by Kurt Gepner
"We can’t get there if we stand around here a-squawking," Silas said. "Let’s get this show on the road."
The other men concurred with Silas’ sentiments and they began their tedious climb up to the mountain roads of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. They had just reached their first terrace of level road when the edge of a steady rain moved over them. Camille wore a Mariners ball cap. And like Hank, his glasses stayed dry. The other men neither wore glasses, nor hats and soon were rubbing their eyes and wiping water off of their faces. None complained. They walked on, each keeping his own miseries private, and got soaking wet.
Talk was reserved for strategies. They walked mostly in silence. Perhaps two hours into their ascent, Reggie froze and growled threateningly. Each man had a flashlight and their beams flicked from one set of glowing eyes to the next. Perhaps a dozen canines, of various breeds, emerged from the shrubs, their head slung low with malice.
Hank told the men not to shoot unless attacked. Then he tried to command the dogs away. But they had numbers and hunger to bolster their resolve against the dominant man. A slick coated, Mastiff-mongrel seemed to be the alpha, so Hank lunged at it with the butt of his staff. The massive beast viciously bit at the stick and snapped it in half.
Reggie took the action of his master to be an attack command and barreled into the much larger dog. "Reggie, No!" Hank shouted, but instantly the two animals became a blur of fur and blood. The rest of the pack dove in to tear at the challenger.
Hank didn’t hesitate. He moved in kicking with his steel toed boots and clubbing the pack of dogs out of his way. The other men kept their weapons ready, but were not so eager to get in the way of slashing teeth and dared not fire with Hank in the middle.
The fearless man scattered the lesser dogs with the fierceness of his attack, but the two huge combatants ignored his assault. He beat at them, indiscriminately, in an effort to separate them. Reggie was outweighed by at least half, but he had training and discipline. He was at the peak of his health. The Mastiff-mongrel looked positively feral, like he had been tortured in a cage all of his life.
Finally, suddenly, there was silence. The Mastiff was on his side with Reggie’s jaws around his throat. Reggie jerked at the animal and the bigger dog scratched its hind legs feebly at the ground. Hank dared not get near his beautiful champion, until the larger dog was utterly still. Then he commanded Reggie to drop it.
Reggie looked to have more blood on his outside than his inside. His right ear dangled by a small thread of skin. Two toes of his left foot were missing. His right eye had been punctured and his entire body from muzzle to the nub of his docked tail was lacerated. He whined feebly as he lay still for Hank’s examination.
Hank looked at the men. "Head up the road," he said. "I’ll catch up in a minute."
"Hank…" TJ started to say.
"C’mon," Dale intervened. He knew what the dog meant to Hank and nothing TJ could say would help with what his old neighbor and friend was dealing with. The men left Hank alone.
"What should I do, Boy?" Hank pleaded with his canine companion. "If I leave you, the other dogs might come back and tear you to shreds." Reggie looked up at his master and tried to lick his hand, but Hank gently coaxed him to lay his head back down. "There’s no way you could make it back to town." He couldn’t stop his tears. "But I just know we could fix you up, good as new."
Reggie picked up his head and Hank let him lick his hand this time. "I can’t risk shooting you, ‘cause we have to take the bad guys by surprise." With a groan of pain, Reggie laid his head back down and then whimpered. "We just have to chance it," he said and stood up.
Looking down at his faithful hound with a broken heart. He pointed and said, "Reggie, Stay!" Then he turned and caught up with the other men.
Onward they walked. At intersections, Hank pointed out landmarks so the men would remember their path. He didn’t need to say that it was in case he wasn’t with them when they returned. When they came across a herd of goats roaming free, Hank had the men mark the roadside with a pile of sticks. "They’ll likely be miles from here by morning, but if we can find them, we’ll be that much better off," he said.
They wasted no time discussing the possibilities of catching a herd of goats, or finding a pantry full of canned food. Such ideas were like cotton candy in a mausoleum. They marched on, each man dwelling mutely on his own worries of what lay ahead. Exhaustion radiated from their marrow. Each step was set after the last by numb determination.
