Free Those Who Remain (Book 2) by Priscila Santa Rosa Page B

insist. “We need to be practical about this. Soldiers work in pairs, don’t they? Never go in without a partner?”
    “That’s mostly for police officers.”
    “Okay, but—”
    “I can train you. But are you sure you want to know how to kill someone?”
    I chew the inside of my cheek, eyes wandering on the scenery outside. Trees, snow, gray pavement. “I already know how to kill people, that’s how you learn how to save them. Besides, I’m already responsible for too many deaths. A gun won’t change anything.”
    “If you say so.”
    Tigh is true to his word and after another day of traveling, we stop to train. He hands me a handgun, light and loaded with blanks, and tries to teach me how to not miss a target right in front of my face. He also explains how to walk and aim, and what to do in a situation where there are enemies all around us. It’s a lot to memorize, but I did spend the better part of my adult life reading and memorizing books thicker than concrete blocks.
    After a few hours, I’m exhausted, so Tigh prepares dinner. We sit on a fallen tree, glad to be out of the stuffy car. Our shared silence isn’t a comfortable one, at least to me. I’m not sure how to behave, what I should do or not do. Every time I open my mouth to ask him something I realize the subject might be related to the base and what happened there. I’m not ready to let those thoughts back in my mind. So, instead I let silence fall over us.
    He doesn’t seem to care.
    What he cares about is training me as hard as he can, my gunshot wound allowing. Sun or snow, he pushes me for hours. I was no couch-potato, my profession didn’t allow for much time to rest in front of a TV, but I start to realize there’s a huge difference between running around an E.R. and trying to fight a grown man with hand-to-hand combat. Between all that, we make for slower time. After three more days of traveling, we finally reach the highway and our first quarantine checkpoint: a blockade of wire fences, gates, military tanks, and medical tents to test people for diseases.
    Tigh explains to me that after the first cases of the disease broke, the Army placed checkpoints on high traffic roads, trying to contain the spread in each state. After a mere few days there were too many people suffering from the disease to be controlled. By the time the bombs fell, the checkpoints were overrun by people desperate to get to the Canadian border. There were too many for the thinly spread Army to contain. While all of that happened, I was still in St. Jude’s, racing between those injured by the riots while trying to juggle the regular patients left abandoned by my missing colleagues.
    We park our car away from the fences. As Tigh thinks of a plan, I look over the chaos. Cars clog the road, parked and abandoned in front of closed metal gates. There’s no other sound besides the metallic rattling of the fence against the wind.
    “It’s going to take days to move all these cars out of the way,” I note aloud, my elbow resting against the Humvee’s door.
    “Wasn’t planning on doing that,” Tigh says, opening his side of the car. “Follow me. Time to see how you manage in the real world.”
    Outside, he gives me the same handgun I used during training, this time loaded with real ammo. “Remember, stay by my left, check the surroundings while you walk. Elbows relaxed, gun down, finger off the trigger. Don’t shoot nothing until I order you. I stop, you stop. I tell you to move, you move. Got it?”
    “Right. Okay.”
    “Okay?” He raises an eyebrow.
    I stare back, unsure what the problem is.
    “Maintaining a chain of command is important to establish professionalism and a sense of responsibility. So let’s try it again. Did you understand me?”
    “Yes, sir.” I half-sigh, half-chuckle. Even understanding his point, it still feels weird to say it.
    He adjusts his rifle and other weapons, then divides our supplies between us. I end up carrying a bag of