Lines in Shadow: Walking in the Rain

by William Allen

  “Are you home for a while, Daddy?” Bella asked, her tone letting everyone in earshot know she already suspected the truth. Her father wasn’t coming home to stay for many days yet.

  “No, honey. Not yet. Still have more work to do, keeping the bad guys away,” Scott replied, already feeling guilty about how much time he spent separated from his daughter. “But Miss Sarah has been keeping an eye on me, so I don’t get into trouble.”

  “That must be hard,” Isabella mused aloud, and Scott had to fight a laugh. His daughter often said the funniest things and never seemed to notice, and when Scott dared to laugh, Isabella acted as if her father was making fun of her. So, he’d learned the hard way to keep his expressions blank when dropped one of her little comments.

  “Are you going back to that place?” Shay asked, clearly sensing something was wrong but not wanting to worry her sister or Isabella. Scott appreciated her tact.

  “Yes,” Sarah replied somberly. “We are hoping to wrap things up there in just a few days, though. Then we will be home more often.”

  That comment seemed to mollify the girls, and for the next few minutes they changed topics and the adults listened intently as the girls chattered about their day. This was familiar ground for Scott, a safety zone where he felt comfortable asking about their schooling and finding out what they were doing in the gardens later.

  Too soon, Scott checked his watch and saw they needed to get back to the motor pool to meet the rest of their unit. Truth was, neither absolutely had to go. Sarah could simply opt out of the scout training, return to her squad and slip back into the watch rota. That likely meant she would go back to spending nights in her bed.

  For Scott, that choice really wasn’t an option. He’d sworn to see the ghouls die, and breaking that vow now was impossible. He’d see them all dead, or die in the attempt.

  Before heading back, Scott made a detour and stopped off at his barracks to swap rifles. He liked the Ruger, but he suspected he might need something a bit faster than a bolt gun. So, he unlocked the metal gun cabinet and exchanged it for the PTR-91. In only a few minutes, he’d changed out the magazines in his vest rig, too.

  Sarah, curious, tagged along and glanced around the uncluttered bays of the cramped and austere metal-clad building. She knew from experience the women’s dorm boasted curtains over the narrow windows, and rugs on the otherwise cool concrete floors, in an effort to lend a homey feeling. This place, in contrast, had all the charm of a bus station.

  The sheet metal-walled buildings, converted from storage sheds for the big farm, offered shelter for the unattached males and females of the farm’s residents. Two of the sheds predated the pulse, but the others had been erected as time permitted since. With the influx of girls from the South Bentonville shelter, they’d needed five of the sheds for the ladies and only three for the men. The women referred to their sleeping quarters as dorms, while the men simply called them the barracks.

  “You getting that witchy feeling, Scott? Figuring on needing the higher rate of fire?” Sarah asked, deciding to leave the Spartan state of the bunkhouse for another conversation and zeroed in on the topic at hand.

  “I’ve just spent more time getting accustomed to this one is all, but yeah, more is better,” Scott replied absently, and Sarah wondered what was on his mind.

  They were some of the first to reach the motor pool, but Yalonda and Kevin soon joined them, along with the bulk of the men scheduled to head out. Max and Nick, though, were nowhere in sight. Scott, sensing something in the air, asked Sarah to oversee getting the three trucks loaded. With that, he slung his rifle and took off for the headquarters blockhouse at a trot.

  His suspicions were confirmed when he entered the unguarded door and found himself standing in a scene reminiscent of the aftermath of a barroom brawl. He saw tables overturned, papers scattered across the floor and torn underfoot, along with lots of people standing around, talking in small clumps.

  He also saw Nick, crouched down on the floor, cradling his wife’s head while one of the medics worked frantically to staunch the flow of blood from some kind of abdominal injury. He couldn’t see Leslie’s face, since it was burrowed into Nick’s chest, but the expression on his nephew’s face foretold terrible retribution awaited whoever had committed this act.

  Scott broke into a run, crossing the distance in seconds to join Nick on the floor.

  “What happened?” he demanded, his attention drawn back to the aid being administered by the young woman with the big medic bag. He hesitated, but steeled himself then to examine the wound. It was still a bloody mess, but he could tell from the long, cleanly delivered slash, that this was likely from a knife rather than a bullet wound. The medic, Scott thought her name was Cynthia, worked with deft skill to staunch the bleeding, but the wound continued to seep through the bandage.

  “It was that bitch, Kat,” Nick ground out, his voice filled with anguish. “Leslie caught her on the radio, transmitting.”

  “Oh, shit,” Scott muttered to himself, then continued, more forcefully. “Where is she?”

  Just then, the rest of the medical team showed up, and once Leslie was transferred to the stretcher, Nick went to follow. Before he could take a step, Scott latched on to his nephew’s arm.

  “Where is she?” Scott asked again.

  Nick waved a hand, trying to gather his thoughts while watching his wife, the mother of his children, being carried away from him at a run.

  “She hit the front door as soon as she saw me walk in, headed down the road. Walked right past Rogers on guard duty, said Leslie had an accident and she was going for help. Wrong way, of course, but Rogers didn’t realize what was happening.” Nick rambled, his eyes darting as he tried to process what had transpired.

