So sorry about the wait. I have been experiencing a massive amount of writer's block, specifically in writing from Joel's point of view. Also, a lot of other things cropped up in my life and I'm very sorry this is over a month late. I can't promise that I'll be punctual in updates, but I'm going to try. I have been working on other projects as well, fanfiction and other fiction writing, but that only accounts for a fraction of my time.

Unfortunately, this next chapter won't look over Joel, Amanda, Elizabeth, or Ellie. Instead, it's a flashback.

I really hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 4: Chicago's Finest

(Chicago Quarantine Zone, 1 year after the outbreak of CBI, Summer)

Corporal Fredericks hated his new work detail. Desk jobs weren't desirable, especially jobs that weren't even involved in his unit. He had no education in this field. He was a rifleman, not a shrink. The army psych in his unit already had his hands full dealing with the other soldiers and refugees. He couldn't be fucked to help the kids that were barely under his jurisdiction. Fredricks sighed and looked at the kid sitting across from his desk.

The new kid at the Chicago QZ's 'temporary' Military Preparatory School was a little blonde-haired boy. His legs swung in his seat, the chair being just a little bit big for him. He stared at his scabby knees. His thin, gaunt face and hollow gaze reminded Fredricks too much of his squadmates. How he got here was just another tragic tale. A routine check-in had revealed that a woman drank herself into a stupor, passed out on her bed, and drowned in her own vomit. The woman's kid, the one sitting before him now, came quietly, but absolutely refused to tell anyone his name. Investigation into the dead mother revealed the child's name to be Adam Dreese. The minute the kid stepped through the doors, Fredricks knew that he was going to be a fucking problem.

So far, the kid's scabby knees were the most interesting thing in the world, as far as the boy was concerned.

"So, kid, what's your name?"

Adam continued to look down at his legs, not acknowledging the question posed to him.

Maybe I can get him to open up a little.

"I'm Corporal Fredricks. If you want, you can just call me Fred."

His statement was met with silence, save for the slight rocking of the rusty legs of the chair. Fredricks sighed. Silent type. Typical. He picked up one of the files on his desk and flipped it open. The picture of the kid looked like a mugshot, that same gaunt, hollow-eyed stare looking into his soul from the shiny polaroid. He shivered before looking at the rest of the file.

"It says here that your name's Adam Dreese. Is that correct?"

Fredricks almost didn't catch it when the boy nodded.

"Well, Adam, I'm supposed to ask you a few questions. Would you answer them for me?"

The kid didn't answer. Fredricks sighed and flipped shut Adam's file, opening the other one on his desk. A single sheet of paper, lined with question his superior officer had given him to ask. Few of them were of the 'yes or no' variety. Normally, the files on a child answered most of these questions, as any sort of information had been passed down by adoption agencies, foster homes, hospitals, and court ordered psychological evaluations. But 'newbies,' like Adam Dreese, only had basic identification. Name, date of birth, height, weight, eye color, and hair color. Sometimes medical records, if their parents had had enough cash to pay for a doctor appointment now and then. But not in this case. Adam's psychological profile was completely unknown. Fredricks ran his hand over his face and closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He began with the basics.

"Okay, Adam. First off, your file says that you have a father, but it doesn't state his occupation, phone number, address, or anything else we could have used to contact him before the outbreak. Now, if he snuck in here, he won't have papers. We can't find him, or otherwise he'd be here right now. Is he in the QZ?"

Silence.

"I'll put in a good word for him and we'll get him some papers if you can help me find him. Is he in the QZ?"

It was a long time before the kid shook his head.

"Do you know where he is?"

Nod.

"Where is he?"

Silence.

"Look, we're obligated to gout of the QZ and get him since you're not legally an adult yet. If you know where he is, that would save us a lot of time."

