The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  Guard number one tilted his head slightly. “The…MQ…what?”

  “Sorry, the unmanned aerial vehicle. I suppose it’s better known as the Predator, or ‘Pred’ for short; the drone we have in our arsenal. I’m preppin’ a sortie to set forth in the near future.”

  The guard pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry to say I don’t know the first thing about it. We don’t keep anything beyond firearms and ammunition in the cage. Explosives, munitions and whatnot are housed elsewhere.”

  Beatrice pouted again. “Well, drat. That bites the big one, doesn’t it? For me, anyway.” She reached for the pen, scribbled out the form for her Beretta, and slid it back to the guard. “Suppose I’ll keep looking around. I do, once again, want to thank you gentlemen for your free time and for being so gracious. If you do learn of anything, please let me know.”

  As she went to turn away, the second guard returned to the front counter and leaned in closely. He scanned the room for onlookers, finding none. “I…might know how to go about getting what you need for that drone.”

  “Say again, Tony?” Beatrice spun on a heel. “You might?”

  He nodded. “That’s right. I might.”

  “Well, what an absolute miracle. But wait a tick…are you playin’ tricks on me? I could’ve sworn you told me you weren’t here.”

  Tony smirked again and leaned in even closer, pressing his forehead onto the cage’s enclosure mesh. “I did, and I’m still not. But I can help you find what you’re looking for…for a price.”

  Beatrice slithered closer, almost licking her lips at the proposal. “Name your fee, Tony, who isn’t and was never here. Ask and ye shall receive. I am all ears.”

  Chapter 14

  Trout Run Valley

  Saturday, March 5th

  Amy and Peter Saunders had been working to revive some semblance of a normal routine, something along the lines of the one they’d had before Peter and youngest son, Liam, had fallen ill from poisoning in months previous. By means of well-timed doses of strong antibiotics and a fairly strict vegetarian diet consisting largely of homeopathic plant species foraged from their own yard, both father and son were well on their way to a full recovery.

  Amy was busily taking inventory of her pantry, arranging and rearranging the dwindling assortment of foodstuffs supplied by the convoy that had brought their neighbors home. The mere sight of available food had been damn near exhilarating and had brought her solace knowing her family could, once again, enjoy nutritious, gratifying meals after rationing for so long, though it hadn’t lasted. Amy tried hard not to dwell on or worry over it, but the need to supplement their supplies was drawing near.

  While she tended to kitchen chores and pondered what her family might need to do to survive the times to come, Peter sat feet away from her at the table, wrapped warmly in a wool blanket to chase occasional shivers away. A set of whetstones situated before him, he carefully sharpened and honed the edges of several of his favorite hunting and skinning knives while taking occasional sips from his coffee mug.

  For the fourth time in a span of minutes, Amy glanced over her shoulder and spotted Peter eyeballing her in a suggestive manner. Each time he caught her stare, he turned away, switched his focus back to sharpening, and played it off with feigned apathy.

  Deciding to test him, Amy whipped her head around, doing so only halfway, then rotated again an instant later, catching him in the act. “You must be feeling like your old self again, Pete,” she said, sending a snarky grin. “That’s the most I’ve caught you inspecting my ass in months.”

  “What?” Peter huffed. “Please…I wasn’t inspecting your ass.”

  “Like hell you weren’t.”

  One of his brows shot up. “Why must you flatter yourself in such ways? I haven’t even chanced so much as a peep at your ass. I’m merely sharpening knives…fulfilling one of the many typical roles of provider, protector, and hunter-gatherer.”

  “Oh really? Then what the hell were you gawking at each of the past five times I’ve caught you?”

  Peter hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “I was trying to remember the last time you wore that shirt.”

  Amy shook her head, back turned to him. “Pete, stop it.”

  “Stop what? I remember buying you that shirt. I think we got it at T.J. Maxx or someplace. Might’ve even got those leggings you’re wearing there, too.”

  “Pete, we used to do most of our shopping at T.J. Maxx,” Amy said. “Find a better excuse.”

