Sister Hannah hesitated for a three count, then turned her back to Simon and began to chat quietly with Brother Joshua. For the next minute or so, Simon watched the conversation from afar, as did Wicks, who stood next to him with eyes focused ahead.
Hannah finished her conversation, spun around, and walked a few steps closer. She climbed onto a tree stump, then brought her hands up like a Sunday preacher preparing to address the congregation. Her head swung from right to left, making eye contact with several of her brethren.
“It has been decided. We welcome these outsiders and invite them to come pray with us while the Healer tends to their injured man,” she said in a voice louder than before.
“Thank you, Sister Hannah,” Simon said, giving her a slight bow.
The men in the forest turned and walked away.
Hannah extended an open palm to Simon. “Please, follow us. But we ask that you stay on the path.”
Simon put his hand on Wicks’ shoulder. She swung her head at him, showing a face that had lost all of its tension. She seemed content with the outcome.
Simon took his hand away, letting his gaze linger for a moment before he spoke. “Go help Slayer, but stay behind me and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll take point.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked in a whisper.
He turned his head and checked the woods where some of the Amish men had been standing before they walked away. He hesitated, then brought his eyes back to Wicks.
“Probably not, but I need both of you to stay alert.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Diesel, can you hand me the tube of ointment over there?” Kat said, pointing to a worktable in the livestock barn at Pandora.
Now that the red rain had stopped, Kat needed to get caught up on her chores. First up was some triage for one of the male goats. The billy had tangled with an angry cow, taking a few stomps to the head, which led to a bloody three-inch gash across his forehead.
Diesel had agreed to help her, but she wished one of the girls had been available. Even G would have been a better choice than Diesel. The thick-fingered kid tried hard, but was a little too hesitant around the animals. They could sense fear and use it against people to impose their will, usually ending with a wicked chomp of angry teeth.
She’d asked the others first, but Dixie and Jazz were busy in the main house peeling potatoes for dinner, and G had work to do in the basement—tinkering, like usual.
“This one?” Diesel asked, grabbing the center tube of the three.
“Yep, that’s it.”
He brought it over and gave it to her. “Don’t you need to sew it up first?”
“No. First we clean and disinfect the wound, then we close. Otherwise, we’ll just seal the bacteria inside,” she said, removing the cap and squeezing an inch-long line of yellow ointment onto her finger.
“Grab his head and make sure he doesn’t snap at me. He’s a lot stronger than you think, so make sure you get a firm grip, ‘cause he’ll fight you.”
Diesel did as she asked, wrapping his hands around the head of the animal, pinning it to the cushioned blanket on the floor of the barn. “Like this?”
“Yeah. Now lean against his rib cage and whatever you do, don’t let go,” she said, using her free hand to control the goat’s hind legs.
Diesel brought his chest forward, pressing it against the goat’s side. The animal squirmed a bit at first, then settled down.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yep. As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered, giving her a look of pure fright.
She took her finger and rubbed the ointment across the length of the wound. Almost instantly, the billy let loose with one of his legendary baby screams, only this cry was partially muted thanks to Diesel’s hands around its snout.
The goat started kicking and thrashing about. Diesel held strong, though the expression on his face was priceless. He looked more terrified than the goat, who was reeling from the painful sting of the antiseptic cream.
Kat didn’t hesitate, finishing the swipe of medicine just as the goat managed to work itself free from Diesel’s grip. The portly kid lurched back when the goat showed its teeth, falling flat on his ass.
Billy brought his mouth around to take a chomp out of Kat’s hand—the same one she was using to restrain the animal’s legs—but Kat reacted in time, yanking her fingers out of harm’s way.
The goat cried out again, then sprang to all fours and took off for the door in flash.
Diesel jumped to his feet and tore after it, yelling at the goat to come back like it spoke English and would obey his commands.
She started laughing, watching the pudgy kid chase the lightning-quick goat through the door and disappear to the right.
