The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding

by Greene, Daniel

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You got an extra gun?”

  She shook her head no. “Dad and the boys do.”

  Ahmed moved his head near the crack in the cellar, ignoring the icy air seeping through.

  Men were getting out of the trucks, doors slamming behind them. Their shadows filled the waning light in front of their headlights. Guns were held across their bodies; they looked like a band of deer hunters before a deer drive.

  A man in a brown-and-tan uniform of a sheriff’s deputy strode boldly ahead of the other armed men. The door banged on the porch and Ahmed stepped to the side to get a view of Brad. His footsteps echoed as he walked along the warped wood. Kyle stood a couple of feet behind Brad, standing taller than he would have if he were alone.

  “A little late to be calling Deputy Vance, dontcha think?”

  Deputy Vance wasn’t a young man. Ahmed guessed he was in his late forties. A small belly poked over the lip of his belt, and his hair had enough gray in it for him not be carded at the liquor store. His facial hair was a grizzled attempt to remain professional when apparently it wasn’t a thing anyone else worried about anymore.

  “Now, Brad. You know as well as I do why we’re here.”

  Brad shifted his feet. “Do I?”

  Ahmed glanced at Sadie. Her face was clouded with worry that seemed to seep into the small lines of her face. Her hand covered the mouth of one of the children.

  “You do.”

  Brad nodded as if he’d forgotten. “I know why you’re here, Vance. No need to blow smoke up my ass.”

  Vance snorted. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Ain’t that a fact?”

  “I knew you when you were wiping your nose on your ma’s apron. How is she?”

  Vance glanced down at his feet. “She passed. We couldn’t get her diabetes medicine, and it was only a matter of time.”

  “Sorry to hear that. She was a good woman even if she married a dimwit for a husband.”

  The deputy stiffened under the insult. “I don’t appreciate that kind of tongue, Brad. My father was a damn good man.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was a drunk asshole.”

  A man a few inches over six foot tall stepped near the deputy. His hair was dark, and his nose came to a sharp point. His hands held a black shotgun. He had a handgun on his hip along with two extra magazines. “You going to let him talk to the law that way?”

  Vance spoke over his shoulder. “I ain’t. We’re just talking.” He turned back toward the porch. “Where’s Jimmy?”

  The dark-haired man spoke loud with venom. “We only want to talk to him, Bradley.”

  “Sly. You got no right bringing the deputy in on this.”

  Ahmed counted the men. There were at least ten armed men with Sly. He didn’t doubt by their look that they knew how to use them too.

  “I got every right. Your boy is a murderer.”

  A hand on Ahmed’s shoulder pushed him to the side, and Jim eyed the crack.

  “Those motherfuckers will pay.” His head shook furiously. “I’m going out there.”

  “Jim, no.” She grabbed his arm. “Dad said not to.”

  “He says to not do a lot of things.”

  Her eyes watered. “Please. If they don’t think you’re here, they’ll leave.”

  He twisted his neck shaking his head. “This is crap.”

  The voices continued outside. “Sly. Don’t bullshit me. I know why you’re here, but it don’t matter cause Jimmy’s gone. Last I seen him was three days past. Said he was going south.”

  “Where south?”

  “Does it matter? Won’t last long out in the cold.”

  “Yes, it does,” Deputy Vance said. “Now where’d he go?”

  “He’s got a cousin in Hannibal on his mother’s side.”

  Sly leaned close to Vance, hissing, “He’s lying.”

  Brad’s finger shot out, pointing at Sly. “I don’t lie, Sly Bailey. My word’s good for it. Unlike your forked tongue.”

  Vance held up a hand. “Kyle, where’s Jim?”

  “Must a ran off.”

  “They’re lying. They’re all liars,” Sly said.

  Vance turned to Sly. “Just stay calm. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “The bastard has been lying since the day he was born. Ain’t an honest bone in his body.”

  Brad twisted his head to the side. “Now Sly, I know you ain’t calling me a liar. Those be fighting words.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m calling you. You’re a liar and your son is a murderer!” Sly said and then spit on the ground.

