by Justin Bell
It looked like any typical living room in America. Well, no living rooms that he’d ever been to in South Los Angeles, but the way he’d always imagined an American living room was supposed to look like according to those sitcoms his mom would always make him watch.
He cautiously stepped up the narrow stairway to the second floor, his feet pushing on soft carpet, the stairs creaking underneath his feet. In the kitchen he could hear Winnie opening cabinets and the refrigerator, sliding items out of them and stacking them lightly on the counter. The door to the shed eased open and footsteps echoed on a wooden ramp leading up to it, all sounds eerily amplified by the complete lack of other background noise.
At the top of the stairs, he twisted around right, the smell hitting him in the face like a living, breathing object, an animal squirming around in his nostrils and coiling up behind his stinging eyes. The hallway was short and narrow, walking along the edge of a railing and he progressed down the passage, his eyes fixated on a door at the end of the hall. Downstairs he could hear the muffled voices of Winnie and Tamar and another cabinet slamming. Angel squinted at the door ahead of him, the gateway between what was known and what was unknown, and what lay beyond may be something Angel didn’t want to see.
Why was he even doing this? Did he need to do this? Was checking this room vital to their food retrieval?
Angel decided that yes, it was. If they knew the inhabitants of this house were gone, then it made what they had to do at least somewhat more palatable. Mentally, it would at least help rationalize the decision to raid their cupboards. His fingers touched the doorknob, and he twisted it lightly, then pushed his way through into the bedroom.
It was just as he feared. The bedroom was a small, square room, windows on the left and right side. A queen-sized bed filled up the majority of the floor of the room, and the two mounds under the neatly tucked quilt told him that indeed the inhabitants of this house were likely deceased. A dried spray of rust streaked the wall above the bed, a distinctive sight and smell that told him all he needed to know. He felt no desire to approach and pull the covers away, had no interest in seeing the actual end result of the apparent murder/suicide, and simply lowered his eyes, backing out of the room and shutting the door behind him. On the first floor he could hear more shuffling, the kitchen cabinets slamming as the kids rummaged through them. Taking two steps at a time, Angel passed back down to the first floor, swinging around at the base of the stairway, angling toward the kitchen as Winnie emerged.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Great,” Winnie replied. “Found some bottled water, cereal, a bunch of soup and baked beans. Lots of stuff in here.”
Angel looked out the front door. He could see it was propped open with a wheelbarrow on the stoop, already stuffed half-full with boxed and canned goods.
“Excellent,” Angel said. “Let me help.”
“We’ve got it all,” Winnie said, jerking her head toward the kitchen. “Cleared it out.” The man smiled and veered into the kitchen, where he opened the fridge, then went through the cabinets one-by-one to verify everything of use had been gathered. Continuing out into the living room, he slipped through the front door, joining Winnie and Tamar out on the stoop. Working with Tamar, he levered the wheelbarrow off the stoop and down onto the grass of the front lawn, then moved back and closed the door.
“Were there bodies up there?” Tamar asked without looking at Angel.
Angel nodded. “Yeah.” He didn’t feel a need to elaborate. “Let’s get headed back to the van.”
He looked up, shining his flashlight around and his breath caught in his throat. A man was approaching them, walking from the street up the walkway to the house.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing at my house?”
Angel’s mind raced. It was official. They were stealing food. Stealing food from someone who was depending on it to live.
“I’m sorry, man, we thought the house was empty—” he started to say, and as he spoke it, he recalled the family photos in the living room. The two older man and woman and their child. This man, older than the one in the photos, must have been the son.
“Shut up!” the man shouted, raising a pistol from a holster at his hip. “Just shut up!”
“Hey, hey, take it easy, friend!” Angel said, lifting both palms. “No need for that!”
“You come to my house and steal from me and tell me there’s no need? Is that what you think?”
“You can have the food back,” Tamar said. “We’re not into stealing from people. We thought the house was empty.”
“Too little too late, you pukes,” the man snarled. “Where are you taking that? Maybe I oughta shoot you then find your stash, huh? Is that what I should do?”
“Take it easy,” Tamar said. “We’re not your enemy.”
“What were you doing in my house?” he asked.
“Hey, man, look, I saw your parents in there,” Angel said. “I know that’s tough. It’s okay. We can leave this right here and find somewhere else.”
The man’s eyes turned wild, darting from Angel to Winnie, then to Tamar. There was an untamed frenzy about them, an accusatory flutter visible even in the ambient shine of the flashlights. “You saw my parents? What did you see?”
Angel didn’t like the tone of his voice. “I know it must be difficult living in there with them like that. It’s okay, we get it.”
“You don’t get anything,” the man snarled. “Don’t try to judge me. You don’t know what’s happened.”
For the first time in the short, frantic conversation, Angel thought he did.
The man stepped forward, raising his weapon. “I’ll do to you what I did to them!”
A flat slap echoed from Tamar’s right, and his heart jumped just as the man on the lawn stumbled backwards shouting, the weapon spilling from his fingers.
The young man whipped his head around, the splash of a flashlight catching Winnie in its pale beam, her holding her weapon out, a thin spiral of smoke extending from the barrel.