  Scott took in these details and released Nick’s arm, and then laid a hand on his nephew’s shoulder for comfort.

  “She could have been working with anybody, but two things come to mind. One, I need to go track her down, and two, you need to get everybody into the shelters, and right fucking now.”

  Nick paled at the implications.

  “You think she was working for the DHS thugs?”

  Scott nodded as he stalked towards the door.

  “Get everybody in the shelters, Nick, before it starts raining Hellfires around here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  After nearly six hours into the chase, Scott finally found his prey. Katrina Warren, if that was her name, was hiding in an old oak thicket, back braced against a tree trunk, three miles south of the road and on a path to nowhere in particular. He’d nearly lost her trail on the road at the beginning, as she’d stuck to the shoulder and made a habit of dipping into the grass as a feint to throw off pursuit. But the tracks were still fresh, and Scott could make out the few bent and bruised blades of grass that others might have missed.

  He’d only figured out her hiding spot after circling around the copse of trees and found no further sign of flight. From the way her stride had shortened, he could tell Kat’s energy level was low, and she’d stumbled more often as time passed. Probably fading after the adrenaline dump, Scott surmised.

  Early on, he’d pushed aside his worry for Leslie and walled off his emotions as he strove to maintain focus. She was in good hands, and he had no particular skill in that area, but he could bring down the one who’d done her harm.

  Despite the absence of his Ghillie suit, Scott managed to slip in close to the young woman. Close enough to see the blood smears on her face, and the spatter of more blood across her blue blouse. The blood dried to black on the fabric, and Scott could see Kat occasionally take a half-hearted swipe at the stains. He didn’t see the knife, but he would assume she was still armed.

  As he observed the scene, Scott saw the young woman begin to rock as she whispered to herself. Too far away still to make out the words, Scott could clearly see Kat remained agitated by something.

  Maybe still worked up over slashing my niece, Scott thought darkly. Well
, she’ll be paying for that soon enough.

  Scott could have moved in as soon as he’d spotted his prey, but experience made him hold off. If she was meeting someone here, they might already be close by. Watching to see if she’d picked up a tail. With that idea in mind, Scott quietly and slowly circled the site, working outwards in a spiral until he was satisfied no one waited within a thousand yards of the stand of old growth trees.

  Smooth like flowing silk, Scott edged closer. At this range, he didn’t want his target to sense his presence, so he moved at an angle as he watched the light breeze blow the tree limbs. Following the rhythm of the wind and watching each cautious footfall, Scott drew nearer.

  The urge to execute this traitor grew as Scott closed in, and he forced himself to pause twice as rage, red hot and blinding, nearly overcame his cold resolve. Need her alive, he reminded himself over and over again.

  When the hand dropped over her shoulder, Kat jumped but didn’t reach for the knife he could now see resting in her lap. It was a common kitchen knife, with a blade perhaps five inches in length. Nothing fancy at all, and likely stolen from the family’s own kitchen.

  “I knew you would come,” she said with resignation. “If only Leslie hadn’t walked in, or if she would have just listened to me, things would have been different.”

  Anyone outside of law enforcement might have been surprised by the woman’s utterances, but Scott didn’t blink. He liked to talk about helping locate lost hikers or small children who wandered away from home, but he’d also done his share of fugitive tracking, too. Some of the criminals wanted to go down fighting, but fewer than one might expect. For many, by the time Scott ran them to ground, they were so physically and mentally exhausted, the actual apprehension was almost anticlimactic.

  “Are you going to…” she started, but couldn’t finish the question. From her slumped shoulders, as if she half-expected the answer, Scott knew the rest of the question.

  “Up to you,” he said noncommittally, and Kat blinked as she finally noticed the pistol in his hand.

  “Are you meeting your contact out here?”

  Katrina managed a sad smile before replying.

  “No. They didn’t even know I was caught. I stopped transmitting before I saw I had an audience. Is Leslie…is she okay?”

  Scott growled, letting his anger finally show.

  “She’s not okay, Goddammit!” he roared. “You gutted her like a fucking trout. She might still be alive, which is the only reason you are still drawing breath.”

  Then he stopped, and took a step back to gain separation. She still had the knife in her lap, of course, and Scott didn’t feel like giving the woman another target.

  “But,” he continued, his voice calmer, but also ice cold, “like I said, up to you whether I put a bullet in your brain pan here, or we go back to the farm.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Use your left hand, thumb and forefinger, and toss the knife,” he replied. “Then we need to have a little discussion.”

  As Kat complied, and when he directed her to place her hands behind her head, fingers interlaced, she did as ordered once again. Fishing out his old handcuffs from his pistol belt, carried more as a talisman than for any real need, Scott cuffed her hands behind her back. He seldom had to use handcuffs, even back when he was a game warden, but it felt good to do something so in keeping with his old life.

  Using his off hand, Scott eased the woman to her feet and gestured for her to start walking. Judging from the way Katrina Warren looked around, she had no idea of her actual location.

  “So, who were you talking to?”

  “The men who are holding my parents.”

  “So, that wasn’t your campsite by the creek?”

