Eaters (Book 2): The Resistance (6 page)

The woman came back their way. She walked right by Cheryl as if she was a ghost—or some grungy, mud-covered statue that wasn’t worth acknowledgement. Then, she handed Mark his card and looked him in the eyes, giving him a wink before calling her next customer over to her chair with a wiggle of her finger.

"You going back to the room?" Cheryl asked.

"Nah. Going to the cafeteria for lunch. Want to join me?"

"I'm really not hungry right now." A true statement, because her stomach seemed to be filled with angry, warring factions of butterflies.

"See you later then…"

He gave her a quick hug then signaled to someone over her shoulder in the market hall crowd. "Jake…wait up!"

She watched him join a soldier in the crowd, someone she didn't recognize who wore the military-issued sand-colored t-shirt, camouflage pants, and a cap. A second later, they disappeared, amongst the sea of bobbing heads.

Instead of taking her bag full of goodies back to room, she headed towards an empty bench. She sat down and watched the people pass by. It was an amazing menagerie of all sorts of men, women, and children. The ones that looked ragged and weary were likely new arrivals who had endured horrific events before making the hazardous journey through the desert or successfully begging to be rescued by a passing safari team. Having made it through quarantine, they carried what was left of their former life in backpacks or plastic garbage sacks. Others, like the couple in matching hunter camouflage outfits with rifles slung over their shoulders looked like vigilantes ready to spray a swath of death into the crowd at the first sign of trouble. There were plenty in between the two extremes—families who huddled together in tight formations lest any new threat tried to pull them apart again, roaming gangs of teenagers chattering like flocks of sparrows, and shell-shocked individuals who seemed to be walking in a dream state being pulled along by invisible cobwebs.

She closed her eyes, listening to the cacophony of voices. When she opened her eyes again a couple of minutes later, there was a little boy standing directly across from her, staring.  The preschooler with dark hair and cherubic cheeks reminded her of the little boy in the
Thomas the Tank Engine
pajamas she'd seen from her temporarily safe perch inside the sandwich shop back in Colorado. She knew it wasn't him. That seemed so far away and so long ago
… and there was little chance that boy was still alive.

"Mama?"

"Where is your mama?" she asked.

His lower lip pouted, and water filled the lower rims of his hazel eyes.

"It's okay," Cheryl said. "I'll help you find her."

She took his little hand, so he wouldn't get swept away in the flow of people and searched the store fronts for a woman who might be looking for a lost boy. Scanning the barbershop, the sundry store, a place that sold used clothing and shoes, and a store called, "Hope" that sold bibles, religious icons, and herbal remedies touted for stress relief, she didn't see anyone that looked like a distraught parent.

For the briefest second, she wondered if he was an orphan and imagined adopting him. It was a crazy thought, and the fact that it popped into her brain surprised her. If she couldn't find the boy's mother, she'd have to take him to the information office and let the fort staff take him from there.

She leaned down again, hoping the boy could lead her to his mother. "Where is your—"

A woman grabbed the boy's hand away from her, nearly jerking him off his feet. She gave Cheryl an accusing glare before leading him away.

"You're welcome," Cheryl called after her, knowing that her sarcasm was more for her own benefit than for the woman who didn't hear it or for any of the people that paused to look at her.

Deciding that she needed to blow off some steam, she went back to her room. After changing into a fresh t-shirt and shorts, she headed to the gym. It wasn't her favorite place to go, but she usually forced herself to work out there three to four times a week to stay in shape, and she hadn't been in several days.

By the time she got to there, the short walk through the crowds hadn't done anything to alleviate her stress. She was still feeling like a pressure cooker. That anxiety increased when she opened the gym door. There was usually a good mix of men and women in the small gym, but today it was all a bunch of bulls. From the looks of some of the sculpted muscles and tats, a lot of them they looked like they'd been bulking up in prison gyms before finding shelter in the fort. There were Mexican gang members on one side of the room, Aryan Brotherhood on the other, and a few military guys holding their own in the middle.

She avoided the weight bench areas and headed towards the treadmills in the center. The self-powered machines did not use any electricity. Within a short time of abusing her machine with her pounding feet, she could smell burning rubber from the sliding belt rubbing against the track. Since the belt was still moving, she ignored it and increased her speed. Forty-five minutes later, with sweat running in rivulets down her neck and back, she hopped off.

There were cat calls as she wiped herself down with a towel, edging towards the door.

"Where you going, baby?"

"If I catch ya, can I keep ya?"

Not looking back, she exited the room and made her way to the women's shower stalls. After a quick wash and rinse in the wimpy drizzle that bled the same old rust-colored water, she dried off. Standing in front of the mirror in her underwear and bra, she combed out her hair and discretely did an inspection of her skin. If this was back in the days before the epidemic in the locker room after a kickboxing class, she might have been checking for suspicious-looking moles. Unfortunately, this survey had potentially more ominous consequences. Any sign of a rash, mottling, or flaking could be an early indication that she was infected. As a patrol member, she had accepted the ration of vaccine, but she didn't trust it was one hundred percent effective. Had anyone who created it tested it on themselves? Had they let themselves be bitten by an Eater to see if it really worked? She doubted it. Although, she was thankful that a vaccine even existed, she had to admit that she shared Mark's suspicions about how a vaccine had been ready so early in this deadly game. How had the military had it back in Afghanistan before the infection spread worldwide? She still had so many questions; she couldn’t fault Mark for his obsession with finding answers.

After putting on the fresh clothes inside her back pack, she went back to her room looking for Mark where she putzed around for an hour, waiting for him to show up. When he didn't, she went alone to the cafeteria where she sat by herself and downed some bland vegetable soup and two thin slices of bread like it was a meal in a fine restaurant instead of the sludge and sandpaper that it was.

