Plague (Gone 4)

It didn’t look like much. It wasn’t, although it was untold wealth in the FAYZ. They had filled two small boxes with his things and filled their hoodie pockets as well.

“You got what you wanted,” Albert said, trying desperately but failing to keep the sobby quaver out of his voice. “Just go away. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Man, you were hiding cans of Beef-a-Roni,” Raul said. He was disbelieving. “You had three cans!”

“Take it,” Albert pleaded. “Take it all.”

Turk glanced at Lance. Even in his despairing, shattered state, Albert knew they weren’t quite sure just yet. Hope rose like a tiny flame inside him. Maybe. Maybe they wouldn’t.

“Look, you want food and wate

r, right?” Albert pleaded.

“You have more?” Lance demanded angrily.

“Not-not-not here.”

“Not-not-not,” Lance mimicked.

“N-n-n-n-not h-h-h-here,” Watcher said, and laughed.

“So where is this other stuff?” Turk asked, and kicked him almost tentatively. It was enough, though, to send a breathtaking spike of pain up Albert’s leg from his broken knee. The knee was already swelling to twice its normal size. It was the worst of many agonies in his body.

“I don’t have anything else here,” Albert said. “But listen, I make more, right? I buy more. I control what gets made and picked and all.”

“Yes,” Turk said, mock-serious. “You’re a big man, Albert. Too bad you peed yourself.”

That set off another round of laughter.

“You think we’re stupid?” Lance demanded. “You think we’re just some stupid white boys who don’t know you can snap your fingers and have Sam or Brianna or one of those freaks come after us?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Albert said. His jaw was quivering so bad he almost couldn’t speak. “I wouldn’t. Because if I did that, you’d, you’d, you’d tell people I cried.”

“And wet your pants.” Watcher seemed the most likely to let him go, but Albert knew the decisions were being made by Turk and Lance.

There was no pity in either face. Lance was aglow with hatred. Turk was less emotional.

“You know what we ought to do?” Turk suggested, laughing in anticipation of his punch line. “We ought to throw him in one of the slit trenches we dug for him.”

“No, no, don’t do that,” Albert begged. A dunking in excrement was infinitely better than being killed. “No, don’t, I’m begging you.”

Lance squatted down, brought his handsome, chiseled face right down to Albert’s level. “You just think you’ve got it all, don’t you? Yeah, it would be fun to see you wallow around in the crap like you made us do. But then you’d just climb out and next time one of us turned around, there’d be Sam Temple. Flash of light and zap, we’d be dead.”

“I’m not . . . That’s not . . . ,” Albert said. “Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Turk looked offended. “Did we say we were going to kill you?” He turned to Lance. “Where did he get that idea?”

Lance played along. “I have no idea, Turk.”

“Maybe because of this,” Turk said. He leveled his rifle at Albert’s face.

Something exploded.

Albert heard no sound.

He was on his side.

Blood covered his right eye, blinding him. Or maybe his eye wasn’t there anymore, he didn’t know.