by Wade Ebeling
Being in no hurry to go snag a foot or cheek on one of his own traps, Daniel spent the rest of the day washing his body and clothes instead. He pulled out his old drab-olive backpack, and went through its contents, spreading them out across the counter to be reorganized. Then he packed it full of everything that might be needed for the trip to the library. It was time for Daniel to take one last incursion on the bike.
Curiosity about the book his father had told him to read had finally gotten the better of Daniel. As he dressed in a clean t-shirt and black cargo pants, his emotions stabilized. He still carried the sorrow and anger, but in more manageable proportions. His mouth bore the straight line of acceptance. Daniel was not frowning, nor smiling; he just was.
Not knowing how long it would take to find the book, his backpack and the countertop were loaded down for a three day trip. The rifle and pistol had been cleaned, his old utility belt was laid out and ready to go, and the load bearing vest was full of ammunition and other useful items. The amount of gear that he now considered to be ‘critical’ looked ridiculous when spread out, even to him. When he was younger, not even half of this equipment would have been taken along, and, even then, some of the things he brought never got used. But that happy ignorance was long dead. Daniel now planned for contingencies that only he could dream up. The shear amount of stuff that he planned to carry had even extended how long the trip would take. A lighter load would have definitely quickened his pace, but he was going more for a sense of security than he was for speed.
Daniel flopped down on the sofa. The only time he had gone back down to the basement since the tragedy, was to cut large, bloodied squares of carpet and padding out. Those squares had gone onto the relit funeral pyre. Sleeping on the bed downstairs or that of Rebecca’s upstairs was out of the question. Several times, Daniel wanted to pull his bed up from the basement to lay it out in the living room. After all, this was where he slept when he was alone the first time. He just could not bring himself to descend the stairs. He always expected that he would see his daughter’s cold, lifeless body again. Seeing it his mind’s eye was about all he could take. Knowing that it was impossible for her to reappear on the floor of the basement was not enough to shake the thought.
Daniel drifted away, trying in vain to center his mind on what he wanted to accomplish, and not on what he had lost.
……..
Sunday
Daniel awoke to the sound of a loud ‘crack!’ coming from outside. At first, he thought the muffled moan that followed was coming from himself. After a moment of indecision, Daniel struggled to sit upright on the soft couch cushions, and to get his night vision.
A surprised, “Ouch! Holy shit!” came from behind the wall that the couch sat along, placing the sounds that he had heard in the walkway that led to the back yard.
Someone was trying to surround the house. The confusion that came from being partially awake wore away, like a tight shirt yanked over the last and widest part of the head. The sounds now made perfect sense. The loud crack and moan meant that someone had opened the fence gate, getting shot somewhere in the legs by the shotgun shell trap that it was connected to. The surprised shout sounded like someone getting snagged on one of the fish hooks, most likely in the face. Just as Daniel worked this out, another pain-filled yelp came from the front of the house. It did not take him long to reason out that there must be a lot of people out there, for three traps to have already been sprung.
“Keep going!” a gruff voice shouted from somewhere in front of the house.
Daniel was calm as he slid his feet into his boots. Something inside him had almost been hoping for this moment. It was a chance for blind vengeance. Footfalls crunched on broken glass, which he now remembered scattering around the concrete patio during his fasting haze.
“Watch out for this,” a voice whispered too loudly, the sound coming from the back of the house. It was a different voice than that of the man Daniel heard yell earlier, much higher pitched.
Daniel felt fear and anger. The fear was obvious, there were too many people approaching to try and take them on alone. The anger was strange. He was not angry at the unknown threat, he was angry at his reaction to it. His body was frantically gathering up supplies to make a run for it. This made his mind angry at the body’s cowardice. Part of Daniel saw this as a chance to die well, battling in defense of his home. Some other part, however, was overriding everything, trying to give him a chance at living. Daniel wanted to stand and fight, but he had grabbed the back pack, utility belt, and rifle to run away. The thought of leaving this house, and its memories, good and bad, infuriated Daniel further. Still, here he was trying to figure out a way to do just that.
