by L. T. Ryan
Instincts took over and I ran. I darted out of Reese's car and hurdled the guardrail. Pain shot up my leg as I landed. I didn't stop. There was a rare group of trees dotting the landscape not too far off. That became my first goal. I had no idea what I'd do from there, though.
I glanced back, saw Linus holding a rifle. He peered through the scope, panning left to right, looking for me. Where was the other guy? Had he been injured? I looked around, still didn't see him.
I stopped there for a moment, dropping to the ground in a spot where the land dipped. Not the best cover, but it'd do.
An eighteen-wheeler sounded its horn as it drove past. Taillights burned red and tires squealed. The semi careened onto the shoulder, coming to a stop a couple hundred feet down the road. The man who stepped out looked to be mid-forties and in decent shape. He had his cell phone to his ear, presumably reporting an accident to the highway patrol.
Perfect.
Linus took note of the guy. He backtracked to the pickup truck and tucked away his rifle. No one was watching me now. I jumped up and made a break for the woods. They were only a couple hundred feet away. My ankle ached with every stride. As I reached the trees, I looked back and saw Linus occupied with the truck driver. His friend had reappeared, however, and was lumbering across the landscape toward me. It looked like he was injured.
The woods consisted of a group of trees that were perfectly lined up in rows. Someone's pet project, I supposed. I cleared the first row, and took position behind a thick trunk in the second row. It did a horrible job of hiding me, so I crept back, deeper into the shade. By the time the other guy reached the area, he was bent over, heaving, out of breath. He looked up, gaze darting east to west. He glossed over my position without noticing I was there.
The guy straightened up, looked back toward Linus. The truck driver had his hand on Linus's shoulder. He gestured with his hand to the guardrail. Perhaps Linus had taken more of a beating from the accident than he realized. I know I had. Or I'd at least re-aggravated the injuries from the beating I'd taken from Linus and his guys. Pain tore through my right shoulder, down to my knee. The longer I remained still, the more intense the feeling grew.
I dashed six feet to another tree, one with a thicker trunk. I stopped there and checked in on the other guy. He leaned against a tree with his back to me. He was still watching Linus's interaction with the trucker. I needed him to take a step back, out of the open. I couldn't risk being spotted by Linus or the truck driver. Or someone else. There were bound to be more coming. And judging by the barren landscape behind me, I had nowhere else to hide.
I had to get ahold of Reese. I reached into my pocket, but my cell phone was gone. I traced my path through the woods. I wasn't even sure that I'd brought it with me. It might still be sitting in the console. Or maybe it'd been tossed around during the accident.
Dammit.
I had no way of reaching out. That meant I had to move.
There was another option. The guy who'd followed me out had his phone clipped to his waistband. It'd do in a pinch. I picked a stick up and tossed it to the left. I quickly ducked behind the tree and waited.
I heard the guy shuffle backward. He took each step slowly and deliberately. His labored breathing grew closer, louder, raspier. He grabbed the tree where I hid. His fingers wrapped around to my side. I stepped right as he went left, matching each step in tune with his so we rustled the ground at the same time until I'd come up behind him. I stood in a wake of foul body odor. Had the guy bothered to shower this week? Temperatures in the low nineties didn't help his cause.
He stopped and straightened up. I stood no more than three feet from him. I could make a move, but I wasn't in the best position. There'd be a chance he would be able to fight back. In this environment, that would be bad. All he had to do was knock me down and then run out of the woods yelling. They'd have me pinned in. Or I'd have to resort to running out in the open on a wide expanse where they'd never lose sight of me.
He turned his head to the right a few inches. Soon he'd detect me in his peripheral vision. I had no time left to wait.
I landed a near-perfect strike. A punch to the soft flesh underneath the rear corner of the jaw was enough drop most men. From there I could finish him off.
He moved before my fist landed. I caught his earlobe and grazed off his cheekbone and nose. Enough to make him grunt, but not take him down.
Worse, I had braced myself for the impact and my recovery. Problem now was the momentum carried me forward, and I stumbled over his right leg.
