The Remaining: Refugees (61 page)

Dreadlocks kept his haughty stare up for a moment more before following where Lee pointed and seeing the weapons in the back of the truck. He nodded. “For the record, I don’t agree with this.”

Lee closed his door behind him. “Where’s White?”

“Busy.”

Figures
, Lee thought.
He woul
dn’t have the balls to face me.

“Okay,” Lee said. “You wanna call your people out here so I can hand the rifles out?”

“You can just drop them here.” Dreadlocks put one hand on his hip and pointed to the ground at his feet with the other, like he was some factory foreman commanding a workforce. “I’ll distribute them.”

Lee
’s expression remained impassive
. “Or
you can call your people out here so I can hand the rifles out…and explain how they work.” He touched his chin. “Unless you have some extensive firearms experience I don’t know about.”

Dreadlocks rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

He retreated quickly and disappeared into one of the buildings.

Eddie had crossed over to Lee’s side of the vehicle and was leaning against the cargo bed, shaking his head. “Damn…they really like you.”

Lee smiled. “That’s my fan club.”

It took a few minutes for Dreadlocks to corral his people into a loose bunch at the side of Lee’s Humvee. When he had their attention, Lee spoke slowly and clearly, going over the basics of the weapon system he was about to hand out. He explained how to load the weapon, how to aim and fire, how to change magazines, and how to
tap-rack-ready
if they experienced a jam. Lastly, he went over how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble the rifle.

To their credit, though a few appeared to have the same attitude as Dreadlocks, most of them listened attentively and seemed to be absorbing the information.

It took nearly a half an hour to explain and issue everyone a weapon and six magazines in a shoulder sling. They had no questions for him, and they all took their rifles and filed silently away.
Lee watched them go, feeling less than enthused about handing out weapons to this group. If he was going to hand them out, he preferred it be to people that would actually help when shit hit the fan. With these people, only God knew what they would do when the bad times came. Just toting a rifle didn’t make you a badass. It took a certain mental edge for a person to put a rifle to good use, and looking at their eyes, their faces, the entire way that they carried themselves, Lee just didn’t see it.

But who knows, right?

I’ve been wrong about people before.

He turned and opened the door to the Humvee. “Come on. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

***

The waiting was unbearable.

Jerry sat in his shanty, going over everything in his mind, picturing all the outcomes like a chess player anticipates the movements of the board several steps ahead. His whole body was jittery at the thought of it, alive with tension. He found his hands becoming increasingly clammy. They were ice-cold, but somehow the palms would not stop sweating. He’d urinated three times within the last hour. Noon came and went and he couldn’t find the appetite to eat anything for lunch.

He laid down on his mattress and stared at the ceiling, but the recumbent position was too much for him to hold. He had to be up, he had to move, but he feared stepping out of his shanty. He felt his plan like a bright, neon billboard strapped around his chest and anyone he came into contact with would know.

They would know, and then they would blow the whole damn thing!

He jumped off of his mattress and paced the tiny confines of his room.

Fuck! What time was it?

He checked his watch and discovered only three minutes had passed since he
’d
last checked.

Jerry darted to his door and opened it a crack. If he craned his neck out just right, he could see The Square and the front gate. The sentry stood, idle at his post, his rifle slung on his back, his face relaxed.

Still no sign of Greg.

“Jesus Christ!” Jerry whispered to himself. Where was that bastard?

He closed his door and set to pacing the room again.

He could feel his bladder spasming.

He tried to ignore it, shuffling around his room like a child on the verge of wetting his pants during a game of hide-and-go-seek. The sensation persisted and finally won out. Jerry snatched up a gallon jug that sloshed at the bottom with a murky, yellow-tinted fluid.
He pulled himself out of his pants and stuck the head of his penis in the top of the jug. A weak stream dribbled forth for all of five seconds.

He swore and put himself away.

It would all be worth it. It would all be worth it to see the look on Bus’s face.

And Lee,
Jerry thought, baring his teeth.
Fucking GI Joe himself…

He straightened suddenly, tilting his head. Was that the sound of the gate opening?

Jerry rushed to his door again, pushing it open a little farther this time and sticking his head out.
His heart leaped as he saw that the gate was indeed drawing open. On the other side, waiting patiently for the path to clear, was Greg’s old gray Geo.
What would Greg say? Was it time? Was everything in place? Or was it bad news? Did something go wrong? There were so many things that could go wrong…

He closed his door and put his back to it, only to realize that he needed to exit his shanty. He pushed through the door, forcing the unbearable nervousness to shed off of him as though he were shucking off a clingy robe. He took a deep breath as he left the safety of his little shack and walked with as much confidence as he could muster, raising his chin and relaxing his face into the barely-visible smirk that he usually wore. The look of someone that is always supremely pleased with
himself
.

