Refugees

by D. J. Molles

  Greg pointed the flare gun up and shot it into the sky.

  * * *

  At the sound of a flare gun going off, Bus bolted to the office window.

  “What the hell was that?” he said.

  “Was that a gunshot?” Angela asked, alarmed.

  Tomlin shook his head. “I don’t think so. Bus, what’s going on out there?”

  Staring out the window, Bus watched a column of ten men, running across The Square toward the Camp Ryder building, rifles at the ready. “Uh… I don’t know…”

  When he laid eyes on them, his insides flip-flopped around.

  “Do you see anything?” Tomlin demanded.

  “Yeah.” Bus hesitated for a moment. “I think about… ten guys? Running this way. They all have guns. Shit, I don’t know… It doesn’t look good.”

  Bus’s mind raced back and forth, dizzy with the possibilities and unable to settle on any particular explanation for what he was seeing. He just kept staring out the window, shaking his head and frowning as though it were some puzzle to be solved, even as the ten men drew closer to the building.

  Movement from the front gate caught Bus’s eyes.

  “Wait a minute,” he mumbled. “There’s a group at the front gate. The sentry is letting them in… It looks like… I think it’s Professor White.” Bus suddenly snapped his head toward the radio and stared at the defunct piece of equipment, and then launched himself away from the window. “Fucking Jerry!” was all he said.

  Angela covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my God!”

  “What?” Tomlin almost shouted. “What’s going on?”

  Bus reached to the top of the metal file cabinets that sat against the wall behind his desk and pulled down the M4 that Lee had given him and that he rarely carried. He shoved the M4 into Tomlin’s arms, then reached back on top of the file cabinets and ripped down the shoulder bag with the six extra magazines. “It’s Jerry! He’s trying to take over!”

  Tomlin didn’t ask questions. He slung into the shoulder bag, checked the chamber of the rifle to make sure it was loaded, and snicked the safety off. He angled himself toward the door. “We can hold off a dozen guys or so, but I don’t know for how long.”

  “No.” Bus snatched his old Colt 1911 from his shoulder holster. “They took out our radio so we can’t call for help.” He grabbed Tomlin by the sleeve of his jacket, staring at him with laser-like focus. “You can’t go through the front door. The only way is over the roof. Can you make it?”

  “I can figure it out.”

  “You’ve gotta tell the other settlements. Get some help to us. And find Captain Harden.”

  Tomlin nodded.

  Bus pushed him toward the door. “Not much time! Go!”

  Tomlin moved without hesitation. He bolted through the office door and never even asked how to get to the roof. Bus was confident that the man could do it. He looked to Angela and Vicky. “You two get out of here while you can.”

  Angela put an arm around the other woman’s shoulders and ushered her to the door, but then she only shoved her through and closed and locked the door behind her. She turned and produced a small black pistol from her waistband. “I’m sorry, but I left my rifle in my shack.”

  Bus shook his head adamantly. “You’re not staying up here with me. Lee would kill me if he found out…”

  Tears welled in Angela’s eyes. “Bus… I don’t even know if Lee is alive.”

  Bus’s jaw worked hard underneath the thick, dark beard. “He’s alive.”

  From below them came the sound of a door being thrown open, and people started shouting. Two shots rang out, causing both Bus and Angela to jump and stare at each other with unabashed fear.

  “Alright.” Bus nodded. “Too late to turn back now.”

  He grabbed the heavy desk with an underhanded grip and with one great, growling effort, he heaved the desk over onto its side. Then he crouched down behind it, and Angela joined him.

  “We’re not gonna fight if we don’t have to,” Bus said. “But I’m talking face-to-face with Jerry before this is over.”

  Angela only nodded, her hands trembling.

  They waited.

  * * *

  Tomlin worked his way through the shadows, his heart thrashing around inside of his chest. Wild and panicked, it belied the steady, sinewy movements of his body as he crept over the catwalk that ran along the upper level and stood like a bridge across the main open area of the Camp Ryder building, where a few people still had their shanties and most people gathered to eat their meals as a community.

  To the left, the catwalk dropped over a single flimsy rail, and he could see the people below milling about in panic as five of the gunmen began to surround them, firing their rifles into the roof for effect and making Tomlin pray that he didn’t catch a ricochet from one of those idiots.

  To his right, the catwalk butted straight into the wall where a slew of pipes, air ducts, and electrical conduits ran horizontally along the six-foot space between the catwalk and the ceiling. Straight up ahead, Tomlin could see what appeared to be the ladder that led to the roof.

  The clanging of metal rungs brought his attention straight ahead.

  Someone was climbing down from the roof. He could see legs working quickly down the ladder.

  Attack or hide?

  Hiding gave him a narrow chance, but it was the only chance he had. Bus’s plan was the only plan, and he suspected that even if he had more time to consider it, he wouldn’t have come up with a better one. The only hope for Camp Ryder and Captain Harden was for Tomlin to get to one of the other settlements and sound the alarm that shit was going down.