“He… he was going to shoot you,” she said, then looked over at him. “He was going to shoot you!”
“I know,” Tamar said, stepping toward her and pushing her weapon down gently. “You did good,” he said, removing the weapon from her clenched fingers. Her eyes were wide and surprised as if she couldn’t believe what had happened, even though she’d done it herself.
“You did the right thing,” Angel said, joining Tamar at Winnie’s side, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. Winnie nodded, slowly, then looked over at the body on the grass, her own flashlight illuminating the still form of his body there. A pale white splash rested on the body and didn’t move, Winnie affixed to the spot where he lay, flattening the long grass, his shirt soaking a dull red. She’d shot him clear in the left side of the chest, likely through the heart, an impressive shot in the low light of night with only a few scattered flashlights as illumination.
“Winnie, it’s okay,” Tamar whispered, sliding her weapon back in her belt for her and holding her arm. “You did what you had to do.”
“If we hadn’t come here stealing food,” Winnie said shaking her head.
“He was crazy,” Angel said. “Did you hear what he said? I’m pretty sure he killed his own parents in there.”
Winnie seemed to not even hear them. She just stared at the ground, letting her flashlight drift to a spot of lawn in front of her. The dull, dim roar of an engine caught their attention and Angel’s head jerked up, his fingers closing around the handle of his own pistol, but when he saw the single headlight meandering down the road, he knew who was coming.
“Tamar, grab that wheelbarrow, let’s get moving!”
The van eased to a stop by the front lawn, the passenger’s side window rolling down. Rhonda was leaning over Greer and barking out the window.
“We heard a gunshot! Is everything okay?”
“We’re fine!” replied Angel. “Winnie saved our bacon!”
Rhonda’s eyes shifted toward her daughter who was standing still on the stoop, staring at the grass and not moving.
“Winnie? Are you all right?”
Winnie nodded, but didn’t look up. Angel stepped next to her and pressed his hand to her back.
“Come on, Win, let’s get in the van.” It wasn’t the first time she’d shot and killed anyone, and the man had a pistol pointed at them, but this one seemed… different somehow. They’d invaded his home. Stolen from him. Then shot him dead in his front yard because he returned at the wrong time. Everything about the situation felt bad. It felt criminal. She let Angel ease her forward across the lawn where Tamar was unloading the wheelbarrow into the van with Max and Brad’s help.
“Topped off the tank and we’re ready to hit Cleveland,” Rhonda said as Winnie stepped up into the vehicle and made her way to her seat in the second row. “Sweetie, are you all right?” she asked again.
“She’ll be okay,” Angel replied. “Bad situation all around.”
Rhonda’s eyes shifted toward Winnie with concern, then back to Angel with a stern look that fell just short of accusatory. It told him that they’d be talking more about the subject later and Angel acknowledged her look with a curt nod.
The boys finished loading up the rear of the van with the various food items, stacking boxes and cans in neat rows, then Tamar clambored up into the van, slinking into the seat next to Winnie. He placed a calming hand on her shoulder, but she continued to just stare straight ahead, looking out into the dim nothingness of Route 20.
“Let’s get rolling,” Angel said. “Time to move on to better things.”
The engine gunned, and the van pulled forward, leaving the abandoned wheelbarrow and the dead man in its wake.
Chapter Four
It was a sweltering hot day in Houston, Rebecca remembered, though she couldn’t figure out why she was thinking back to that day. How long ago was it? Three years? Only two?
The struggle was real. Agent Fields had spent more hours than she cared to admit training herself mentally and physically to not only graduate to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but she’d set her sights on the S.W.A.T. Team, which meant not only did she need a Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice, but she also needed to be at the top of her game physically as well. While many of her male classmates were going out drinking and making friends with the instructors, Rebecca Fields was working and working harder than she’d ever worked at anything before.
Physical requirements alone for the FBI’s Special Weapons and Tactics were off the charts, and she was committed to acing them.
She had aced them. She’d completed her two-year probationary period as a Special Agent, and had been granted admittance to SWAT on her first attempt, almost unheard of for an agent of her age. Back then, Ricky Orosco hadn’t been the Special Agent in Charge, he’d been an assaulter, just like her, and someone she had learned beside and grown comfortable with.
“Hostage situation, this is not a drill!” the voice boomed out throughout the transport as it roared down one of the busy streets of downtown Houston, veering wildly around clogged traffic and thick clusters of vehicles, struggling to try to get out of its way.
“According to reports on the scene we have a distraught husband who has taken his ex-wife hostage as she walked out of divorce proceedings! He was apparently waiting outside the courthouse with a firearm and grabbed her as soon as she exited. They have three children, but the children are not on the scene, repeat, children are not on the scene!”
Fields and Orosco met each other’s gaze across the aisle of the transport, and he tossed her a thumbs up. It was her first field mission, and she remembered it scene-for-scene as if it was a film she’d watched dozens of times. In truth, she’d watched it more than dozens of times—it was a series of memories that played back in her head repeatedly every time she closed her eyes. Even now, half dozing on the hard, metal floor of the transport, she could remember the thick, wet heat, a solid humidity weighing down on her as she rode in the truck, layered in combat togs and a thick tactical armored vest, the three letters stenciled just below her collar. F.B.I.
