ELE Series | Book 5 | Escape

by Jones, K. J.

“How about you find something to bludgeon these Yahoos with?” Peter said.

  “You mean more than my fists?” asked Chris.

  The open shed gave them weapons. Chris picked up a shovel.

  “Good.” Peter lifted a metal bow brake. Either side, the sharp end or the wooden end, he could use.

  Brandon smeared the footprints with his boot, then rolled the door closed, plunging them into darkness.

  Ceasing movement, the cold began to chill the sweat-drenched people. A bolt of shivers went through Phebe, her ill-fitting long-sleeved shirt under the scrubs damp. Her fast breathing and faster heartbeat battled the ambient temperature to warm the wetness. Hyperthermia would come if they didn’t do something soon. Trapped in an aluminum shed lacked conduciveness to seeking warmth. This situation needed to end fast.

  Each person had grabbed up a tool to use. Their eyes burned with intensity and hunted-animal fear. They looked more wired than if they drank several Red Bulls each at midnight.

  No complaints from Chris as would be his normal behavior. He lifted the shovel, chest expanding and contracting, ready to fight to the death.

  Matt held the officer’s 9 mm pistol in his good hand, aiming at the door, using his cast as the stabilizer.

  “Right at their fucking balls,” Chris growled. “Make ‘em suffer, kid.”

  Matt lowered his aimed to follow through.

  Noises of engines and voices told the Yahoos were outside and close by.

  “There’s footprints all over the place here,” one voice said.

  “Clear ones over here,” another male voice said. “This way.”

  Their sounds grew further away. Relief, their pursuers followed Pez and Kevin instead of checking the shed.

  Chapter Seven

  1.

  The bang of a loud shotgun blast startled everyone.

  “Get the hell off my land, you no good punks or the next shot is in your ass.” The voice sounded old, but tough as nails.

  “Fuck you, old man,” a young male voice yelled, sounding to be at a bit of distance.

  Another shotgun blast.

  “Okay, okay. We’re leaving, you crazy old Boomer. But you got strangers here. They’re wearing military fatigues. Probably come here to kill you and that old bitch.”

  “Let me worry about that. You get or I’ll blow your goddamn heads off, spoiled rotten, no good fuckers.”

  The vehicle sounds moved off.

  Brandon at the door raised his hoe. They heard footsteps crunching frozen ground, coming this way.

  “You are in there,” the same tough old man voice said.

  Pez’s voice outside, “Sir, lower the shotgun. We mean you no harm.”

  “What the hell? That a sniper’s weapon? You wouldn’t be a Marine, now, would ya, son? Or did ya steal those BDUs?”

  “I am a Marine, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll be. Semper Fi, brother.”

  “Semper Fi.”

  “My companions are in that shed, brother,” Pez said. “This includes children and pregnant women.”

  “Then they need to come on in the house and warm themselves up.”

  “The jarhead bond,” Peter whispered to Phebe. “It’s everywhere.”

  “It’s saving our asses,” she whispered.

  The aluminum door rolled open, blinding everyone inside from the sudden daylight reflected off of snow.

  “Come on out, folks,” the tough old geezer said.

  He looked the part with thick red suspenders holding up his jeans. A checkered shirt with long johns peeking out from his collar. In his hands, a double-barrel shotgun, which told he had bluffed since it only held one shell each barrel.

  “But put down my gardening tools, would ya? I need those.”

  They did so and filed out. He led them to the farmhouse Peter had spotted earlier.

  “While all you strong young men are here, maybe you could help me board the outside. The missus doesn’t want her window glass broken further.”

  “We can do that, sir,” said Kevin.

  Peter said, “How are we gonna do that without making any noise? You got zoms here, sir?”

  “What ya say? Zoms, son?”

  They gathered on the porch. Plywood was stacked against the wall.

  “The infected people. With the virus.”

  “Some. But we got a lot of animals with the virus.”

  “Oh. Um, what kind of animals we talking about?”

  “Bobcats. Coyotes. Some bears.”