  Peter rolled his eyes and cast a goofy grin. “Okay, fine. Busted. I was totally inspecting your ass—and who could blame me? It’s the only ass in the room besides mine, and it happens to be a really nice one. My ass is nice, too…there’s just no mirror around, so yours gets all the attention by default.”

  Amy turned and slapped her palms gently on the countertop. “Pete, quit. The boys will hear you. And I don’t need them repeating the crap you’re saying.”

  “Why not? You don’t think it’d be cool for Jake to go around bragging about his mom’s ass?”

  Amy’s expression twisted. “No! I most certainly do not want my son saying anything like that.”

  “What if he used the word butt instead?”

  “Pete, enough already! Look, dude, I missed the old you, but keep this shit up and I swear I’ll cut you with one of those knives you’re playing with.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Peter pursed his lips and held the full-tang blade on which he was currently working up for examination. “Though they would be sharp enough for the task, since as you know, I happen to be the proud owner of some generously dense skin—oh, and lovely hair.”

  Amy’s features softened a little. She approached her husband and slid her arms around his neck. “You’re a pain sometimes, but you do have lovely hair.” She kissed his cheek. “It’s nice to have you back, the full you. Sorry for being so snappy, it’s been a while since I’ve had the complete Pete experience. I missed it, and you. And your backside isn’t half bad either.”

  The couple’s conversation halted at the point of hearing pounding noises stemming from the hallway. They left the kitchen to investigate, finding the commotion coming from their oldest son Jacob’s room.

  “What the hell is he doing in there?” Amy asked, her ear close to the door. “Carpentry?”

  Peter shrugged, reaching for the knob. “It does sound like he’s beating something with a hammer.”

  “And who gave him a hammer, Pete?”

  Peter opened the door with a guffaw, and the couple filed into Jacob’s room, finding him seated on the floor with his legs crossed amongst a pile of assorted toy action figures, most of which had been smashed to pieces.

  Amy’s jaw went slack. She remained static while studying the scene.

  Peter moved in swiftly, locking on to the claw hammer in Jake’s hand. “Jake, what are you doing? Give me that.”

  Jacob recoiled at his father’s attempt at retrieval, but eventually gave up and handed it off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone could hear me.”

  Amy moved in closer. “Jake, honey, you’re hitting things with a hammer; of course we can hear you. I’m surprised you didn’t wake your brother from his nap.”

  Jacob’s eyes bounced between his parents. “I didn’t think about that. He’s still better, right? He isn’t sleeping because he’s getting sick again, is he?”

  Peter strolled out to return the hammer to the toolbox.

  Amy knelt, reaching for her son’s hands. “Your brother is healthy now, honey. He isn’t sick anymore, but he has been through a lot, same as your father, and he needs his rest. We’ve all been very lucky.”

  Jacob nodded, hanging his head. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  Amy rubbed her son’s shoulders and took another moment to examine the room. “I don’t know about that, Jake. Looks to me like you have been doing some thinking. Question is, what about?” She scooted closer to him. “What’s going on, buddy? What’s
got you so angry?”

  Jacob didn’t answer immediately. He picked up several pieces of the figurines he had beaten into a pulp, then stirred the mixture around with his fingers on the carpet. “I don’t know. I’ve never felt this way before…it’s hard to explain.”

  Amy looked up in time to see that Peter had rejoined them. “Well, give it a shot. Both of us are here now, and you know you can tell us anything. We’re your parents and we love you. We’ll do our best to understand.”

  Jacob shrugged. He looked upon his mom and dad with a set of bloodshot eyes. “I’m just…mad. I’m mad at everything and everyone…and I don’t understand why people do bad things and then do more bad things and then get away with it.”

  “I don’t think that’s easy for anyone to understand, Jake,” Pete said. “It’s just the way the world is.”

  “Well, I think that’s stupid,” Jake spat. His young expression hardened. “And if that’s the way the world is, then the world is stupid. You and Liam almost died. And you didn’t almost die of old age, and Liam didn’t almost die because of an accident—it was because of something else, something else someone did. And I’m…mad about it. Really mad. That’s all.”

