A Powerless World | Book 2 | Survive The Lawless

by Hunt, Jack

  Colby

  Merced County, California

  Seven days after the event

  Colby Riker felt that these were his final breaths. What little energy remained from trying to get free was gone. He was nothing but a lump of meat exposed to the California air. Birds had shit on him. One or two landed and moved down his arms, their tiny claws raking his skin. Some tried to get close to his face and peck out his eyes, but even the slightest movement scared them away.

  He groaned.

  Now all he felt was pain.

  Unbearable agony.

  He might have died sooner had it not been for the rain. After two days without water, his tongue was dry and swollen, his lips cracked by the noonday heat. When the first droplets from heaven fell, it was a welcome relief. He’d wanted to lift his head back, but a wooden post was in the way.

  Arms outstretched in the cross pose, his wrists, chest, thighs, and ankles were restrained.

  He stank to high heaven.

  Without food, his bowels had cleared, maybe twenty-four ago; he’d lost count of how long he’d been hanging here. Urine had flowed, trailing down, warming his cold legs. Through swollen eyes, he looked out across the field to a small road that they’d brought him in on. He remembered the tan truck, laughter, the smell of alcohol and fists striking him before being tied to the cross, and being left in deep in the middle of the field, so far out that even if someone was to see him, they wouldn’t look twice.

  They’d draped an old coat over him, placed a straw hat on his head, and left him in jeans and boots. Except this method of hiding or humiliating him was what had kept him from dying sooner.

  Through daylight hours, he drifted in and out of consciousness. The warmth of the sun keeping him back from the edge of eternity. The nights were awful. The temperature would drop, and after it rained, well, his body hadn’t stopped shivering.

  Move. Try to move. He’d told himself this time and time again. His brain, that last piece of a will to survive, never gave up. But he couldn’t escape, the rope was too tight. Painful muscle cramps had set deep into the middle of his shoulders from having his arms stretched apart and unable to move.

  Festering sores on his wrists attracted flies.

  Tension, aching, it all swirled together, an agonizing cocktail that never ended.

  It was strange how the mind worked under duress. Staring down at the soil beneath him, he’d seen worms wiggling in and out of the surface, seemingly growing larger before his very eyes. They weren’t real. It was a hallucination, but he didn’t know it at the time. A lack of food, water, and sleep had crippled common sense. The brain was shutting down, drifting across the center line like a driver too tired to stay awake and function.

  Even sound took on a life of its own.

  The wind was akin to people whispering in his ear, each one a voice of judgment from the past; his father, his mother, his siblings, even Skye. All blaming him. See. This is what happens when you leave home. This is what happens when you help someone. This is what happens when you’re not here. You should have stayed on the farm.

  Hours turned into night. Two nights.

  The hallucinations got worse.

  He’d seen his father before him beckoning him to follow him into the light.

  It didn’t matter if he squeezed his eyes shut — the torment never ceased.

  Perhaps someone will see me.

  Maybe the farmer will find me.

  But there was no one coming. Who would be out there? The world had gone to hell, and anyone with a lick of sense would be hunkered down, weathering out the storm, listening to battery-powered AM/FM radios, and waiting on emergency updates. That’s what he should have done. He should have stayed in Los Angeles County.

  But instead, he was out of the city. Alive. Alive? It seemed like a cosmic joke.

  Colby berated himself, going back and forth between blaming himself to blaming her — Alicia. Memories came rushing back: the bail-jumper, the proverbial pain in the ass, the blackout, Carl, Daisy, Manny, Leo.

  And who could forget the near-death experience outside his home or the confrontation with Russians?

  Then this happened.

  He sighed.

  Where was Alicia now? Probably raped. Dead. Dumped in a ditch?

  If he’d just listened to his intuition he wouldn’t be in this situation. It hadn’t failed him yet. They’d made real progress using that old 70s truck those Russians had left behind. Hell, they’d covered two hundred and eighty miles in two days. It should have taken them roughly five hours to cover the same distance on an ordinary day, but with all the detours, clogged roads, and trouble, it had taken far longer.

