by Ryan Schow
Her eyes shot through with panic.
“Relax, I’m going to be back. It just…it looks like we’re going to be here awhile, at least until you feel better, so we’re going to need some solid food, more water and some supplies. There have to be some houses around here with something in them. You going to be okay?”
She looked at him, unable to blink.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said. “A few hours at most.”
With that he transferred their food, water and supplies from the wagon into the back of the truck beside her.
“Sip this water every so often, and if you’re hungry eat something, but only a little bit. We have to make this last until I can find more.”
Jagger rode the bike up the frontage road for a good quarter mile before seeing a sign for a place called the Olive Tree Market. In the distance he saw the bombed-out building and the rooflines of half a dozen homes.
He ignored the building, focusing instead on the homes.
At the top of Gentile Lane, he saw what appeared to be a smattering of maybe a dozen or more homes, all on acreage. With his service pistol at his side, he cruised down the street, hoping not to get shot by suspicious neighbors. Other than a supple breeze, the soft rustling of tree leaves and limbs and the pleasant chirping of birds, the place was nearly noiseless.
He went house to house, knocking on doors. The first few people told him they had guns and would shoot him if he didn’t get off their property. He wasn’t up for arguing, so he moved on. The fourth home had dogs off their leashes in the yard, and the fifth sat tucked into a thicket of trees so dense you’d think they’d soon swallow the structure whole.
The house made for perfect cover.
He pushed through the overgrown brush, moving under ample shade provided by tree limbs that hadn’t been cut back in years. The house had seen better days, but wasn’t in such disrepair that he lost his optimism.
Jagger gave a polite knock on the door.
Listening for movement, he heard nothing. He knocked harder, longer, more insistent. Still nothing. Trudging through the unruly hedges, he walked around back where he saw a dusty sliding glass window. Wiping away the dirt, he peered in and saw a man sitting on a rocker facing a TV that wasn’t working.
Gently, he tapped on the glass. The man didn’t move. Jagger knocked again, then saw a cat lying on the floor. The cat wasn’t moving.
It looked dead.
He tried the slider and it creaked opened. When the air inside the house pushed its way past him, it held the rank aroma of death, a foul smell that slithered into his nostrils uninvited. He turned and walked away.
“Good Christ,” he muttered, drawing in fresh air while looking back at the house. Taking a deep breath, he told himself to calm down, to just do what he had to do. Psyching himself up, he held his breath and hurried back inside the house where he opened every available window before dry-retching on the smell.
The old man sat on the chair, his face slack, his eyes open but looking at nothing. A fly sat on his exposed eyeball before seeing Jagger and flying off. In the dead man’s lap was a newspaper. Plugging his nose, Jagger checked the date.
It was last month’s paper.
The kitchen was small but sufficient. It wasn’t clean, but it wasn’t dirty either. Beyond the kitchen was a door leading to the garage. He made his way past an old car and a few blind hazards, shouldered open a wooden garage door, then let the daylight flood in.
Inside a bank of custom cabinets, Jagger found a pair of work gloves, a painter’s mask still in the plastic and a two pack of Bic lighters. He opened the packaged lighters, stuffed them both in his pocket, then donned the mask and gloves.
Back in the living room, he stared down at the dead cat feeling like some deranged exterminator. Kneeling down, he studied the furry creature. It’s was just bones held together by skin. On a red collar hung a gold nameplate: Butters. He gave the cat a gentle push. The body bent to his finger, telling him rigor mortis had come and gone long ago.
“Time for a change of scenery, Butters,” he said. He scooped up the pet, walked it out back and laid it in the clearing.
He then dragged the old man’s corpse out back and laid it next to the cat. He stared at the pair, wondering the kind of life the two of them lived. Had the old man’s wife left him? Did she die? Was it his cat or hers, and did they have a good relationship? Or was it the kind of cat that pissed where it wanted just because it could, just because it was cranky in its old age? All questions that would never have answers.
Beyond the thicket of trees was another clearing and a large red barn. He had the time and the house needed to air out, so he went exploring.
Within the hour, he’d collected some moth-eaten moving blankets and a bucket he and the girl could use as a toilet if they needed it. As for the blankets, he used them to cover the bodies of the man and his cat. He wasn’t sure what to do with them, but covering them up seemed like the polite thing to do. The respectful thing to do.
Pulling off a glove, he ran a hand through his hair, itched his scalp and his brand new beard. For whatever reason, he found himself thinking of his own childhood pet. A tiger-striped kitten named Scamper. Pool thing. Before it was even full grown, it met its fate beneath the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz. Alas, young Jagger lost his only pet. He was eight back then, too young to give up on animals, but too scared of losing the next one to even try again.
He put his glove back on then surveyed the surrounding grounds from where he stood. Staring down at them, Jagger realized he had to do something with the bodies. There was no way he could just leave the two of them out there. By nightfall the coyotes would find them and treat them as a meal.
Later, he thought.
Around the property, he gathered enough sticks and brush to start a small fire. He solved the problem of what to burn when he kicked down an old shed made of dry wood that looked halfway to rot. In the barbecue pit, he teepee’d the kindling, lit the brush beneath it, then stood back as the tinder took to the flames.