At the bottom of a hill, they found a wide stream gurgling below a low bridge. Hank shone his light at a yellow, diamond sign on the other side. PAVEMENT ENDS were the black letters printed on it. "From here we have six point two miles of gravel and dirt," he said. He shut off his light and crossed the bridge.
It had been a while since the road was last graveled, so it was more mud than stone. Slogging onward, the men began slipping. Their footing was uncertain and weary. Only Hank was accustomed to hiking in this territory. And though he was tired and sore, he was the most rested among them. Camille, however, laughed at them all. He was a tough old mule who refused to show a wink of weakness. Involuntary groans and grunts were the only retorts uttered to his harassment.
The rain eased up as a grey pre-dawn light silhouetted the mountain peaks and trees in the east. When the light grew bright enough to see the grasses alongside the road, Hank suddenly stopped.
CHAPTER TEN
Hank waved for the men to circle around. They huddled and laid their arms across each other’s backs. "We’re here," he told them. A communal sigh of relief issued from the group. "There’s a pull out, where I usually park my truck, right behind me. I saw fresh foot prints, so they’re for sure here, too." He let them absorb that fact for a moment before going on. "There’s a trail along a stream that leads to a small glade, probably five-hundred yards in. Great place for a picnic," he added flippantly.
"On the other side of the glade is a gully. It’s about fifteen feet deep. We follow that for a couple hundred yards. Then it slopes down to become a ravine," Hank went on. "We follow the ravine for a few hundred more yards and there’s a natural stairway in the rock on the right. It’s a forty or fifty foot climb that puts you right on a stone shelf. We follow that to the left and it opens into the Meadow."
"How did you find this place?" Tom asked with a level of awe.
Hank shrugged. "I was looking for a good place to keep my bees. I just followed my nose."
"You were a beekeeper, too?" Tom asked. "That explains the honey."
"Until all my colonies died," Hank confirmed.
Tom just shook his head. Hank went on.
"Now, when we are on that shelf, we’re target practice. There’s a cliff to our right, a fifty foot gap to our left and a rock wall on the other side of that. And then it’s about thirty feet to open ground. Even an idiot would be able to see the advantage of that geological arrangement."
"It don’t sound good," Silas said. "What’s your plan?"
Hank was quiet for a moment. "First I want to say that we are about to kill people. We’re going in there and we’re going to kill them all. We’re going to do that, because it means our survival and because we can’t risk any retaliation. It means that we believe that civilization is gone and we are living by our own law. Everybody take a minute to chew on that." He fell silent. Shivering and chattering teeth were the only comments. Exhaustion was taking its toll on the men.
"Okay," Hank finally said. "It’s still going to be pretty dark in there, if we hurry. Stewart’s not stupid, but I doubt that he’s had any military training. I’m counting on the fact that he isn’t expecting us to rush in there with guns blazing. Even though there is probably a sentry behind that wall, the guy is probably tired and cold and not alert."
Suddenly, Hank felt a wave of fatigue splash over him. He thought about Evie and her infidelity. He wondered why he should bother to survive the pending battle.
"Sounds good, so far," Silas prompted.
With a sigh, Hank went on. "The shelf is about five feet wide, so there’s no real danger of falling, but footing could be an issue. On my signal, we’ll run around the corner and rush straight into the Meadow, blasting at anybody we see. There should be at least one to the left, behind that wall. And probably one to the right, after we get onto that open ground.
"Straight in from the path," Hank went on, "probably fifty yards, is the hut I built. That’s the real threat."
"What…? Did you build it like a bunker?" Silas asked in all seriousness.
"Just about," Hank confirmed. "It took me two years of weekend visits. It’s built out of stone." Both Silas and TJ groaned. "I used mud as mortar. It’s got a window facing the path that we’ll be running over. And… it’s big enough for a dozen people to sit inside." He didn’t need to say that their enemy might number that high.
He took a breath and said, "I say three of us should just run straight to the hut and shoot everybody inside."
"I got the small arms, so that means me," Silas said as he grabbed the nine-millimeter pistol.
"And me too, I suppose," Camille said and pulled a snub-nosed revolver from a hidden holster at the small of his back.
"Where’d you get that?" Hank demanded, with a frown.
