The knife was not there.
He patted all of his pockets and found them empty. “That bitch,” he muttered.
He jumped when an eye moved before a wide crack in front of him.
“You talking to me?” came a female voice.
“Let me out of here.”
“No.”
Tommy lashed out at the eye with his foot to no effect. He felt around, hoping for something he could use as a weapon, and found nothing. All his hand landed on was a damp roll of toilet paper.
“You’re a real bastard,” she said.
“You brought this on yourself,” he said. “You killed my parents and my brother.”
“Your brother started this,” she said.
“You’re lying,” he said.
“My daddy died yesterday,” she said. “He couldn’t make water. He came out here to use the outhouse and a snake bit him on his privates. They swelled up and wouldn’t nothing come through them. It was a bad way to die.”
Tommy remained silent.
“My uncle got bit in the house,” she continued. “A rattler got him when he set his feet out of the bed that morning. His body couldn’t handle the stress. He had a heart attack not long after the bite. I’m assuming them snakes were your doing?”
“Sounds like we’re about even,” he said. “Maybe you should let me go.”
“Momma and I finally caught all of those snakes,” she said. “We were going to use them to kill you, but she’s dead now. You going to tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that either?”
“I admit it. I can’t say I’m sorry about it.”
Lisa laughed. “Oh, you’ll be sorry all right.”
She backed away and he didn’t have to wait long to find out what she was doing. In a moment, snakes began raining down on him from overhead. He recoiled in fear but their ropy coolness was all over him—around his neck, on his arms, his bare feet. He could hear their hisses, see their rippling flesh in the narrow stripes of sunlight as they slithered overtop each other.
The first bite was on his finger, then another at his ankle. A sharp pain hit in his calf, then his bicep. He yelled and began kicking frantically at the door. There was another bite on his foot. He screamed at Lisa to let him out. While he didn’t want to, he begged. He pleaded.
He could hear her laughing at him, at his pain. There was a bite on his thigh and he began to feel faint. His heart was racing. As terrified as he was, he had to sit down. He sat on a snake, felt it writhing beneath him. His head began spinning and he sagged over against the wall. His last sight was of that eye pressed to the crack only inches away, watching him, the curled lip beneath it. The smile.
Chapter 33
Wallace County
It was late evening when Baxter’s group returned to Glenwall. As they neared the gate, the scene in the road was unavoidable.
“Stop the vehicle!” Baxter yelled.
“Sir, I’m not sure it’s safe,” the driver replied. “Do not get out.”
Baxter stared at the blood-soaked pavement and the body parts littering the surface of the road. Sprays of blood splattered park benches, nearby cars, and a fire hydrant. He raised the microphone from the radio mounted in the vehicle. “Base, did we come under attack?”
“No sir,” replied the guard.
“Then, what the hell happened?” Baxter screamed into the radio.
Silence.
“Sir, we probably should discuss that in person,” the guard replied.
Baxter waved at the driver, who accelerated to the gate. The guard already had one of the cars pulled away from the gate and they drove straight through. Baxter jumped from the Humvee before it came to a complete stop and raced back to the nervous guards.
“What is that?” he asked, spitting his words in his rage and disgust.
They were all scared of Valentine, especially now.
“It was Valentine, sir,” one of the guards said. “He took a cooler outside of the wall and told the protestors it was food. It was an explosive and he set it off when they tried to open the cooler.”
Baxter stared in shock for a moment as if unable to process the words he was hearing, then he completely melted down. He screamed and stomped around. He kicked the quarter panel of the sheriff’s department vehicle, pounded his fists on the hood. He even went as far as to punch a window though it didn’t shatter.
He grabbed his injured hand and winced, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, regaining his calm. His people had never seen him like this.
“I’m going home,” Baxter said to his driver. “Get Valentine and get him to my place now.”
“Do you need a ride, sir?”
Baxter shook his head. “I need to walk.” He strode off, cradling his injured hand. His mind raced. For all he knew, the families of Glenwall were meeting right now, preparing to boot him and his men out of here. He had no idea what he’d do. His preparation had always been tied into his role with the county. He had no individual preparations. He wasn’t even sure if the county had anything remaining at this point.
When he reached the house that he was bunking at, the Humvee was there and Valentine was waiting on the porch steps. Baxter had calmed down significantly on his walk, and felt his rage returning.
When Valentine opened his mouth to say something Baxter hissed, “You shut the fuck up. I don’t know what kind of closet psycho you are, but you’ve probably screwed our chances of remaining in this community.”
Valentine hung his head and looked at the ground.
“The board members that run this place are practical,” Baxter said. “They understand that violence may be required to keep them safe. What I saw out there,” he stabbed a finger behind him toward the road, “was completely unnecessary. There’s no excuse for that. How the hell am I going to explain it?”
“We were trying to send a message,” Valentine said. “We felt threatened and felt a strong response was warranted.”
“Are you being serious or are you just offering me something I can give the folks that live here?”
