Strangers, dressed darkly but not in uniforms, they were of both sexes and apparently all ages and varied in size. All dozen or so of them were armed, but only some of them brandished conventional weapons. The others carried what looked like big flashlights, attached by cords and straps to hefty packs on their backs. With fast, nervous, coordinated movements, this heterogonous bunch swarmed into the chamber, one or two of them barking orders, and a majority surrounded Justin and the others. Grim faces of men and women glared at them through plexi-steel helmets and over the gunsights of a half-dozen rifles and shotguns.
Justin instinctively threw up his hands and saw the others make similar gestures of surrender. Stunned, he looked from one of the newcomers to the next in a bewildered fashion and then heard himself talking.
“We give up!” he pleaded. “Don’t hurt anyone, please, whoever you are. We surrender.”
None of the invaders said anything for a long, tense moment. Justin, facing down an enormous, glowering man with a double-barreled shotgun, saw the man’s finger, clad in a black glove, tighten on the trigger. Desperately, he tried again, his voice cracked and dry.
“Please, we give up,” he said, addressing the big man directly. “Don’t hurt anyone.”
“Who are you?” asked the big man, his unaccented American voice like a truckload of gravel. “An’ what’re you doin’ down here?”
“We, uh, we,” Justin stammered, his mental wheels spinning all over again, “that is…” What was he supposed to say? Suddenly he hadn’t a clue. The truth was so strange as to be unbelievable, and any lie he might concoct would surely sound as false. And who were these people, anyway? What were they doing down here? For what seemed like an eternity, he stood there and blinked and tried to make his brain think of something, but it was as if his mind had suddenly put up a “back in fifteen minutes” sign and gone to lunch. Then good old Mr. Lampert came to the rescue.
“We’re prisoners, asshole,” he said, hands laced over his bald head. “Get it? Whatcha might call unwilling party guests, you know? Now, are you gonna lower them guns or just shoot us where we stand?”
There was another few seconds of tension, both sides eyeing each other, before one of the invaders called out in an authoritative voice:
“Relax, everyone,” the man shouted. “At ease. These are just normal people.”
“Yes,” said Justin, nodding inanely at the large man before him. “That’s it exactly! Normal! Very, very normal.”
And with that, the attackers shifted to paying Justin and his companions no more attention than the tables and chairs. The big man who’d had a shotgun leveled at Justin’s face simply shrugged and walked away, and soon most of the newcomers were loudly debating with each other, guarding the main tunnels, checking their gear, marveling at the crazy decorations and evidence of violence, and generally ignoring Justin and the others.
Standing there with his hands still up, nonplussed in the extreme, Justin heard a voice and turned to find a smallish man, about his own age, dark and thin, with one of the strange flashlights in hand, smiling at him through his helmet visor.
“Hi there!” said the stranger, offering a gloved hand. “Sorry about all of that, but we can’t be too careful. My name’s Santiago.”
“Kaes,” said Justin mechanically. “Justin Kaes.” Numbly, he lowered his hands and then shook with the man. “Who are you people? What are doing here?”
The other man laughed, showing strong white teeth. “Oh, that’s one hell of a long story, mister,” he said jovially. “And right now, me and the others here are kinda busy. But don’t you worry. Soon as we’re done, we’ll get all you people out of here. OK? Now, can you tell me, is there anybody else left alive down here? Any more survivors like you?”
“Yes, there are. Teresa, and the others. Maybe more, I don’t know.”
“Who is Teresa?” asked Santiago. “And where is she?”
As he explained, dazedly babbling in short, barely-connected sentences that he could only hope were making sense, some obtuse, bitter part of Justin couldn’t help, despite everything, but wonder that very thing: Who was Teresa?
Chapter Fifty-Four
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The Hunter had sat in exactly seven courtrooms in the days Before, once charged with murder, twice with assault, and four times as a witness for the other side, and for some reason he felt the very same way now. Maybe it was the way they all looked at him, kind of suspicious and leery, or maybe it was the sheer number of them, something like a couple dozen, or even the setting, in an abandoned movie theater, but for whatever reason, he felt like this was some kind of a trial, or at the least, a hearing.
He’d woken up in a bed, of all things, starting up and almost hitting his head on an overhead bunk. Some kind of barracks, it had seemed like; foot lockers, bunk beds, empty weapon racks. Taking inventory, he’d found that he was still beat-up, achy and tired, not to mention very hungry and thirsty, but otherwise no worse off than could be expected.
He’d lain there for about an hour when someone—some thin Hispanic guy named Santiago—finally came to check on him and he was clued in to where he was, back in New America. In an underground bunker beneath an old warehouse on the city’s south side, to be exact, but the salient fact was New America. As to who they were, these kindly strangers, Santiago wouldn’t say, telling the Hunter as he examined his various wounds that he’d have to wait and see.
Content for the moment, dry and warm, he’d shrugged and lay back on the bunk. After some minor rearranging of bandages, Santiago had left him, and a short while later an older fellow with big teeth brought him a jug of water and a bowl of fried tofu. Feeling a bit better after the meal and a short nap, he’d been led through some dimly-lit hallways and through some doors and into the relatively cavernous space of an old-fashioned movie theater, complete with rocker seats, asbestos curtain, raised dais and all. For the occasion, the house lights were on and, considering that it had been a long time since he’d seen so many people all in one place, the room seemed absolutely crammed. A podium of sorts, an old jukebox covered with a thick drape, sat center stage, and other than the low hum of individual conversations, the big room was quiet.
Feeling ridiculously conspicuous in his filthy gunny-sack tunic, the Hunter was led to the front row of seats and bidden to sit, right next to a tough-looking broad they called Still, who grinned at him wolfishly and made a point of showing him the row of gleaming throwing knives around her waist. Watch it, you, they glittered at him; one wrong move and we’ll be more than happy to embed ourselves all over your skinny ass. He got the message and tried to sit back and relax and give them no reason to leave their sheaths. There was a pause as they all quieted down, and the Hunter used the opportunity to swivel in his seat and take a long look at each of them.
The CDC group, what was left of it, looked physically better, as they’d been given new clothes and allowed the use of bathing facilities, but as far as their relative wellness went, the Hunter had to say they were a mixed bag. The Old Man seemed well enough for his age, or at least about the same, while the com whiz, Swails, had a wild, jumpy sort of look in her eyes, the kind where you could see the whole of the iris, that told him that she was far from recovered from their time among the mutants. The nurse, Cass, seemed her old self, stolid and sort of bland, and the banger girl, Teresa, hadn’t changed, aside from a black eye and a somewhat more subdued attitude. The Kid, on the other hand (bless his feral little heart), seemed quite ill at ease, fidgeting and staring apprehensively at Teresa; likely he was just not used to this amount of human interaction.