More silence. Fredricks remembered a high-school creative writing teacher telling him on one of his dismal stories to 'show, don't tell'. It seemed now that it would be more effective if that teacher had told Adam that. Fredricks reached into his desk and pulled out a map of Chicago. It had helped him on more than one occasion with silent students. They preferred to show. Not tell. He laid it out on his desk.

"Could you show me where he is?"

Adam leaned forward and studied the map with a furrowed brow. Suddenly, his hand leapt up from his side and pressed a finger to the paper. Fredricks followed it. The boy's finger had landed on a cemetery.

"He's dead?"

The kid nodded, scooting back into the chair and looking back down at his swinging feet. Fredricks folded up the map.

"I guess we can make an exception for going out and getting him," he grumbled as he set the map back in the drawer and slid it shut. He leaned forward on his desk and clasped his hands together.

"I'm sorry about this. I truly am. But could you tell me how he died?"

The kid took a long time to shrug. Fredricks looked down at his questionnaire. It seemed stupid that he had to ask all these questions when the kid wouldn't say a fucking word. He had an idea, but it hadn't rolled over too well with the last kid who'd come in. Looking at the scar on his hand, he sighed. He would risk a couple hours in the emergency room if he coud get this kid to open up. He reached into his desk and pulled out a sharpened pencil.

"Look, normally I don't do this, but it seems that you don't want to talk. So I won't make you," he said as he got up from his desk and leaned against it. He held both the pencil and the questionnaire on a clipboard out to Adam, who stared at them, his expression curious.

Fredricks remembered the last time he attempted something like this. He had a few questions he wanted to ask a kid, and he didn't want to have to sift through verbal backlash to get to the meat of his story. It wore on him more than he cared to admit. Truth be told, Fredricks wasn't much older than these kids, being only twenty. But he wore a uniform, so he was just a solider to them. Especially to that one kid, who had a record of violence, a couple of juvie raps, an attitude problem, and a complete hatred of authority. He should have known better than to hand the kid a sharp object. It should not have surprised him when the kid immediately took the pencil and jammed it into his hand. That was little over a month ago and in that time, the kid broke out and ended up getting shot, mistaken for a Stage One infected. By whom, Fredricks didn't know. He didn't want to know.

So now, as he stood, repeating this olive branch offering to Adam Dreese, he couldn't help but think he'd get another trip to the emergency room. But, instead of stabbing hi, the boy slowly slid the clipboard from Fredricks' hands and began to write silently. Fredricks sat back in his seat and watched the kid as he worked. He was unsure exactly what was going through the kid's head, but it was as if he were writing an essay. The scribbling of his pencil did not stop. Maybe he wasn't considering what the questions truly meant. But the scribbling continued uninterrupted, until suddenly, he stopped, looked at it, scribbled on the bottom, and set it and the pencil back on the desk before returning to look at his swinging legs.

Fredricks bent forward and picked up both the clipboard and the pencil, stowing away the latter and then looking over the former. The answers were…not what he was excepting. The words the kid used were intelligent and articulate, even though he looked like none of these things as he quietly sat folded in on himself, refusing to speak. Fredricks knew officers who wrote less clearly than this. The kid even wrot e a signature at the end of the questionnaire. However, the answers themselves unnerved Fredricks. Adam wrote about horrifyingly traumatic instances in his past with the casual disdain one used for mild inconveniences. This was quite disturbing, as most children who lived in an abusive, alcoholic environment tended to think in a cloud of negative self-judgment. Not Adam. He didn't seem to be autistic either. He wrote his answers as if it were some official report, stating nothing but facts. It was as elusive as it was informative.

"So, Adam," Fredricks finally said, trying his best not to sound as confounded as he was, "Is there anything you'd like to ask me or tell me? Anything that, perhaps, your parents might have shouted down at home?"

Adam's feet stopped swinging as he looked up at Fredricks.

"Anything at all. It's okay. What you say will be just between you and me," Fredricks said when Adam continued to stare at him, "Anything you want. Go ahead. You can tell me."

