Extinction Level Event (Book 4): Rescue

by Jones, K. J.

“Yeah.” Dead rat in the bag. “But we got the time. Where else are we gonna go?”

  “That’s not the point. It’s me who has to sit here, doing nothing but scrubbing pots and exterminating rodents, for months. I’ll be as loopy as Eric.”

  “You’re talking to the wrong person on that. I’m restricted to life imprisonment within these walls until I’m eighteen. Possibly thirty. That’s much longer than six or so more months.”

  “She can’t hold out that long. She’ll give in.”

  “Jayce will be old by the time we’re released.”

  “If they’d just kill all the supremacists, we could negotiate our release with our prison wardens.”

  “That’s true.” Nia smiled. “If they’re gone, maybe we can be paroled.”

  “Until some other fuckers show up.”

  “Don’t be so negative. Positive thinking. Our thoughts have power.”

  “If our thoughts had power, the wall would have blown apart from my thinking. Or at least your brother would not always be at the door.”

  “You want to sneak out?”

  “Without sounding hysterical alarms, yes.”

  “If you do, take me with you. We’ll go over the wall together.”

  “We’d have to return. You know that, right?”

  “How more can I be punished? Not like she can take my phone away like she used to. We’re already on kitchen detail.”

  “Yeah. That’s true. Although, my tyrant husband might lock me in my room. Not sure if I can climb down from the windows.”

  Nia laughed. “That sounds crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy!”

  “No, not you. What you gotta do. All this stuff is crazy. How many rats you got in your bag?”

  “Five. You?”

  “Ten. You gotta get better at this, Miss Phebe.”

  “Yes, my life’s aspiration is to be Captain Rat Killer.”

  “That’s Tyler’s title.”

  “Admiral Rat Killer, for my greater age than his.”

  “Nuh. No one is better at this than Tyler.”

  “Made a regular old art out of it, hasn’t he?”

  “Snake!” Nia backed up as if it was Big Moe.

  “Are you afraid of snakes, Nie?”

  “Don’t like ‘em.”

  “Whoop, found Nia’s clown-pig.”

  “Hush! If the boys find out, there will be nothing but rubber snakes in my bed for years to come.”

  “I’ll keep your secret. But I reserve the right to blackmail you with it later. We gotta do what we gotta do in Star Gate House prison asylum for the apocalyptically insane.”

  “We aren’t allowed to kill rat snakes. Can you do something about him?”

  “He seems to be having fun. Look how big the pooch is in his center. That’s a rat. Good boy. Or girl.”

  Nia shuttered. “Don’t like them. He’s gotta go. He could eat the chicken eggs.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll move him next door.”

  The three-foot-long black rat snake was very upset by Phebe grabbing it just behind the head. It curled the rest of its body around her forearm as she carried it towards the door.

  “Gotta be released, jailer. Got a deposit for next door.”

  Jayce eyed the creature. He backed away. Apparently, the fear of snakes was a family thing.

  Phebe smirked, noting snakes were his clown-pig too. More blackmail.

  “I’ll take it.” Emily came out of the house.

  “Damn it. I’m not even allowed next door?”

  “Orders are orders. Let me have it.”

  Phebe was tempted to prematurely release it so Emily would struggle. Black rat snakes were very skittish, so it would drop and dash away. Phebe would have preferred a more aggressive non-venomous one, who’d strike out at Emily’s face.

  Emily took the snake. Jayce unlocked the door and backed away as if Godzilla was going through.

  “Damn it,” Phebe ranted. “I hate all of you!”

  Jayce closed and bolted the door. “Sorry.”

  “All of you!”

  “Sully, get out here.”

  “I’m gonna punch him.”

  “She’s getting angry and scary again.”

  “Fuck you, Jayce Jackson.”

  She stormed off.

  “Aren’t you gonna help me?” Nia asked.

  “Hate everyone.”

  Jayce said, “She sounds like you when you have a temper tantrum.”

  “Thanks.” Nia gave her brother the finger.

