He hears only these snippets, but he gets the gist of the conversation nevertheless. They are arguing over what to do with him, still so sick, perhaps contagious to the others, a danger to them all. They need to move camp because they are threatened anew by the demons that track them, searching constantly for a way to trap them once and for all. One of them is arguing for leaving him behind, the way they have been forced to leave others–for the good of the whole.
One of them is arguing for waiting to see if his constitution is strong enough to pull him through. The argument is low–key and rational, not heated and intense. He finds it odd that the matter of his living or dying is being talked about so calmly. He wants to tell them how he feels about it. He wants to scream.
Suddenly there is silence. He squints through a tiny gap in his eyelids and sees that the light in the doorway is blocked. They are standing there, looking at him. He tries to speak, but the words become lodged in his throat and emerge as groans. The pain sheets through him, and he shudders violently.
"See?" says one.
"See what? He fights it."
"A losing fight. It consumes him."
"But hasn't yet overpowered him."
They move away, leaving him alone again, feeling abandoned and betrayed.
Which of the two wants to save him and which wants to leave him behind? They are his closest friends, but one of them argues for his death. His eyes sting with tears, and he is crying. This is what dying is like, he thinks. You do it alone.
You are debased by it. You are exposed to your own weaknesses and to the harsh reality of what it means.
He draws a deep, pain–filled breath that is mostly a sob and waits for his life to end.
BUT HE DIDN'T die that night. The fever broke, and by morning he could be moved. He was weak still, but he was healing. Michael and Fresh came to him and told him how encouraged they were by his recovery. They reassured him that everything would be all right. He still didn't know which of them had argued for leaving him behind–had given him up for dead. He told himself at the time that it must have been Fresh, that Michael would never abandon him. But he couldn't be sure. Especially now, knowing what he did about what would happen with Michael later.
It was odd, the way he felt about Michael. His parents would never have left him, not even if it had cost them their lives. Yet he remembered them only vaguely, more indistinctly with the passing of every day. He recalled his brother and sister even less well; their faces had become faint images, blurred around the edges and leached of color. Yet he remembered Michael as if he were still there–the strong features, the wide, sloped shoulders, the sound of his deep voice as clear as yesterday's meeting with Two Bears. Even now, Logan knowing what he did, Michael retained his larger–than–life image. He knew it had something to do with the amount of time he had spent with Michael, the impression Michael had made on him while he grew, and the impact of Michael's strong personality. Yet he had never loved Michael as he had his blood family.
He had never been as sure of Michael as he was of them. It didn't seem right that it should be this way, but there was no help for it.
The buildings of the city slipped away on either side of him. There were more bodies in the streets, and the smell of death was everywhere. There was no movement in the shadows of the buildings, no sign of life. According to his sensors even the feeders had departed, a sure sign that nothing remained. He scanned doorways and windows, alleyways and side streets as he made his way through, but the city was deserted.
He came out the other side at midday, the weather turned gloomy and the skies dark with heavy roiling clouds. Maybe it would rain today, although he doubted it. The skies frequently looked as if they might open up, but they seldom did.
He drove through the outskirts of the city, past endless dwellings, Past schools and churches. There was no one anywhere. When plague struck, you didn't take chances; you got out. Not that there was much of anywhere to go, but fleeing sickness and chemical attacks and armed strikes was pretty much instinctual. You ran because it was your last defense against things too overpowering to try to stand and face.
It wasn't always so. In the beginning, men had stood their ground, even in the face of certain destruction. It had been in their nature to stand and fight, to refuse to be intimidated, to give their lives for what they believed. Even when governments began to disintegrate or simply vanished altogether, the people stood fast. Their faith would protect them, they believed. Their courage was a shield against the worst of it. But they were wrong, and in the end most of them died. The ones who survived were the ones who understood that while faith and courage were necessary, they weren't enough. Good judgment and sound reasoning had to be exercised as well. When the world was collapsing around your ears, you had to know when to stand fast and when to turn and run. There was a time and a place for both.
Even for him. Even for a Knight of the Word.
He pulled off the road at the edge of the city into what had once been a small park and was now a barren stretch of ground with a few broken picnic tables and some rusted playground equipment. Parked with the hood of the Lightning facing west, he sat in the vehicle and ate his lunch. Eating no longer held much pleasure for him. The food was prepackaged and uninteresting. He ate to keep strong and to stay alive. It was the same with sleep, which was rough and troubled. He slept because he had to and wouldn't have otherwise because he hated the dreams that surfaced like phantoms, dreams of his past, reminders of the madness he had endured. But it did not matter what he wanted; the dreams were an unpleasant fact of his life.
As was so much, he thought. As was almost everything.
He was still eating when the men appeared from behind him. He had forgotten to set the perimeter alarms on the S-l50 and was lost in his thoughts when they materialized suddenly on either side of the vehicle, their weapons pointed at him. They had crept up on him like predators, careful to mask their approach and to take their time. It didn't hurt their efforts that he had been so self–absorbed, he'd failed to pay attention to his surroundings. They were a sorry–looking lot, soiled and ragged and smelling of sweat. They carried a mix of rifles and handguns, older weapons from before the rise of the once–men. They smiled as they surrounded him, satisfaction a bright gleam in their mad eyes.
They had caught him unprepared and they knew it.
Stupid, he chastised himself. Stupid and careless.
"Get out," the one standing next to him ordered, touching him on the shoulder with a long–barreled automatic.
He already had his right hand on his staff as he opened the door with his left and levered himself out of the Lightning, pretending that he needed the staff for support. He limped away from the vehicle, glancing from one man to the other, counting heads. There were four of them–hard–featured and wild–eyed, looters and thieves. They would shoot him without a second thought if he gave them even the slightest excuse. They would shoot their own mothers.
"We're confiscating your vehicle for official purposes," said the speaker, keeping the automatic leveled on him.
"Iowa militia?" he asked, backing away.
"Whatever," one of the others muttered, running his hands over the smooth surface of the AV.
The first man smiled and nodded. "Official business," he repeated. "We'll return your vehicle when we're finished."
He seemed to enjoy the charade, the man in charge, the leader, turning now to the others and motioning them to climb in. Logan stood watching as they did so, waiting. His hand tightened on the staff, and the slow build of the magic began to take hold deep inside, working its way through his body and limbs. He could feel its heat, could sense the impending adrenaline rush. He was suddenly eager for it, anticipating the satisfaction it would give him, his one small pleasure in an otherwise disappointing existence.