by Jeff Olah
She shook her head. “I don’t know. But that man, he didn’t have to help.”
“That’s not a reason to trust him.”
Natalie squeezed his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but for now he’s all we have. Let’s see if he does what he says.”
Owen rubbed at his temples. “I’ll give it another—”
“Owen.” It was Lucas. “We’re gonna pull to the end of the block and stop in front of the thirty-six-hundred building. Travis said he’ll go in and make sure they’re still here.”
“How’s Kevin?”
“He’s breathing, looks okay I guess.”
“Put Travis on.”
“He’s showing Harper and Cookie what they need to do. He said he’ll come to you when we stop.”
“Let him know I’m going with him.”
There were a few seconds of nothing and then the familiar squawk and then Lucas was back. He sounded rushed, now almost irritated. “He said we have to go.”
The big black truck started forward, slow as it moved up the deserted street. Owen shifted back into drive and stayed only a second or two behind, continuing to watch the windows and doors of the buildings they passed.
Natalie twisted to the back, smiled at her children. “Can you guys do me a favor, get down on the floor again?”
Ava released her seatbelt and was down on the floor almost before Natalie had finished asking. She quickly turned and looked up to Noah. “Hurry up.” It was the first time she’d spoken in the last hour, and as they rolled up to the building with the grey marble exterior, she pulled at her brother’s leg. “Come on.”
Owen keyed the radio again, but as he began to speak, the rear passenger door of the pickup shot open. The man who’d introduced himself as Travis Higgins leapt out onto the street and began to jog as he crossed the sidewalk. He held a pistol in his right hand and moved in a straight line toward a metal roll-up door twenty feet from the entrance.
There wasn’t time for questions or for him to explain why he was doing what he was about to do. Only time to kiss Natalie on the cheek and follow the man he wasn’t sure he completely trusted.
Owen slammed a fresh magazine into the Glock and jumped out.
Around the side of the truck, Owen took a quick glance into the rear cab. Harper was nearest the door, cradling Kevin’s head against her chest. She looked up for a brief moment, met his eyes, offered a half-hearted smile, and then turned away.
Ahead, Travis had reached the roll-up door and rapped the edge of the frame three times with his fist. He then backed away and when Owen was within ten feet, he held up his hand. “Wait there.”
“You sure about these people?”
“No.” He paused a moment. “And you’re gonna need to leave your gun in your waistband.”
Owen cocked his head to the right, narrowed his eyes. “No, you’re not sure?”
“They’re a family, just like you and yours. But they’re also out here trying to survive. They aren’t going to take any chances, but right now they’re all you have.”
“Oh really?”
“Your friend’s okay for the moment, but his shoulder, that wound, it isn’t going to stop bleeding without a little intervention. So, just work with me here.”
Owen looked past Travis. There were muffled voices and then movement behind the large steel door. It sounded like heavy shop equipment being pushed aside. Metal against concrete. “How do you know them? How do you know they can help or that they even want to?”
Travis took another step back, turned away from Owen, and also stared at the door. He held his hands out at his sides, palms up, and motioned for Owen to do the same. “Let me talk to him first. He’s probably not going to be happy to see me, especially if you come out of the gate with a ton of questions.”
Owen matched Travis’s stance, although he felt more anxious than awkward. Something was telling him that this may have been a mistake, all of it. “You brought us here. My wife, my children, my friends.”
“Yeah?” Travis sounded as though he was only half listening.
Owen let his hands down, started to reach for the Glock. “You’d better hope this goes well, I’ve trusted you with just about everything.”
The man in the black t-shirt whipped his head around, closed the gap, and looked into Owen’s eyes. “No, you haven’t. You haven’t trusted anything I’ve done since I fired on those men that were about to murder you and your friends. But you need to start.”
Owen didn’t respond.
“If I can’t convince this man to help your friend, he’s going to die. Probably before morning, and there won’t be a damn thing you or I can do to stop it. So for now, at least for the next few minutes, I need you to keep it inside. Just let me handle this.”
As Travis turned back and his voice faded into the sound of metal rollers sliding through their tracks, a man appeared just inside the doorway. He looked to be in his early to mid-forties, greying beard, deep brown eyes, and a shaggy mop of dark hair. He wore light blue coveralls, and black leather boots.
And he didn’t look like he was having a very good day.
“Higgins.”
Travis offered the slightly larger man a single nod. “Paul, I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a choice. These people need help.”
The man with the brown eyes and the thick grey beard quickly raised his right hand and extended his index finger. He waited for Travis to go quiet, then stepped into the threshold, and peered out over the street. “I thought I told you never to come back here.”
23
Gentry locked the slider, drew the shades, and moved to the kitchen. He didn’t like being here. Not because his friend had already moved on, and as such, hadn’t specifically given him permission to be here—that would have been implied given the current state of the world, at least that’s what he was telling himself.