Fredricks began to count the seconds as Adam stared at him. As time ticked by, Fredricks got the feeling that the kid was sizing him up. Assessing him. For what, Fredricks didn't know. Didn't really want to know, either. He continued to count and got to sixty-three before the kid shook his head like a statue coming to life. Fredricks sighed. Of course.

"I guess now it's time to show you to your bunk. Your stuff's already been moved there," he said, getting up from his desk. Adam hopped off of the chair and plodded after him, head aimed at the ground. Once Fredricks showed him to his living quarters, he didn't give any more thought to Adam Dreese. Now, he was just a face in the crowd. But, as was his job, Fredricks had to keep at least one eye on the new kid. At least until he settled in.

When Adam arrived, he seemed to make a few enemies and friends. New kids in the Military Preparatory School always did this, though in Adam's case it was more friends than enemies. Pretty soon, he had something of a gang around him. That wasn't unusual around charismatic people, but Adam wasn't the charismatic one. That was Brett Parker, a rambunctious fifteen year old who had taken the kid 'under his wing'. But Fredricks didn't usually concern himself with the politics of the children. As long as Adam Dreese seemed to be fitting in, that was all he cared. And, about two days after Adam, two more kids came in on a bus from Cleveland. Adam was old news.

One day, about three weeks after Adam had arrived, a fight broke out in the cafeteria. Fredricks and a couple squadmates broke it up to find that one kid, named Travis Milton, had been seriously wounded with the business end of a knife. Brett Parker turned out to be the kid who held the knife and ended up getting locked up in juvie for a few weeks while the other kid spent time in the hospital. Fredricks, as the highest ranking soldier on hand, had to write the incident report. He interviewed all the witnesses, most of whom all said the same thing. The kid pissed Brett off and Brett stabbed him in a rage. No one knew where the knife came from. Or what exactly had provoked Brett to stab the kid in the first place.

Then, he interviewed Brett's gang and got the same damn story. Travis did something Brett didn't like and Brett retaliated. Most people in Fredricks' position might have had enough to go on, but Fredricks had always been detail oriented. This didn't make sense. School-yard and cafeteria brawls were a dime a dozen, but a stabbing was nearly impossible. Blades of any kind were contraband, and most kids weren't old enough or sharp enough to make a prison shank, let alone smuggle in a knife. There were so many questions that everyone answered with a shrug. How did Brett get the knife? What did Travis do to piss off Brett so much he would assault him with a deadly weapon, in broad daylight, surrounded by soldiers?

It slowly dawned on him that maybe he should investigate further, and that perhaps the victim would have more answers than anyone else.

When Travis Milton felt well enough, Fredricks decided to visti him. When he came in, the kid tried to situp and salute, the proper greeting for a superior.

"No need for that, you'll rip your stitches," Fredricks told him, "Travis Milton, I'm Corporal Fredricks. I'm investigating your…'confrontation' with Brett Parker," he grabbed a nearby chair, spun it around, and sat, leaning against the back and crossing his leg to get better support for his clipboard, "Travis, I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened in the cafeteria."

"Yes, sir," the kid croaked, voice cracking from lack of use. Or illness. It was most likely the former, but the grunge accumulating in the hospitals lately made a strong case for the latter.

"First of all, the docs say you're healing well, is that right?"

"They said I should be out of here in a few days."

"Good. You feeling better?"

"Kinda."

"Okay. You feel comfortable talking about what happened in the cafeteria?"

"Not really, but I'll tell you what I can."

"Okay. What provoked the initial confrontation?"

"I don't know," Travis said unhelpfully. He looked away surreptitiously. He was lying.

"I want to help you. I really do, Travis. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on."

"I said I don't know."

"You're safe now, Travis. Brett Parker's hit his last strike. He's going out into general population as soon as-"

"I'm not safe."

That took Fredricks back, "Why don't you feel safe?"

