by Platt, Sean
Now he’d taken it too far.
“Raj, that’s not … ”
But her horse — with autodrive as good as either of their two cars on this long trip — had stopped to keep from rear-ending Trevor’s. Her brother’s horse, in turn, had stopped behind the leads.
They’d been on a long, packed-dirt road that Lila now realized was her own new driveway. She’d never been to the under-construction compound, but if they were really the only house on what she’d taken for this long road, it was isolated indeed.
The house peeking between the trees looked finished to Lila, though there was a stack of lumber and shingles to one side and a port-a-potty standing on the unfinished dirt lawn. It must just be final details that needed doing up top, but her father had been clear: the bunker, which mattered most, was finished, full, and downright bombproof.
“Wow, Dad,” said Trevor. “It’s awesome.”
Meyer said nothing.
“Dad?”
Piper reached out slowly as if she wanted to touch him. But her hand seemed to decide it had been foolish and settled back on her leg, twitching as if unsure where to go.
Lila looked from one to the other. In front of her, Trevor turned back, puzzled.
“What’s wrong, Dad? Why did we stop?”
“That strikes me as off.” He pointed toward an out-jut that was, seen from the side, probably a garage. Beside it was a blue PriusX, its bumper half-off and resting on the concrete.
“Is that … ?” Lila began. But it almost had to be. “That’s Mom’s car!”
Trevor’s head whipped around, and both Lila and her brother began to stir, their horses sensing their desire to move forward.
Meyer held out a pacifying hand, palm back, to stop them. “Hang on.”
Lila waited for him to elaborate, then saw silhouettes moving in the window, just behind two pickups at the end of fresh ruts — two vehicles that, now that she thought about it, really had no business being here.
The silhouettes were holding long things that could only be shotguns.
“We’re not quite home yet,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Day Five, Early Evening
Axis Mundi
Heather wondered if it meant anything that all three of the men who’d taken over Meyer’s house had facial hair.
She wasn’t tied to a chair like a movie damsel, and she wasn’t gagged, but the three men had mustaches appropriate to binding and gagging damsels just the same. They kept threatening to rectify the gag situation if she didn’t shut the hell up.
As far as Heather could tell, they didn’t recognize her. That was probably good because they wouldn’t see her as having any special value (as if the world, right now, cared about C-list celebrity), and it was similarly good because it meant she’d just be a loudmouth fortysomething Jew rather than a famous girl worth raping, if for no other reason than bragging rights.
Or a rousing game of I Never.
I never fucked a famous comedienne. And then these three assholes would have to drink.
But she hadn’t been raped outside of Vegas, she hadn’t been raped after those onlookers had responded to the gunshots she’d managed to squeeze from the pistol despite her revulsion, and she hadn’t been raped the nights she’d had to stop her car after the GPS had failed and her Prius — not the most advanced vehicle — lost its ability to navigate without her.
Heather wondered if she should be offended that so few people had tried to rape her. She was still smoking hot. All the tabloids said so.
It was the kind of wry, inappropriate, that’s-just-wrong joke she’d make in one of her shows. Nobody would even flinch, probably. After all the shit that had made her famous onstage? She was immune. The infamous Hitler jokes assured that. Now, nothing from her mouth could shock an audience. And besides, the minute people started laughing at her wrong jokes — which they always did, and rather breathlessly — they were culpable. If someone had a problem with her jokes about wet panties and Hitler (note to self: need jokes about Hitler’s wet panties), that accusing finger would have to turn on everyone who’d ever thought they were funny, too.
