by Chris Pike
Without missing a beat, Chandler shoved another fistful of knives into the man’s throat, jamming them upward, twisting the knives ninety degrees to ensure the last three cut as many blood vessels as possible.
The fat man stumbled back and clutched his throat. The man had a surprised look on his face and was unable to vocalize his pain or shout a warning. Blood bubbled out of his throat each time he exhaled. Inhaling, all he got was a mouthful of blood. With his life pouring out of him, he wobbled and clumsily fell face down to the floor, his neck hemorrhaging a copious amount of blood.
Chandler stood over the man and waited.
It didn’t take long for the cuts from the Wolverine-inspired knives to finish the man off.
Working quickly, Chandler retrieved the old GI 1911 the man had shoved in the back of his pants, along with a fully-loaded magazine in one of his pockets. A quick glance determined the 45 was not in optimum shape. It rattled when he shook it and the finish was scratched and rusted. Regardless, it was a last resort weapon that could save Amanda.
Finding the 1911 chamber empty, he jacked a round into the chamber, flipped the safety upward, then inserted the full magazine to bring the pistol to full capacity. Chandler stuffed the 1911 into his front right waistband. He placed the other magazine in his pocket.
Time to find Amanda.
Chapter 13
Chandler opened the shed door a crack and peered outside. The view only gave him a slit of his surroundings, so he swiveled his gaze to the other side, taking in as much as possible. The main house was straight in front of the shed, possibly thirty yards away. Sprinting to the house through open land without any cover would only get him a bullet. The pump house where Amanda had taken a bath was to his far left, out of sight.
He opened the door another inch.
It was quiet, with only the sounds of the country filling the bleak loneliness. The wind whistled through the trees and a dark cloud hovered overhead. A sprinkling of rain fell, dampening the land, bringing with it the peculiar smell of rain. A crow cawed somewhere in the distance.
He thought he heard Nipper barking, but couldn’t be sure. The sound was too muddled.
He needed to get out of the shed and find cover. If he became trapped, it would be the end of him, and Amanda would be next. He vaguely remembered a metal burn barrel large enough in circumference to conceal him. He opened the door only wide enough for him to squeeze through, then keeping his back to the shed he hugged the sides and dashed behind it.
Bullets whizzed by him, striking the dirt.
Chandler flinched, then quickly pivoted to the other side of the shed. He crouched low, trying to make himself as small as possible, not exactly an easy feat considering his six foot one frame. His eyes darted to the woods behind the shed and beyond, trying to determine who was using him as target practice.
He brought up the 1911.
“You’re mine now.” It was Eve.
If Eve was trying to flush him out, she’d have to do better than that. He decided to turn the tables on her.
“I’m hurt!” Chandler yelled, cupping a hand to his mouth. “And I don’t have my guns.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t lie. Never have, never will. I came here with my LaRue and a Glock, which I don’t have now, so don’t shoot.” Technically, it was the truth. Someone had taken his sniper rifle and his favorite semi-automatic pistol.
Eve laughed. “That’s right, I heard you say earlier you don’t lie, something about priding yourself on always telling the truth.”
Eve’s voice sounded like it was nearer to Chandler. Her yelling had turned to the inflection of a normal voice being projected at a casual level.
“Where’s Bruno?” Eve asked.
While Chandler had expected Eve to try to sneak up behind him from the other side of the shed, she had done the opposite of what he expected. His back was to her and at this range, she couldn’t miss.
Her problem was she didn’t expect Chandler to be armed.
He whipped around and fired the 1911 directly at her chest. The force of the bullet knocked her backwards and she crumpled to the ground.
Chandler went to her, put his foot on her wrist, and pried his Glock from the old woman’s hand. He looked at her for a moment, and momentarily felt sorry for her. Like, about a second of feeling sorry.
Her breathing was labored and her eyes glassy. She only had minutes to live before the life drained out of her. “I thought you said you weren’t armed,” she mumbled.
“I said I don’t have my guns. That was the truth. This,” Chandler said, showing her the 1911, “is the fat man’s gun. He won’t be needing it anymore.”
“You bastard,” Eve spat. “That was my son.”
“Too bad. Bruno’s with Satan now, where you’re going. When you see Bruno, tell him I’m sorry he couldn’t stick around.”
Eve looked at him, puzzled.
“He’ll understand.”
She took a shallow breath, her eyes fluttered, and she exhaled slowly. It was the last breath she ever took.
Chapter 14
Amanda crouched low, squatting on her heels in the dark woods behind the Packsaddle Inn, Nipper by her side. Pine needles blanketed the ground. She double checked her Glock 19. It had one round in the chamber plus fifteen in the magazine. The other fully loaded magazine was in her satchel she had slung across her chest.
She peeked out from behind the pine tree where she had taken cover. She had a good line of sight to the Packsaddle Inn and the pump house where she had nearly lost her life. Scanning the area, she saw no movement. Cowboy and a mule were eating hay in the stable. Cowboy intermittently looked around, and Amanda noticed his skittish behavior. Not only was he a strong horse, he was smart. The horse sensed something wasn’t right.
