by Brant, Jason
For a second, he wondered if he’d become too accustomed to the presence of death. He’d killed a handful of men in the past half hour, yet he felt little remorse. Sure, they were bad dudes who didn’t give him a choice, but shouldn’t he have felt at least a little guilty?
Was he becoming a stone-cold killer who felt nothing?
Judging by his reaction to the dead man at his feet, Lance assumed that was the case.
Lance stayed in place by the door, listening for movement inside. Hearing anything other than the gunfire down the street would take a minor miracle, but he tried all the same.
Water matted his hair to his scalp, dribbled from his nose and chin.
He chanced a peek inside the door.
Saw nothing.
Looked back at Doc Brown and Cass.
Their attention remained on the guy in front of the arena.
“Fuck it,” Lance mumbled.
He spun around, stepped in front of the door.
And ran headfirst into a Bandit.
The collision sent both reeling backward a few steps. When they regained their balance, they stood a few feet apart. They stared at each other in surprise, sharing shocked expressions. Lance had almost dropped his gun from the impact, but he managed to hang on to it.
His head throbbed from where it had clanged off the Bandit’s.
They stood at roughly the same height, though the long-haired, greasy guy in front of Lance had at least thirty pounds on him. A bit of softness bulged over his belt.
The Bandit moved first, raising his gun.
Lance lunged, lifting his own weapon, but not pointing the muzzle at the Bandit. He thrust the side of the barrel straight into the man’s face. A satisfying crunch came from the Bandit’s nose as the rifle smashed it.
Driving forward as hard as he could, Lance threw his shoulder into the man’s chest and launched them farther into the arena. They stumbled across a wide hallway, the Bandit struggling to get his feet under him as Lance drove them into the far wall.
The impact forced the rifle from the man’s grip.
He grabbed the stock of Lance’s, tried to wrench it away.
They fought over the gun, pulling closer together until their faces were inches apart.
Foul breath emanated from the man’s mouth.
“I’m sure we can find some gum or peppermint candy in one of the concessions stands,” Lance grunted as he pressed with all he had, pinning the man against the wall. “I’ll help you look, because your breath is—”
The Bandit kneed him in the crotch.
Lance ceased trash talking, tried not to vomit.
All the strength drained from his body.
His knees wobbled.
The Bandit tripped Lance, tossing him to the ground. He lunged on top of him, using his bodyweight to press the rifle across Lance’s throat. Lance struggled to inhale as the barrel closed off his windpipe.
“Tryin’ to distract me with all that jive?” The man’s face hovered a few inches away from Lance’s, his foul breath threatening to peel the paint from the walls.
Lance considered what kind of idiot would use the word jive. He would have asked him about it, if not for the gun strangling him.
The Bandit unsheathed a knife from behind his waist.
“Gonna gut you, then get me a piece of that pretty little skank of yours.” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth, splattering Lance’s cheeks and lips.
The knife flashed as he raised it over Lance’s face.
A lack of air had Lance feeling lightheaded and weak. He didn’t have the strength to push the Bandit off him, let alone ward off a knife strike.
The Bandit shifted his weight so he could press the blade toward Lance’s eye. As he moved, some of the pressure eased from Lance’s throat.
Lance gulped in oxygen, feeling his strength return a bit. His right hand shot out, grabbed the Bandit’s wrist, kept the knife from plunging into his eye.
Shifting higher, the man put his shoulder against the handle of his knife, driving it down a few more inches. Lance pushed against the Bandit’s wrist with all his strength, but watched in terror as the blade crept closer.
Despite the adrenaline fueling his body, fatigue gnawed at Lance’s arm. He’d suffered through too much over the past few days to keep fighting. His muscles were shot, joints roaring from each movement.
The Bandit realized the inevitable failure of Lance’s strength as he glared into his eyes. “Don’t fight, son. It’s easier if you just accept it.”
The tip of the blade descended closer, hovering just a few inches away.
Lance knew the knife was coming down, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it. The edge would taste his flesh, no matter what he did. As his arm threatened to give out, to end it all, he knew what he had to do.
Bucking his hips to lift the Bandit off him for a second, he slid his body up and moved his face out of the way. The momentum pressed the rest of the man’s weight down on the handle, slicing the knife into the meat between Lance’s neck and shoulder.
A howl of agony and fury escaped Lance’s curled lips as the blade slid deeper, the tip glancing off his collarbone. Blood welled around the sunken knife, staining his shirt.
With the man off balance, his weight shifted too high, Lance bucked his hips again, harder this time. The Bandit tried to maintain his position, but he couldn’t stay on top of Lance and hold onto the knife.
His weight lifted for a moment.
The blade cut deeper.
Lance pounced on the opportunity, shoving the man off him. Extraordinary pain stabbed through his shoulder and arm from the movement. Rolling to his side, he got to his knees as the Bandit did the same.
They locked eyes for a moment, sneering at each other.
Gritting his teeth, Lance grabbed hold of the knife, yanked it free.
