drawn there.
All roads leading to disaster.
Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be more than a mile away.
They passed the four-way stop and LaRouche forced his attention back to the map, jabbing his finger at their last known location and tracing it along thin lines until he saw the four-way stop they’d just passed through. The road curved, and when they had turned through it, the smoke was rising almost directly in front of them.
“Sonofabitch.” LaRouche shook the map. “Just fucking stop. Stop!”
Wilson looked pissed. He slammed on the brakes. “Where the fuck are we going?”
“I’m figuring it out!” LaRouche yelled. “I don’t have a goddamned GPS! Gimme a fuckin’ minute to read this piece of shit map!” He wrangled the oversized paper around. Despite the cold air, sweat gathered on his eyebrows. “Okay…okay…Go up here and hang a left on 7 Pines Road…”
“Sarge…”
LaRouche tried to fold the map, but couldn’t find the creases and began to simply ball it up in anger. “Just go up and make a left on 7 Pines Road.”
“Sarge!”
LaRouche turned to Wilson. “What?!”
Wilson pointed down the road.
LaRouche looked where Wilson was pointing. He dropped the map, snatched up his rifle.
Father Jim leaned out of the backseat, grabbed LaRouche’s shoulder. “Don’t shoot! It’s just a kid!”
Directly ahead of them, a small figure stood. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. She wore what looked like a home-spun dress—little more than a sack with holes for the arms and head. She walked barefoot, with the stunted, shambling steps of someone on the brink of delirium, her chest hitching rapidly. Over the idling engines LaRouche could hear her sobbing hysterically.
LaRouche pushed his rifle through the window. “She’s infected.”
“She’s crying!” Jim almost shouted in his ear. “Don’t shoot her!”
LaRouche looked at Wilson.
The driver glanced back and forth between LaRouche and the little girl, shaking his head just slightly. “Sarge…I don’t think she’s infected.”
She drew closer to them. Slowly but surely. Didn’t even seem to register the convoy of vehicles that blocked her path. Her thin arms were locked stiffly at her sides, but the small hands opened and closed like she was trying to grab something. Her round face was grimed and streaked with her tears, her mouth open as she cried, eyes nearly closed.
“Fuck.” LaRouche muttered, trying to search the girl’s face for something that might tell him the truth. She was thin, but she didn’t seem starved. Dirty, but not soiled. Desperate, but not insane. No blood on her face. No blood anywhere on her.
Still…
LaRouche stamped his foot a few times as though he wished there was a gas pedal there to take him out of this situation. He knew what the others wanted him to say, but he didn’t want to say it. He wanted to tell them to drive away, leave the little girl and all of her problems behind. But Wilson and Jim…they would want to save her. Of course they fucking would.
Wilson cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Come on, LaRouche,” Jim said. “It’s a little girl.”
LaRouche turned on him. “I know that, Jim. But I need you to think ahead for two fucking seconds. We can’t take a kid with us where we’re going. We don’t have the time to get involved in this bullshit right now. It’s just a bad idea.”
Silence in the Humvee. Long, uncomfortable silence. The kind that only existed because no one could even wrap their heads around what LaRouche was trying to tell them. They couldn’t even come up with words to rebut him because what he was saying was in a language they didn’t speak. All they could see was a little girl walking down the middle of the road, crying.
And time was wasting.
LaRouche swore. “Fine! Fuck you both!” he punched the dashboard, then kicked open his door. “Jim, you’ve got thirty seconds to grab her and get her in the fucking truck and then
All roads leading to disaster.
Whatever was going on, it couldn’t be more than a mile away.
They passed the four-way stop and LaRouche forced his attention back to the map, jabbing his finger at their last known location and tracing it along thin lines until he saw the four-way stop they’d just passed through. The road curved, and when they had turned through it, the smoke was rising almost directly in front of them.
“Sonofabitch.” LaRouche shook the map. “Just fucking stop. Stop!”
Wilson looked pissed. He slammed on the brakes. “Where the fuck are we going?”
“I’m figuring it out!” LaRouche yelled. “I don’t have a goddamned GPS! Gimme a fuckin’ minute to read this piece of shit map!” He wrangled the oversized paper around. Despite the cold air, sweat gathered on his eyebrows. “Okay…okay…Go up here and hang a left on 7 Pines Road…”
“Sarge…”
LaRouche tried to fold the map, but couldn’t find the creases and began to simply ball it up in anger. “Just go up and make a left on 7 Pines Road.”
“Sarge!”
LaRouche turned to Wilson. “What?!”
Wilson pointed down the road.
LaRouche looked where Wilson was pointing. He dropped the map, snatched up his rifle.
Father Jim leaned out of the backseat, grabbed LaRouche’s shoulder. “Don’t shoot! It’s just a kid!”
Directly ahead of them, a small figure stood. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. She wore what looked like a home-spun dress—little more than a sack with holes for the arms and head. She walked barefoot, with the stunted, shambling steps of someone on the brink of delirium, her chest hitching rapidly. Over the idling engines LaRouche could hear her sobbing hysterically.
LaRouche pushed his rifle through the window. “She’s infected.”
“She’s crying!” Jim almost shouted in his ear. “Don’t shoot her!”
LaRouche looked at Wilson.
The driver glanced back and forth between LaRouche and the little girl, shaking his head just slightly. “Sarge…I don’t think she’s infected.”
She drew closer to them. Slowly but surely. Didn’t even seem to register the convoy of vehicles that blocked her path. Her thin arms were locked stiffly at her sides, but the small hands opened and closed like she was trying to grab something. Her round face was grimed and streaked with her tears, her mouth open as she cried, eyes nearly closed.
“Fuck.” LaRouche muttered, trying to search the girl’s face for something that might tell him the truth. She was thin, but she didn’t seem starved. Dirty, but not soiled. Desperate, but not insane. No blood on her face. No blood anywhere on her.
Still…
LaRouche stamped his foot a few times as though he wished there was a gas pedal there to take him out of this situation. He knew what the others wanted him to say, but he didn’t want to say it. He wanted to tell them to drive away, leave the little girl and all of her problems behind. But Wilson and Jim…they would want to save her. Of course they fucking would.
Wilson cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Come on, LaRouche,” Jim said. “It’s a little girl.”
LaRouche turned on him. “I know that, Jim. But I need you to think ahead for two fucking seconds. We can’t take a kid with us where we’re going. We don’t have the time to get involved in this bullshit right now. It’s just a bad idea.”
Silence in the Humvee. Long, uncomfortable silence. The kind that only existed because no one could even wrap their heads around what LaRouche was trying to tell them. They couldn’t even come up with words to rebut him because what he was saying was in a language they didn’t speak. All they could see was a little girl walking down the middle of the road, crying.
And time was wasting.
LaRouche swore. “Fine! Fuck you both!” he punched the dashboard, then kicked open his door. “Jim, you’ve got thirty seconds to grab her and get her in the fucking truck and then
Similar Books