  Amy shot a look of concern her husband’s way, then sent the same look to her son. “Jake, it’s okay for you to be upset about what happened. All of us are upset. And you’re right, your dad was very sick, and if he didn’t get better when he did, he probably could have died.” She paused, finding it hard to say the words and, at the same time, wishing she hadn’t. “We could’ve lost your brother, too. He came very close to leaving us. I was sad about it for a while, and then I got angry about it. Sometimes, I still feel angry about it. The whole situation was and is very upsetting for all of us. Trust me, honey, I get it.”

  Jacob clenched his fists. “No, you don’t! You don’t get it! It isn’t fair! You don’t just get to hurt people on purpose and not get in trouble for it!”

  “Jacob, calm down,” Pete intervened.

  “No! It’s not fair that some people get to do whatever they want and never have to pay for it while others are nice and good to people and get shit on for being good and nice!”

  Amy hesitated. She started to admonish her son for cursing but bit her tongue.

  Peter sat on the floor, matching his son’s level, and crossed his legs. “Jacob, look at me.”

  Jake’s stare wandered. It took a moment, but he found his father’s eyes.

  “What do you want to do, son?” Peter asked, his tone guttural. “I know you’re angry, and I can tell you want to do something about it, so tell me. Get it all out of your system right here, right now. Tell me what you want to do.”

  Jacob shook his head. “No, Dad. I-I can’t tell you. You’ll think I’m weird or dangerous or something’s wrong with me.”

  Peter chuckled solemnly. “Jake, buddy, all of us have a little something wrong with us, even me and your mom. And that’s okay, it’s what makes us human.”

  Amy looked at her husband strangely but didn’t say anything. A little?

  “It’s crucial for us not to keep these types of feelings bottled up,” Peter expounded. “I joke around a lot because that’s how I deal with my own anger; it’s what works for me. When your mom gets angry, she bakes…and does a lot of laundry.”

  Amy conveyed contempt at the statement. “Bakes and does laundry? Really, Pete?”

  “Work with me, here,” he replied to her, then locked eyes with Jake again. “You’re angry over what happened, and that isn’t something to take lightly. The best way to deal with anger is to get it out in the open. We have our ways, and you need to find yours, and your mom and I want to help you do that. So talk to us; don’t be afraid.” A pause. “What do you want to do?”

  Without pause, Jake blurted out, “I want to kill them, that’s what I want to do. I want to kill them all, a lot, really hard…until they’re all dead.”

  Peter gulped, finding himself speechless for the first time in years.

  “Who, Jake?” Amy asked, filling in for him. “Who do you want to kill?”

  Jacob bit his lower lip. “The people who did this…the people who poisoned our water and made Dad and Liam sick.” His tone dropped. “They wanted my family and my friends to die. So I want them to die.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Amy let slip, her eyes wide as saucers now.

  “Our son isn’t one to mince words, is he?” Peter mused. “That’s called vengeance, Jake. An eye for an eye. And you’re not the first person to feel this way. I can’t say I’m proud hearing you want to kill somebody, but I’m glad that you’re able to express yourself like this to us. It’s healthy and—”

  “I wish I was bigger,” Jake said, his glare darkening. “I wish I was stronger, too. I wish I was taller and faster and…meaner. I want to fight people and shoot guns and be really good at it.” He paused. “I wish…I just wish I could be like Lauren.”

  Pete craned his neck. “Lauren?”

  “When bad things happen to us, she gets mad and does things about it. She knows how to fight and shoot guns, and she’s never afraid.” He paused, his young voice becoming a whisper. “I just wish I could grow up faster…so I could be more like her.”

  Amy and Peter spent the remainder of the hour calming Jacob down before taking their leave. They returned to the kitchen, both resuming the tasks on which they’d been toiling prior to the interruption.

  After a few minutes, an unnerved Amy Saunders opened up. “I don’t know about you, Pete, but I could really use a drink. Especially after that.”

