Anger filled her.
She’d fight.
She wasn’t going down easy.
Her dad wouldn’t have wanted it that way.
“Turn around slowly,” came the voice.
She gritted her teeth for what was about to come next.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
21
James
James had almost reached the highway. Almost to where he’d left his truck.
Maybe it would be there for him.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
He was walking in a fairly secluded area. The neighborhood had sort of opened up, several blocks away from the little corner store. Here, the yards were large. Here, the people had more money.
But their money wasn’t saving them. The lights were all off.
The air was dead silent. There was no noise from anything, no noise from the machinery, none of the noise that everyone had lived with their entire lives, that hum in the background so distant that you never even really heard it.
James was feeling somewhat better. The pain pill was helping. The bottle with more pills was in his pocket. He rattled it. It was comforting, knowing he wouldn’t have to endure the pain.
But was it affecting his functioning?
It seemed to be helping, rather than hindering him.
But maybe his thinking was a little different.
A vehicle was driving past. No headlights on. He just heard the motor. Heard the tires on the road. How could he not, when there was no sound around for what seemed like miles and miles?
James stepped back, hiding himself mostly behind a tree.
He waited.
He didn’t want to be seen.
To his surprise, the truck slowed to a stop. The engine cut off.
Moments later, he heard a door open and close.
Then another door.
Then a loud thud.
Grunting, some cursing.
It sounded like someone was lifting weights. Or, more likely, dragging something heavy.
There were no voices. No other noises.
Curious, James poked his head out from behind the tree.
What he saw horrified him.
A figure, all bundled up, was dragging a body.
It was clearly a body. A dead person. There was no doubt about it.
Shit.
James watched in silence, as the person cursed and worked.
It was clear to James what was happening. This guy had killed someone and was now going to dispose of the body, dumping it in what seemed like a remote place.
Was this what the world was coming to? Was this what humanity was really like?
James had always suspected there was a sinister, savage side to man. But this? The lights go out for a couple hours and people are already beating and murdering each other, disposing of the bodies?
Had this guy wanted to kill someone for some time, and had merely waited until he had the opportunity? And what better opportunity than right now, when the power was out, when everyone was distracted trying to provide for and defend themselves and their families?
James wasn’t going to let this pass.
He wasn’t going to let this slide.
How could he? How could he let someone get away with murder? It was wrong.
James wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he didn’t do something.
Yet on the other hand, James knew he was making a grave mistake. He knew that he should just keep to himself. Minding his own business was the prudent thing to do. The smart thing to do.
After all, he’d just been beaten to a pulp because, essentially, he’d dared to intervene in something he’d seen as unjust. He’d been the one to step out of his vehicle. He’d been the one to try to right a wrong. And he’d been the one who’d taken the punishment for his action. Everyone else had presumably driven away safely, everyone who’d watched safely from their automobiles as he strode out into the danger zone back there on the on-ramp.
So what was he doing now? Why was he, who was severely injured, who had a serious brain injury, going to risk his life once again? Just to apprehend some murderer? Sure, the cause was good. But couldn’t he just write down the license plate or something like that?
The truck had a New Mexico license plate. Weird. He tried committing the letters and numbers to memory, but his brain wasn’t working right. The numbers and letters just swam around.
Whatever.
He didn’t want to memorize it anyway.
Since he saw this man dragging this body, he’d known he was going to intervene. It was just part of his nature. Call it his own tragic personality flaw.
“Hands in the air!” shouted James, doing his best, serious tough-guy voice.
The man started to obey.
But very slowly.
James was moving forward, heading toward the man.
“I’ve got a gun trained on you,” said James. “A .45 caliber. Don’t try anything.”
Of course, James had no gun.
But he knew it was a strong bluff.
“Who are you?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“You really have a gun?”
“Feel free to find out.”
James kept closing the gap. This murderer surely had a gun.
James was already taking a huge chance. He knew to survive this he’d have to get to the guy fast, get his gun.
The man’s hands were almost in the air.
James was almost to the man.
So far, so good.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t like people getting away with murder.”
“Murder?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“What are you talking about?”
There was something funny about the voice. Was it a little high-pitched?
Maybe the pain pills were doing something to James. He wasn’t totally all there. Maybe a little loopy. Not good. Not good for survival. He’d have to take a lower dose. Maybe he’d have to cut the pills in half.
The pills were good for the pain. Kept him functional. But maybe they weren’t good for his head. And he needed his head for survival.
Or maybe it was the brain injury.
How could he have forgotten? The doc had said it was serious.
Shit.
