The Remaining: Trust: A Novella by D. J. Molles Page A

He shifted, almost rolling on his back, until he could crane his neck far enough to see who was yelling at him. His eyes were a little hazy, but there was recognition there. His nose looked flattened, his face bearing a thick mustache of blood. A gash on his forehead was bleeding profusely.
    Abe transitioned quickly to his pistol. He tucked it in close to his chest with one hand, then reached out with his weak hand and grabbed the man by one of his wrists and dragged him forcefully out of the broken windshield. The man howled, and Abe could feel the separation of the man’s wrist bones, the way they ground together just underneath the skin. Broken in the crash, Abe assumed.
    “Shut the fuck up!” Abe yelled at him. He glanced up quickly over the top of the SUV, over the hump of the dead man’s body that lay on it, and could see the Little Bird still sitting there in the roadway, the rotors spinning, the pilot and copilot looking at him.
    He crouched down over the man he’d just pulled from the wreckage.
    Out of the view of the helicopter crew.
    Abe grabbed the man by the face. Felt the slickness of his blood on his palms. “You tell me what the fuck is going on here!”
    The man shook his head, still moaning. “I don’t…I don’t…”
    Abe bared his teeth and shoved the man’s head into the ground. Then he began to pat the man down, searching for the feel of the little laminated placard. He felt it in the man’s coat and reached into the inner pocket to get it. He clutched it in two fingers and pulled it out.
    A green piece of paper, laminated. A four-inch square.
    DAY PASS — GREELEY GREEN ZONE , it read.
    Abe waved it in the man’s face. “You don’t know? You don’t know ? What the hell is that, then? What’s that ?” Abe flicked the card at him. “Why are you doing this?”
    The man’s face turned abruptly from pain to anger. He leaned up off the ground and shouted at Abe. “Because my family’s gotta eat, too!”
    Abe stared at him. He wanted to punch the man in the face—not sure why—but there was something about what he said that made Abe feel suddenly clamped. Like hearing a startling sound and freezing while your eyes searched for the threat.
    He shoved the man in the chest halfheartedly. “What are you talking about?”
    The sound of rotors beating the air, the wind from them buffeting in his ears. The smell of radiator fluid and gasoline and burned rubber. The taste of dust in his mouth, gritting between his teeth. His own dry throat. All of these things became suddenly and inexplicably apparent to him.
    “My family hasn’t eaten in three days!” the man said, enraged tears coming to his eyes. “Do you have any idea how that feels? Do you?”
    Abe’s jaw worked.
    “Of course not! You’re fucking military! You get all the food you can eat while the rest of us fucking starve!”
    That’s bullshit.
    What is this guy even talking about?
    “What about your ration cards?” Abe felt slightly off-balance.
    The man looked at him with an odd expression. Like Abe’s question confused him. “Is that a fucking joke?”
    Frustration boiled over. Tension broke. Abe screamed at the man. “Does it look like I’m fucking joking?”
    “You’re one of them! You have to know!”
    “Fuck this.” Abe put the pistol under the man’s chin.
    Wasn’t sure if he meant to do it or not.
    Thought that probably he did.
    Thought about his soldier on the roof, bleeding out.
    But the man cried out when the muzzle touched his skin. “Our rations cards don’t work! They don’t work! I swear to God! Don’t kill me!”
    “What…?” Abe blinked dust out of his eyes. “What do you mean your ration cards don’t work? I see civilians getting food all fucking day long! I’m in charge of those supplies. I’m the one who brings them in! I know they go to civilians. You’re so full of shit!”
    The man held up a hand for mercy. “Not everyone’s cards! Mine…and the others…and our families.” He