  * * *

  They heard from the war room all the yelling outside. Familiar yelling. They all knew it was Phebe on another rant about her confinement.

  “You can’t lock her up like this. She already losing her mind.”

  Chris gave Peter a look.

  “Don’t you say anything.” Peter pointed at Chris’s face. “Your opinion on this doesn’t count.”

  “Why ain’t it count?”

  Matt said, “Killing the enemy vigorously.”

  “Why y’all got such a problem with what I done to them insurgents? They were gonna die anyway.”

  Peter said, “You and her, you got some bizarre thing about blades.”

  “So? Still ain’t seeing a problem.” He pointed at Ben. “His people done used blades all the time. Scalped motherfuckers.”

  “That’s true,” said Ben.

  “Raven,” Peter said. “As far as I can tell, you assisted in making my Ph.D. wife into this when I was away dying.”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m with Chris. Not seeing a problem with what she does. Or Tyler.”

  “Tyler!” Peter threw his hands in the air and shook his head at the walls.

  “He’s going to go on one of these kill ops.”

  “He’s twelve.”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Seriously? That makes a big difference, huh?”

  Chris said, “What gotten into you, Sul? Why you all shocked at shit and wanting to baby them both?”

  “You were the one who initially trained them,” Ben added.

  Matt said, “He’s protecting his family.”

  They looked at him.

  “What?”

  “All family man now?” asked Chris. “Our Sully?”

  “Why not?”

  “Dunno. Just weird.” Chris looked Peter up and down. “You got some hormonal thing going on, son?”

  Matt defended, “It’s called paternal instinct.”

  “Well, it a pain in the ass right now with all we gotta get done. So, stop it, Sul.”

  Peter crossed his arms and shook his head at Chris. “You’re a constant asshole.”

  Chris smiled broadly. “That I am, brother.”

  “You want her and the kid in danger?”

  Chris’s smile faded. “No. That ain’t it. I’d kill any motherfucker that tried to hurt either of ‘em. You know that. But I see what we’re up against. And what those two are capable of doing. We put Pheebs up in a sniper nest where she safe. And –“

  “Tyler could have been killed by the shrapnel. You do realize that, right?”

  “I do.” Chris’s tone told he was trying his hardest to be patient with Peter and not lose his temper. “But we can’t be wrapping fighters up in cotton because they could die. Or none of us gonna do anything and let them fuckers do what they want to all of us.”

  “That’s extreme.”

  “You knocked out two of our best fighters.”

  “Zom fighters. That’s what they are. Not against healthy men. That’s what she’s killing. That’s what she’s decapitating. Healthy men. You tell me how she comes back from that. You tell me how that becomes a good mother.”

  “Aw. So now we getting down to it. You’re afraid of what kind of mother she’d make.”

  Brandon said, “He’s not the only one with that concern. How about you, Mazy?”

  “No, I don’t know that. I do not know that one equates the other.”

  “Either do I,” said Ben. “In fact, I�
��ve noticed her increase her nurturing towards Tyler. He showed more vulnerability while you guys were missing and she reacted appropriately as his mother figure.”

  “I saw that, too,” said Mazy. “She hugged him when he was receptive to being hugged – you know how he is, tough guy and all, most of the time. She tried to keep track of him, though that’s hard to do sometimes. And asked if he ate. I think he was even sleeping in her room with her. That makes me think she’ll be a she-bear. A grizzly mama towards the baby. Ready to fight against threats to protect her cub, while tending to the needs of the cub. And I do not think that’s inappropriate to our situation.”

  “I’m pretty grateful she is like that.” Ben met Peter’s gaze. “If I was having a baby in this, I wouldn’t want some cowering weakling. I’d want a grizzly mother to protect our child for the times I can’t. Mothers were always the second line defense to protect the tribes’ children. Among some First Nations, they were known to be more vicious than the warriors.”

  Peter studied Ben’s face for a long moment.

