Oh shit, she thought, suddenly haunted by Bradley’s devilish grin. He’s placing actual targets.
Abby’s right foot bounced. She gnawed a thumbnail, staring at the index card. Beneath each distance and elevation, she had scrawled an approximate scope adjustment.
Just SWAGs, she thought, Scientific-Wild-Ass-Guesses.
This was more nerve-racking than any NRA competition. With iron sights, on level ground, Abby was confident in her abilities; this was going to be a crapshoot.
A few minutes later, her father and Will showed up.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“We’re spectators,” her father said, “just like competitions.”
Abby winced. Her mother had always been her most ardent cheerleader at NRA events; and her absence saturated the air with an aura of sadness as viscous as sludge.
Bradley arrived and squatted beside her. “You’ve got five targets. Nail it on the first shot, ten points; second shot, eight points; double miss, zero points. A total of fifty is perfect and forty is passing.”
“The first time I get to try this—and it’s a test?”
“It could be worse,” he told her, his tone unsympathetic. “The targets could be shooting back.”
Abby’s mind pored over variables: temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. She had been so engrossed with elevation and distance, she’d neglected the basics.
Gramps returned her rifle and wished her luck.
I’m gonna need it, Abby thought.
Bradley had placed white porcelain dishes in various locations, each numbered in black marker. One and two were on the hillside across the street; three was above the electrical transformer box; four was in front of the garden.
“Where’s the fifth one?” she asked. How could she shoot something she couldn’t see?
Bradley’s mischievous smirk reemerged. He pointed behind her.
Number five was roosting in a tree at the top of the ridgeline.
81B
HEATHER EASED SUZANNE into the portable crib, its mesh sides freckled with bullet holes, then she tiptoed from the small office, gently closing the French doors to insulate the baby from noise. Finally, after an hour of fussing, she was asleep.
Heather adored this house, the massive rooms, the sleek modern furniture, the gourmet kitchen. If only her husband could provide an adequate amount of food, life would be good.
She returned to the family room, pangs of hunger tearing through her. Bradley’s food rationing plan was ludicrous—one measly meal per day—and Will refused to address it.
Why was he always worried about what Bradley thought? Heather was his wife; she was supposed to be his first priority.
Hunger pains grew into a firestorm of resentment, fueled by memories of last night’s argument. Will had never railed against her like that or issued ultimatums before. In two weeks he had become someone entirely different; someone who didn’t give a damn about her feelings.
She was still confounded by his anger. She had only stated the obvious. It was entirely inappropriate for a girl Abby’s age to be running around with a rifle.
Her time would be better spent babysitting ... or learning manners, Heather thought, recalling Abby’s blue-eyed death stare.
During tonight’s dinner, she intended to voice her complaints about the food rationing, and she began rehearsing her argument.
I appreciate your generosity. That’s good, she thought, soften them up with a compliment.
However, it’s a medical fact that nursing mothers require additional calories. So I’m asking everyone to donate a portion of their food, not for my sake, but for the baby’s.
They would have to be cruel and heartless to object.
Then Bradley’s definitely out, she decided.
Billy was playing with a truck, spinning in circles on the family room floor, making vroom-vroom sounds. Heather shushed him. “We don’t want to wake the baby,” she told him. “Suzie is sleeping.”
“Guzie gleeping,” he whispered.
A booming crack startled Heather.
The baby began to wail.
Damn you, Bradley. And your stupid guns.
Didn’t he understand there was an infant in this house?
Then she realized the inconvenience was actually an opportunity.
82B
BRADLEY DETECTED A glint of angst in Abby’s blue eyes. A voice inside him asked: Would you have passed this test your first time shooting with a scope? He deleted the question, reminding himself that the circumstances were drastically different.
Abby struck the first plate with one shot; the second plate took two tries, just as Bradley anticipated. “Eighteen points, cumulative,” he told her.
