Grave Games: A Collection Of Riveting Suspense Thrillers

by James Hunt

  Mink knew what the orders meant. Congress had made its declaration of war. The ink had barely dried, and now it was time to put that piece of legislation into action. Every word and letter on the declaration was pointed with the spears of soldiers, the bombs from planes, and the artillery of tanks.

  But Mink also knew the damage it would wreak on the civilians still living in the Southwest. The air strikes wouldn’t just destroy the enemy in Phoenix and Albuquerque; they would hit the former American citizens still holding on to whatever hope they had left.

  When the bombs dropped, those hopes and prayers would shatter. But Mink had his orders. There wasn’t any emotion in his actions or the actions of his men. The only reactions were the fluid efficiencies of the coordination with which the orders were carried out.

  Lieutenant Colonel Mink picked his coffee back up and watched the squares and triangles on the display screens move closer to their targets. The United States had officially entered the war.

  ***

  President Castell checked his hair in the mirror outside the conference room before entering. The doors had already been opened by his security detail, and everyone inside was standing. Once each strand of his jet-black hair was subdued, he ventured inside.

  “Please, gentlemen, sit down,” Castell said.

  Castell joined Gallo and his other military advisors at the end of the table. He’d insisted on having a meeting to discuss the ongoing strategic mission to retake the Southwest. And it just so happened that he would be making a speech to the Mexican people an hour from now. Whatever news his advisor brought back from their first military campaign, he wanted to ensure he could spin it in a way that would be palatable for the Mexican people.

  A member of Castell’s security detail pulled his chair back for him, and Gallo rolled his eyes. Castell caught the insubordination but let it slide. Of all his advisors, he feared Gallo the most.

  “What do you have for me, General Gallo?” Castell asked.

  “We have secured and established a presence in both Phoenix and Albuquerque. We’re in the process of tying up any loose ends with issues in the local population. Other than a few resisting citizens, most of the people were too weak to put up a fight,” Gallo answered.

  “Excellent. When can we start harvesting resources?” Castell asked.

  “Most of the area has dried out, but I’ve authorized scout teams to search the area for anything that might have been left behind.”

  “So what do we have to show for our efforts? Other than more dried land?”

  Everyone in the room knew that Castell had only approved the campaign in hopes of gaining access to what water resources the United States had left. Castell also knew that Gallo’s rage could blind him to the facts sitting in front of him. And Castell wasn’t going to be left with egg on his face if things turned south. Gallo was his scapegoat.

  “I’m sure you know, Señor Presidente, that the sacking of these cities was purely strategic. We needed a base of operations in the area. Now that those are being established, we’ll be able to push farther north,” Gallo answered.

  “And when can we expect that to happen?”

  “Soon.”

  “Soon?” Castell echoed. “Well, I don’t think our people can drink ‘soon.’ I don’t think ‘soon’ will grow their crops. We need water, General. And we need food and fertile land to grow it on. We need something better than ‘soon.’”

  “Then perhaps you would like to lead your own campaign on the ground. I’m sure it would rally our troops to see their commander in chief perform acts of bravery in such a tremulous time.”

  The plastered political face Castell prided himself on was replaced by one of indignation. He looked around the room and caught a few smirks before his advisors were able to wipe them off their faces. He was the president. He wouldn’t be spoken to like that.

  “Don’t become confused about who’s in charge, General. This might be your war, but this is my country. And if this fails, then there won’t be a single man, woman, or child who doesn’t know your name. It will be you who will go down as the biggest fool in our country’s history,” Castell said.

  Gallo rose from his seat, and the brief spate of courage Castell had felt the moment before disappeared as he cowered back in his chair. Gallo seemed too big for the room, and Castell’s chair felt much too confining.

  “And when I am successful, it will be my name they chant. Not yours,” Gallo replied.

  Castell’s eyes went to his security detail, who had their hands on their pistols. The sight restored the courage from earlier. “The people don’t remember tools, General. Only the men that wielded them.”

  Before Gallo could retaliate, Colonel Herrera burst through the doors. His face was covered in sweat, and he bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

  “General,” Herrera said. “The… Americans…”

  Castell rose at the abruptness of his entrance. “Yes?” he asked. “What is it?”

  “The Americans bombed Phoenix and Albuquerque,” the colonel answered. “We don’t know how many men we’ve lost.”

  Castell collapsed into his chair. The room broke out in shouts and screams. Fingers were pointed. Accusations were made. Only Castell and Gallo remained silent. Amid the chaos of the room, Castell found Gallo’s eyes. The wheels started turning in Castell’s mind. Whoever took the fall for this would no longer have a career. He couldn’t afford that. He raised both hands into the air, attempting to quiet the room.

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen, please,” Castell said.