  Pete nodded. “Motion seconded. Today’s incident might serve as just cause to break open the private stash.”

  “What private stash?”

  “Come on,” Peter reacted, looking coyly at her, “you act as if you don’t know me. I realize I haven’t been the quintessential prepper during my tenure as your mate, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t arranged for end-of-times essentials.”

  Amy smacked her hands on the counter. “Don’t toy with me, Pete. And stop being cryptic. I am not in the mood. Our prepubescent son is devolving into a deranged hit man before our very eyes, and you’re tugging on the only nerve I have left.”

  Peter shrugged indifferently. “Calm your tits, there’s a treasure chest at the end of this rainbow.”

  “Pete, I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”

  “All those years while everyone else focused on stockpiling beans, bullets, and bandages, I went in another direction, one I’m certain you’ll appreciate.”

  Amy’s annoyed expression gave way to expectance.

  “I’ve never followed ‘the norm’,” Peter said, looking proud of himself. “I focused instead on beans, bullets, and…beverages.”

  “What…kind of beverages?”

  Peter rose and disappeared into the hallway, returning a moment later with a brown paper bag in hand, in the form of what could only be one thing.

  Amy’s jaw went slack. “Is that…Buffalo Trace?”

  Peter grinned smugly. “Damn skippy, the only bottle left in the valley—and probably the country.”

  “It’s…still sealed,” Amy said, gawking at it.

  “Of course it is, duh. You know your husband prioritizes conservation over consumption.”

  Amy snatched the prize from Peter’s hands. “Great. I love you—but today, your wife’s priority is drinking this whole damn bottle.” She went to the cupboard, removed two glasses, and went about pouring merrily.

  The couple took a moment to sniff the goods before tapping glasses.

  Amy gulped hers down with zero regard, savoring the burning sweetness. “Damn, that’s good.” She regarded her husband warily. “What should we do about this thing with Jake?”

  Peter licked his lips after several slow, methodical swallows. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That’s right, nothing.”

  “I don’t know if I can do nothing, Pete.”

  “Look at it th
is way, passive-aggressive behavior is dangerous, and he isn’t holding any negative emotions inside. All his angst is aimed in the right direction and based on legitimate reasons. The kid is angry, and he has every right to be. Hell, I’m angry about the whole thing too…I almost became one of the casualties.” Peter tilted his glass to extract the last few drops of Kentucky bourbon. “And I almost lost my little boy.”

  Amy nodded slightly and turned away. “Maybe you’re right…but I’m not so sure if I’ll get over this as quickly as you, especially that part about him wanting to be like Lauren.”

  “Yeah, I never expected to hear him say that, but I’m not really that surprised either,” Peter said. “For the most part, he’s right about her, and for all we know, she’s become some kind of hero to the younger generation around here. Consider what she’s done. Is it so bad that Jake looks up to her?”

  Amy sighed again, reaching for the liquor bottle. She turned it around on the counter, appearing nervous. “I guess not. It just doesn’t sit well with me, knowing that my son wants to do what she’s doing. I could think of about a hundred other role models for him.”

  “True that,” Peter agreed. “But are any of them appropriate for the times we’re living in?”

  Amy rolled her lips between her teeth, her brow furrowing. “No,” she said. “I suppose not.”

  A panicked female voice squawked from across the room, startling Peter. “What the hell was that?”

  Amy pointed over his shoulder, reaching for the bottle to get a refill. “Um, the radio behind you, moron.”

  “What radio?”

  “The one Fred gave us a long time ago. It’s been sitting on the windowsill ever since, wired to that little solar panel you put on the roof.”

  “Oh shit, that’s right,” Peter said. “That thing’s been so quiet I almost forgot we had it.”

  Glass refilled, Amy gestured to the window, and the couple closed in on the chattering radio.

  “That sounds a lot like Sarah,” Peter said, examining the device with a curious eye.

  Amy looked crossly at him. “Shh! That’s because it is Sarah—listen!”