Chapter 11
Eleven
T wo hours into our journey on the back roads leading from Devil’s Lake to Blythe, and all is calm. The snow-covered, flat land spreads out on both sides of the paved road as far as the eye can see. The occasional animal scurries away as the truck approaches, and at one point, a herd of buffalo grazes in the distance. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone played a dirty trick on me, and nothing ever changed. Maybe I’m on a hidden camera show, and the whole world is enthralled with how ridiculously naive I am to believe Stern has been annihilated by a zombie-like takeover. If it’s true, I’ll be so relieved that I’ll forgive the idiot who set me up in a heartbeat.
Wes begged me to let him drive the truck. He went on a rant about how long it had been since he’d driven a vehicle and promised to be forever in my debt. With a sigh, I handed over the keys, and it has been worth it. His excitement is the best payment I could receive. For the first few miles, he reverted to a child—smiling brightly while he played with the big toy. He even rolled down his window, so the freezing winter wind blew through his ebony hair. Even as I freeze to death, I don’t regret my decision. How can I when he is so ecstatic? I’ve given him a little happiness in a place where joy sometimes feels obsolete.
I reap my own benefits from not having to drive. I sit with my back against the sidewall of the truck, and my legs stretched across the small bench seat. From my position, I can appreciate the sight of the countryside. The repetitiveness of the flat land contains a beauty I’ve neglected to admire until now. When I was younger, my family and I would take local exploration trips, and I must’ve passed this scenery hundreds of times. Never once do I remember it being this striking. Then again, I was probably too busy trying to get in my last hours with my phone before I was forced to abandon it and spend quality time with my loved ones. If I had any inkling that this would be my life, I’d never have taken those long car trips for granted.
My position behind the driver’s seat also gives me the perfect view of Ryland’s profile as he studies the passing landscape. His eyes are in constant motion, sweeping over the land, and his chiseled jaw flexes, giving away how focused he is. His gun rests upon his thigh with his index finger ready beside the trigger. The heightened concentration he displays is fascinating, but even more captivating is the way his chestnut waves curl around his ear, creating tiny peek-a-boo openings. My fingertips tingle with the desire to pull on the soft strand and let go, watching as it coils back up against his skin.
I shake my head, trying to expel the daydream from my mind. I can’t get rid of the giddy schoolgirl feelings I have when Ryland is near. Ever since last night, it’s as if a filter has shaded my vision, making every one of his features and movements even more attractive. I’m completely distracted by him, and it’s both good and bad. I’ve not given much thought to the danger that awaits us in Blythe, and therefore, I’m at ease. Of course, I’m not as focused as I should be, making me a possible liability on today’s run. I’ve got to get over this and concentrate on what matters.
“Slow down.” Ryland’s voice breaks the silence. “Do you see that?” He points past an empty field with deserted farm equipment left to rust in the snow.
I squint toward the building in the distance and say, “It looks like a barn.”
He spreads a map on the dash and glides his finger from our location to Blythe. “We’re almost to the edge of the city; I’d say less than five miles. If the barn isn’t occupied, we can store the truck in there, return before nightfall, and take shelter inside until dawn.”
“It looks like the road to the barn is up there.” I point to a crude turn-off.
Wes pulls onto the narrow side road and slowly maneuvers the truck to the barn. When we reach the weathered building, Ryland and I step out into the cold, scanning the land for any sign of life. Before we move to the barn’s wooden double doors, Ryland pulls me to his side. “You take the rear and keep me in your sight at all times. Don’t hesitate. At the first sign of aggression, you shoot.”
“I got it,” I say without a second thought. I won’t willingly be the victim again.
I skim the tree line and field for any sign of movement as Ryland uses his boot to chip away the ice piled against the door. It takes a couple of tries, but he finally pries the door open, and we slip inside. The interior doesn’t contain any great hiding places, just four walls constructed of wooden slats and a loft. The ground is sprinkled with hay, and an array of farming tools hang from rusted nails on the walls. In the back, a wooden ladder leads to the hayloft where I can make out a couple of bales. Ryland scales the ladder and disappears above me. Moments later, he returns to the ledge and says, “I think this will work. There are no signs that anyone has been here for quite some time.”
