Hungry Independents (Book 2) by Ted Hill

was one thing missing that he wanted. He
     pulled the olive green pants and belt out of the box and the worn
     olive socks. He set a stack of Boys’ Life magazines next to his
     growing pile on the floor.
    The last thing in the bottom was a wooden
     box. Opening the lid, he found all the patches of rank that came
     before eagle. Everything but the one thing Scout really wanted: the
     medal that a Boy Scout earned when he achieved the rank of eagle.
     He rifled through the contents of the wooden box until satisfied
     that it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the larger box either.
    Scout stood and scratched his head. The baby
     hadn’t earned this stuff. His father had saved his scouting
     experience to share with his son one day.
    He walked down the hall and opened a
     different door leading to another familiar room. This once held the
     sewing supplies that Scout had given to Ginger. A quick but
     thorough search brought no medal.
    He turned to the last door upstairs and
     remembered the haunted look on Mark’s face. He told Scout not to go
     in. Scout had listened then, but now was different. Now he needed
     to find something. Scout needed it more than whatever horror waited
     for him behind that door.
    Scout opened the door. The trapped heat
     sucked the air out of his lungs again. Sunlight outlined the
     perimeter of curtained windows. Scout spread the curtains and
     opened the windows. He breathed in the cool air outside and
     turned.
    Three dried husks lie on the bed. Father and
     mother rested in peace with their little boy between them.
    Scout pounded the wall in blind rage as a
     fresh supply of tears filled his eyes. “Damn you, Chase!”
    He circled the room, looking in the dresser
     and the armoire—furniture that appeared to be antiques from a
     different era. He wasn’t finding it. So he opened the closet and
     ripped through the contents, overtaken by madness to find the
     medal. Scout faced the nightstand next to the man, thinking if he
     had worked hard to earn something so special he’d keep it right
     beside him till death.
    He forced himself to ignore the nightmare
     lying a few feet away, then he filtered through the dust buildup on
     the nightstand. On the surface, there was an empty glass, the man’s
     watch, wallet, and keys, an alarm clock, a mystery novel, a bible,
     but no medal. The single drawer contained papers, greeting cards
     from forgotten Christmases and birthdays, an old comic book, a box
     of condoms, pictures, a pocketknife, ear plugs, a plastic deer
     call, a stopwatch, loose change, but no eagle medal.
    Scout breathed deeply and turned his head. He
     looked at the man, decayed beyond recognition. Faded clothing
     contained whatever was left after rot destroyed the man’s body. No
     medal.
    The plague did not kill children. The plague
     only killed those who were eighteen or older. Scout was afraid to
     think about what killed this child. Afraid to think about what this
     child experienced before it succumbed to death. He looked at the
     boy and his heart shattered into a million pieces.
    Inside the boy’s tiny grip lay the eagle
     medal that Scout coveted, with its red, white and blue ribbon.
    Scout rubbed his dry mouth slowly.
    He reached out.
    He stopped.
    The husk of the dead kid lay curled between
     his dead parents.
    Scout hadn’t earned this man’s badge. He
     wasn’t worthy to take the one thing this little boy had held onto
     in death.
    Scout grabbed a gym bag from the closet and
     hurried to the child’s room. He removed the uniform and packed all
     of the Boy Scout stuff inside the bag. Wearing his own backpack
     once again, he carried the gym bag downstairs to his bike and
     secured it to the end of his seat and rode away, leaving the eagle
     medal behind where it belonged. Maybe someday he would earn his
     own.

 
Fourteen
Scout
     
    Scout rode underneath the afternoon sun that
     covered him like an extra blanket. Halfway home, he shook off the
     tension and