by JK Franks
His eyes stung, and he wiped them to no avail. She was so beautiful. Jess was always a woman that other men looked at. He had been lucky to ever have gotten her attention, much less eventually marry her. Never, in their twenty-odd years together, had he ever looked at another woman with desire. He knew who he wanted, who he needed. The afternoon that he found her, she had been in the thrall of a filthy pig of a man.
He could still see his dark-stained teeth and grizzled beard as the man smiled and winked when Bobby entered the room. Inside the industrial warehouse, hundreds of cots and mattresses had been set aside for recreational sex with the newly-converted females. Any of the men were allowed occasional visits, and none of the women were ever allowed to leave. Seeing what that animal was doing to his beloved wife was more than Bobby’s mind could handle.
With no weapons, he stepped close to the man, intent on strangling him. The ugly fuck swatted him aside. “Wait your turn, idiot. This li’l whore is mine.”
So little did Bobby’s presence bother the brute as he stood above, that he didn’t even pause in his rhythm, his pleasure as he enjoyed her body. Jess’ eyes never rose to meet Bobby’s. He wondered if she were drugged, she surely wasn’t fully there, an understandable retreat from reality while this man raped her. A year earlier, ripping this creature apart with his bare hands would not have been a problem for Bobby. He had been robust, strong and well fed. Since being captured, though, he had eaten little and been horrendously sick on several occasions. His body was withering away. Jess probably would not have recognized her husband had she even looked.
Indeed, even after Bobby had found an abandoned piece of steel rod and used it to club the man to death, Jess showed no signs of recognition. She simply obeyed as he dressed her in a coarse gown he found and guided her out of the building. He had no plan; he just wanted to see his wife one more time before he was likely killed. Luck had played more of a role in their escape than talent or heroics. A fight had broken out in another area of the brothel just as Bobby attacked, and the security guards had turned from him to go intervene. Apparently, fights over the women were common; males battled to get their favored conquests. Bobby saw a gap in the security cordon and hustled Jess through the loose wire and into the tall grass beyond. Briefly, he thought they might get away clean, but then the alarms sounded.
They had avoided the patrols and the dogs for two days by hiding in river mud and then lying in a hog pen in hopes of hiding their scents from the trackers. Unfortunately, one of the canines had stayed on their trail. Jess had just started to come around, and when she recognized Bobby, he had held her muddy face and kissed her. She had jerked back reflexively. He wondered just how long it would take her to recover enough to let him love her. Deep down he knew the trauma would never go away. It was a stain that would forever touch everything in their lives. If they even survived.
Neither had heard anything when the dog attacked. It went for Jess first, clamping its jaws around her neck from behind and dragging her quickly to the ground. Bobby had turned around and swung at the beast, but it just pulled back on her now limp body. Seeing his wife lying there, being ravaged by one more animal, flipped a switch in Bobby’s mind. He leapt on the dog and drove his hands deep into the soft underbelly. As the skin parted and Bobby tore at its internal organs, its jaws released their hold on Jess and turned to bite at whatever parts of his attacker he could reach. Bobby ignored the bites and continued to rip away vital parts of the animal’s insides until its shrieks of pain weakened, and it finally succumbed.
In the sudden quiet, he heard more men and dogs approaching, drawn to the sounds of the fight. Jess was lying in a darkening circle. The amount of blood leaking from the bite wounds to her neck and chest was too much. Bobby struggled to scoop her up and carry her away from the carnage, his own wounds also leaving an easy trail for his pursuers to follow. Up ahead, he saw something in the break of trees. Heading for it, he just barely made out what it was. His ravaged brain didn’t register the danger until it was nearly too late.
