Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning

by Allen, William

  “Coming up on the right,” Mike advised, and when he turned into the storage yard I refocused on the gate in front of us. Rolling down his window, Mike paused just long enough to punch in the code before driving through the entrance and slowly making a circuit of the abandoned-looking complex. We drove around the enclosed block of smaller, indoor units, stacked two high with a wide hallway and an elevator. My eyes strained to see through the wall of smoked glass windows in the climate-controlled building that contained the smaller, but more expensive, storage rooms, but I detected no movement.

  Finally satisfied we were alone, my brother drove back around to the far side of the facility, approaching the roll-up doors designed to accept vehicles. I knew these were designed to house things like boats and recreation vehicles, as well as the more mundane and prosaic trailer.

  “That’s it. Unit 1324,” Mike directed, handing me a single key on a keyring. While Mike pulled around to line up, I popped out of the passenger seat and slung my rifle. Crouching over the heavy silver lock, I wrestled with the mechanism and pocketed the big lump of metal. Then, gripping the handle, I tugged on the segmented, accordion-style door and lifted. The accompanying rattle sounded loud, even over the rumble of the idling truck engine.

  I took a quick glance inside, noting the enclosed trailer and hitch, then waved Mike back. Even with his backup camera, Mike needed a few hand signals from me to mate the attached ball to the trailer’s hitch. When I gave him the final wave, he killed the truck and got out to come back while I was working the hand crank to raise the stand.

  “Any sign the trailer’s been tamped with?” Mike asked, and I gave a shrug.

  “I’m just dumb labor here,” I retorted. “The lock was intact, though.”

  “I’ve seen some news reports, where someone rents one of these with a fake ID, then gets in late at night and uses a grinder or cutting torch to get into the other units. Caused quite a stir,” Mike explained as he walked around and confirmed the integrity of the metal walls. Everything looked good, but Mike was going to check the back of the trailer when we both heard the scuffle outside.

  “Shit,” Mike mouthed soundlessly as he lowered himself behind the corner of the trailer on the driver’s side. I reacted a heartbeat later, assuming a similar stance on the other corner, my rifle off my shoulder and in my hands as my knee met concrete. Safety off, and round already in the chamber, I tried to regulate my breathing as we waited. If this was a wandering stray dog, I was going to feel silly, but my stretched nerves told me this was something else.

  “This is the manager. Come on out of there,” a voice called, young and confident. Just outside the rolled-up door, and as I strained my ears, I thought I could make out the sound of metal against metal. Maybe windchimes, I thought nonsensically.

  “This is the tenant, and I don’t see you either. Why don’t you step into the light?” Mike replied. Which made no sense unless you understood my brother’s odd style on humor.

  “Come on, asshole. We know there’s just the two of you. Come out now. Don’t make us come in there after you.”

  Well, that was interesting. I was wondering if this guy might actually work as security for the storage complex, but that last comment sealed the deal for me. This was somebody looking to jack us, and the guy sounded more than a little off. I mean, more off than just somebody trying to take what we had in a strong-arm robbery. The singsong tone made me think he was high, and I wondered what he was taking.

  I also wondered if he, or his crew, noticed how we were armed.

  “Make them come to us,” Mike murmured so softly I could barely make out the words at three feet. We stayed knelt, nearly back to back, and I decided at that moment to insert my ear plugs, because things were about to get loud in this enclosed space.

  With the weak sunlight playing peekaboo, I was still able to make out random flashes of movement outside, but nothing happened for nearly a minute. I shifted, finding a better position for my poor left knee, and the movement outside translated to action as someone stuck their hand around the corner with a pistol extended. Two pistol rounds squealed into the upper corner of the box before I zeroed on the wrist and returned fire. I triggered two rounds in rapid succession, and my ears rang despite the ear plugs. Much more of this and I figured I would be permanently deaf. I winced in pain and wished I had the heavy ear defenders as well.