  “Oh, predators with teeth, fabulous.” Peter looked at his group. “Have we done that one yet?”

  They shook their heads, they had not.

  “Marge,” the old guy hollered. “Open up, hon.”

  The sound of things moving along the door, followed by a deadbolt turning. The door opened. Little old lady Marge packed a shotgun, too. A single barrel 12-gauge. She wore several layers of clothing on her shrinking five-foot frame. Tyler was slightly taller than her.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “These two fellas are Marines.”

  “What are the rest of ‘em?” Marge looked them over.

  “These gals pregnant.”

  Marge’s face softened. “Come in. Get you gals warmed up. Hell, none of you dressed right. You just run outta the house?”

  “I think,” her husband said, “they may have had something to do with that smoke we seen from the highway.”

  He closed the door. Locked the deadbolt and pulled down a board across the door’s center.

  They stood in a foyer. Rooms off to the sides. A hallway shooting straight back, probably to the kitchen. A steep staircase leading to the second floor. A routine layout. It was decorated in old people country and smelled a combo of old people and a wood-burning fireplace. Most rooms were pitch black except for dim sunlight breaking through the edges of boards nailed to the window frames. But the front room, a sitting room, held a fire, illuminated further by candles on the coffee table and mantle. Plates of food told they had sat down for a meal.

  “You go inside,” said Marge. “Get warmed up by the fire.”

  They gratefully went, the women and Tyler first. The men and Jayce held back, trying to appear gentlemanly, though they all wanted to rush to the fire and warm their hands too, possibly knocking over the moving-too-slow women to do it. As their heart rates decreased, the chill resumed. So did Peter’s leg pain, worse than ever. It did not like the cold.

  The old man watched him limp. “You need a cane, son?”

  “That would help a lot. War wound.”

  The old man’s bushy brows shot up. “Be back in a second.”

  “Get ‘em some warm clothes while you’re upstairs,” Marge hollered.

  “Wasn’t going upstairs. But I will if ya need me to.”

  “I’m not climbing those stairs. Not with my arthritis acting up.”

  “You go inside and warm up, too.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Old people love. Peter smiled.

  “Come on, gentlemen.” They followed Marge in. The smell of their meal enticed. “You’re probably all hungry. I could use some help making you people some dinner.”

  Marge looked at the women expectantly. Peter choked on laughing.

  “I’ll help you,” said Jayce. “Let them warm up.”

  He knew.

  Old Marge looked him over distrustfully. She had probably never seen a real-life black guy in western PA, Peter figured.

  She nodded. “Come on, son. I’m Marge. Who are you?”

  “Jayce Jackson, ma’am.”

  They walked together to the kitchen.

  It didn’t take long before Peter heard Marge say, “You have nice manners, son.”

  Peter hoped those manners prevailed, and Jayce wouldn’t spill the beans on them. A Beheader. A white supremacist. All of them Zoners, who just escaped a nuked base in South Carolina. None of this would sound good.

  The fireplace heat felt fantastic. Peter turned so his left leg recei
ved the heat most. His knee locked, as it tended to do in the cold. He walked as if he had a wooden peg leg from foot to hip.

  Creaking stairs told the old guy came back down.

  “Some of you are bigger than I ever was, so not sure how things will fit ya. I figure my clothes can fit this young lady, seeing as tall as you are.”

  Phebe graciously smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Everyone on their best manners.

  “You must be a model, young lady.”

  She smiled and politely nodded.

  After distribution, he handed Peter a cane.

  “What war?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said a war injury.”

  “Afghanistan, sir. With Delta Force.”

  Peter decided to whip out some credentials. He had noticed the introductions from the old guy to his wife went Marines and pregnant women, as if no one else was standing there.

  “Delta, huh? Not bad for Army.” The old guy smirked, a twinkle in his cloudy blue eyes.

  “They’re all respectable Army here,” Pez said. “They’re Rangers.”

  “Then they’re alright. I guess. Frank Gibbons. Master sergeant retired. Vietnam and Desert Storm.” The walls held his medals box and framed photos.