Kat was about to get up and join the chase when she heard a loud whack. A moment later Diesel flew back into view, just beyond the open door, landing flat on his back.
She gasped when she noticed his forehead was bleeding and his eyes were closed.
A pair of hunting boots stepped into the doorway from the right.
She looked up and saw an ugly man with long hair, stained teeth, and a shotgun in his hands.
He was wearing camouflage hunting pants and a matching shirt—both with forest patterns and colors. Based on the way he was holding the weapon backwards with his elbows up, she knew he’d rammed the butt of the rifle into Diesel’s forehead.
She got up to run, but the man turned the shotgun around and aimed it at her with fire in his eyes, cocking the slide. “Don’t ya move there, missy.”
She stopped her feet and stood upright with her hands in the air.
“Not a inch or I’ll blow a hole in you da size of Texas.”
“What do you want?” she asked, her lips trembling.
The man didn’t answer. He slid over a few feet to her left, just as more legs appeared in the doorway from the right.
The first set belonged to a round black man wearing a military uniform with blood stains on the collar and chest. His hands were behind his back and his face swollen and bruised. A white handkerchief with red blotches on it was wrapped around his head, pressing into his mouth.
As the bound man moved farther into view, Kat saw a rifle pressed against the back of his neck and a tattooed hand holding onto his shoulder.
Someone was guiding the man forward, showing more and more of an arm tattoo that extended up from the hand. The artwork showed a skeleton’s head and it was sitting on a body that had been wrapped loosely in a red and blue Confederate flag.
A second later, she watched the rest of the third stranger step into the doorway. He was another long-haired, hillbilly type wearing hunting garb—a man whose face looked a lot like the one carrying the shotgun. A brother, maybe? She couldn’t be sure—all ugly hairballs looked alike to her. His bolt action rifle had a scope on it; she assumed it was a hunting rifle.
Five more intruders moved into view behind the first three, standing with their backs to the door about ten feet beyond the barn. She assumed they were standing guard, keeping an eye on the rest of Pandora.
“Where da others?” the shotgun man asked. She figured he was the leader.
She gulped, forcing a lump of saliva down her throat. Her friends were still inside and she didn’t want these men to know. “It’s just the two of us. That’s it. And, of course, the animals.”
“Bullshit!” he snapped as his face burned red. “Tally Wickie! Where is da bitch?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
The man dipped the end of his shotgun, pointing the barrel at Diesel’s chest. “Tell me, now! Or dis tub of shit gonna get a chest full of lead.”
She froze, not sure what to do.
The leader’s eyes flared wide and his jaw extended. He raised his arms, looking like he was going to fire.
“Okay! Okay! Don’t shoot, please! I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s not here.”
�
��Don’t test me, bitch! I won’t ask again.”
“I’m telling you the truth. Yes, I do know her. But she’s not here. I swear to God. She left earlier to go visit her brother. That’s all I know. Please. Don’t hurt us.”
The leader hesitated, then the tension in his arms eased, and he lowered the shotgun a few inches. He turned his head away and called out to the group of men standing watch outside.
“Snake? Come here!”
A man turned and ran inside with a rifle that looked military. She didn’t know what kind, but she did recognize his colorful tattoos. His face, neck, and hands were covered in snakes, each with their fangs exposed. He craned his head up to look at the taller leader, but didn’t speak.
The leader pointed at Kat. “Gag the redhead, den let’s go see who be inside da house.”
“Gag her with what, Sean?” Snake asked in deep, uneven voice that sounded like he was talking with mouthful of marbles.
Sean focused his eyes at Kat, then aimed them at her chest, lingering before he spoke. “That there shirt. By da look of her, she won’t mind. I wanna see what she got underneath.”
Snake turned his eyes at her and let out a twisted half-smile. It grew on the side of his lips like cancer, sending a nauseous feeling into her stomach. She saw mostly gums, as the man was missing all but three of his teeth—two up and one down, like a demented jack-o'-lantern.
