by Lou Cadle
No, she couldn’t attack directly, not now, though it drove her half-mad with frustration to make herself wait. Benjamin was still alive, and she hung on to that thought. Where there’s life, there’s hope.
What if she tried a night rescue? Would they set a guard? Would Benjamin be somewhere she could find him a few hours from now? Would they kill him before then? Even if everyone was asleep and he was left unguarded, she didn’t have a light to hunt for him. But they’d be less alert. Right now, they were still high on adrenaline.
All of her choices sucked.
“Why not just shoot him now?” The question stopped Coral’s breath. She got ready to stand and fire.
“He hasn’t told us anything yet.”
“What if he doesn’t have anything to tell? You’re not going to let him go.”
“Of course not. Waste good meat?” The man laughed.
The rifle was in her hands.
“If I haven’t gotten anything out of him by tomorrow, he’s done. You hear that, bro? It’s the stewpot for you.” A thump. Had he hit Benjamin again? Bastard. But he had also given her a reprieve.
“Jesus, Toby.” The higher voice, the boy.
“You like starving?” Rage echoed in the words.
“There’s still food at the stores.”
“There ain’t no more trucks coming, kid. There won’t be forever. We have to conserve.”
The boy didn’t reply.
“Got anything else smart to say?”
A low mumble from the boy, the words indistinct.
The straw of hope she had to grasp at was this: she now knew that Benjamin would last the night. But she had to get him out of there before dawn. And she had only a few hours of light to devise a plan and get herself ready.
Holding to the rifle, she crawled back down the slope of the snowdrift. Frustrated with the temporary defeat of backing off, she consoled herself with the knowledge she was coming back. She made herself retrace her own trail. When she got to the worn path, she stood and walked. Within seconds, she began to run. Moments later her lungs were burning. She pushed on anyway, jogging as fast as she could on the packed snow.
Hard to say how far it was back. A mile, maybe? Mile and a half?
She came back at last to the Walmart. She ran inside, grabbed cans of food, and got out her knife, opening the cans one by one, eating as she jogged back to the sled and tossing the empty cans aside. Everything was still there at the sled. The precautions Benjamin had insisted they take to hide it behind snow were worth it. If she managed to rescue him, it wouldn’t do them any good if their gear was gone. They’d freeze or starve within days.
She put on the harness and pulled the sled all the way to the Walmart’s front door. She got all the food she’d set aside, and more, stuffing it onto the sled and into her backpack, then lashing that on the sled, too. They’d have food for maybe six inactive days.
Returning to the store, she made for the back of the building. She knew she was leaving fresh tracks everywhere she went, but what else could she do? By dawn tomorrow, it wouldn’t matter. She doubted they’d come back here tonight.
The half-aisle of hardware—screws, nuts, bolts—was a mess. Plastic containers had melted and spilled a potpourri of hardware onto the shelving and floors.
She pawed through the piles, searching for ideas more than for any item in particular.
She moved to the next aisle and found chains and—to her surprise—intact nylon rope. Plastic pop bottles had melted in the heat, but nylon hadn’t? Weird—but it must have a higher melting point. There was a lot of it on a metal spool, and only the outer one layer had melted at all, just enough to stick to itself. They probably sold it by the foot. There was sturdier rope than what she had, and metal cable, all sorts of potentially useful items. Nearby, she found double-ended bolt snaps and pocketed a handful of those. The nylon rope was lightweight and sturdy. She unwound several meters of the stuff, took out her knife and cut it through. She coiled it neatly. Back in the next aisle, she grabbed a handful of nails, screws, and screw hooks.
She trotted back to the sporting goods department. She had the bullets from the spare rifle in her pocket but she needed more, all she could get to match her rifle. Benjamin’s took a different size, and she had no idea what. But no, don’t worry. That rifle was probably lost to them anyway, confiscated.
The odds weren’t good—at least five men and women on the other side, or more, against her and a tied-up Benjamin. Once he was free, the odds would improve if he could get his hand on one of their guns. If he was in any shape to fire a gun. He’d have to be.
Alone, her odds stank. Without an ambulatory Benjamin, her task was impossible. No, not impossible. She’d plan for that possibility, too.
Her chances to rescue him weren’t good, but as long as she had any chance at all, any hope at all, she’d do what she could. She’d rather die trying than not try at all.
It barely registered to her that, over the days of pulling the sled with Benjamin, something had shifted in her attitude. She’d once been willing to leave him at his home and move on. But now, she wouldn’t make that choice. He was her partner in survival. The only choice was to rescue him. Or to die trying.
Either those men had stripped the store of any guns or it’d never carried any in the first place. Coral did find a wicked-looking hunting knife, and she took it.
Chapter 15
She went back outside and saw, with dismay, that she was losing light quickly. Was it that late? She had much to do before nightfall and too little time. She repacked everything quickly on the sled and got into harness.
Snow began to fall, tiny flakes. Ah, that explained the fast loss of light—invisible above the gray, ash-ridden air, there were clouds, too. A snowstorm would decrease visibility.
And cover her tracks. Both their tracks once she rescued Benjamin. Good. Fine. Snow all you want. Snow harder.
