by A. R. Shaw
“Are we here, Mom?” Ben asked, rubbing his eyes.
She wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Sending questioning looks around the cabin, the men around her were putting on their gear. The man across from her stood and looked about the others. His eyes were dark and serious, his lips were a thin straight line, and his jaw was set hard.
They were getting ready for battle, each man putting on the black uniforms of those who made the previous trip. They were dead now…those men. Maeve swallowed hard, knowing these men may die just the same.
“Mom!”
Maeve turned toward her son and leaned in to hear his words.
“What are they doing?”
She glanced again, men checking their gear, putting on helmets. “They’re getting ready.”
“What are we going to do?”
She began to answer, when Bishop appeared by her side. He knelt down to them and slid his left arm under the covers and along the outside of Maeve’s thigh. His touch calmed her racing heart.
“You three are going to stay right here with the pilot and one of these men. You listen to them,” Bishop said to Ben, and then without the children seeing, he squeezed Maeve’s thigh in his hand and looked her in the eyes. Transfixed in the depths of his stare, she feared the worst when she realized he too was dressed in the black uniform of the dead men.
“Any sign of danger, and Walt will get you out of here. Listen to them, please, Maeve. Do exactly as they say. You understand me?”
Nodding, she wanted to say the words, Please don’t go…please don’t leave us…don’t die, please…but she couldn’t. In fact, her throat closed up. His darkened stare answered her anyway. He released his grip on her thigh and rubbed her side a few times and then took his hand away. Where she was warmed by his touch, she felt the cold creep in already.
He reached down and kissed the top of Ben’s head. “Take care of your mom, Ben. I’ll see you soon.”
Ben nodded his head and held on to Bishop’s arm for a moment.
Louna just stirred from her sleep, and Bishop slid the back of his fingers gently down her pale, tender cheek. He looked down at her with concern in his eyes. They all did from time to time.
Then suddenly Maeve felt Bishop’s hand on her throat, him tilting her chin up with his thumb. His lips crushed hers. She felt the hot thrusts of his tongue sliding along her own. Her heartbeat sped suddenly, and she made a silent prayer…Please don’t take this man from me, God. Please.
His voice low and raspy, he said, “I’m coming back, Maeve. Don’t even think it.”
His hand left her neck bare. He turned suddenly, his back to her and the children, and then she heard him address the men in a much different tone—one that would have made her move her ass quickly had his orders been directed at her.
“Listen up! I wish I had more time. I wish I could provide you with more training and better equipment. I wish some of you didn’t have to die.
“But we have no more time for wishes. We—all of us, our families and our children—depend on the success of this mission. We must succeed. We will succeed. We do not have the luxury of failure and defeat. Second chances? This is our second chance. We must be victorious.
“This will be the most difficult thing you have ever done, that you’ve ever seen, and that you’ll ever remember. This will not be an easy thing. Some of us will not return. To that, I can only say, it has been an honor to be counted among you. You are all heroes.”
Suddenly feeling chilled, Maeve pulled the blanket up around herself again for comfort, to retain the warmth left by the touch of his hand just a little longer.
Then that was it; the cabin door opened. The men rushed out after Bishop, leaving one soldier, who was heavily armed, looking out a small window after them and Walt, the pilot who was also intensely watching the men from his point of view. Other than the rustling of fabric and the minute noise of the men rushing out into the silence, there were no sounds at all. The intense quiet lasted until a few moments later when the first shot made her bolt straight up.
Chapter Eighteen
A flickering flame, a howl of wind, the warmth of beasts nearby. Jax lay beneath a pile of furs, still shivering each time the wind banked against the building in sharp gusts. A shrill scream echoed in his dream. At first he thought it nothing more than the wind until it happened again.