Target three was sixty feet below overwatch, and Abby’s first shot was two yards too high.
“Miss. Re-engage.” Scrutinizing her, Bradley detected no disappointment, no frustration, only unrelenting concentration. Her composure surprised him, especially since he had invited an audience to maximize her stress level.
Maybe she’s used to it from competition.
Abby fired a second round which clipped the top edge of the plate. “Hit. Eight points. Twenty-six, cumulative.”
That’ll be her final score, Bradley thought, estimating only a ten percent chance of Abby striking either of the last two plates.
Target four was planted in front of the garden; and instead of a dinner plate, he had used the saucer of a teacup, simulating a gunman prone on the ground.
Abby fired. Bradley’s head bobbed forward, lips parting. Her first shot hit eighteen inches low, when he had expected it to sail high into the lake. “Miss. Re-engage.”
Abby didn’t speak or turn around.
A woman on a mission, he thought, assuring himself that the warmth drubbing through his veins was just respect.
She fired again. Bradley blinked, incredulous. The tiny saucer was a blanket of dust and shards, a ghostly shadow on the grass.
She hit the damned thing!
Gramps’ elbow plunged into his side, gloating and prompting him for the score.
“Hit. Eight points. Thirty-four, cumulative.”
The final target, another saucer, was wedged in an oak tree high above the overwatch, mimicking an attacker lying in wait atop a roof or hillside.
Kyle, Will, and Gramps moved behind Abby. For this target, she would have to shoot from a standing position—without benefit of the bipod.
Bradley watched her intently, noting that just before firing, the gun barrel jogged slightly left. The bullet struck the tree trunk a foot below the saucer, three feet to the left. Much closer than he had thought possible. “Miss. Re-engage.”
None of Abby’s other shots had been off left to right; they had only required vertical adjustments.
Did she pull it left deliberately? If it had passed beneath the saucer through open air, she wouldn’t have been able to assess her shot.
Bradley focused on the gun barrel. No leftward jog this time, and the saucer popped like a white balloon, splinters raining onto the ground.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” Bradley said, a smile invading his face. “Hit. Eight points. Forty-two, cumulative. Congratulations, you passed, Squirt.”
Abby’s pout evolved into a simper. “Thanks, Sexy!”
Then Kyle’s head snapped toward Bradley.
83B
SHE HAD ACTUALLY DONE it, called him Sexy—right in front of her father. Bradley stood dumbfounded until Kyle’s interrogating glare moved on to Abby.
She said it; she can explain it, he thought, starting down the hill.
Will scampered after him, snickering. “Okay, what’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” he said gruffly.
“You’re full of shit. Bradley, it’s obvious. You’re freaking making love to her in a glance.”
He held his breath as if to prevent the remark from seeping into his brain. “Nothing has happened, and nothing is goin
g to happen.”
“Why not?” Will bounded ahead of him, walking backward as they crossed the street. “It’s clearly mutual. What are you waiting for?”
“About two years. She’s only sixteen.”
“Seriously? If I were you? I’d jump right into that situation.”
Bradley stopped abruptly on Gramps’ front lawn. “Besides, it would be wrong to jump into that situation and walk away a few days later.”
“Walk away?” Will repeated, concern rising along with his pitch.
“I have to report for duty. I’m freaking AWOL.”
“You can’t leave. We-we need you. Here.”
Bradley exhaled through gritted teeth. “With you here to protect Gramps, I planned to head over to MacDill Air Force Base.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Will rubbed a hand over his mouth, head shaking. “But I think Abby’s better qualified.”
Bradley recoiled, feeling as if his best friend had pitched an iron noose around his neck.
An awkward silence persisted until Will changed the subject. “Hey, I finally managed to get the well pump rigged.”
Bradley walked toward the pink bicycle, trying to erase the memories it stirred, then climbed aboard and began pedaling.
Will strode to the outdoor spigot and twisted the handle. Water dribbled out. “Come on, Sexy! Pedal faster.”