Her spirits rose a fraction. Here was one worry that could be traded in for a hope. It had been a long time since she felt nature had been kind to her, but the this snowstorm was a blessing.
She pulled the heavy sled along the worn path back toward their lair. She came to the bridge and crossed it. Then she turned aside, towing the gear. She curved under the bridge supports and pulled the sled out of sight there. Shrugging out of the harness, she took only enough time to grab a drink of water.
Before mounting a rescue, she had to find a safe place to hide them. If she could get Benjamin away from those people, she couldn’t take him far. No way could she outrun a hunting party while pulling the sled—and maybe pulling Benjamin, too. She had to find a place where they could hole up for a few days.
And, once she had him, she had to be moving fast. The snow continued, and she knew that it was filling in tracks—hers and the sled runners. Good. Let it keep snowing, please.
She jogged once again, moving quickly through the side streets, quartering the neighborhood, hunting for a building, an intact wall, anything at all that could serve as shelter. The snow fell faster.
Finally, at the end of the fourth street she checked, she found what she was looking for. A long mound of snow had drifted up to shoulder height. She dug down into the snow, finding a lone concrete wall, some sort of traffic barrier at a dead end, that backed the snowdrift. This was okay. She’d make it work. She didn’t have time to look for anything better.
She was back at the bridge in a fraction of the time it had taken her to do the search. Strapping into the harness again, she moved the sled to her hiding place. Night was coming on fast, now. She’d be trying to find Benjamin in the pitch black of a snowy night.
Back at the drift, she got out of harness and immediately fell to work, digging with her arms. It was just like making a snow fort as a kid, back in northern Ohio’s harsher winters. Just like that—except this was for life and death, not neighborhood bragging rights. She dug a long tunnel next to the wall, pressing the snow upwards, making a solid roof overhead. The tunnel
had to be long enough and wide enough for the sled, plus another foot all around so she could move around the sled.
She dug on hands and knees, mostly using her arms, working hard enough to build up a good sweat. There was no time to fool with taking off a layer of clothes; she’d need them again soon. She got a tunnel dug, but she needed more space. She could feel the time ticking away as she scrambled to the other end of the drift and began digging again, aiming the best she could for the end of the first tunnel. Her aim was true. Finally she broke through, linking the two tunnels. Then she smoothed the excavated snow out at the far end. A light coating of snow and no one would think the drift had been disturbed.
When she was done, there was almost no daylight left. She hauled the sled over and shoved it into the near entrance. She took the nylon rope, her sleeping bag, water, her knife in her left pocket, bullets tucked into both pockets. She emptied out her pack and added her few precious matches from her survival kit and her hardware selection in her pack’s outside pouch. She slung her rifle across her back and rebuilt the end of the drift, leaving an entrance just wide enough to wiggle through.
Snow was still falling, and that—she hoped—would help cover the signs of her activity. In the morning, she’d get out here at first light and better disguise her work if she needed to, in case anyone hunting for them did get close to this spot. But she would do her damnedest to keep that from happening. They couldn’t check every inch of the town. Could they? She shook off the thought. That had to be a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, just get Benjamin rescued and hidden from sight.
By the time she had reached the bridge, night had overtaken her. Her eyes strained in the dark, but it was useless. All she saw were the vaguest of shapes and over all that, a wash of spots, like interference on a blank TV channel.
Dropping to her knees, she took off a glove. Like a blind woman, she felt ahead of herself for her own footprints, finally thinking she had them. They were filled in with a coating of snow, half an inch or so. If the snow kept up at this rate, they would get several inches by morning, and her tracks would be filled in. She would hope for that, but she couldn’t count on it.
The only things she could count on now were her wits, her strength, her fledgling gun skills, and her luck. Not a lot to work with, but it was all she had—along with a rough plan.
Using the guideline of a curb, she got herself aimed in the right direction. She moved methodically, counting her paces, committing the numbers to memory. Even that was a long shot, but it might help her find her way in the dark, might make enough of a difference. When she had to turn, she made precise 90-degree turns and began counting again.
Periodically, she dug down through the snow to assure herself that there was roadway under her fingers, that she hadn’t drifted off course. The snow kept falling; she could feel it on her face like spider webs.
Twice she got off-track and had to light a match to find the path. She built a mental map, so many steps down this route, so many feet between those burned trees. 90-degree turn there, a hundred and forty paces, turn again. It took her a long while to retrace her route in the dark. She was aware of every minute passing.
By now, she had no idea what time it was. Straining ahead to see something, anything, she realized she did see something, a dim orange glow in the distance, bare illumination.
As she moved forward, the light flickered. It was a fire, a wood fire, far ahead of her. It had to be them. If it wasn’t, there was another group of people alive out there, too. But the chances of that were nearly zero. They’d have killed each other or joined together. The light was her beacon. She moved with more confidence now.
The downside was, when she got within the light’s glow, they’d be able to see her, too. She’d have to be damned careful and stay in shadow as long as she could.
It had taken her a long time to get here. It must be nearing midnight by now. What were they doing still awake? Maybe they set a guard. Would they do that with only five people? She was still worried about untold numbers, hidden inside the ruins of the house.