The guy jumped on me. Instinct, I guess.
I managed to get my knee up before he hit. His gut landed square on it. His mouth twisted open, gasping with a sound like air escaping from a balloon. I grabbed his shirt near the neck with my left hand. Threw a cross with my right. Then I landed a second and a third punch. Blood dripped onto me from his mouth and nose, but he didn't budge. I tried rolling out from under him. He countered by shifting his weight. He landed a couple rabbit punches to my right side. Pain rippled through my abdomen.
He lifted his head and called out. Four of his teeth were gone. I guess he tried to say Linus, but the words were more of a mash-up of moaning and gargling.
I shoved both hands into his face, thumbs against his eyes, palms pressing hard against his mouth and nose. His muffled scream sent a stream of blood spilling out of his mouth. The sky darkened as his hand covered my face. Nails dug into my flesh. He worked his mitt down to my neck. I pressed harder into his orbital sockets, felt one eye start to give. He tightened his grip on my throat.
I forced a hollow yell.
He screamed.
I managed to slide my body enough to shift his weight off my core. Then I whipped my knee into his groin. He started to fall to the side, and his grip around my windpipe loosened. I released my right hand from his face, jabbed his throat, striking the area under his Adam's apple. He didn't budge. I struck again, then aimed for his solar plexus. Fire radiated from my wrist. Hell with it. A broken hand would heal. Death was permanent.
His arms went limp and his upper body fell. I pushed him off of me and rolled over. Shouts came from the highway. I scampered to my knees and used a tree to pull myself up. Linus and the truck driver were walking toward us. It didn't appear to be a mercy mission. The truck driver carried a shotgun.
"Son of a bitch," I muttered. He was one of them.
The guy on the ground stirred. I took a running start and kicked him in the gut. Wouldn't knock him out, but it'd keep him down for a few minutes while I took off. I reached for his cellphone, but at some point during the scuffle, it had become dislodged and was nowhere to be found.
I exited the woods in the back, scanned the terrain. It turned out to be less wide open than I'd thought. I had a chance here.
Straight ahead I saw nothing but dirt. To the right were a fence, some cattle, and a building beyond that. It appeared my best chance lay to the left. A cropping of buildings stood there. A house, maybe. Could've been two. And at least three garages or sheds. Maybe I'd find something there. If anything, the cover would buy me more time.
I sprinted toward the structures, hoping I was moving sight unseen.
Judging by the shotgun blast, I wasn't.
Chapter 39
Crystal River, Florida, 1988
Jack made his way down the darkened hallway. The house was eerily quiet. What was going on outside? He felt pulled toward the stairs as he thought of Sean and Molly. Had they found his sister? If so, had they done to her what that asshole in the bedroom attempted to do to him? Could they all be that crazy?
Stay calm, he told himself. He had a mission, and he had to complete it before he could help his sister.
He entered his parents' dark room. Figured it was best to leave it that way so he didn't draw any attention from outside. Jack moved with his left hand on the wall. It smelled of a mix of his father's cologne and his mother's perfume. He continued toward the source, knowing that his father's nightst
and was one of the hiding places.
He opened the drawers one by one and searched, being careful not to disturb the contents too much. Last thing he wanted at this point was to be disciplined for going through their things. Being the son of an Army officer made such things relevant no matter what situation he faced. He made it to the last drawer, but didn't find the pistol. Next he moved to the closet, feeling around in the dark for the shoeboxes where he'd seen his dad stash the handgun before. Again, no luck. Did that mean it wasn't in there, or had he just been unlucky and missed it?
A cool breeze coated him as he exited the closet. He stopped by the window to listen to silence. The air carried a hint of the Gulf. Salt and fish. He thought of their plans for the next day. A day of fishing that might never happen again. His gut tightened, and he forced the thoughts out of his head. Focus on the mission, he told himself.