I cross my arms and turn in a slow circle. “So far, so good, which I don’t like. I’d rather get any trouble out of the way now. Things never go this smoothly.”
“I agree,” he says, descending the ladder. “But we’ll take every break we can get until then.”
Together, we push the doors open and motion Wes to back the truck in. After we’re secured inside, we take a short break to eat and warm up the best we can before heading out into the cold on foot. We’re about to become a slower moving target without the truck and will be at the mercy of anything or anyone who is familiar with the area. They’ll have the upper hand, making us an easy three-course meal or perhaps long-range shooting targets. If it weren’t for Aiden’s rapidly diminishing health, staying in the barn and solidifying our plan further would be a no-brainer.
I tuck my hair into my black beanie and zip my jacket. Other than a fruit bar and a couple of water bottles, my backpack holds mostly ammo—two extra clips and a pouch of bullets. My hunting knife is strapped to the outside of my leg, another smaller blade is at my ankle inside my boot, and my gun is tucked into the back of my pants.
On the other side of the truck, Wes and Ryland follow a similar routine. They check their packs to make sure they take only what we’ll need and strategically place their weapons on their bodies. Before we leave the barn, Ryland kicks the snow back into place around the door, securely shutting it.
We follow the truck tracks back to the highway. The neglected farmland is unnaturally quiet. The crunch of dirt under our shoes is a resounding gong, proclaiming our vulnerability and making me cringe. It doesn’t get any better when we reach the main road. It too is covered in ice and sludge and is slippery to walk on, but it’s better than being knee-deep in snow.
It doesn’t take long before the skyline of the city comes into view. For some reason, I had it in my mind that it would be in shambles. Buildings would be skeletons of their former glory with smoke smoldering from windows. Fires burning in the distance as a dark gray cloud looms over what was the northern region’s capital, but it’s not the case. Other than a lack of traffic, all seems to be well. It’s as I remember it from my childhood.
We stroll along the highway until reaching the suburban areas. Ryland doesn’t want to stay on the main street for fear we’ll be noticed, so we move along the side roads. Row after row of cookie-cutter homes fend for themselves against the elements. Some are boarded up, awaiting the return of their owners, but most sit with their doors wide open. There’s a chance the medications we need are in one of these houses, but we can’t afford to be frivolous with the daylight, so we head for a more definite location. The execution of our plan must be precise and swift. Every wrong move or unexpected hurdle prolongs our mission and puts Aiden and our safety on the line.
After over an hour of walking, the scenery evolves into precisely placed trees throughout a park, surrounding a tall business building. I’ve been to this very spot on a school field trip, and it, like so many other things I’ve seen today, has not changed.
Ryland stops short of stepping foot onto the capitol building’s grounds and turns to Wes and me. “We need to be alert and stick together. If we weren’t short on time, I’d avoid this area, but it’s a direct route to the street the hospital is on.”
“You think some Zs are playing government in there?” I say with a smartass smirk.
“No, I think people are using these buildings as shelter. Think about it, government buildings are made to protect the officials inside. These are some of the most secure places in the city. Generally, we would avoid the capitals, but at your suggestion, I made an exception.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that people would be here. I assume everyone is like River and me and wants to stay in their homes. It was a silly suggestion now that I think about it. We’re safe because of the bunker, but the best that most homes have is a furnished basement or cellar. Both will do little to keep a hungry Z out. This was my plan, and if something goes wrong and Wes or Ryland gets hurt, it will be my fault.
We fall into formation with me in the middle and march across the property to the backside of the capitol grounds. Before us stands two buildings—a rectangular single-level and a tower at least twenty stories high.
Without warning, Ryland pulls me to his side behind a tree, and Wes effortlessly follows his lead.
“Guards,” Wes whispers from behind me.
I peek around the trunk of the tree. Two armed men walk the perimeter next to the sidewalk.
“We’ll wait for them to walk away and then move in next to the building and use it for cover,” Ryland says, and Wes and I nod.
