by Doug Kelly
The haunting images of the skulls he had seen in the outbuilding flashed back; Dylan dropped the rifle and pulled the tarp out of the chimney. He went back and held up his hands.
“I see our ladder is gone,” said Gabriel. “You must have it hidden up there?”
“Yes.”
“Come down with that ladder and stand on the concrete steps by the rear door. Now!”
Dylan worked his way down the ladder, went to the concrete stairs, and stood on them. Each side had a metal handrail. They tied each of his wrists to the railing so he would face the crowd.
“It’s time for your penance,” announced Gabriel.
Dylan shook his head. “Let my wife and children go. It’s me you want.”
Gabriel shook his head, too. “Dylan, the wages of sin is death.” He forced Cindy to her knees by pulling down her hair with an angry, clenched fist.
“What are you doing?” Dylan screamed.
“You told me your soul was empty,” answered Gabriel. He aimed the pistol at the back of her neck.
“Stop it! It’s me you want!”
“You said that your soul could only be filled with blood and vengeance.” He pulled the pistol’s hammer back with his thumb.
Dylan pulled desperately at his ligatures. The flesh on his wrists broke and began to bleed. He groaned as he frantically pulled. The blood vessels in his neck and face began to bulge. His face turned red under the charcoal dust.
Sadistically, Gabriel announced, “Then here is your first drop of both.” He pulled the trigger and Cindy’s lifeless body slumped forward.
“No!” Dylan collapsed, and he hung by his bindings. The tears welled in his eyes and clouded his vision. He became dizzy and delirious, his world started to spin. He looked up at the crowd walking toward him and saw small, red dots swirling around. Three shrill whistles pierced the darkness, and then he head the crackle of automatic gunfire. It only took a moment before the crowd was horizontal on the ground, lying in a pool of expanding blood.
Silhouettes appeared from around the building, and Dylan tried to make sense of it all. He heard the hiss of radio static and a voice say, “We got a live one at the rear exit. Do you copy?”
A voice responded, “I’ll be right there, over.”
A stranger wearing camouflage approached. He looked at Dylan seriously and asked, “Hey, man, are you okay?”
“No, I’m not. Cut me free.”
The stranger cut Dylan’s bindings and he rushed over to his wife’s body. She was slumped forward. He gently rolled her to her side, then onto her back. Something fell out of her hand. It was his wedding ring; she had been holding it tightly in her hand before she collapsed. Dylan wiped the blood from it on his sweatshirt. His tears cut channels through the charcoal dust on his face as he kneeled by her side.
A voice brought him back to the carnage surrounding him. “Are you hurt?”
Dylan looked up and saw a familiar face ask, “Dylan? Is that you?” It was Dean from the lakeshore community.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Is Kevin in this mess?” Dean looked around.
“No.” His head went low again.
“Some of our people went missing recently. They escaped tonight. Someone named Cindy let them go.”
Dylan pointed to the body by his side. “That’s her.”
Dean bent over to get a closer look. He recognized her face from the picture Dylan was carrying when he had overturned the catamaran. Dean’s eyes went wide, and he looked back at Dylan. “Christ Almighty, that’s your wife. Did we do that?”
“No, he did it.” Dylan pointed to Gabriel’s corpse. “I was going to kill him, but it didn’t work out like I had planned.”
Dean’s radio hissed. “We found two more in the basement.”
“My children!” Dylan exclaimed. “Are they children, a boy and a girl?”
Dean pressed the radio button. “Did you find a young boy and girl?”
Radio static. “Roger that.”
Dylan had trouble forming the words to his next question. “Are they alive?”
Dean held the radio close to his lips and whispered the question, “Are they alive?”
Dylan squeezed his eyes closed tightly while he listened to the radio static. It seemed like an eternity.
“Ask him again,” Dylan begged.
“Are they alive? Do you copy?”
Horrible thoughts and images whirled around the darkest depths of Dylan’s imagination. In his mind, the radio static turned into the screams of his children.