Jack dropped to the floor and crawled under his parents' bed, sweeping his right arm across the carpet in search of anything. But the floor was barren. There was only one place left to search. He rolled out from under the bed, stopping in front of his father's nightstand. As he reached for the handle, he recalled that the man in the other room had held a pistol to his head at one point.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath. Why hadn't he thought to pick that up? He made a note to retrieve it, so when he found Sean, they'd both be armed.
Jack pulled the nightstand door open. Musty air escaped. He reached in, felt along the top shelf, then the bottom. His hand collided with a box. Heard the sound of rattling ammunition. He skipped over the box and his hand came to rest on the butt of the pistol.
A sigh of relief slipped out and his body went limp for a moment as he recaptured his breath and steeled himself for the next step.
But that step would be delayed.
Perhaps permanently.
Hands dug into his calves and pulled him to the carpet.
And Jack lost his grip on the pistol.
Chapter 40
I'd been shot multiple times. More than I liked to remember, in fact. There were scars on my body that looked like I'd been run through a cheese grater. On one of those attempts on my life, I had faced the business end of a shotgun in the humid Louisiana swamps. The assailant had been over a hundred yards out. Buckshot hit like molten hail on my lower back and right hip. If he had chambered a slug, I would have lost a kidney. I'd gone down, landing halfway in the water, attracting a nearby gator. The guy had advanced half the distance as I scrambled out of the mud. I saw him stop, raise his weapon, aim at me. I couldn't move fast enough. At less than fifty yards out, the buckshot could be lethal. Fortunately, my old partner Bear had arrived and ensured there would be no second shot.
Sprinting across an open expanse toward a cluster of buildings, the gunshot was the last thing I wanted to hear. The blast echoed throughout the area. How close were they? I anticipated the pain of the bullet tearing through me. It never came. A second shot did. A dozen fire ants dug into my right hamstring. I yelled out as I tripped over a shrub and toppled to the ground. I grabbed the back of my leg, then brought my hand around out of morbid curiosity, knowing that acknowledging the wound would triple the pain. But there were only traces of crimson on the tips of my fingers. I twisted to get a look at my leg. There were several small welts, and they were barely bleeding. Must've been birdshot.
Twenty-plus-year-old instincts kicked in and I planted my hand on the ground. My legs started grinding. I was seventeen again and nothing was stopping me from getting into the end zone.
The first building stood ten feet away.
Even though I had trouble regaining my balance, I managed to keep my feet churning. My right hand acted like a third leg, planting frequently to keep me from face planting. Those last thirty feet might as well have been thirty miles. Another volley of buckshot headed my way. It slammed into aluminum siding, leaving behind tiny holes.
"Just stay put, Jack," Linus called out.
Yeah, that's happening, I thought.
I leaned against the garage door for a moment to catch my breath. The men were closing in. There was no way I could remain stationary for long. Linus would be there soon. The trucker, too. Why the hell was the guy helping them? Perhaps he was sympathetic to Darrow's cause. Hell, maybe he was on his payroll. I wondered if the call to the cops had gone through. Didn't matter. They wouldn't be on my side either.
I scraped a couple years' worth of grime off the garage window with my palm and peered inside. Dim light left the identity of the contents in question. Nothing stood out as helpful, so I decided to move on.
I bent over, sucked in a deep, warm breath. Then I sprinted, ignoring the burning in my hamstring. The next two buildings were offset from one another. Made it a good place to hide. As I sprinted, I anticipated another shotgun blast. It never came. The buildings offered me a shield of sorts. I was out of sight. The men approached cautiously now. They might even be waiting for backup. Either way, their delay bought me time I desperately needed.
With the sun at my back, I had a better view of the second garage as I peered through a window that had considerably less dirt than the first. Aside from a few pieces of lawn equipment, which might prove helpful, a blue tarp covered everything else.
What did it cover? The contents appeared too small to be a car. Still, could it be some sort of transportation?
It could be, but considering the other items, I was more likely to find a lawn tractor than an old Corvette in there.
I turned and attempted to scope out the third garage. The lighting conditions were worse than the first. I noted a second window on the other side, and decided to go in and investigate since I had a means of egress if things got dicey. I took off my shirt, wrapped it around my elbow and drove it through the window. Glass shattered and splintered. If there was any doubt as to my position, the noise cleared it up.