  “No. I was told to use it as my cover story, but I never stayed there myself.”

  Scott thought about all the men and women, and children, slaughtered at those camps and forced down his rising anger. Were they killed to provide her a cover story, or did someone just decide to make use of the available corpses, he wondered darkly.

  “Who are they?”

  “I’m not sure. I saw some men in military uniforms and other men in suits. They said they were working for the National Recovery Committee, but one of the other prisoners at the camp said they were with Homeland Security.”

  “Where’s the camp?”

  “I don’t know. They blindfolded us when we were taken into custody, and then later, when they took me out in the country and pushed me out of their truck with a bicycle, my knife, and that old revolver. At least they left me a few rounds in a box.”

  Scott thought about her answers. They sounded truthful, but then Kat Warren had already proven to be a capable liar. He decided to change gears.

  “How long ago were you arrested?”

  “We weren’t arrested. We weren’t doing anything except trying to survive,” she replied with a weak sigh.

  “I told you the truth before. Part of it. I went to stay with my parents after the lights went out, but they didn’t have enough food in the house. We were headed to the state park, Hobbes State Park, near our house when they took us into custody. My father tried to resist, so they beat him,” Kat continued, tears filling her voice as she spoke. “We were just walking down the road.”

  “How long ago was this?” Scott asked, trying to grope around the edges of what he wanted to know. Sometimes, even when someone is trying to mislead you, they will fill in enough blanks so their lies become obvious. That was from Interrogation 101, and many a poacher had tripped themselves up talking to Scott.

  “About, about a month ago.”

  “And you said they brought you and your parents to a camp somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe it.”

  “I just told you, I don’t know where it was located,” she replied sullenly, as if Scott was not paying attention.

  “I didn’t ask you that,” he growled. Now that the prisoner had been captured, Scott resented every additional minute this detour kept him away from the farm. And his family. “I said describe the camp. Was it in a city?”

  “No, it was in the country,” Kat said, and Scott thought she might have caught on to what he wanted as she continued. “The men were just putting up tents when we were brought in. Looked like they were still getting set up.”

  “Can you describe the layout of the camp? How many tents? Any permanent buildings?”

  Katrina paused, and when Scott glanced hard, she seemed to gather herself.

  “I don’t know how many tents, but they kept us busy putting up more and more until there were at least a hundred of the small tents, and at least ten of the big tents with the stiff sides. Most of the small tents were inside the razor wire, and that’s where we were housed. They brought in truckloads of new people over time. Some individuals, but a lot of families, too. Mainly women and children.”

  “Can you remember anything about the geography of this camp area?”

  “There’s a creek running alongside the camp on one side, like really curvy, you know? And next to the creek, I remember there were several buildings but they were off limits to us. One of them was really big, like a two-story wooden barn.”

  Bingo, Scott thought. That sounded an awful lot like the old grist mill adjacent to the campground in War Eagle. He’d been though there a few times over the years, and even visited the mill once.

  “But you don’t know where the camp is located?”

  “No. Like I said, we were blindfolded.”

  Now that Scott felt like he had an idea of the location, he needed to dive into the meat of the questioning. Feeling vulnerable, trying to conduct an interrogation of the go, walking in the woods like this, he gestured for Kat to stop. Fearing the worst, the young woman started to babble.

  “I know plenty more, Scott. I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just tell me what you want,” she said desperately, trying to ward off the bullet she thought was coming. Scott let her b
eg for half a minute before holding up his left hand for silence.

  “What I want to know now is, what were your orders?”

  “They wanted somebody on the inside at your camp. They knew all about you people. Names, work history, everything,” Katrina said in a rush. “They wanted to know your plans, and how you intended to fight the government when they came. I was supposed to use your radio and call them. Made me memorize the frequency, and they said there would always be somebody listening.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  The pause was long, and Scott knew she was trying to come up with a plausible story to tell. Deciding to play on some of the rumors he knew circulating about his past, Scott decided to do a little lying of his own.

  “So, they had dossiers on us? Did they have one on me?”

  “Y…yes.”

  “Did they tell you what I did when I was in the military?”

  “Uh, they said you were a Marine and you worked on airplanes. No,” she hastened to add, “I mean, helicopters.”

  If he had not been braced for this revelation, Scott might have flinched at the news. Instead, he looked Kat dead in the eye then, and lied his ass off.

  “So, they only had access to my cover file. They didn’t mention Bosnia? Or Sarajevo?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Well, if they don’t have those files, then that means they are still locked out of the Secure Annex,” Scott continued, making up his own story as he went along. The difference was, Scott knew enough to be convincing. Very convincing.

  “See, Kat, what I used to do for the military involved extracting secrets from targeted individuals. Do you know what I mean?”

  Kat blanched, and swayed a little as her imagination did the rest of Scott’s work for him. Planting the idea wasn’t hard. For many at the farm who didn’t know him that well, the ex-game warden was a grim, solitary man, so picturing him as a government sanctioned torturer was no great leap.

  “Please don’t hurt me. I had to do it,” she whimpered. “They have my parents. Those men threatened to do terrible things to them if I didn’t cooperate. And to me. Please don’t kill me.”