A voice broke the silence. “They’re alive.”
Dylan collapsed forward and begged Dean to keep his children from seeing this.
Dean spoke into the radio. “Take the children out the front door. Don’t let them see what just happened. Their father is here. Do you copy?”
“Roger that, we’ll be in the front, over.”
The radio hissed again and the voice returned. “Dean, do you copy?”
“I copy.”
“The basement is full of food. It’s stacked to the ceiling. You’ve got to see this.”
“Let’s move it out front,” replied Dean. “We’ll load it all up and take it with us.”
Dean turned a little black knob on the radio, and it went silent. He put it into his back pocket and cleared his throat. “Dylan, I’m so sorry about this. Let me know what I can do to help.”
Dylan stood up and shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s over now.”
Dean put a gentle hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “We need to go. They’re going to burn these bodies.”
He swatted Dean’s hand away. “No, they’re not. Not my wife.”
Dean held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you bury her.”
“No, I’m going to do this alone.”
“I understand. Meet me in the front when you are ready. I’ll stay with your children and make sure they don’t see any of this.”
Dylan did not say anything. He picked up his wife’s limp body and placed her gently on the ground beside the patch of wild daisies. He found a shovel in the outbuilding and dug a shallow grave near his wife’s favorite flower. Before he filled the grave, he pressed his ring back into her palm and covered her body with the loose, black dirt.
Dylan met his children at the front of the building. Dean had removed the seal on a bucket of the cult’s long-term food storage and had found some chocolate candy bars for the two children. Dylan kissed his children dearly, smearing their faces with charcoal from his face, and smearing his face with the chocolate covering their lips. He started to wipe their faces with his sweatshirt and noticed his wife’s bloodstains all over it. He took the sweatshirt off and threw it to the ground. Dylan’s lean body began to shiver in the chilled air. Dean took his jacket off and handed it to Dylan.
“My offer is still open, Dylan. Bring Kevin and your families to our community. It will be safer.”
Dylan zipped up the jacket. “I’ve got deep roots where I am. I’m not quite ready to bug out.”
“That’s a shame. We could use you.” Dean signaled one of his men and pointed to a pickup truck. “I’m going to stack a pickup truck full of this food and take you home. Are you ready?”
“More than ready.”
Chapter Nineteen
As the days grew shorter, the leaves changed colors, falling from the trees and leaving the branches bare. Northerly winds prevailed, and the morning dew became frost, turning the grass brown. The cold air settled across the landscape like an icy blanket. Winter had arrived.
The rhythmic trotting of a large deer awoke a field mouse burrowed deep under the dry brown thatch of the meadow. The mouse emerged from the darkness of its grassy den into the bright sunlight reflecting off the newly fallen snow. The deer trampled a patch of tall brown fescue and bent the dry grass downward, knocking the seed heads into its hoof prints. The mouse scurried across the white snow and found shelter in the deer tracks. A red-tailed hawk, glidin
g high above, sensed the movement below and circled in the frigid air, waiting to dive. A coyote followed the line of deer tracks in the snow, bending occasionally to test the scent. Its sharp eyes caught the motion of the small dark ball of fur, emerging and then quickly disappearing in the snow ahead. The mouse jumped from hoof print to hoof print, eating the flailed seeds. The coyote crouched low to the ground and pulled its ears back to decrease its profile against the white snow. Each paw moved forward slowly as it gently tested the ground, step by silent step. The hawk folded its wings back and began its dive, like a ghost cutting through the air. The coyote bunched its rear legs under its body and was ready to pounce when the hawk swooped past the coyote’s head, plunging its talons into the snow, and capturing the mouse. The coyote pounced a second too late, just as the hawk clapped its wings to ascend through the cold air. The flutter of its powerful wings brought powdery snow into the air, causing it to float back to the ground like confetti. The hawk lost a few of its feathers in the effort. The coyote shook the snow from its bristled fur, touched its nose to the tracks again, and scurried away.