  Next to me, I heard more shooting, but the piercing scream of the wounded pistol wielder covered whatever was going on next door. Mike was getting some business on his side, too. Worry for my brother flashed through me, but I realized the only way I could help him was in taking care of this side of the trailer. I felt compelled to act.

  Flopping forward on the dusty cement, I extended my rifle but held fire. The wounded shooter continued to raise a fit outside, and I used that squalling to cover any sound as I inched forward on my belly, dragging with my elbows and toes as I advanced.

  Nearly to the doorway, I took a quick glance to the side and caught a glimpse of leg exposed under the front of the trailer. Since Mike hadn’t been wearing ratty jeans with a hole in the knee, I knew this wasn’t going to be a case of friendly fire. Shifting my point of aim radically, I centered on the part of the leg I could see and squeezed two quick rounds before rolling myself closer to the sidewall of the storage room. Gunsmoke filled the air as a new voice added to the shrieks, but the volume rapidly faded.

  I lay there, barrel only inches from the track for the rollup door, and I waited to see what would happen next. Thirty seconds passed at a glacial pace, my heart hammering my ribs as I anticipated a renewed flurry of shots, but none came. Then in the distance, I heard an engine start, and tires squeal in protest. Another minute, and I heard Mike’s voice call out.

  “Bryan, you okay?”

  “Fine. You hit?”

  “All good. I think they’re gone. Let’s get out of here.”

  I wanted to agree, but I worried about any stay behinds, lurking just out of sight for us to expose ourselves. Mike must have had the same fear, because I heard him rustling around in the trailer. After a few minutes, I could hear his footfalls, heavy on the concrete as he paced up the other side of the enclosure. Heavier than usual, in fact.

  “Hold where you are, and I’ll go check around. Give me a second.”

  I could see Mike’s feet under the trailer, and he was still a good six feet from the door, so I resettled the rifle in the pocket of my shoulder and waited. When he lobbed something out the door in an underhanded arc, I almost missed it, except for the trailing streamer of white as it passed.

  Following the move, I slung my rifle and drew my pistol. Unless I guessed wrong, this would be fast, close-up work, and the barrel of the rifle was just too long. I wished we’d brought Marta’s little AR pistol for this trip. Next time I left the farm, I was going to be carrying more weapons than Arnie strapped on in Commando.

  Going back into a crouch, and banishing the stupid from my brain for the moment, I spun and scanned, but other than an impressive pool of blood, I found my side of the storage yard to be unoccupied. From the shuffle I heard from the other side, Mike was doing the same.

  “Clear!” I called out, my eyes flicking from point to point.

  “Clear!” Mike responded a heartbeat later. “You got anything over there?”

  “Blood. A lot. I know I hit one in the hand. Got another in the leg on your side.”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. Got another one dead over here as well. Looks like the rest of them beat feet.”

  “Which we need to do as well,” I added. This wasn’t the free fire zone that back home had become. I worried about the cops showing up, now that the threat had been dealt with.

  “Let me pull up, and you can relock the unit,” Mike reasoned, and I followed his advice, stepping over the trailer hitch to get a look at the other side.

  Two dead, just like Mike said. Femoral artery, I thought dispassionately as I examined the one I’d killed. Those big .308 rounds had c
hewed through the leg like a bear’s jaws. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, African-American, and wearing a moderate amount of bling. I left the necklaces, but I still scavenged up the short carbine he’d dropped. A Marlin Camp Carbine in .45 ACP, I decided. Nice, but it didn’t go with the big, gold rope necklace with the dollar sign pendant. I frisked the body, careful not to get any blood on my hands, and located two more magazines shoved into his back pockets. High capacity 1911 mags, I thought as I examined them more closely. Exactly what the carbine was designed to use.

  Reaching into the back of Mike’s truck, I pulled out a canvas grocery bag and deposited the short carbine and the magazines. Mike was already getting into the truck when I went to second body, and this one was showing a single GSW to the center of his chest. This guy wasn’t wearing the heavy necklaces, but I noticed metal in his mouth and figured he had the stereotypical gangsta grill. What the heck, I thought to myself. These guys looked like they should have been knocking over a drug lab, or more likely, guarding the place. What the hell were they doing trying to knock over a storage location?