The feel of the blade exiting his flesh made him woozy, his thoughts cloudy, muscles lax. Blood arched through the air as the tip yanked free of his skin, a line of red painting the floor between them.
Lance climbed to his feet, willing his strength to return, his legs to hold his weight.
The Bandit stood as well, less than five feet separating them. He gave Lance an approving head bob. “Not bad for a—”
Lance cut him off by lunging with the knife.
A cry escaped the Bandit as he tried to fend off the attack with his hands. The blade stabbed through the meat of his left palm, coming out the other side slicked with blood.
He squealed as he stumbled back, freeing his hand, but causing more damage in the process. The blade sliced a long, deep gash down his hand, curving across his wrist.
Three of his fingers were limp as he gaped at the damage.
Lance didn’t wait. He drove forward, angling the weapon for the man’s heart.
His aim was true.
The blade punctured muscles and skin, skipped off bone, slammed hilt-deep into the man’s chest. The impact reverberated up Lance’s arm, jolting his stabbed shoulder and weakening his knees.
An oval of surprise rounded the man’s mouth. He inspected the killing blow with a curious expression before looking at Lance. One sluggish arm feebly batted at Lance’s hand, which still held the knife.
That only caused more damage as it pushed the blade into the soon-to-be dead man’s chest.
Lance yanked the knife free and stepped back, adjusting his grip on the blood-slicked handle. Sticky warmth covered his hand.
The Bandit’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out.
He took a staggering step forward before collapsing to his knees. Water filled his eyes as he stared up at Lance. They held each other’s gazes until the Bandit fell to his stomach, face banging off the hard floor.
His arms moved slowly along the surface, as if he intended to push himself up, but they were slow and weak. The fingers of his good hand opened and closed a few times.
A dark pool expanded under his torso.
Lance tossed the kn
ife to the floor, the metal clanging.
Wiped his hands on his pants.
Picked up his rifle.
His shoulder hurt like a bitch.
The man stopped moving as Lance stumbled down the long, semi-dark hallway. The only illumination came from the open door on the side of the building. He swayed sideways a few feet before he managed to straighten out and continue down the hall.
Blood leaked from the wound.
Putting his palm over the gash, he pressed down, hissing at the sensation.
The pain kept him focused, alert. The knife hadn’t driven as deep as it could have, his clavicle bone stopping it, which might have minimized the damage. Or so he hoped.
A handful of gunshots rang out ahead, echoing through the arena.
Lance entered a larger area with concession stands and metal detectors. The glass front of the building stretched several stories high, several windows broken out. Brown streaks trailed from double doors beyond the metal detectors to an overturned t-shirt stand.
A drying puddle congealed in front of the entrance.
On the other side of the windows, standing behind a pole, was another Bandit. The man aimed a rifle at the left side of the building, no doubt keeping an eye out for Cass, a camouflage duffle bag at his feet.
Sliding behind a stand advertising five-dollar cotton candy, Lance watched the Bandit over the top. The man remained behind the pole, patiently waiting for a shot at his prey.
Lance’s rifle felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as he heaved it onto the stand. A combination of fatigue and damage to his body had sapped what little strength and endurance he had left.
With the stand steadying his aim, Lance sighted the Bandit’s chest.
Squeezed off a shot.
The bullet caught the man in the ribs, doubling him over.
Lance didn’t wait to see how badly wounded the man was. Sliding around the stand, Lance hobbled through the old metal detectors. His boots skidded in the pool of blood as he reached the doors, forcing him to grab hold of a handle to keep from falling on his ass.
He exited the building, then ran for the fallen Bandit, glancing around to make sure no one else was aiming a weapon at him. The man had managed to roll over to his back. Air whistled through his lips with every clipped breath.
“You dumbass!” Cass rounded the corner, her back leg dragging more than stepping. “What the hell were you thinking going in there alone?”
Lance kicked the Bandit’s gun away from his hand.
Then he shot him in the chest two more times.
The brutality of it didn’t escape him as he watched the asshole die before him.
Telling himself he was killing people to protect his family only helped so much. Was it worth the erosion of his humanity? At what point would the cost of survival prove too high?
Even knowing the Bandits were murderous rapists only helped ease his conscious so far.
The world was a better place without them.
But doling out justice wasn’t something Lance was built for. Each death felt like an added weight hanging from his shoulders, dragging him down. He wasn’t sure how much more he could handle.
The guilt of the things he’d done in the name of survival had troubled him for a long time after they’d fled to the islands. Nightmares had ruined many nights. But those horrible dreams had faded over time. The justification for his actions had won out eventually.
Now, as he stared at a man he’d blindsided with gunfire, he wondered if he could outrun his guilt again.
He turned to his wife, the mixture of shame and relief coursing through him tough to handle. When he saw blood leaking from small cuts on her face, he was reminded of why he’d done every horrible thing required of him over the years.
Lance would do whatever it took to protect his family.
Nothing else mattered.
Not even his soul.
Doc Brown jogged past Cass and stopped in front of the Bandit, staring at the body. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did. They’ll never stop coming after us. It’s them or our kids. Take your pick, Doc.”
