by Ryan Schow
Calling out one last time, he said, “You see anyone, shoot first then interrogate later,” and together they laughed like it was no big thing.
Rider slid the knife out of its sheath, peeked around the corner from inside the supplies room and saw just one flashlight bobbing in the hallway. Heart thumping, ready to go if needed, he held his breath and waited. The flashlight then spun their way, forcing Rider to jerk his head back for cover. He hoped the guy didn’t see him or decide to investigate the broken door.
“What the hell?” Rider heard the guy mutter under his breath.
Crap. Here we go.
The stranger moved toward the door, the light from his flashlight dancing into the room with every step. The second the slightly extended arm with the flashlight entered the door, Rider slashed at the exposed wrist and snatched the falling flashlight.
The guy screamed, pulling his wrist into his body. Rider stepped out, turned the light on him, found an exceptionally large man with a gun aimed right at him. Rider ducked away as the first bullet exploded out of the chamber.
Two more blasts cracked open the air, both of them sounding like his Glock. The guy went down like a sack of potatoes at his feet.
Rider popped his head out and shined the light on Ballard. The kid was holding the smoking gun. He looked terrified at what he’d done.
“So I guess you can shoot,” Rider said.
“My dad’s a Marine.”
“Is that the answer for everything?” he asked, thankful their father was in fact a Marine.
Ballard just looked at the guy and said, “Is he dead?”
“Not from you. I cut his wrist open, so he’s out cold now, but he’ll bleed out in the next minute or two.”
“I was aiming for the head.”
Not his head, the head.
“Well it looked like you hit his shoulder,” Rider lied.
He didn’t want the kid thinking he’d killed someone, and he sure as hell didn’t want Lenna thinking he’d turned her youngest son into a murderer.
“The other guy will be coming any minute,” Rider said, taking the gun. “Go load the box full of the supplies I collected, and anything else in there you think looks important. When you see the guy’s light, shut yours off.”
“What if he shoots at me?”
“He’ll be dead long before that. More might be coming, though, so if things turn sour, go back to your hiding place.”
“What if they get you?” he asked.
He reached down, grabbed the weapon off the downed man with a hole in the side of his head, checked the magazine, then handed it to Ballard and said, “Shoot them until the magazine runs dry.”
Now the kid looked a bit scared.
“It’ll be okay,” Rider said as he handed the kid his flashlight and headed out into the darkness.
The second he moved into the hallway Rider heard commotion from both ends. On one end, he saw the light from several flashlights in the distance. On the other, he saw the glow of another flashlight (the indelible Captain Pooper). From the pack, he saw one man pull ahead, his flashlight shaking like he’d broken into a jog.
Great. Freaking awesome.
“Lights out, Ballard,” he harsh whispered before ducking behind a wall.
The runner arrived, but the second he was in striking distance, Rider dropped low and drove his knife into the man’s gut. In, twist, out. Lightening fast, he grabbed the runner by the hair, yanked his head back and dragged the blade across his neck. Arterial spray caught him across the face as Rider dragged the dying man behind a nearby reception desk. Rider retrieved the runner’s flashlight and gun, then ducked for cover. He couldn’t cross the hallway, which meant he’d have to hide with Ballard. They weren’t in a defensible position, which left him feeling sick.
“Are they coming?” Ballard asked.
“Shhh,” Rider said. “You have the box?”
“Yes.”
“Everything in it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t shoot anyone unless I’m dead, got it?”
“Roger that,” he said, stilling Rider.
He looked over at the dark shadow of the kid’s face and realized this was just a boy. Not a warrior, a soldier, or a killer. Yet Rider shoved a gun into his hand and told him to use it. Then not use it. His father was a Marine, but Ballard was not. Hagan was not. He found this both humbling and terrifying at the same time.
A host of voices were now upon them. They found their buddy, half a decapitation interrupted, and those same voices rose an octave. Curse words fell from the mouths of these guys. Someone was puking.
“Lightweights,” he whispered more to himself than anyone.
Any minute now and they’d find their other friend, and…
“They killed Kenny!” another voice said, Captain Pooper. Rider nearly laughed thinking of South Park, but he didn’t because none of this was even the least bit humorous.
“Get ready,” he whispered to Ballard, who was busy trembling beside him. He put his hand on the kid’s back and said, “We got this.”
Pulling themselves even deeper into the dark cave under the desk, they waited. As he listened to the men conversing, planning, he felt his pulse beating in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes.
Rider fought to control his breathing, but the man with the flashlight was now hunting for Kenny’s killers, for them. If they were found, that was it. Game over. He almost held his breath, waited out the storm, but he couldn’t.
He’d already exerted himself too much.
“Kenny’s definitely dead, and so is Leon,” the guy said from the room. “Someone broke in and cleaned out the supplies.”
“There wasn’t anything major in there anyway,” a more sturdy voice said. “We have what we need.”
“Yeah, but whoever did it, this guy’s a pro,” a voice not two feet from him said. “Has to be. Wrist is slit, plus his brains are everywhere.”
“And your point is?”
“We need to tell Gunderson about this,” the guy said. “He’ll want to know.”