  From L.A. to Humboldt it was roughly six hundred miles, now only three hundred remained.

  Halfway home.

  They were halfway when problems arose.

  He groaned thinking about it. If she’d just listened to him. Why didn’t she listen to him? Better still, why didn’t he ignore her request?

  They could be miles down the road by now. Closer to home.

  It didn’t matter now. He wouldn’t see that curtain of redwoods again.

  High above him, birds circled just waiting for him to take his last breath. One day his skeleton would be found, a morbid sight, a puzzle for someone to solve.

  Again, his father appeared before him.

  Go away, go away! He mumbled through cracked lips, his throat as dry as the Gobi Desert.

  Then as if the sight of him couldn’t be worse, he saw her.

  Skye.

  Beautiful. Skye.

  Those deep blue eyes, that fair skin, her scent. It was as real as the last time he held her. Perhaps he was even dead already. Yes, that’s what this was. Limbo. Purgatory. A holding state for his soul before he stood before the Good Lord and was judged for his crimes, for murder, for unforgiveness.

  He would plead his case, say it wasn’t his fault, that he was born a Riker. He had no choice. He didn’t get to choose his parents, his culture, his country, his life? From the first day he sucked air into his lungs, he was destined for trouble.

  A huge breeze blew up in his face, bringing grit into his mouth.

  A fine layer had already settled all over him.

  Colby spat, feeling the cold nip at his extremities.

  Although he was in California, January was still cold. Cold for California. Not cold enough for snow but cold enough to suffer from hypothermia. The body’s default temperature was 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Hypothermia could set in once the body fell below 95. It was way below that. At night it must have been 30 degrees or even lower. He was already showing signs of confusion — seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.

  Colby.

  Skye’s voice carried on the wind.

  Was the veil between the here and there so thin that he could hear her?

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said, not able to even produce tears.

  He was a fool to believe that he could escape the past.

  Run away to L.A. Dodge the bullet. Avoid the inevitable. Who was he kidding?

  Colby pushed the dark thoughts down as far as he could. The way he always had. It’s what had allowed him to function — to avoid hitting the bottle and becoming another bum on the streets of L.A.

  He lifted his head one more time, thinking he heard a bark, but it wasn’t Kane. Kane was gone too. Just like Alicia. Probably shot and lying beside the road, nothing more than roadkill for the vultures to feast upon.

  Let go. Let go, Colby.

  The voice inside became stronger.

  He’d fought it, clinging to this life and all its regrets, but maybe he could go. Maybe it would be better.

  There was no way to change what had led him to this spot, no way to change what lay before him, no way to change who he was. Every experience, both good and bad, had brought him to this place of misery, this landscape of death that would become his grave.

  A blurry figure before him beckoned him into a go
lden light.

  But that’s all it was, sunlight in the distance, a beautiful flame.

  As the sun faded upon the horizon and another day merged with night, Colby closed his eyes, ready to move toward the light behind his eyelids. While he had a heart full of regrets, a past of mistakes and pain, at least he’d lived on his terms, tried to amend his wrongs, and spent his final days helping someone. That had to matter. His words were barely audible. “I’m coming, Father, I’m coming.”

  TWO

  Delirious. The world flared up around Colby, nothing but a blur as something rough turned his jaw from side to side. Light stabbed through his eyelids. White. Blinding. Too much. Too bright. He grimaced, a groan escaping his cracked lips. Then the awareness of someone before him. Eyes too close, a breath that reeked of stale tobacco. Was it real or just another hallucination?

  “Is he alive?” a young voice said.

  “Take my knife and slice these off.”

  The voice was gruff, adult.

