“What’s his problem?”
“He doesn’t like people in his punishment chair.” Emily doesn’t know why she bothered to explain it to her attacker.
“It’s going to be used as a punishment.” He wraps his palm around her broken right finger and squeezes.
She holds in a wail. Unable to control her tears, she won’t give the satisfaction of screaming. Through clenched teeth, she spits, “Fuck you.”
“By the time I am done, you’ll be begging.”
BLACK SMOKE FILLS the crawl space between the roof and the ceiling tiles. Chad knows asphyxiation will occur faster the higher he remains. He scoots forward. Once away from the office, he digs his fingers into the tile, poking a hole.
Flames lap at a rack of clothes. Smoke blackens the windows. The fire jumps to a shelf of cardboard boxed products. Chad throws himself back, kicking loose the tiles in the office. He half-falls, half-drops to the desk and pulls the gear bags along with him.
He lands with cat-like grace only to have his next step be a stumble and send him over the chair to the floor.
Too much noise. He shoulders the bags and draws his weapon.
Peeking out of the office to discover the storefront burning and no people, he tosses his gear at the back door. Panic surges through him, pumping his heart enough to make him sweat. He draws a bandana from his pocket and soaks it with water from his canteen. He ties the wet cloth around his nose and mouth before tearing open a plastic-wrapped baby blanket. Spreading it out on the floor he dumps all the baby clothes, medicine and toys. Anything baby useful. Bundling the four corners together, he drags the blanket to the back door. Fuck the alarm.
It chirps. Dies in a weak high-pitched whine not loud enough to attract a biter. He grabs the bags. Chad drags the supplies out of the reach of the fire as it consumes the building.
The heat radiates for twenty yards as he drags his gear. The next structure catches. He races around the building. He scoots stealthily forward around the edge of the shop to view the street. The trucks are gone, and more buildings are burning across the street.
Why would they snatch and grab Becky? They looted nothing and set fire to the town. Nothing makes sense. How do I find Becky? How do I tell Ethan I lost her?
Racing back to the gear, he picks up his rifle. None of the baby items are useful in tracking. Considering his choices and what those men will do to Becky, phantom pains force him to relive the assault on him at the gun store. Run and hide. No. No hiding. Go on living. No hiding. There are only two choices. Die in a hole. Get that baby to Acheron.
What would Ethan do?
I hate that answer.
Chad flings open the door of the attached garage converted into a workshop. Someone put a lot of love into the treasure trove of tools—all needing power to operate. He scoops up a coffee can from the counter and flings it across the room. Impacting a metal saucer sled, the lid pops off. The nails inside scatter and rain on the floor.
What would Ethan do?
Never let Becky be taken. He’d have marched right into the street through a hail of bullets and shot all those fuckers. He’s gone. She’s gone. I’m alone. I have to get a baby four hundred miles to safety. I barely graduated high school. How the fuck am I going to protect a baby?
He slams his fist on the counter. I’m so fucking useless.
Chad scoops up a coffee can full of screws. Before he tosses it, the old man enters. He closes the door. “My granddaughter has fallen asleep. You’ll wake her.”
“Sorry. I lost my friend.”
“And you’d rather be tracking her than protecting us. I get it. You have no obligation to us. Your friend did more than is repayable by delivering my grandchild.”
Chad bumbles over several syllables before spitting out, “I want to do both. Ethan gave me an order, and I must see it through. But I want to go save my friend.”
“She your girlfriend?”
“No. But we have sex.”
“No such thing in my day. Unless you count the girls who ‘love you long time.’” The old man smiles.
“From that movie about the war.” Chad laughs.
“Lots of movies about war, kid. But yeah. Only I was there in the bush.”
“Wow. You’re a war hero.”
“No. We were only doing our duty in an unpopular police action. We didn’t even get a war, a parade, or a win.”
“You served your country.”
“I was drafted. But I did my duty because it was expected of me,” the old man says.