In the basement, Kevin woke under a heavy blanket. He rolled to the edge of the bed and away from the warmth of his wife’s body. After flipping the quilt back, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his tired eyes. Then he turned his head and watched the blanket that covered his wife slowly rise and fall with each of her gentle breaths.
A dim column of morning light illuminated the basement staircase, and Kevin quietly moved toward it and ascended the steps. He picked up his jacket, which he had draped over the handrail near the top step, and put it on. He opened the blinds, and the bright morning light filled the room. The newly fallen snow greatly intensified the sunlight. Kevin had pulled the patio blinds open to assess the snowstorm’s aftermath, trying to estimate how much snow had fallen during the night. Snow covered the handle on the oversized barbeque grill they had recently scavenged, and he estimated it to be at least six inches deep. He looked down and noticed footprints in the snow. They went across the patio and skirted the large grill before disappearing around the back of the house. Kevin went into each room and opened the blinds to peer out the windows. The tracks went around the perimeter of the house. Returning to the patio door, Kevin put on heavy socks, pulled up the hood of his jacket, and slipped on a pair of boots before exiting to investigate the footprints. The tracks were small, and he wondered if they were from a child as he followed them from the direction in which they came. On the driveway, he could see that the tracks circled Dylan’s car and stopped. Snow completely covered the car. Dylan had used the car as a refrigerator and had put the small amount of remaining deer meat inside it.
Kevin hastily swiped his arm across the powdery snow, knocking it off the car’s windows and onto the driveway. It covered the small footprints around the vehicle as it fell. Kevin cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to a rear side window. The thin slices of deer meat were gone and he saw a woman sitting in the backseat, moving away from him and reeling with fear. She looked young, maybe younger than his wife. She had brown hair tucked under a wool cap and thin, brown eyebrows that arched high above her eyes. She shivered from the cold, only wearing a herringbone overcoat, denim jeans, and plastic bags tied around her ankles to keep her shoes dry. Kevin pulled on the door handle to discover that the woman had locked the door. Her eyes widened, and she desperately looked around for a way to escape.
Kevin spoke loudly, so she could hear from inside the locked car. “What are you doing?”
She did not respond.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She edged toward a door on the opposite side from Kevin and put her hand on the handle.
Kevin cupped his hands to his mouth and began to speak even louder. “Are you—?”
Dylan interrupted, “What’s the racket out here?” He had emerged from around the corner wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, arms wrapped around his body to warm his hands under his armpits. His ears and the skin above his beard turned red from the cold air.
Kevin pointed at the car. “Got a visitor.”
The sunlight reflected off the glass at an angle that did not allow Dylan to see inside the car. He walked closer to it.
“She locked herself in,” said Kevin.
“She?” Dylan raised a hand to block the glare and continued to the other side of the car. He looked through the window and saw the woman. “Hey, what are you doing?” asked Dylan. “You’ll freeze out here.” He pulled at the locked door handle; the woman screamed and pulled a serrated kitchen knife from her coat pocket. She pointed it toward the men, and they took a step back.
“Hey, we’re not going to hurt you. Relax!” said Dylan.
Sitting in the middle of the back seat, she flicked the knife to the left and right at each man on either side of the car.
Mary followed Dylan’s tracks to the driveway. She had his coat in her hands. “I saw you leave without your coat. Are you crazy?”
As Mary reached to give Dylan his coat, she saw the desperate woman locked in the car. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. The woman was holding a knife and twisting it with movements of her wrist. As she did, the shiny blade flashed in the sunlight. Mary moved closer to the car window, and the woman looked into her eyes, seeing only unconditional kindness. Her expression of terror faded, and she lowered her weapon.
“This is my husband, and a dear friend,” said Mary. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Leave me alone,” said the woman.
“Lady, just get out of the car,” ordered Dylan.
“You hush!” commanded Mary, as she shook a finger at Dylan. “No, on second thought, you get inside. Both of you. This woman is terrified.”
“She’s got a knife,” said Kevin, with a tone that a man uses when concerned about a loved one.