  Laying on the ground next to the corpse, I saw an AR style rifle. Basic setup with iron sights and bare rails. Without checking it more closely, I stuck it and the spare magazine from the dead man’s front pocket into the same bag. The barrel extended out a few inches, but I was beyond caring at this point and just dropped the load into the bed of the truck as Mike pulled the truck forward.

  As soon as the end of the trailer cleared the door, I shoved it down with a bang and scrambled to replace the heavy padlock. Still panting a bit from the stress and adrenaline dump, I ran around the front of the truck to reclaim my seat when Mike rolled down his window and stuck his head out to speak.

  “Hey, before we go, can you pick up that roll of toilet paper?”

  I stuttered to a stop, suddenly hit with a wave a shock from Mike’s words.

  “Excuse me? What the fuck did you just say?”

  “The roll? Can you pick it up, please?”

  “Are you out of your mind?! You know that thing has rolled halfway to the office by now. Can you imagine how many germs that thing has been exposed to already? And you want to wipe your butt with it?”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound kind of gross,” Mike replied with a grimace. “Just leave it.”

  “Oh, no, I’m definitely going to bring that back with us. As evidence when we tell Marta what happened.”

  Mike frowned, then changed the subject.

  “Think we should check the office?”

  “You know what we’ll find in there,” I replied, my earlier joking tone completely missing now. If these jackals had caught anybody in the office, they were undoubtably dead.

  “I do,” Mike replied sadly. “Still, I think we should. I’d hate to leave somebody wounded in there, at their mercy when the rats return.”

  “All right. Let me get your roll of toilet paper, then we can go check.”

  “Just leave it.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t leave it now,” I retorted, then I trotted out and retrieved the now slightly dirty roll of bathroom tissue, tossing it in the backseat. “Hey, can I ride on the running board while you creep up on the office? I mean, it would look badass,” I added, trying to restore some of our earlier banter. I knew it might sound crazy to anyone listening, but I wanted to take both our minds off what we expected to find.

  “Not as badass as when that little scrap of sheet metal breaks, and your ass gets dumped on the concrete. That was intended as a step to aid you in getting in the truck, not something for you to pretend to be some catwalk model,” Mike growled, and I gave in, plopping down into the passenger seat for the quarter mile drive back up front to the office.

  I might seem to be growing calloused to the killing, and to the suffering of others, but in truth, I was still hiding from what I’d seen and done since Rockfall. Repressing my feelings might be a poor coping mechanism, but it was what I had, and the method had proved to be an able crutch for me in the past. Sure, I’d turned into an emotionless zombie after my wife and son were killed, but at least I’d managed to still function. Even fooled a few people who didn’t know me better into thinking I was just cold and distant, and not dead inside.

  Feeling myself growing introspective and knowing it never ended well, I shifted my attention back to the matter at hand. Digging in the center console, I pulled out a package of alcohol wipes, wiped down my hands vigorously, and then removed the ear plugs so I could hear better. Even with their protection, my head was still ringing from the shooting indoors, but looking at the approaching building, I re-inserted the squishy orange plugs. Might get loud again, I reasoned.

  Mike parked behind the office, and we both saw the back door hanging open, half off the hinges. Before Mike could turn off the engine, I was out of the truck with my rifle raised, zeroed on the gaping exit. If somebody was going to come charging out with bad intentions, I would stop them or die trying. That was my own decision, to watch out for my little brother no matter what.

  When I reached the open door, I paused, then took up position on the right side, back against the ruined door. As I moved into position, I could see where someone had blown the lock, probably with a shotgun slug. When Mike joined me, we shared a look, and he confirmed what I already knew. There was somebody dead inside. The smell gave it away.

