by R. R. Banks
And my first few steps away from that, out of Raymond's grip – the emotion I feel is overwhelming.
I bite back the sobs and try to force myself to stop crying. Now is not the time. For all I know, Raymond and the Shepherds have already found out I'm gone and are out here somewhere looking for me. I have no idea how much time I have before they find me, so I can't afford to waste a single minute.
“Get it together,” I say as I get to my feet. “Get it together, Calee.”
I came to Danny's cabin for a reason. Not because I wanted to hide out – it won't be too hard for them to find out about the place and find me here. And I didn't come here to grieve for him – I don't have time for that right now.
“Think, Calee,” I say.
And then it hits me. I rush to the closet and throw open the door, grabbing the box Danny had showed me earlier. I take off the lid and throw it to the side, grabbing the smaller box inside. Opening it, I pull out the roll of money and set it on the table. Next, I pull out the clothes – jeans and a long-sleeved gray shirt.
Stripping off my dress, I throw it to the floor. Next, I take off my boots and then put the clothes Danny got for me on. They're a little loose, but the fit isn't bad. Putting my boots back on, I pocket the cash and then grab one of his leather jackets out of the closet and slip it on – and am absolutely swimming in it. But it's cold outside, so I'm not going to complain.
I tie my hair back into a ponytail, grab the cell phone he keeps for me there and a couple of other things I think I may need, throw everything into a backpack and quickly head out the door, making sure to close and lock it behind me.
Sticking to the woods and avoiding the road as much as I can, I follow the familiar path I take to town. My path takes me close to the road and I freeze when I hear the sound of a car approaching. The roar of the engine echoes through the darkness around me. I quickly duck down behind a bush and hold my breath as the glow of the headlights cuts through the shadows.
I let out a sigh of relief as a car I don't recognize rockets by me, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel in its wake. Still staying close to the side of the road, I jog the last half-mile into town. And in the distance, when I see the bright lights of the bus terminal, I feel like crying as I run toward it.
When I pull the door open and step into the lobby, I look around, half-expecting to see Raymond or one of his men sitting there waiting for me. The rush of relief when I find the lobby empty is powerful. I step to the counter and give a small smile to the older woman behind the counter. She has gray hair put up in a bun, tired, dull eyes, and heavy wrinkles creasing her skin. She looks like a woman who's been worn down by life.
“Help ya?” she asks, looking up from a book, her voice hoarse and gravelly.
“Yes, please,” I say. “I need a bus ticket.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere?” I reply. “I just need a ticket on the very next bus.”
The woman looks at me like I'm an idiot and then sighs as she turns to the computer next to her and taps a few keys.
“There's a bus to Fort Collins, Colorado,” she says. “Half an hour from now.”
“Fine. Great,” I say. “I'll take that.”
The woman looks at me a long moment and something flashes through her eyes. She gives me a look like she recognizes me and it sends a bolt of fear through me. What if she's one of Raymond's eyes and ears in town? What if she calls him and tells him that I'm here? Or where I'm going?
My hands start to tremble and I start giving serious thought to turning and running out the door. She can't tell him where I am if she doesn't know.
She finally looks away from me and starts typing into her computer. “I need some identification,” she says.
I sigh and feel my heart sink. I don't have any identification. I never needed it out on the Ark.
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
“Required,” she replies.
I bite my bottom lip and look around, my mind spinning with thoughts and emotions – threatening to spin out of control. I try to come up with some options – and realize I have none. If I can't get on this bus, I'm going to have to walk – and I have no idea where I'm going or how far the next town might be. If I can't get on this bus, I might as well turn myself over to Raymond.
I look back at the doors, terrified that they are going to come through them while I'm standing there and drag me back to the Ark. I have to be on that bus. No matter what I have to say or do, I have got to make this woman sell me a ticket.
“I – I don't have any identification,” I say. “But, there has to be something I can do. Please. I really need to be on that bus. It – it's a matter of life and death. I – I can pay extra for it if needed.”
The woman looks at me, her expression dubious. But then that faint flicker of recognition crosses her face again and makes my heart stutter and skip a beat.
“Hey, I know you,” she says. “Or, I've seen you in town before. You're with them crazies out on that survivalist compound, right?”
My pulse is racing so fast and so hard that a headache is forming behind my eyes. I'm more terrified than I've ever been. And that includes the day my parents abandoned me, leaving me with Raymond. But I know this is my only chance at escape. If I don't get out of town now, I may never get out at all. I don't know this woman. Don't know if I can trust her. But it seems that I have no choice. She's my only chance to get out.
“I – I'm not with them,” I say, looking back at the door again. “I'm running away. Escaping.”
The woman nods, a small smile touching her lips. “Good for you,” she says gently. “Personally, I wish they'd go in there and shut that shit down. Bunch of brainwashed lunatics out there, if ya ask me. No offense.”
I give her a rueful smile. “None taken,” I reply. “And you're right. About them. They are brainwashed lunatics.”
