Mountain Home

by Bracken MacLeod

  She sat up. They’d dressed her in the same orange jumpsuit they used to clothe enemy combatants taken into custody. She wondered where the pointed vinyl hood was and why she wasn’t wearing it. Probably saving it for when they move me. She had no illusions about how this encounter was going to end when the men holding her captive finished with her. What is finished anyway? When I stop moving? When I stop breathing? Whatever their idea of it was, when she was used up, they’d hood her, drag her out like a prisoner to a Humvee, drive her to the middle of the desert somewhere and dump her. If she was lucky, they’d bury her so she’d suffocate quickly instead of dying of heat stroke and dehydration. She wondered if she was still anywhere near her unit.

  Hunger gnawed at her and she realized that if they had been drugging her, it was probably in the food. If they were still feeding me, I wouldn’t be waking up. “Jesus!” she croaked. “How long have I been in here?” Her throat was dry and the painful attempt at speaking aloud emphasized her need for water. She crawled over to the pallets. A half empty water bottle rested on its side next to a tray smeared with the remnants of some MREs––Meals Ready to Eat: freeze-dried, high calorie nastiness. Although it was unbearably hot in the container and she desperately wanted the drink, she wasn’t convinced that the water wasn’t what they’d drugged her with instead of the food. If you’re getting out of here, you’ve got to be smarter than they are. She crawled around behind the stack hoping to find something else to drink––an unopened bottle of spring water or a half empty beer can. Anything. There was nothing.

  She stood carefully, steadying herself against the wall. Tears clouded her eyes as the mere act of standing sent pain shooting from between her legs into her guts. She stumbled and caught herself on the unsteady table that threatened to collapse under her weight. The lantern fell over and rolled away. She stood as straight as she could and put her hand on the hot metal wall. Unable to lift her feet without excruciating pain, she shuffled toward the doors, the rough floor of the shipping container scratching her bare soles. Feeling her way along the wall, she moved toward a slender but dim vertical line of sunlight shining through the crack between the doors. What if there’s a guard? She stumbled to the table and picked up the handheld stun gun. It was one of those small ones you can buy online to carry in your purse. She flicked the switch on and off shooting a brief bright blue arc of electricity between the two prongs at the end of the device. It had enough voltage to knock someone back or even down, but not unconscious. Still, it was better than nothing. How many times did they use this on me? She struggled to remember, but that was a detail that didn’t rise out of the fog of her mind. Her whole body ached and it was impossible to locate a single point that felt like it had been electro-shocked as opposed to simply beaten or fucked.

  Moving to the door, she cradled the stun gun to her chest and pushed slowly against the doors with her shoulder. They bowed out slightly until the latches at the top and bottom of the portal caught and held, making a dull clanking sound. She wanted to weep, but held back the tears. Escape first. You can have all the time in the world to panic as soon as you get yourself out of this. Toughen the fuck up!

  She looked around the can one last time for something that would help her escape. There were a few things that would be useful if she needed to walk through the desert––the blanket, the lantern––but little that would jimmy open a door or disarm a guard. Leaning back, she tried to batter the door with her body. Instead, she staggered back a hard step, nearly falling again. The jolt of pain in her abdomen made her vision dim. She doubled over and held her stomach for a long time, breathing through the agony, promising herself with every exhale that she’d kill the men who did this to her. She promised to kill them slowly, like they were doing to her. She imagined hurting them in intimate ways, channeling her anger to give her a boost of adrenaline sufficient to batter down doors made to hold shifting cargo whose weight was measured in tons.

  She collected herself and tried once more, letting herself fall into the doors. The same pain welled up inside, but this time the doors clanged a little louder. They weren’t going to open any time soon under her power. She hoped, however, that somebody might hear her––if the can wasn’t sitting in the middle of the Arabian Desert. And do what? Rescue me? Rape me again? Kill me? She pointed the stun gun away from herself and jolted it again to reassure herself it was working. Fuck ‘em. Let them try. Hurry up, boys. Come and get me.