  Brad calmly put his AR-15 to his shoulder. “Say when.” Kyle followed his father’s lead, aiming his shotgun at the other men.

  The deputy stepped between the two parties, bringing his shotgun to his shoulder. “Whoa, Brad. Let’s not get hasty here. We’re only here to talk, to find out what happened.” He lifted a hand off the shotgun to deter them from firing. “And I need to talk to Jim to figure it out.”

  “I know why you’re here, Vance.” Brad continued to stare down his sights, motioning with his chin. “I know why they’re here. And it ain’t to talk.”

  Vance monitored the other men in his group for ill will. “Everyone is here to talk. Ain’t that right?”

  Sly didn’t say anything. He just stared down his gun barrel at Brad.

  Vance’s voice went up an octave. “Sly, put down the guns. Nobody has to get hurt here.”

  The tension decreased and Brad lowered his weapon. “He ain’t here.”

  “Can I come in and take a look around?”

  “As long as Sly and his redneck cousins stay outside.”

  The deputy held out a hand toward Sly. “He will stay outside.”

  Brad turned his back to the men, reaching for the door. “You really scared the hell out of Kelly, coming in here hot.”

  Vance took a few steps toward the door. Frigid ground crunched beneath him. A shotgun blast boomed, thundering through the night. The sound washed over them like an explosion. Ahmed jumped. Sadie squeaked in fright. Brad was pinned on the side of the house. Vance ducked low. Smoke drifted upward from Sly’s barrel.

  Kyle stared at his father sliding down the side of the house, his blood smearing the siding, his jaw open.

  “Cease fire!” Vance screamed at him. “Jesus Christ!”

  Brad rolled off the side of the house. Red streaked across the rust-colored siding, badly in need of a coat of paint, now stained in Brad’s blood.

  Sadie gasped and Jim’s eyes went wide. “Father!”

  Brad tried to shove Kyle out of the way, and brought his AR-15 to his shoulder. He started banging off shots at the other men. They opened up with a volley of shotgun blasts, rifle shots, and the rapid fire of handguns.

  It was a short gunfight. Brad sank to his knees, his body riddled with bullets. Blood leaked from a dozen gunshot wounds. His body slumped. Kyle sprawled next to his father, his shotgun still in his hands.

  “Is there a way out of here?” Ahmed said quickly.

  Sadie nodded, her eyes blinking fear. The dogs paced in excitement, barking.

  “Shut up, Bear,” Jim said harshly. The dogs quieted down but continued to pace.

  “What the hell was that? We came to talk!” Vance yelled at the men outside. He looked back over at Brad’s body. The civilian carbine had fallen from his hand and he laid motionless on his side.

  “He tried to kill us. You saw him. We just saved you more trouble.”

  “Jesus Christ. This is fucked six ways to Sunday.” Vance shook his head.

  Men walked back from their pickups with red cans of gasoline.

  “What are they doing?” Vance said.

  Sly waved his men forward, ignoring the deputy for a moment. “What’s it look like? We’re going to send a message to those murdering bastards. Their kind will not be tolerated here.”

  The men surrounded the house, splashing gasoline as they went.

  Ahmed fel
t a surge of panic in his gut, the kind where he didn’t want to be burned alive today. “Sadie. How do we get out? They’re going to torch us.” He glanced back through the crack, watching them get closer.

  Peanut let out a howl.

  “Shit. You hear that?” Vance said.

  Sly put his head back. “Dogs.”

  “Those fucking dogs. Let me check the house for Kelly before you light it.” Vance skipped up the porch steps and around Brad. “Hello?” he shouted. “It’s the police. I need everyone to come to the door. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Jim paced furiously, his knuckles white around his gun. The kids were crying in the arms of Barb and Kelly.

  The voices of men were closing in outside the cellar doors. Liquids splashed around the cellar. Gasoline dripped through the cracks and Ahmed stepped quietly away.

  “This way,” Sadie said, grabbing Ahmed’s arm. “Jimmy!” she yelled softly at him.

  “Kelly?” The floorboards complained beneath the deputy’s weight as his voice echoed above.