More glass-crunching footfalls came from just outside the covered sliding door; going out the back was not a viable option. Another new voice yelling, “Motherfucker! Pull it out! Pull it out!” meant that the front was not an option, either. Knowing that the east side walkway held at least two slightly injured men, and an unknown amount of still healthy people, there would be no escape that way. This left one direction to go, and, quite literally, a small window of opportunity for escape. Daniel charged through the dining room and down the creaky hallway. Inside the bathroom, Daniel used his invaluable multi-tool to remove the screws that held the plywood in place over the small window. As quietly as he could, Daniel removed the plywood and set it aside.
“Crash! Chink, chink…chink” was the panic-inducing sound the front window made as it was smashed in.
“Phsst…BOOM! FOOMP!” were the deafening sounds that the two flash-bang grenades made as they went off in the front room.
Daniel pulled the pry bar from its sheath on the left side of the utility belt and smashed the right side of the skinny window. Without looking, Daniel tried to stuff the backpack through the tight confines of the aluminum frame. It snagged almost immediately on the jagged edges of broken glass that still protruded out. Daniel took a step back, replaced the pry bar, and rushed forward, shoving the backpack the rest of the way out. He was completely unable to hear it land on the wood pile below, a result of the disorientating grenades exploding so close by.
Ears ringing, Daniel stuck his rifle out through the opening and tried to dive out head first. One of the magazines in the load bearing vest caught on the metal track, and the glass dug into his clothing and skin, effectively pinning him half way in, half way out. Abject terror made Daniel’s legs start to thrash about wildly. Try as he might, he was stuck fast. Even with the loud whine in his ears, he could hear several people yelling as they stormed into the house behind him.
The side of Daniel’s foot banged painfully against the toilet bowl. He forced his mind to calm down, and his body to relax. Finding a place to set his foot firmly on the porcelain, he kicked out as hard as he could, while at the same time worming his body forward. He landed awkwardly on the back of his neck and shoulder across what was left of the wood pile, the rifle jabbing forcibly into his thigh for good measure.
Daniel quickly scrambled to find the rifle and backpack. Now outside, he could make out the sounds of someone kicking out the thin covering on the sliding door, and the same gruff voice as before was still shouting out orders from the front of the house. Daniel rolled the heavy backpack over the privacy fence. One of its straps caught on the top of the decayed slats, snapping the dry-rotted wood cleanly. With only three kicks, Daniel had a hole in the fence big enough to crawl through. He slung the rifle on his back and started fleeing from his yard and former life.
He was almost on the other side of the fence when a woman’s voice shrieked, “Over here!”
Before Daniel could get the backpack secured inside his shaking hands, what seemed like a dozen voices started echoing her sentiment.
The gruff voice issued one last order, “Get his ass!”
Daniel did not stop running until he tripped over a decrepit chain link fence, six yards away. The voices still yelling behind had him up quickly and running again. The gunshots m
ade him move even faster. None of the shots were coming close to him, so Daniel figured that they must be shooting at shadows in an attempt to pin him down. He ducked in and out of several more yards at a full sprint, reaching the far side of the block in record time.
He crossed the street while trying to look down both directions and over his shoulder at the same time. The only direction not vying for his immediate attention was what he was running towards. When he felt confident that no one saw him crossing the street, Daniel looked where he was going. A small smile flashed across his face when he saw the house. It was in far worse shape than when he first laid childish eyes on it, but there was no mistaking the first house that he ever explored.
