Marty knew of one more female survivalist at large.
No one was on the north side of the pyre, and on the south side, behind undulating flames and billowing smoke, the one remaining male survivalist lay on the ground, guarded by three soldiers.
Something must have gone wrong, because by now Alexander should have emerged from the fire with Clarence.
Smoke poured out the broken windows on his side of the building. Fearing both Alexander and Clarence trapped, Marty raced over there, took a deep breath, and stepped over the foot-high threshold below the window on his right.
The force of the heat surprised him.
“Alexander! Clarence!” he called, trying not to breathe in the smoke. Flames everywhere, visibility a few feet, he headed toward where he remembered aisle five to be. Two bodies lying on the floor came into view: Alexander, and, he guessed, Clarence.
Their pulses were weak, and Clarence’s old age shocked Marty—what was an elderly man doing attacking survivalists?
The fire extinguisher was only a few feet away, so Marty had to make a split-second choice—which one to save first: Jocelyn, Alexander, or Clarence. He chose Jocelyn, despite the long odds. She was humanity’s best hope for a cure.
Marty picked up the extinguisher and headed back toward the window he had first entered. During the few precious seconds it took to get there, guilt set in from his decision. Alexander and Clarence didn’t deserve to die, entitled to life as much as Jocelyn. But she had priority in this cruel world they had been plunged into.
Marty carried the extinguisher out the window and climbed over the threshold. Out of the smoke, he took in a deep breath.
Smoke and flame obscured the identities of the bodies on the pyre, but Marty remembered Jocelyn’s body laid near the edge in the front, so he focused the extinguisher there and blew its white vapor at the fire in that general area.
He paused after twenty seconds, and now a small area in front of him was absent of fire. There was Jocelyn, lying face down, tiny bits of flame dancing on her charred body, but for the most part fire-free.
Jocelyn’s hands stretched out past her head. Marty put down the fire extinguisher and grabbed them, and even though his hands burned, he gritted his teeth and, pulling with all the strength he had, dragged her out of the pyre and onto the asphalt. Her stink vile, Marty suppressed a retch which came out more like a gag. Blisters formed on his hand on which searing pain developed as his adrenaline surge subsided.
Captain Francis Davies appeared and grabbed the fire extinguisher and put out the rest of the fires that engulfed Jocelyn.
Marty collapsed to the ground and took a deep breath. The fire had blackened Jocelyn without skin over almost all of her body. Marty stared at Jocelyn for some sign, a movement perhaps, any sign that she might still be alive.
Some pink began to return to the back of her hand.
Marty thought about what to do next. He could go after the sword—the sword Jocelyn had said was the reason she confronted the survivalists. But he couldn’t bring himself to favor an inanimate object over people. Besides, if it was so magical, it should protect itself? Right?
“Captain, there are two men unconscious in there—can you help me get them?”
Francis smiled. “That’s what I’m here for, sheriff.”
Together, they plunged through the window of the market, into the thick smoke rapidly rising up the outside wall. Marty led the way to where the two bodies lay. Marty checked Alexander for a pulse, and Francis checked Clarence.
“No pulse,” Marty said. “Yours?”
Francis shook his head. Marty felt sick to his stomach. Francis yelled, “Which one do we save first?”
Now Marty had another choice to make. He hated making it, and he knew it would haunt him regardless of how it turned out.
“Alexander,” Marty replied. Alexander was young, and, as an expert in viruses and bacteria, qualified to help find a cure.
So, Marty and Francis brought Alexander’s body over the threshold of the windows and placed him on the ground. By now Terry Dorman had shown up and Francis instructed him to start chest compressions while he headed back into the burning store.
As Marty stepped over the threshold, pain erupted on his back as a large, hot object struck him and the weapons on his back. He tripped and fell face-first onto the floor of the store, his feet still outside. He tasted blood.
Chapter Fifty
Day Eleven
Captain Francis Davies ran over to Clarence’s body. He was about to grab the ankles when he noticed the sheriff’s absence. He cursed, made the sign of the cross, and then headed back in the window’s direction. When he arrived, he saw Marty pinned under a beam, his body draped over the threshold.
Although it was heavy, Francis lifted and tossed the beam aside.
“Are you all right? How’s your back?” Francis asked.
“In a lot of pain.” The sheriff grimaced and grunted.
“Let’s hope it’s not broken.”
Francis helped the sheriff through the window into the burning building. He didn’t cry out but only grunted, which was a good sign, though the sheriff’s face was a mess. His mouth was bloody and it looked like he would need some dental work. Good luck with that. The sheriff carried himself clumsily over to Clarence’s body.
He would have made a good soldier, Francis thought.
They carried out the elderly gentleman through the store and over the threshold of the shattered windows.
Marty collapsed on the asphalt as soon as they laid Clarence’s body down. He moved his tongue over the gap that once housed a tooth now somewhere in the store. His upper back roared in pain.
The corporal looked exhausted as he kneeled on the ground next to Alexander.
“Is he?” Marty asked, gesturing toward Alexander.
“I administered CPR. He’s breathing. That’s all we can hope for.” The corporal felt Clarence’s neck for a pulse and started chest compressions.
<Hello, Marty. Is Alexander
