Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 116

LOGAN

They were back in the suburbs again; only they weren't made of mansions. Instead, these were closely built houses of single-family homes and ranch-style facades, with narrow alleys and rear alleyways for the backyard garages; trees lining up the sidewalk, which provided the streets with natural shade; and many abandoned vehicles scattered bodies in all manners of decomposition. The air reeked with burnt wood, rubber, and decay.

Banners of the CRA propaganda, the military, and even the Alphas' militia symbol—an eagle with its wings spanning upward, caught in the moment as if it's about to leap into the air. It had a pointed, mean beak, sharp-edged eyes slanted, and head slightly turned to the right. Almost wrapped around the wings were the letters SA, which stood for the Sapiens Alphas, the militia's official name. The eagle perched on top of a semi-circle, giving the entire image of the organization almost an hourglass look.

Logan had seen too many of those as of late; the Alphas' message of intolerance and hate was spreading like the disease itself.

Ahead of them, a pile of cars, rubbish, and scraps were piled on top of each to form a makeshift barricade eight feet high. Logan didn't quite like the look of that, especially when there were half a dozen vectors impaled on long poles and stakes, acting like scarecrows to anyone who would dare cross the boundaries. No way he's going to order everyone to climb that death trap.

What's more fucked up was that these vectors were still alive, barely, because some of them were moving, albeit bleeding to death.

Is someone rotating these vectors for new ones every day?

Logan had noticed that vectors' pain tolerance was astronomical. Though they could die from traumatic injuries, it usually took them far longer to succumb to their wounds than an average human would. He gave these vectors by nightfall before someone changed the bodies for the fresh ones, and that image terrified him.

"Something's wrong," Paloma spoke up.

Logan turned around. "What do you mean?"

"Look ahead." She pointed at the blockade.

"Yeah, I can see that."

"But what about everything around it?"

On their right were a row of houses—no way to go around the barricade except moving into the street on the left. The cars were parted slightly from the middle, enough space for a small car to pass through perhaps, or even a bike.

"Something's fishy about that street," Logan finally said.

"Exactly."

"I noticed that, too," Deon said.

There were more dead bodies scattered around the pavement more than he had seen, about half with gunshot wounds to the chest or the head, but others he could not tell the difference whether they died from the crash or torn by vectors.

"What now?" Deon asked.

Logan didn't like how the bodies with gunshot wounds were positioned. Most of them faced the house with a yellow door at the end of the lane.

Beyond that house would be the cemetery.

"We move forward," Logan said.

He hated to turn around and find another way. They were only two blocks away from the cemetery, but they were already ten minutes behind the deadline. If Miguel reached the destination already, they should be moving on to the second meeting point toward the museum, and there they would wait for three hours. Logan hoped he'd see Bren again at the cemetery at least, though he was on the fence of wishing it to happen. He didn't like to imagine Bren being late and be stuck behind with enemies crouching at all sides.