“But—” Brown saw Lance’s knife wound. “What happened?”
“I got in a tiny, small—microscopic even—knife fight.”
“A knife fight?” Brown gestured at Lance’s rifle. “But you have a gun.”
“It’s a long story.” Lance flinched as the doc put pressure on his cut. “Actually, it’s a short story, but I don’t feel like reliving it.”
“You look terrible.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Why didn’t you wait for us?” Cass finally reached them, giving Lance her best death glare. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Says the woman with the Hellraiser face.”
“Just scratches.” Cass pawed at her cheeks, wiped the blood on her shirt. “Your shoulder looks bad.”
“Still works.” Lance raised his arm, winced at a grinding sensation in the joint. “And I didn’t wait for you because I wanted to sneak up on the guy out here. It worked.”
“You were stabbed.”
“Still worked, though. Maybe it didn’t quite go the way I’d planned.”
Doc Brown took the rifle from Lance’s grip. “Put pressure on the wound. I’ll take care of it when we get back to The Light.”
As the doc stepped away from him, Cass moved closer.
Lance felt the sting of tears as he took in her bloody, lacerated face. Seeing her so hurt, so damaged, had him on the verge of breaking down. He would have done anything to spare her all they’d gone through the past few days.
“Didn’t we just say we weren’t going to split up anymore?” she asked. “How long did that last? Five minutes?”
“More like two or three. I wasn’t that far away, though.” Lance leaned down, put his forehead against hers. “Let Doc get you back to Dragon while I go find Greg.”
“We aren’t going through this again.” Cass pulled away from him, grunted as she bent to the duffle bag at the feet of the dead man. “We all go home, or no one does.”
Lance and Doc Brown shared a knowing glance.
Neither would argue with her on that one.
Cass unzipped the bag, pulled the top open.
Several blocks of what appeared to be clay were wrapped in plastic. Each one had a small metal tube sticking out of it with wires connecting each block to the next.
“Did they raid a toy store for Play-Doh?” Lance asked. “Maybe they had a play date with Magnus King.”
“You’re making jokes?” Doc Brown asked. “Now?”
“Of course,” Lance said. “You’ve met me before, right? I’m Lance.” He proffered Brown a hand. “I make awkward jokes at inappropriate times.”
Brown shook his head, frowned at the dead man at their feet.
Cass ignored them, carefully moving the bricks around in the bag for a better look inside. “There must be at least fifty of these things in here.”
“Are those explosives?” Lance asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve only seen something like this in the movies.”
“That’s a lot of explosives,” Doc Brown said. “That must be what they used on Adam.”
“Bastards.” Cass reached into the bag, pulled out a palm-sized box with a few buttons on it. “I’m guessing this is the detonator.”
“Great.” Lance watched as Cass carefully returned the box. “Anyone know how to use one?”
Neither answered.
Lance assumed a lot of damage could be done with a bag of explosives that large. It might have been enough to blow up the entire first floor of The Light for all he knew. Maybe more.
The Bandits were pulling out all the stops in their little war.
Seeing the explosives made him reconsider their next play. If one of the Bandits searching for them was carrying around this kind of hardware, then what did Higgins have? The guy might have a freaking F16 fighter plane
.
Going back to The Light might not be the smartest move at all. If they hadn’t intercepted the bomb-carrying Bandit, there was no telling what damage he might have caused with the explosives.
Maybe they were better off taking the fight to Higgins in the streets than at The Light. Keeping the battle far away from their children was paramount if bombs were involved.
That was easier said than done.
Higgins was out there, and they had no idea how many more men he had in his clique of kidnappers and psychopaths. Who knew what kind of hardware they had on them.
Magnus King had a group of sex-crazed idiots somewhere.
And who knew what Valerie’s role in the attacks was.
Three groups of idiots were after them, and Lance didn’t even know where they were. It was a lot easier to say he would take the fight to them than to actually carry that plan out.
Cass zipped the bag shut, struggled to her feet.
They stood in the rain, blood and filth washing from them. No one said anything for what seemed like an eternity. Though no words passed between them, Lance felt as if they’d come to an understanding.
They had to fight their way out of their situation.
Even Doc Brown was resigned to the fact that violence was necessary.
Lance lifted the bag of explosives. The heft surprised him. He couldn’t tell if the poundage was high or if his body had weakened to a degree that everything would be cumbersome now.
“Show us exactly where you left Greg.” Lance struggled to lift the straps of the duffle bag over his head, so he could secure them over his good shoulder. The bag rested against his back after he situated it into place. It pulled at the skin around his neck, agitating the knife wound.
Doc Brown paused for a second as he watched the dead Bandit’s blood washing away into the street. He gave a small nod to the body, as if in agreement with their silent deal to fight back. “He’s inside. Let’s go get him.”
20
The stench of the infected intensified as Greg waded deeper into the tunnel system. Each step seemed to bring another assault on his olfactory system. His eyes had begun to water fifty yards ago.
