Read Online Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) by John Freeter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Freeter
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in order to give her some privacy.
I spotted him strolling between the endless columns of abandoned cars along the expressway, his hands tucked in the pockets of a brown jacket. A large sports bag hung from his shoulder.
Someone’s been scavenging.
I felt a tinge of anger, seeing how he’d gone off to get himself a nice jacket, leaving us at the mercy of anyone—or anything—that might’ve come upon us. However, he produced a white blazer from the sports bag, which immediately extinguished any ill will I'd felt for him.
“Good morning. It got a bit chilly, so I went hunting for some warmer clothes.” He handed me the blazer. “I got us some breakfast, as well.”
“Oh. Hey, thanks.” I looked into his dark-brown eyes. He looked almost exhausted. “Thanks for everything, by the way. You saved our lives yesterday. You don’t even know us. It means a lot to me. Thanks.”
“Well… everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to think it through. You guys almost got me killed.” He grinned.
I blushed, so I turned my face away while I tried on the blazer. I realized that, even though he joked about it, we really had almost gotten him killed. And now, instead of cutting us loose once the danger had passed, he’d stayed up all night watching over us and getting us supplies. I felt so worthless…
“I’ve got some good news, though,” he said. “I came across a sign up ahead, urging people to gather at a town just over ten miles to the east, in Suffolk County. It’s worth a shot.”
“Sure. Let’s check it out.”
Chapter 13
“Welcome to New Jerusalem,” I said, reading out loud from the wooden sign arching over the town’s entrance. It’d been painted in the same broad white letters used in the homemade signs guiding us on our way there. Small blobs of fresh paint gathered beneath each letter, as if it’d been hastily erected as soon as it was done.
A group of about twenty soldiers crowded around a heavy machine gun by the side of the road leading into town—the first troops we’d seen since our escape from the city. They handed out water bottles to the few children within the throng of refugees, promising the adults there’d be food and water for them later. Some of the adults shot bitter glances at the children, who cradled their bottles in between gulps, but no one dared act upon the evil surely brewing within them.
“I can’t believe this…” said a man farther ahead in the refugee column. Equally astonished voices rose around him. The reason behind their wonder became apparent as we marched through New Jerusalem.
Charming two-story houses lined the broad, clean street. Most of them had wooden exteriors, painted an immaculate white that took on a pinkish hue under the sun’s red light. Spacious, well-kept lawns surrounded each house, enclosed by short hedges, with a variety of lush trees sprinkled here and there. A recent model car sat in every driveway. In short, it was an average upper-middle-class Long Island town, just like all the towns we’d left behind on our way there—except that those had been razed to the ground by the earthquake.
“It’s like nothing happened here,” I said. Karla and Martin just nodded as they gawked at their surroundings. Broken windows, thin cracks on the pavement, and some loose roofing tiles had been the extent of the damage there.
That explained the contrast between the locals guiding us through their town and the people making up the refugee column. Some of the survivors trudged along the road in tattered clothes, covered in a rusty-brown sludge from the dirt, sweat, and blood clinging to them. In contrast, the townsfolk marched along the sidewalk in spotless warm clothing, making the white armbands they wore—presumably to differentiate themselves from us—superfluous. Some of them were armed as well, mostly with hunting rifles and handguns, although a couple carried military-style weapons. Their guns should’ve been a comforting
I spotted him strolling between the endless columns of abandoned cars along the expressway, his hands tucked in the pockets of a brown jacket. A large sports bag hung from his shoulder.
Someone’s been scavenging.
I felt a tinge of anger, seeing how he’d gone off to get himself a nice jacket, leaving us at the mercy of anyone—or anything—that might’ve come upon us. However, he produced a white blazer from the sports bag, which immediately extinguished any ill will I'd felt for him.
“Good morning. It got a bit chilly, so I went hunting for some warmer clothes.” He handed me the blazer. “I got us some breakfast, as well.”
“Oh. Hey, thanks.” I looked into his dark-brown eyes. He looked almost exhausted. “Thanks for everything, by the way. You saved our lives yesterday. You don’t even know us. It means a lot to me. Thanks.”
“Well… everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to think it through. You guys almost got me killed.” He grinned.
I blushed, so I turned my face away while I tried on the blazer. I realized that, even though he joked about it, we really had almost gotten him killed. And now, instead of cutting us loose once the danger had passed, he’d stayed up all night watching over us and getting us supplies. I felt so worthless…
“I’ve got some good news, though,” he said. “I came across a sign up ahead, urging people to gather at a town just over ten miles to the east, in Suffolk County. It’s worth a shot.”
“Sure. Let’s check it out.”
Chapter 13
“Welcome to New Jerusalem,” I said, reading out loud from the wooden sign arching over the town’s entrance. It’d been painted in the same broad white letters used in the homemade signs guiding us on our way there. Small blobs of fresh paint gathered beneath each letter, as if it’d been hastily erected as soon as it was done.
A group of about twenty soldiers crowded around a heavy machine gun by the side of the road leading into town—the first troops we’d seen since our escape from the city. They handed out water bottles to the few children within the throng of refugees, promising the adults there’d be food and water for them later. Some of the adults shot bitter glances at the children, who cradled their bottles in between gulps, but no one dared act upon the evil surely brewing within them.
“I can’t believe this…” said a man farther ahead in the refugee column. Equally astonished voices rose around him. The reason behind their wonder became apparent as we marched through New Jerusalem.
Charming two-story houses lined the broad, clean street. Most of them had wooden exteriors, painted an immaculate white that took on a pinkish hue under the sun’s red light. Spacious, well-kept lawns surrounded each house, enclosed by short hedges, with a variety of lush trees sprinkled here and there. A recent model car sat in every driveway. In short, it was an average upper-middle-class Long Island town, just like all the towns we’d left behind on our way there—except that those had been razed to the ground by the earthquake.
“It’s like nothing happened here,” I said. Karla and Martin just nodded as they gawked at their surroundings. Broken windows, thin cracks on the pavement, and some loose roofing tiles had been the extent of the damage there.
That explained the contrast between the locals guiding us through their town and the people making up the refugee column. Some of the survivors trudged along the road in tattered clothes, covered in a rusty-brown sludge from the dirt, sweat, and blood clinging to them. In contrast, the townsfolk marched along the sidewalk in spotless warm clothing, making the white armbands they wore—presumably to differentiate themselves from us—superfluous. Some of them were armed as well, mostly with hunting rifles and handguns, although a couple carried military-style weapons. Their guns should’ve been a comforting
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