No, he was having trouble with this location simply because she wasn’t here. And although he had a pretty good idea of where she was, he couldn’t be absolutely sure. No point in running off into the unknown without at least some sense of where he was headed.
He didn’t trust many people, even less over the last two weeks. But she was different. More like him in all the ways that mattered most. She had a stable sense of calm when things didn’t go the way she had hoped or even expected. Her exterior told a story of strength, confidence, and self-reliance. It made some nervous, others irritated. But not a single person had ever complained that they were unsure of where they stood with Natalie Mercer.
Through the hall, into the office, and now clutching the satellite phone, Gentry hoped he wasn’t too late. That she was still out there, that somehow she’d survived and had found a safe place to ride out the initial wave.
Natalie knew enough about what this was, and about how to avoid the more problematic situations to give her and her family a slight edge. It wasn’t much, but it was better than running into the end of the world wearing a blindfold.
The sat phone still held a charge. It was nearly full and although he had every intention of using it just once, he wasn’t sure this was the right time. He wasn’t sure last night, or yesterday, or the day before.
Would the time ever be right? He didn’t know.
Gentry turned away from the desk and moved to the living room. He’d visited this home at least a dozen times over the last two years, but only once in the last six months. It was different than he remembered. The tan suede sofas had been replaced with a more modern white leather. The seventy-inch flat screen LED television had been moved from its stand and was now mounted above the black granite fireplace.
But that wasn’t it, there was something else missing or out of place, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Something that gave him a weird feeling in his stomach.
He moved around the sofa, leaned into the back, and held the phone in his left hand. Looking down at the three-inch screen, he thought about the many ways the conversation might progress. Not usually one
to bend the truth, he was having a hard time imagining a scenario where anything he said would get him the information he needed without at least partially compromising his integrity.
Just try to be someone else for the next five minutes.
Before Gentry could talk himself out of it, he was dialing the number. There were only a handful he had memorized, and just one that he was actually willing to call. Putting the odds at less than fifty percent that anyone would actually pick up, he raised the phone to his ear and looked out over the kitchen.
No turning back now.
The mechanical ring reminded him of a time before cellular signals and phones that could control your home. A time before social media and likes and comments and shares. A time before he had met or even heard of Marcus Goodwin, and a time before he had come to realize just how the world might end.
Three rings.
And then four, and then five.
He pulled the phone away from his ear, glanced again at the small screen. Confirmed the number, although for a brief second he thought he may have misdialed.
Seven rings and then eight, and then nine and ten.
He stopped counting at fifteen. Figured that even if there was someone around to answer the call, he may not be pleased with who it was. He’d be giving up his location without the absolute assurance of getting the information he would need. She was out there, he could feel it. He just wasn’t sure if this was the way to go about finding her.
Gentry ended the call, again leaned back, and dropped the phone on the sofa. He may have overestimated Goodwin and his men. They had priorities, although carting around a satellite phone for days at a time, just waiting for Major Richard Daniels to call, probably wasn’t very high on their list.
He pushed away from the sofa and started toward the kitchen when there was a pounding on the front door. It was distinct and uniformed. Three quick knocks and then a brief pause and then another three. There was also a voice.
“Mr. Gentry … Mr. Gentry …”
She pounded the door once more. It was her. He should have known. She’d come by twice yesterday and although he figured he knew what she wanted, it wasn’t safe to leave her standing out on the front porch.
Through the kitchen and into the hall that ran the length of the home, he reminded himself of why he was here and why he’d kept his distance from the few neighbors who remained.
Ten feet from the door she pounded again. Her fist sounding as though it was coming through the door. Her voice also held a sense of urgency it hadn’t before. “MR. GENTRY, PLEASE!”
He hurried to the door, reached for the handle, and pulled it open before even checking the peep hole. Old habits die hard.
Gentry stared at her face for a moment, maybe a half second too long. “Margaret …” He remembered her name. It felt like he’d accomplished something.
She started forward, like she was expecting him to invite her in. But when he didn’t step back, she leaned away and turned to look back at her home. “Uh, my brother …”
He looked past her, down the driveway, and then into the street. The same three vehicles that had been there since he arrived. A silver van, a white sports car, and a black SUV. For the moment, nothing to be concerned with.
“He’s not back yet?”
He knew the answer before he even finished speaking the words.
And the expression that carried across her face came as an exclamation. “It’s been almost three hours!”
Gentry looked back into the house, attempting to find a clock. As if somehow the exact time even mattered. “Are you sure he hasn’t just—”
“I know my brother, this isn’t like him.” Her voice trailed off as she looked past him and into the hall. “Can we talk inside?”
He didn’t like it, but also didn’t know what to say.
Margaret turned again and looked toward the street. “I just … uh, there are more of those things out here today. Some are just a few houses down.”
He quickly looked her over. “Sure.” And stepping aside, he pulled the door open, again glancing from one end of the street to the other. She wasn’t lying. A pair of Feeders—a man wearing tan slacks and a woman in a bright green overcoat—appeared from behind the black SUV. They crossed the street and stumbled toward the driveway as Gentry closed and locked the door.
