He leaned over toward her and delicately plucked her cool hand from where it lay on her thigh. She offered no resistance, made no effort to withdraw her hand. It was so lifeless that it might have been a cool fleshy glove or even a dismembered hand he picked up in the street. He held the hand before him.
"Thank you," he said with a curt nod. Then he bent over and kissed the back of her hand.
He met her eyes one more time before lowering the hand and replacing it on her leg. He backed away and retraced steps he barely remembered through the house, to the front door. He paused with his hand on the polished brass of the interior knob.
"You may want to lock up behind me," he called over his shoulder.
He did not wait for a response but slipped out the door. There, he entered a cold morning filled with harsh, brilliant sunlight that would no doubt cast a glaring and judgmental light on the activities of the night. He skipped down the brick steps and turned right, immediately screeching to a halt when he found himself standing with both feet in a thick puddle of black blood. It appeared to originate from the nearly exsanguinated corpse of a young woman who lay on her side, her ear pressed to the ground as if she were listening for the approach of heavy artillery. Her hair fanned out delicately, the ends glued to the ground with her own blood. Her eyes were open as if she were looking at Bryan, as if she were wondering why he’d let this happen to her.
He had no answers for her. He found his impetus and stepped over her body as if she were merely a downed log on the trail. Even in her expired state, she nearly got her revenge when he slipped in the thick slime of her blood and almost fell onto the spiked railing of a knee-high iron fence. The irony of it was not lost on him as he imagined dying before the lifeless, impassive scrutiny of this young woman. Although he hadn’t intended for people to die last night, it was an inescapable collateral consequence of his decisions.
That’s just a fancy way of admitting it’s your fault, he reminded himself. Or trying to distance yourself from the fact it’s your fault.
The smell of wood smoke hit his nostrils and he instantly salivated, hoping the cook had coffee and breakfast going. Then he remembered that part of his justification for last night’s atrocities was the death of the cook and the loss of the wagon that held their food. At the end of the block he found that the wood smoke came from the smoldering ruins of a real estate office.
His men were gathered on the bridge, in the very spot he’d delivered his emotional address. It was the very spot where he’d loosed his men like furious and wrathful hounds upon the unsuspecting and undeserving remnants of the townspeople. One of the men tossed him a plastic bag of leathery scraps.
Bryan opened the top and sniffed at it. “Jerky?” he asked.
“Deer jerky,” the man replied. “Damn good too.”
Chewing on the jerky and surveying the wrecked town, Bryan felt for the first time like a general on a campaign. Sure, he’d done bad things and made tough decisions, but last night still seemed necessary, as if only by going too far, by going past the line, could they learn where the line lay.
They had found that line last night. Not just Bryan but all of them. He wasn’t certain yet if this was all his men or not, but the men standing there in the cold with him had undoubtedly walked up to the edge of that line and spat over it. They were scratched and bruised, their clothes torn and splattered in the blood of the vanquished. They had a motley assortment of luggage, pillowcases, and totes packed with the cans, boxes, and jars of food. They had guns, gear, sleeping bags, and tents. For all the things they lost with the wagon, they found more to replace it.
“Let’s get those horses saddled, boys,” Bryan said. “Somebody track down the stragglers.”
“You found your missing men. You know they ain’t coming back now,” Zach said. “Where do you go from here?”
Bryan swallowed a chunk of the deer jerky, feeling like he was gnawing on the tongue of a shriveled leather boot. He gestured at one of the men and they tossed him a water bottle, essential for getting the jerky all the way down to his stomach. When his throat was clear, he replied, “We’re going to figure out who did this and track them to their lair. Then we will kill each and every one of them.”
21
Most of the world was still sleeping when Conor, Barb, and Pastor White rode through the river mist to the home where they suspected Jason’s wife might be held. The pastor was riding behind Conor. For now that might buy him a little safety.
Barb was still simmering. She had little tolerance for being disrespected. In different circumstances, with fewer witnesses, the pastor may have found his head lopped off for his attitude.
Conor’s focus was on saving Jason’s wife. Barb and the pastor would have to settle their own accounts when this was done.
Over the few miles of paved road between the church and their objective, the pastor spoke of those who lived in the houses they passed and what fates had befallen them. It was much like travelling with Johnny Jacks. Some woodstoves were already stoked back to life from their overnight lows, chugging white smoke out of rusty pipes or masonry chimneys. Other chimneys puffed thick black smoke and emitted the sulfurous stench of coal fires.
“That’s it yanner,” Pastor White said in the deep Appalachian contraction for “over yonder.” Yanner rhymed with manner and was only found in the secluded pockets where the language had not been corrupted. Speech like that brought a smile to Conor’s face, reminding him of home.
The house the pastor was pointing at was an older style home dating from the forties or fifties. The siding was locally-milled clapboards thick with white paint that almost, but not quite, covered the coarse, unplaned texture of the wood. The windows were double-hung with both paint and glazing peeling away. A lack of maintenance allowed the surrounding jungle to encroach on the home. Thick vines found purchase on the wood siding and spent the warmer months working to engulf it.
