Boss spun, not even attempting to stem the flow of blood from his wrist. He had dropped his knife and was unable to reach any of his weapons, both of them set up to be retrieved by the hand that was now missing. He stared at Hugh, engulfed in rage. Hugh’s arm was just starting the backswing, his intention to catch Boss in the neck on the return.
Boss read the move and pushed back with his feet, rolling across Kyle’s body. Kyle found the dropped knife and lunged for Boss, stabbing repeatedly but only hitting the metal grating as the man scuttled backward. Hugh leapt over Kyle, the kukri drawn back for another slash, and Boss rolled himself through the catwalk railing.
Hugh and Kyle stared in shock as the man dropped into the shallow water, then floated to the top, his headlamp blinking out as he disappeared into the night.
“Fuck!” Kyle bellowed.
“It’s okay,” Hugh said. “With that freezing water and the blood loss, there’s no way he’ll survive.”
Kyle was tempted to dive into the water himself and pursue the man. He wanted to see him die. Wanted to see it up close and personal. He shifted his body and stepped on something. He looked down to find the severed hand. He started to kick it off into the water but didn’t. As vile and disgusting as it was, he would take it back with him. When he spoke to the families of the men in his crew, he would show them the hand and tell them of his revenge.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hugh said. “This water is getting higher. We need to get across it and into some dry clothes.”
Hugh turned the volume back up on his radio. “This is Hugh. I have Kyle. We’re going to head back your way. Try not to shoot us.”
“Roger that,” Weatherman said. “You seen Jim? He’s disappeared on us and I’m starting to get worried.”
“We’ll check it out,” Hugh said.
31
It was a little after 1 AM when everyone loaded back into the truck. Hugh and Kyle found Jim wading back toward Weatherman. With the cold water rising higher and higher, there was no way they could swim across the deeper river channel. Bird tossed a rope that they caught after several attempts. They used the rope to run the two kayaks back and forth until everyone was safely onshore. While this was taking place, Gary went after the truck and got the heater running. By the time everyone got there, the cab was superheated. Everyone changed into their spare clothes and loaded into the cab. The sight of Ford’s bag of spare clothes reminded everyone of the sacrifice he’d made.
In thirty minutes, they were pulling alongside the other truck and the horse trailer at the appointed rendezvous. Jim sprang from the cab of the truck, having become more and more anxious as they neared the spot. He was overjoyed to find everyone was okay. When he asked them how it went, they all looked at each other and said there would be stories to tell. Tomorrow.
Jim hugged his son, then hugged Charlie. He even hugged Randi for helping to make sure everyone made it back.
It took longer to make it out of the Clinch River valley and back toward Kyle’s house. Due to the late hour, they drove him as far down the muddy farm road as they could and kept the lights on him until his wife opened the door to him. He threw a hand up in good-bye and went inside to the people that loved him.
Jim thought about the hand that Kyle had shown him. It was justice in the truest sense; an eye for an eye, a hand for a hand.
The sun was nearly up when Jim and his group finally returned to the valley. With all the bridges gone, they had to use a muddy path through one of the farms. When the truck got stuck, they left it where it sat instead of putting the chains back on it. They unloaded the horses and led them along, hanging as much of the gear from them as they could.
They came to Gary’s house as the sun broke over the mountain. His wife and Will came out to meet him while the wide living room window filled with sleepy faces. A little farther past Gary’s, they lost Weatherman, and then Hugh. Randi and Charlie peeled away from the group next.
When they came to Jim’s house, he and Pete opened their gate and took the horses in. Jim was too exhausted for words, beginning to stumble and slur from the exertion.
They headed straight for the barn, pulling the saddles from the horses and settling them in for some rest. They barely had the barn door slid open before Ellen came running across the yard in her snow boots and bath robe. She was crying hysterically. At the sight of her desperately running to reunite with the son she probably feared dead, Jim found himself crying too.
They worked together to stable the horses, then walked back to the house. Jim and Pete stood by the woodstove and Jim felt warm, truly warm, for the first time that night. He could not be certain if it was the stove warming from without, or the presence of his family warming from within. Suddenly, he could stay upright no longer and he staggered off to his bed. He peeled off his clothes and climbed beneath the heavy blankets, falling asleep before he could even straighten his pillow.
32
Scott and his people departed the valley the following day. They sent an additional secure transmission from Hugh’s radio and informed their base that there had been a firefight at the Carbo plant between Boss’s team and unknown assailants. It was suspected that Boss and all his team had been killed, as well as any foreign troops providing support. At last report, the facility was flooding and had sustained significant damage.
“So you’re not ratting me out?” Jim asked when Scott came to tell him he was leaving.
“No. I’m not sure what the reaction would be,” Scott said. “It’s entirely possible that if this incident triggers a conflict between the two groups, my leadership would offer you up as a scapegoat to keep the peace.”
“I appreciate you not putting me out there as the sacrificial lamb.”
“I think you and your group are much more useful as allies.”
