The Survivors: Book One

His eyes wandered the city limits of Franklin, drawn to the hills. He lingered on the cemetery, its iron gates surrounded by decaying bodies, few of them wrapped. No one knew what to do with their dead. Neither had Marc. He almost hadn't come home at all.

"I'm sorry, Marine." The base Commander clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically.

Marc stuffed the legal letter into the garbage can they were standing next to, as other men moved by. Drill calls and Mess bells echoed throughout the brick halls of the base.

"Thank you, sir."

His superior regarded him for a long moment, unsure of his man's mood. Didn't he care? "I've scheduled your leave for the funeral. Starts ASAP."

Marc nodded, not sure if he would go, not sure why he suddenly felt like a little kid afraid of the dark. It was just his mother. "Thank you, Sir." He repeated automatically.

"She the one you turned away last month?"

"Yes, sir."

Marc didn't offer any details, even though he knew the Base Commander didn't take a personal interest in just anyone. He refused Mary's visit every time she came, hadn't spoken to her, even by mail, in over a decade, and now that she was dead, he still hated her. Because of what she'd cost him. The last time they'd seen each other was right before his first hitch was up. Thanks to the threat of charges being filed, he hadn't been allowed to leave the base before then, and the conversation had been short, cold.

"So, you can come home now." Mary eyed the dark, brooding stranger sitting stiffly across from her. "The Harlot ran to the heathen city right after you… came here, so she won't be a temptation, but you'll have to…"

"No."

Her age-lined eyes flew to his hard face, the hands on the table that were clenched in anger. "No, what?"

Marc leaned closer, loathing her. She hadn't changed. Her glasses were still crooked, her eyes were just as indifferent, and he read no regret or even understanding in her cold blue depths. There was no caring for the life she had taken, denied him. "I'm not coming home. Ever."

Stunned, Mary's hand fell to the worn Bible in her lap, and Marc shook his head, stood up. "You put me here, took away what I loved, and now that I'm 21, I don't need you or have to listen to you. Forget my name. You're dead to me."