He was afraid of them, if the truth were known, and what they were capable of; that’s why he was where he was in his own mind: away…separated from mankind for as much as he could distance himself and yet still serve his promise. They all had demons. Jax just knew them for what they were. His worst moment in life lay behind him but also knew that the same occurrence could and would happen again, and the conditions were ripe for them now, as ripe as they were in North Korea nineteen years before. Jax was then part of a UN aid-relief team to the Musan region after a great famine, caused by the emperor himself, was instigated in order to control the masses. As he handed out rations, a woman ran to him, collapsing in his arms. Maddened was the word that came to mind. Some horror possessed her. Though he spoke fluent Korean, her words were frantic. Another woman came forward and explained that the woman’s husband had killed their children.
“Take me there,” he’d said.
Tentatively, the translator pointed to the small shanty but would not follow or lead them there herself. Jax brought two other team members with him. The closer they came to the small shack, an odor like no other became more and more apparent.
The door was left ajar. He stepped inside. Armed with only a baton, he crept further in, his senses screaming at him to flee…the odor was something he’d never smelled before. Dog perhaps? He’d heard they ate dog on occasion. They’d been warned before coming there that the Koreans would often eat anything…starvation rules and all.
But that wasn’t it at all. As they entered, only the eyes of a man—black irises, as far as he could tell—looked beyond them. He never really acknowledged them. He just kept eating his meal, constantly chewing the meat he held in his hands.
That odor, though…Jax could not place it.
“Oh God!” said the man behind Jax. The flap tore to the side as the man immediately left. Then a forceful retching.
When he turned to see, there on the left was not one but two human heads sitting side by side on a thin wooden table made of crates, he suspected; so flimsy was the table that the sheer weight of the severed heads threatened to topple it over. At first he thought them dolls’ heads, but, no, they were too large. They were of children—one a girl with a long black braid now wrapped once around her neck and trailing over the edge of the table, the other a boy. Both appeared no more than ten years old. Their eyes were closed as if they were sleeping there sans the rest of their bodies.
Jax’s eyes strayed from the horror directly to the man sitting on the floor…chewing the meat in his hands, never stopping even for a moment. He’d never even indicated they were there. Madness…this father. So consumed with hunger was he that he was eating his own children before their very eyes.
Jax suddenly found his pistol in his hands, a round already chambered; he then began to raise his arm when he felt a shove from behind.
“No!”
Jax was confused. He struggled until he was facedown on the dirt floor, his comrades atop him. The only thing restraining his view was the man continuing to feast before him, never breaking his concentration on the meat in his hands. Jax couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horror. Not bothering with manners, juice streamed down the man’s lips, and bits of meat clung to his face. The horrific act of murdering your own children would never leave him—ever. Nor would the odor of cooked human meat, something he’d never smelled before and would likely never forget.
Later, the team had found the roasted remains. The mother had come home from a trip to find her husband offering her a meal of her own children, steaming in a bowl. Starving herself, she reached for the offering…and then stopped. She felt goose
bumps on her forearms and on the back of her neck. Then a guttural scream forced its way from the depths of her being before her conscious mind knew why. Her soul was already aware of the crime.
That was the nightmare that made Jax who he was, from that moment on and to eternity. He never trusted man from then onward—they were always too close to savagery. So close and so weak. No, he knew what was coming, and he wanted no part of it. He’d remain where he was…a bit apart from the rest.
Again he heard the shrill. This time Jax jerked awake fully. It wasn’t the horrified mother of his dreams. It wasn’t the wind. Someone was screaming nearby in the dark of night. Dammit, he would have to get up and go check it out.
Sitting up, Jake’s ears twitched. “I know, buddy. Damn people,” he whispered and ran his rough hand over Jake’s hide, absentmindedly calming him and checking for warmth and dampness. Tracking the noise, Jax headed to the back of the building to a small set of stairs that led to the side street he’d come in on.