There was movement at the house and Amanda lowered herself to the ground. Nipper growled.
“Shhh!” Amanda put a finger to her lips and looked straight at Nipper. “Shhh. We have to be quiet,” she whispered.
* * *
Walter ambled out of the house and stood on the back porch. “Kyle,” he said to his youngest grandson, “you run as fast as you can about halfway to the pump house. Take cover behind the old tractor. You’ll be safe there.”
“Okay, Grandpa,” Kyle said. “I’ve got your back.”
“Trevor,” Walter said. “I want you to be our backup and hide in the woods where you have a clear shot. It’s about a hundred yards from there to where I think Chandler is. Once we flush him out, you take him down with his own rifle.”
“Okay, Grandpa.”
* * *
Amanda observed the men exit the house then stop to talk before scattering. Walter hobbled over to a car parked to the side of the Inn. With great effort, he knelt on one knee.
The youngest grandson took cover behind a tractor, but it was the tallest one who worried her the most. He sprinted away from the others, back to the woods, selected a tree to hide behind, directly in her line of sight. Small saplings and undergrowth dotted the land between her and the rifle he held, which appeared strikingly similar to Chandler’s.
It was his rifle, and they planned to use it to kill him.
Swiveling her gaze back to the compound, she saw Chandler inching his way along a shed. She wanted to scream out to him that it was a trap, but if she did, she’d give away her location. As of now, that was about her only trump card. Nobody knew she was there.
A round blasted dirt in front of Chandler and he dove for cover behind a burn barrel.
Amanda immediately recognized his perilous position and watched the horrifying scene from a distance. The ash in the burn barrel could stop a pistol bullet, but not a bullet from his high powered rifle.
Chandler was trapped.
She had to act now.
She dug around in her satchel until she found Nipper’s leash, clipped it to his collar, and wrapped it around a small bush. “Nipper,” she whispered. “You need to stay here. And be quiet
. No barking.”
The dog canted his head and looked at her curiously.
“Down,” Amanda said. “Down.”
Nipper lowered himself to the ground and put his head on his paws.
“Good boy. I’ll be back soon.”
Holding the Glock in both hands, Amanda quietly jogged further back into the woods and made a wide circle around the grandson with Chandler’s rifle. She kept to the shadows of the woods, stopping at times, listening, careful not to enter his peripheral vision.
A volley of bullets rang out. Amanda ducked, waiting, biding her time.
Walter and his youngest grandson were shooting recklessly at Chandler. Then the report of the sniper rifle pierced the air. Birds scattered from the trees and all became quiet.
During a lull in the shooting, Chandler fired back.
They were toying with Chandler, Amanda was sure of it. If the grandson with the sniper rifle meant to kill Chandler, he already would have.
She closed the distance between her and the grandson in the woods, silently weaving in and out from behind trees.
Fifty yards to go.
Forty.
Twenty-five.
She closed in.
Maybe it was a sixth sense, or just plain old dumb luck, or the twig snapping under Amanda’s boot, but whatever the case, Trevor, the grandson with Chandler’s gun, turned, spotting Amanda.
In the second it took him to swivel the LaRue in Amanda’s direction, she fired off two shots—one to the shoulder, the other nicked his scalp, the force of the bullets knocking him back. Still, he refused to give up. Trevor aimed at Amanda and pulled hard on the trigger.
The shot went high.
Amanda shot again, this time her aim was low. She got him in the leg. Trevor stumbled back into the tree, resting his weight against it. He brought up the rifle and aimed it at Amanda, now running toward him. She sighted the teenager and pulled the trigger on her Glock, emptying it until the slide locked back.
Trevor’s bullet-ridden body slumped to the ground, and the LaRue rifle fell to the side. Amanda hurried to him and pried his fingers from the rifle.
* * *
During the distraction, Chandler jumped from his position and ran to Walter while emptying the 1911. The old man dropped like a weight.
Reloading on the run, Chandler finished off the other grandson, who was hiding behind a tractor. The teenager had been no match for Chandler. Coming up to him, Chandler took back his Glock 17.
“It’s the man, not the gun,” Chandler said while standing over the dead body.
Movement!
Chandler swiveled around.
Amanda stopped in her tracks, her eyes as round as saucers as she looked at the deadly end of the Glock 17.
“Don’t shoot!” Amanda said.
“I wasn’t planning to,” Chandler said. His eyes dropped to his rifle. “Where’d you get that?”
“I took it from the guy who had it.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah. I emptied my Glock into him.” She handed his rifle to him.
“That was you in the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody else with you?”
“No. Only me, and—” Nipper came bursting through, running full speed, the leash trailing behind him. He came up to Amanda and skidded to a stop. “Only me and Nipper.”
“So you got the guy who had my rifle?”
“I told you dynamite comes in small packages.”
“Unbelievable. What about the two granddaughters?”
“I got one, Nipper got the other one. You could say he gave me a hand.”
“He helped you out?”
“Yes. He brought me a hand.”
Chandler looked at her oddly.
“A real hand. He must have chewed it off from a dead body and brought it to me. He likes to bring me dead things. I’ll tell you the rest of the story later.”
