’s under while trying to rebuild the country, to take back control, that he’ll do what he needs to in order for that to happen. I can even say I want it to happen. And according to my partner in crime, the general’s making headway. Even so, there are few times when I end a call without my middle finger stuck to the phone receiver in a big fuck you.

  The sound is fuzzy as the phone flashes a red light indicating that it’s trying to connect. It never does or the general doesn’t pick up. I sit back with a huff. That’s odd. Even though he’s not waiting on this call, he normally answers. After another failed attempt, I decide to try again tomorrow evening.

  I strip, walking into my bedroom to grab clean clothes from the dresser. The surrounding walls are a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree mural of the Great Smoky Mountains. Each wall of a different season, each one beautiful in its own way. All hand painted with homemade paints—another thoughtful gift. Sighing, I undo the braid that hangs level with my butt and massage my scalp. The Arizona sun has streaked my dark locks and tanned my skin in a way I would’ve loved in the old life.

  Even though I showered at the welcome center, I savor a longer, hotter shower—something I don’t take for granted—and breathe in the stress-reducing steam. After drying my scalded skin, I drop into bed, feeling alone with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and more weight is added on because I also feel absolutely useless.

  I flip open a notebook and read some of my favorite parts. The tiny, messy scrawl unbefitting the writer but lightens my mood just seeing it.

  The most horrific thing happened today. Worse than the smell of burning putrids. I walked in on Blake jerking off. In retrospect, I should’ve knocked.

  I snort, imaging the look on both of their faces. The next entry is the very next morning.

  Yeah, should’ve knocked. I think I need PB to make some special brain bleach.

  Then the next entry, even though we strictly try to keep our words close to journal entries, sometimes we can’t help it. Which is why I always keep our current notebook close to me. Other notebooks are under lock and key in Colorado.

  Today was a hard one. I miss waking up to you curled into a ball from me bed hogging. I swear I won’t hog the bed anymore. I miss paper, rock, scissors. I miss fucking you. Well, you know, I fucking miss you.

  My eyes burn even as I laugh and rub against the indentations of the words in the paper. The ink is smudged from my constant rubbing every time I read it. As if to make him feel better. As if to make me feel better. These notebooks keep our relationship open and honest. I don’t know what we’d do without them. Flipping to a blank page, I fill him in on my own thoughts even though he won’t be able to read it for months to come.

  A familiar warmth and purr wake me. Sunlight peeks through the dirty blinds. The dust on them more prominent with a big frowny face drawn through it. Gwen. She loves drawing and making notes in my dust.

  I smile and rub Dex’s head. He blinks at me. The black around his eyes have long ago faded and whitened. The old man is gray. He rolls his fat ass around before hopping off the bed. He must remember he’s mad at me for being gone because that was a straight up snub. “I missed you, too, fur ball.” He doesn’t even look back as he saunters out of my bedroom.

  A pan clatters on the stove in the kitchen. And I hear little feet run down the hall before a gorgeous little blond peers inside my room. She smiles wide at seeing me awake and starts moving her hands like crazy. Mommy’s making chocolate muffins!

  “She is? Yummy!” I say and sign back to Ariella. I always speak aloud for her because we think she reads lips and expressions better than sign language. According to a doctor here, anyway. We didn’t figure out she was deaf until she was eighteen months old. She never developed any words but communicated by pointing and moving her lips as if she were trying to talk, but the amazing thing was, she seemed to understand us as long as she was looking at our face. We’re not sure if the pseudo-vaccine had anything to do with her being deaf, but we know it doesn’t run in her genes. Ariella’s not the only pseudo-vaccine baby to be born less than a hundred percent, either. Another reminder that what I do, even though it’s slow going, is important.

  She climbs onto the bed and I open my arms for her. Snuggling in, she wraps the soft yarn-like strands of my hair around her wrists and pretends she has on bracelets. She smiles at the wooden beads on the ends.

  I’m almost five, she signs. Then you’ll have five beads!

  “That’s right.” The whisper flows from my lips more for me than her. She doesn’t know the context of the beads, but I’ve told her I get a new bead every time she turns a year older. Going on five years. I don’t think I’ll ever tell her I got drunk and had to crawl upstairs to my bed on the day she was born.