He tried listening first, for the whoosh and whistle of wind overpowered anything a human might attempt for the time. He waited for a space, and when the same annoyance uttered again, he waited once more. This time he knew the cry was human and reluctantly took a step off the ice-covered concrete and onto the hardened, packed snow. The night bore no help to his eyes. His vision only made out the merest light and dark contrasts. Between the buildings, he walked toward Front Street. The park descended below that line after what used to be an elaborate parking area now covered in mounds of snow, never to melt, as if taken hostage. Everyone avoided the area now that it appeared in the daylight as a manmade mistake. Townspeople often wondered who had the bright idea of putting all the beginning snow accumulation there to begin with. It stood now as a barricade between what was left of society and Tubbs Hill.
Doing his best to remain on the top layer of hardened snow, Jax took his steps lightly, trying not to shift his weight too heavily to one side or the other.
Again he heard the scream, except that this time it was just a little closer. He shifted his line of travel slightly more to the right. That way, at the corner of the old stone building, he could peer around and at least provide himself with some cover. That was, if there wasn’t already a large ice berm blocking his path.
Doing his best, he peeked around, only to meet the icy wind face on. The temperature felt as if it had dropped ten degrees already since he’d walked outside. In the distance a figure rocked back and forth. For what reason, he wasn’t sure, but the shadows told him there was more than one person there. In fact, there was one lying prone as well.
“Hello?” he called out.
The rocking stopped.
“Who’s there?” a voice asked, and he determined from the timbre that a woman was calling—an older woman, one whose thyroid had lost a battle years ago, for her voice was raspy with a sharp edge.
“What’s the problem? Folks are trying to sleep,” Jax said. She did not seem to be the one for jokes, especially in the middle of the night in a damn ice age. He chuckled inwardly.
No response came for a few heartbeats, and then she yelled again. “Help me!”
Shaking his head, he couldn’t understand why folks just didn’t answer simple questions anymore. Something about her voice—not her response—made him cautious.
“I said…What’s. The. Problem?”
“He’s dyin’!” came her reply over the harsh bitter wind.
He nodded to himself. Of course, he’s dying…aren’t we all?
“Of what?” It didn’t matter what her answer was to his yelled question again; he gave up. Stepping over the next ice berm, Jax kept his rifle pointed in her direction. Pulling out a flashlight, he aimed the beam right at her, blinding her on purpose.
This would give her less reaction time, and to him, he gave a wide-open view of her move, although some of the light beam only reflected off the sideways-blowing snow.
Lowering his voice to an audible but slight yell, Jax first noticed two packs sitting to the side, overburned with amenities that were spilling out of the top.
The next thing he noticed was the alarming color: red…though now the red had oxidized a bit and was more of a dull burgundy. There were spots of it trailing to their landing position, and beneath the body on the ground, there was a stain of it seeping through the pores of dirty ice.
The woman looked up at him. She was heavyset…third notice. As if filling in a “What’s not right with this picture” puzzle, the pieces were settling into place.
“What happened to him?”
She waited a heartbeat to answer…fourth notice.
“Please help him.”
Keeping his firearm trained on her, he took notice of her hands and what lay around them as he shone his flashlight over the man’s body. As for the man in her arms…he said, “Lady…he’s beyond helping. He’s dead.”
Chapter Nineteen
Now, with a thrumming drum beat, Bishop raced ahead, his feet hitting the frozen land. They all noticed the anomaly…momentarily: snow marred by a pinkish-red hue. A beat skipped. And then increased. There was no stopping now. His men formed out in an angled echelon, each knowing his role and adapting to the gruesome effect of bodies strewn. Out of his peripheral, Bishop noticed that one of the soldiers delayed his movements, his shin hovered between steps. “Follow orders,” he whispered into his mic. That reminder was enough. No more delays.
Still the drumming of his pulse pushed him further and so loud he barely heard the boots of his men stomping through the deep snow. The crush, crush, crush…ever a pleasant sound now defied itself.
Rushing forward to where the entrance was but not visible, Bishop wasn’t quite ready to believe it was there after all. There were no buildings to speak of…just snow laid bare to an open blanket-laden sky. A gray mist hung over the area. The wind blew relentlessly. “It’s there,” one man said in the mic. When Bishop looked, he, in fact, stood directly to the side, his firearms pointing downward.