It had felt like a dream at the time as well, a dream she was living. A dream that became a nightmare.
“Hostage negotiator is on site already and has initiated conversations with the husband, but reports he is unstable. They have requested a tactical backup. That’s you!”
Tactical backup he’d called it. What was his name again? Rebecca couldn’t remember for the life of her. Special Agent in Charge, a guy who told them all what to do, even though he didn’t know what he was doing himself. Nothing like Ricky Orosco.
The large, black box truck shaped transport had screeched to a halt just outside the small, downtown law office, a posh four-floor building with a long, wide stairway leading up to the front doors. The stairway ended in a circular drop-off area which flanked a fountain mounted within a rich green grass-covered platform. All so meticulously manicured, both in real life and within Fields’ memories. Each small detail indelibly carved into her conscious memory just as the ornate fountain had been sculpted in real life. There was already a crowd there. A uniformed officer stood at the front of the crowd, a bullhorn in hand, flanked by a trio of men in button-up shirts and ties. Cameras had already arrived, getting to the scene even before the FBI had. The back door of the truck swung sharply open and the SWAT operatives were led out in a rushed pack, dropping from the vehicle onto the road, branching off like a tactically-uniformed virus spreading out to infect the smooth flesh of the lawn and stairwell.
Rebecca remembered jerking left and taking her spot at the base of the stairs, looking up over the barrel of her M4 at the man standing at the top, near the entrance to the building. He was of medium height and build, though an abrupt, rounded beer belly threatened to press its way from his neatly ironed suit. A blue tie hung from his neck, draping over the top curve of his stomach, where dark stains of sweat had started to work their way out from under his arms. His eyes were wide and roaming, opened and searching for something nobody else was able to see, and a woman was tightly grasped in the crook of his left arm, held close to his chest.
Everything was moving so fast, she remembered that. Whenever she’d seen such a situation on television or the movies, or even during her training simulations, things seemed to be well-organized, practiced, and methodical. The hostage negotiator had things under control, the crowd was orderly, the hostage taker clearly barked his demands and listened to the counters. There was a process.
That day there was no process. It was a hot Houston day, the temperatures crawling north of a hundred degrees, and everyone on the scene was in thick armor or suits buttoned up to the collar. The scent of sweat permeated the entire area, even outside, giving the pristine fountain and neatly manicured lawn a rank, wet smell. Fields looked at the man at the top of the stairs, her eyes focused on the dark stains creeping along the powder-blue shirt, and for a moment she thought she saw them actually moving, like evil itself burrowing deeper and deeper into the man who held his wife.
He was screaming, but she couldn’t hear his words, she was just focused on his shirt, then his neck, the strained muscles twisting just beneath his pale skin, his mouth wide and oval under the moustache, eyes vacant under spiky, dark hair.
What was he screaming? Did it even matter? The negotiator was speaking back to him, trying to calm him down, trying to talk him out of doing anything rash or crazy. From her angle, Rebecca couldn’t even see a weapon, and she saw no indication that he actually posed a threat; he was just an angry upset ex-husband, desperate to do anything to turn his fortunes around. How had it gotten to this point, what power did his ex-wife have over him? Was this all about the kids? Money? His reputation? She didn’t know, all she knew was frantic screaming, agents scrambling for position, and the man at the top of the stairs getting more and more crazed by the moment.
“Fields, keep him in view, Fields hold your position, Fields
keep that scope on him!” the commands came fast and furious and she processed them one right after the other, prioritizing and doing what the Special Agent in Charge requested. The man on the stairs was pacing, storming back and forth, half dragging his ex-wife along the way, his hand clutching something, she couldn’t see what, and waving it around angrily. Words spewed from his mouth, unintelligible chortles of mixed syllable sounds, too advanced for animal grunts, but not coherent enough for specific human words, at least not to Rebecca Fields’ ears. His cheeks were flushed red, his mouth stretching open so wide, she thought his cheeks might split open, his wife thrashing her arms, snapping her head, hair spraying out behind her like thick, dark water.
“Fields, he’s got a weapon! Fields, stay on target!”
Her heart slammed, her breath hit at the inside of her lungs with rapid-fire punching-bag strikes, sweat streaking her forehead underneath the tactical helmet. Fingers clenched the handle of her automatic rifle, her knees ached, the world between her and the man swirled into a blurred mix of vague colors. For what seemed like forever, her bent elbows tensed and twisted, cramped in position, holding her rifle steady, focused on the target, men and women moving all around her, the negotiator shouting, him screaming back, then he was moving his right arm, something was in his hand, he was growling, loud, long, and deafening.
“Fields take the shot take the shot take the shot take the shot—”
Her finger tensed, the rifle barked, the man sprawled backwards, his legs swinging up, the item in his hand spinning away, a swift bloom of red flower spraying strange thin petals over his ex-wife’s face…