Chandler and Amanda kept each other’s gaze. A low cloud floated in the sky, darkening the land. Nipper scratched a flea. Cowboy sauntered up to the threesome.
“Well?” Amanda said. She put her hands on her hips.
“Well, what?” Chandler replied.
“Now will you admit I shoot a Glock better than you do?”
“Never,” Chandler said. A big smile broke across his face. “Come here.” Amanda stepped closer to Chandler and he took her in his arms, hugging her tight. He ran his hands through her hair. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have listened to you. I’ll never doubt you again.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re safe. Let’s get outta here.”
* * *
An hour later, Chandler and Amanda had thoroughly searched the compound and recovered their belongings. They scavenged several additional guns and ammo, which Chandler packed on the mule.
“You can ride the mule,” Chandler said. “You’re a lot lighter than me.”
“Ride the mule?” Amanda exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding. You ride it!” She planted her hands on her hips.
“Pretend you’re Shirley MacLaine in Two Mules for Sister Sara.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The movie with Clint Eastwood.”
“Never heard of it.”
Chandler shook his head in exasperation. “Your generation doesn’t appreciate the classics.”
“My generation? Last time I did math, you’re the same generation that I am.”
“Believe me, I feel a lot older.”
“Well you’re not, so buck up and stop reminiscing.”
“Pound for pound, you sure do have a lot of sass in you.”
“Then you’ve got your money’s worth. But I’m still not riding the mule. I have my standards. I’ll walk.”
“Tell you what. We’ll ride double on Cowboy. We don’t have that much further to go, and Cowboy can handle our weight. If you walk, you’ll slow us down. And I’m too tired to walk or to argue with you.”
“Sounds like a deal. I’ll get Nipper then I’ll be ready to go. What about the bodies?” Amanda asked.
“Leave them for the buzzards.”
* * *
Great evil had taken place at the Packsaddle Inn, and Amanda and Chandler did not want to leave it intact.
Before they left, Chandler doused the house in flammable liquids, and Amanda had the honor of lighting it.
The inferno could be seen from miles away, and when Amanda and Chandler came to a high hill, they stopped and looked back. The clouds had cleared and orange flames licked the horizon where the Packsaddle Inn had been. The smoke spiraled upwards, disappearing in the darkness.
Chapter 15
For a while Chandler had a sense they were being followed. He would randomly check the back trail, and at times he had seen someone on a bike. The person stayed far behind them, intermittently disappearing from view. Chandler shook off his doubts and concentrated on their mission to get to Austin and to deliver Amanda to her great aunt.
It was nearing evening when the man on the bicycle pedaled closer to them.
Amanda was startled at the sudden appearance of the man with shaggy hair, a bedraggled beard, and worn clothes. He had pulled his baseball cap down over his forehead, and she caught him sneaking a peek. He said a quick, “Howdy,” then pedaled onwards.
“That was odd,” Amanda commented. Her eyes tracked the man as he bicycled faster along the road.
“Yeah, very strange,” Chandler said. “He’s been following us for a while.”
“He was? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chandler ignored the question. “Do you know him?”
“Don’t think so. Why?” Amanda asked.
“He looked at you.”
“So. A lot of guys look at me. Christopher Chandler, I think you’re jealous.”
“No I’m not. Especially not of him,” Chandler said matter-of-factly.
“Yes you are.”
“I’ve told you I don’t lie. If you ask me a question, I’ll give you an honest answer. He wasn’t looking at you in that way.”
“Then in what way was he looking at me?”
Chandler pulled on Cowboy’s reins, stopping him. “I’ve seen that kind of look when someone is scoping out the goods. It’s a predatory look, so for the guy to look at you in that way while I’m here speaks volumes regarding his intention. He wants you. The question is, why?”
* * *
Kurt Durant pedaled the bike as fast as his legs willed it. He had suspected the female rider was Amanda Hardy, but for a while, he had hung back on the road, trying to muster the courage to find out. From a distance, it was obvious Chris Chandler was the male rider. The big man appeared just as large on a horse as he did without one.
An hour earlier, Kurt’s path took him past the Packsaddle Inn. Being the scavenger that he was, he stopped to investigate the smoldering ruins. He quickly searched the outer area to check for anything useful. It appeared anything of value had gone up in smoke or whoever had torched the place had already taken their fill. Kurt wasn’t exactly squeamish when it came to dead bodies so one by one, he searched the pockets and ripped off the jewelry the woman and the young girls had on. When he came to the old man who was on his back near the tractor, Kurt flinched when the man grabbed his ankle.
“Help me,” the man had said. He spoke with difficulty.
Kurt only looked at him.
“Help me,” the man said again.
“What’s your name?”
“Walter."
“Who did this?” Kurt asked.
“Take me to a doctor and I’ll tell you what you want.”
Kurt grabbed the old man by the front of his shirt and yanked him up. “You’ll tell me now or I’ll finish the job.
Walter coughed. “A man by the name of Chandler. Said he lived in Austin.”
“Are you sure that was his name?”
“Yes. He was with a girl named Amanda. I’ve told you what you wanted, now get me to a doctor.”
