Deception

by Dan Lawton

  I pinch the blinds open, letting the setting sun shine in. The street is mostly deserted. Over the hill I can see a car approaching; that’s my signal. I knew this moment would come, but it’s not something one can fully prepare for. I’m calmer and more relaxed than I thought I would be, and I immediately go into a zone that I’ve never before entered. I start going through the checklist in my mind.

  The deadbolt is unlocked, as is the key lock. I hate doing this, but we need to make sure our guys are able to get in the front door. If they have to go downstairs or break in somehow, the whole thing could be ruined. Billy needs them in a certain spot in order for this to work. I open the curtain so that they can see inside, and I strategically leave a glass of water on the end table next to the couch, which is right in the line of sight of the window. They’ll see the glass and know that we’ve been here, so they’ll come inside.

  That’s the plan anyway.

  I count to ten, then scurry from the window and head for the basement. I can never remember which exact tile it is, but I know it’s in the middle of the floor somewhere. I grab the necessary tools from the toolbox under the stairs and drop to my knees. I start feeling around and tapping the tiles with my knuckle, listening for the hollow one. When I find it on the third attempt, I jam the wooden-handled chisel into the grout and start chipping it away with a hammer. After a few slams the grout gives, cracking down the center. The surface is crusted and dry, but the inside is still soft, so it cracks easily. Saving the tile isn’t important, so I aggressively hammer around the edges until the tile is loose enough for me to pry it up and toss it to the side. It lands on its corner and chips.

  The familiar black duffel bag waits inside the hole, and it appears to be untampered with, as one would expect. A coolness stems from the exposed soil, and it feels nice on my stubble. I reach my arms down into the darkness and reach for the bag. Ten million dollars is surprisingly heavy, so it takes me more effort than I thought it would, but I’m still able to yank it up with both hands. Once above ground, paranoia sets in, so I unzip the bag to make sure the contents are still there. The cash smells of greed and death, but I’m relieved that it’s all in place, although I’m not sure where it would have disappeared to. I stare at the tightly wound stacks and wonder how much of this Billy is going to give me.

  I push the chisel and hammer down into the hole and slide the tile over the opening. I try to line it up the best I can, although there really is no point in doing so. The chipped corner sticks out like a sore thumb. Once covered, I rise to my feet and toss the bag over my shoulder. Before leaving, I head to the electrical panel on the wall and switch all of the fuses on the breaker to off, killing all electricity to the house. I stand by the door and wait for the sound. The front door opens and closes upstairs, which is my queue to move, so I slide out the back door.

  They’re in the house now, and everything is working out perfectly so far.

  I take a few steps toward the shed until the driveway comes into view. A dark colored sedan is parked in the driveway with the engine off, and the streets appear to still be empty, except for a few crows flying overhead. I take one final peek back at the house to make sure no one is watching, then I hustle across the burnt grass to the shed.

  The shed appears to be ordinary, but it’s really just a mask for what lies beneath. There’s an organized workbench on the right as I enter. There are some hanging lawn maintenance tools: a rake, shovel, weed trimmer, and a single hook for where the garden hose used to hang. A rusty lawn mower sits in the corner by itself. I peer through the tiny window to make sure I’m still alone. When I see that I am, I quickly search on the floor for the painted red nail. Only the top of the nail is painted, but I needed a reference point. I grab the pry bar that leans against the wall and use it to loosen the nail, allowing me to lift up the section of the floor. In preparation for easy access, I had glued a few floorboards together so they would all rise off the floor with one fluid motion, and I am thankful for that decision right now.

  When the opening is wide enough for me to fit through, I toss the bag down the hole and sit on my backside, then I slither down the shallow tunnel and land on the earth below. There is a steel brace that is welded to a sheet of steel that is attached to the underside of the floorboards, and I use that to pull the floor down above me. I pull one of the rusty nails toward me and watch it as it disappears into the designated hole in the wood.