The body lay on the ground. Very close.
“Can’t believe you’d do this. Thought you’d get away with it, huh?”
James was stalling for time by talking. His head was fuzzy and he’d forgotten what his next step was supposed to be.
Oh, yeah, disarm the man.
But something was happening.
The man was moving his arm rapidly. Down toward his side. Clearly going for a weapon.
“I’ll shoot!” shouted James.
But the hand didn’t stop moving.
James dashed forward, heading for the tackle. No choice. No other options.
He collided with the man.
“Ouf,” went the man.
The wind left James’s lungs.
It was a hard tackle.
They both went down.
James’s hands were all over, searching, moving rapidly. He knew that he had to get the gun.
If he didn’t get to the gun first, his chances of dying skyrocketed.
Something hit him hard in the groin. A knee.
Pain flared through him, up through his torso.
But it was tolerable. The pain pills helped with it.
Suddenly, they were face to face.
And it wasn’t a man.
But a woman.
James was a guy, and even in a situation like this, he could appreciate a beautiful face. In fact, her beauty struck him so hard that it made him freeze momentarily. And freezing wasn’t the right thing to do in the situation.
She took advantage of his momentary lapse, head-butting him hard in a vicious way.
He saw stars. Literal stars. No pain really, just more f
uzziness. This probably wasn’t good for his already-injured brain.
She had the gun now. One hand was around the handle, one finger on the trigger. Her other hand was on the barrel.
Both James’s hands were on the barrel.
It was like a game. Almost. Who would it be? Who could exert the most force on the gun? Who could get it pointed at the angle they wanted before the trigger was pulled?
She had the advantage, with her finger on the trigger. But he didn’t want to shoot her. He just wanted the gun.
Normally, he would have had the advantage of strength. He was a man, with significantly more muscle mass.
But she was strong. Wiry and strong. She must have been on some program.
And he was weak from his injuries. Much weaker than usual.
He was gripping the barrel as hard as he could. Pushing with everything he had.
But it wasn’t enough.
Slowly but surely the end of the muzzle was coming closer to him.
In mere moments, it’d be pointed squarely at his chest.
And a round to the chest wasn’t going to do his health any favors.
Things weren’t looking good.
22
Meg
She had the gun pointed at him now.
Now this was her game. She’d call the shots.
“Hands off the gun. Or I shoot.”
Simple instructions. Not hard to follow.
He did as she said, his hands slowly moving away from the gun.
She kept her finger on the trigger. Kept her eye on the man. Slowly and steadily, she extricated her body from his, keeping her attention as focused as she possibly could. She knew this was the danger zone. She knew he might try something. She knew that just because she had the gun didn’t mean that she was invincible. At such close range, almost anything could happen.
Meg remembered the studies her dad had told her about. Not that he read a lot of studies. Maybe he’d heard about them from a buddy, or read about them in a shooting magazine, or something to that effect. Apparently, at a distance much greater than one would expect, a man armed with a knife could rush an armed cop and disable him before the cop could even draw and shoot his firearm. Part of it was just timing. And a big part of it was the stress that being rushed caused, limiting one’s fine motor skill ability.
But Meg got up.
“Stay where you are,” she said as she backed up.
He was still on the ground.
“Hands out to your sides.”
He obeyed, extending his arms way out to the sides.
He was more or less flat on his back.
“Spread your legs.”
He did as he was told. He was spread-eagled now, in a terrible position.
She had the advantage.
Good. She felt better. But not by much. She was rattled. That guy had come out of nowhere. She’d thought the area had been clear.
She needed to be more careful.
Much more careful.
Who was this guy anyway? Some idiot trying to rob her? Someone who saw a woman and thought he could take advantage of her? Just like that guy in the Tesla from earlier?
She felt the anger rising in her.
“So,” she said. “The lights go out, and you decide it’s a good time to try to rob people?”
“What?”
“You heard what I said.”
“I’m not trying to rob you.”
“Yeah? What are you trying to do then? And don’t spit that gibberish out again about me murdering someone.”
“You think you can get away with it?” said James. “You think you can just murder someone and...”
“Murder someone?” she snapped back. “You’re really nuts. What the hell are you talking about?”
Despite Meg’s anger, she felt fear.
Not the fear of being attacked again. Not that feeling of being rattled. Not the feeling of being startled.
It was the fear of having to do the necessary.
Now, she knew, without a doubt, that if she had to kill, she would. Things had gotten crazy. Things had gotten insane. Things had gotten too intense. And she knew that without a doubt, she wouldn’t fail to use the gun her dad had given her.