Ballard was completely quiet; Rider had his Glock at the ready, one round already in the chamber. The problem was there was no where to go. The minute he shot this guy, gunfire would rip through the other side of this desk and shred them both. If this became a shooting match, then they were the fish in the barrel.
Rider tried to scoot himself further into the darkness, but he was already up against the back and all he was doing was squishing Ballard into the other side. He stopped moving, said a short prayer to the God of War to see them through this.
“Did you clear the area?” someone asked, the voice of authority. By now Rider identified four separate voices, this one being the leader’s voice.
He could take five in the dark.
Maybe.
The guy’s flashlight chased away the shadows of the supply room, catching all the corners and possible hiding places, of which there were almost none.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Nothing in here.”
“We need to fan out,” the voice of authority said. “They’re around here somewhere.”
The man standing with his side to them, the dude hovering over dead Kenny (“they killed Kenny!”), he swung his beam of light around and headed out. Rider let out the breath he’d been holding, placed a reassuring hand on Ballard, one that said, I think we’ll be okay.
After a few minutes, Rider crawled out, moved past the dead man, searched him for other weapons or ammo. In his back pocket was a spare magazine. He took it. Ballard turned on the flashlight, pointed it at the man’s face. Specifically the bullet hole in his temple. Rider reached up and grabbed the flashlight.
“No,” he said. “You’ll attract attention.”
“That spot on his head, that’s where I was aiming for,” Ballard admitted, his voice low, solemn.
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I did.”
Rider flicked on the flashlight one last time, aimed it
at the man’s wrist, which was soaked red from the slashed open center of it. There was a large black snake tattoo coiled above the wound, blood splattered but visible. Rider wiped blood from the underside of the tattoo to read the writing below.
The Ophidian Horde.
“These guys,” Rider cursed under his breath. Then, clearing his mind, he said, “He bled out from me cutting open his wrist. I did that, not you. Got it?”
“Sure, I guess.”
Rider flipped the light out and said, “Grab the box, time to go.”
They made their way slowly but quietly through the halls, back the way they came. Twice they heard the sounds of the men hunting them, but they were never close enough to give Rider pause. When they were outside, both Lenna and Hagan looked at him in horror.
“What the hell?” Lenna said.
“Not my blood.”
Lenna examined Ballard, pulling him close and asking him if he was okay.
“Yes,” he said, “except I think I killed a man.”
“You didn’t kill him,” Rider said. Damn, he thought, this kid is stubborn. Then again, he was right. He did kill the guy. One perfect shot, right in the dome.
“Are you going to tell me the bullet did?” Ballard asked.
“Let’s not do this, kid,” he said. “Time to go, guys, the roach motel is still bristling with roaches.”
“You mean there are still…what exactly do you mean?” Lenna asked, looking a little less drawn.
“I mean the place is a gang hideout or something.”
They got up and followed Rider back to the bike where Rider said, “Hagan you’re with me. Ballard can handle the guns in back.”
“He’s too young,” Hagan argued.
“He’s also light. Lighter than you and we need the extra distance if we’re going to make it back to Indigo’s with that mattress still in tact.”
Hagan got on the bike with Rider; Lenna and Ballard took the mattress.
He kick-started the motorcycle, glanced back at Lenna and the well armed Ballard, then put the bike in gear and prayed to God that they would make it back without further incident.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Indigo’s mother and I are talking quietly in the hallway just outside the room Macy’s sleeping in. I’m asking her how she came to be at the college and she’s telling me how amazing Rider and Sarah are. There’s something more though. She finally admits to being torn between the happiness of being with Indigo and the certainty that Tad is dead and Indigo’s father is missing.
Tears are already boiling in Margot’s eyes when a ruckus downstairs grabs our attention. The front door is opening, feet are walking inside, and then the door is closing.
It’s Indigo’s house, so I’m assuming it’s either Indigo and Rex, or that Rider’s come back with medical supplies and the rest of Hagan’s family.
Atlanta, the little blonde with almost nothing to say, the little pixie blonde who isn’t afraid to use a gun, she starts up the staircase, sees the two of us and says, “They’re here.”
“Can you be more specific?” I ask, speaking a bit too loud.
“That kid’s mom, and his brother I think,” she says, enunciating her words so she doesn’t have to shout.
My hearing hasn’t fully returned, but it’s not as bad as it was before. Just some hollow ringing and a little soft popping whenever I try to clear the echo.
So now we’re in a houseful of people, which seems crazy since we only started out with the three of us: Stanton, Macy and I.
I almost tear the bandage off my ear, but instead itch it and pretend it’s no big deal.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Pretty beat up,” Atlanta says. “Hagan’s got a little brother, too. He’s cute.”
Stanton appears on the stairs saying, “I’ll get them settled into the new house. Are you up to looking at Hagan’s mother?”
My head is nodding, but my heart is with Macy. I don’t want to leave her alone, not while she’s in critical condition.
“You need to stay with Macy, though,” I tell him. “I have to check with Rider, see if he got what I needed.”
“He got some of it.”
“Blood?”