  All he could see before him were blobs of darkness moving, hazy. Was he dead? Was this some kind of hell? Demons before him, eager to get to work on torturing his soul for all the wrong he’d done? Yes. That’s what it was. Would it be painful? How long would it last? He didn’t care. There was no energy in his body to even lift his head.

  Suddenly a sense of falling forward, a deep ache in his back replaced by sharp pain. The world shifted on its axis as he was brought down. Down from where? His memories were like mush — nothing but fragmentations, a kaleidoscope of horror.

  “Bring over my canteen.”

  Footfalls, heavy, and fast.

  The next memory was of lying on a soft, cold surface.

  “Here, Grandpa.”

  Grandpa?

  Water sluiced around as a hand lifted his head. Sloshing water went all over his face. He gasped a few times, desperate to consume it.

  Metal touched his lower lip, something hard against his teeth.

  “Slowly does it. Drink slowly.”

  A man’s voice sounded garbled.

  Colby guzzled hard and fast, liquid rushing over his dry and parched throat, his swollen tongue, his cracked lips that had split.

  This wasn’t hell. He was wrong. This had to be heaven. His grandmother had told him about such a place. What did she say? No more pain. No more suffering. Only love. Then why did he still feel pain?

  Why was he suffering?

  Still swallowing water, he gagged, coughing hard.

  “I told you to go slow,” the voice said. He caught a glimpse out the corner of his eye, he was on soil looking up at a canopy of darkness, the night sky rippling out before him, tiny pinpricks of light, twinkling stars.

  And then it was gone.

  Darkness overtook him.

  The next memory was his head tilted and something inserted into the back of his throat. He resisted and gagged as cold liquid washed a foreign object down. “It’s for the pain.” The taste was bitter. “Aspirin.” Encouragement followed as water flowed. He swallowed too fast. “Small sips.” Colby’s swollen eyes opened and closed, nothing but a hazy reality before him. A wooden ceiling. A blur of color to his left. A glow emanated from somewhere. The familiar crackle and pop of a fire. The sweet, comforting smell of wood burning, awakening his senses. Voices came and went, nothing more than echoes. Some distinguishable and long. The rest snippets.

  No sense of time, just riding on waves of pain, excruciating pain. He drifted from one dream into another, never knowing if he was truly asleep or stuck in limbo.

  The next memory was of being helped to swallow small spoonfuls of salty goodness. An explosion of flavor. Chicken broth. He recognized it. No meat. No vegetables. Just liquid, gliding over his tongue and rushing down to strengthen his feeble shell.

  Rinse, repeat.

  Darkness, daylight, the drone, always a drone of conversation — laughter, he’d forgotten what that sounded like.

  Pieces of the world gradually registered in his mind as snapshots.

  Someone leaned over him. He felt wetness against his chest.

  Warped and distorted voices faded in and out.

  “They beat him badly. Why, Grandpa? Why?”

  No answer came, or maybe it did, but he sank back into blackness.

  His arm lifted, a spongy object prodded his armpit.

  “How is he?” a soft but gravelly female voice said.

  “His body has taken a lot of damage.”

  “You were lucky to find him when you did.”

  “I had some help. Hey, Jenna. She found him.”

  Jenna? He thought.

  “Yep,” a young voice replied.

  “He looks so ill. Will he survive?” The woman asked.

  “Hard to know right now. He’s burning up. Running a fever. I’m not sure how long he was out there.”

  “Do you think he did this?”

  Were they referring to him or someone else?

  “Carol. You know he did.”

  It was confusing. He wanted to speak, say something, but couldn’t form words. He wanted to thank them. But thank them for what? He still wasn’t sure this wasn’t part of some grand hallucination, and he’d awaken to find himself still attached to that post, strung up like a scarecrow. Depleted of energy, Colby drifted again, unable to hold on to the pleasant world around him.

  How long he was gone this time, buried beneath a haze of pain, was unknown. It must have been a long time, as his mind slowly started to recognize day from night by the warm glow and sharpness of light.

  More pills.

  More water, more soup.