“We’re glad to provide you support in whatever role we can, as long as it doesn’t place our families in danger.”
Scott nodded at that.
“You really think these two groups can work this out?” Jim asked. “Their core philosophies are so different that I can’t imagine that happening. One wants to sacrifice the nation to control the world. One just wants to be left alone and let the nation and the world sort themselves out. Where is there any middle ground in there?”
“We’re not going to solve it,” Scott said. “But we may well find ourselves fighting the war that solves it.”
“I feel like I already fought in that war.”
“That may have just been the first battle of many.”
“If I have to fight it so that my children don’t, then I will,” Jim vowed.
Scott stuck out his hand and Jim shook it. “If I can get more supplies to you guys, I’ll do it. We’ll drop them in the same field. If we do, I’ll leave a message with it.”
“We’d appreciate it. You guys stay safe. Watch out for the crazies.”
Scott laughed. “I’m never sure which ones are the crazies.”
“It’s a safe bet that you should avoid anyone who acts like the people in this valley.”
“I’ll remember that.”
TWO DAYS LATER, temperatures reached into the sixties and crocuses pushed up through Jim’s yard. The snow was gone now and the grass was just a shade greener. Jim and Pete armed up for a road trip. They walked Ellen, Ariel, Nana, and Pops to the freezer trucks they’d abandoned in the field.
Jim had to put the tire chains on them to get them turned around and out of the field, but they eventually got back onto the road. Staying as much to the back streets as they could, he drove his family toward his parents’ house. When they passed the Fairlane house, Jim looked to see if there were any changes and found his parents looking too. They didn’t know what had happened on that last day Jim visited the house except that he and Ford had found Mrs. Fairlane dead. Jim didn’t know if they entirely believed that or not. They seemed to think that there was more to the story. Ford, the only witness, was dead now, and Jim wouldn’t ever speak of it to an
yone.
At Nana’s house, Jim and Pete checked for any signs of forced entry and found none. Nana wanted to spend some time at her house, and she thought of getting more of her spring bulbs. Since they had the large truck, Jim told her she could get anything she wanted.
Leaving them there, Jim and Ellen walked the short distance to the emergency operations center. Jim had an errand he felt he had to run on behalf of Deputy Ford. He went to the broken window, the one where Ford had nearly been shot, and called inside. He kept to the side, out of range, and explained who he was and that he was there with his wife to relay a message.
After several minutes with no response, he called out, “Since I’m not sure you’re in there, we’re going to leave now.”
The door to the room opened then and the woman came into view.
“Nicole?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Deputy Ford told you a little while back about some relief camps that were opening up at the fairgrounds. Do you remember that?”
“Yes. We heard it on the radio. We were going to be headed that way in a few days.”
Jim took a deep breath. “Those camps aren’t going to be opening after all.”
Nicole looked confused. “They’re still playing the message on the radio.”
“I know,” Jim said. “They are still opening in some areas but they’re not going to be opening here anytime soon. There was a problem at the power plant and the power isn’t coming back on.”
Nicole sagged to a dusty conference chair and started crying. “I told my little girl this was nearly over. I told her we’d have food soon and a warm place to sleep, and she wouldn’t have to be scared any longer,” she sobbed.
Jim nodded at his wife. They’d discussed this. The offer would seem less threatening coming from her.
“Deputy Ford was killed,” Ellen said.
Nicole covered her mouth. “I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a nice man. He was good to us.”
“He was a good man,” Jim agreed.
“He was living in our community,” Ellen said. “He had a nice mobile home with a wood stove and running water that came off the mountain. It’s a decent place and you’re welcome to come live there if you want. You and your daughter would be safe. There are other children she could be friends with.”
Nicole still looked crestfallen, staring at the wall, as if she were ready to burst back into tears.
“We can give you some time to think about it, if you want,” Jim said.
Nicole spun in the chair. “No!” Her voice was urgent, filled with fear.
“It’s okay,” Ellen said, trying to calm her.
“You never know if people are coming back,” Nicole said. “You never know from one day to the next if promises will still exist or if the people who made them are still going to be alive.”
“If you want to come, get your things together,” Ellen said gently. “We’ll be waiting outside. Our daughter is up the street with my parents. What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Paige.”
“You can tell Paige that another little girl, Ariel, is waiting to play with her,” Ellen said.
Nicole stood up. “We’ll be right out. Please don’t leave.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” Jim promised.
Ellen and Jim helped them carry their meager belongings back to Nana’s house. The truck already had a pile of items that Nana and Pops had decided to take back with them. Ellen made introductions while Jim loaded Nicole and Paige’s things into the truck. Ariel and Paige played together while Nana and Pops finished gathering the last of the things they wanted to take.
When they were done, Jim stood in the yard with his parents, staring at the house where he’d grown up. It was where he’d become who he was. For his parents, it was entirely something different and he could only imagine the thoughts going through their heads.
“This was ours. It was a nice place,” Nana said. “It was the old life.”