I look back at the door again, keenly feeling every second that ticks by – every second that could be bringing Raymond and his men closer to me. The terror running through me is deep and abiding and part of me just wants to go crawl into a hole somewhere and die. At least if I were dead, I wouldn't be living in such stark and bitter fear.
“Are they chasin' you, honey?” she asks.
At first, I don't want to answer her question out of my own fear and distrust. But then I realize that if I don't, I'm not going to get anywhere with her. And I desperately need her on my side. I have to roll the dice and hope I don't crap out.
“I don't know, maybe” I say. “But, maybe not yet. They will be though. By dawn at the latest, when they discover that I'm missing because I'm supposed to die out there today. Please, I really need your help.”
The woman looks at the door again and I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. I know that people don't like getting involved with the affairs of others. Especially when those affairs have the potential to be violent and deadly. I just have to hope that she'll do the right thing. That she'll help me. If she doesn't, I really don't know what I'm going to do.
The woman looks at the door and then back at me, nodding to herself as if she's made a decision. She turns to her computer and starts typing something into it and I feel my heart start to lift.
“Your name is Marie Wallace,” she says. “You're on the bus bound for Fort Collins, Colorado. That's going to be ninety-five dollars.”
I fumble with the roll of money, but manage to peel off the correct amount and hand it to her. The woman gives me a smile as she takes it.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much. You're literally saving my life.”
The look of sympathy and compassion in her eyes nearly reduces me to tears again. I manage to keep my composure – just barely. The woman opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, she reaches across the counter and gives my hand a gentle squeeze.
“Bus should be here in about twenty minutes,” she says. “Why don't you go back to the employee lounge and grab a cup of coffee and a donut.
I'll come get you when it gets here.”
I grip her hand fiercely and want to say so much. Want to express my gratitude to her. But I've got a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, and I'm on the verge of falling to pieces. The woman just looks at me warmly.
“You're welcome,” is all she says.
Chapter Fifteen
Eric
“If you'd told me you were coming, I would've at least gotten out of bed and put some clothes on,” Steve says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Least you could've done, you slacker,” I reply. “After taking a dawn flight to Denver and then a puddle jumper to this shithole, the last thing I need is to see you naked.”
He shrugs. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Or marvel in this magnificence. That's the one benefit of dyin' – I can do whatever the fuck I want and nobody says shit. And if they do, I make 'em feel guilty because I'm dyin' and all. Check and mate, bitch.”
I laugh and shake my head. Steve's always had a dark sense of humor. He was the guy in our unit who could always find something funny in the grimmest of circumstances. He kept us laughing and in a lot of cases, probably kept a lot of us sane.
He's definitely not the same man I last saw back in the desert of Afghanistan. His thick head of hair was gone and skin that had once been smooth and darker than midnight was now ashen. Flaky. Back then, he was big, bulky – looked a lot like an NFL linebacker. Now though, he's bedridden. His body is thin and frail. I can probably snap his bones with one hand. Rather than a linebacker, now he looks like somebody in a concentration camp. He's in a bad way and I can tell just by looking at him that he probably doesn't have a whole lot of time left.
“What the fuck are you doin' out here?” he asks.
“Came to see you.”
Steve nods, a grim smile on his face. “Death watch, huh?”
“Somebody's gotta do it.”
“Been a few already,” he says. “Gotta be honest though, I'm surprised to see you.”
“Why's that?”
He shrugs. “You were only with the unit about what, a year and a half?” he says. “Didn't track you as the sentimental type. Pretty sure I saw you doing cartwheels when they transferred you out.”
“That's because I was doing cartwheels,” I say. “But that doesn't mean I don't remember the unit – or the guys in it. Especially the guys who saved my life.”
“Guys? You mean, I wasn't the only one?”
“Oh, did you think you were special? Sorry to burst your bubble.”
“Yeah, I shoulda figured that,” he says. “You always were kind of useless with a gun.”
I shrug. “My job was to take the bullets out,” I reply. “Not to put them in.”
Steve's laughter breaks down into a fit of wet, phlegmy sounding coughs. He grimaces in pain, so I start rifling through all of the pill bottles on his nightstand, looking for something to help. Opening one of the bottles, I put a couple of the pills into his mouth and then help him take a drink of water to wash them down.
He leans back on his pillows, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looks wrung out and exhausted.
“I'm going to let you get a little rest,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, his voice weak and hoarse. “I'm just so damn tired anymore. How long you in town for?”
I shrug. “A couple of days.”
“Good,” he replies. “Come back tomorrow and maybe bring me a meatball sub from Tommy's, would you?”
I laugh. “Yeah, let me ask your wife about that.”
“C'mon, man,” he says and smiles. “Grant a dyin' man his last wish.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
He nods and lays his head back down on his pillows. He's asleep almost instantly. I stand there watching him for a few minutes, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, he grimaces, like he's in pain. It has to be as excruciating as it is constant.
It's hard for me to reconcile this nearly hollowed out husk of a person with the big, burly, vibrant man I knew back in Afghanistan.
I close the door softly behind me and step out into the living room to speak with his wife and express my condolences. I also tell her about how her husband saved my life because I think it's important that she know.