Kat couldn’t stop her lungs from pumping twice as hard as before, making her breath short and head dizzy.
She wanted to run, but she knew she’d never make it. Not with all those men and their weapons, each looking like they’d gun her down in an instant.
Screaming for help wouldn’t work either, not with the barn doors facing away from the main house where the rest of her friends were busy inside. They’d never hear her, not from this distance and not at this angle. Even if they could, they’d be outnumbered and outgunned the moment they arrived, and she couldn’t take the risk.
Then there was Diesel, who was lying at their feet. He was bloody and unconscious, completely at their mercy. If she called out for help, ran away, or attacked these men, they’d surely kill him first, then her. Then do the same to her friends inside the house.
The black guy in the uniform turned his head and looked at her. Whoever he was, his eyes said it all—surrender or they’ll kill you.
She decided to hold still and do exactly what the long-haired men wanted. It was her only choice.
Kat kept her arms up and her feet still as Snake came at her. Her mouth was pumping air at a furious, shallow pace, adding to her dizziness. She locked eyes with the tattooed creeper, shaking her head rapidly at him, hoping he’d change his mind.
Snake continued his advance until he was standing only a few inches from her. She could feel the warm stench of his breath as it washed over her face and chilled her bones.
He pulled a six-inch knife and spoke in a gravelly voice, the syllables muffled and hard to understand.
“Don’t ya move. I hate for a little honey like you to get hurt.”
Just then, the heavyset black man in the uniform lunged at the leader standing in the doorway, grunting something through the gag in his mouth. His shoulder slammed into Sean’s chest, sending both of them into the left side of the doorframe. They hit hard, then dropped to the ground, with the fat man landing on top.
The black man’s hands were still tied behind his back, but he managed to roll off Sean. He worked his legs under his frame, then went to get up, but the man with the skeleton tattoo rammed the butt of his rifle into the back of his head, sending him back to the ground with a thud.
Kat bit her lower lip, realizing the military man wasn’t getting up. It was just her against these armed men.
Snake laughed and tugged at her shirt, taking her attention from the man on the ground.
His fingers grabbed the bottom of the material, pulling it away from the skin. She closed her eyes as his knife hand slipped underneath, his knuckles grazing the center of her belly. The cold pressure inched its way up toward her breasts, moving in concert with a rising tug on the cotton.
She fought the urge to scream as the room started to spin. Tears fell as the emotions inside swirled into a jumbled mess, making her hands shake and her knees week. Somehow she kept her body upright and mostly still while Snake continued his work.
Thread by thread she could feel her shirt being cut by the man’s knife, sliced down the middle to expose her chest to the hungry eyes of the men watching. She was wearing a bra and only seventeen years old, but she knew her ample 34C bosom would certainly draw their attention once fully exposed.
Kat said a silent prayer for God to help her as Snake finished cutting her shirt in half.
A rush of cold air landed against her skin, sending the terror within her to an even higher level. All she could do was stand there and cry, waiting for whatever the filthy mouth-breathers would do next.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Wicks stood with her back against a wall in the Fisher’s residence with her hand covering her mouth, listening to Wyatt scream. Her brother was awake at least, but breathing heavily and leaning over sideways in the bed with his shirt off.
The elderly Amish Healer, whose eyes were as black as coal, had just poured some kind of special elixir into the entry wound along Wyatt’s bloody side, sending him into agony.
The unnamed country doctor took a wad of cotton from the tray next to the bed and twisted it into a long, thin tube and poured more of the special antiseptic along its length. He made eye contact with Wyatt and held it in front of the wound until her brother nodded.
Wicks could see sweat pooling on the doctor’s brow as the old man gently pushed the swab into the bullet hole with the tip of his finger.
Wyatt arched his back and screamed again, this time louder than before.
Wicks put her hands on her stomach, covering the knot growing and twisting inside. It was hard to watch her brother in such distress, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She needed to keep close watch on everything, just in case the witch doctor went off the rails with some kind of Amish voodoo.
