It was a quick read, and once finished, he gazed across the room to James—to the hare. He was the hare—cocky and unable to see that his confidence would be his undoing. Nothing was a given. The rules were simple. All they had to do was cross the finish line. It didn’t matter how they did it. What mattered was that it was completed. Slow and steady, methodical, and that would get them there. It didn’t have to be at a break-neck pace—a pace that would eventually get one of their own killed. Thomas hoped that James was finally seeing that.
He started the next story, but his eyes were finally becoming heavy enough for sleep. Reading typically had this effect on him. Should’ve done this earlier, damn it. He could already tell it was going to be a long day, periodically checking the minute hand’s crawl toward 10:00 between long blinks and paragraphs.
His head snapped back from a quick doze—the sound of James’s boots crunching the bits of glass broke the silence.
“Must have been nice,” Thomas said.
“Huh?” James groaned as he stretched, taking a look around the office, trying to locate Thomas. “What do—” He peered under the conference table. “Where the hell are you?” He finally located him through the broken window in front of him. “What’d you say?”
“Must’ve been nice sleeping all night.”
“What do you mean?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” Thomas closed his book. “Too much on my mind after that dipshit decided to come at us.”
James gave a light chuckle. “Who? Your boy in there?” He thumbed over his shoulder to the supply closet. “That guy’s nothing.”
Thomas carried the lantern into the office then shut it off before setting it on the table. “I’ll go ahead and get him out of there.”
“Need some help or do you have it?” Without an answer, James took to rooting through his rucksack as Thomas rounded the corner.
“Get off me!” Thomas dragged the prisoner from the supply closet. “Just stay here and shut it!” He propped him against the wall, taking a quick check over the man’s bindings to ensure nothing had changed from last night. “Make sure he doesn’t do— James!”
He looked up from his rucksack.
“Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“Got ya.”
Thomas began sorting through his own belongings in between glances toward James and the prisoner. James pulled the remaining moonshine the medic had given him from his bag. He stripped the old bandage off, sucked in air at the sting of the alcohol, and then covered the wound with the cleanest piece of t-shirt he could manage.
James’s lips began to move.
“If you’re talking to me, I can’t hear you.” Thomas spoke up.
“No…” James stood quickly, the makeshift bandage hanging freely, his face registered guilty. “I was only talking shit to the guy.”
“Is he you’re buddy now?” He glared at James. “He doesn’t get shit from us, not even conversation.”
“No big deal. I got you.”
“He gets nothing. Remember when he attacked us? Remember when he tried to kill me?”
“You’re the boss.” James put his hands out to try and settle Thomas down. “I’m not trying to start shit with you, man. I just want to get this show back on the road.” James averted his eyes from Thomas, changing focus to the prisoner—the black hood slumped into the nook of his shoulder. Strong breaths puffed the hood in and out. “I don’t even know if this guy’s awake. I was just talking shit, seriously.”
Thomas couldn’t help but feel that he had finally broken James’s spirit. He folded easily now, unwilling to argue or fight back. “Just…” Thomas took a softer tone. “Don’t start getting cozy with him.”
“I’m not. I don’t give two shits about this guy.” James applied his boot to the inside of the prisoner’s knee. “Wake up!”
A muffled grunt and the prisoner thrashed about, kicking at James’s boot with his free leg. James removed his foot and backed away.
“He can die for all I care.”
“We’ll see what the higher-ups want to do with him,” Thomas said, “but for now he stays here. It’ll be too risky to move him.”
James dropped his shoulders and closed his eyes.
“You already know what I’m going to say?”
“I’ll sit here with him. That’s fine.” James cleared his throat. “I got no problem with that… You give any thought to me going on the camp thing?”
“Yeah, I thought it over.”
“And?”
“Even though, you’ve been pissing me off—”
“I’m on my best, man. You know I—”
“Even though, you’ve been pissing me off…” Thomas waited to see if James would cut him off again before continuing. “I can’t do it alone, so you’re in, but you listen to me.”
“Sounds good. You won’t regret it.” James put his fist out, and Thomas gave him an unenthusiastic tap with his own.
“I’m going to get the rest of the crew and bring them here for the briefing. Obviously, finding this guy was unexpected, so we have to adjust our plans.”
James nodded.
“No surprises for when I get back. That goes for you too.” Thomas tapped the prisoner’s shin with his boot. “Roll over!” But he refused to budge. Thomas took him by the shirt and jerked him onto his stomach. He checked the restraint—arms tied—it appeared he had made no effort to remove it. He could feel the cloth gag underneath the hood. “Good. We going to have any more trouble out of you?”
Muffled laughter. He wriggled himself back to his seated position against the wall.
“I swear to God, James. You don’t need to talk, touch—nothing with this guy.” Thomas said. He took a small revolver and a discrete holster from his bag, checked the gun’s cylinder to ensure it was loaded, and shoved the holster into his waistband. “Just make sure he‘s here in one piece when I get back. They’re going to want to talk with him. Hell, we might need to go at him before we head into camp too. The kid probably knows something useful.”
Thomas popped the hatch. A gust of wind passed over him, pushing down into the maintenance room. He exhaled the remainder of the stale air from inside his lungs and stole a deep breath of fresh air from the morning. Very few rays of sunshine bent their way through the dull overcast and onto his face. He stepped out onto the roof and scampered off behind the air conditioning units. He looked out across the park as he did the day previous, reassessing the situation, ensuring that nothing substantial had changed.
Two guards were at the post, both of them spooning something into their mouths from a can, ignoring the line of a few desperate men standing just off the service road. As the last spoonful was finished and the can landed in the grass off to the side, one of the guards shouted, “Alright!” and slapped his hands across his thighs. His partner removed himself from behind the fortification and onto the sidewalk.
One by one the line of travelers lurched forward. Each man had their turn. Their tributes inspected—their bodies patted down—any weapons they had were taken from them and pitched into a pile on a cart behind the barricade. This group presented nothing more than a trail of desperate men willing to give up whatever imperative goods they had for a few minutes of pleasure—a fool’s march for primal desires—the reason for their wicked pilgrimage.
Through his observations of the park, it seemed most of the travelers were barely armed—a few pistols and one shotgun were confiscated by the guard. He felt comfortable with what he saw. The Butcher’s men were doing a thorough job of clearing them of their weapons. It would only make the scouting operation inside the camp safer. The likelihood of something getting out of control and deteriorating into gunplay would be significantly reduced. If the Butcher was a shrewd enough businessman, he’d recognize the need to keep his own men under control. Not that Thomas would underestimate the risk, but this venture may not be as parlous as first imagined.