"My dad gave it to me, one year before he died," Camille answered. "It’s a thirty-five caliber and I’ve only got these five round," he said as he laid it in Hank’s outstretch hand. "I’ve been saving it ‘til I was sure we needed it."
After examining it, Hank gave it back to his father-in-law. "When’s the last time you shot that thing?"
"Never have," Camille said. "It’s been in a box since I got it."
"Your dad has been dead for fifty years. Those rounds may be duds," Hank observed. "And you need to tell me about these things."
"Well," Camille drawled. "I didn’t figure you’d take it away from me, so it doesn’t really change anything, that I didn’t."
Gritting his teeth, Hank said, "No, it doesn’t. Okay, you’re with Silas and me. You two get straight to the door and kick it in. It’s barred from the inside, but I didn’t build it to hold off a siege. While you go through the door, I’ll take the window. You three," Hank swiped his finger at Dale, TJ and Tom, "follow right behind us and blast anyone you see flanking us." Giving each of them a pointed look, he said, "One way or another, this should be over almost before it begins."
Through clattering teeth, Dale said, "Let’s get this done, before I freeze to death."
The men broke from their huddle and Hank led the way. Walking where Hank walked, they quietly gathered on the rocky shelf. He deliberately held up the last three fingers of his left hand with Whisper gripped tightly in his right. Pulling his hand back, he folded down his middle finger and thrust his ring and pinky finger out again. Deliberately, he again pulled back and folded down his ring finger… Finally, he folded down his pinky finger. Three-two-one was the count and thrust his fist toward the Meadow clearing.
With a primal yell, Hank, Silas and Camille dashed straight toward the hut. Behind them, gunshots and screams echoed. Hank thought he heard TJ’s cry. Hank got to the hut first and threw open the shutter. It wasn’t latched from the inside. At the same moment he shoved the barrel of his shotgun through the opening, he heard the door crash inward. The boom of his gun was deafening. Other gunshots cracked from inside. A split second later, he heard the worst sound he could possibly imagine.
From the den of chaos, the voices of terrified children screamed in discordant union. He pumped another shell into the chamber as he shouted, "Cease fire! Cease fire!"
His command was being echoed from inside. Silas yelled, "Cease fire! Cease fi…" One last shot rang and Silas let out a croak of agony. Hank called out to his friend and he heard the thump of a body falling to the ground. The wails of the terrified children crowded out all other sounds.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Back off!" The voice was Stewart’s. "Shut up!" He shouted. The children cried in panic, their voices straining. "Shut up!" He shouted again. Hank heard a number of thuds and slaps and the children were suddenly hushed. Sniffles, moans and whines dribbled out from the hut. "Put down your weapons!" Stewart called out once he had control of his most immediate position.
"Do it, Hank." Camille called out and appeared around the corner with his hands raised. Hank watched his father-in-law. "Put ‘em down, Hank!"
It was something in the old man’s voice that quelled a violent impulse to do otherwise. Hank lowered his shotgun to the ground. From the hut, Stewart emerged clenching a young girl around the waist and holding a pistol to her head. He had Silas' nine-mil shoved in his belt. Inside, other children sobbed. The girl in Stewart’s grasp was Isabelle, his granddaughter. Little Izzy, whom he and Evie had believed dead, was in front of him, alive. Hank’s mind raced through the connotations of this fact. It meant that his son, Kyle, was inside the hut… possibly dead. Kyle must have come to the Meadow right away, knowing that Hank would bring the rest of their family.
Now his precious little Izzy was being held hostage by the most despicable being Hank had ever met. "Don’t hurt her," Hank pleaded. "I’ll do anything! We’ll all leave if you want. Just don’t hurt her." Hank dropped to his knees and twined his fingers together, pleading for his granddaughter’s life.
Stewart grinned vindictively at the humbled man. "Everybody!" He shouted. "Drop your weapons!"
Hank looked back and saw that his men were all alive and doing exactly as ordered. "Okay," He said, turning back to Stewart. "We’ve done… Oof!" Hank fell sideways from a kick that plowed into the side of his head. Izzy cried pathetically.