As soon as the coast is clear, we briskly walk to the side of the capitol building. No sooner do we reach the wall and the bellowing voice of a man resounds throughout the grounds. I flinch, fearing that we’ve been caught. Ryland snaps his head in my direction, placing his finger over his lips. He points to the front of the building and looks around the corner. I nervously await his next command and listen to the speaker carry on over the hushed murmurings of others. Finally, Ryland straightens and motions for us to follow him.
Hundreds of people face the steps of the capitol. We casually walk to them and melt into the crowd. Before us sits three high back leather chairs in the middle of the platform with two men dressed in black robes seated on each end. Standing center stage, a man whose robe is adorned with a red sash across the front and a golden broach. His wrinkled skin sags on his slender face, and his salt and pepper hair blows in the breeze as he speaks to the crowd.
“I wish to remind the members of our society that talk of the Sanctuary is strictly prohibited,” the man says. “Family-heads are free to make the decision to leave with those in their charge, and with nothing more than the clothing on their backs. We will not stop them. We are people who care for our own, and anyone who chooses to disavow our community will not take with them what has been given by our graces.” His shoulders square as he holds up a bright orange flyer and switches to a hostile tone. “But talk of the Sanctuary within our walls will not be tolerated. We will not have our impressionable youth brainwashed. Following a ridiculous set of riddles will not lead them to a hidden community that promises our old way of life. Our job is to protect the most vulnerable among us and to teach them to fend for themselves. I have mandated unannounced sweeps of all living quarters. If Sanctuary propaganda is found, the holder will be stripped of their possessions and sentenced accordingly.”
The man crumples the paper in what is no doubt a metaphor of what will happen to those found with the flyers. His words about propaganda for a hidden community and being stripped of possessions doesn’t sit well with me, but the crowd isn’t the slightest bit upset. To my surprise, they cheer and yell derogatory things about this Sanctuary. It appears these adults—mostly men—have done some brainwashing themselves. What happened to personal property and freedom of speech? These were fundamental rights before the quarantine.
“Our next order of business is today’s trial,” says the man, lowering himself into his chair.
A girl no older than me is dragged onto the steps. Her blue dress is filthy and tangled around her legs, but it doesn’t stop her from struggling against the two men restraining each of her arms. Through a mess of matted red hair, her shoulders shake as she sobs.
Another man in a brown robe stands to the side of the steps and unrolls a page of white paper. “Justice Fowler and his honorable counsel.” He nods to the three seated men. “This woman, Madison Lane, is a charge of the Henderson household. Director Henderson has staked a claim on her to be his third wife come this spring. Ms. Lane was caught in the act of having relations with a charge of the region.”
The man seated furthest to the right calls out to the crowd, “Director Henderson, how do you wish for punishment to be administered to your charge?”
A man, who is old enough to be the girl’s grandfather, steps onto the stage. He’s well dressed in clean slacks and a button-up shirt and strikes me as a person of importance. The man nods respectfully to the panel of judges and says, “If it pleases the court, I wish to resume the responsibility of my charge.”
The girl collapses to her knees and yells, “I’d rather you kill me!”
Director Henderson shoots her a menacing glare with his beady eyes and continues. “I ask that the man who stole from me be brought to justice, and that my charge is also punished for her crimes. I request she receives twenty public lashings tomorrow at dawn.”
The judge on the left says, “May I ask why you wish to delay her punishment?”
Again, the old man turns his attention to Madison and says, “Because I don’t want the pain of her lashings to distract her from the memories of what happens here today. For at least one night, I want her to wallow in the grief of knowing she will never see her lover again, and at the same time, fear her impending punishment.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, stifling down the fear bubbling inside me. These people have reverted to a barbaric way of governing. It makes me sick to be a silent bystander, like I’m condoning their hideous system of so-called justice.
The judges exchange curt nods before Justice Fowler states, “Your request has been granted, Director Henderson.” He turns to the man in brown. “Bring forth the accused.”
The announcer steps forward again and reads, “Justin Reims has not been claimed by a citizen’s household and therefore is a charge of the Northern Region of Stern. He is accused of defiling the property belonging to Director Henderson and conspiring to rob him of said property.”