  They each introduced themselves and shook his hand. The old guy’s cloudy eyes sparkled at the women’s faces. He was old, but not dead.

  “What about you, son?”

  “I’m Tyler.” The kid stood by the fire, warming his hands.

  “Your head must be cold. Want a cover?”

  “A what?”

  “Military for a hat,” Matt translated.

  “Why not just say ‘hat’?”

  Matt shrugged. Frank chuckled.

  Emily said, “My father’s name is Frank.” She corrected with sadness, “Was.”

  Brandon squeezed her shoulders. “Sorry, hon.”

  A kettle whistled from further in the house. A few moments later, Jayce came out with a tray and cups.

  “Tea to warm everyone up. Some hot cocoa too.”

  “Chocolate,” Emily panted. “Need chocolate.”

  “Guess hot cocoa for you,” said Jayce.

  Pez called the other active military to him. “We need to familiarize ourselves with this house and start a perimeter.”

  “Um,” said Kevin. “We got no guns.”

  “What are they huddling about?” Frank asked Peter.

  “Perimeters. Lack of guns. Well, technically, lack of bullets. We can bludgeon to death hostiles with what we’ve got, but not shoot ‘em.”

  “Hmm. That’s why you had my garden tools. Makes sense.”

  Peter raised his volume. “Youse guys should probably be including Top in this conversation. It is his house.”

  “Pardon me, Top,” said Pez. “I didn’t think.”

  Frank slapped his hands together and rubbed the palms. “What have we got?” He looked happy to get back into it. “Grab some candles. We can go into the dining room across the hall.”

  Peter took up his cane and joined them, conscious of his need to hold leadership to some degree. Pez outranked him as a gunnery sergeant, and unlike Ben had done, It would require a lot of trust for Pez to lead Peter’s group. Hoping this would not be an issue, Peter went with it for Pez taking control over the military guarding aspects. Kevin did not verbalize challenge to Pez, which proved a positive.

  “We good?” Pez asked Peter at the conclusion.

  “Yeah, we’re good.” Peter appreciated the respect.

  “We good, Top?” Pez asked Frank.

  “Let’s not wreck the house. Marge will be on me.”

  Pez smiled with a small chuckle. “My mama and all my grandmas would be too.”

  2.

  Frank gave Peter his chair, equipped with a place to rest his leg. The old man then set out to help the guys, wanting to be back in the action.

  Marge reprimanded him. “You are going to tire yourself out. Leave it to the young men.”

  “I am fine, honey.”

  She sighed and shook her head at the old fool, but respected his ego needed this, and he looked happy.

  Frank showed them every room to familiarize themselves. Meanwhile, the women and Tyler ate like starving wild wolves. Jayce tried to be more civilized, but his growing body desperately craved calories and he had to dig in as well.

  Marge had a wood-burning stove in the kitchen. She told them how they had the generator going but used it only to keep the freezer and refrigerator cold. They had a freezer stuffed with meat. “And since fuel’s gonna be a problem eventually, we don’t want to use it for anything else.”

  “Why aren’t you evacuated?” Matt asked.

  “They don’t evacuate the elderly, honey.”

  “They don’t?” His shock apparent. “That’s unethical.”

  “He’s a medic,” Peter shared. “Very medical guy.”

  “It’s the National Guard,” Marge said. “Not doctors. Besides, we’re fine. Let the young have those places. Children are the most important right now.” Marge turned to Phebe.

  Marge had Phebe sit in her chair, which had lady pillows and a stool. Phebe laid back with a full belly. Beside the chair, Marge’s knitting basket. The comments multiplied in Peter’s head from their past in Charleston regarding knitting and long needles stabbed into pillows.

  “I’m stuffed,” said Phebe. “Thank you, Marge.”

  “How’s the baby?” Matt asked.

  Phebe shrugged. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Has it not moved?” Marge asked with concern.

  “Oh. Um.” Phebe looked to Matt for help.

  “It will soon,” Matt said. “She’s ending her first trimester. And it’s her first.” Though it was medically sound, he’d say anything to cover up they had been nuked.