Heather stood, sat, stood again. They’d locked her in the second pantry, apparently agreeing that binding her to a chair was a bit too tried and true. The pantry wasn’t stocked yet, but for some reason only Meyer understood it had a mesh door that the assholes in her house had locked via two screwdrivers hammered into the jamb. They had a lot of screwdrivers. For a while, the leader (the one with the best, most Snidely Whiplash mustache; the others were closer to simply unshaven) had forgotten about his tool belt, as if this were just another day on the Vail house job. He’d taken it off after Heather mocked him about it through the grate, and for a while he’d stared at her with hatred. She was sure a revenge-raping was on the table. But then he’d pussied out, like all tough guys did. Heather should know, as a woman in an industry dominated by men. They’d all tried to push her around for a while when she’d been new, but then she’d crossed every line that anyone could possibly imagine, including that of her father’s secret alcoholism and discovering her mother’s vibrator and how it had been clumped with disgusting goo. Then the boys had left her alone. It was like fistfighting with a crazy person. You never knew what stupid shit they might do, seeing as they were out of their minds, so those with no stones just stayed in the corner.
These guys were like that. But there was a fine line, and it wasn’t lost on Heather that they’d thus far kept her 1) alive and 2) unraped. It might mean they were saving her as a bargaining chip, should the home’s owner appear with guns blazing. Or it might mean she’d so far been lucky, and could be shot through the bars at any time.
She couldn’t decide. On one hand, the trio’s leader, Garth (he of the black Snidely Whiplash mustache) had served Meyer loyally until just a few days ago. Heather had even greeted him warmly when he’d arrived, just twelve hours after her. She didn’t really know him, but had seen him once when she and Meyer had taken the Gulfstream from LA on one of his “business trips,” intent on spending the day checking progress and the night with Juha, Meyer’s shaman. Garth had seemed a competent foreman at the time. And she’d decided he did an excellent job once she was high — while she was seeing colors and Meyer was off in the spirit realm … or whatever the fuck he felt after he’d drunk and purged.
But on the other hand, Garth had that mustache.
Ultimately, the decision about whether Garth was a solid employee or a fucker was decided when he’d grabbed her wrist that first night, made her scream, then shouted for the two buddies he’d brought with him. Into the pantry she’d gone. And now the only thing keeping them from gagging her was the effort of removing the screwdrivers holding her in.
Heather wondered if she should pace her cell, bounce a rubber ball off the walls, do pull-ups and push-ups, or wistfully play the harmonica.
But ultimately, she decided most of the time to stay mute (against her instincts; it wasn’t easy) and to sit on the floor, pretending she didn’t exist. They’d tossed her a few boxes of crackers yesterday, and it would be a while before she’d have to ask for more. For now, if she lay low, maybe they’d let her be.
Then she could bide her time and wait for Meyer’s arrival.
Heather really had no doubt that he would, indeed, arrive. The man was relentless. She’d joked about Meyer onstage too, but with decidedly more unspoken affection. His will (like his cock) was a battering ram. He’d be here. Somehow, he’d be here, and get her out.
A small, hidden part of Heather wondered at that, though, and the larger, louder Heather spent every moment trying to crush her quiet doubts.
In truth, she didn’t feel quite as obnoxious and brash as she sounded.
In truth, she was a little afraid of Garth, Remy, and that fucking wildcard kid Wade. Wade was as crazy as Heather pretended to be, but she was pretty sure his craziness was greased by speed and PCP. He had an idiot’s mania and, despite his wiry frame, t
he strength of a person who literally has no idea how hard he can hit. He’d already buckled a joist after Garth had yelled at him. And, probably, broken every bone in his arm and hand.
In truth, Heather wondered if Meyer really was coming, despite what she kept telling herself. He was strong and smart, bullheaded. Behind the sarcasm, she loved him very much. But she’d seen Vegas burn, and she’d heard enough panic on the increasingly intermittent news to know that anything could happen out there. He might have been shot and killed, as she nearly had been. Or he might simply have been ripped off and stranded, unable to reach his destination in time.
And the kids?
Heather suppressed a shudder, then doubled the effort to force reality away and reinforce her sarcastic wall. She wouldn’t even consider what might have happened to … to whatever it was that she’d already forgotten to think about.
