Monica took up her usual position at the first corner. When the prisoners walked into the hall, she’d be the first one they saw, waiting at the end.
She could hear them outside the doors now. This was the toughest part. Nearly every man and woman in this hall had been in this same situation, waiting in their hideouts, hearing the Others approaching, praying they passed. Oh God, praying they passed.
Gareth moved up behind her. Out of sight of the soldiers, he rubbed the small of her back.
When the footsteps stopped at the door, a few soldiers broke ranks and, shame-faced, bolted back to their bunks. It was still too much for them, the memories too fresh.
The door started to open. Monica’s own memories flashed. In that first moment, she didn’t see soldiers and prisoners. She saw the gang of Others who’d burst into her own hideaway ten years ago. She heard Jim’s shout of rage as he rushed forward to protect them, yelling for Monica to take Lily and run. She heard his screams as they fell on him. She heard Lily’s screams as she saw her father torn apart. She heard her own screams as she grabbed Lily and ran for the basement, as they caught her, ripping Lily from her arms. Her screams for them to show mercy-Lily was only a child, only a little girl. They hadn’t.
Gareth moved closer, letting her rest against him. He leaned down to murmur reassurances in her ear, then, as she relaxed, the reassurances turned to reminders. Stand tall, babe. You’re in charge now. You own their asses. Don’t let them forget that.
Now she saw prisoners, strangers, not the monsters who’d slaughtered her family, raped and tortured her. Broken and cowed and filthy, they shuffled along the gauntlet of soldiers.
Gareth tensed. Monica looked up sharply, gaze tripping over the prisoners, trying to see which one had triggered his old cop instincts. Sure enough, there was one at the end, long greasy hair hanging in his face, but not quite hiding the furtive looks he kept shooting her way.
She stood firm, gaze on the prisoner. He looked away as he passed. Then he wheeled and lunged at her.
Gareth leapt forward so fast all Monica saw was a blur and a flash of silver. The prisoner’s head sailed from his shoulders. It hit the floor with a dull thud and rolled. When it came to rest at a soldier’s feet, the young woman kicked it. A cheer started to surge, choked off at a simple, “No,” from Monica.
She motioned for someone to clean up the mess. The procession of prisoners continued on. None even gave any sign they’d seen what happened. They just trudged along, gazes down, until they disappeared from sight.
Word came next that the scouts had been spotted. They were moving fast, meaning they were bringing bad news. She left the hall with Gareth and headed for the meeting room to await their arrival.
As they passed the lecture hall, Monica could hear the teacher giving a history lesson for the children, all born after the Great Divide.
Three flu epidemics had threatened the world in the decade preceding the Great Divide. As they’d escaped each relatively unscathed, experts swore they’d only dodged one bullet to put themselves in the path of a bigger one.
The H5N3 virus had started in Indonesia, with sporadic outbreaks downplayed by authorities until they could announce a vaccine.
Their salvation turned into their damnation. Some said the vaccine had been deliberately tampered with. Others blamed improper testing. They knew only that it didn’t work.
No, that wasn’t true. If the goal was to ensure that people survived the flu, then it worked perfectly. People were vaccinated, they caught the virus, they died, and they rose again.
Even before they rose, though, they’d carried a virus of their own, unknowingly spreading it through lovers, drug use, and blood donations. By the time officials realized the problem, a quarter of the population was infected. After the vaccinations stopped, another quarter died from the influenza itself. Both viruses continued to spread.
That was the Great Divide. The human race sliced in two, one side fighting for supremacy, the other for survival.
The world will end, not with a bang, but with a sniffle.
Or, to be precise, with the risk of a sniffle.
After Monica escaped her captors, her only thought had, indeed, been survival. Her own. But as she ran from the hordes, she’d picked up others like a magnet attracts iron filings. Everyone was alone. Everyone needed help. As a mother, she wanted to protect them. As a teacher, she wanted to guide them. Within a year, she found herself leading twenty survivors. Then they found Gareth.
He’d been in the middle of what had once been a town square, fighting a half-dozen of the Others, a roaring whirlwind of blood and steel, fighting valiantly, but wounded and outnumbered.
They’d rescued him. His story was one of the simpler ones-no family slaughtered before his eyes, just one guy, living a normal life until the day he wasn’t. He’d tried to stick to what he knew-being a cop, protecting the innocent, which these days meant roaming the countryside, fighting bands of Others so survivors could escape. A noble plan, if not terribly efficient. Monica had suggested that, if he really wanted people to protect, he could look after them.
And so it began. Ten years later, they were here, commanding what might well be the last of their kind, awaiting a final battle. A battle they knew they couldn’t win.
The scouts’ news was exactly what she’d expected. The Others were amassing just beyond a forest to the east, the only place for miles that couldn’t be seen from the ramparts. When she’d ordered her troops to raze the fields, they’d started cutting down the forest, then realized the task was beyond them. Besides, she’d reasoned, that meant the Others would pick that spot for their camp, so she could concentrate their surveillance there.
Surveillance. It sounded so strategic, as if they were fully prepared to meet the enemy, simply biding their time, when the truth was that they were foxes backed into a den, waiting for the wolves to arrive.
She hadn’t brought them here to die. She’d hoped by running so far, they’d send a message to the Others: “Look, you’ve won. We’ve holed up here in this wasteland and here we’ll stay. Now just leave us alone. Please leave us alone.”
One last plea for mercy. It was, she realized as the scouts gave their report, too much to hope for. Deep down, she’d always known it was.
“Prepare a reconnaissance team,” Monica said as she rose from the table. “We’ll leave at the first night bell.”
Two of the trained scouts exchanged uneasy looks. They’d come from the true military teams, long since disbanded, where commanding officers stayed behind the enemy lines. They glanced at Gareth, as if hoping he’d advise her to stay behind.
“You heard Commander Roth,” he said. “Get that team ready.”
Monica was back on the ramparts, looking out over the barren fields, waiting for the team to convene below. The faint scrape of Gareth’s dragging boot told her he was coming, but she didn’t turn, just stood at the railing, looking out until she felt his arms around her waist.
“We knew this was coming,” he said.
“I know.”
“We’re as prepared as we’re ever going to be.”
“I know.”
“There’s still one more option,” he said.
“No.”
“Just saying…”
“And I’m saying that I know it’s an option. I’ll remember it’s an option. But…”
She inhaled and shook her head. He pulled her back against him, chin resting on her head, and she relaxed against the solid wall of his chest.
She felt his head turn, as he made sure there was no one around before he leaned down and kissed her neck, his lips cool against her skin. Those who’d been with them a long time knew they were lovers, had been for years. As discreet as they were, it was hard to hide something like that, living in close quarters. They were still careful, though, for the sake of those, like the scouts, who’d come from the troops, where such a thing would be a serious concern.