  It’s not uncommon for people in this part of the country to have bunkers, especially being right in the heart of tornado alley. When my parents’ ranch got torn away by a sweeping funnel the summer before last, I used that as a sign that I needed to have one. I hired a local contractor not long after, and he built me one underneath the shed. That, apparently, might have been the best decision I have ever made.

  The tunnel is small and narrow, not much more than a crawl space really, but it widens a bit at the base. I’m able to sit comfortably with my legs crossed, so I finagle myself to do just that. I pull the bag into my lap and wrap my arms around it. It’s all I have left to keep me safe, so I refuse to let it go.

  The space is cold and dark, and the only light I have is that of the dull backlight of the pay-as-you-go phone. The cool air soothes my skin, and it helps to freeze the perspiration away. I grab the phone from my pocket and hold it in my hand, occasionally shining it above my head. Although dim, the light reflects against the steel plate above me, and it provides me with enough light to see.

  There is a second steel bracket that’s attached to the sidewall of the bunker just behind my head, and I kick myself for forgetting the crucial tool from above. There is a thick chain that is hanging next to the door of the shed that has a heavy-duty karabiner attached to each end. The intent would be to attach one end of the karabiner to the brace on the underside of the planks, and the other to the brace on the wall of the bunker. This would prevent the door from being ripped open during a tornado, or in my case, if an unwanted visitor tried to unbury me.

  During all of the excitement and high-stakes activity, I simply forgot to bring the chain with me to lock myself inside. I consider climbing out and retrieving it, but I can’t get myself to leave the comfort of the darkness. Instead, I pull the bag closer to my chest, squeeze the phone tighter in my hand, and hope that no one finds me. I close my eyes and mumble to myself.

  I told myself I would never die like my parents did. They had a bunker in the back yard, but they never used it. The storm came suddenly, and they ignored the warning signs from the television alerts. My father was stubborn, and my mother oblivious. They were inside the house when it got swept away. Their bodies were just two of the many that were recovered from the rubble a few days later. I had invested in the bunker with the determination that I would never die without putting up a fight. I had never even considered the thought that I might die inside of it.

  Come on Billy, I’m counting on you.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  BILLY

  Alicia rides up front with me as we head into town. Frank lays on his back on the floor in the rear, and I drive cautiously to avoid any unforgiving road deficiencies. I pull into the parking lot of an independent drugstore and send Alicia inside to retrieve a remedy for Frank. I light a cigarette and wait for her to return.

  I smoke a full one and part of a second before Alicia finally emerges from the store. She carries a clear plastic bag and hops back into the van. She glares at me, so I take one final drag and toss the lit cigarette out the window. I grab a piece of gum and toss it in my mouth after I drop the wrapper in the back. She removes a box from the plastic bag and hands it to me. We leap into the back and stand over Frank. I remove the white package that looks like a bite-sized candy treat from the container, and take a whiff. The aroma of ammonia is powerful and it clears my sinuses instantly, forcing me to turn away.

  “Do you think it’s going to work?” Alicia asks.

  I look at her and shrug. “I hope so. If this doesn’t, I don’t know w
hat will.”

  I slide the smelling salt pouch under Frank’s nose and wait for a reaction. When I get none, I put my hand over his nose and mouth and cut off his air. I slide the pouch under his nose again and remove my hands from his face with the hope that he’ll take a deep breath to refill his lungs. He does just that, and the ammonia erupts into his sinus cavity. His bloodshot eyes flick open and he chokes for breath. Alicia jumps, as do I, as Frank gasps for air and comes back into consciousness. I look to Alicia and smile, and she returns to gesture. Frank slowly sits up.

  “Good morning, buddy,” I say. “Nice to see you.”

  Frank is dazed and looks between Alicia and me, and rubs his temples with his index fingers. “Did we make it?” he slurs his words, and I can barely understand him. Alicia shoots me a strange look, and I can tell she’s having the same difficulty.

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “Mexico. Did we make it?” his words are clearer this time, and I smile at him.