“Do this,” Bishop ordered.
The soldier’s head tipped.
“Walt, do your thing.”
“Roger.”
Through the mic, Bishop heard the call….
“Ted, this is Walt, over.”
“Come in, Walt, over.”
“Well…we’re here, over. And by the way, we saw a few natives southeast, who were looking for revenge, I’d say. Probably nothing to worry about. Our orders are to attack on approach. Over.”
The tension in Walt’s voice was almost undetectable. Overall, he was doing a pretty good job in his deception. He knew his family’s life was at stake there inside the bunker.
“Roger,” Ted said from his position inside the bunker control room, “secure the helo.”
“Osprey…you can’t call it a helo, Ted. She doesn’t like it.”
“Whatever, man. Opening the hatch. Give us five. We’ll send out a few to guard the perimeter, just in case.”
“Roger. Where’s Alyssa, by the way?”
“Uh…she’s on level three, teaching the kids in the greenhouse last time I checked. Miss her, huh?”
“Shut up, man.”
“Hey, I get it…Your woman and all…”
“Damn straight. Out.”
That’s when Bishop’s pulse began to thrum over his own hearing. He knew that was Walt’s way of ensuring his wife was out of danger. It wasn’t part of the plan. The banter was normal, a play to keep things normal. His friend was about to die, most likely, but he couldn’t let that get in the way of his family’s safety.
A minute seems like an eon when in a stressful situation. Trying to contain the massive amount of adrenaline flowing through a soldier’s bloodstream just before a planned attack took a kind of superhuman strength…and breathing exercises. It was coming: the bloodshed…the killing…the split-second decision to take someone’s life. And it was coming at a slow but relentless freight-train pace, and all Bishop and the others could do was wait as the
second slugged by in slow pitiful motion.
Finally, the first minute was over…waiting and listening for any sounds of the bunker door opening…metal against metal. There in the earth, a rough gray metal door with no outside handle lay hidden within a mound of wild grasses sticking out from feet of snow. The only telltale sign were shovel marks in the snow where the door was concealed behind the mound. Walt had tried to convey the massive size of the bunker that lay hidden beneath their feet, but Bishop just couldn’t envision it until now.
This place, which was so formidable and barren, devoid of life, yet had a promise of sanctuary, awaited them below. Their plan was to kill as few as possible. Though that never really worked out. Not in a case like this.
Another minute fleeted by, and then as Bishop thought of Maeve, the feel of her thigh beneath his palm, he shook his head. Not now…And then he heard a screech, a clang. Everyone tensed.
The door opened. A man came out, weapon drawn.
“Hey.”
“Welcome back,” the doorman said.
That’s when a well-placed guard on the mound above the doorman unloaded a single well-aimed round into the back of the soldier’s head before he could tell that though the uniform was familiar, the person inside it was not. Unfortunately, as the man fell, his rifle went off straight up in front of Bishop. In the next second following the accidental discharge, an alarm sounded, and the men behind the door began to pull on the heavy metal lock from the inside.
Bishop launched himself forward over the fallen body and shoved the dead soldier’s legs between the openings while taking cover on the other side.
The other men came forward and engaged in a tug-of-war, while a few others took what little shots they could in the tiny opening at their opponents. Metal sparks pinged from the doorway. Finally, the men in the bunker retreated after realizing there was no way they were going to close the door, and Bishop and his team entered quickly behind them.
Stairwells were dangerous places, and Bishop wondered briefly as to why in the world he often found himself in the most darkened of spaces. Suddenly there were no lights. “Keep that door open!” he yelled in a desperate order and then crouched down along the outside wall. A motion with his hand brought three men forward. A shot rang out below, catching his second man in the shoulder. He heard a yell of pain and then a volley of repeating fire. A cacophony of noise took over the thrumming in Bishop’s ears.