Despite the large hole in the roof, it looked a welcome sight to Daniel. He was winded, exposed, and his neck was starting to tighten from the graceless tumble out the window. Daniel desperately needed a place to hunker down, and the ramshackle house beckoned like an old friend. The driveway was completely hidden by tall weeds and grass. Not leaving an obvious path that led straight to the house required careful steps and hops. His plan was to enter through one of the windows. That plan changed, however, when the APC came roaring around the corner, a spotlight leading the way. Daniel bounded across the porch and threshold. His first step on the wooden floor creaked ominously, making him freeze in place. A large hole came into focus directly ahead of him. The hole spanned across the breadth and width of the front room. A small ledge underneath the large front window was all that was left of the flooring.
The MRAP troop carrier gradually stopped, panning its light down the street. The bright searchlight stabbed through the night, illuminating the street and house fronts like a false dawn. Daniel tapped his foot on the precarious perch beneath the window, testing it for strength, before slowly sliding out prone along the narrow ledge. He pulled his pack off over his head and laid it in front of him. His hearing had returned enough to hear the other APC pulling into the intersection at the far end of the block from the first one.
These were the same police vehicles that Daniel had spotted around the Warehouse. Now they were here, looking for him, trying to pin him down inside the block. Even though Daniel had escaped their initial cordon, he was still trapped. He could not go any further into the house, in an effort to escape out the back, and he could not head back out of the front door without chancing being spotted. Every shout and gunshot made him think that his pursuers had found his trail, and were now closing in.
The APC’s turned their engines off within seconds of one another. The silence it created was unbearable. Daniel’s watch read just past four in the morning when he heard the gruff voice again. He recognized it immediately this time. Daniel tore through the backpack and grabbed the small pair of binoculars out. He arched his back up so he could peer out the window, which had small weeds growing brashly along its sill. The bright beams of the spotlights thwarted any attempt to see physical descriptions of the people milling around the vehicles. Still, Daniel had no doubt that the man pointing and barking orders was who he was.
It was Bob Donner.
……..
A sore and stiff Daniel shuddered awake. His brain had finally relented in its constant bombardment, allowing for a couple hours of sleep. As horrible as the entire police force showing up at his house was, he only understood parts of what had happened the night before. After seeing what they had done to the couple at the Warehouse, he already believed that the police had gone rogue. On some level, Daniel could comprehend them coming for his supplies. What confounded him was why they seemed so intent on killing him. It was something far beyond just not wanting to leave a witness alive. Bob Donner had been irate.
Bob had made the police search the area for hours. Luckily for Daniel, the search was confined to the interior of the block. Once the sun appeared on the horizon, the search ended and the looting began. More vehicles sounded their approach into Daniel’s neighborhood. One was the distinct rumble of the stake truck that Daniel himself used to drive for the Maintenance Department. Daniel did not have to see what was happening to know that everything he had spent his whole life accumulating was being taken away from him. The final blow was the smoke rising up above the other house’s roof tops. As the roar of the retreating vehicles died away, the smoke billowing up into the rare, clear day began. The distant crackling of a roaring fire sang him a brutal lullaby.
Daniel was alone in every sense and meaning of the word. All he had left was the contents of the backpack, the rifle, and tools on the utility belt. The belt was wide, tan, and made of thick webbing. A robust, black plastic clip made it easy to put on and take off. Besides holding the holstered compact pistol, combat knife, and multi-tool, the belt also held a sharpened chisel, flat pry bar, and stout wire-cutters in home-made, padded sheaths.
The backpack, which had a foam sleeping pad tied to the bottom, was loaded down with all sorts of useful items. For warmth and shelter, the main cavity of the backpack held a lightweight sleeping bag, a pair of leather work gloves, a 10’x12’ waterproofed, woodland-patterned camouflage tarpaulin, a poncho with matching liner, an extra pair of socks, and a dark-grey, hooded fleece sweatshirt. The food contained inside consisted of a sports drink bottle filled with a mixture of white and wild rice, a bag of jerked game meat, some dehydrated berries, and three very old packages of almonds, which tasted like salty chalk. Sitting on top of these items was a compact, universal gun cleaning kit, improved first-aid kit, topographical atlas of Michigan, and a camping pot. The handle of the pot folded over and locked the lid in place, and held an alcohol stove, methanol fuel, improvised pot stand, magnesium fire starter, wind screen, scrubbing pad, and folded sheets of aluminum foil packed inside. A waterproof container was packed in last. This held hand sanitizer, a sewing kit, three working lighters, a bar of soap, and body powder. Both the first-aid kit and the waterproof container had their contents immobilized with square, cotton, make-up pads, which could be used for tinder, or for gun and body cleaning.