A shackled young man in tattered clothing is led to the platform. He’s worse for wear with his black hair clumped in knots, and his face swollen from being used as a punching bag. Despite the fact that he should be carried up the steps in his condition, he holds his head high.
“Mr. Reims, how do you plead to the charges brought against you?” Justice Fowler asks.
“As seen by the region, I’m guilty,” he says in an unwavering voice.
Madison thrashes from side to side and wails, “No, Justin!”
My heart breaks at her desperate plea and her efforts to fight off the two massive guards holding her in place.
“Then this court hereby sentences you to death for your crimes. That is, unless a house will speak on your behalf and sway the court otherwise.”
I frantically look around for someone to intervene. Surely all of these people wouldn’t let this boy die because he simply fell in love with a girl? Since when did messing around become a crime punishable by death? I’m sure a vast majority of adults in this crowd should also be victims of capital punishment if it were the case. Yet the silence from those around me is loudly sentencing this young man to death.
“Ry?” His name escapes my lips in a quiet plea for him to reassure me this will not end badly. I turn to face him, and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me to his side. He has nothing to offer but this weak attempt to comfort me.
“I want to go,” I whisper against his chest.
He leans down and speaks into my hair. “We have to wait for everyone to disperse, so we don’t draw attention. I’m so sorry, love.” The same helplessness and sadness I feel are evident in his voice. He’s a mastermind who can plot his way out of almost anything. Even the night I found him in the clearing surrounded by Zs, he hadn’t fully surrendered. As hopeless as he looked, his mind was shuffling through hundreds of ideas of how he would turn the outcome in his favor. This time he’s giving up.
“Mr. Reims, your sentence stands,” the head judge states in an emotionless tone.
Madison loses control, fighting against her captors to break free and reach the boy she loves. Tears stream down her pale face, and her hair wildly whips around her. “Take me instead. Please, kill me in his place,” she screams.
Justice Fowler rises to his feet and reaches inside his robe. He reveals an antique revolver with a wooden handle and a spit-shined barrel. He walks to where Justin stands and says, “This is your opportunity for any final words.”
The young man turns to his lover and gently says, “I don’t regret it, Madison. I don’t regret one single second I had with you. I know that to you it feels like it wasn’t long enough, but it was perfect. When I believed beauty and love were forsaken in this world, you showed me just how alive and real they are. Know if heaven does exist, I’m begging the Almighty to allow my soul to stay with you. You are its home. So, think about me every day and know I’m doing the same. Live and fight, my sweet Maddie.” Justin keeps his eyes trained on Madison as he’s forced to his knees. “I love you, forever.”
My hand reaches for my gun. I can’t let them kill this boy; I must save him. Ryland pulls me into his chest as Justice Fowler aims his gun at Justin’s head. I half-heartedly try to pull away, knowing if I were successful, I’d be next to die and leave River alone. She would never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself for abandoning her. Ryland wraps me in his arms, placing his palm to my ear and turning my face away from what’s transpiring in the name of justice. He buries his face in my hair while my hands move from my gun to grip his belt loops. He holds on tight like he’s willing a bubble to form and protect us from this inevitable travesty.
When the shot rings through the air, it’s prolonged by the screeching cries of a woman whose beating heart has been ripped from her chest. It’s the most haunting noise I’ve ever heard. The death of two people with a single bullet. I don’t need to personally know Madison Lane to know her life just shattered into pieces. Every single day, she’ll relive this moment and the pain accompanying it will cut just as deep as it does right now.
I feel a connection to her. It isn’t just her life that has been altered— so has mine. For as long as I live, this will be a significant mile marker in my life. It will always be remembered as the day I knew, without an ounce of doubt, that the Affliction, which eats away at the minds of those craving human flesh, also diminishes the humanity of the healthy. This is the day that the tiny piece of me which still fights for all that is good in the world surrenders to the truth—goodness no longer exists beyond the walls of my home and the bunker buried beneath it. Those safely tucked away inside the house, hundreds of miles away, are my only motivation to carry on. They’re the reason I’m going to finish this mission that brought me to this godforsaken place.