"Looks like we’re at an impasse, Hank." Stewart looked around the clearing. "You’ve killed all my men, but I’ve got this cute little girl as collateral." Stewart spit a frothy ball of phlegm in Hank’s face. "What is she worth to you, Hank? What’s your granddaughter’s life worth to you?"
"Everything!" Hank answered and climbed back to his knees. "Please let her go," he begged.
"Hah! Hah!" Stewart sneered. "And lose my insurance policy?!" He slammed his heel into Hank’s face, knocking the big man backward. The other men didn’t move. "I’ll make a deal with you, Hank. This little girl and I are going for a walk. I don’t want to hurt her. Really." With his fingers still tightly gripping his pistol, he stroked her hair, affectionately. "I’m not the sort who hurts kids." Then he wound his fingers into her dark locks and yanked her head to the side so his face was clear of her hair. Izzy screamed. Hank winced. "But if you think, for one second, that I’d let anything happen to me, before I blew out her brains…"
Stewart’s right eye exploded out in spray of bone and gore. Then his corpse crumpled to the ground. Silas, still holding Ringer where the back of Stewart’s head had been, plucked the little girl into the crook of his arm, before she was dragged down in dead arms. In the blink of an eye, Hank was on his feet and holding his granddaughter tightly to his chest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Overcome with emotion, Hank felt tears spilling from his eyes. He thanked God and then looked to his father-in-law. "Camille," Hank said through Izzy’s dark mop of hair. He flicked his eyes toward the hut. "Kyle."
Camille blinked at Hank and then dashed into the stone hut. A moment passed and then Hank heard a voice that filled his heart with joy. Even as he comforted the bawling, terrified girl in his arms he allowed himself to smile. "Is she hurt?" the voice asked.
"She’s fine," Camille assured the voice. The other children started crying again.
A moment later, Kyle ran out of the hut, throwing off remnants of rope and calling out for his daughter. Camille kept talking inside the hut. "Now, now," he said soothingly. "I’ll get to you in a minute." His deep, resonating voice soothed and tamed the fear. He kept speaking, but this time as if to adults. "You must be good guys, if that bastard had you all tied up."
A moment later a man’s frightened voice rushed out in a panic. "Let me out, get me out of here!"
He had obviously been gagged.
Outside, Kyle grabbed his daughter away from Hank and cuddled her in a fiercely protective hug. "It’s all okay, Squeaky Bee. It’s all okay. Everything’s fine, now. It’s all okay." Looking over his beaten and bruised son, Hank pulled Kyle into a firm hug and then let him go. As the two men regarded each other, they shared a relief and understanding that went beyond words.
Leaving his son to calm Izzy, Hank went to Silas’ side. The man who had saved his granddaughter was sitting on a log bench, beside the hut. His breathing was wet and labored. A red foam had collected at the corners of his mouth. "I thought," Silas said and took a breath. "That I was dead." He took another breath. "But then..." He sucked air deep into his lungs and coughed. Drops of blood sprayed into the hand he used to cover his mouth. He held it before his eyes and regarded it as if it were his beating heart.
Hank shook his head. "Don’t talk." He spread his drover’s coat on the ground. "Lie down," he told Silas with a hand on the man’s shoulder. Gently he coaxed the burly man to the ground.
Silas nodded. "Yeah, I’m tired. I’d like to lay down… just for a minute."
The other men appeared there with Hank and Silas. They offered words of encouragement and praise. Silas didn’t seem to hear them. Blood slowly pulsed from a hole near the middle of his chest. Bubbles splattered out of the hole with each breath he took.
The hut door slammed open and a man with a barrel-chested physique and a head of long, waxy, black hair stumbled out and fell down when he crossed the threshold. Another man, who was a little taller, blonde and thinner than his companion, followed him, blinking red-rimmed eyes against the growing light. The taller man knelt down to help the fallen one. The fallen man heaved once and vomited. The other man didn’t say anything, but just patted his friend on the back.
Camille emerged from the hut saying, "There you go. Just step around him." He was holding a pair of hands that each belonged to a child with unnaturally red hair. The two children, a boy and a girl who must be twins, looked to be about five years old. Their clothes were splattered with blood, but they appeared unharmed, albeit dazed.
