Read Online Mercy (The Last Army Book 1) by John Freeter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Freeter
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sight, but I felt like a prisoner of war after a particularly one-sided battle, despite the locals' friendly smiles and attempts at casual conversation as they steered us through the town.
The size of the lawns around each house gradually shrank as we walked deeper into New Jerusalem. Houses made out of red brick rather than wood dominated the center of town, sporting only minor fractures on their walls. I spotted just a handful of short buildings rising above the tall trees planted along the road. People stared at us from behind the curtains as we walked past their homes, probably unwilling to admire our heart-breaking procession too openly.
“Hey, Becca, look at that.” Karla pointed to a clump of trees ahead of us.
“What?” I strained to see what she was pointing at. “I can’t see… oh my God. Is that blood?”
A small lake came into view as we marched past the trees. The lake’s placid surface shimmered beautifully… or at least it would’ve, had its waters not been stained an intense blood red. A wave of gasping and concerned voices took over the crowd.
“It’s not blood, Becca. The water’s reflecting the sky.” Karla looked at the dark sun’s crimson halo. “Look, the ocean’s the same color.” She pointed to the south, about a mile away, where the ocean’s glistening red blanket kissed the town’s southern border.
“I know that, Lala.” I gave her a playful shove. “It’s still pretty creepy, though.” Karla pursed her lips and frowned, staring at the scarlet lake.
Several refugees peeled away from the column and headed toward the lake, less than a hundred feet away from the road. Some of them went to examine the water, but most of them flocked to an announcement board at the entrance of a nearby picnic area. Our escorts didn’t stop them; they just exchanged nods with the four armed locals posted at the lake.
“Hey, let’s go check that out.” I said, and sprinted toward it. Karla seemed hesitant, but Martin followed me, so she did as well.
Karla and I slowly made our way through the crowd until we reached the announcement board. Several bits of paper with messages for friends and relatives had been pinned to the corkboard by people who’d taken refuge in town before us. Some had stapled wallet-sized photographs of missing people. Others had left notes with descriptions or rough sketches or even tracings—doubtless done by people with only the one photograph, which they couldn’t bear to part with.
“Do you think my dad or your parents might’ve ended up here?” Karla asked, browsing through the notes.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I held my breath as I studied every photograph, every sketch, and every line scribbled on the sad little notes… in vain.
A table had been placed next to the noticeboard, with notepads and pens scattered on it. I took a paper square from one of the pads and jotted down a quick message:
“Mom, Dad!
I’m okay. Karla’s with me.
Ask for us in town.
Your loving daughter:
REBECCA STIRLING”
It wasn’t great, but I couldn’t really express my feelings on a napkin-sized scrap of paper, especially not while other refugees pushed at me, desperate to get the pen I used. I shoved my way back to the board and kissed my note before sticking it up.
Please, God, let me find my parents.
Karla stuck hers next to mine with a prayer and a few silent tears. She managed to cram an essay onto the little square, every word barely legible. At least her distinctly loopy writing would’ve stood out like a flashing light to anyone who knew her, including my parents. We held hands as we pushed our way out of the crowd to where Martin waited for us.
“Aren’t you leaving a message for your family?” I asked, barely able to look him in the eye as I spoke.
“It’s a bit late for that.” He smiled rather sadly.
***
Our escort dropped us off in front of the sprawling two-story high school. Although made out of the same red bricks used in many of the
The size of the lawns around each house gradually shrank as we walked deeper into New Jerusalem. Houses made out of red brick rather than wood dominated the center of town, sporting only minor fractures on their walls. I spotted just a handful of short buildings rising above the tall trees planted along the road. People stared at us from behind the curtains as we walked past their homes, probably unwilling to admire our heart-breaking procession too openly.
“Hey, Becca, look at that.” Karla pointed to a clump of trees ahead of us.
“What?” I strained to see what she was pointing at. “I can’t see… oh my God. Is that blood?”
A small lake came into view as we marched past the trees. The lake’s placid surface shimmered beautifully… or at least it would’ve, had its waters not been stained an intense blood red. A wave of gasping and concerned voices took over the crowd.
“It’s not blood, Becca. The water’s reflecting the sky.” Karla looked at the dark sun’s crimson halo. “Look, the ocean’s the same color.” She pointed to the south, about a mile away, where the ocean’s glistening red blanket kissed the town’s southern border.
“I know that, Lala.” I gave her a playful shove. “It’s still pretty creepy, though.” Karla pursed her lips and frowned, staring at the scarlet lake.
Several refugees peeled away from the column and headed toward the lake, less than a hundred feet away from the road. Some of them went to examine the water, but most of them flocked to an announcement board at the entrance of a nearby picnic area. Our escorts didn’t stop them; they just exchanged nods with the four armed locals posted at the lake.
“Hey, let’s go check that out.” I said, and sprinted toward it. Karla seemed hesitant, but Martin followed me, so she did as well.
Karla and I slowly made our way through the crowd until we reached the announcement board. Several bits of paper with messages for friends and relatives had been pinned to the corkboard by people who’d taken refuge in town before us. Some had stapled wallet-sized photographs of missing people. Others had left notes with descriptions or rough sketches or even tracings—doubtless done by people with only the one photograph, which they couldn’t bear to part with.
“Do you think my dad or your parents might’ve ended up here?” Karla asked, browsing through the notes.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
I held my breath as I studied every photograph, every sketch, and every line scribbled on the sad little notes… in vain.
A table had been placed next to the noticeboard, with notepads and pens scattered on it. I took a paper square from one of the pads and jotted down a quick message:
“Mom, Dad!
I’m okay. Karla’s with me.
Ask for us in town.
Your loving daughter:
REBECCA STIRLING”
It wasn’t great, but I couldn’t really express my feelings on a napkin-sized scrap of paper, especially not while other refugees pushed at me, desperate to get the pen I used. I shoved my way back to the board and kissed my note before sticking it up.
Please, God, let me find my parents.
Karla stuck hers next to mine with a prayer and a few silent tears. She managed to cram an essay onto the little square, every word barely legible. At least her distinctly loopy writing would’ve stood out like a flashing light to anyone who knew her, including my parents. We held hands as we pushed our way out of the crowd to where Martin waited for us.
“Aren’t you leaving a message for your family?” I asked, barely able to look him in the eye as I spoke.
“It’s a bit late for that.” He smiled rather sadly.
***
Our escort dropped us off in front of the sprawling two-story high school. Although made out of the same red bricks used in many of the
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