"The hell was that?" someone said. I assumed it was the trucker since the voice wasn't as southern-sounding as Linus's.
"Something broke," Linus called back.
"No, stay back," the trucker said. "He can't hide in there forever. We got a better chance out in the open."
They sure as hell did. I wished one would try to take me in the narrow alley between the two garages. I had the advantage in a confined space.
I cleared out the rest of the jagged glass, and stuck my head through the hole. Dust danced in scattered rays of light. The garage smelled old, but dry. A thick layer of dirt coated some items. I climbed inside. A remaining shard of glass sliced my skin. I didn't bother to check how deep. The wound didn't inhibit my movement and that was all that mattered.
A set of wrenches lined with greasy fingerprints were spread out on a workbench. The largest was a touch shorter and lighter than a pipe wrench. I grabbed it. It'd do the trick if I met up with Linus or the truck driver. There wasn't much else left in the place. Some old containers full of used motor oil. A couple gas cans. A rusted chainsaw that looked as though the chain would disintegrate if I tried to use it. I found an axe hanging on the wall, but left it in favor of a dull machete. If anything it'd guarantee an infected wound for anyone standing in my way.
I glanced down at myself. My chest and stomach were coated in blood. Only some of it had seeped out of me. I held a large wrench in one hand, a machete in the other. I stood in a dusty old garage waiting for an attack. One thought ran through my head.
When the hell did I enter the zombie apocalypse?
I was prepared to do whatever it took to live through this situation. I had doubts I'd make it, though. The men were armed, carrying at least one shotgun. I knew there'd be more, too. They'd likely contacted Darrow, who would have a team headed out. I had two hopes. One, that the highway patrol would respond to the accident soon, before Darrow's men arrived.
The other was that I'd find some sort of transportation. Not happening in this garage, though.
I moved to the broken window and listened. Nothing. But that didn't mean someone wasn't a
round. I rose and peered through the opening. Nobody there. I stuck my head out. The alley was clear.
I climbed through the opening, machete in hand. Once out, I slammed the hilt into the window of the other garage.
"Come on, man," Linus said. "We gotta see what he's doing."
"Just wait," the truck driver called. "Reinforcements are gonna be here in less than ten minutes. We can see everything from here. He ain't going nowhere."
"Let's just end this!"
"God dammit," the guy said. "You told me who y'all think this guy is. You really want to take him on with just us two? Don't you think the odds of survival are greater if we've got more people here?"
"Pussy," Linus spat. "All right. We do this your way. But if he gets away, you answer to Darrow, not me."
The truck driver laughed. "He ain't getting away."
Keep thinking that.
I climbed through the window, landing hard on the blue tarp. I didn't have much choice in the matter. It covered the entire area under the window, and I figured with a riding mower underneath it was as solid a spot to fall on as I could get.
I was wrong.
Whatever was underneath toppled over and I went with it. My left arm caught and bent unnaturally at the elbow. I fought to keep in a pained scream. I glanced down, fearing I'd bent my arm backward. Everything looked normal. I tested the joint, flexed and tightened the muscles a couple times. Pain flared, but it didn't seem to hinder movement.
I got to my feet and peeled back the tarp.
"Son of a bitch."
I had a way out.
Chapter 41
The two dirt bikes looked like they were probably built back in the seventies. Didn't matter, though. Someone had taken care of them, at least for a while. Some of the parts were newer and didn't show a lot of wear. Other parts were rusted or broken. Nothing that would hinder performance, though. I pulled one bike off the other. The top one had an 80cc 2-cycle engine. I might get fifty miles per hour out of that. The bottom one had a 125cc 2-cycle engine, which, if I was lucky, would hit seventy miles per hour, maybe more. Considering the terrain behind the garages, it really didn't matter. I just had to get moving. Only problem was the door opened out to the center of the compound, where I figured Linus and the truck driver were waiting.
