Broken Justice

by Ralph Gibbs

  Before the men could react, Franklin fired off four shots, killing the driver who jerked the steering wheel over as he folded against his window. The man’s foot also pushed the accelerator. The car picked up speed and plunged through the front of a small brick building at an angle.

  The rear passenger tried to get out of the car, but his door was jammed against the brick wall. He screamed and pushed at the man beside him. That man pushed a third occupant in the back seat who seemed dazed and confused. Slowly, he opened the door and was roughly pushed out. He stumbled and tried to catch himself. Franklin took advantage of the man’s disorientation and dispatched him with little effort. Thinking they might be next, both the remaining men fired through the back windshield forcing Franklin to take cover.

  Franklin dashed up the street toward a hotel. The three gunmen sprinted around the corner, firing blindly at first and then with more precision as they spotted him. Franklin was again forced to take cover, this time behind one of more than a dozen abandoned cars spread across the four-lane city road. He dashed behind a gold Maverick just as high caliber rounds raked up the side of the car. Careening his neck to see over the hood and through the windshield, Franklin spotted one man running across the street. Popping up, Franklin fired at the gunman who, in a panic that he was suddenly a target, ran past a dumpster and took cover behind a wooden telephone pole.

  Franklin fired off a couple more rounds. Both bullets thudded into the pole, one sending splinters spraying near the gunman’s face. His companions tried to help their partner by firing at Franklin’s position, but Franklin was too well sheltered.

  Sensing how exposed he was, the gunman again panicked and dashed for a car that was twenty feet ahead of him. As he darted out from behind the pole, he tripped. It saved his life, as Franklin’s bullet passed right where the man’s chest should have been. The prone gunman rolled and fired at Franklin. He was startlingly effective. When the first bullet shattered the headlight next to Franklin, it forced Franklin to back up. With a wild shot, Franklin hit the man in the lower leg causing the gunman to drop his rifle and scream out in pain. Franklin’s next shot passed through the top of his skull.

  The final two gunmen fanned out, taking cover behind two cars that afforded them different lines of fire on Franklin’s position. They fired one round each into the car he was hiding behind but didn’t fire again until he peeked out to see what they were doing. Pulling out his magazine, he observed that it was half empty. He still had two flash grenades stuffed into his front pockets. When he looked up, they fired again.

  “Shit,” he said. They were trying to keep him pinned down, meaning reinforcements were on the way. It was time to bail. Franklin pulled a grenade pin and slid it along the road as hard as he could toward the gunmen and counted to three before sprinting toward a school bus. Two seconds later, the flash grenade blew, and Franklin hoped it had startled them enough to throw off their aim. As he rounded the school bus, there was a fire in his side that raced up to his brain, causing him to cry out. He clamped a hand over the hole just above his waist. Any lower and the bullet would have lodged in his hip, any higher and it would have pierced his lung.

  “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” he said, wanting to panic. He looked around the school bus and saw that both men were advancing on his position. He could also hear a large truck in the distance. Transferring the gun to his left hand, he fired off three rounds sending the men scrambling for cover. Taking advantage of their panic, Franklin dashed across a convenience store parking lot and down a street that led to an area filled with older houses.

  The houses he ran by were old and in various states of disrepair. They were cookie-cutter mill houses intermixed with fifties and sixties style wooden homes and seventies style brick houses. The neighborhood, which stretched over several streets with no symmetry or organization, looked as if the city built itself around the area and then forgot, or didn’t care, that the houses were there. Many of the homes on the narrow streets didn’t look as if they’d been lived in for years, with “Keep Out” signs posted in most windows.

  Making his way to the next street, he plunged through a hole in a tall wooden privacy fence and then spotted a large blue, partially deflated plastic blowup swimming pool behind a home. He hoped whoever lived here was long gone because this was the type of neighborhood where everyone stayed within arm’s reach of a weapon.

  Franklin opened the door and quietly slipped in as he heard a truck drive down a nearby street. The musty smell in the house told him no one was home. Relaxing, he headed upstairs and found the bathroom. Searching through the linen closet, he found an old, nearly empty box of gauze bandages. Heading into the bedroom, he flipped open the closest, yanked a blue shirt off the hanger, ripped off both sleeves and stuffed the material over the hole in his waist. He then taped two gauze bandages over the cloth. It slowed down the bleeding but didn’t stop it entirely. Needing rest, he lay on the full-sized bed and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t blind. As he put his hand to his face, he could barely see it. After a few moments, he could finally make out the outlines of the bedroom door. He nearly cried out as he sat up and knew he started bleeding again. Slowly making his way to the door, he felt his way to the stairs and back outside. For the next several hours he hobbled down one street and then another as he worked his way to the north-eastern edge of the city and the railroad bridges.

  It took him all night and most of the next day to make his way to the river. He found breakfast in the form of dry oatmeal with raisins and lunch in the form of pork ’n’ beans. Dinner was two cans of sliced peaches and a can of whole tomatoes. There had been no sign of anyone. Only once had he heard gunshots but had no idea what direction they came from or who was shooting at who. Maybe it was an elusive resident of Front Royal taking exception to the intrusion of strangers.