Sadly, he shakes his head. Big surprise there. For a second, I find myself getting nervous. Like a brick has suddenly settled at the bottom of my stomach. I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea of having my blood taken. I’m happy to give it, but I can’t begin to imagine what it will do to me.
“I’ll sit with Macy,” he says, looking first at me, then at Margot, who is thin but still attractive. Certainly better looking than me, but less capable judging by the way she carries herself. For a second I wonder, will this be the new measure of a woman? Will we judge each other based not on our looks or occupations, but by our ability to hold her own, to contribute, to survive?
“Have you ever fired a gun before?” I ask Margot.
“No,” she says.
“Well you’d best figure it out,” I tell her as I make my way down the stairs.
Stanton passes by me on his way to Macy, dragging a finger along my waist the way he used to do when he loved me most. This makes me smile, but inside it drives a wedge of pain down in me. How can he love me in the midst of a dying daughter, a damaged eardrum and the end of the world?
His hand catches my hand, tries to take it, but I keep my fingers loose and continue on. I don’t want to think of anything now but taking care of Macy.
Even if it’s Lenna, or my husband.
I won’t lie, Rider is a good looking guy. He’s strong and hard-wearing with some sort of protector complex that makes me think guardian angel rather than Hell’s Angel. The tattoos speak to a colorful past—something military related judging by their context—but I dare not ask about the details of his past for a number of reasons, the least of which is I’m married. Plus, there’s something intimidating about him, something I can’t put my finger on.
Behind this rugged façade is a man who seems to have a generous heart and a willingness to put his own life aside for the sake of saving others. And he also keeps his promises. This is perhaps one of the finest qualities a man of any age or history can embody. Case in point, he brought Hagan’s family back, as promised.
It also seems as though he found the hospital he was looking for and returned with supplies. He’s got a face full of blood spray, though, so I know it’s come at a cost. Still, he survived, so that stands tall with me. Makes me think of him as dependable. The second best quality of a man in my book.
“What have you got?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down to compensate for my loss of hearing.
“No refrigeration units with blood or plasma bags, but I did get a few IV drip bags, the tubing you asked for and a grab bag of antibiotics. Ballard here was amazing, considering we think we might have found some sort of gang hideout inside the hospital.”
“Really?” I ask.
“We almost died,” the boy named Ballard said.
He was a cute kid, early teens, had the blonde hair his older brother didn’t have, and a more innocent look about him. He’d clearly seen some very bad things, maybe even done a few of those bad things himself. The thing about guilt is, it has a way of ripping a smile right off your face and leaving in its wake vast oceans of emptiness.
Trust me, I know.
“Hi Ballard,” I say, extending a hand and forcing a smile. “I’m Cincinnati, but you can call me Sin if you want. It’s a nickname, but it’s not true. I don’t sin.”
Ballard’s cheeks get a little red, but he takes my hand, gives it a one-two shake with a light pulse of pressure, then lets go. The kid is so far out of his element right now, the uncertainty lies naked in his every nuance.
My eyes go to the woman on the couch. She looks like she’s gone through hell and back to get here.
“You must be Lenna,” I say. She answers with the faintest smile. “As soon as I can get all these people out of here, I can spend a little time with you
, see what we need to get you back on your feet and feeling better again.”
Her shallow smile is a clear pronunciation of pain and indignity, but that look in her eyes… God, what is that look? I quickly understand. The ring on her finger, the fear etched with permanence in her face, the haunted gaze that said she would be polite, cordial even, but not enough to let anyone inside? She’s a mamma bear in a stranger’s den and she’s both inured and vulnerable. My nose puckers and I nearly pass out.
“What’s that smell?” I ask.
Rider points to a pair of socks tied together on the floor.
“Fresh onions.”
“Why are you pointing at socks and talking about onions?” I ask.
Rather than talking to me, he looks at Lenna and says, “Are you ready?”
She winces, like she’s not all that thrilled and says, “Do we really have to?”
She says this like her teeth are chattering. She says this while her eyes are loose in their sockets. I’m starting to wonder how high of a temperature she’s running. She’s not delirious yet. She’s not moaning or squirming in her own skin or whimper-crying, so I know she’s holding a full blown fever at bay, but barely.
I rest my hand on her forehead and it’s warm. Her eyes find mine. Her mouth stays mostly closed. Her lips are parted slightly, her teeth pressed together, her skin slightly damp.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “Really?”
Her face betrays a bit of her pain, but it also shows me determination. “Okay,” she says. “Hurting though. More than I want to admit.”
I brush her hair off her forehead and say, “You’re a beautiful woman, and strong.” I smile, tilt my head sideways, relax my eyes.
“I don’t feel either at the moment,” she admits.
“Trust me, I get it.”
Rider then picks up the socks, which I’m assuming have onions in them, and he slides them on her feet, snugging them up in spite of her groaning.
“They smell so bad,” she says, to which Rider gives a slight chuckle.
“When your fever breaks,” he tells her, “we’ll pitch them in a hole out back and dump some lye on the pile.”
Licking her lips, which are still terribly dry and cracked, she says, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to live with my feet when this is all over. And I certainly won’t ever eat another onion as long as I live.”