Her dad had been right. People were scum. And they were out to hurt her.
And she’d do what she had to do.
But there was that little bit of doubt left. That little bit of fear.
She wasn’t afraid that she wouldn’t be able to do it, or that she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger.
No, it was nothing like that.
Instead, she was afraid of the moments after she pulled the trigger.
If this man jumped up, if he made a move to attack her, she’d pull the trigger. She’d aim and shoot him dead in cold blood.
And then? What would happen after that?
Could she really kill another human being?
Yeah, she could definitely do it.
But could she live with herself afterward? Sure, she could tell herself it was necessary, and it was. She’d know it was true. She’d know she’d had to do it. But would that really matter? She hadn’t grown up with the idea that she’d be able to kill someone. Despite all her dad’s talk, she’d grown up in a conventional way.
And the conventional way was the modern way. It was the way in which death was hidden from view, in which people didn’t have to fight to stay alive.
So, in a sense, Meg had been programmed from an early age to not be a fighter. Instead, she’d been programmed to be a worker, a homeowner, an adventurer.
How would she deal with killing?
Well, what would her dad have said?
He’d have told her to grit her teeth and do it. And as for the aftermath? He would have suggested gritting her teeth, pressing on, doing hard physical work.
She wouldn’t have a choice.
She’d have to kill.
She knew that now.
Danger was lurking, quite literally, around almost every corner.
When the time came to kill, she wouldn’t hesitate. It was either her or someone else. She knew that now. And she’d have to deal with the aftermath when she encountered that. There simply was no other way. No other options.
But when would she kill?
Would it be this man here? This young man? Would she have to kill him?
Maybe.
She gritted her teeth. She tightened her grip on the gun. She curled her toes hard, as if she were gripping the bottoms of her shoes. She tightened almost all the muscles in her body, relishing the mental toughness it seemed to provide her.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” said the man. “You can’t just kill someone and dump the body.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? The body. Is something wrong with you?” He gestured with his head over toward Meg’s father’s body lying lifeless on the ground.
And then, all of a sudden, the pieces seemed to click together.
She’d been so startled at the man’s appearance that she’d forgotten for a moment about her father’s body.
So this man thought she’d killed her father and was dumping the body?
Did he really think that?
“Wait,” said Meg. “You think I killed that man there?”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So you’re just dumping some body? Who does that? A murderer does that, that’s who.”
He sounded a little strange. Almost like he was a little loopy.
She looked at him carefully, studying his face as best she could in the little light there was coming from the interior of her truck. Fortunately, her eyes had adjusted greatly by this point.
Was he being sincere? Did he really think she’d murdered someone and wanted to dump the body? Because, in that case, perhaps his attack could be justified.
“You really think I killed that man?” she said, r
epeating the question.
“What’s wrong with you? Do you get off on killing or something? Hey, if you’re going to kill me too, just get it over with quickly, all right?”
Was he sincere? Did he really think she was a murderer? Was he really trying to just be a Good Samaritan?
Or what if it was all a trick?
What had her dad told her? That people were scum.
And they were.
They’d do anything to take something, to take something that wasn’t theirs, anything that gave them a competitive edge.
Well, that couldn’t be everyone. There must still be some decent people out there. It was the bad eggs you had to watch out for.
No, no. She was letting herself get sloppy in her thinking. She needed to be vigilant. Vigilant against everyone. After all, hadn’t she just seen how her father had been killed by regular men, regular neighbors? They hadn’t been criminals. They probably hadn’t been psychopaths waiting to do harm to others. They were just regular guys, regular guys panicking when they thought of their families going without food and supplies.
She couldn’t let her guard down. Her father’s last wish, it seemed, was for her to survive and for her to be on guard, for her to be on the lookout.
“Wait,” she said. “What am I doing anyway? I’m the one with the gun pointed at you. I’ve got the power here. And what have you got? Nothing. I don’t need to justify what I’m doing to you.”
She spoke the words as if she was thinking out loud, more to herself than to the stranger.
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” said the man. “But when you kill me, something will happen to you. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but people don’t get away with murder. They just don’t. It always comes back to bite them.”
“Nothing happened to the man who murdered my father.”
“Oh, still going with that story? I wonder if you’re in denial yourself. After all, it doesn’t make sense to be justifying it to me, to be lying to me. As you said yourself, you’re the one with the gun. You’re the one with the power. Why not just admit it to me?”
“Because I didn’t do it,” she snapped at him.
She was getting tired of the situation. Tired of all of this.
Constant Danger (Book 1): Fight The Darkness Page 18