Bradley tendered a one-finger salute and doubled his speed. The flow only increased marginally.
“It won’t work for a shower,” Will said, “But at least it’s plan B if the pool goes dry.”
Bradley hopped off the bicycle and inspected the jerry-rigged contraption. Will had spliced automotive belts together using U-shaped nails to create a loop large enough for the bike rim.
“The belt won’t last forever,” Will told him, “But we can always make another one. I guess I shouldn’t say we, since you are leaving. But hey, with you gone, maybe Abby will fall for a cute mechanic who knows how to use his tool.”
“You are an asshole, you know that?” A menacing frown contorted Bradley’s face. A warning not heeded.
“That could work out well for me. Ditch the wife; end up with the boss’s daughter; inherit his dealership.”
Bradley’s thumb and index finger dug into a pressure point in Will’s shoulder, forcing him to walk.
“Ow, ow, ow. Damn it, Sexy, that hurts ... Where the hell are you taking me?”
Bradley busted out laughing and continued his forceful escort. “Home to your lovely wife—”
“Come on, Man. Have a little mercy. Beat the shit out of me instead.”
Bradley opened the front door and jokingly shoved Will into the house. He heard his best friend gasp.
“Heather?” Will hurried through the dining room into a small office, Bradley a step behind him.
Heather lay facedown on the ceramic tile. The portable crib was empty. Will shook her shoulder trying to wake her.
Bradley pressed his fingers to her neck. No pulse. “Stay here,” he said, drawing the 1911 Springfield from his waistband. Had someone broken through the perimeter while Abby was shooting? Strangled Heather? Broken her neck? And where were the kids?
He searched the house, clearing each room, and found Billy curled against the family room couch, motionless, eyes and mouth wide open.
Oh God, no.
The toddler’s skin felt cool, his body rigid.
Bradley’s mind churned in sync with his stomach. There were no wounds. No bruises. His neck wasn’t broken. How the hell could this kid be dead?
Regret and sadness surged through him as he gently closed Billy’s eyelids. Will was walking toward him, zombielike, the baby clutched in one arm, a half-eaten chocolate bar from one of the MREs in his free hand.
The air-dropped food really is tainted, Bradley thought. And Heather snuck into Gramps’ house to steal from us. Anger rose within him and quickly gave way to empathy.
Seeing Billy’s lifeless body, the chocolate bar tumbled from Will’s hand. His head shook in disbelief. He sunk onto the floor, clinging to his daughter and hugging Billy with his other arm. Bradley planted his hands on Will’s shoulders. He could hear the sorrow in each ragged breath, could feel tremors racking his best friend’s body; and Bradley clenched his eyelids, holding back his emotions.
84B
ABBY FELT A NUMBNESS creeping through her as she walked down the hill from overwatch. It was too horrible to believe; Heather and Billy poisoned by tainted chocolate bars; the infant, smothered beneath the weight of her own mother.
Will must be devastated.
Abby was sick of dealing with death, and the reminders seemed inescapable: corpses on front lawns, the mound of sand in her yard, her mother’s empty chair at mealtime.
She entered the screened room, surprised to see everyone still gathered around the dinner table. Abby’s father was pushing rice and Spam around his plate. Will had eaten his dinner, and Bradley appeared baffled by his best friend’s unexpected appetite and lighthearted mood.
“Why is everybody so quiet?” Will asked. Eyebrows notched, his gaze circulated, hovering briefly over each of them before moving on. There was no trace of sadness, just a jarring air of normalcy.
Abby traded a confused glance with Bradley. Worry glimmered in his eyes; his jaw tightened. Then he leaned forward, rested a hand on Will’s shoulder, and softly said, “How do you want to handle the burial?”
“Burial?” Will’s expression was a combination of bewilderment and curiosity. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you want to bury the kids with Heather?”