“Is this a pep talk to get me to lead you to safety?” Chad asks.
“I never spoke to my son about my time over there. Things I did…it made me ashamed of my uniform. And it was a uniform to be proud of. Those panty-dropping dress blues. But when I was in the bush, we were more savage than the Vietcong.”
The old man rolls his tongue over his bottom lip. “We were out in the jungles, and we had this green kid Lieutenant. He was an Academy graduate and was single-handedly going to win the war. We were sent out into the bush. Our green Lieutenant was quick to lead. Marching along as if he was the grand marshal of a homecoming parade. He even ignored the Gunnery Sergeant’s advice to remove his bars.”
“Bars?” Chad asks.
“The enemy would disrupt the chain of command by popping officers first. And the rank insignia was a bullseye. His behavior was dangerous and cost the third man in line his life. See, the enemy didn’t fire on the point man. Sure, booby traps might get him, but they waited until the group was well in the ambush area, ensuring we were caught in a crossfire. We blasted our way out. We got lucky.”
“And the Lieutenant? He learned his lesson and lead your squad,” Chad searches for the correct word, “properly.” Considering the old man’s words. “I’ll step up and lead. I need a minute.”
“This is no fable with a moral lesson, son. After we covered our brother with his poncho, the Lieutenant ordered us to charge after the men who ambushed us. Right into the jaws of death. As the platoon Sergeant, my duty was to the welfare of my men. I advised, with all respect, the folly of his order. He restated his command to charge, and I shot him in the head.”
Chad grabs the counter to steady himself. “You murdered him?”
“I did what was necessary to protect my family. I’ve never shared that event. My squad, my men, my family never spoke on it. The official report says the Lieutenant was killed by enemy fire, bravely defending his command. I think they even sent his momma a ribbon. I tell this because you, son, are now our Lieutenant, and you must protect my family. You have a mission. And if you don’t step up…well, I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my granddaughter.”
Chad closes his mouth. Maybe the old man should lead us. I’ll navigate.
“Now, you take a minute, compose your shit, and let’s move out, Lieutenant.” The old man leaves Chad to his thoughts.
Somewhere in that story, the old man is correct. Ethan would shoot anyone who was going to get him killed. Keep the baby safe. I hate myself. I can’t leave Becky.
He picks up the empty coffee can he chucked. He rubs the metal sled. The can scraped a thin line of paint. Chad flicks the scratch with his thumb nail. He thumps the steel with his middle finger. Lifting the over two-foot diameter object down, he whacks it on the counter.
Nice.
He marches back into the house. In the bedroom, he sifts through the bottom dresser drawer already disheveled from an earlier search. He opens a shoebox once hidden neatly under the blanket. He discards the sex toys for the leather ankle binders.
Halting in the living room. “We should go as soon as I finish. There was a used car lot outside of the town. We find one that runs and move north.”
The old man nods.
Chad measures his forearm. He roughs out the placement of the straps. Using a cordless drill, he punches one hole through the steel before the battery drains. He loads a second battery from a long dead charger. It has enough juice to drill two mor
e holes. From the number of hand tools mounted on peg board, the person who lived here collected for a long time. Chad searches. In a drawer, he finds a hand-cranked drill. He changes bits and completes the fourth hole.
Selecting bolts from a coffee can, he attaches the ankle strap.
Once he has the second strap secure to metal thick enough to prevent bites, he places his shield by the door. He places each tool back in its place. He sweeps up the shavings from the bolt holes and picks up the nails he flung across the room, leaving the shop in the manner he discovered.
Becky taps her thumb against her ring finger. Chad. Chad. Ethan would pick Chad given a choice of who to save right now. Protect Chad to save the baby. My life is second… My life is second to the life of a newborn. WHY? She keeps tapping. Ethan’s logic might help me decide what to do. These guys must cross the Mississippi River. Then they must find Ethan. I can live with the lie—I don’t know where he went.
Maybe I should try being the victim. “What are you going to do to me?” Becky whimpers.