  “Might still be survivors.” Mike said it without conviction, but he had to know. He was the hero, after all. On three, we surged into the darkness, looking for survivors.

  There weren’t any. But what we did find provided fresh material for my nightmares. As near as we could tell, there were four of them, and they’d been tortured to death over a period of days.

  When we returned to Mike and Marta’s house that night, Marta could tell something was wrong, but since neither one of us showed any signs of physical wounds, she left it alone. Or more properly, she refrained from grilling Mike in front of me.

  As for me, I took a shower, mouth closed as I remembered the boil order for tap water, and I went to bed. Despite my exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Brad Armstrong’s office, Armstrong Realty, occupied a ground-floor space situated in the revitalized downtown Dallas area between the Dallas Aquarium and Dealey Plaza. Expensive territory, meant to announce one’s superiority to the masses. I’d seen plenty of it in the legal profession, where some of the waiting rooms were works of art where clients were afraid to sit on the sofas. I was surprised to see the place was unmolested by the riots, then I noticed the retracted heavy metal shutters that ran the length of the front of the building.

  All the way in, traveling along an eerily empty Interstate 30, I found my mind going back to the murder/torture scene Mike and I had stumbled on at the storage facility. I’d thought I was a hardcase and a real bad man, until my flashlight beam revealed the sickening tableau we’d found in that back office.

  Clearly those four, what Mike tentatively identified as two men and two women, had been dead for days, and the varied state of decay made Mike think they’d died in sequence rather than all at once. We weren’t certain of the sexes not only because of the savagery of the torture, which had been extreme, but also because of the small animals that had already been feeding on the corpses.

  I didn’t stick around for long. I’d given Mike my flashlight, stumbled back to the smashed door, and barely took one step into the weak daylight before I started throwing up. Not those little burp-like upchucks, but full-on projectile vomiting like I was competing for an Olympic medal. I managed to avoid the falling down part by simply letting the wall take my weight, but that was the best I could manage. My eyes filled with tears. Not that I was crying, necessarily, but as a natural result of the violent upheaval taking place.

  I couldn’t see, could speak, and barely managed to catch a breath as I hunched over and continued to dry heave. When the hand touched my back, I reacted blindly, clawing at my holstered p
istol, but Mike’s voice cut through the buzz in my head.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Mike had said, and I let him lead me back to the truck like a little kid.

  “What has you so pensive, Bryan?” Marta asked, and I found myself walking on the sidewalk, my brain on autopilot. Behind her back, I saw Mike gently shake his head.

  On the drive back from that den of horrors, Mike had asked that I not talk about what we’d found in the rental office and I shakily agreed. We would tell Marta about the attempted ambush in the storage unit, but Mike insisted Marta didn’t need to know about what we’d found later. At the time, I would have copped to the Kennedy assassination, and now we were in the right place to make that claim. Just blocks from the museum that used to be the Texas Book Depository. I’d pop off a joke to Mike about that later, I resolved, but at the moment, I needed something to tell Marta.

  “Just thinking about the drive in, I guess. And being here.” I gestured at the open stores and offices around us. “Makes me feel like all this stuff about a meteorite and losing the West Coast was all just a dream or nightmare. Sure, there’s damage to some of these businesses and you can see where the floods got into buildings, but not much worse around here than what I saw in Houston after Hurricane Ike.”

  “Dallas has a lot of problems right now, but the worse hasn’t hit here yet,” Mike interrupted, and I shot him a grateful look. “Now, let’s go see if this guy is blowing hot air or if he’s serious.”

  Given the nature of this meeting, all three of us brought business wear to Ft. Worth, and I was also feeling a little odd getting back in a coat and tie even after all the years in the garb. I was wearing my second newest navy blue suit and red power tie, while Mike was dressed in a charcoal gray sports coast and dressy slacks. Marta sported a calf-length skirt, short boots, and a light blue fitted blouse over an ecru shell that looked very nice on her. In short, we looked like we belonged in a nice business office setting.