Ahead of him, the tiny gray SUV pulled through the gate and the sentry closed it back. The Geo whirled around, kicking up a tiny amount of dust, and parked in the same spot that Greg always parked in to open the tailgate and barter with whatever items he’d scavenged. There would be no bartering today, which was no loss—the little trade-market was slower than usual today and only a few people were hanging out with anything to offer, and only one person had come in from Broadway to scout around for some mechanical part
s
.

Greg stepped out of his vehicle and his eyes went immediately to Jerry, who was just now emerging from the rows of shanties. His eyes were clouded and serious, and he gave the slightest of nods. An affirmation that made Jerry’s pulse quick-step. Jerry motioned to the right with a subtle gesture of his head and the two parties converged in the center of The Square and began walking towards the northeastern corner.

“They’re on the way,” Greg said.

“What’s their ETA?”

“They were a few minutes behind me. Might already be in place.”

“And you explained everything? The signal and what I want them to do?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Jerry felt almost light-headed.

They
passed the last row of shanties and looked around cautiously to see if they were being observed by anyone. When it appeared that they were not, they walked quickly to the collection of unused shipping containers. This time, rather than squeezing into the hollow space between them, they approached the doors to one and Greg quickly knocked twice, then twice again. Then he pulled one of the doors open and he and Jerry slipped quickly inside.

The interior was dimly lit by a kerosene lantern, dangling from a hook in the roof of the container. Lined up along each wall were ten men. They all held the M4 rifles and the shoulder-sling magazine pouches that Lee had given them. There was something vicious and ironic about that, but Jerry supposed it was not the first time someone from the US government had handed out weapons like candy and it
had
backfire
d
on them.

The US had always been far too trusting.

Captain Harden
h
ad always been far too trusting
.

Hubris or stupidity, Jerry wasn’t sure.

All of that changed today. The world was a harsh, cold, cruel place, and people outs
ide these walls were not their
friends. They were only drains on their resources that would cut and run as soon as being a community became inconvenient for them. Jerry recognized that this was how the world worked, this was how the world had always worked, and anyone who put their best foot forward was only looking to get it lopped off.

You had to close yourself off, wall yourself in, cut out the rest of the world. That was how it had always been, and nothing had changed with the collapse of society except for the apparent nature of it. Any society that opened its doors would sooner or later be destroyed. A closed society might not be a rich society, but they were a
safe
society.

But it took strength, and purpose, and perseverance to maintain that safe society. Bus was unwilling to turn anyone away because he was an incapable leader, and as a result they had become weak. They had recreated the very same weaknesses that had doomed the United States to begin with. This time around, things would be different. Because Jerry was going to lead this community, and he was going to correct their course. He was going to a set a path for them that was sustainable, and promised that they would survive, and not simply starve to death a year down the road, happy that they had a clear conscience because they’d allowed any person with a sob story to come into their gates and suck down their resources.

Jerry smiled at the men before him. “Gentlemen…our future begins today.”

Solemnly, they nodded their heads. Their lips were bloodless lines on their faces, their jaws struck hard from stone, their eyes cold and ready.

“Arnie will take the post at the front gate any minute, and then me and Greg will move in.” Jerry pointed back behind him. “The rest of you wait until you hear the signal before you move. You know what to do from there.” Jerry smiled, confidently. “This is our time. We’ve got one golden opportunity to take back Camp Ryder. Let’s do it right.”

One of the men stepped forward slightly. “We’re ready, Jerry.”

Jerry turned to Greg. “Do you have the flare gun?”

Greg patted his cargo pocket. “Ready to go.”

“Good.” Jerry took a deep breath. “Any minute now…”

***

Arnie Brewer hitched his baggy pants up over the loose skin of his gut that used to hold the substantial pot-belly that he could have rested a beer can on while he watched TV. Now his midsection was floppy and weird, all the fat sucked out of it, but the skin still there, hanging off of him like a deflated balloon. He had to position the waistband of his pants in the right spot—slightly low on his hips—so that it pinned the folds of loose skin to his crotch
. Otherwise, if he ran, it would constantly flail around and smack him repeatedly in his
groin
.

Very uncomfortable.

With his gut-sack securely pinned to his nut-sack, he hitched the rifle up on his shoulder and approached the front gate where the younger, bright-eyed kid, Jamie Bechtold, stood watch. Arnie smiled and waved as he approached.

“What’s up, Jamie?”

The younger man waved back. “Fuckin’ starvin’.”

“Sorry, man.” Arnie took a spot to the side of the gate. “Had some shit to take care of. Go get yourself somethin’ to eat.
I got this.”

Jamie stretched tiredly. “Awright, bro. ‘Preciate it.”

Arnie watched the kid work some life back into his legs as he sauntered away, taking entirely too long to disappear. He looked around
.
The Square was almost empty. Only one or two people, standing around, shooting the shit with each other. There wasn’t much trading going on today, and most people were either out scavenging or they were taking a
break for lunch
.