Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Jenny - Day 986

Jenny pitched Danny’s rucksack onto the bed and began stuffing it. Ammunition. A few knives. One of the pistols. His flashlight and fire kit. Bottles of water. Cans of food. (Some for Sherman.) This might only be a day or two. Taking too much would only slow her down, and the houses along the way could still provide her with the basics if she found herself in need. She threw on Danny’s harness strap with binocular case and popped it open—binocs inside—now extremely accessible from around her torso. Almost ready. Her choice of rifles from the bed didn’t include her familiar M1A Scout. Instead, she took Danny’s favorite, his M4 carbine.

Finally it came, what she had been expecting since the gunshots rang out—the heavy clopping of boots down the hall. Here we go… She dropped to the ground, her back against the door, curling up as closely to it as she could to prevent anyone’s quick peek through the window from seeing her.

The footfalls slowed to a stop just outside the door.

“It’s got to be back here.” A man said, speaking as if he were in charge of the patrol.

“Who was shooting?”

“Not sure, but I know it has something to do with that group in black,” a woman spoke up. “Who else? Shit like this doesn’t happen, but then all of a sudden they show up. Come on, man, put it together.”

“Alright, quiet down you two. Keep your damn eyes peeled. Let’s go.”

Jenny listened for the sound of the patrol’s footsteps to disappear. Once they did, she inched the door open. Just a peek. No one to either side. Time to move. She hoisted the rucksack onto her back and brought the rifle’s sling over her head. A quick once over. Everything in place. Everything loaded. She crept a foot forward into the hallway. A scream. Jenny grimaced. They found them…

“High alert!” the man’s voice thundered down the hall. “Get the message to the roof!” Boots pounded back her way, and his orders echoed along with them. “If they see any of the men in black, shoot first! No questions!”

They think the S.A. did this. That couldn’t be any better. “We gotta go, boy.” She attached Sherman’s lead, and without a second to spare, they curled right, beelining straight for the exit to the loading docks. Not certain she’d be alone out there, she drew the pistol from the holster. A deep breath, then she elbowed the push bar to the door and slipped through, gun up and ready, Sherman at her side.

Outside, Jenny winced in the direct sunlight. Damn! Struggling to see across her pistol sights, she shifted her angle, but Sherman took advantage of her adjustment and broke left from the door. “Platz.” His tugging at the lead ceased. She took her pistol across the loading dock, keeping the large, metal door against her back to guard her six. From where she stood, a distinct line of footprints made across the landing, down the stairs, and then up the ramp toward the woods. I wonder how far the S.A. has gotten.

She flashed her pistol behind the door—only a few feet of landing before a dead end into the wall—then eased the heavy door back into place. Listening, she took a moment to ensure there’d be no surprises coming at her through the door. The patrol that had discovered the bodies were still tearing down the long hallway, yelling. Jenny and Sherman withdrew into the dead end of the landing, hoping that if the patrol opened the door to warn the guards on the roof, it would be a simple shout and nothing more. Luckily for her, the patrol continued down the corridor past her position.

The landing’s metal grating clanked beneath her feet as she walked. Nervous she’d alert one of the guards on the roof, she slowed her steps, heel to toe, lightly crunching through what snow hadn’t fallen to the ground. About halfway across the landing, they came to a flight of stairs. Two lines of footprints split from the bottom—one out into the open toward the woods—the other hidden between a couple of semi-trailers.

At the bottom of the stairs, Sherman buried his nose into the snow, his interest leading them along the tracks sneaking in between the trailers. Jenny studied the footprints, only three sets counted in this line—all the same tread design, just different sizes. Matt and Grant aren’t here. Have to be in that other group. If not… then I don’t know what the hell is going on. She knelt, glancing underneath the trailer. Sherman whined, and Jenny whipped the pistol toward the semi’s cab, but nothing there. The sudden shift caused her heart to beat even faster. “Damn it, Sherman. What do you know?” He sat near the wall of the trailer and looked back toward her, his eyes knew something. “Seek!”

The canine scrambled underneath the trailer, the lead flapping in the snow behind him, let loose from Jenny’s grip. She dropped the pistol into its holster and took to the rifle. Backtracking toward the stairs and round the semi’s back end, she posted at the corner of the trailer. One peek, then a second. She broke out into the open, rifle fixed toward the top of the ramp. Sherman found something—small and black in the snow. “Matt’s glove. Good, boy!” She tousled his fur and scooped the glove into her cargo pocket. “So, this is definitely the way they went.”

“Jenny!”

Jolted from the outburst, she spun the rifle, searching for where the voice had come from. The rooftop—Derrick, one of their own.

“Where’d all those shots come from?” he asked.

She put a finger over her lips—“Keep it down”—and hurried over to where he stood above her. “Just…” What the hell do I say? “It’s—it’s a long story. Don’t have time to explain. I need to—”

“Are you okay?” From his tone, she knew he had seen the blood.

She stared blankly, saying nothing, still unsure on what to share, if anything.

“Seriously, what the hell’s goin’ on?” Derrick’s voice more urgent now. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Did you see who made these tracks back here?”

He shook his head. “No, they weren’t there before. Only two of us up here right now. Let me ask the other—”

“No, it’s fine.” She glanced back toward the ramp. “You see anyone in the woods? Can you see that far?”

“No one’s there. Just those prints leadin’ up through that way.” He flipped his binoculars to double-check. “Yeah, nothing.”

“Thanks!” She jogged back to Sherman and took hold of his lead.

“Jenny,” he called to her again, “really, what’s going on?”

“Stay up there, you see any one of those guys dressed in black come through here, don’t ask any questions, just shoot them dead.”

“I can’t do that without orders from Griffin.”

“Griffin’s…” Jenny started. “The order’s coming.” She tugged at Sherman’s lead, and they rushed for the woods.

“Jenny!” he shouted. “What’s that mean? What happened?”

The Second Alliance’s tracks led back through the training grounds—the same direction they’d come through earlier with Griffin. No effort was taken on their part to hide it. Every bootprint accounted for. No trickery. A straight-forward march to wherever it was they were going. “Aren’t being very careful are they, boy?” She patted Sherman’s side. “They were probably long gone by the time shit went bad and have no idea their plan’s essentially dead.”

Jenny took her binoculars from inside the pouch and glassed across the ridge looming before them—nothing in the distance except the gray sky bleeding through bare branches. “We’ll pick their track up in a bit.” She leaned the rifle against a downed tree protruding from the snow and slipped the rucksack from her shoulders. With her boot, she cleared some snow from the ground to sit next to her long gun, remembering to always have it ready at hand.