  He dove to the side, wedging himself between a row of three large pipes that sat abreast of each other, and an air duct. Panic shot through him like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket. He felt sure that he was not hidden well, that as soon as whoever was coming down from the roof passed by, the person would see him sandwiched in there, and he was crammed in so tightly that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself. He pictured it, his arms pinned down to his sides, his rifle facing harmlessly in the wrong direction, as his enemies raised their weapons and pumped round after round into him, and he would be conscious as each bullet ripped into his guts and split him open.

  The sound of boots struck the catwalk.

  Someone shouted, “Let’s go, Jerry!”

  More boots banging on the catwalk, then the sound of running, pounding and reverberating harder and harder as it drew closer to him.

  Yes, keep running… If they sprinted past him, their chances of noticing him wedged into all these dark-colored pipes were pretty slim. If they would just keep running.

  “Wait, slow up!” a new voice said, an older voice.

  Shit shit shit!

  “You see that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Motherfucker’s holed himself into the office!”

  Relief flooded him so hard, he thought he might piss himself.

  The footsteps picked up the pace again, and two shadowy figures passed by, only inches from him. He could have reached out and touched them, and at any point in time he feared they would suddenly stop and turn to look at him, but the office held their attention.

  Tomlin waited until their footsteps had retreated off the catwalk, and then he scrambled to free himself from his hiding place. He twisted and turned and finally extricated himself and his rifle, although a sharp bit of welding took a nasty chunk out of his left forearm. With his feet under him, he moved as quickly and quietly as he could manage toward the ladder.

  So close… so close…

  “Hey!” someone shouted.

  Maybe they’re not yelling at me.

  “Shoot him!”

  The distinct barking sound of an M4 firing three rounds in quick succession came from below him. He wasn’t sure where two of the rounds went, but he watched a section of cement wall to his right suddenly explode into fragments, and he knew that the rounds were meant for him. />
  All pretense of stealth immediately left him.

  It was do-or-die time.

  He bolted for the ladder, crossing the last dozen yards in an instant and leaping halfway up the rungs as more rifle reports came from behind him. This time he felt the rounds, impacting close to him. He could feel the shrapnel from the cement wall stinging his face, feel the ladder lurch under him as they struck the metal. He cringed, waiting for that ricochet to find him.

  He kept pulling with his arms, thrusting with his feet.

  Daylight above his head.

  He grabbed the lip of the roof and pulled himself up like he weighed nothing at all, then vaulted himself over the edge. He hit the ground and rolled twice, then scrambled to his hands and knees, and finally to his feet.

  He ran toward the edge of the roof, but then stopped himself short.

  He looked around, gasping for air.

  “How do I get down? How do I get down?”

  The sound of shouting, echoing up to him from the ladder.

  He scanned the entire perimeter of the roof but didn’t see anything that looked remotely like a ladder. Not even a drainpipe that he might scramble down. How high up was he? Two stories? Three? If he busted his ankle on the way down, he’d be screwed…

  A banging noise.

  Metal on metal vibrations.

  Someone was shimmying up the ladder.

  He crouched down, making a small target of himself, and brought up the M4.

  An identical rifle to his own suddenly protruded from the hole in the roof, and it began spitting out bright tongues of flame, the operator of the weapon blindly firing over the edge, hoping to strike something. But he’d chosen the wrong direction and was firing uselessly off to Tomlin’s left.

  Tomlin snapped off one round and watched the rifle fly out of its owner’s grip as the bullet struck it right in the receiver. From the ladder came a yelp of surprise and pain.

  Should hold them off for a second…

  His options were dwindling quickly. It was either jump or eventually get waxed by an enterprising individual who chose to pop up from the ladder at just the right time when Tomlin wasn’t looking. He wouldn’t last on the roof forever.

  He ran to the edge of the roof and looked down.

  It looked more like ten stories than the two or three it was.

  He’d never been a fan of heights.

  Lucky for him, he was facing the backside of the building, and there before him was the very same shipping container that he had escaped from, maybe five or ten feet off the side of the building. It would cut down on the distance he would have to fall and lessen his risk of injury.

  More shouting from behind him.

  Now or never…

  He backed up a few paces to get himself a running start, then flung himself over the edge.

  He thought the drop was going to take much longer, but the top of the shipping container rushed at him with surprising speed and he didn’t quite have enough time to set himself up for a good landing. He hit the top of it with an explosive noise and immediately pitched forward.

  He was too close to the edge.

  He tumbled off the shipping container and hit the ground on his side, the magazines in the shoulder sling jabbing mercilessly at his side and sending shooting pains through his ribs. He felt the air leave his lungs and refused to go back in, his shocked diaphragm locked in position.

  Got the wind knocked out… It’ll come back…

  He hobbled to his feet, feeling woozy and hoping his breath came back sooner rather than later. His vision swirled just slightly, and then found its correct spot and became solid reality again. He ran straight forward, toward the fence, and all the while looked up at it with his mouth hanging open, getting small breaths into his lungs and gradually working them into larger breaths.

  Barbed-wire fences.

  He wasn’t going to climb that shit.

  He glanced behind him, saw that there were no immediate threats—yet—and then turned back to the fence he was running toward, trying to find a point where he might make it through. For the most part, the bottom of the fence touched the ground, and in some places the dirt had built up and swallowed the first few rows of links. But just to his right there was a section where erosion had carved miniature canyons into the dirt. The ground cleared the bottom of the fence by a few inches.