  Rocking back and forth from foot to foot, she banged her shoulder against the door until exhaustion buckled her knees and she sat down hard. The ringing metal had echoed noisily in the can, but she had no idea how loud it was outside. What if they did drop this can out in the desert? What if they are done with me and this is what they did? Leaving me to die locked in a shipping container that’ll get buried in the next sand-storm? She kicked at the doors despite the pain and screamed through her dry throat for help. Her hoarse voice barely echoed inside the steel coffin.

  The blossoming flare of light made her fear for a moment they had thrown a grenade into the can. She shielded her stinging eyes, waiting for the fire and shrapnel to take her pain away. A man’s voice called out from the blaze in a language she recognized but couldn’t understand: Arabic. Suddenly there were hands on her and a dark shape took form as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight blinding her through the open doors.

  She repeated the only two phrases she knew in Iraqi Arabic. “Hal tatakallamu alloghah alenjleziah? Ahtaju tabeeban!”

  The man replied in halting, accented English, “Calm down. We will take you to hospital.” He held out his hand in a gesture that she didn’t understand. “May I have that?” he asked, pointing at the taser. She clutched it tighter to her chest. He appeared to give up and let her have her toy. “You will be all right,” he said. “Don’t shocking me.” He was dressed in a long white dishdasha robe with a head veil tied with the egal headband. She had no idea what his clothes could tell her about who he was. But she hoped white meant he was a good guy.

  The man picked her up and carried her out of her prison. As he walked toward a broken-down Toyota pickup truck loaded with scrap metal, they passed the bodies of the DeepWater contractors lying in bloody sand. A glint of gold on one corpse caught her eye. The dead man’s cross pendant rested next to a seeping red bullet hole in his neck. She bucked a little in her rescuer’s arms wanting to be let down. She wanted to make sure he was really dead. Kill him again. “It is all right,” he assured her. “We go to hospital. You will be all right there.”

  She doubted that she would ever be all right again.

  Chapter Four: Lyn Loses her Job

  14 July 2013 –– 1630 hrs

  Although she’d nearly shot him with it, Bryce didn’t ask the waitress, Lyn, for her gun. She scared him. In no little part, that was because her face was covered in drying blood like some kind of feral horror movie cannibal. But more than that, beneath the gore she wore an expression he’d seen in the face of other people for whom “from my cold dead hands,” wasn’t just a saying––and he’d already been shot once today. Although the look in her eyes clearly communicated that she was on the brink of coming undone, she was in charge and so far she’d kept this many people alive. The others’ attitudes ranged from pouting resentment to crippling fear to near catatonic shutdown. And then there was the busboy. Bryce had seen his look before as well. He was looking for a way out––screw everyone else. Bryce needed an ally in the room and Lyn looked like the only one ready and able to get her hands dirty for someone other than herself. She helped the doctor patch up his shoulder and put it in a sling while everyone else sat in the back room waiting for Joanie to launch the next wave of her offensive. Right now she was sitting against the wall with the doctor’s kid, holding his hand and telling him that he and his father were going to be okay. Despite the wild look in her eye and the easy trigger finger, Bryce trusted her.

  Trying to steady his nerves, he pulled a pouch out of his breast pocket and awkwardly p
inched out a wad of tobacco. He stuffed it behind his lip and tried focusing for a second on the sensation of the menthol and nicotine against his gums instead of the pain in his shoulder. Despite being in a restaurant, he couldn’t see a cup anywhere nearby. He resigned himself to having to swallow the juice.

  He checked his watch again. Even if his radio signal had gotten through––which he knew it hadn’t––they still wouldn’t be hearing sirens for a while. “There’s nothing on the radio about this. Haven’t any of you called for help?”

  “Phones are out,” Beau said.