The sound of a crow overhead snapped Bobby back to the present. Stumbling, then ducking clumsily, he scanned the scrubland in all directions. He was trying to stay focused, but the memories, the hatred, kept intruding. His dark eyes watched as the large black bird flew on out of sight. Something here did not feel right, and it wasn’t just the shrieking of the raven. He felt dizzy, exposed and stupid for moving so erratically in daylight. Why was he suddenly making dumb decisions? He was too stupid to still be alive. Scott was the smart one; Bobby was just tough. Now, look at him: a broken wreck of a man. He wanted to see Kaylie again, but deep down he felt she was probably better off with her uncle. Again, his mind spiraled off into memory. There’s danger here, man—will you fucking focus! His mind screamed at him to pay attention.
There—a sound. He heard something, faintly, off in the distance. He glanced up at the sun to verify that he had not wandered off course again; no, he was still on track for Sanderson’s. He stopped and crouched down. His stomach growled, and he knew something inside him was about to let loose. Another small sound. He twisted his head around trying to get a fix on the direction it was coming from. Instead, he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. “That’s far enough,” came a voice from behind him. “Stand up with your hands on your head.”
Turning back, he saw a fierce but attractive face. The woman standing there was holding a large shotgun. She must have been hiding in the tall scrub brush just behind him. “Do not look at me,” she said with conviction. “What do you have?”
“I, uh, I have a knife and a pistol,” he said, deciding honesty was as good a response as any.
“Well, I’m not blind. I can see that. In the pack—what do you have in the pack? Any other weapons? Food?”
The words from the woman confused him. “Ummm, no, no other weapons. Look, I don’t want any trouble, I’m just passing through.”
She laughed slightly: a laugh devoid of mirth. “No one just passes through these parts, mister.”
He glanced back at the woman only to have the gun barrel poke him viciously. “Eyes that way,” she pointed with the barrel toward a stand of trees ahead. “Walk. We can discuss your innocence once we’re out of this field.”
He could not understand where she had come from. Why she had not made him remove his weapons. Who was she? “Do you have a name?” he asked.
The slight laugh came again. “Well, yeah, we all got names. I used to, at least, no real need for it anymore.” After a brief pause she continued, “The tattoo, what does that stand for? You in some kind of biker gang?”
“No ma’am,” he replied with relief: she had no idea what it signified. Why would she though? The Messengers had not yet reached this valley. “It’s a mark, a kind of brand, given by an evil group when they catch you. If they don’t kill you, that is.”
“It looks fresh, how long ago and what group?”
“Last fall. They call themselves the Messengers. They branded me when my wife and I were captured.” He heard the woman’s feet stop moving. The hairs on his neck began to tingle, and he could feel the large-bore gun trained on him again. Just do it, he thought. End me here.
Instead, she poked him again and hurried their pace toward the copse of trees. Once they were in the shade of the oaks and hickory, she resumed her questioning. “How did you get away and where is your wife now?”
“We escaped, and she was killed as we fled.”
He glanced around at her, and this time she did not object. Her look showed genuine sadness. “How far away are they?”
“Not sure, I saw some a few days ago—Judges—you know what they are?”
She nodded but stayed quiet.
“They were maybe ten miles back to the north. I heard sounds later, gunshots and such, that make me think the main group may be about that far now.”
“That’s less than a day away. And you’re leading them right toward us.” Her expression had been replaced once again by t
he angry scowl. As she inspected him, her eyes took on yet another look as if something had just occurred to her. She approached him and reached a hand to his chin, lifting it so the face might catch more light. Satisfied with whatever had occurred to her, she let it drop back and offered a small smile.
The woman began walking away, deeper into the woods. He was unsure of what to do. He was no longer a prisoner but felt no sense of safety. In fact, he felt unsteady, as if he had stepped off a curb he hadn’t realized was there.
She paused and looked back, “Come on, Bobby. We don’t want to be late.” He had taken several stumbling steps when something occurred to him. Before he could open his mouth, blackness claimed him. He crumpled in a heap at the base of a withered oak tree.
Chapter Forty
Darkness had fallen when Bobby came to. The woman was there. He pulled a dirty, wet scrap of cloth from his head.
