Hell's Children: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller by John L. Monk Page B
Authors: John L. Monk
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deer, you think you can handle it? It’s pretty gross.”
Brad looked down at Tyler and nodded. “There’s nothing I won’t do for my little brother.”
13
T he morning of the big move, Greg, who was on watch, woke Jack an hour before dawn.
“Is it time already?” Jack said. “Why’s it so dark still?”
“Sorry, man,” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s the chick with the green hair you told me about. She’s here. Man, she’s skinny … Cool hair, though. I brought her inside. She wants to talk to you.”
Jack blinked in the faint light offered by the candle over the fireplace. “Really? That’s great.”
She was standing in the office just off the entrance. Greg asked if she wanted to sit on one of the plush office chairs. She shook her head.
Jack clicked his LED flashlight and set it down facing one of the walls so as not to blind her. The twins had gathered a box of candles, but they needed more. Lanterns, too, like a hundred years ago. Flashlights made more sense for emergencies and should be spared.
“Hi there,” he said, wincing at how loud his voice sounded after the quiet of the party room. He held his hand out for her to shake, then lowered it when all she did was stare at him. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“They’re dead,” she said in a flat, expressionless voice. For so slender a girl, her voice was deep and resonant. “I got sick like them, then got better. But they didn’t.”
He looked closely at her and noted she seemed somehow more emaciated than last time. Or maybe his mind hadn’t been able to accept it then, just as it balked now.
“Greg, can you bring some of those crackers—the ones with the salt? And some water?”
“Yeah, sure. Gimme a minute.”
“What’s your name?” Jack said after he’d left.
She stared at him curiously, as if slowly processing the request. “Olivia.”
“I’m Jack.”
“You said that when you came to my apartment. That’s how I knew to ask for you.”
He smiled in embarrassment and revised his first impression of her. She may have been troubled, but she wasn’t completely gone, or dumb.
“Sorry about your parents,” he said.
“And I’m sorry about yours.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, and felt a wave of relief when Greg finally returned with the crackers and water.
Olivia stared at the meager plate and said, “You and that girl had guns at my apartment. Can I have one?”
He stared at her a moment, his gaze lingering on the hollowness of her cheeks. “Maybe eat some crackers. Then we’ll talk about guns. Okay?”
Mechanically, she reached out, took a cracker, and put it in her mouth. When she started to cough, Greg gave her some water, which she gulped down.
“Not too much,” Greg said, taking it from her. “You look like you haven’t, uh, had anything for a while. They say it’s bad if you eat and drink too much after so long.”
Olivia wiped her mouth free of crumbs and water and said, “Now can I have a gun?”
“Why do you want one?” Jack said, dreading the answer.
“You know why. Please?”
He watched her quietly in the dim electric light, then sighed. “Greg?”
“Yeah?”
“Give us a moment.”
“You got it,” he said, sounding relieved, then left and shut the door behind him.
Jack reached out tentatively, took the girl’s hand—frail to the point of skeletal—and guided her into a chair.
“We all lost parents,” he said lamely.
“Yeah, but I actually loved mine.”
Jack stiffened in sudden anger. Sure, he wasn’t comatose with grief, but he still loved his parents. With great effort, he forced himself to calm. The girl was suffering and lashing out. He had to remember that.
“How old are you, twelve?” he said.
She shook her head. “Thirteen. Almost fourteen. And this is what I want. Why can’t you just give me one?”
“I saw you praying. What would your parents say if they knew their daughter was going around asking people for
Brad looked down at Tyler and nodded. “There’s nothing I won’t do for my little brother.”
13
T he morning of the big move, Greg, who was on watch, woke Jack an hour before dawn.
“Is it time already?” Jack said. “Why’s it so dark still?”
“Sorry, man,” he said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “It’s the chick with the green hair you told me about. She’s here. Man, she’s skinny … Cool hair, though. I brought her inside. She wants to talk to you.”
Jack blinked in the faint light offered by the candle over the fireplace. “Really? That’s great.”
She was standing in the office just off the entrance. Greg asked if she wanted to sit on one of the plush office chairs. She shook her head.
Jack clicked his LED flashlight and set it down facing one of the walls so as not to blind her. The twins had gathered a box of candles, but they needed more. Lanterns, too, like a hundred years ago. Flashlights made more sense for emergencies and should be spared.
“Hi there,” he said, wincing at how loud his voice sounded after the quiet of the party room. He held his hand out for her to shake, then lowered it when all she did was stare at him. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“They’re dead,” she said in a flat, expressionless voice. For so slender a girl, her voice was deep and resonant. “I got sick like them, then got better. But they didn’t.”
He looked closely at her and noted she seemed somehow more emaciated than last time. Or maybe his mind hadn’t been able to accept it then, just as it balked now.
“Greg, can you bring some of those crackers—the ones with the salt? And some water?”
“Yeah, sure. Gimme a minute.”
“What’s your name?” Jack said after he’d left.
She stared at him curiously, as if slowly processing the request. “Olivia.”
“I’m Jack.”
“You said that when you came to my apartment. That’s how I knew to ask for you.”
He smiled in embarrassment and revised his first impression of her. She may have been troubled, but she wasn’t completely gone, or dumb.
“Sorry about your parents,” he said.
“And I’m sorry about yours.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, and felt a wave of relief when Greg finally returned with the crackers and water.
Olivia stared at the meager plate and said, “You and that girl had guns at my apartment. Can I have one?”
He stared at her a moment, his gaze lingering on the hollowness of her cheeks. “Maybe eat some crackers. Then we’ll talk about guns. Okay?”
Mechanically, she reached out, took a cracker, and put it in her mouth. When she started to cough, Greg gave her some water, which she gulped down.
“Not too much,” Greg said, taking it from her. “You look like you haven’t, uh, had anything for a while. They say it’s bad if you eat and drink too much after so long.”
Olivia wiped her mouth free of crumbs and water and said, “Now can I have a gun?”
“Why do you want one?” Jack said, dreading the answer.
“You know why. Please?”
He watched her quietly in the dim electric light, then sighed. “Greg?”
“Yeah?”
“Give us a moment.”
“You got it,” he said, sounding relieved, then left and shut the door behind him.
Jack reached out tentatively, took the girl’s hand—frail to the point of skeletal—and guided her into a chair.
“We all lost parents,” he said lamely.
“Yeah, but I actually loved mine.”
Jack stiffened in sudden anger. Sure, he wasn’t comatose with grief, but he still loved his parents. With great effort, he forced himself to calm. The girl was suffering and lashing out. He had to remember that.
“How old are you, twelve?” he said.
She shook her head. “Thirteen. Almost fourteen. And this is what I want. Why can’t you just give me one?”
“I saw you praying. What would your parents say if they knew their daughter was going around asking people for
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