  The conversations waned, and all heads slowly turned to Castell, who rose from his chair again. The other men took their seats, adjusting their suits and uniforms with the dignity of a two-year-old trying to hide the tantrums they had just thrown.

  “General Gallo has been charged with the coordination of this war. Everyone can agree on that. General,” Castell said, turning to Gallo, “what is our next step?”

  Castell’s insides were churning. He was banking on Gallo’s pride. He knew the general wanted to run the country, and the war with the Americans would act as a catalyst for that. Castell couldn’t contend with Gallo if it were to come to muscle. The soldiers were loyal to Gallo, not to him. But if he played his cards right and gave Gallo the nod to direct the next moves without acknowledging support, he might be able to retain his power through misdirection of the Mexican people.

  Gallo’s face was a blank sheet of paper, unreadable until the moment he decided which words to write across it.

  “The Americans aren’t the only ones with bombs, Señor Presidente,” Gallo said.

  Chapter 6

  Blood had soaked through the gauze John had applied to Eric’s gunshot wound. John’s fingers were now stained red and sticky with blood. His arms were shaking from the continued pressure. He watched Eric’s eyelids flutter open and closed. He pressed his hand to the side of Eric’s face.

  “Mom, he’s really cold,” John said.

  “He’s probably in shock,” Brooke answered.

  Brooke jerked the wheel right and missed a massive pothole on the broken Alabama road. The salty sea air had eroded and worn most of the coastal pavement. John shifted his legs to relieve some of the pressure in his knees from kneeling on them. He could feel the numbness shoot through his legs and almost fell over from the loss of feeling.

  “Are we close?” John asked.

  “Eric,” Brooke said. “Eric, we’re almost in Mobile. Where does your friend live?”

  Eric mumbled something.

  “What did he say?” Brooke asked.

  “I don’t know,” John answered.

  John shook Eric, and his head wavered back and forth on his shoulders. The color had left Eric’s face, and the vibrant eyes that John had seen the day before seemed faded.

  “Eric! Where does your friend live?” Brooke repeated.

  Again, the only answer was mumbles. John brought his hand back and smacked Eric across the
face. The sharp crack of John’s hand against Eric’s cheek startled Brooke but did its job of waking Eric up.

  “Ouch,” Eric answered.

  When John saw the look on his mother’s face, he shrugged. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  Eric’s eyes focused on the landscape outside the window. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Just outside Mobile, Alabama,” Brooke answered. “Now, where’s your friend?”

  “Tillman’s Corner,” Eric muttered, then started to fade from consciousness again.

  “John, check the map,” Brooke said.

  “But, what about the wound?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  John peeled his fingers off the bullet hole. Some of the blood had dried, fusing the gauze to John’s skin. He peeled it off, and the dried blood fell off in flakes. He reached for the map and rolled it open. Emily was still buckled into the back seat. She’d cried herself out about twenty minutes ago and just looked tired now.

  “Em, help me find Tillman’s Corner,” John said, trying to take her mind off things.

  John found Mobile on the map, and his finger ran south. Emily tried searching but was distracted by the other cities located around the country.

  “Found it!” John said. “We need to get on Highway 59 to get to it, though. And I have no idea where we’re at.”

  “We’re on Coden Belt,” Brooke said. “And we just passed Bayou La Batre a few miles back.”

  “We need to head north,” John answered.

  “You’ll have to find a route for us. Make sure we stay off the main roads. Eric,” Brooke said. “Where exactly does your friend live? What’s his address in Tillman’s Corner?”

  “4249 South Terrance Street,” Eric answered, his eyes still closed.

  “Tell me where to go, John,” Brooke said.

  The map crinkled under John’s fingers as he rubbed the edges of the paper. More bits of dried blood rolled into small, flaky balls off of his fingertips. His eyes were transfixed on those small concentrations of fluid. It all seemed too surreal to him. If John couldn’t help get Eric to his friend’s house, then he was going to die. Eric’s death would rest on his shoulders. He would be to blame. The thump in John’s chest beat harder. It felt like his heart would explode. Was this what his dad had felt like in Iraq?

  “John!” Brooke yelled.

  “Huh?”

  “I need you to tell me where to go.”

  “Right.”

  The beating in his chest subsided slightly, but he focused his energy on finding a side street they could cross at. The faded-green street sign they had just passed read Barrett Road. He found that road on the map and looked for the next available crossing.

  “Take a left on Clark Road. From there, we can follow the river north for a few miles before we have to get on any other main roads,” John said.

  “Perfect. That’s great, John,” Brooke answered.

  John traced his finger north, trying to find the street where Eric’s friend lived. He found it sitting on the bay side of the city.