  A few inches would have to be enough.

  Tomlin knew instantly he wasn’t getting under that fence with the rifle and spare magazines, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was leaving them behind. He shucked off the shoulder bag and slung it as hard as he could over the top of the fence, and then did the same with the rifle. The two objects cleared the barbed wire and clattered down a few yards into the woods.

  He dove to the ground, his hands splayed out in front of him, trying to sweep the bottom of the chain-link fence away from his head. He was only partially successful, getting most of his head through before the bottom of the fence swung back into place and gouged him from the ears to the neck and then caught on his clothes.

  Tomlin writhed under the pressure of the fence, only gaining inches with each movement, feeling panic welling up and not fighting that feeling. This was no fine motor skill that required a clear head; it was not a critical decision of what was a threat and what was not a threat. This was just an animal trying to get out of a trap, and if there was any time in the world to panic, it was then.

  He cleared his upper body, then dug his fingers into the soft dirt and clawed himself all the way free of the fence. And when he was free, he didn’t stop to look back or to assess the damages. He lurched to his feet and pointed himself straight into those woods. As he ran, he scooped up the rifle and shoulder bag and flew as fast as his feet would carry him.

  CHAPTER 31

  Jerry

  The pounding at the office door continued for nearly thirty seconds straight. Crouched behind the overturned desk, Bus stared at the door and wondered how long it would last once the men on the other side started kicking. The pounding now was only someone’s fist. It was a big, industrial door with a metal frame and would not come down easily, but it would eventually.

  And then what? Bus thought.

  The hammering fist ceased, and a voice that was only vaguely familiar came through, slightly out of breath. “Bus! You need to come out of there before we come in and get you! Don’t make this harder than it needs to be!”

  Bus gritted his teeth and shook his head, but he didn’t respond.

  Angela watched him quietly and adjusted the grip on her pistol.

  “Bus…” the voice called again—Greg? Was that his name? “Are you armed?”

  “Of course I’m fucking armed!” Bus yelled at the door. “Where’s Jerry? Let him speak for himself. He wants to take this place over, he can come look me in the eyes and we’ll talk it out.”

  This time it was Jerry’s voice that came through the door. Lilting, proud, bitter, engorged with his own perception of victory. “I’m here, Bus, waiting for you to open the door, if you really want to face me like a man. But there will be no talking this out. We’re through with talking. You’ve pushed us into this position, so don’t bitch now that we’re taking control.”

  Bus hung his head for a moment, and there was silence between him and the people on the other side of the door. How many were out there? Five? Ten? All armed? And Jerry especially… wouldn’t Jerry enjoy it if they had to get in a shoot-out? Because there was really only one outcome to that.

  “Bus, we are trying to handle this with as little violence as possible,” Jerry intoned self-righteously, as though this whole situation was Bus’s fault. “But you’re making it very difficult. And the longer you hole up in there, the more likely it is that someone is going to get hurt.”

  Bus closed his eyes, rubbed them. When he opened them, he looked at Angela with a strangely serene look on his face. “You know, Angela, when I first met you, I never would have imagined one day we’d be barricad
ed in this office, holding guns.”

  Angela looked grim. “And yet, here we are.”

  Bus actually laughed, as though the situation was some comedic story he was hearing about secondhand. “Yes… here we are.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Jerry shouted through the door. “I’ve given you plenty of chances to handle this like an adult and face the music. I’m giving you one minute to open this fucking door before we break it down! And then whatever happens will be on your head, not mine. You hear me, Bus? It’s your fault! It’s always been your fucking fault, and it’s gonna be your fault again! Open the fucking door!”

  Bus almost winced at the sound of the man’s shouts, as though his voice were a particularly ear-piercing and high-pitched noise that you could feel in the fillings of your teeth and down the skin over your spine. When the room grew quiet again, he sighed quietly.

  “You’ve got a lot of fight, Angela.” He looked at the pistol in his hands. “Probably a lot more than I ever gave you credit for.”

  “Bus,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “Maybe we should—”

  “Here.” Bus held out his hand. “Let me have your gun.”

  She stared at him like he was nuts.

  “Come on. Let me see it for a second.”

  Slowly, she held the pistol out to him and dropped the heavy metallic object in his outstretched hand. Bus looked at it like some alien artifact he didn’t quite comprehend, and then he stood up from behind the desk.

  “What are you doing?” Angela asked, a note of apprehension coming into her voice.

  Bus ejected the magazine of her gun and jacked the round from the chamber. He looked at her with a sad smile, and then tossed her weapon on the floor so that it skittered away into the other corner of the room.

  “Bus!” Angela stood up like she was going to make a leap for the gun.

  The big man held out one giant paw to stay her, and when she was firmly rooted behind the desk again, he retracted his hand and tossed his own weapon to the ground alongside Angela’s. He shook his head. “We’ve survived this long. I’m certainly not going to be taken out now by this motherfucker.”

  “Open the door, Bus…” Jerry taunted.