The largest of the two zippered pouches on the outside of the pack contained his father’s ball cap, snare wire, a taped roll of tea candles, baby wipes, travel sized petroleum jelly, notebook and pens, ace bandages, a bag of batteries and a folded solar charger. The smaller pouch had room inside for 100’ of paracord, duct tape, numerous zip ties, a skinning knife, and a two sided sharpener. Two open pouches on the sides were the perfect size for a 2 quart water bottle in one, and an emergency canteen with a ceramic filter in the other. Finally, in a small zippered pocket under the sturdy handle on the top of the pack was a compass and spare flashlight.
As Daniel stuffed the small pair of binoculars back into the pocket beside the compass, he realized that something was missing. His father’s sunglasses had gotten left behind with the extra water on the countertop. Daniel could see them now, packed safely away in their hard, protective case in the kitchen. Whether the wrap-around, blue mirrored glasses were burnt or stolen made little difference, they were gone. They were as gone as the rest of Daniel’s former life.
Picturing his father, always with those blue mirrors staring back, became the catalyst for the outburst. His recent losses might have added fuel to the tirade, but the thought of the lost sunglasses had set it off. Daniel leaped to his feet and out of the smashed open window. Charging a round into the rifle, he trampled across the overgrown front yard and right into the middle of the street.
He dared the world to come and try to get a piece of him. His tenuous grip on reality slipped loose. Coherent words were not coming out of Daniel. Guttural moans and screams were all that would escape his lips. One long, pain-filled, pitiful scream emptied his lungs. Daniel did not hear the startled bird answering him. Instead, Daniel was face down and passed out, a large gash over his right eyebrow pooling blood around his head. The bird eventually tired of squawking at the prone man and flew off.
Daniel came around a few minutes later, completely devoid of conscious thought and emotion. His brain had raised defen
ses to protect itself from further injury. He stood up slowly, walking back across the yard to the window. Reaching in, Daniel pulled the backpack out onto the porch. He sat heavily on the window sill and dug into the pack. Finding the first-aid kit inside, Daniel set it on his knees and pulled the small mirror out to look at the damage to his face. He felt no pain as he washed the cut clean and closed the gaping wound with five butterfly bandages. A gauze pad with anti-bacterial ointment spread across it, and secured to the skin by cloth tape, covered the work. After taking two pain pills, he packed everything away and hoisted the heavy backpack into place. Clipping the waistband and pulling the shoulder straps tight, he started walking.
Daniel was numb.
Somehow his body seemed to know which way to go without prompting. There was really only one place to go, and that was the library. He knew things without thinking them. He knew where he was going just by feel, and he knew how he was going to get there without looking at the map. He also knew that anyone crossing his path would regret it. Now was not the time for weak-kneed, maudlin policies.
Chapter 20
Daniel slowly made his way to the southwest, heading towards the library and his unknown future. The satellite dishes on the roofs all pointed the in the same way that he wanted to go, confirming his bearing with just the occasional glance. His neck and eyebrow injuries sent fresh agony with each step forward. Navigating the ruined roads of an abandoned condominium complex had also made his feet start to hurt. The years had cratered and dissolved most of the curving driveways and sidewalks. This made for loose, uneven footing, and his feet slid in different directions with every step. One spot in particular, a healing cut from the glass on his left heel, was turning into a blister.