  “Well,” said Peter. “You guys work on that shit. I’m gonna go throw up because youse assholes are wanting to put my pregnant wife in danger.”

  “Yeah,” said Ben. “You go. You’re too emotional when it comes to her. That’s not helpful.”

  “I’m going to go drink heavily now. Call me if it’s something I’m less emotionally compromised on.”

  “We will,” said Mazy.

  They all gathered around the wall map to discuss the newest operation in killing white supremacists in guerrilla warfare tactics. It had worked so far. They had killed several. The recon Phebe had been told about was actually assassinations. She didn’t have a need to know, as far as the former military people perceived it. Nor did Emily, who would understand this part and spill it to others.

  Peter unlocked the door and left the room.

  She lurked a few yards down the hall.

  “Am I freed yet?”

  “No.”

  He ducked and blocked. This time it was shoes hurled at him. She didn’t appreciate his laughter over it.

  “I’m gonna find a key and lock you outta the bedroom.”

  “Plenty of other rooms, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll lock them all.”

  “Got a boat and a yacht to sleep on.”

  She growled loudly as she left the hall.

  His laughter followed her.

  3.

  New skills training. They learned to make bombs from the former Rangers and Ben. The first was pipe bombs. Once enough of those were compiled, it went on to more complex incendiary devices, including how to make C4. Phebe and Emily took notes in a spiralbound notebook.

  Since Angela was still performing midwifery duties – or getting mushy about newborn babies – the Jackson kids helped with bombing making, too. They treated the matter as studious as Phebe and Emily.

  Learning skills that directly corresponded with survival, Tyler turned into his thirty-year-old alter ego. In no time at all, he had bomb-making down pat and could assist others.

  Stanton and Eric, though, were not trusted to be involved. Stanton showed no interest whatsoever, so that was helpful of him, rather than the need to tell him to go away. He preoccupied himself with the kitchen.

  Eric, though he seemed to know a thing or two about this already, consensus dictated he was likely to intentionally blow them up since they were all dead anyway. Or, at a minimum, put a bomb on the hungry ghost altar in his bedroom.

  He helped Stanton in the kitchen in ways Stanton did not appreciate. There was yelling. Stanton stormed into the bomb-making dining room and announced that Eric was alphabetizing the cans again.

  “Just don’t let him take any again,” said Matt.

  Stanton made a colossal sigh and eyeroll. “Why am I the caregiver to the mad man?”

  “Cos we all have to pitch in. Or do you want to go to war instead?”

  “No, no. Leave all that to y’all macho maniacs. I’ll be in the kitchen watching over the Chinese American Rasputin.”

  “Thank you,” Mazy hollered after him.

  Matt glared at her.

  “Never hurts to be polite.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Such a grumpy guy to the gay.”

  She chuckled.

  “Very funny,” he said.

  “I thought so. And it’s all about me, so there.”

  He fought a smile to her charm.

  “Rasputin?” Brandon asked.

  “Did you just catch that, sweetie?” Emily asked.

  “Kind of. How … what?”

  Phebe said, “I think it’s the crazy eyes that’s the correlation.”

  “I guess.”

  Emily added, “Possibly the lack of bathing, too.”

  Chapter Five

  1.

  Adorable, fluffy yellow chicks ran after their mother hens, chirping innocently while stalked by rats and snakes. The lawn kept growing. The chicks were lost in a grass jungle.

  It had been suggested to bring in one of the horses. Eat down the grass.

  The horses inhabited a strange brick building that looked more like an ancient prison or turn of the century firehouse. It had huge doors in the front, so they could enter for the night. Phebe had seen it before house arrest. Matt, Ben, and Brandon took the horses to overgrown parks to eat. And complained of not having the right feed for them. Oats. Barley. All kinds of things that sounded like they should be in an Earth-crunchy cereal her late roommate Rebecca would eat.

  Too bad there were no goats in Charleston. They were good at eating grass. And everything else.

  Or a cow.

  Don’t babies drink milk?

  The group constantly gave her pregnancy and baby books. She stacked them in the ever-growing nursery clutter.