When she went back to the room, Mark burst in the door a couple seconds behind her. "Hi," he said, looking surprised that she was there.

Cheryl tried to bite her tongue, but the words still came out a little caustic. "I don't know where you've been all afternoon. You couldn't have been hanging out with your lunch pal all this time."

"Just hanging out with Jake. I was sharing some of the stuff I found out last night about the dogs and pig—"

"I was hoping we could have eaten dinner together tonight, but I went by myself, because I didn't know where you were."
Calm down, Cheryl. Why are you acting so angry?

"Sorry. I got to talking with Jake and I guess we both had diarrhea of the mouth, 'cause I lost track of time."

She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to re-center herself. "Well, since you have duty on Sunday, how about we do something tonight to celebrate your birthday?"

"Uhh…tonight? I can't tonight. Some guys from my unit are getting together for a game of poker."

"Okay," she said. "
Sounds like fun
…"

She watched him strip down to his boxers and put on a pair of khaki slacks. They were secondhand and had a small tear in one of the back pockets, but they were nicer than his faded jeans. Then, he topped them with his only dress shirt—a striped button-down that she'd gotten him for Christmas.

"What about tomorrow night, then?" She sat on the edge of the bed as he used some petroleum jelly to define the spikes in his hair.

"Sure," Mark said, still fussing with his hair as he looked in the hand mirror.

She couldn't help but admire how handsome he looked, even with that scarred skin. The lines crossed his face, making the skin look like it was made out of puzzle pieces, but there was something about them that added character—made him look like a rugged survivor instead of a victim.

"We could have a picnic on the roof. There's a full moon this weekend, so it would be romantic."

"That'd be great," he said, after wiping his fingers on his pants and tucking in his shirt. He kissed her on the cheek. "Gotta run. Don't want to miss the first deal."

A second later, the door shut behind him and he was gone.

Cheryl remained seated, trying to ignore the thought that she should run after him as she twisted the engagement ring back and forth on her finger. After a couple of minutes, her resolve congealed. She was too energized after her workout to just sit around the room and read all evening. Hopping up, she preened, smoothing down her hair that still had a hint of dampness from the shower. Then, since Mark had the Glock with him, she tucked a knife in the back of her pants, underneath her shirt.

She went to Hall F and knocked on room 87. A second later, a woman's muffled voice sang behind the door. "Just a minute…"

A second later, the door swung open, and Yvonne, a friend, roughly ten years Cheryl's senior, stood there. Her honey-colored hair fell to her shoulders, and her jaws worked as she finished chewing something.

"What are you doing?" Cheryl asked, brushing past her and inviting herself in.

"Not much. Just stitching up a pair of shoes."

Glancing around the room, Cheryl saw a filthy canvas tennis shoe that used to be white and had a needle sticking out of the side. Next to it there was a pile of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, and soda bottles. It was no mystery as to why Yvonne had gained about fifteen pounds since they'd first met during quarantine several months back. She'd probably used most of her work credits from helping out in the kid's day care center to fund a daily binge.

"Good," Cheryl said. "We're going to the Dance Hall."

Yvonne spun around. "We are…
are we
?"

"Yes."

Yvonne belted out a laugh that ended with a snort. "Seriously? You looking to pick up some young stud?"

"No," Cheryl said, crossing her arms. "Mark's out with some buddies, and I don't want to sit alone in my room all night."

"You could hang here if you want."

"Thanks, but I've got cabin fever. I need a change of scenery."

"I'd really rather stay in…"

"Come on…come with me, and I'll treat you to something sweet from the marketplace on the way back."

"Tempting me with sugar? You are the devil, aren't you?"

Cheryl looked at the watch on her wrist. It was an ancient Timex with a gold toned stretch band and a cracked crystal. "Come on. If it's busy tonight, they could fill up to capacity early, and we might not get in."

"Fine. Just let me clean up a bit."

Yvonne brushed her hair then looked into a broken compact mirror to apply a rose lipstick.

She held the tube out to Cheryl. "Want some?"

"No. I'm good," she said. She hadn't worn makeup in half a year. The concept almost seemed strange now.

Minutes later, they were on the third floor. One hallway from their destination, Cheryl could already hear the
thump, thump, thump
of a bass drum kicking up a steady beat and feel it reverberating in her chest. They were just thirty feet away from the nightclub door when they saw a woman with long, braided gray hair seated on the hall floor near the wall, rocking back and forth. Her fingers were gnarled and brown, and she had a pile of yarn next to her that she was using to crochet into a blanket. Her dark pebble eyes lifted as they approached. "You ladies aren't going in there, are you?"

Cheryl and Yvonne exchanged a glance.

The old woman wagged a finger at them. "People are dying and going hungry in here, and you're going to a party? What an asinine waste of resources!"

Cheryl understood how the club might look like frivolous, but she knew that places like The Dance Hall and The Tavern were essential venues for the fort population to de-stress from the nonstop warfare against the Eaters, the frustrations they had from grieving over those they'd lost, and being uprooted from their former lives. It was also a place for angst-ridden teens and young adults to release some of their excess energy on the dance floor instead of getting into mischief.

The woman shook her fist. "You should both be on the roof, shooting anything that moves. When the damn lizards and buzzards get sick and invade us…you'll be sorry!"

Yvonne laughed as they passed. "What's she? The official Fort Party Pooper?"

"Don't laugh. One day, we may be loopy old ladies just like her."

Yvonne 's mouth quickly hardened into a firm line. "I doubt we'll make it to
old lady
."