She followed him down the hall and into the living room. “Do you have a car?”
The question came out as odd, but only until he ran it through. “Yes?”
“Is there any way I can trouble you to drive me out there to look for him?” She knew what the answer was going to be, it was written all over her face. However, it appeared as though she still wanted an answer.
“You know, I’m not sure that’s a good—”
From the opposite side of the room, the satellite phone began to ring.
24
The man in the door hadn’t moved an inch. He continued to look from Travis to Owen and then toward the street, his arms folded tightly into his chest. “There’s nothing for you here. Wasn’t then and there isn’t now.”
Travis took a half step back, quarter-turned toward the street. “We have one that’s injured, he’s in pretty bad shape. Probably won’t make it another few hours.”
The man held tight to the chain he had used to roll up the door. “And how’s that my problem?”
Owen leaned in, started to respond, but Travis held up his hand.
“We can make a trade.”
The man with the grey beard and the brown eyes now focused on Travis, his shoulders dropping a bit. “Oh?”
“You said that you and your family needed a way out of here, you said that you would do just about anything for—”
The man that Travis had addressed as Paul cut his eyes at Owen. “That your truck?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
He looked back toward the street, could see Zeus with his snout pressed against the rear window. “My friend, he was shot. It’s his truck.”
Paul chuckled. He began to step back. “I think we’re done here.”
“Wait,” Owen said. “What is it, what do you want?”
The bearded man smiled. He now purposefully avoided looking at Travis, instead focusing solely on Owen. “Your friend, he’s having a monumentally bad day already?”
Owen forced down the urge to push his fist through the back of the man’s head. “Yes?”
“Well, if he does make it through the night, how do you think he’ll take the news that he no longer owns that rather useful vehicle?”
Owen bit into the side of his cheek, trying to stay calm. He let his left hand graze the side of his belt just inches from the weapon he wanted to pull out and shove down Paul’s throat. “So, you’re not going to help my friend unless we give you the truck?”
Paul motioned toward the street. “You’re more than welcome to go find someone else.”
Travis stepped between them, looked Owen in the eyes. “This is it; he isn’t going to get another chance. And that truck, well, it won’t really matter to him anyway, not when he’s dead.”
Owen didn’t like it, but the man who saved him and his family was absolutely right. He’d have to explain why he did what he was about to do, but it would be easier than watching his friend take his final breath without the ability to do anything about it.
He turned from Travis to Paul, the hollow ache returning to his stomach. “Alright, but I want your word that he’ll be okay.”
“You got it.” Paul said, the speed of his voice ratcheting up with each word. “Nothing happens until I get a look at your friend and we figure out if I can put him back together.”
Not feeling a need to respond, Owen turned and started back toward the truck. He felt his pulse beating in his face and the beginnings of a migraine forming at the left side of his head. As he approached the sidewalk, he quickly scanned the street and offered Harper and Lucas a quick thumbs-up.
From behind,
Paul began to close the large metal door, but continued. His tone now more instructional than before. “Bring them around through the garage.” It appeared he was speaking to Travis. “I’ll meet you at the loading dock.”
Five minutes later, they had climbed two flights of stairs and were laying Kevin on a pair of mahogany desks that had been pushed together. Owen slowly stepped back, watching his friend for anything that resembled life. There was the rise and fall of his chest, slower than before and then every few seconds, the spastic movement behind his closed eyelids.
But not much else.
“Okay.” The man with the grey beard came around from behind, placing a short stack of towels on a leather-backed office chair. “I’m gonna need you to trust me.”
Owen heard the words, but couldn’t focus on them. He was still staring at Kevin, willing his friend to open his eyes and climb off the desk. He wiped at his forehead, blinked a few times, and finally looked to his left. “Is this going to work?”
Paul moved in quick. “I don’t know.” He placed two fingers against Kevin’s right wrist, looked at the ceiling for a beat, and appeared to be counting. “But I need you to go back to the others and sit tight. I’ll come for you when I’m done.”
Like a slap to the face, Owen was pulled back to the present. “When you’re done?”
“Yes.” The older man had begun to cut away the shirt near the left side of Kevin’s neck, but he stopped, planted both hands on the desk, and turned his eyes up to meet Owen’s. “As I said before, I’m going to do what I can, but your friend here is in really bad shape. Now we can sit here and go back and forth until his heart stops beating for good, or you can go back downstairs, allow my wife to give you and the others something to eat, and allow me to get to work.”
Owen understood and knew that Paul was right, but there was still something about the man in the blue coveralls that he didn’t completely trust. Something other than the fact that he’d been willing to let his friend die in an attempt to negotiate a deal for a pickup truck. Something that he didn’t think was worth exploring at the moment. But for now, he still felt the urge to punch him in the face.
