It had been 30 days since the height of the flu, and the population of Briggs camp of members and refugees, along with the small town, capped 18,000 people. When the flu wiped through them, only thirty percent survived.
They vowed to rebuild. To restore law and order, to maintain survival, a means of power had to be established. Someone had to be in charge of the resources – of the food, the power, the water, and to protect the land against foreign invaders. Someone had to make sure everyone had enough.
If someone didn’t step up to the plate, chaos would ensue. Briggs stepped up to the plate.
Through post-flu networking he knew of many surviving small towns, but that wasn’t where he’d start. To build up his forces, he’d start small — the lone survivors, the starving camps. He’d build a security force.
It was his agenda to recruit everyone. For order to be restored, for civilization to work again, everyone had to participate. Every man, woman, child, small town or little group. No one would be excluded from the rebuilding.
Like before the pandemic, people would pay their taxes, only their taxes would be paid in goods, services, and so forth. It was the only way.
The United States would not survive if it were divided and Briggs was going to do everything and anything he could to ensure that would not be the case. Anything.
At the last census on October 11th, Briggs had 4,000 people. He kept a skeleton crew at camp to work on organizing stock and incoming supplies, the rest he divided into groups and sent them out. Their mission was simple: organize the towns, secure their involvement, recruit members, deal with criminals, and seize property and supplies by order of the new government. They were to “deal with” insurgents and those who resisted. Above all, should force be necessary, at any cost, they were to protect themselves from harm.
The problem was, Briggs wasn’t specific enough and left it up to the judgment of the leader of each individual search team. That was his first mistake.
Her name didn’t matter, mainly because she wouldn’t be alive long enough to tell it to anyone. But what she went through did matter.
She had survived the flu. She didn’t even get it, but her husband did, and so did her mother and three young children. They all died. She watched them all die and she, too, wanted to die.
Her parents divorced when she was teenager, but she never lost contact with her father. When she’d last spoken to him, he hadn’t gotten sick. She tried several times to kill herself, but never was able to finish the job. Finally, after virtually trying to starve herself, she left her Virginia home to trek north to find her father. She didn’t think too much about running out of gasoline, until she did and couldn’t refuel her car because the pumps were empty. After two days of walking, she met up with a kind man, who said that he too was heading north. He had supplies and so did she.
Safety in numbers.
He was about the same age, and like her, wasn’t a survival savvy person, but they got along. The trip was taking longer than expected. Many of the roads were closed off or blocked and they had to take back routes. They pulled over for the night, with high hopes of reaching their destination the next day. They set up camp not far from the road, maybe twenty feet back.
Just after breakfast, while he was kicking dirt on the fire to extinguish it, laughter and then a deep cough caught their attention. After having survived the flu, she was certain that coughing would always and forever give her shivers.
To their shock, there were four men and they picked through the truck, taking what they wanted. Her travel companion hollered for them to stop, even showed anger, raging at the men bravely. One shot to the head and he fell; she screamed and took off running. A part of her hoped all they wanted was the supplies, but two of them pursued her. She wasn’t fast enough.
One of the men backhanded her, causing her to spin and fall to the ground. She scurried back, staring up at the intimidating man.
“Please, please,” she begged. Her insides trembled. “Don’t hurt me. Just take what you want. Please! Just take what you want and leave.”
He did. Before she knew it, he had flipped her over, ripped down her pants and raped her. She had neither time to react, nor the emotional or physical strength to stop him. She went numb.
Grasping her hair, the man took her body with relentless, brutal thrusts. Her hands dug into the dirt for support, and her neck was arched so far back, she couldn’t scream.
He finished and dropped her face first into the ground, her fingers clutching the dirt. While she lay there crying, the other man rolled her over.
Almost angrily, he pulled her pants the rest of the way from her body and tossed them to the side. She tried to slide back, to move away, but he grabbed her leg and dropped to his knees. Just as he was about to mount her, a bellowing voice blasted. “Enough! What the fuck? This isn’t why we’re here. Let’s go assholes.”
He released her and stood. Her assailants replied something to the man who had charged at them but she couldn’t make out what it was. She was hyperventilating.
Thinking, thank God, she rolled over, sobbing uncontrollably into the ground. Lifting her eyes, she spotted her pants and she raised herself to her knees to crawl in an attempt to retrieve them. She had moved no more than a foot when her hair was grabbed once more, her head tilted back, and she felt a painful, burning tear against her throat, just before she was dropped again to the ground. A few seconds later, she heard them leave. At least she thought she did.
Weakly, she brought herself to a kneel and put her hands to her neck. She felt the wound and the warm sensation of blood as it poured over her fingertips. She reached her pants, sliding them to her and placed them hard to her throat to try to stop the bleeding.
It took everything she had to stand and she stumbled as she did.
Her body teetered back and forth. Everything swirled around her. She heard the sound of a vehicle. The loss of blood caused confusion; she didn’t know if it was them returning or someone else coming, but she knew the road wasn’t that far.
Holding her pants to her wound, she staggered to get to the road.
“Ethan, watch out!” Mick yelled when he saw the person stumble onto the road.
Ethan had been engrossed in conversation with Mick, but caught the warning and slammed on the brakes.
Mick clutched tightly to Baby Doe as the truck swerved, back end out, until it came to an abrupt, screeching halt.
Mick braced the dashboard to stop both him and the child from flinging forward.
“Holy shit.” Ethan put the truck in park. “I didn’t hit them, did I?”
“No.”
Ethan jumped from the truck first, and Mick was barely out when he heard Ethan moan, “Oh my God.”
It wasn’t what Mick expected to see. The woman, half naked, lay on the road in front of the truck. Her legs were muddy and bloody, and she clutched tightly to a pair of pants.
Mick handed Ethan the baby, and crouched down.
“Is she dead?” Ethan asked.
Mick reached for her neck, for a pulse. The woman blinked. “No,” he replied, then saw the pants, saturated with blood. Her fingers were rigid around the fabric.
Her lips parted and she gasped, “Help… me.”
Mick didn’t get a chance to do anything. The woman’s head tilted, her eyes transfixed, and she went still.
After closing his eyes briefly, Mick pulled the pants away from her neck. “Her neck’s been sliced.” He slowly stood. “Ethan, get the baby back in the truck.”
“What about her?”
“I’ll handle this.” Mick lifted the woman’s body and carried her to the side of the road. As he laid her down, he saw the single blanket lying near the still smoldering fire.