  “No, not yet. We haven’t left yet.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” Alicia asks, leaning in.

  Frank thinks to himself for a moment and shakes his head. “The last thing I remember is us dropping Georgie off, then some bullets.”

  I smile to myself, pleased that he has no memory of my rage. I won’t let him look in a mirror for a while, and he’ll never even know what happened. I pull him in and embrace him, and he weakly drapes one arm around my shoulder. I want to tell him how sorry I am and that it will never happen again, but he doesn’t even remember what happened, so I tell myself to forget about it.

  “Are you hungry, buddy?” I say, still smiling. “Do you want some food?”

  ---

  Frank, Alicia, and I cruise through the drive-through of a fast food burger joint near the pharmacy, and Frank eats like he hasn’t done so in days. I tell him he can order anything he wants from the menu, and he does just that. I order for him, as he’s still groggy and slurring his words. The teenager on the other end of the microphone struggles to account for the large order, and I have to correct him three times as he reads it back to me. Alicia and I drill Frank’s memory some more, but his knowledge of my attack is non-existent. We eat in the parking lot in the back of the van, and Frank vomits all over the pavement outside after inhaling seven burgers too quickly. We leave after that.

  We pull into George’s driveway shortly after 8:00 P.M., which is about an hour after we had left. Alicia and I walk with Frank until he’s inside, although he doesn’t understand the purpose. He just thinks he fell asleep for a while and may never know what actually happened to him. I fear he has suffered a concussion, although he claims it’s just a hunger headache that will go away once he fully digests what remains in his stomach. I tell him he slipped and fell in the van, just in case he sees his reflection in a window somewhere.

  Once safely inside, I go on the hunt for George. I keep my gun close just in case, and work my way down the hall. I hear heavy breathing, almost panic, coming from the bathroom, and the shower curtain trembles as I enter the room. This isn’t my first rodeo with sneaking into someone’s house under high stress, but I feel naked and blind without my bulletproof vest and team of backups. I extend my arm, wrap my hand around the shower curtain, and pull the curtain to the side. George lets out a grotesque high-pitched yelp and slides deeper into the bathtub.

  He holds the same butcher’s knife as before, but I don’t get the sense he’s prepared to use it. I extend him my free hand and hold it for a moment. He looks up at me in terror and drops the knife to my feet. I keep my hand extended and George eventually does take it.

  George is clearly spooked, and I wonder if something has happened. I press him for details, and my heart sinks when he tells me about what he saw. The Zved’s have found us and are already planning their attack. It has happened faster than I had expected, and I’m not fully prepared to take them on yet. I play it cool, like I know what to do next, but I’m just as frightened as he is.

  We don’t have much time now.

  We leave the knife on the bathroom floor as we exit. I lead George into the living room where Frank and Alicia are waiting. He’s surprised to see Frank awake, and they briefly banter back and forth politely. I didn’t notice before, but George has a deep cut on his hand which is bleeding pretty good. He holds his wrist tight against his chest like an eagle would do with a wounded wing, and his shirt is quickly becoming soaked with blood. He must have cut himself with that knife, and I wonder if it was intentional or not.

  Time is becoming critical as the Zved’s may be back at any moment, so I break up the conversation and hit them with the bad news. Frank and Alicia are stunned, and George is reactionless, but I tell them I have a plan to get us out of here, even though I don’t. I just need to get back into the van and drive for a while. I’ll figure it out then.

  I make my way to the front door and open it a crack and tell them to wait for my signal. I quickly scan the landscape, and see nothing except for my van where I left it in the driveway. A flock of crows scream by and startle me, but I turn into the house and give them the signal. The coast is clear.

  I usher the group out the front door and close it behind them. I stomp across the walkway and through the flowerbed and slide in the driver’s side of the van. I scan the landscape again, and still see nothing. Whoever it was that George saw is long gone.

  George and Alicia are already in the back of the van, and Frank should be joining them any second. A second goes by, then a few more, and a few more.