The healer pulled his wrinkled finger from the wound and grabbed an implement from the tray next to the bed. It looked like a homemade icepick. He held it up, looking at Wyatt and waiting in silence.
Wyatt’s painful moan subsided a few seconds later, sweat pouring from his head and dripping down the side of his face. He took three deep breaths, then brought his eyes to the doctor’s. He gave the Healer a single head nod, then sucked in a chest full of air and held it.
A moment later, the doc used the instrument in his hand to push the swab deeper into the track of the bullet.
Wicks expected her brother to let out another shriek, but he didn’t. He only exhaled, winced and sucked in his lower lip. Then his mouth began to move air in and out in a deliberate, rapid fashion. Over and over he gasped for air with eyes wide, somehow keeping all the pain and everything else he was feeling inside.
The Healer moved his free hand around to the Wyatt’s back, then grabbed hold of the cotton as it made its way through the damage path and out the exit hole. The doc pulled at it, sending more pain into Wyatt’s eyes, but her brother only grunted and moaned as the doctor finished the cleanout process.
As soon as the cotton was free from his body, Wyatt flung his head back and let his shoulder blades crash into the white sheet covering the bed. His chest was heaving and his face and hair soaked in sweat.
Wicks ran to his side, grabbing his hand and holding it to her heart.
The weary eyes of her brother looked up at her. “Fuck, that hurt.”
She had tears in her eyes, as did he, but she didn’t have the words to express what she was feeling. She decided to give him a tender look with her eyes, then tuck a lip and nod slowly, hoping to reassure Wyatt that she was there for him.
He sent back a thin smile, followed by long exhale with puckered lips.
Wicks recognized the look.
Wyatt was happy the doctor was almost done, and thankful to still be alive. She knew the excruciating pain was subsiding based on how the tension in his body had eased and his breathing slowed. His eyes never left hers until the Healer spoke.
“Please step back. I need to finish dressing his wound.”
She did as the bearded man said, letting go of Wyatt’s hand.
Simon took her by the arm and led her toward the door. “He’s gonna be okay, Tally, but we need to let the doc finish so your brother can rest.”
She nodded, following Simon’s lead into the next room.
The door closed behind them.
* * *
Blake Anderchuck put his arms behind his head and under the plush pillow, looking at the ceiling of the spacious stateroom on his mega-yacht, the Octopus. He heard a knock at the door.
“I’m busy,” he said sharply, lifting his head and looking down across the bed at the door. His usual bonus round with the two girls in bed with him was about to start and he didn’t want to be interrupted.
“I know you said you didn’t want to be bothered, but it’s urgent, Blake. We have an unscheduled visitor,” a female’s voice said.
It was Traci, the new blonde girl who’d just joined his live-aboard crew of former NFL cheerleaders. She was a total fitness freak and a little shy, but had the nicest booty he’d ever seen. It had only been a week since she was hired so he hadn’t tapped it yet, but that day would come soon. Otherwise, he’d toss Traci back and replace her with one of the hundreds waiting in line to take her place.
“Hang on,” he yelled back, removing two arms from his chest. One of them belonged to his personal assistant, Patricia, who was lying on his right, and the other was Dawn’s—his second favorite, who was to the left.
He crawled over Dawn and made his way off the mattress, flinging the satin covers to the floor. He found his pants and slipped them on, taking a moment to admire the pair of shapely, firm asses staring back at him.
Both girls were lying on their stomachs, breathing heavily like two properly fucked women should be after a fifty-minute session. He was thankful they were into each other, too, and not just him, otherwise their daily threesomes would get a little boring. And, if he were to be completely honest, a little draining since both women were multi-orgasmic. The sheets were always soaked at the end, but he didn’t care. That’s why he had laundry facilities below deck.
Redfall: Freedom Fighters (American Prepper Series Book 2) Page 17