“I’m giving you an excuse,” Valentine said. “To be honest, I don’t feel the least bit bad about what I did. I’m tired of those people whining and complaining. They could be out looking for food. They could be hunting or fishing. They could be trading their labor at a farm in exchange for food, but they’re not. They’re here begging for handouts. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I lost my shit.”
Baxter sighed. “At least you’re being honest.”
Valentine looked his boss in the eye. “I’m being completely honest.”
“Then I’ll be honest too,” Baxter said. “You can’t stay here anymore.”
Valentine flew to his feet. “WHAT? You can’t throw me out of here. You all need me as much as I need you.”
“Lower your voice and sit down!” Baxter ordered.
Valentine stared at him for a moment, then reluctantly sat down.
“You’ve got two options,” Baxter offered. “You can leave or you can go help out at the Russell County location.”
“I’ll take Russell County,” Valentine said without hesitation.
“It’s rough,” Baxter said. “It’s only a field with some campers. There’s a lot of work that has to be done.”
“I’m fine with work,” Valentine said.
“And I’m telling these folks here that I banished you,” Baxter added. “You’ll never be able to come back here again.”
Valentine sighed. He wasn’t happy about that though his options were limited. “Okay.”
“Pack your shit and be ready to go tomorrow,” Baxter said. “Don’t come out of your house again tonight. I don’t want anyone seeing you.”
“What if there’s trouble?” Valentine said.
“If there’s trouble, you’ll only make it worse,” Baxter said. “Stay in your house.”
“Okay,” Valentine agreed. “I appreciate you keeping me on.”
“You fucking better,” Baxter sai
d. “You pull a stunt like that again and you’re gone. Do you understand me?”
Valentine nodded, then got up and left.
Baxter watched him go, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. A loose cannon like that could come back to haunt him. Right now, he was going to the clubhouse. He needed a drink and that’s where they kept the good stuff.
Chapter 34
The Valley
Randi was sitting on the porch of her new home cracking black walnuts. Several residents of the valley had offered to trade her home-canned food in exchange for jars of black walnut kernels that they could use in winter baking. With the limited resources at hand, she would gladly take what she could get.
She heard the clank of the gate chain being unfastened at the end of the road. When she looked up Lloyd was walking toward her, a paper bag in his hand and a broad grin on his face.
“Howdy there, good looking,” he said.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You greet all the women that way?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “I cast a wide net.”
“What the hell you want?”
Lloyd frowned. “Ain’t much of a conversationalist are you?”
“Nope. Pretty much anyone that knows me would agree.”
“We’ll need to work on that,” he said. “I like a woman who chuckles at witticisms.”
She raised a questioning eyebrow at him, not feeling a reply was warranted.
He raised the paper bag. “Brought you a present,” he said, yanking the bag off to reveal a jar of purple liquid.
“What is it?” Randi asked. “Beet juice?”
“Hell no, woman, it ain’t beet juice. It’s blackberry moonshine.” He unscrewed the lid and carefully held the jar under her nose.
She took a whiff and closed her eyes in appreciation. “Smells good.”
“The best,” he said. “My grandfather’s recipe. I hope to start making it myself soon.” He started to raise the jar to his lips and take a drink.
She cleared her throat. “What the hell are you doing?”
He paused. “Fixing to take a drink.”
“Of my liquor?” she asked. “You have the nerve to bring me a gift and then take the first drink of it? That ain’t right at all.”
He sighed and handed the jar over. She smiled in satisfaction, then took a long sip from the jar. “Hmmm, that’s some good stuff.”
“Like I said, the best.”
Randi could see him practically salivating for a drink, his fingers rubbing together. She intentionally took her time, taking another whiff of the contents and lingering over the mouth of the jar. She took another slow sip, her eyes on his.
“Oh, did you want some?” she asked innocently.
He shot out an arm. “Thought you’d never ask.”
“I was considering not asking simply to toy with you.”
“You’re evil,” Lloyd said, taking a sip from the jar.
“And you’re a damn lush.”
Lloyd recapped the jar and handed it over to her. “May I sit?”
“As long as it ain’t too close or too long,” she said.
He took a seat on the edge of the porch. She waved her fingers at him, urging him to move further away. “Really?” he asked.
She nodded and raised the hammer she’d been using to crack walnuts. He reluctantly complied, scooting about ten more inches away.
“This good?”
“It’ll do,” Randi said.
“What was the point of that?” he asked.
“Seeing if you could take orders from a woman. Simple test, and you passed.”
“Finally, some progress.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said. “Jury is still out on you.”
“Can I ask a favor?”
“You can ask anything,” she said. “Whether you can handle the answer or not is another matter entirely.”
He looked for the humor in her eyes, seeing none. “Somebody was a real dick to you once, weren’t they?”
“Get to the point,” she asked. “What do you want?” She wasn’t interested in processing her emotional nuances with this man she barely knew.