  Still no Frank. Where’s Frank?

  I check my mirrors and see nothing, and just as I’m about to go check it out, I’m thrown back into my seat with terror. The Zved’s are back and they’re heavily armed. There are no more warning shots from a shotgun, and they’re ready to play with the big guns. Multiple clips are wasted in our direction, and they are emptied in a rapid fire, military-style militia pace. The bullets ricochet from every angle it seems, and the piercing sounds rattle in my ears. I slide down underneath the steering wheel and cover my head. Just as I do, the shots fade and the echoes die out, and squealing tires peel away from the area. I check myself for wounds and find none, then I pull myself up back into the seat and look in the back.

  “You okay? Everyone okay?” I ask.

  Alicia and George look panicked, and they must be blocking Frank, because I don’t see him. He made it inside, I’m sure of it. He was right behind George when we left the house, so he must have made it.

  He made it, right?

  I don’t see him.

  I swing my door open and run around the front of the van, expecting to see Frank hiding underneath or something. What I find instead, is nothing less than horrifying.

  I’ve never before heard the squeal that comes out of my mouth when I see the condition of Frank’s body, but I can’t hold it in. I stagger toward him, hoping for a miracle, then collapse to my knees next to him. I ignore the blood and gore and rest my head on Frank’s chest. I sob aggressively and uncontrollably, and I pound my fists on the cement. The fresh blood splatters on my shirt with each punch, but I don’t stop until I can punch no more. My heart aches and my fists are swelling.

  My poor brother is dead, and it’s at the hands of the Zved’s. I’m overwhelmed and distraught, and all I can do is lean my head back and scream into the open sky.

  ---

  The Zved’s have struck again, and there is only one Lewis left for them to take down: Me. But I’m not about to let that happen. They’ll be back tomorrow, and I’ll be ready. Alicia, George, and I spend the night in the van in the driveway, and I didn’t sleep for one minute. I know exactly what needs to be done now, and I’m not leaving until it’s done. The Zved’s are going down tonight, the entire operation. It’s either them or me, and it sure as hell won’t be me. They’re going to regret having fucked with me.

  With a detailed plan in place to end the Zved’s reign of trepidation, George reluctantly helps me move Frank
’s body. We have less than twelve hours before they’ll be back, and I’m not about to waste time. George grabs Frank’s feet as I would expect, and I’m forced to wrestle with his torso again. His body is significantly lighter than before, and I’m sure the lack of circulating blood has something to do with that. Despite my upper body soreness from having carried Frank so many times, I concentrate on breathing instead of looking at his ravaged corpse the best I can, and it’s clear I’m doing much better than George is. As we approach the door, George lets go of poor Frank’s lower half and vomits violently into the bushes like an amateur. I can tell he’s in no position to continue, so I drag Frank the rest of the way inside by myself.

  Where to put the body? I release my grip on Frank’s collar and his head slams sharply into the carpet. The impact is cushioned a bit by the softness of his weakened skull, and the thud is muffled. I want them to find his body, but I don’t want to scare them off either. They might panic if the first thing they see is a body in this condition, even though they were the ones who did it, and you never know what they might do then. I need them to stand here for a while and try to figure out where the smell is coming from.

  I crouch down behind Frank’s torso and pull him up to waist level, then I pull him through the living room and into the hallway. His dragging body leaves a trail of blood on the carpet. It’s like pushing a shopping cart up a steep hill, but I am eventually able to maneuver his limbs one at a time and flip him into the bathtub. He splats face first into the tub, and I almost get sick when I see the infestation of critters crawl out from the exit holes in his back. I pick up the butcher’s knife from the floor and toss it in the tub with Frank, just to get it out of the way. I wash my hands in the sink and consider using the towel to jam under the doorframe to filter out some of the smell, but I don’t see the point. By the time the Zved’s arrive later, they’ll be able to smell him from the driveway, so one little hand towel isn’t even worth my time.