  Several hours after dusk, he made his way across the farthest of the two railroad bridges. Once on the other side, he searched for transportation, riding a bicycle at one point until he found a car with the keys still in the ignition. By morning, he was feeling feverish and sweated profusely. He followed the road alongside the train tracks, but they eventually veered away from the tracks and led to a large gravel pit filled with giant construction equipment. He continued up one gravel hill and then another before spotting the highway. He ditched the car and picked up another after crossing a congested bridge on Interstate 66.

  Two days later, tired, hungry and feverish, he reached the outskirts of what he hoped was Round Hill. He came up to a barricade of construction equipment manned by people with lots of guns.

  Carefully exiting the vehicle, he stumbled toward the men with one arm raised and with the other clutching his side.

  “Hold it right there,” someone shouted.

  “Not a problem,” he said in a low ragged voice, he wasn’t sure they could hear. He nearly fell over.

  “Are you sick?” someone asked. Franklin was unsure how to answer that. Technically he was sick, but it was from the wound, not the plague.

  “Do you have the plague?” someone else asked.

  Franklin, grateful for the clarification, shook his head.

  “Are you Franklin?”

  Franklin beamed, nodded, and fainted.

  CHAPTER 28

  Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Franklin felt warm and comfortable. It was a sure sign something wasn’t right. Warm and comfortable wasn’t found in either the military or jail. It went against the nature of both organizations. The realization brought him fully awake. Glancing around, he discovered he was in bed, covered by a clean white blanket. He was neither tied nor chained, which he took as a good sign. Paris sat on a chair next to him, reading a magazine beside an open window.

  “What ya reading?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  Paris closed the magazine and dropped it in her lap. “Cosmo. I’m trying to learn fifty new ways to be sexy this summer.” There was something abo
ut her deadpan delivery, he found funny.

  He laughed. “Ouch. That hurts.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore. And weak.” Franklin lifted the blanket and looked at the bandage covering his wound. He poked around the edges. There was no blood soaking through the bandage meaning he’d been out for a few days. “Gunilla’s work?”

  “Yes,” Paris confirmed. “And if you open up that wound, she’ll be more than a little cross with you.”

  Franklin lowered the blanket. “How is everyone?”

  “As well as can be expected. I’m worried about Tempest, though.”

  “She’s been through a lot. Give her time.”

  “That’s just it. She’s acting as if nothing happened. It worries the hell out of me. She should be screaming, crying, or locked in a room like Rebecca. Instead, she’s walking around as if nothing happened. I’m terrified something will set her off, and she’s either going to kill herself or kill everyone within a mile of her.”

  “Everyone processes things differently. Have you tried talking with her yet?”

  “I’m not sure I can,” Paris said softly.

  Franklin mentally kicked himself. “Oh shit. I’m sorry Paris. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right. You’ve been through just as much as the others.” She forced a smile. Franklin closed his eyes and cursed himself.

  “I honestly have no idea what to say,” Franklin said after a few awkward moments. “I don’t have training in this. All I can do is promise that should you ever want to talk; I’ll listen.”

  Paris reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I’m sorry about before,” she said. “My actions were unprofessional.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Under the circumstances, I’d say you showed considerable strength in not killing me.”

  “I’m not the same person I was,” Paris said as she broke contact. “Cleveland would be ashamed of me.”

  “Cleveland? Was that your partner?”

  “He was more than a partner. He was like a second father. He taught me everything . . .” she fell silent, too choked up to talk.

  “I have to fight to keep from shutting myself away in a darkened room,” Paris said when she could finally continue. “If I do that, the only thing left would be to blow my brains out. I’m angrier than I’ve ever been, and I’m not sleeping. I don’t think I’ve made it through a single night without having nightmares.

  “I asked Travis to draw me a map,” she said, a hint of anger in her voice. “Once I deliver Gunilla, I will resign, if there’s an FBI to resign from, and pay that compound a visit. I’ll get me some hands-on therapy.”

  “They’re likely to be gone.”

  “Not that group. They think they have divine protection and inside that compound, they might, but they’ll come out, eventually. I’ll take them out one by one if I have to.”

  “Someone might get to them before you.”

  Paris placed the magazine on the nightstand “I thought about that. I’ll be disappointed, but I can live with knowing someone else took care of the problem. If I were their leader, I’d pray someone else gets to him before I do. Besides, I have a feeling in this new world dynamic, there’ll be plenty of assholes for me practice self-therapy.”

  “I promise, when you go after those men, you won’t be alone. I’ll help, however, I can.”

  “And you said you didn’t know what to say,” Paris said, teasingly.

  “What about the others?”

  “Travis and Gunilla are fine. Rebecca is recovering from her leg wound. She’s in the room down the hall. She’s terrified of strangers, so Travis is staying close to her.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “Gunilla thinks it’s okay, so I’ll bow to her wisdom.”

  “Does she have a weapon?”

  “Fuck. I should have thought of that. She needs to feel she can protect herself. She also needs to feel more in control. If you visit her, make sure you ask permission to enter her room.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Shit. I should have remembered that from my training.”