  They didn’t wait to see if the deputy came down the stairs. Jim opened another door and flicked on a flashlight. Cemented undecorated walls led them down a short corridor. He tested another door handle and that opened up to a storage room. Stockpiles of white pails of preserved food littered the shelves. Stacks of canned goods were all organized in one corner.

  Jim led them to a ladder near the furthest wall. He climbed the metal rungs, his boots clicking off each one. He slid the lock on the upper hatch. He pushed with his free hand.

  Anger and fear filled his every word. “It’s stuck.”

  “Push harder. It’s prolly frozen.”

  Ahmed knew the smell immediately but elevated his nose to be sure. “Smoke.”

  Flames leapt from down the hallway near the cellar. Smoke wormed along the connecting passage, a gray snake in cloud form. Sadie slammed the door closed and made it back to Ahmed. “Stay low.”

  The trapped people crouched to stay beneath the hot smoke. The women covered the children’s mouths. Smoke flooded into the cellar beneath the door and sat heavily in the air, second by second filling the room. Sadie hacked into her arm.

  “I got it!” Jim jerked the hatch up and down and threw it open.

  Sadie pushed Ahmed up the ladder and Jim pulled him the rest of the way. Ahmed collapsed on the ground, the crisp air tasting sweet to his deprived lungs. They were about thirty yards from the house, surrounded by trees that blocked them from the dancing flames of the building.

  “Can you use one of these?” Jim said.

  “Yes.”

  Jim handed him the shotgun, and Ahmed crouched near a tree while Jim pulled the rest of the people from the ground. The orange-and-yellow flames engulfed the old house in a greedy siege. The men stood by the pickups, watching. Vance shook his head in disgust, but the other men laughed in delight.

  Ahmed watched the flames, mesmerized by them. They took him back to another time and a former foe. Sadie touched his shoulder, startling him.

  “We have a place to go.”

  She wrapped an arm around him, and they fled on foot deeper into the night woods.

  THE PASTOR

  Camp Forge, IA

  The pastor dipped a rag into a bucket. The water was cold to the touch, having been chilled by the outside air. He wrung it between his hands until it was sufficiently damp. He placed the cloth over the woman’s forehead, fixing a corner.

  Her eyes flickered open. There wasn’t much fight left in her. Fevered eyes scanned the room, searching for angels in the corners. He knew she didn’t see much in her hallucinatory state. The pastor spoke softly, trying to spare her husband standing in the corner of the room chewing his fingernails one at a time.

  “Go with God, sister. He awaits you with loving arms.”

  She closed her eyes, drifting into sleep. He stood. There were others in the early and intermediary stages of the flu. A whole row of them were lined in sweaty blankets, too weak to go outside to piss. While a fire roared in the fireplace, a few wrestled with their blankets and others shook with the chills.

  “Father, is she going to be alright?” the stocky man said. His hair receded away from the front of his skull, and he had a thin mustache.

  The pastor eyed him, sympathy spreading on his face. “Thomas, you are one of my finest. I would not lie to you. All we can do is pray for her. Even in despair, God is at work.”

  Thomas’s head sank to his chest. “Yes, Father. Thank you.”

  “Keep your faith. We will come through this.”

  Thomas coughed hard into his hand. It was a wet hack of a man who was coming down with an illness.

  “Take care of yourself. I don’t want you falling sick.”

  He wiped his nose at the mention of becoming ill. “Yes, Father.”

  A voice came from the doorway of the cabin. “Father.” The voice was confident and spoke with familiarity and reverence at the same time.

  “Brother Peter,” the pastor said. The curly-haired broad-shouldered man stepped inside but was hesitant as if he were afraid of the sick.

  “Can we speak outside?”

  “Of course.”

  The pastor’s long strides easily took him toward the door, and he followed Peter outside.

  The air was chilly and a brisk wind tugged and pulled at the pastor’s clothes. He rolled his sleeves down. “What news do you have, brother?”

  “He’s agreed to meet,” Peter said, eyes shifting.

  “Excellent. Where?”

  “There’s an abandoned farm about a mile south of here near the battle site.” Peter leaned closer. “Three men each.”