“She’s terrified. You two brutes have her surrounded.” Mary turned her kind eyes toward the stranger and asked, “Are you going to hurt anyone?”
The woman leaned back in the seat and slowly shook her head.
Mary pushed Dylan’s coat into his arms and yelled, “Get!” to Dylan and her husband.
They slowly stepped back.
Mary tapped the cold glass window with a knuckle, and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Ruth Miller.”
“My name is Mary. I’m married to Kevin. He was on the other side of the car.” Mary pointed at Dylan. “The other man’s name is Dylan. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
The rear door opened a crack. For a moment, Ruth sat there and looked for reassurance in Mary’s eyes. She found it. The door opened wider, and Ruth got out. She was shorter and more petite than Mary was.
“The knife,” said Kevin.
Ruth lowered her head and dropped the knife into her coat pocket.
“Are you thirsty?” asked Mary.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “and I’m so hungry.”
Mary saw a tear run from the corner of Ruth’s eye down her cheek. It quickly evaporated in the dry air. The salt from her tear left a fine white line that was almost indistinguishable against her fair skin.
“We’re going inside,” said Mary, as she gestured for Dylan and her husband to move, and they did, stopping shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Dylan grabbed the handle of the sliding door, ready to open it for the women. Mary had a hand on Ruth’s shoulder and guided her to the door. They paused and waited for Dylan to slide it open. Now that she was closer to him, Dylan looked at her with a suspicious eye.
“Are you sick?” asked Dylan. “Any fever or coughing?”
“No, you don’t have to worry about catching anything from me. I’m healthy.”
Dylan slid the door open, then followed the others inside.
Ruth quickly surveyed the inside of the home. The open floor plan seamlessly connected the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Dylan and Kevin sat on opposite ends of the couch, and Mary stood in the kitchen, leaned a hip on the edge of the countertop, a
nd carefully observed their new guest. Ruth sat at the dining room table, still wearing her coat and plastic bags over her shoes. It was warmer inside, and she was glad to be out of the wind.
“Ready for a drink of water?” asked Mary.
“Please,” answered Ruth.
Mary dipped a plastic cup into a white bucket on the countertop and handed the cup of water to Ruth. She tipped her head back and drained the cup of melted snow.
“Another?” asked Mary.
“Yes, please.”
Ruth emptied the cup again and set it next to her on the dining room table.
“I think you have an accent,” said Dylan. “I just can’t place it.”
Kevin nodded.
“I’ve heard that before,” replied Ruth. “I grew up in southern Missouri.”
“It wasn’t quite a southern accent to me,” said Kevin.
“I grew up in an Amish community near the Arkansas border. We speak mostly German when we’re not around people from the city.”
“Why did you leave?” asked Dylan.
“Years ago, I left during my Rumspringa. That’s a period of time when, if you’re old enough, a person can leave the Amish community to see what the rest of the world is like. If I wanted to come back, all I would have to do is get baptized into the Amish church and accept the Amish traditions.” She nervously fumbled with the empty cup on the table. “I wanted to be a school teacher and work with young children, so I came to the city and got a job as a waitress. That was the only job that allowed me a flexible schedule while I went to school. I didn’t have any money, and everything cost so much that I ended up spending more time working than taking classes. My bills began to add up. I had to pay for school, along with rent and a car. School kept dragging on, and I never did finish. I had to work so much that I hardly got back to see my family. And now—” She wiped a tear away. “What am I supposed to do? I’ll never see them again. I just know it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dylan. “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”
“You’re used to living without electricity, aren’t you?” asked Kevin.
“I lived without it for quite some time, but not recently. I had a car and used plenty of electricity.” She removed a small plastic bag, partially filled with something that they just could not quite see, and put it on the table next to the empty cup. The top of the bag was twisted shut. “I do miss my community. It was a simple life. Hard work, but simple. If I had stayed, I’m sure I would have been married by now. I would be married to a farmer, and I would have at least a couple of children.”