Satisfied with the fire, Jagger trekked back to the garage where he found the home’s hot water heater strapped to the wall. He rapped on the dusty tank, received a dull thumping in return. Plenty of water. Good. Pulling off the work gloves and mask, he gathered an armful of big pots and sauce pans from the kitchen, took them to the garage, then looked around for something to puncture the giant hot water tank. In an old tool chest, he rooted around and found (among other things) an old hammer and a rusted nail punch.
Jagger knocked along the hot water heater, found the high water mark, then traced a line through the dust. A good foot below the top level, Jagger pressed his finger in the dust marking the spot. Using the nail punch, he hammered it lightly at first, then harder until he punctured a pea-sized hole in the tank. He dropped the hammer and nail punch, let the water drain into the pots and pans below.
He punched another hole just above that and the flow improved.
When the foot of water drained out, he covered the hole with some blue painter’s tape then walked out back where the fire was really going. He propped up a standing pan rack over the pyre then placed the largest pot of water on top. It took forever for the water to boil, but when it did, he used a rusted set of barbecue tongs and hot mits to lift the pot off the rack. Carefully he transferred the boiling water to fresh pans while adding more water to the pot to boil.
Jagger brought the boiled water inside, covered it with aluminum foil to keep out bugs or spiders or even dust. The refrigerator, he found, was mostly barren. In the pantry were a few cans of chili, a can of green beans and some coffee grounds in a large green tub.
It wasn’t a lot, but it would due for now.
After taking care of the second pot of water, he kicked dirt on the fire, then grabbed his bike and rode back to the Peterbilt where he found the girl fast asleep. Seeing her little sweaty body damn near broke his heart. She was so small. So frail. How anyone could ever hurt her defied what logic he poss
essed.
Quietly, he gathered their belongings before rousing her awake.
“I found us a better place to stay,” he said. Her eyes were full of pain, her forehead practically on fire.
She crawled out of the truck, still sweating, still whimpering the slightest little bit. He gathered the blankets just in case, folded them up then transferred what remained of their water and food to the wagon.
“I need you to ride your bike,” he said. “It’s not far, but we need to take it. Can you do that?”
She looked up at him, brushed the damp strands of hair from her face and nodded.
“Good. No more falling, okay?”
She didn’t even move. It was almost like she wasn’t paying attention.
They rode up the street together to the house, then into the driveway and around to the garage. He walked her inside, and though it still stunk a bit, much of the odor dissipated beneath the fresh air. Tonight he’d see how much of the stink cleared when they closed the windows.
“There are beds upstairs,” he told her. “Comfy ones. Certainly more comfortable than that old truck you were sleeping in.”
She didn’t say anything. She just looked up the stairs, then back at him, nervous.
“It’s okay. I’ll be up there with you. We can share a room, if that’s what you want.”
No reply.
He headed for the stairs; she followed.
When she was situated in a bedroom with a full sized bed, he went back downstairs, hauled the recliner the man had died in out back into the clearing. From the garage he got a rake and broom and cleared an area of open space. With that done, he dragged the man over to the chair, sat him down, then put the cat in his lap and set it all to flame.
A few minutes later, as it the fire reached for the heavens, the girl wandered out and stood beside him. He looked down at her. The flames had her full attention. And then, just when he least expected it, she reached up and took his hand and together they stood there watching the man and his cat burn. When he glanced back down at her again, he saw the sweat mapping her forehead and the matted hair.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She looked down.
“Sweetheart,” he asked, “are you feeling okay?”
The girl, this valiant trooper who never voiced a single complaint, she didn’t move for a long time, and then slowly she shook her head back and forth.
Something was wrong.
Chapter Seventy-Five
Night had fallen by the time they hit Fell Street. Rider agonized over what lay ahead because he didn’t have eyes at night. A gunshot cracked through the night. Rider held up a hand and everyone stopped. He looked back at the group and met their eyes: Hagan, Ballard, Atlanta, Stanton.
A volley of gunfire kicked up.
Up on Ashbury, in several houses across the street from the college, muzzle flash lit the upstairs windows of two different homes. Five flashes followed by the sounds of gunfire and breaking glass sent a pall of fear deep into his gut.
The damn college was under attack.
Whomever was behind those weapons—and he assumed it was the Sureños judging by the things Sarah had said—they were going for the windows on the Ashbury facing side of the college.
Wincing, pissed off, he prayed everyone inside was safe. He knew exactly what those windows were inside the college: they were classrooms converted to bedrooms for future use. Depending on how many families had arrived since he left to take Margot to Indigo, there could very well be people in there.
Stanton moved up through the boys and past Atlanta to where Rider stood. “What do you want to do?”
“We need to get everyone inside where it’s safe.”
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll check it out, see what I can do from my end.”
Stanton waved the kids forward. The three sets of eyes looking up at him in the dark wore their concern all over their faces.
“It’s okay,” Stanton said. “We’re going to get inside until the shooting stops.” Turning to Rider, he said, “Or should we just wait it out?”