Outside the pantry, Remy (pathetic- and confused-looking, light-blue eyes, around her own age) was eating a snack-size bag of Cheetos. Predictably, crumbs were lodging in his sad little mustache. He brushed at the thing, but a rather large chunk remained.
“I see you’re saving some for later,” Heather observed.
Remy trained his pale-blue eyes on her, gripped the gun butt at his side, and said nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Day Five, Evening
Axis Mundi
Kicking the door in and charging whoever had occupied the ranch — as Trevor and Raj had suggested — would have been a terrible idea. Chances were good that someone would get shot. But they shouldn’t make it easy.
Meyer rolled the thought over in his calculating mind, weighing it, trying to decide if he could live with the odds. Given the near-certainty of getting shot, he didn’t want Piper or Lila putting themselves at risk. Yes, it was sexist. Meyer didn’t care. It would also keep them out of the way, and away from the bullets.
In fact, if they listened to his instructions, they wouldn’t even approach the house. They’d stay at the tree line, and if Meyer, Raj, and Trevor failed, the bandits would never know they were there. Plan B was for the men to fall on the blade (metaphorically, Meyer hoped) and for the girls to go somewhere else — anywhere that seemed to offer unconventional shelter rather than predictable homes and barns. And if the men in the house killed them and came after Lila and Piper, they had a plan for that, too. They were on horseback, and trucks couldn’t fit between the trees. So if the bandits gave chase, they needed only to take the wooded path.
Meyer was crouched behind the first truck. Raj was behind the other. Trevor was in the least responsible and safest position, present only because Meyer had encouraged him to stand up for himself in the past and denying him now felt hypocritical. Besides, they needed a lookout — someone on the other side of the house looking through windows, able to shout locations if they swarmed at Meyer and Raj. Sure, it was cowardly. But it was also insulting to tell the women they shouldn’t fight at all, and right now social rules didn’t matter much to Meyer. All that mattered was winning his Axis Mundi back — and if he had to be an asshole and fight dirty, so be it.
Life wasn’t like the movies — not even quality movies made by his studio. In non-close-quarters gunfights, people tended to aim poorly, and nobody tended to get shot. But things changed when one party wasn’t willing to back off, determined to keep coming no matter what. Meyer wasn’t willing to come so far only to turn away. And that meant he’d keep coming. So someone might be killed. He was okay with it being him if that meant victory, and truth be told he was mostly okay with it being Raj. If that made him a bastard, oh well.
Right now, his family was all that mattered.
Meyer had learned a thing or two about gunfights as he’d trained for history’s inevitable shift. But the one thing he didn’t need training to know was that gunfights got harder and a whole lot more dangerous when you didn’t have any guns.
Raj looked over. Meyer motioned for him to wait.
Maybe it was stupid to even try and get in, past the men with shotguns.
Probably it was stupid.
But even though they’d lost their weapons with the Land Cruiser, they had to try. Meyer knew it. He knew it in the way he’d seen this all coming.
When the ships arrived, they needed to be here, in Vail, inside this bunker. If they didn’t, it was all over. Piper and Lila might be able to survive out there somewhere if this all went south, but even that notion scared him. Maybe no matter what, they were stuck, and that was even without thinking that Heather was probably inside, having apparently rolled out of the Vegas fat and into the Vail fire.
Get inside or die.
Or: Die trying to get inside.
He could flip a coin. There was no good answer.
Raj was pointing at the truck in front of him. He was behind the tailgate, but gesturing toward the cab. Meyer watched him mouth, Gun.
Meyer shrugged.
Gun in truck? Then a shrug, like asking a question.
He was saying there might be weapons in the trucks. Meyer doubted it. It would be a pretty stupid criminal to invade a home, then leave firearms outside for the cops to use on arrival. Only, this wasn’t the usual home invasion, and the police wouldn’t be coming this time. It was a mystery how anyone had even found the place. In the end, only two things mattered.
Heather might need help.
And they had to get inside.
