Read Online The Remaining: Fractured by D.J. Molles - Free Book Online

dark out. He’d been confused. The dog was barking at something. He had the knife in his hands. He was looking for something else, but couldn’t find it.
    Before that.
    Just a set of dark, regretful eyes behind a small silver revolver.
    Eddie Ramirez…
    It was like he had backed his spring-loaded memory up as far as it would go, and now released it. It rocketed forward through a blur. The eyes, the gun, the waking, the pain, the confusion. Then running. Barking. Fear. Hard hands. Growling. Gnashing teeth. Straining muscles against something strong. Much stronger than him. Pulling him down. He remembered slashing out with the knife, targeting arteries. Then there was more running.
    He’d slept at some point—it was dark, very dark. He was cold but exhausted. He slept in a pile of leaves, gathering them up over him like a blanket. Then there was a noise that woke him and he ran without thinking. Tripped and fell. An old barbed wire fence. He got up and kept going.
    Then he ran through a backyard. Across the road. The dog was beside him, but it didn’t bark. He kicked open the door to a house—this house. He fell in the entryway. His body finally gave out and he didn’t get up. He just closed his eyes. Went back to sleep before his mind had time to make sense of anything.
    Lee opened his eyes. The realization of it hit him like a cramp in the gut.
    My GPS! Eddie Ramirez has my GPS!
    “Okay,” he repeated, rolling onto his hands and knees, and then finally taking his feet, supporting himself against the wall. “Need to move. Need to keep moving. Need to get going.” He bent down and grabbed his knife from the floor, groaned as he did so. “I’ve gotta find him.”
    He evaluated himself. Cold, and in pain. Beyond that, he was hungry and incredibly thirsty. He stumbled forward, still touching the wall, still holding the knife in a death grip. Another thought occurred to him: Had he even cleared the house before he passed out?
    No. Because he hadn’t even shut the door behind him.
    He swore under his breath. There could be infected in the house. He could have woken up to find himself being eaten, ripped apart like prey for a wild animal.
    “You’ve got to get your shit together,” he whispered to himself. “No more mistakes.”
    His mouth became silent, but his mind continued on.
    Because there’s no one here to help you.
    Because you’re alone.
    As he thought the last word— alone —things became a little clearer, and his mind traced through the faces of the people he had left behind. Angela. Harper. Bus. LaRouche. Father Jim. Julia. Marie. They were all back at Camp Ryder…no…that wasn’t right. He’d sent some of them away.
    Something about bridges. Bridges over the Roanoke River.
    He shook his head, then cringed at the wave of dull pain that it brought. He knew why he had sent them away, could feel the truth rattling around in there, but all of his memories were jostled out of their proper place. He just needed to pick them up and put them back where they belonged. At least, he hoped it would be that easy. He hoped that the wound on his head had not scrambled his brain permanently.
    He continued cautiously through the living room and stumbled into the adjoining kitchen. It was a small, dingy room, cluttered with dishes and dirty pans that were piled high in the sink and on the surrounding countertop. A collection of cans huddled at the far end of the counter, beyond which a garbage pail overflowed onto the kitchen floor. The cans were from soups and beans and vegetables and meats, their tops pulled back and covered in a greenish-white fuzz.
    Lee’s stomach rumbled audibly. He moved to a door that looked like it belonged to a pantry. Opening it created a stir of tiny claws that scrambled away from the light and shot into dark corners and holes. Little granular bits of mouse shit covered the shelf space. A box of Hamburger Helper with the corner chewed to bits. Some baking soda. A small bag of