“Where am I?”
“You passed out. You have a fever.” She took the rag, wet it in the remnants of an old milk jug, and placed it back on his head. “Did you drink bad water or some other form of stupid?”
“No, I don’t think so. I boiled or treated the water, ’cept what I got out of the mountain streams.”
“Well, ya got something, you shit yourself as well. I tried to get you cleaned up, but I couldn’t manage. If you’re up to it I’ll let you handle that fun li’l task now. We gotta be moving soon.” With that, she moved out of his sight. Lying there, he tried to remember what had happened. He knew that several hours had passed: it was dark now. He removed the rag from his head and struggled to get up. The dizziness and the smell of his filth reached him simultaneously. His legs buckled, and he went back down to one knee.
It was several minutes before he could stand, and the cramps and dizziness made it difficult to accomplish much else. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but he assumed she was close by. Why had she let him live? He removed his new tactical pants and underwear and cleaned himself with the wet rag. His pack was nearby, and eventually, he was able to find clean clothes. She reappeared just as he was swallowing two pain pills from his first aid kit.
“Let’s go.”
He struggled to sling on the pack but got no help from the woman. He attempted to talk with her several times, but she remained silent. The pair walked in silence for several miles. Topping a small rise, Bobby was surprised to see they were near his destination. Mr. Sanderson’s property lay just ahead, and the still familiar creek ran on the far side. He looked at the woman again and, seeing her framed in that setting, the memory came to him. “You knew my name. You’re connected to this place . . . Jordan—Mr. Sanderson’s niece. I remember you. You were here when we came . . . I remember you swimming with us in the river.”
The woman smiled warmly. “Come on,” she called as she headed in the direction of the farmhouse.
The place looked the same to Bobby; a little more rundown perhaps. The trees and the creek behind seemed much smaller than he remembered from his childhood, but in essence, it was the same. The place was so remote that no other homes could be seen. He wondered briefly if the place might even survive the crusading plague of the Lord’s Army.
Jordan walked with a simple elegance across the hard-packed dirt yard. She seemed both a part of this farm and a stranger to it. Walking up to the house, she pulled at a screen door that opened with a protesting squeal. Inside, she removed her barn jacket and set the shotgun by the door. Bobby stepped in behind her, the screen door slamming shut loudly behind him. He cringed at the sound, but she seemed unbothered.
She poured two glasses of water and produced a loaf of real bread and some dried meat. Sitting at the table, she motioned for him to join her. “Think you can hold some food down?”
“Thank you,” he managed to get out as he took the water. His throat ached for the liquid. “Jordan, it is you, right? I . . . I know your uncle died several years ago. I’m sorry about that. Wasn’t sure who lived here now.”
She finished chewing a bite of bread and handed the hard loaf to Bobby. “So, you just thought you’d come see what was left?” Her words echoed in the large room. She rescued him from replying. “My uncle never had children, so when he died he left most of this to me and my husband. We used it as a weekend getaway until the mess last summer.” She paused and gave a pensive look toward the windows.
“I loved coming here as a child. Never learned much about farming, but this place was magical to me then. Especially when you and your brother came down.” She smiled and looked away. “You know, I had the biggest crush on you, Bobby Montgomery. I know I was just a little kid, and you were already a teenager. Silly now, but I wanted you to look at me differently. You never did.”
Bobby looked at her in surprise, remembering the pretty girl with the straw-colored hair. “I saw.” He took a bite of the jerky: venison. “I didn’t know you liked me,” he chuckled weakly. “I was too stupid back then, and you were young, but I saw. You were too pretty for any of us, though, even back then. I knew you’d do well, fall in love with some handsome guy and live a wonderful life in a faraway place.”