Both problems pointed to one solution: they had to reach the bunker, below the house.
The invaders wouldn’t even know it was there. Its entrance, like that of any respectable panic room (or panic complex; it was a home beneath a home), was concealed behind the back of a mop closet off the kitchen. You slid aside a panel, you entered a code, and then the back of the closet would swing forward like a secret passage in an old haunted mansion. Behind that wall was a tiny space, too small to be noticed from the outside by all but the most observant architect. A tight spiral staircase wound downward, set in concrete. You could retract both stairs and central spindle to lower supplies down on a dumbwaiter, but the largest items were added before the construction crew had laid the steel and concrete floor to seal it in. Tough cookies if they wanted a new couch for the apocalypse.
But there were guns in the bunker. Plenty. If they could get downstairs quietly, they could arm up. Then they could come up blazing. Meyer could even handle that bit of unpleasantness himself. He had body armor and riot helmets. He’d even spent a fortune on an Uzi, thus ensuring aim as an afterthought.
Then they could find Heather.
Then they could head out, give the all-clear to Lila and Piper, and bring them inside.
Get to the kitchen. Get into the bunker. Get armed, then get lethal. The plan was reliant on stealth. Their current lack of weapons barely mattered.
Raj was still looking at Meyer, waiting for an answer.
Meyer shrugged as if to say, What the hell.
Raj, staying low, crept forward. He peeked into the cab, then eased the door open and stuck his torso inside, making himself a rather obvious target. Meyer held his breath, knowing he couldn’t shout at Raj to stop. Finally he came out and showed his empty hands.
Of course.
Movement caught Meyer’s eye, now around the side of the garage. It was Trevor, who’d gone around. He was supposed to be an alarm, nothing more. But he was holding up fingers, apparently having decided to be a hero by going above and beyond.
He held up two fingers, the index and the middle. He touched the index and mouthed, Living room. Then he touched the middle and silently added, Dining room.
Meyer nodded.
Trevor seemed to be saying more. He was pantomiming, touching his fingers, making gestures. Then he bent into a squat as if preparing to take a shit right there outside the garage. Like a cat expressing its distaste of the general situation.
Meyer scrunched his eyebrows: What?
Trevor squatted. Touched both raised fingers at once.
Meyer shook his head
. He looked at Raj, who shrugged.
Trevor ducked low, looked both ways like a child crossing the street, and ran to stoop behind his father. Meyer didn’t even have time to raise his hands to tell him not to, to not be an asshole and get himself seen, then killed.
But no gunfire erupted. Trevor was breathing hard, flushed, but admirably coherent. Like a cocky teenager who thinks he’s going to live forever.
“I told you to stay put,” Meyer said, his voice half hiss, angry and scared at once.
“I told you. They’re not on this side. Living room and dining room.”
“There could be more.”
Trevor shook his head. “I looked everywhere. In every window, including both ends. It’s not like I needed to check upstairs or downstairs.”
Meyer looked at the house. It was large and sprawling, but only one story. Given the price and isolation, anyone else would probably have stacked another floor on the place, but Meyer hadn’t wanted a vacation home. He’d wanted a shelter, and that meant that the most important parts had been safely concealed below ground months ago.
“Still stupid, Trevor.” But he patted his son on the back, pleased despite the boy being foolhardy. “What was with the squatting?”
It took Trevor a moment. Apparently, his pantomime had all made perfect sense to him, though it mystified his father.
“Oh. They’re sitting down. One is watching TV. The TV’s still working. Can you believe it?”
Meyer could. As long as TV existed, the ranch would get it. It ran on a generator with several large, underground fuel tanks when it wasn’t collecting solar from the roof, and a surprising amount of wind power from two huge turbines a mile higher up the hill. The signal came from a satellite, same as the Internet. Meyer had already considered connecting his phone to the wireless, hoping for an update before they charged to their possible deaths, but he didn’t remember the password by heart and would need to get into the office to find it.