“My kids are with the babysitter.” Will’s chair scraped backward. “Thanks for dinner, but I have to pick them up.”
Bradley stood, grabbing hold of Will’s arm. “Billy and Suzanne, they ... They died along with Heather.”
“My God, Bradley, how could you say something so horrible?” Will twisted his arm free and marched toward the door; and as Bradley chased after him, Abby felt a freakish fear descend over her. Something was terribly wrong with Will.
85B
BRADLEY SHADOWED WILL to the Levins’ driveway, and while his best friend paced like a madman, he debated what to do. What was the right way to handle a man teetering at the edge? Force him to face reality? Or play along with his delusion until he comes to terms with the truth? Bradley’s only certainty was that he could not allow Will to leave Sugar Lake.
“I need you to unlock the garage door.” Will was pleading, on the verge of tears. “Could you do that for me?”
He won’t go inside the house, Bradley thought. Some part of him must know. “Sure, Will. I can unlock it.”
Bradley passed through the front door, and seeing Heather’s reposed body, another dose of anger spurted within him. That woman had ruined Will’s life in every way; and now, she was imprisoning his mind, dragging him into the grave along with her.
Inside the garage, Bradley popped open the hood of Will’s truck and removed the coil cable. After concealing the part inside Mr. Levin’s golf bag, he unlocked and raised the garage door.
Elated, Will clambered into the driver’s seat. “Thanks, Bradley. Hey, you want to go for a ride?”
A humming and grinding noise filled the garage.
Will popped the hood then examined the engine. “Bradley, I know you took the coil cable. I’m the one who taught you that trick. Now give it back. Don’t you understand? I have to get my kids!”
Unbelievable, Bradley thought. Divorced from reality, but he still remembers everything about engines. “I don’t have the wire,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Did you take it off? For security purposes?”
Will’s eyes darkened. A wild, desperate rage overtook him. “Stop screwing around and give me the wire.”
“Calm down—”
“I won’t calm down until I pick up my kids.” His face puckered into a glowing scowl, making him appear almost possessed. “I’m asking for the last time, Bradley. Give me the fucking wir
e!”
“For the last time, I don’t have it.”
Will pulled a revolver from behind his back.
Bradley’s eyes widened. Disbelief skittered through him.
“No one’s going to keep me from my kids,” Will said, his tone threatening. “Not even you, Bradley.”
“Will, put the gun down. You don’t want to do this—”
“I don’t want to, but I swear I’ll shoot. My kids are the only thing that matters to me.”
“Okay, let’s look for the wire.” Bradley opened a metal cabinet, pretending to search for the cable, considering his options. Let Will drive off into the night? Or use force to stop him?
Bradley retrieved the cable from the golf bag and displayed it on his palm. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
When Will closed within range, Bradley’s training took over. In a fraction of a second, he seized the gun and flung Will onto the concrete floor, knocking him unconscious.
( ( ( 45% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 13B ) ) )
Wednesday, February 26th
86B
AT SUNRISE, KYLE WALKED across Sugar Lake Road, a shovel perched over his shoulder like a baseball bat. Bradley had already begun digging the grave, despite meager light.
“How’s Will?” Kyle asked, thrusting his shovel into the sand.
“He’s a disaster.” Face drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes, Bradley looked weary, as though he had been awake all night. “And the worst part is ... I have no idea what to do.”
Welcome to my world, Kyle thought, feeling an influx of empathy for Bradley and for Will. How do you forgive yourself for gathering up that poisoned food? For not heeding the warning of the militia wannabes ... ?
For standing there while a drug addict shoots your wife?
Jessie had died five days ago, but the emptiness and grief wasn’t abating. If anything, Kyle seemed to miss her more, to ache for her more with each passing minute.
“I guess Will’s not ready to accept it.”
“Well, ready or not, we’ve got to get them buried.” Bradley paused, downing a gulp of water. “How’s Abby handling all this?”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 42