  Matt looked at the fireplace mantle, filled with framed photos of generations. Marge and Frank’s kids, their grandkids, possibly even great-grandbabies. Probably all evacuated. Grandparents would gladly give up their place for their descendants.

  Peter pointed at the knitting. “Maybe Miss Marge can show you how to knit.”

  “Are you wanting to learn?” Marge asked Phebe.

  Phebe’s fake smile. “Maybe. At some point.” When Marge turned away, Phebe flicked him the middle finger.

  Kevin walked through the room. Phebe reached for the knitting needles as she eyed him. Matt slapped her hand away and glared at her to behave in front of the old couple. She rolled her eyes, then mouthed, “Fine.”

  Peter realized there was something seriously wrong with all of his people. He planned to get them to Boston and the families. But how was that going to work out? It sounded great on paper. Get the pregnant wife to her mother in civilization where there were still hospitals. But he hadn’t calculated in the fact his wife was now homicidal.

  It worked out well in the Zone, her being homicidal. But probably would not go over well in a society where they still had laws and hang-ups about murder, no matter how efficiently executed.

  He looked at Tyler, who had camped out in front of the fire like a cat. A psychotic thirteen-year-old. Though the lack of hair on his head fit the inner him, making him look as psychotic as he was, how would he fit in with society? Not like he could go to school with innocent teachers, and he’d probably end up king of the children due to being able to beat up everyone.

  Peter’s gaze followed Jayce, as the kid cleared away the dishes for Marge, and he wondered who he would be in a few days, after experiencing such losses and trauma.

  What was Emily now? She looked rattled and high strung. She was the jumpiest. But she had a way of surprising Peter. The bathroom fight thing, her vaulting in to take Phebe’s back, it surprised him. She was so politically correct but broke the wrist of an African American without a second thought. Perhaps he didn’t get the whole PC thing. Or perhaps she was by far more pragmatic and loyal than he had assumed. She was only about twenty years old, he recalled it mentioned
at some point. A lot had happened to her at such a young age. He hadn’t thought she’d recover from the loss of her parents, but she surprised him. Maybe her exterior persona was different from her interior core. So, she’d be fine after a while. But would she be homicidal?

  Everyone else was already crazy war vets. They’d continue to be this, a little more compounded crazy, but they knew how to navigate trauma. Or so he hoped. He didn’t really know about himself either. Being in the company of normals, the first ones they had encountered since it began, who weren’t in uniform and acting out denial, hit home how bizarre they all had grown. They were plotting on killing a man in their company all the while drinking tea and hot chocolate and having a lovely dinner with a nice old lady. They were definitely not right in the head. This was like stuff serial killers did.

  Phebe fell asleep in Marge’s chair.

  “Poor dear is exhausted,” Marge said. She turned to the other direction on the couch and Emily was out cold too. “I remember being tired all the time with my babies.” Her gaze moved to the photos on the mantle and love reflected in her eyes. “We have bedrooms upstairs. Frank can fetch the camping sleeping bags from the attic.”

  “My guys can get them,” said Peter. “With your permission and direction.”

  Jayce jumped up to get to it. He was acting like his mother, always busy so he didn’t have to think. He’d probably paint their whole house soon.

  “You are such a nice young man,” Marge said to Jayce. “You do your parents proud.”

  A flash of pain in Jayce’s eyes. “Where are those sleeping bags, ma’am?”

  After Jayce and a less willing Tyler left the room, Marge said, “He and I prayed together earlier. Such a nice young man. I can’t get my sons interested in going to church.”

  “Hmm.” Peter didn’t know what to say. He lacked reinforcement. Two knocked out pregger women, slightly snoring, and now the boys had left the room. He figured he’d screw up and let it out they were all homicidally lunatics. “He’s a good kid.”

  “He doesn’t talk much about himself. Where are his parents? Were they evacuated and he wasn’t somehow?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Um. They, um … They are no longer with us.”

  “Oh, dear. He’s alone?”

  “Well, he has us.”

  “But you’re not family.”