Of Blood and Bone (Chronicles of The One #2)(54)

“I’ll make some ice so—”

“It’s okay, Fred.”

She shifted, pressed herself and the baby against him. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“It was bad. Those people, just standing around in a circle praying or some shit. Kids, too, and they don’t have decent clothes, decent shoes. Skinny and dirty and … I think they must be all fucking crazy, Fred.”

“People have different ways of coping, I guess. Even crazy ones.”

“We had a good plan, good positioning, and it worked. Mostly it worked. The bastards got about ten of them, and more just took off, but we got all the kids. Babies, some of them, Fred. Just babies.”

In comfort, he laid his hand on her belly.

“We had some injuries, but nothing too bad. Everybody got fixed up, or Rachel’ll finish that job. Nothing too bad. We brought fourteen back—eleven of them kids. Some of the crazies scattered, and the scouts didn’t find them, or bodies, so … Some just wouldn’t come, and we’re not going to make them. But we brought fourteen back and that’s something.”

“What is it, Eddie? You need to tell me.”

“I’m working on it.” He gripped her hand, hard. “I saw Rove. Kurt fucking Rove. I saw him shoot one of the crazies, a woman. Shoot her in the back. Then he started running because we were taking them down, Fred. We were whipping their asses, and they were running like the cowards they are. I went after him. I broke ranks, and I took off after him. But I didn’t see the goddamn stupid root. Didn’t see it because all I could think was Rove, that son of a bitch. And I banged up my knee, and he got away from me.

“I couldn’t get him, Fred. I couldn’t get him for Max. I couldn’t get him for Max and Lana. I couldn’t get him.”

Fred wrapped her arms around him and held him while he wept.





VISIONS


Who looks outside, dreams;

who looks inside, awakes.

—Carl Jung





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Within three days one of the women they’d saved slipped out of town with her baby and two of the children. The single male who’d come with the rescuers ran off with a bag of supplies, leaving behind a five-year-old girl he’d claimed as his daughter.

Rachel sat in her office reading over the charts of those who remained.

Malnutrition, exposure, ringworm, impetigo, bad teeth—dentistry would be busy—kidney infection. Two girls no more than fourteen pregnant. A case of double pneumonia, several old breaks, poorly set. Several wounds—animal bites or gouges—poorly stitched.

And that didn’t begin to address mental and emotional issues.

She sat back, took off the cheaters she’d started using a couple years earlier, rubbed her eyes. She had dense, curly hair clipped back and, because it made her feel better after several long days running, had used some of the organic makeup Fred gave her.

Jonah came in, sat on her desk. He handed her a mug. “Pretend it’s strong black coffee.”

“I wish I could forget what that tasted like. A good, dark French roast, beans freshly ground.”

She drank some of the echinacea tea instead.

“Fred’s bound and determined we’re going to have coffee beans.”

She sighed. “Right now I’m ready to say it’s worth the risk of them trying—again. But I’m weak.”

“Never.” He leaned down and kissed her.

He needed a trim, she thought, though she liked his hair when he didn’t take time to go to the barber. “You got the kids breakfast and off to school?”

“Hey, I do my duty. Henry made you the tea. He said you needed it. Luke did the dishes. Under protest, but he did them.”

“They’re good boys, our boys.”

“Speaking of boys, there’s one from the cult. And I’m calling it like it is, Rachel, believe me.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“So this boy? He’s only three. He says his name’s Gabriel. He talked to me. I didn’t bring it up last night because you were tired. We were both tired.”

“We’ve got a group of people resisting basic treatment—or enough of them intimidating the rest to resist. And those who’ll agree to it are going to take a lot of time and care to get healthy. We’ve got an infant severely malnourished and dehydrated because his mother’s the same, and her milk isn’t enough, and another a year, maybe fourteen months, not yet weaned, whose mother died in the raid, with a raging ear infection.”

As she took another sip of tea, Rachel rubbed her fingers at her temple.

“They won’t accept blankets if they’re wool, won’t wear the boots because they’re leather.”

“Cult. Indoctrinated.” Jonah stepped behind her a moment, massaged some of the tension out of her shoulders. “But the kids can and will learn better. Sooner. This one.”

“Gabriel, age three, male, malnutrition, ringworm, another raging ear infection.”

“Yeah, that one. There’s something about him, Rachel. I can see he’s going to make it. Just like … the double pneumonia, the—”

“Goes by Isaiah, age about sixty.”

“He’s not going to make it.”