Those words resonated with Jim. Everything he knew was the old life. They were all on the cusp of a new life and had no clue what to expect. He herded his family into the truck and backed away from the old house.
From the old life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Franklin Horton lives and writes in the mountains of Southwestern Virginia. He is the author of the bestselling post-apocalyptic series The Borrowed World and Locker Nine. You can follow him on his website at franklinhorton.com and sign up for his newsletter with updates, book recommendations, and discounts.
ALSO BY FRANKLIN HORTON
The Borrowed World
Ashes of the Unspeakable
Legion of Despair
No Time For Mourning
Valley of Vengeance
Locker Nine
Grace Under Fire
Random Acts
Please Enjoy This Sample From
RANDOM ACTS
By
Franklin Horton
RANDOM ACTS
The thick hood over his head prevented Mohammed Karwan from seeing anything, but the dank smell reaching his nose convinced him he was standing on the earthen floor of one of Frankfurt’s ancient buildings. He suspected his two other roommates were there with him but when he tried to ask in the back of the van he had been struck in the head with a fist. Although not an injurious blow, it was substantial enough to clarify that conversation would not be tolerated. He would have to wait as patiently as a hooded man could wait to see what fate lay ahead of them.
Mohammed and his roommates each received a text message several hours ago asking them to be at their flat by eight P.M. Fifteen minutes after the appointed time, a man they did not know arrived at the flat and instructed them to be at the mosque in thirty minutes. There was no confusion as to which mosque. There was only one mosque to which they were ever summoned.
"Do you think something is wrong?" Machmud asked. He was the most high-strung and nervous of the roommates, always concerned that he was in peril. Perhaps he was not cut out for this business of theirs, but that was irrelevant. This was their life. This was where they found themselves.
Mohammed, the senior of the men, shook his head at Machmud’s question. "I don't know, my brother. I assume we will find out in due time." He was the stoic one, his fatalistic attitude the result of a life filled with brutality and violence.
Machmud did not speak again. The men filed onto the street and loaded into the used Renault Megane they shared when a vehicle was required. When they reach the mosque, they parked in an alley and entered through a side door. They were met by four men who gestured for them to turn around and face away from them. These were strong, menacing men dressed as laborers. They were not men to be argued with.
The laborers placed a hood roughly over each man’s head. Mohammed was startled.
Machmud tried to twist away and face the laborers. “But why?”
The man attempting to place the hood on Machmud’s head twisted his mouth in anger. He let loose with a powerful jab that sent Machmud staggering into the wall. The man twisted Machmud’s stunned body and shoved him face-first into the wall.
“That was not a request,” he growled.
The man made another attempt with the hood and this time Machmud did not protest. Mohammed was grabbed roughly from behind, his wrists clamped together by a strong hand before being bound with flex-cuffs. From the ratcheting sounds surrounding him, he could tell the other roommates were being cuffed also. Mohammed knew he’d done nothing wrong, but he still found the circumstances to be terrifying. He was also painfully aware that innocence was no guarantee he would return home this night. People in his line of work disappeared all the time and no one ever asked questions.
They were marched out the back door and shoved into the rear compartment of a windowless work van. Mohammed heard Machmud protest again. It was followed by the dull thud of a physical reprimand and the accompanying cry of pain.
Mohammed apparently failed to learn f
rom Machmud’s treatment. “Is everyone okay?” he asked. “Are you all here?”
He was rewarded with a blow to the head that rattled his brain and made his eyes water.
Mohammed chose to remain silent from that point and focus on the right and left turns. He was familiar enough with this area that, for a while, he was able to keep track of their direction of travel. It became clear the driver was attempting to confuse them, and he eventually succeeded.
The drove aimlessly for hours before Mohammed found himself standing on the packed dirt floor somewhere in the city. He assumed the location to be an abandoned factory or warehouse. The city was full of them. All he could tell with his senses muted by the hood and the noise of the van was they’d entered through a pair of rolling doors and parked inside the structure. When the engine was turned off, the van doors were opened and they were shoved out into a heap.
When the hoods were yanked from their heads, the roommates found themselves staring at six robed men seated in folding chairs. Propane lanterns were scattered around the room, providing a bright yellowish light that created long shadows and did nothing to reduce the grave appearance of the seated men. Mohammed recognized two of them. One was their handler, the man who came to the roommates for progress reports and updates. He was the man who brought them their instructions, the man he assumed carried news of their progress–or lack of it–to the leaders of their organization. If he were a betting man, Mohammed would assume these unfamiliar men in front of him were part of that senior leadership, fellow Syrians from back home.
The other man he recognized was the Imam, the prayer leader from the local mosque. Dressed in traditional robes and with a long gray beard, the Imam kept his hands folded in his lap, his eyes moving between the faces of the roommates. To the side of the seated men was a crude wooden table. A cast iron kettle sat atop a small stove, flames spilling out around it as the kettle heated. Mohammed did not expect they were going to offer him a cup of tea.
Switched On: Book Six in The Borrowed World Series Page 28
