Cruel World

“We’ll see about that,” Bracken said after studying the soldier for a time. “Vince, relieve this jarhead of his weapons.”


Quinn searched the area for a way out, but feet were filling up his vision, encircling him as he turned. He wiped at his eye again, clearing it of blood, and gazed up at Bracken who stood over him. The man looked a thousand feet tall, taller than any stilt.

“What’d you do with my property, friend? You keep her for yourself? Kill her when you were through?”

“She turned,” Quinn said, spitting coppery saliva onto the ground. “She’d never been exposed to the virus.”

Bracken seemed to consider this. “That makes sense. Her and her husband and boy were holed up in a cabin way off in the boondocks. It’s a shame. She was sumptuous.”

“What do you want?” Quinn asked, shooting a look toward the far end of the compound. The rain fell in light curtains, and the wind tugged at the tents. There was no help coming.

“To carve out a life in this new and exciting world, that’s all.” Bracken cocked his head. “And you, you tried to take that from me. Do you know how much pain I endured recently?”

“Not enough,” Quinn said.

Bracken kicked him in the shoulder sending him back to the ground. Spangles of light spun at the edges of his vision, and he gasped with the agony that flooded the place where the man’s boot had landed.

“Plenty,” Bracken said. “But I’m not a cruel man. I won’t leave you to die in some ditch drowning in your own blood. I’m not like that. This world needs a new God since the old one is dead.” He lifted the pistol and centered it on Quinn’s head. “And I plan to be merciful.”


Quinn spun on the ground and threw a kick at Bracken’s leg. It connected, sending the man off balance. The gun fired, mud kicking up beside Quinn’s elbow. He made to launch himself to his feet when several fists pummeled his head and back. He curled in on himself as a kick caught him in the thigh dropping him to the wet ground.

“That’s enough. Just hold the fucker,” Bracken said. Rough hands grasped Quinn’s arms and hair locking him in place. The gun barrel pressed against his forehead, and through the red-tinted glaze that covered his eyes, Bracken leaned closer. “You’re a fighter; I’ll give you that. But the good fight is done.”

The barrel pressed harder.

Quinn closed his eyes, picturing Alice and Ty, his father, Mallory, Graham, Foster, Teresa.

A base thrumming filled the air.

The barrel’s pressure diminished.

The croak came again followed by others.

Quinn opened his eyes and looked past the throng of people to where Thomas ran toward his perch. The soldier’s boots clanged up the metal steps to the top of the barricade. He froze. And even across the distance through the falling rain, Thomas’s words were clear.

“Oh my God.” The soldier twisted toward the group. “You led them right to us!”

A giant hand snaked over the top of the concrete barrier and encircled Thomas’s head. It flexed, and there was a sound like an egg cracking on a tabletop. The arm yanked the soldier’s limp body up and over the wall in a flail of lifeless legs and arms.

Cries erupted from the marauders, and the hands that held Quinn released him as they grabbed for weapons. Bracken had turned partially to the side, his pistol still inches from Quinn’s face.

Quinn whipped his hand up and grabbed the gun by the barrel, snapping it one way and tipping his head the other.

The gun went off. His hand jerked with the recoil, heat flaring in his palm. He tightened his grip and twisted, yanking the pistol from Bracken’s fingers.

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