  One day, she walked into her room and found what she foresaw could happen: The nursery side was put together and decorated.

  “Crap.” She yelled, “Stanton!”

  It was cute. Baby ducks were the theme, which was nice. A crib with a mobile. All the stuff ready for a baby that wasn’t due for half a year.

  Karen was also under house arrest by her father. So, at least Phebe had more people to talk to. She was a nice kid. Mullen kept trying to stay behind to be with her.

  Why Emily wasn’t under house arrest was a burning question for Phebe, mostly out of envy that she was allowed to be a free-range white woman beyond the wall. Weren’t the bad guys after her too? But who had the power to house arrest her? She didn’t listen to Brandon.

  But that could easily change if he picked up on her suspected condition.

  Phebe looked forward to gloating in Emily’s face. Rubbing it in a little.

  She didn’t find the keys to lock Peter out. He probably hid them. Whenever she saw her husband in the bedroom, she immediately hit him with a pillow or threw one at him. He had gotten used to it. He’d walk into the bedroom and instantly raise his arms to block a hurled pillow.

  Boring. Boring. So God-awfully boring.

  Tormenting him was her only amusement lately. Karen and the Jacksons were nice kids, but a little weak on the snarky humor side.

  2.

  Her nap was disturbed by yelling voices downstairs. Peter and Emily, she recognized. Not surprising. Lately, it was usually Emily and somebody.

  Footsteps came towards the door. Doorknob turned.

  “Don’t throw shit at me.”

  “Why not?”

  “We got a true snowflake in Emily.”

  “Do we?” Phebe sat up. At least this could be potentially interesting.

  Peter sat on the side of the bed. “She wanted to recruit you into it.”

  “As opposition?”

  “No. As an ally. Oh, and I got the racist Southie shit.”

  “Well, she’s from New York and a part of all that far-left stuff. She knows the history.”

  “Pain in the ass. My dad gets pissed when they do that bullshit to us. These kids
weren’t there. He was.”

  “He was? I mean, like, right in the riots? I thought he was at Harvard Law School.”

  “You do know Ha’va’d is in Boston, right?”

  She hit him with a pillow.

  He laughed.

  “Tell me the story.”

  “You just took a nap. You want a bedtime story?” He pulled a book over and laughed. “You’re reading Harry Potter? Miss Ph.D.”

  “Yeah. I saw the movies but never got around to reading the books.”

  “Either did I. Aren’t they too kid?”

  “Mazy would lose her mind at the giant spider part. She couldn’t watch that movie. It’s kind of worse reading it. But, Mister Sullivan, you are doing your annoying evasiveness.”

  “Am I?’

  “Tell me what happened with your dad.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “Which is Peter for there’s a lot to tell.”

  “Am I that easy for you to read? We may have to get a divorce soon then.”

  She smiled. “I got your number, Irishman.”

  “Hey. Irish makes me an automatic racist.”

  “I already know that gem up North with them. Anyway. It was a really nasty riot. I mean, from what Mullen told me.”

  “Yeah. Seen the pictures and shit.”

  “Was your dad in it? As in, in it, in it?”

  “My paternal side is the Point. City Point. We have gone to St. Bridget’s Catholic school forever. Pretty much since it opened, which was when Christ was a child.”

  “Did he attend?”

  “I heard he was Irish.”

  “That’ll be a shocker to some in this house. But, go on. What happened?”

  “So no one was directly involved with the forced busing. It was only public schools. But as cops, they were involved. It was all supposed to be about the busing. But special interest groups showed up. People like Emily got involved and it turned into race. Neighbor against neighbor in a lot of places in Boston. Battle lines drawn. It sucked.”

  “What about your maternal side? The crooks.”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yeah. That’s the bad stuff. I have relatives in the old pictures. Not just the cops in riot gear but also the rioters. Throwing bricks and shit at black kids on the buses. You see faces in the pictures, then see the same faces in Ma’s photo albums of the same hairy Seventies.”