“Hell no,” he said.
“I’m wide open for suggestions here.”
He turned and fired Stanton a look the man felt and heard more than he saw. “I told you, Stanton. We get them inside. Now.”
Standing on the corner of Ashbury and Hayes, flanked by three story buildings, telephone poles and trees that had seen livelier days, they looked on one side of the street and saw Cup A Joe Coffee House. On the other side of the street was Hayes Cleaners.
“Go back a block,” Rider said.
With the pop! pop! pop! of gunfire crackling into the night, they hustled back down Hayes looking for shelter. Their eyes gathered in their surroundings as best as they could. The night was dark though, nearly moonless. Twice Ballard stumbled and nearly took a header into the sidewalk. Hagan caught his arm the first time; he caught himself the second time.
“Slow down!” Atlanta hissed as she and the boys tried to keep up.
Stanton hung back while Rider leapt up staircase after concrete staircase looking for an open door. Half the entrances were gated. Finally the gunfire was met with a torrent of return fire and that was enough for Rider. He bounded up a set of stairs, checked the door, then stood back and kicked it in with more force than he needed.
“Jesus Christ,” Stanton muttered as he jostled the kids inside.
Rider broke out an old Maglite flashlight, turned it on Stanton and said, “What?”
“You got bionic legs?”
To the kids, Rider fast whispered, “Go five steps and stop.” They did exactly as they were told. With the kids were safely inside, Rider looked at Stanton and said, “Kicked down a few doors in my day.”
Rider stepped inside, shut the door behind him. Stanton heard him sniffing the air. “There are dead people inside,” he whispered in the darkness, “so that’s neat.”
“How do you know?”
Rider ignored him, sniffing the air once more. “Three I think, maybe more. At least a week dead.”
“Is that what smells so bad?” Atlanta asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone out.”
The five of them scurried outside and skipped down the steps with Stanton and Rider on their heels. Stanton ducked them behind a car, then waited on Rider’s lead. The older man moved like a wraith, completely contrary to the otherwise casual look of him. It made Stanton wonder what he really did in his former life.
Finally Rider waved them to a house without an iron gate. He stood on the porch stoop, locked eyes with Stanton.
“Give it a go,” he told Stanton, looking right and left. “Just wait for the cover of gunfire. And be sure to kick close to the door knob.” He pointed to the specific spot he kicked in the last door, then: “You’re going to have to kick the deadbolt through the casing.”
Stanton waited for the distant sounds of gunfire, then gave it a mighty kick. He didn’t shake the door loose; the door shook him. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath.
“Watch,” Rider said. “It’s not just the force of the kick, it’s the body mechanics.”
When the gunfire started up again, Rider stepped back and threw a kick with such force the door splintered and swung open wide.
“You loosened it for me,” he said. “You’d have gotten it the second time.”
Rider clicked on the flashlight, then put the house to the smell test. When it was clear, he went inside and motioned everyone else in. The five of them piled in, then Stanton shut the door behind them, even though it was broken open.
They were out of the line of fire, but close enough to hear the distant sounds of gunfire the next neighborhood up.
Everyone waited for Rider to clear the house, and when he came down the stairs, he said, “We’re good. It’s got beds for the boys and a bed for Atlanta. Stanton, I need you to stand watch at the door while I head into the neighborhood to see what’s what.”
“If you ne
ed backup,” Stanton said, “I’m good to go.”
Rider patted Stanton on the shoulder before he slipped out the front door. He returned two hours later to a house full of sleeping people. Well, everyone was asleep but Stanton who diligently stood guard.
“How is it?” Stanton asked.
“Bad.”
“Can we do something?”
Rider thought it over, weighed this and that, then said, “Yeah, I think we can, but it’s going to get messy.”
“How so?”
“Never mind,” he said, changing his mind. “I can take care of it, you just stay with the kids.”
“With all due respect, Rider, I’m not some goddamned stiff. And I’m certainly no babysitter.”
“You can call yourself a chaperon if it makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t,” he hissed.
“When I say it’s going to get messy,” Rider warned, “I’m talking about wet work.”
“I didn’t think we were baking a cake.”
The determination in Stanton’s voice was raw and visceral. He wanted at these idiots. He wanted to be part of the party, not sidelined in the fourth quarter. Rider seemed to be calculating the odds. Stanton was doing the same.
Strength in numbers versus stealth.
When Stanton cleared his throat, Rider came to and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be the guy who gets you killed. I don’t have a family. You do.”
“I can do this,” Stanton said.
“No,” Rider said, stern.
“They’re shooting at my wife and kid in there. So I’m going. Messy or not, I know what we’re walking in to and I told you, I’m ready.”
“You don’t have the first clue about what we’re walking in to.”
“Then give me the lay of the land,” he said, desperation sitting low in his voice. “I can do this, Rider. I want to do this.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“So let’s go,” he said.
“Follow my lead, pay attention and do exactly what I say,” Rider warned as they slipped out of the house. “I don’t want to tell Cincinnati and Macy you died because you were an overzealous moron.”