  “I was collecting cell phones when you got here,” Lyn said. “There’s shit for signal up here, but I figure maybe one of them might work outside.”

  “Why you?” Luis asked. “Who made you God?”

  “I already answered that question.” She patted the gun tucked into the front of her apron. “I already know you can’t be trusted and I don’t want to worry about what you’re picking out from behind the propane shed to use to bash my head in.”

  “Propane shed?” Bryce said. “This place is fed by propane?”

  “Did you see any solar panels out there?” Beau said. Bryce narrowed his eyes and gave him what his wife, Cherie, called ‘Cop-face.’ Beau buttoned down the sarcasm. “We got a propane tank on the side of the building and a generator for the lights.”

  “How big is the tank? How much does it hold?”

  Beau rubbed his chin. “Hell if I know. A god damned lot’d be my guess.”

  “I need to see it.”

  “What for?”

  Bryce didn’t want vocalize his fear. He hoped that whatever had made Joanie want to go on a killing spree had been a spur of the moment thing and not a plan that took days or weeks of preparation. He took small comfort in the fact that the shed hadn’t already exploded. “I don’t know yet. But it’s better than sitting here waiting.”

  “Well, you can’t anyhow,” Beau said.

  “Why not?”

  “Two reasons. One, it’s kept locked by the propane company. The only ones who have a key are the owner, Mr. Bischoff, and the guy who comes to fill the tank.”

  “How often do they come to fill it?”

  “Couple, three times a month. On Thursdays, so we always have a full tank for the weekend.”

  “That’s got to cost a fortune. How does this place turn a profit?”

  Beau smirked. Bryce thought his teeth were weirdly straight and white, like a bad artist’s depiction of perfect teeth instead of real ones. “This place ain’t made a profit since it opened.”

  “What? Why stay open if you’re losing money?” Lyn asked.

  Beau nodded in the direction of Joanie’s house. “Mr. Bischoff says so.”

  Bryce recalled lying in Joanie’s bed after their first time. He’d asked her why she bought a house across the way from such an eyesore. She’d said it wasn’t there when she bought it. Although they didn’t talk about her personal life, he read the papers. He knew she’d been fighting for at least two years to shutter Your Mountain Home Kitchen. She’d done everything she could to get the place closed, but Bischoff practically owned Bonner County politics. If he wanted something he usually called up a friend who owed him a favor––and that meant practically any living official in the county, including the judge hearing the case. The only person who doesn’t owe Adam anything is probably Joanie. That’s why he’s doing this. And that’s why she’s doing what she’s doing.

  “Adam says that we stay open until he gets the call that she’s ready to sell,” Beau added.

  “We’re only up here because the fucking boss wants to buy a house?” Lyn shouted. “How’s that working out for you?”

  Beau had no answer.

  You said there was a second reason.” Bryce asked. “What is it?”

  “The door to the shed’s around side of the building. Hiding behind it is fine, but if you want a peek inside, you’re gonna have to go around. You’ll be in the open, right in Myers’ sights.”

  Bryce didn’t want to tell them he was afraid she might have tampered with the tank or set some kind of improvised explosive around it. Instead he moved on. “Since we’ve exhausted our options with regard to getting away, it’s time to think of a way to get help to come up here. Lyn’s plan to try the cell phones is a good start.” He turned to her. “You should head outside now and see what you can get. If anyone’s got a phone they haven’t given her, hand it over now.” Bryce waited while everyone kept sitting on their hands. “Okay. Now, assuming she’s right and there’s no signal here worth a squirt of piss, the next best option is that I get to my car so I can radio back to base. I’m parked…” He hesitated a moment, unsure how he was going to explain the next part. “I’m parked across the highway in Ms. Myer’s driveway. We’re going to have to come up with some kind of diversion so I can get over there without getting shot.”

  “No fuckin’ way,” Luis shouted. “I already seen what ‘a diversion’ means to you people, and I ain’t getting my head blown off so you can make a phone call.”