  Brooke made the left on Clark Road and passed a few pedestrians on the sidewalk. John watched them point at the cruiser. The bullet-riddled doors and smashed rear windshield didn’t make for the most inconspicuous mode of transportation. Lucky for them the area was sparsely populated. The fewer people they ran into, the better off they were. John was trying to figure out their next move when he felt the tug on his shirt sleeve.

  “Em, not now,” he said.

  The tugging continued, this time more violently than before. He pulled Emily’s hand off him and tossed it aside. It returned just seconds later.

  “Emily, I said not n—”

  It was small splashes of water against the rocks that cut him off. John joined Emily in pressing his face against the window. John had never seen anything like it before. The sheer size of the river made his jaw drop. He’d seen pictures and watched videos in his history class, but there was something different about actually seeing it.

  “Wow,” he said.

  All John could think about was ripping off his shirt and diving head first into the water, letting the cool liquid wash over him. At least he thought it would be cool. The humid Alabama heat made it hard to believe that anything could be cold.

  “John?” Brooke asked, her voice calm.

  “Yeah?” John answered.

  His eyes remained glued on the water rushing downstream. He had read somewhere that people used to ride rapids like these in small rafts. Staring at the river rushing past them, he couldn’t help but have that same urge to travel the river the same way others had done before him.

  “I need you to help me, John,” Brooke said.

  John pulled his eyes from the splashing river and back to the tired, defeated face of Eric, whose head bobbed from side to side in a delirious haze. The river could wait.

  ***

  Brooke squinted through the windshield at the house numbers on South Terrance Street. On her way there, she expected to see more of a residential neighborhood, but what she found the closer they moved to Eric’s friend’s house were large pieces of land, gated off with big houses sitting on them. In between the properties were clusters of thick trees and tall grass. It was the first time she’d seen the color green in a very long time.

  The odd-numbered houses were on the left, and she kept counting in her head until she saw a half-bent, rusty mailbox with the numbers 4249 written on it in small, faded black letters. A locked gate guarded the driveway to the house.

  Eric was completely passed out, and the wound was still bleeding. His face was ghost white, and he was no longer sweating. Brooke knew that was a bad sign. Brooke turned around to John and Emily in the back seat. “Hold on.”

  Brooke shifted the cruiser into reverse and backed up, keeping the gate lined up directly in front of her. She reversed forty feet and slammed on the breaks. She jammed the shifter back into drive and floored the gas pedal. Dirt flew up from the tires, and the engine roared as all eight cylinders pounded furiously.

  Brooke’s fingers tightened around the groves in the steering wheel. Her arms and shoulders stiffened, bracing for the impact. The speedometer soared from twenty to forty to sixty, and then the front grille of the cruiser smashed through the locked gate, crumpling the front bumper and cracking the headlights.

  The chain and lock from the metal gate snapped in two and clanked against the concrete. They skidded to a stop just before hitting the bumper of a truck parked outside the house’s garage. Before Brooke could get out of the car, a tall, lanky man dressed in a dirty white shirt and holey jeans stepped out with a rifle aimed right at them.

  “This is private property! This is your only warning before I sho—”

  The man cut himself off. He lowered the rifle and squinted at Eric through the passenger window. “Holy shit.”

  Brooke stepped out of the car, her hands in the air. “Are you Eric’s friend?”

  “Well, that’s a strong word for it,” the man said rushing to the cruiser’s side. He opened the door and picked Eric up in his arms. Brooke was amazed that the man was able to lift Eric by himself. He looked no heavier than a buck fifty sopping wet. She watched the man disappear with Eric inside the house, and she worked on getting Emily out of the back seat. Before she could stop him, John was out of the cruiser and running after Eric.

  “John!”

  Despite Eric’s claim that this man was his friend, Brooke knew nothing else about him. She picked Emily up in her arms and ran after them.

  The inside of the man’s house was simple, clean. Not exactly what she expected from someone living on a large piece of land like this. Of all the houses she passed, this was definitely the smallest. Brooke found John with the man and Eric in a bedroom on the side of the house. Eric’s shirt was ripped off, exposing the gunshot wound. John watched from a distance.

  Brooke turned around and set Emily down in the living room on the couch. There was an old television in
the corner. She found the remote and clicked it on. Despite its age, it still worked. She handed Emily the remote. “See if you can find anything good on TV, okay? I’ll be right in the other room. Just call for me if you need anything.”

  Emily nodded, reaching for the remote out of some reflex of watching television for countless hours in the living room at their old house. But Brooke knew her daughter had seen things now well beyond her years. She just hoped that she’d still be okay.

  Brooke ran into the bedroom, where the man was bent over Eric with what looked like a pair of tweezers in his hand. “How long has he been bleeding?”

  “A little over an hour,” Brooke answered.