  Covers wrapped around him.

  A sting. Something pierced his arm.

  Moments of riding bliss before being thrown back into pain.

  “Will he die, Grandpa?”

  “I don’t know. He’s in God’s hands now, my child. We’ve done all we can.”

  Once again the world was gone, at least the one around him — the cabin, the blurry people, the glow and crackle of fire. Instead, he saw a montage unfold in his mind, events cut together — a city ablaze, a woman’s face. Who are you? I recognize you from somewhere. No name. A dog barked. Gunfire. Death and destruction. What kind of nightmare was this?

  When Colby finally emerged from the dark cloud, it was quiet. The images in his head were gone. The voices were gone. He blinked hard. His vision cleared. He was alone lying in a single bed, staring at a pine ceiling inside a small cabin. Flowery drapes covered a window across the room. Daylight seeped in, hurting his eyes. A single tall cupboard butted up against the wall off to his left.

  He coughed hard, his throat parched.

  Beside the bed was a pitcher of water and an empty glass. Colby slowly pushed away the thick blankets to find he was naked. His ribs were covered with various degrees of bruising. Purple, a sickly yellow. What the heck? No memory of where they came from. Where are my clothes? A quick scan. Nothing. He’d deal with that in a minute. First things first, he needed to quench his thirst. He rolled onto his side, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he reached for the glass.

  He picked it up and it immediately slipped out of his fingers, hitting a rug on the floor and rolling beneath the bed.

  Whatever strength he had was gone, his muscle memory shot.

  How long had he been out?

  He felt like a partially charged phone with just enough power to turn on momentarily but not enough to function properly. He didn’t bother attempting to find the glass and pour the water. Instead, he took the pitcher with both hands and guzzled the contents. He felt like a man who’d walked out of the desert. Colby set it back down and wiped his mouth. He swung his legs out, scrunching his toes on the fluffy rug.

  He tried to rise.

  He wobbled, steadying himself with a hand.

  His bones felt like liquid as if there was nothing solid to hold him upright. Colby tried again, this time he stumbled and fell on the hardwood floor, taking a gray blanket and sheet with him.


  He curled in a fetal position. Breathing hard. Trying to summon strength. Where am I? That’s when he heard someone approach the door. It creaked open and he turned to see a young girl, no older than nine. Her eyes widened. “Grandma! Grandma, he’s awake.” He extended out a hand toward her but she bolted.

  “No, come back,” he said. He groaned as he tried to get up again but got tangled in the sheet. He landed hard on his knees.

  A storm door slammed, someone jogged toward his room.

  A moment, then a big woman loomed in the doorway, filling it, staring down.

  She had wiry gray hair that was parted in the middle and pulled down tight over the top of her ears and around the back. She wore spectacles and a drab brown dress that was filled by the swell of her bosom. Below that a blue apron with some scripture on the front about how you can do all things through Christ.

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said, immediately lifting a hand to shield her eyes. “Cover yourself, young man.”

  He glanced down and realized again that he was naked.

  “Where are my clothes?”

  “You had none.”

  “What?”

  She looked flustered, slightly red in the cheeks. “We can talk about this in a moment. Please cover yourself. There is a child present.” Two beady eyes appeared around the corner. A smirk followed. The old woman placed a hand over her eyes, but the girl could still see through the fingers. Colby grasped the white sheet quickly and covered his nether regions before the woman assisted him back into bed.

  His brow wrinkled with confusion. “Where am I?”

  “Our home. The Manning farm. My name is Carol, and that is Jenna, my granddaughter.” She turned, and Jenna was leaning up against the door. She was a pretty little thing, short dark hair, oval face, huge wide eyes, white T-shirt, blue jean jacket, green shorts, and sporting black Converse sneakers. She wore a curious smirk and observed him like some fairground oddity. The girl placed a hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Jenna, go and make some tea.”

  “But I want to…”

  “Jenna.”

  She groaned. “Okay.”