“I doubt you’re a mouse. No girl scavenging on her own is a victim. Maybe you don’t want to be raped, but you’re no mouse. Don’t pretend.” Kaleb pats her cheek hard before drawing his hand over her head to stroke her hair.
He knows I’m lying… “I must get back to my people. You don’t need me to go across the river. Please. They need supplies.”
“I bet they do.” Kaleb pets her head, tugging at the strands as if grooming her for foreplay. “I met this woman. She’s trying to change me. Most women do after they marry you. Anywho, she asked me not to rape. I had five brothers, and four of us would take what we required from women. Believe it or not, I may have forced more women to do what I wanted before the end of the world. I tell you this, not to control you, but because I’ve found love in a woman and plan to do right by her. Build a world she’ll be protected in. But this Ethan. He killed my brothers, and I can’t let it go. I must end him. Now. I won’t say I’m sorry for the hits or the ones I’ll give you. But you should tell me what I need, so I can get back to my wife.”
“I’ll show where the boat launched…do I get released?”
He pets her head.
Becky slides her foot against the transmission hump between the driver’s seat and the passenger. She flings the door open, launching herself over Kaleb. He prevents her completing a dive, but not her fall. She bounces along the blacktop. The truck behind them slams on the breaks. Becky’s torso meets with the bumper.
BLUE SMOKE BELCHES from the tractor. Without a funnel, Mike spilt the last of the oil pouring it. The engine fires, used to being left in the elements.
Kelsey bounces on a carry-all suspended behind the tractor.
I’ve no idea how she’s alive. Mike pulls the speedy twenty miles an hour into the lane of a farm with a house still on its foundation. The tractor sputters and dies.
“I don’t understand why we haven’t seen a single biter. This green monster should be a magnet,” Kelsey says.
Mike climbs down. “That’s why I parked here. Give us a chance if any roam around the house.”
“You blocked the lane on purpose?”
“Caught me.” He checks his M16. “I assume the undead headed toward the quake center.”
“This house still stands. The last two you passed were leaning,” she says.
“I’ll be careful. If the second floor’s clear—block off the stairs and it will be safe to rest. Good plan.”
“Our leader swears by it. And he spends more time outside our fence than anyone.” Kelsey glances at the sun. It seems redder than normal for this time of year. “We need to be inside before it’s too dark to check.”
He slings his rifle and scoops her up, placing her in the tractor seat. The gentleman in him hates that she’s exposed in the sheet, acting more like a see-through tunic. “You should be safe up here.”
She nods. The sheet falls from her shoulder, exposing her chest. Kelsey doesn’t seem to care. Mike wraps the sheet closed, restoring her dignity.
His military training never leaves him as he approaches the structure. He finds the downstairs windows covered in particle board secured with two-by-fours. Mike raps on the boards. It would take an axe to get in. He notes the bolts in the wall. Someone knew what to do.
“Someone prepared this place,” Mike mumbles to himself. If the tractor didn’t draw biters, it should have aggravated any people inside. He cups his left hand to his mouth. “Hello. Hello! HELLO IN THE HOUSE.”
Nothing.
He circles the house. All the upper windows have been boarded up, except one. Secured to the open window is a rolled-up emergency fire ladder.
He returns to check Kelsey. “It’s a fortress.”
“What’s the catch?”
“They’ve an entrance through an upstairs window, and the ladder is in the ‘up’ position,” he says.
“Dead inside?”
“I didn’t hear one. If they’re all being drawn away by the quake, you’d think they’d be upset they couldn’t get out.”
“Not if they’re trapped where they can’t move,” Kelsey says.
“I’ll be careful.”
“Don’t leave me. Don’t let me turn.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going to die. I’m going to get you to your friends to warn them.” He carries her to the house.
Near fainting as she leans her head against his chest, Kelsey doesn’t say anything, but she detects wet where her legs brush his side. He bleeds from his wound.