  “So few won’t be missed. He is more clever than he looks.”

  Trying to make sure no one overheard, Peter whispered. “He said to meet at dusk three days from now.”

  “Then that is what we’ll do.” He put a hand on Peter’s solid shoulder.

  “Father, there is something else.”

  The pastor gave him a seasoned smile. “What troubles you?”

  “There are more sick.”

  The pastor let his eyes close. Something as simple as the flu was ravaging his people, and that heathen warlord Steele sat in his house saying he’d done enough. They desperately needed antivirals, especially for the higher risk people, the old and the young, because it was spreading quick. His flock would be culled if action was not taken to preserve them.

  “Show me.”

  They trudged down a sposhy path between the cabins. The snow hadn’t been able to stick here, having been beaten down by hundreds of feet passing through day in and day out. Each cabin was spaced at least twenty feet from one another in ten-cabin rows. They exited the row into a lengthy opening leading to the new barns.

  Men in camouflage lounged, basking in freedom they had neither earned nor deserved. These were the Romans who had persecuted his people across the ravaged remains of the United States, enemies that had been given mercy. He gave you mercy. God’s people deserve mercy. The corrupt Legion deserved to be cast back to hell.

  Soldiers stood watching him around the barn doors, arms folded over their chests. They must have recognized him from the battle. He felt his hand go to his carpenter’s hammer. A wild rage boiled in his belly. It warmed him with violent fervor. A wicked smile crossed his lips like a curse.

  “Father?” Peter asked, looking up at him.

  The hammer was in his hand, its worn handle smooth in his palm. His vision flashed and all he saw was red as he bashed his way through them. His hammer struck out, catching men atop their skulls smiting them unto death.

  “Father, are you okay?”

  The pastor blinked away his daydream of violence. The men in camouflage still stood before him, watching him with curiosity. They had no weapons, and for that, the pastor was thankful. Steele’s stupidity only went so far. “I am fine.” He looped the hammer back through his belt, letting the head and claw keep it in place. “Take me to our afflicted
brothers and sisters.”

  They walked down the front row of cabins. People went in and out. Some brought buckets of water. Others carried wood for their fires. He recognized some of their faces. Anthony and Buddy bowed their heads as they passed. He was plagued by the many that were missing: the blessed, Shaun and Shannon and Ian.

  Peter waved him onward. “This way.”

  A cabin near the end of the row had its door closed. Peter knocked loudly on the wooden door.

  An old woman answered, “Praise be, you’re here.”

  “Praise be to the Lord.”

  She opened the door wider. “Come.” She pointed toward the corner. “They’re over there.”

  The pastor dodged through clusters of scared families. Their eyes pleaded for reprieve from the world around them. They pled for him to cure the sick, for him to stand for them, to shield them from the horrors of death. It was clear they had been abandoned in their time of need. They’d been cast to the side as meaningless mouths to feed.

  Dirty blankets were draped over small forms in the corner. Tiny heads poked out from inside, making his heart sink in his chest. More children. He crouched down on his haunches. His knees screamed from wear and tear as bone rubbed against bone. He let one of his knees rest on the ground for support.

  A little blonde girl lay in a pool of sweat, her hair matted to her forehead. He placed the back of his hand on her face. Her skin was like fire beneath his hand. He removed his hand and placed two fingers on the side of the child’s neck. He adjusted his fingers, feeling for her pulse. He couldn’t tell if he felt his residual heartbeat or hers. Gently he put his head near her mouth and listened. A faint rattle bubbled while she breathed, but she only breathed the tiniest amount.

  He lifted his head. God spare them this. “And him too?” The pastor gestured at another small blanketed form.

  “Yes, Father. They’ve all got it.” The old woman’s eyes pleaded with him.

  “Are they all yours?”

  “They’ve been fostered of sorts.”

  He inched his way upright, his old joints clicking with the effort. “You are a gracious and kind woman for what you’ve done. Let us pray together.”

  He bowed his head with the gray-haired woman for fifteen minutes, and as they prayed, the little girl passed on. He blessed her soul and waved a man from one of the other families. “Manuel, when she is done, help her take the child outside.”