She backtracked to the main path and set up her only trap. Using part of the nylon rope and the screw hooks twisted into burned tree trunks to secure it, she strung a trip wire across the path. It might slow down a pursuer only twenty seconds, which wasn’t much, but if she heard someone fall over it, it could be enough time to let her turn and fire the rifle at the noise.
Edging around the encampment, she made her way to the spot she’d found earlier today. She stayed in the shadows and crept forward until she could see over the same drift.
There was someone sitting by the fire. Benjamin? No, of course not—couldn’t be that lucky. It was, she thought, the teenaged boy in the brown jacket, his face turned three-quarters away from her. He sat without moving. Was he asleep? Was he alone?
And where the hell was Benjamin? She waited for several minutes, bringing the rifle up to aim it at the boy, but nothing happened. Finally, the boy moved. So he was awake.
She had to make a move, take a chance, and get this show on the road, as her father used to say. And she had to do it without much making noise.
She inched around until she was exactly behind the boy, so he couldn’t catch her moving in his peripheral vision. The snow around the campfire was trodden down, but she’d still make noise on it.
So she had to move fast. She rose. Coral adjusted her grip on the rifle, holding it by the middle of the barrel.
She sprung out, racing across the clearing to the boy. When she was halfway to him, he heard her. Turned.
She swung the rifle like a baseball bat and hit him on the side of the head. He toppled over.
The crack of the blow to his skull split the night. Coral got the rifle in her hands, aiming it toward the ruin of the house, then at the tent, and back to the house, expecting people to pour out at the sound.
Her heart pounded as she waited. And waited. And waited.
But no one came out.
No one seemed to be awake. But where was Benjamin?
She moved to the tent and swept the front flap open with her foot, aiming the rifle inside. There was someone in there.
Thank all the gods, it was him. Benjamin and no one else. She dropped the rifle and fell to her knees by his side, ripping off a glove and touching his swollen face.
His skin was freezing cold. Was he dead? Her fingers trembling at the thought, she reached to his neck and found his pulse. Her own pulse was pounding so hard in her fingertips, the only way she could feel his was that it was so much slower. Her own heart was trip-hammering.
She shook his shoulder. He didn’t stir. How bad off was he? Only a single thin blanket covered him. He had to be hypothermic. Fuckers, she thought. Rage at them gave her strength.
She backed up and took hold of his feet, pulling him out of the tent. How much more damage she was doing to him by moving him, she didn’t know. But she had no choice. They had to get out of here. And fast.
She turned to the boy, still slumped to the side. He looked so young and innocent.
Coral took out the new hunting knife. She grabbed the boy’s chin and lifted, exposing his neck.
She pressed the blade to his throat.
She couldn’t. He had protested the rough treatment of Benjamin. And he was a kid.
A kid who’d chase them and kill them in a few moments. Shit. She took a deep breath and plunged the blade in, meeting resistance. She slid it sideways, and it cut into the flesh. He made a sound and she trembled, terrified that would bring others. She gritted her teeth and yanked hard. Something gave and hot blood spurted out onto her hands.
Was he dead? She waited until the blood spurts slowed. She was panting, fighting back nausea all the while. The blood pumped no more. Yes, dead, surely. She’d intentionally killed her first human being.
She wiped her hands and knife in the snow and slid the knife back into her jeans.
Then she turned to Benjamin.
In the firelight, he looked a
wful. She wanted to cry at the sight of his battered face. No, she couldn’t afford the luxury of getting emotional. She had to stay rational.
Hardening her heart again, she lay her rifle across Benjamin’s belly. She pulled Benjamin by both ankles, aiming for the edge of the snowdrift she had hidden behind earlier. Backing up, she pulled him through the snow. Three times, the rifle rolled off, and each time she took the time to balance it back on Benjamin’s body.
She lost light behind the snowdrift. Her eyes had adjusted to the firelight, and she could see nothing now. The whole world was black, except for the dim glow over the drift.
She ran back to the fire and grabbed a slender burning board to bring back. It made a torch that allowed her to see.
Shrugging her pack off, she got everything ready as fast as possible. She shook out her sleeping bag, put Benjamin onto it, wrapped rope around him and the bag several times, and then tied each end of rope to his ankles, leaving two ends of rope that she wrapped several times around her wrists before grabbing in her hands.
It would have been better if he could walk, but she had planned for this possibility, too. She was going to pull him like that, one rope in each hand. Hopefully, the snow on the ground would cushion his head from any rocks.
She stood and heaved at his weight. The sleeping bag moved easily down the slope of the drift. Adrenaline made the load seem less. She went backwards, puffing, feeling a crazed sense of triumph, fueled by her adrenaline high, inching away from her sputtering torch.
Then she was back to the main track and it was time to remember her footfall counts. She figured she should double all the numbers. Moving backwards, hauling Benjamin, she was taking pretty short steps.
Another hundred steps, another hundred. At every moment, she expected pursuit to catch up to her.
Coming to a stop, she looked up and saw the fire glow was dimmer on the horizon. This was far enough from the enemy camp to take a second to check him.