Mike won’t waste the miracle that they both remain alive. Her bruises and burns would have killed stronger men in my platoon. Her sheer will to warn her friends keeps her going. First a safe place to sleep. Water. Food. Antibiotics.
My own cuts require antibiotics. Are there any left? Despite his gentle care, he half drops Kelsey to the ground near the open window.
She whimpers. “I’m in so much pain. You have no idea what they did.”
“Your burns look better,” Mike lies. Some of the blistering, pink skin does appear healthier than yesterday, but she needs water.
Mike checks his flashlight. The beam glows bright. As he flips it off, his face turns quizzical.
“What is it?”
“What are we going to do? I mean, it’s amazing we advanced from carrying torches to flashlights on our phones. And now we’re reverting back to cavemen.”
“Cavemen with automatic weapons. Nature resets. Maybe this time, those of us who live become better people. The next two thousand years won’t be a constant meat grinder,” she says.
Mike hands her a knife. “In case someone comes along while I’m inside.”
“I don’t know how I’m getting up the ladder.”
“Let me clear the house first.”
In the backyard, a long, wooden pole propping up the center of a stretched clothesline sways in the breeze. Mike retrieves it to reach the release latch. The ladder rolls down.
He reaches the window, and the lingering rot smell slaps him. As he allows his eyes to adjust to the dark, he discovers a cleared room except for a desk flipped as a barricade to provide cover and fend off anyone attempting to get upstairs. As he slides inside, the freshly forming scabs break open on his torso from the twisting angle and ducking under the pane.
Spent shotgun shells litter the floor, but the window glass remains intact. No bodies—inside or outside the room.
Mike strains his ear, seeking any noise.
He clears the room before opening the door. The setting sun fails to put enough light in the hall. He flips on his flashlight.
Children’s bedrooms are the hardest to clear. They’re so vibrantly painted, with toys scattered on the floor and crayon drawings on the wall, cute stuffed animals and storybooks. Now, no matter what he finds, he knows this child is dead. He reaches for the closet doorknob. Kids hide in closets. Releasing a breath, he swings it open.
Thank God, no body. Sealed windows prevent the stale rot ha
nging in the room from escaping.
The bathroom is tight but empty.
It’s the master bedroom where he discovers the first body—male. Vagrant. Mike rolls him over with a kick. He has two shotgun blasts, one to the chest and one to the face. More spent shells litter the floor. The wall around the door is peppered with buckshot holes.
Mike makes no sense of the attack pattern other than the shotgun wielder may have tried to scare this guy off instead of killing. The man didn’t listen. He waves the light beam at the ceiling. Should have checked in the entry room.
Halting at the top of the stairs, he debates retrieving Kelsey or clearing the downstairs.
The first step echoes with a slight creak loud enough to prevent his descent.
Nothing stirs.
Somewhere there must be a shotgun and its owner.
With only the light from outside brightening the upstairs hall, the downstairs remains in blackness.
If I drop the flashlight, I’m out of here. Mike’s mind attempts levity. Every dumb character in a horror movie drops the light down the stairs and continues down the stairs where they know rabid monsters are waiting. Someone spent time preparing for the end. Such a secure home would invite attackers. They would assume a stockpile of food and water.
Mike spots a boot at the base of the stairs.
Each new step he takes down with more care. Sometimes they don’t move. Not until they bite.
He kicks the boot. Nothing. He swings the light around. The immediate area appears clear. He flips the man over. Another shotgun blast to the chest and an icepick through the eye reveals the manner of death.
Someone took these two out and left?
Carpeted in a dry morass, his boot sticks to the layer of blood stretching across the kitchen floor.
A woman still holding the shotgun and three bodies of tweeny-sized people missing faces leave Mike with a story he doesn’t understand. These people attack, and she defeated them only to kill her children and herself?
He checks the rest of the floor. They have boxes of canned goods and milk jugs filled with water. Nothing about this situation has logic to it.
No Room In Hell (Book 3): Aftershocks Page 8