He sighed and gave up on the small talk. “I wanted to see if I could borrow two of your horses tomorrow.”
She regarded him. “Can you even ride a horse?”
“I have ridden a horse,” he answered.
“Why do you need to borrow a horse?”
“I need two, actually,” he said. “One for me, one for Buddy. We both lost folks and we want to visit them.”
She softened. “Here’s the deal. I love my family but they’re driving me bat shit. If I lend you my horses, you have to take me with you.”
Lloyd cracked a smile at that. “That’s a deal. We’d be honored.”
Randi chuckled. “We’ll see. You may not feel so honored after you’ve had to spend a day with me. Some people find it challenging.”
“You’re stubborn and I’m hard-headed,” he said. “That’s about a perfect combination. Will 10 a.m. work?”
“I’ll be ready.”
Chapter 35
Wallace County
The Glenwall golf course was located on the fringe of a beautiful little town that attracted families and retirees from around the nation. There were easily a thousand homes within a five mile radius of the golf course. In most of those homes, if people didn’t have some level of disaster preparedness they were now reaching the bottom of their pantries. Everyone had those old cans of soup or beans, those battered boxes of Jell-O, that orphan Pop-Tart that they couldn’t remember the flavor of. That’s what people had been eating for the last few weeks. For most, that was all gone now.
The Jell-O would have been served at room temperature, mixed with water of questionable purity. The old box of macaroni noodles had been soaked in lukewarm water until soft and eaten with whatever spices remained. As people ran out of food, most also ran out of ways to cook. Their gas grills were empty. Some burned broken furniture in backyard fire pits and cooked over that. Others broke up their ornamental trees and tried to cook on the smoky fires built of the green, unseasoned wood.
People had raided their candy drawers and ate the last lint-covered Jolly Ranchers and Starburst. They had eaten the stray french fries from under their car seats. They had sucked dry the packets of ketchup, salsa, and mustard they found in the junk drawer. They had brushed off and eaten the spilled cat food from the garage floor. Fat bullfrogs and goldfish were scooped from backyard ponds and cooked with enthusiasm.
Grocery stores had been looted of everything. The plate glass windows of restaurants were broken and any contents taken. There were no more pets roaming around loose in neighborhoods. A few weeks ago, the idea of eating them was repugnant. Now, people tried to devise traps to catch them, praying they’d find a fat tabby in the morning.
Neighbor broke in on neighbor when the lack of food became unbearable. There were shootings every night and the cops no longer responded to the sound of gunshots in the little postcard community. People finally began to notice that not everyone in the community seemed to be suffering. Within the gates of Glenwall, life appeared to be a little better. There was limited power, which they used for cooking, and the sound of those generators carried a good distance in the quieter world. They also had the tower lights running at night, which shone like beacons over the dark community.
The tower lights had been intended to make it easier to guard the community at night. Those on duty could make certain that no unauthorized folks were wandering around. The lights were now having the opposite effect. They drew the desperate like porch lights drew moths. People outside the walls muttered with resentment. It smacked of elitism. The local government was certainly in on it, helping those with money weather the disaster using resources their tax dollars had paid for. In some ways, they were not far off.
As word spread of what Valentine had done outside of the front gates, the anger reached a fever pitch. Not only were the e
lite skimming off the cream of the community’s resources, they had now killed several townspeople in what seemed like a cruel prank. There were several versions of the story floating around, though all seemed to have a thread of truth. The residents of Glenwall had baited starving citizens with food so that they could blow them up. They probably sat inside their gilded walls laughing while those poor folks bled to death in the trash-strewn streets.
No one should have been surprised when gunshots finally rang out within the brick walls of the Glenwall community. It was only a matter of time, really. Baxter was certainly not surprised. He sprang out of bed in the operations center. There was a flurry of traffic on the radio. He ran to the window and looked out. There were people rushing around with headlamps and firearms. Baxter knew those were his people responding to the shots.
There were more shots. People were coming out of their homes and gathering under the tower lights. There was the sound of shattering glass as shots raked across homes on the golf course. People screamed and ran outside. They should have been hiding in their basements. Instead, they seemed to have no idea of how to keep themselves safe. A resident running across the green with a child in his arms was dropped by a lucky shot somewhere in the darkness.
“Shit,” Baxter said. He grabbed up a radio. “Kill those tower lights. Our people are sitting ducks.”
One of his men bolted for the towers and they went dark a moment later. Baxter dropped onto the bed and zipped on his tactical boots. He’d been sleeping in his clothes lately, ready to bug out to the backup location in Russell County if he had to. He didn’t carry a rifle on a daily basis, but he kept one handy. He threw on a plate carrier he’d gotten from the sheriff’s department. It provided ballistic protection and held spare mags. He took up his Larue Tactical M4 from the corner and dropped the single-point sling over his head, dug a flashlight out of a pouch on the chest rig, and bolted from the room.
No Time For Mourning: Book Four in The Borrowed World Series Page 15