“See, that’s why I liked you,” Jordan smiled widely. “You were kind and modest. Even though you were always the strongest and fastest, you used to let me or your brother win occasionally.” She sighed at the memories, sweeping them from the kitchen like crumbs from the table. “Any idea how he’s doing? I heard he was up in Chicago. I imagine that would have been tough.”
“Scott’s doing okay; he moved out of Chicago a few years back after his marriage fell apart. He’s living down on the coast now in our old family cottage. My daughter, Kaylie, is with him, and it sounds like they’re doing pretty well, all things considered. He’s the one who suggested I come here, in fact.”
“How? I mean, why would he suggest this old place?”
“Well, he seemed to have some information about the Messengers’ path. Said they seemed to be heading due east. After Little Rock, the next target looked to be Memphis. Didn’t seem like they would come in this direction. The radio conversation we had didn’t allow much in the way of details, but he knew I was desperate, and this was the first place that came to mind I guess.”
“So, you walked from Little Rock to here?”
He nodded. “Jordan, where is your husband? Did he make it?”
She struggled to speak, the sound of her voice started and stopped like a car struggling to get over a steep hill. “No, no . . . he didn’t survive. We were stopped trying to get out of Memphis—just a group of people coming off the Interstate. Someone wanted our car. Jimmy stopped, thinking he could help, but they were too desperate to talk, too scared he might say no. They stabbed him, and he died right there on the highway. They took our car and all our belongings.”
“God. I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes locked on his for a moment. They were icy blue and showed none of the emotion connected to her words. “Thanks. We walked for several days and managed to catch a few rides heading this direction. I wasn’t sure where to even go, but my feet kept taking me this way. The trip, well, it had its own adventures, none of which were pleasant. I got a few rides, but I walked a lot and all of the last twenty miles.”
Bobby was struggling to stay focused. The tiny bit of food in his system was not enough to combat the massive fatigue and weakness he was experiencing. The image of the woman before him became fuzzy and indistinct, but he fought for consciousness to stay with him a bit longer. “I, ugh, sorry, I wanted to say thank you. I don’t know why you were out there or why you decided not to shoot me, but thanks.”
Jordan’s face softened again, and this time it remained so. “Are you a good man, Bobby Montgomery?”
His mind danced around that question, wanting to avoid it, wanting not to have to consider the answer. He sat for several minutes, bracing himself upright through sheer willpower. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I like to think I am, but by my old standards, I’m not. I’ve not committed evil, but I
have killed. I couldn’t protect my family.” He paused for several seconds, struggling to overcome his emotion, his exhaustion. “I’m not a bad man, Jordan, but no . . . I am not good either.” The last of the words tumbled out of him like a dam breaking loose, the flood of words and emotions bringing forth tears to his eyes and sobs from his chest.
Jordan placed a hand over his in the dim kitchen. She got up and walked to a door. To a root cellar, perhaps, Bobby seemed to recall. Opening it, she quietly reached in and led a young boy into the kitchen. “This is my son, Jacob. He doesn’t talk much anymore.”
Bobby looked at the boy. How long had he been hiding there, listening, but not making a sound? He made to speak to Jacob, but the last of his strength was now gone. His limp body fell to the floor as consciousness left him. The boy cast his deep brown eyes, full of uncertainty, from the man on the floor to his mother.
Chapter Forty-One
West of Memphis, Tennessee
Hawley appeared out of the darkness. “Your Holiness, please excuse me.”
“Cut the crap, man, no one’s here. What the fuck is it?”
“Sorry, Michael, the advancing party has run into resistance. It looks like what those new converts said was true. The Judges are encountering motorized brigades of uniformed troops near Memphis.”
“What troops, whose troops? Army?” That couldn’t be, Michael Swain thought. Nothing was left of the US Army; they were a remnant of a dead country. This was his world now. Who could be standing up to his own God’s Army? “Were they National Guard?”
“Doesn’t look like it, sir. None of the Judges recognized any of the trucks or equipment, and they said the soldiers’ uniforms were a gray camo pattern.”