  “It’s not just a phone call. It’s––”

  “Don’t bother trying to reason with him,” Hunter interrupted. He wouldn’t have the balls to do it anyway.” Lyn squeezed his hands tighter and shushed him softly and the boy’s tense shoulders eased a little.

  “Does that mean you’re going to go running out there?”

  “No one is running out there,” Neil said weakly. He was looking bad and seemed to be fading in and out of sleep, but he demonstrated that he’d been listening. “We have to think of some other way. Joanie’s already shown that she’s willing to take a shot at any one of us.”

  “What about Leonard?” Luis asked.

  “What about him? Chicken shit ran away as soon as the windows broke,” Beau said. “Did you see a big Indian cook outside, officer? Alive or dead?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well, he got away then. I say we take our chances with the rock slide.”

  “We can’t carry Neil and Carol down the scree slope. We’ll all break our necks,” Lyn said.

  “And how is that my problem?” Luis asked.

  “That’s enough,” Bryce interrupted. “I’ve had enough of your attitude.” The kid was pinging my Spidey-sense before he started talking. Now that he’s opened his mouth I’m pretty sure if I go through his pockets I’ll come up with a half dozen reasons why I wouldn’t trust him with my drink order, let alone our lives. “Lyn, can you go outside and make some calls? Beau and me are going to take a peek at that shed. From cover, don’t worry. The rest of you can stay put and wait for us to return. If you hear anybody come in the front, I want you out the back right away, got it?” Everyone nodded their heads in agreement.

  Before heading for the door, Beau ducked into his office. He emerged holding the hunting rifle from the wall above his desk. Lyn yelped and scrambled toward the far wall, fumbling her apron for her gun.

  Bryce stepped in between Lyn and her manager, blocking their aim at each other. “What are you doing?” he asked Beau, his hand hovering over his sidearm. “Do I need to be more worried about the two of you than what’s happening out front?”

  “We’re good. I’ll show you the shed,” he said, “but from here on out I ain’t going anywhere without protection.” He looked over Bryce’s shoulder at Lyn. “You understand. We’re on the same team, right?”

  She nodded. Bryce wasn’t sure if it was progress, but he’d take it.

  #

  1640 hrs

  Beau led Bryce carefully around the side of the building trying to stay as flat against the wall as he could. “That’s it,” he said, pointing to a structure growing off of the side of the restaurant like a slatted pine tumor ten feet in front of them. “Doors are on the side facing the trees. See? It’s suicide.”

  “You said they’re locked.”

  “Yep. It’s got a heavy duty swinging latch and a padlock on the front.”

  “Give me your keys,” Bryce de
manded.

  Beau looked at him with a badly-acted look of confusion on his face. “What for? I told you: only two keys that I know of open that lock and neither of ‘em is here.”

  “Just because I’m not going to make you look like a liar in front of everyone else doesn’t mean I believe you,” he said, spitting tobacco juice onto the gravel between them. He wiped a dribble off his chin with the back of his hand and absently smeared it on the seat of his brown uniform pants. “It’s irresponsible not to keep a copy of the key here in case something goes wrong. What if the gas line comes loose? You want me to buy that you’re going to let propane leak out for an hour or more while you wait for Idaho P and G to come up here with a c-clamp? It’s either in your desk or on your ring. And I’m betting that a guy like you likes to have all of his keys with him all the time.” He nodded down at the lumpy bulge in the front of Beau’s too-tight Wrangler jeans. “I know you’re not that happy to see me.”

  Beau fished in his front pocket and pulled out a ring of keys.

  “What’s your angle here?” Bryce asked.

  “I think you’re suicidal. We don’t need to draw her attention to the shed. You walk around and unlock that door and here come the armor piercing flying straight as angry yellow jackets. I don’t feel like getting blown up today. How ‘bout you?” He asked through gritted teeth, grinding hard on his soggy, flattened toothpick.