T Connor: Bitter Cold Apocalypse 2

At that, I saw a glance pass between the two of them—twin to the look Bob had given Marlon when we first appeared—and I wondered anew at what their history was. Marlon had found Angie and me in the woods and taken us to his house, where he’d had a convenient array of medical supplies, and had treated Angie as best he could. He’d given me a story about being a retired doctor who had taken up veterinary practice on the outskirts of the town.

He’d also said that Randall wanted to kill him because Marlon had treated Randall’s wife, who’d died later.

And he’d had an exoskeleton for Angie’s leg. An exoskeleton that wasn’t exactly common issue for the public—or everyday doctors. It had been military, I was sure of it.

When it came to suspicious history, Marlon was nearly as bad as Randall. The difference being that Marlon had actively saved our lives—several times. As far as I was concerned, he’d proven himself to be a very valuable and true ally. That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to demand an explanation for who—and what—he was.

Not yet, though. We had bigger fish to fry.

“What exactly did Randall want to do?” I asked.

“Make the town into a fortress,” Bob replied quickly, without any hesitation. “He wanted to go far, far beyond the standard prepping—food stores, making sure we would have energy, water, that sort of thing—and actually turn this place into a fully armed base. He and his cousins were convinced that the end of the world was coming, and that it was their job to prepare for that. To protect the town, even—though I suspect that was less about the people and more about the buildings and food. He never seemed to me like he cared, particularly, about the people. Though I suppose he would have at least tried to keep the women, if he thought it was going to be his job to repopulate the world or something.”

My mind went back to Angie, and I shivered again. We’d come so close to losing it all in that cabin in the woods. I was damned lucky we’d gotten out of it alive. Damned lucky Angie and I had both managed to get out.

Bob threaded through two closely-spaced tents and we made our way into a more open, well-ventilated area, where whoever had been in charge had placed a number of picnic tables, surrounded by free-standing barbecues.

“The dining hall,” Bob said wryly, interrupting his description of Randall’s history. “We do breakfast, lunch, and dinner on a set schedule here for those who haven’t brought enough food for themselves.”

“Are you letting people go back to their houses for supplies?” Marlon asked abruptly. “Letting people out of this building to do… other things?”

It was a question that obviously meant more than it sounded like it meant, and I frowned. I hadn’t thought Marlon had any connections—or any concerns—in this town. Why would he care if he could get outside?

Bob snorted. “Of course we are. We can’t afford to keep everyone locked up in here when there’s still food and water to be carted in from their houses. Besides, it’s not like we’re hiding from anything. We haven’t been overrun by zombies. This place is just the only one with power right now. And in the middle of the winter, that makes it the only place where I can keep my people warm and alive.”

My people. The phrase brought a thrill to my blood, and I nodded. I hadn’t been born or raised here, but this town—and its people—had come to be mine, as well, and I knew I’d do whatever it took to keep them safe. From both the cold… and Randall.

“So you kicked Randall out because he was causing too much trouble?” I asked, getting the conversation back on track.

Bob nodded. “More or less. They started building up a weapons store in one of their houses. Along with chemical weapons. Biological stuff. I had no idea where they got it, but as soon as one of their friends came and told me what was going on, I knew I had to put my foot down. Having a rifle or two, that’s one thing. Hell, collect antique handguns for all I care. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone and people take personal responsibility, I’m fine with it—I’m a big supporter of exercising your Second Amendment rights. But when it comes to stockpiling automatic mil-grade weapons in your basement, I draw the line. There is absolutely no reason for that, not out here. We’re a small, peaceful town. We’ve never had any trouble with anyone. And when I found out he had chemical weapons down there—stuff that could kill everyone if it got out—I told the rest of the town council that we had to get rid of them. Randall and his cousins, I mean.”

I let out a low whistle. “Where the hell would he have gotten chemical weapons?” It didn’t make any sense. That stuff wasn’t available to anyone outside of the military—and even then, it was very, very closely held. Only the weapons departments had access to it.

I supposed you could make some things yourself, if you had the right ingredients—and a lab to cook them in. But that would take chemists, biologists, hell, even nuclear engineers, probably. Randall was none of those things.

Someone must have given him those weapons. But why? How?

I glanced at Marlon, wondering if he was coming to the same conclusions as I was, and saw a combination of expressions on his face. Concern. Anger. Lack of surprise.

Marlon had known about all of this, I realized. Maybe because he lived in the area and had heard that it had happened.

Maybe because he’d been more involved than he was letting on.

“So you kicked him out?” I asked. “And, I suppose, took over his weapons stores?”

“We did,” Bob confirmed.

“Then he’s trying to get them back,” I concluded, the stories coming together in a crash of understanding. “This invasion he seems to be planning. It’s not about the people. Hell, it’s probably not even about the town itself. It’s about getting the rest of his weapons back.”

Bob had stopped now at a door in the back wall of the large hall, and turned to me.

“I think you’re right,” he said.

He unlocked the door and swung it open, then stepped out of the way to let me enter.

I stood in the middle of the room, having already moved through the boxes and boxes of goods, cataloging in my mind what we had. It wasn’t as much as I had thought it would be. Certainly not as much as I’d hoped, given what Bob had said.

Then again, I guessed that one small group’s idea of an armory wasn’t necessarily enough to account for an entire town. It certainly didn’t hold a candle to what I’d seen in the military, when we’d been assigned our own guns, grenades, shields, armor, and other small accouterments of war.

But again, I lectured myself, I wasn’t dealing with a military man. Wasn’t dealing with anyone who would have known anything about what it actually took to defend a town—or a fort, as he was trying to make this place.

I was dealing with some backwoods hillbilly who had thought he’d known better. Who had actually thought he’d be able to hold this place if the military came calling.

“But he had chemical weapons, too,” Marlon said, turning in a circle and surveying the small armory—and mirroring the path of my thoughts almost exactly.

“What happened to them?” I asked suddenly. Were they here, in this room? Were they something we needed to dispose of?

I didn’t like the idea of them being so close to this many people. I didn’t like the idea of them being this close to my family .

“No, they’ve already been… removed,” Bob said in that shifty way that told me he was withholding information. The glance he cast at Marlon told me even more.

And some pieces started to fall into place. Though they still didn’t tell me who Marlon was—or how he had the means to dispose of chemical weapons.