Travis looked at him with wide eyes. Apparently, it had just slipped out unintended. Regardless, it was all out in the open now. Fredricks repeated his question. Travis kept his eyes trained on the window, as if he were looking for something that may be eavesdropping. Finally, he spoke.

"Brett was a hotshot for a long time. Like a couple of years, I guess. But then this new kid shows up, and he's kind of an asshole. Butting in on his turf, fucking with him in class, that kind of thing. Brett's like, 'Hey, I'm gonna get outta here soon, might as well show this kid what's what.' He gets his gang up on him, but then this kid worms his way out of it, says he's like, sorry or whatever and just wants to hang out with the big kids. Brett takes him takes him in, to try to 'teach' him how not to act like an asshole. Then Brett suddenly goes totally apeshit, just jumps on me and starts wailing on me. I didn't even know he had a knife until you guys pulled him off me," as he told the story, Travis got more and more tense, looking around, his voice growing softer.

Bingo.

"Tell me about this kid," he said, leaning forward. Immediately Travis paled.

"This kid…this kid is really fucking smart. He's like a genius. But he's also super paranoid. There were a couple of girls who got fucked up on weed, said some shit about the kid. Next day, their whole stash of joints is gone. Someone snuck into their room and took it from 'em, leaving a note saying shit like, 'I know where you sleep.' Then those fucking joints show up in the room of some asshole who was constantly giving him shit. Right before a room inspection. The asshole gets hauled off to lockup and as he's leaving the kid fucking smiles and waves at the dude! Then there was Brett. Brett and the kid get into an argument 'cause the kid doesn't wanna steal a dirty magazine Brett wants. Finally, the kid says okay, but then he says that Brett would owe him afterward. Brett doesn't pay up. Now he's in lockup, too."

"For stabbing you," Fredricks pointed out. Travis shook his head.

"Brett did it because that kid got him to do it. I accidentally knocked that kid's breakfast tray over once like a week ago. Every time I walked by him after that, he would just look at me like he was trying to figure me out. It was fucking creepy. Then, Brett goes apeshit on me, screaming about me stealing his porno."

Fredricks leaned forward, the wheels turning in his mind. The kid was new and orchestrated a perfect revenge spree on people who messed with him even remotely. He also had Travis Milton scared out of his mind and seemed to be a great thief who was able to hide his prizes and get other people in trouble for it. Fredricks kicked himself for ot paying more attention to child politics, as this kid seemed to be a master at it. Fredricks had a sneaking suspicion who it was. But he needed it to be official. His question was blunt.

"Who is this kid?"

Travis paled even further and clammed up.

"Travis, I need you to tell me his name. If I can't get you to tell me his name, give me some detail to go on. Something that helps me pick him out in a crowd."

No matter what Fredricks said after that, Travis didn't say a word. Eventually, Fredricks gave up and went back to his office to review his evidence. It wasn't encouraging. Brett did this at someone's behest, but who it was eluded him.

There was a knock on his door.

"Enter."

"Sir?"

Fredricks looked up to the soft-spoken voice and saw Adam Dreese standing in his doorway, saluting. Fredricks returned his salute.

"Adam. What can I do for you?"

"You told everyone to come to you if we had something to say about the fight in the cafeteria?"

"I did. Do you have something to tell me?"

"Travis stole a contraband magazine from Brett. Brett gets really mad when people steal stuff from him. That's why Brett went after him."

Fredricks was taken aback. This was the first time Adam had actually spoken to him.

"Thanks, Adam. We'll look into it. Dismissed."

Adam looked at him. Stared. Again. And it was the same kind of stare as the one from when they first met. Not a challenge, but certainly an examination. Whatever Adam's verdict would be, Fredricks didn't find out, as Adam suddenly saluted and left.

A search of Travis' room revealed a salacious magazine, just as Adam had said. It lined up. All too much.

"Son of a bitch."

Adam Dreese was now Fredricks' prime suspect.

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