Great. Now my girlfriend and the ex-cannibal were in cahoots. Leave it to the apocalypse to turn my world completely upside-down. I started to turn away, but she wrapped her arms around me and tucked her head below my chin. She smelled of smoke and sweat. “I can’t, Darla…. I just can’t.”
“Christ, Alex. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but you’re wrong more often than a roomful of stopped clocks.”
“It’s just—”
“No. Listen. You’ve been leading since the day I met you. Who took me to Worthington when I was too wrecked by Mom’s death to even function? Who got us to his uncle’s farm through the middle of what was basically a war zone?” She lifted her head to look at me, the fierce light of the torch flickering in her eyes. “Who moved hell and earth, convinced his family, friends, and even a unit of freaking Black Lake to help find me? Those Black Lake mercenaries are out for no one but themselves, but you wrangled their help anyway. This is what you were born to do, Alex.”
“I’m sixteen!”
“So. Freaking. What.”
A hundred emotions waged war within me. Pride at the way Darla was looking at me, at her faith. Love for her, for her unwavering support. But mostly fear. I knew what I needed to say—but I didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to admit my weakness, even to her.
“I… I froze out there. When they were shooting at Aunt Caroline. If I’d moved faster, maybe I could have saved her.”
“Alex, it’s—”
“What if it happens again?” People around us turned to look. I’d raised my voice far louder than I’d intended.
Darla held me tighter, waiting until everyone turned away. “Every time I made a mistake, my dad used to trot out this lame saying he had. He’d say, ‘I’m glad you’re not perfect, bunnykins. You see, the aliens carry off all the perfect people for study. And I’d like you to stick around.’”
“Bunnykins?”
Darla’s face flared so red, I could see the color in her cheeks even by torchlight. “I swear to God, Alex, if you tell anyone that nickname, I’ll twist your balls so hard that your new locker-room nickname will be Slinky.”
My knees came together instinctively. “Maybe I’ll call you Bunnykins in private?”
“No. You won’t.”
I gave her my best evil grin but felt it fade from my face as I remembered the point of the conversation.
“It’s not your fault, Alex. Aunt Caroline is dead because Stockton decided to steal our food. Not because you hesitated for a split second in the middle of a battle that would have made most guys shit their pants and hide. You can do this. We can do it.”
“You’re not coming. You need to rest. It’s seven miles. At night.”
“Can we take the trucks?”
“I need to check whether they have enough gas.” Somehow, I’d decided to go without even realizing it. Darla was tricky like that.
“Well, if they do, I’m going too.”
I didn’t respond right away. I was thinking—hoping to hit upon something, anything that would convince Darla to stay behind. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her around; I was terrified she’d get hurt. Normally, she was at least as capable as I was—stronger, in fact. But not now. “I need someone to organize a defense here. Someone I can trust.”
“Ask Uncle Paul.”
“His wife just died. I’m not asking him to do anything but mourn. Which is all I want to do.”
“I’ll ask him. I’m going with you. I’ll drive and guard the trucks.”
I didn’t like it. But arguing with Darla was usually pointless. “Round up some people to come with us. I’ll do the same. We’ll meet at the trucks in half an hour.”
“Got it.”
One of the beauties of Darla was that when it was a serious matter, she didn’t rub it in—winning, that is. I reached out and gently turned her face back toward me. She launched herself at me, wrapping her arms around me and kissing me like she meant to imprint her taste on my lips forever. When the kiss broke, neither of us said anything. We turned to walk our separate paths out into the uncaring night.
Chapter 8
I checked the trucks first—all three of them had between a quarter and a half tank of gas. Plenty to get to Stockton. Then I started running around trying to convince people to join us.
The first guy I talked to, Lynn Manck, agreed right away. I’d barely gotten the words “attack Stockton” out of my mouth when he said, “I’m in.” While we were talking, Nylce Myers stopped to listen and volunteered without being asked.
They couldn’t have been more different. Lynn was a huge bear of a man, a farmer in his fifties who sported a beard so long, he must have been growing it out for years. Most guys had beards now—razors were hard to come by—but Lynn’s was magnificent. By contrast, all I could grow were stupid-looking wisps of facial hair. He’d lived on a small farm on the outskirts of Warren all his life. His kids were grown and gone—he hadn’t heard from any of them since the volcano had erupted. But he and his wife still lived on their farm—or had, until the invaders from Stockton had driven them out.
Nylce probably massed less than half of what Lynn did. She was short and slight, in her early twenties. I’d heard from Uncle Paul that her fiance was a salesman for Kussmaul Seeds—he’d been on his route in Nebraska when the volcano blew. Which meant he was almost certainly dead. I had no idea how she’d be in a fight, but she seemed determined enough.
The next guy I collared, Kyle Henthorn, was more skeptical.
“Shouldn’t the mayor have a say-so?” he asked.
“He’s unconscious. Dr. McCarthy had to amputate both his legs. Might not survive.”
“Hmm, and what’d you say the plan was again?”
That stumped me. Ben hadn’t mentioned a specific plan. Just the general idea of attacking Stockton, now, while they were still recovering from yesterday’s fight. “I need to talk to Ben. If you decide to help, meet us at the trucks.”
“You’re going to get military advice from a teenager?”
“Yep. Look, I realize you don’t know him, so you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Ben’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever met, and he’s spent basically his whole life studying all things military”
Kyle shrugged skeptically, and I turned away to look for Ben.
I found him in the upstairs bedroom of Uncle Paul’s house, asleep. I reached out to shake him awake, stopping when I remembered how much he hated to be touched. Instead, I said his name—over and over, until I was yelling it.
He finally woke, flailing his arms. “Who is yelling Ben’s name?” he mumbled.
“It’s me. I need your help.”
“Ben’s sleep should not be interrupted.” He rolled over so his back was toward me.
“Your plan for attacking Stockton. I want to try it. But I’m having trouble convincing enough people to join. And we only have three pickups. Is there any way to make it work with only a couple dozen folks?”
“What time is it?” Ben asked, back still turned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“If the lieutenant wants to know whether he should carry through with his planned attack, he must tell his strategist what the current time is.”
Oh-kay… “I don’t know exactly. Sometime between one and two in the morning, I think.”
Ben was quiet for a moment. “You should proceed with the attack. With two dozen men—”
I started to say, “They won’t all be men,” but Ben talked over me.
“An effective attack can be executed. But it must be done quickly, and the attackers must take the defenders by total surprise. Here is a plan with a good probability of success….”
As soon as Ben finished explaining his plan, I ran. We had no time to waste. I grabbed a small backpack, a water bottle, and an empty semi-automatic rifle. As I reached the front door, Dr. McCarthy stopped me, laying a hand on my shoulder.