An odd luxury that seemed displaced among the bushy weeds and debris, was an above-ground swimming pool in the front yard. It had not been covered for winter and Conor could only imagine the rank soup it held, abundant with rotting leaves, soggy bugs, dead birds, and rotting mice. Properly cared for it could have served as a water supply or a storage pond for fish. In its current state all it stored was stink and disease.
There were no lights inside, but that was typical of many homes. There was a chimney, though nothing rose from it, which was less than typical. The morning temperatures had to be in the thirties. Maybe they’d let their fire burn out or maybe they were just too lazy to keep a supply of wood on hand.
Conor indicated they should move out of sight of the house and tie off the horses.
“What’s your plan?” the pastor asked as they dismounted.
“You stay with the horses,” Conor said. “Barb will take cover behind the pool and provide backup for me.”
“While you knock on the door?”
Conor looked at Pastor White and found he was serious. “Yeah, I’ll knock with my boot when I kick the bastard in. I won’t give them time to organize. This is a raid, not a social call.”
“If that’s what you think is best,” the pastor said.
“It is what’s best,” Barb said. “You tend to the horses and leave the fighting to us.”
“I’ve got no problem doing the job best suited for me,” the pastor said, “though I will not be spoken down to by a woman. By a wicked and insolent child who has not been taught her place in the world.”
It was unlikely the pastor even saw the blow that got him. It was a lightning-fast side kick what Barb launched with such fluid efficiency that her boot was contacting the pastor’s jaw and dropping him on his ass before his brain even registered the attack. He was out cold.
“That’s three,” Barb said.
Conor shook his head. “Did you have to go and do that?”
Barb considered, then replied, “Yes. Yes I did.”
Conor dropped to his knees and checked the man. �
��He’s out. Jaw may be broke.”
“Serves him right,” Barb said. “Maybe it will limit the amount of stupid words that fall out of his face.”
“How am I supposed to explain that to his people? They worship this man. They’ll want your head on a stick.”
“Tell them to bring it.”
“I’ll say no such thing. You realize that this totally screws any chance of forming a strategic relationship with these people?”
Barb shrugged. “We don’t need assholes on the team.” She winked at Conor. “Other than present company, of course.”
Conor got to his feet, mumbling about bad timing and parental failures. Barb ignored him. They dragged the pastor away from the horses. No need to let him get trampled. He was injured enough already.
“Let’s do this,” Conor said.
Barb nodded. She was ready.
Each checked his own weapons and then they checked each other. They fully expected this to go ugly and violent, so weapons checks were not just a formality. This was insurance against dumb mistakes.
“Ready?” Conor asked.
Barb nodded.
“I’ll cover you from the weeds while you get in position behind the pool. When you’re ready, give me a signal. I’ll join you at the pool, then hit concealment at that big doghouse before rushing the door.”
“That’s a big doghouse. You think there’s a big dog in it?” Barb asked.
“No idea. I can’t imagine these people feeding a dog when they’re too lazy to build a fire. I’d be more inclined to think they either ate the dog or set it loose to fend for itself.”
Barb didn’t look certain about the whole dog situation but crouched low and moved across the yard. It was maybe fifteen yards to her position and she closed the distance quickly. The pool was four feet high and too wide to see around. She moved to the side, as far as she dared, until she was able to see one corner of the house. It didn’t allow her to see the front door yet but she was close enough that she could get eyes on it quickly if she heard any movement.
When she was in position, Conor followed in her tracks, crouching low and trotting across the yard. He flattened himself against the pool, then pointed to the doghouse near the edge of the porch.
Conor moved again, slower this time, focusing on his ability to return fire rather than speed. The doghouse was a crude affair of scrap wood with a shingle roof. From its size, it could have held a Rottweiler or German Shepard. It was plenty tall enough to hide Conor from the house. One he was behind it, he leaned out and stared in the direction of the house, watching for any signs of life. His next step would be to charge the door and, using the momentum from his approach, shatter the door, jamb, or lock.
He plotted his movement, figuring how many steps it would take and where each foot would go. He figured which foot to start with and where that would put him after climbing the three steps. Then he noticed the rusty chain coiled on the ground in front of him and leading into the doghouse. It was thicker than would be required for most dogs. At least any dogs of normal size. He traced the chain with his eye and found one end attached to a wooden support post holding up the porch. The other end led into the doghouse.
Damn, Conor thought. Maybe there is a dog.
If he hadn’t woken the dog by now, then he likely would when he ran by the front of its house. His only hope was to do it so quickly that no one in the house had a chance to react to the barking dog. He stayed put for a moment, breathing deeply and gathering his thoughts. He glanced back at Barb, who was watching him. Waiting. He nodded at her and prepared to launch himself into the shit.
Then the voice came.
“Who’s out there?” someone whispered from inside the doghouse.
Conor was so startled he lost his balance and toppled over on his ass. He landed with his gun levelled in at the doghouse. He had enough restraint, enough training, to not overreact.
“Show yourself!” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. “Do it now!”