  Coffee aroma permeates to the bedroom. My stomach rumbles and not actually hearing the sound but feeling it, Ariella lets out a muted giggle. “I missed you,” I sign.

  She rewards me with a glorious smile. The happiest kid ever. Mommy let Dex sleep with me!

  I laugh. “I’m sure he loved that.”

  “Kan?” Julie calls from the kitchen.

  “I’m up. I’m up.” I groan. Ella, feeling the vibrations of it, giggles.

  When we walk into the kitchen, Julie is pulling a pan from the oven and sweeps platinum curls from her eyes. “I knew you didn’t have any food, and Jonathan is at the hospital, so I thought I’d make breakfast here.”

  I grab a coffee mug and fill it—black and strong. “Thank you.” I sit at the table and Ella makes herself at home in my lap, getting to work in a coloring book. All of my mail has been pushed to the side.

  “Lounging today?” Julie asks.

  I shake my head, drawing Ella a simple pink sunshine. “I have to write out a mission report, meet with the council, and then I made plans to spar with Sam.” I also need to meet with Bruno, but she really doesn’t need to know that.

  Her shoulders slump. “Gwen will be here in a few. I thought maybe we could watch a movie.”

  I try not to flinch at Gwen’s name. She’s going to be upset John went to the treehouse instead of coming home. Ella lights up at the word movie. The Little Mermaid!

  I wink at Ella. “Sounds perfect.”

  Julie smiles with relief and places the muffins on the table. Ariella and I spare each other a glance at how flat and lumpy they look. Although, the lumps are normal these days when the grains aren’t ground into a fine powder. “Good. You can spar anytime.”

  “Actually, I can’t since we can—”

  Julie stops me with her “mom” look. “Glin warned me you’re being a pain in the as—” She glances at Ella. “Butt.”

  “As opposed to when?” I split a muffin with Ella and she takes a huge bite of her half.

  Julie slams the spatula in the skillet. “I miss Rudy, too, Kan. We all miss him.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t have everything to do with my mood.” Julie knows he’s alive. She’s one of the first people I told the truth to. I figured she deserved to know and because of that, he has a heart-melting uncle/niece relationship with Ariella. I keep her out of everything else for her and her family’s protection so I don’t bother to explain how the mission was a bust.

  Ella lights up again and signs with renewed excitement. Rudy! He came to our house!

  My face grows hot and my eyes burn. Julie gasps at Ella. Mainly because she’s not supposed to talk about Rudy wit
h anyone, but kids are blatantly honest. Julie noticeably focuses on the eggs. Surely, they’re cooked by now? I spot some brown bits as she scrapes them around the cast iron.

  I missed a visit from him? I ask with my hands.

  Ella nods. He let me paint his toenails.

  I snort, moving my hands. “Bright pink, I hope.”

  She nods again, proud of herself. Maddie helped. The hollow hole in my chest becomes bigger at the picture that paints in my head. I cut a look at Julie. Ever since the Montana mission Julie and Maddie are best buddies. She found out about Rudy just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d have much rather kept her ignorant of him.

  “She helped pick the color,” Julie clarifies.

  I squirm and pick apart the muffin so maybe it won’t look so flat. “When’s he coming back?” My tone is soft.

  She shrugs, dumping the rubbery, burnt eggs into a bowl. “It’ll be awhile. He left for a new mission.”

  So, months. The shortest we’ve gone without seeing each other’s been four months. The longest? Thirteen months. The first time the general extorted Rudy into being on his squad, Rudy visited me in the dead of night. The fateful night we foolishly decided to keep things as is while we build a strong base on our own. Rudy’s usually good about sending a message if he can drop in for a night or two. The only other times I get to see him, and the only times General Stevenson knows about, are when Stevenson gives us a mission. His missions usually include his special operations force unit coming in for something Stevenson wants to keep classified. Those times with Rudy are fleeting at best, so I don’t count those.

  “How long ago?”

  She clears her throat. “A night or two after you left for Texas.” She stays turned toward the stove. I look down at my uneaten half-muffin. “If it’s any consolation, he was bummed he didn’t get to see you. And worried, I think.”

  Ella wiggles from my lap just as Gwen bursts through the door.

  “Kan!”