She's in tears when I finish my story and embraces me tightly, thanking me for everything. I say my goodbyes and promise to stop by the following day to see Steve again – though, I don't tell her about his request. A man needs to keep some secrets – even from his wife.
Chapter Sixteen
Apparently, Steve's a hometown hero and something of a local celebrity in Fort Collins. At least, in this neighborhood. I'm staring at a picture of him in his uniform hanging in the wall behind the bar in a little dive called Molly's Place. When I asked about it, I was treated to a thousand and one stories about young Steve, from his exploits on the football field, to his exploits with the cheerleaders. The people around here love him. And they're taking his impending death pretty hard.
It makes me feel good to know that he's surrounded by people who care for him. He deserves that.
When they asked me how I knew Steve, I told them that I'd served with him and was in town to see him one last time and to pay my respects. That led to them asking me a thousand and one questions about his time overseas – he's apparently been very tight-lipped about it. I told them I'd only served one tour with him and couldn't tell them all that much. But I obliged them with the few stories I did have.
“You have got to be shittin' me,” says a man named Hal, who's sitting a couple of stools down from me.
I shake my head as I take a drink of my beer. “Swear to God. He hit that thing like a baseball.”
I'd just told them the story of how Steve saved my life and they stare back at me wide-eyed, disbelief on their faces. It's like they're expecting me to tell them it's all one big joke. As unbelievable as it sounds though, every word of it is true.
Our unit had gone into a neighborhood to clear out the bad guys. We expected a fight, so I'd set up shop in the bottom floor of what looked like it had been an apartment building. Steve was standing watch while I got set up and waited for the casualties to come in.
As expected, the fighting was fierce and our guys started coming back to get patched up pretty quick. It was chaotic, but we were managing the flow of injured just fine. But then Steve saw one of the bad guys on the street in front of the building. He was looking at us through a large, busted out window.
He'd yelled for all of us to get down, but I was trying to stop some serious bleeding on one soldier's leg wound. I saw the guy on the street pull the pin on the grenade and felt the knots in my gut tighten up painfully.
Seems like a cliché, but time really did seem to slow down as I watched the grenade coming toward us through the window. I knew that when that thing landed and went off, we were all dead. There was no question about it. I remember just standing there like an idiot, waiting for the blast to hit.
But Steve had his game face on and jumped into action. I watched as he grabbed his rifle by the barrel and swung at the incoming grenade. The butt of his weapon made contact with it, sending it screaming straight back at the man who'd thrown it at us. A couple of seconds later, the grenade went off and killed the bad guy.
It seemed ridiculous. Absurd. Something straight out of a movie, or the imagination of somebody embellishing a story. But every word, every syllable of it is true. Steve did that. And that's how he saved my life.
“Unbelievable,” the man behind the bar says, a note of awe in his voice.
“Tell me about it,” I say.
The men at the bar raise their glasses, so I follow suit.
“To Steve,” says the bartender. “One of the craziest sons of bitches alive today.”
“To Steve,” we all echo and then drink.
A moment later, the music comes back on, conversations re-start, and life goes back to normal inside the bar.
“Great
story,” says a leggy blonde as she slides onto the stool next to me. “It true?”
“Every word of it.”
I take a drink of my beer and look the woman up and down. She's good looking and probably in her early twenties, if I have to guess. Her blond hair falls to the middle of her back, she's got very nice, shapely legs that disappear under a short, tight skirt, and a midriff-baring shirt that clings to her in all the right places and highlights her ample cleavage. She sees me looking and smiles.
“Wow,” she says. “Pretty intense.”
“Yeah, it really was.”
“Buy me a drink?”
“Absolutely.”
I order us another round and over a couple of hours and many drinks, we get to know one another a bit. She tells me all about her life, including how she became the most sought-after hairdresser in Fort Collins. But honestly, I don't really hear much of what she's saying since I'm more focused on her legs and tits. The girl likes to talk about herself, there's no question about it. And she's very aware of the fact that she's a good-looking woman. She seems to be enjoying the fact that I'm checking her out as closely as I am. She's obviously a girl who thrives on the attention of men.
“Why don't we get out of here?” she asks, giving me a flirty little smile and runs the tip of her tongue along her lips.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” I reply.
I throw some cash down on the bar and they all wave and give me a knowing smile, as I head out with the girl – Aubrey – on my arm.
“My hotel is –”
Aubrey drags me over to a car and opens the back door, practically pushing me into the back seat. She climbs in after me and slams the door, turning to me with a look of absolute desire on her face.
“I don't think I can wait that long, baby,” she says.
“This is your car, isn't it?” I feel stupid for asking – but you just never know.
“Of course it is.”
She climbs into my lap, straddling me, and kisses me hard, forcing her tongue into my mouth. Our kissing becomes more urgent, frantic. She kisses my neck, nipping at it with her teeth as I slid my hands under her skirt, relishing the feel of the soft skin of her ass. She yelps when I give her a little smack on the ass and smiles at me salaciously.