There was the rattle of chains, the thump of a body brushing against the interior of the doghouse, and a moment later a dirty hand emerged from the mouth of the doghouse. Conor was looking at it from the side and could only see the hand, not the owner.
“Both hands!”
“I need them to crawl out,” came the desperate response.
“Hold them both out and don’t move,” Conor said. He flattened himself against the side of the doghouse and then rolled toward the front of it, coming to rest with his weapon aimed into the dark opening. Inside was a thin young woman, framed in the arched opening to the doghouse. She was dirty, dressed only in jeans and a flannel shirt. No jacket, no shoes, no socks. Conor hadn’t seen Jason’s wife, Sam, except in pictures hung on Johnny’s wall, but he thought this was her. He pulled his aim off.
“My name is Conor. I’m a friend of Jason’s. Are you Sam?”
She nodded desperately, her mouth contorting and her eyes filling with tears.
“He’s okay,” Conor offered, sensing her question. “He’s a little banged up but he’ll live.”
“What about his parents?”
Conor hesitated. “We can talk about that when we’re safely out of here. How are you locked up, Sam?”
She reached for her neck and touched a rusty padlock, raising her head to show it to Conor. “They have this chain locked around my neck.”
Conor could see they’d wrapped the chain securely around her neck and padlocked it beneath her chin. They hadn’t left enough slack to pull it off over her head. Unless he could find bolt cutters, he’d need the key. “Which one has the key?”
“A red-haired guy. I don’t know his name.”
“Are you hurt?”
Sam shook her head. “Cold. Very cold.”
Conor waved to Barb and she came jogging over. She had no idea what was going on but had been watching with interest, ready to shoot if things went hinky.
“Barb, this is Jason’s wife, Sam. Sam, this is my daughter Barb. She won’t let anything happen to you. You come around the back side of this house and stay beside Barb. I’ll be back with the key in a few.”
“They have guns,” Sam warned.
Conor winked. “They’ll need them.”
He broke into a run, leapt the steps, and kicked the door just above the lock. The flimsy casting of the discount store lock broke into four pieces and folded like a politician’s promise. Conor found himself in a cramped living room with mildewed carpet and clutter scattered from one end to the other.
A red-haired man with a scraggly beard was stretched out on a filthy couch and bobbed up sleepily. His mouth gawped open and he appeared to have trouble focusing. He quickly realized it didn’t matter what was in front of him. If they were kicking in the door it couldn’t be good. He flipped to his side and reached for a shotgun on the coffee table. He barely had a finger hooked into the trigger guard before Conor unzipped him with a burst of suppressed gunfire.
The red-haired guy flopped violently before laying still beneath a blood-spattered wall. Conor turned away from him, touched a remote switch on the foregrip of his weapon, and activated a light. The harsh flow of LED light illuminated a hallway ahead of him. No sooner had he cast a spotlight than someone staggered out to fill it. This time it was a man Conor recognized from the incident at the soup line. He was prepared to order the man to drop his weapon but things happened too fast.
The man was blinded by the weapon light but raised a handgun anyway. Conor squeezed the trigger and pumped two bursts into the man. He staggered, firing a wild shot into the wall as his dying brain issued faulty signals to his muscles. The man’s fall coincided with the eruption of a scream from the bedroom he’d just left.
Conor stepped forward, ready to swing in the door of the bedroom, and secure the screaming woman. Three steps down the hall, still several from the doorway, a woman dived from the bedroom, landing on the body and fumbling for the pistol.
“NO!” Conor bellowed but there was no indi
cation she’d even heard his command.
Her hands wrapped around the grip of the pistol, determined to avenge her man. She yanked it up and swept it toward Conor. There was no time for anything but life-preserving action. He nailed the trigger, spotting the woman’s gun flying into the air as she jerked backward. She fell against the wall, her neck at an awkward angle, her eyes open and accusing.
Conor cleared the room the two had come from and was preparing to go across the hall to a closed door, when he heard a scream from behind it. He considered throwing open the door, then flattening himself against an adjacent wall, but those thin old walls offered no protection. He was better off charging inside and throwing the occupants off guard.
He closed the twelve feet in three steps, a fourth kicking open the door with a loud crunch. His weapon was up, ready to fire, with the red circle of his optic landing dead-center on a young woman’s face. She threw her hands up and screamed before she was jerked violently in front of a different man. He was bearded, with long hair and bad skin. He had a shiny nickel-plated revolved in one hand but instead of pointing it at Conor, he placed it against the girl’s temple.
“Drop it!” the man yelled at Conor. “Put down the gun or I kill her.”
Conor’s thumb eased the selector switch from three-shot burst to single shot with only a barely perceptible click.
“I’ll do it!” the man yelled. “Drop your shit.”
Conor flicked his short-barreled rifle a hair to the left, the circular reticle of his optic covering a grapefruit-sized region in the center of the young man’s face, and squeezed the trigger. The suppressed gunshot flared in the dark room. The man’s mouth flew open but the scream came from the woman. Conor shot again, sending the man reeling backward into the wall. He left a starburst of blood and brain matter, his head smearing it as he leisurely sagged down the wall.
Masters of Mayhem Page 16