  “Stop being so hard on yourself,” Franklin said and then grimaced.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just sore.”

  “You should get more rest. We can talk later.” Paris stood up to leave.

  “I’m okay,” Franklin said. “Any problems after I left?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Paris said after a moment as she sat back down. “I picked up Daniel and a four-year-old boy near 66. Daniel said he heard the boy crying next to a gas station. Has no idea what the boy’s name is. The kid won’t or can’t speak.”

  “Jesus. How many children died because no one was there to hear their screams?”

  “Too many to thank about.”

  Franklin tried to sit up a little, but the pain forced him to stop. They know Gunilla’s a doctor?” Franklin asked, concern edging his voice.

  “Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about. They already have a doctor and two nurses in the community. Enough to take care of what’s left of the town.”

  “Any problem getting inside the city?”

  “We got stopped outside the city same as you, but I identified myself as an FBI agent and said I was looking for Sheriff Carl.” She laughed at the memory. “That created a little stir. Once the sheriff got there, I explained the situation, and he let us in.”

  There was a soft knock at the door, and both turned to see Gunilla and a man in a sheriff’s uniform come in.

  “Speak of the red-haired devil,” Paris said.

  Franklin never got a good look at the sheriff while hiding in the ditch; he had only heard the man’s voice. The two didn’t match. Franklin had envisioned an older man, out of shape, with graying hair. This man was tall and lean with wisps of red hair protruding from beneath his ball cap. His nose had a slight crook, as if it had once been broken and not set properly. His uniform was crisp and clean, hinting of professionalism. Though he looked to be in his mid-thirties, he had the face of someone who’d seen more than anyone should.

  “Good to see you awake,” the sheriff said.

  “Came awake a few minutes ago,” Paris said. “We’ve been talking about the weather.”

  Gunilla came over and felt his head. “Fever’s broke.” She moved the blanket and looked at the wound. She poked it.

  “Ouch,” Franklin said. “Shit, doc.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for patching me up.”

  “No thanks necessary. You pulled our donkeys out of the fire, twice. Is that the right American expression?”

  “It’s close enough,” Franklin said. “Sheriff Carl, thank you for taking in this motley band.”

  The sheriff held out his hand in greeting. Franklin grasped it but grimaced in pain at the movement. “It’s Sheriff Ledford, actually. Only Maggie ever calls me Carl. Most people just call me Red. It’s a bit cliché, but what can you do? Nicknames have a way of sticking to you better than a mole. At least a mole you can get rid of. And you are?”

  “Franklin Turnipseed,” Franklin said.

  “That’s a bit of a usual name,” the sheriff said, his smile growing large. It was disarming, and Franklin thought for a moment that everything would be okay in a world that decidedly wasn’t.

  “We’ve met already,” Franklin said.

  “So, they said. I sorry, I’m usually good with names and faces. It’s part of the job. But I don’t recall ever meeting you. And I would remember meeting anyone named Turnipseed.”

  “Technically, we didn’t meet. I was hiding in a ditch.” Carl gave him a puzzled look. “You and some of your boys were driving up Route 7 in a big pickup truck and found two dead bodies. One inside a car and the other lying near the front bumper.”

  “I remember that,” Carl said, suddenly very businesslike.

  “I was hiding in a ditch
on the other side of the road.”

  The sheriff’s face lost all signs of humor. “You don’t say.”

  “I came on them a few minutes before you did. Heard that big ol’ truck coming and hid. Didn’t know who you were at the time. For all I knew you could have been the ones that killed them. Heard you talking to Maggie and realized you had nothing to do with it.”

  “So why didn’t you come on out?”

  “Let’s see,” Franklin said using his fingers to count off points. “A group of good ol’ boys with guns in a pickup truck decorated with a Confederate flag. Me a black man, and two dead bodies nearby.”

  “I guess I can see your point,” Carl said. “That’s Paul Jackson’s truck, or was, before the plague. It’s ugly but powerful. It can push just about anything out of the way. In the winter, we use it as a snowplow. He would go around clearing people’s driveways, black or white, so we put up his South-Will-Rise-Again, bullshit. He was harmless enough.”

  “With me not being a southern gentleman, I decided to let lying dogs remain in the ditch,” Franklin said.

  “So why send your group here?” Carl asked.

  “You seemed genuinely upset that someone from your town might have been involved in the killings. So, I took a chance.”

  “You were right,” Gunilla said. “They’re nice people here.”

  “Most are,” Carl said. “A few aren’t happy with outsiders being in town, but with Gunilla being a doctor, they look the other way. She’s only been here a couple of days, but she’s made herself useful. Doc Brown says she’s smart, and she has a way of getting on people’s good side. I think it’s her sultry Swedish accent.”

  Gunilla slapped the sheriff playfully on the shoulder.

  “What were you doing on 7?” the sheriff asked. Franklin’s guard came up. He needed to be careful. The sheriff was asking in a friendly enough manner, but this was an interrogation, nonetheless. If he wasn’t careful, they might end up taking him around the back and stringing him up. Paris would probably help.