by Angela White
It was something Kenny couldn’t do, but Marc immediately turned the music down.
“You can tell me anything, Angie. You know that.”
She nodded. She did. “I thought it was you at first, when the door opened, and then I froze. Just like I always do.”
The longer she talked, the guiltier and angrier Marc felt. He never should have left her alone. He should have swept the other buildings. He should have been the one to pull the trigger, and then she wouldn’t be hurting so badly!
As it was, all Marc could think of to say was the same thing his CO had quietly told him after he’d finished throwing up.
“He was the enemy. Don’t doubt that. This is war, and he got what he deserved for his crimes. He should have chosen better.”
Angela found that his words did help a little, and this time when she shut her eyes, sleep came without dreams.
9
Around three in the morning, Marc pulled them carefully into a far corner of Siloam Springs State Park, an isolated nature preserve. He wasn’t surprised that Angela awoke the instant he shut off the engine.
“Where are we?” she asked groggily, pulling on her sweater with slow movements.
“Couple miles from Stonington. I’ll set us up and Dog will stay here with you until I’m done.”
She leaned back against the seat, and as he got out, locking the doors, Dog took his spot.
“Marc?”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want to be alone. Y’know?”
Marc nodded, thinking he hadn’t planned on separate tents or cars until her voice and eyes were normal again. He used his key to get in and out of the back and quickly had the small tent up and ready. He put the blankets and heater inside, and as he stepped to her door, she opened it.
Angela didn’t flinch when he offered a hand, and he noticed it. He saw that she didn’t hesitate as she came out into the chilly fog and stiff breeze, but she stumbled and almost fell. Marc swung her into his arms, thinking her face looked like the man had used her for a punching bag.
He took her to the tent, loving the curl of her arm around his neck, but Angela gasped in pain as images of holding her attacker that way flashed. Holding him tight so she could–
“Angie?”
Marc had stopped. When she nodded against his shoulder, he got moving again.
For a brief minute, Angela was distracted from the pain in her mind by the skin under her fingers, able to feel his strength as he ducked into the tent and gently laid her down.
He retreated too quickly, and she barely stopped the old Angela from asking him if he still loved her. Her heart clenched, and she covered herself up, shivering. She didn’t have to ask. She already knew, and it changed nothing.
Clink!
Her gaze flew to his in alarm, and he smiled soothingly, pushing the heater closer as the drizzle began to fall. “It’s Dog, sniffing for his dinner. I’ll be right outside.”
Angela shivered harder and shut her eyes, feeling small and alone as he left.
Half an hour later, Marc had placed three rows of disks, secured the area more fully, and was sitting outside the tent flap, finishing a smoke and beating himself up. It would never happen again. If there’s danger from here on, I’ll face it, not her!
Marc sighed, knowing he couldn’t make that promise, even to himself. This new world was a nightmare, and he couldn’t protect her from all sides.
“Can stop being stupid, though,” he muttered, causing the wolf to stare questioningly.
Marc wasn’t finished berating himself. She wouldn’t be left alone again on this trip. He wouldn’t repeat that mistake, and he would increase her training.
Marc snorted bitterly. She would insist on doing a workout tomorrow. He had no doubt of it. She was stronger than anyone he’d ever known, and that included hardened Marines. His smile faded. Because she’d already lived through worse. Her man was going to pay!
It was dark, cold and silent except for the restless mutterings of the woman in the vinyl shelter when Marc finally crawled into the bedroll. The wolf was asleep in the doorway, and Marc took off his coat as he crawled in next to her. His matching .45s went under his pillow.
When he curled his body protectively around hers, Angela relaxed against him and fell into a deeper sleep almost immediately. Her fear of Kenny was overpowered by the need for comfort that only Marc’s arms could give.
10
“Do we keep following?”
Aching with the rain, Dillan grunted angrily, studying a wrinkled map as Dean eagerly fanned the fire to life. With the cabin still smoldering hotly, their smoke would appear to be part of it. They had been running a cold camp to avoid being spotted, and both men were ready for a hot meal and a strong cup of coffee.
“No. They’re still moving northwest, like every time they leave. We’ll be able to track them down. He’s not covering their trail at all.”
“Back to Cesar, then?”
Dillan nodded. They had been tracking the couple, waiting for the right moment, but it had never come. The witch and her soldier were too careful. The one time they might have been ambushed while traveling, the two Blazers had stopped for a moment, and then continued a different way. Like they’d known there was trouble waiting.
Tonight, the twins had been nearby, planning to try again after dark. When the hunter had cleverly distracted the wolf and snuck inside, they’d gotten even closer. Hoping to kill her soldier and then her attacker, it had only taken a few seconds to feel the power in the air and realize the woman was the only one coming out.
Dean and Dillan might have gone in anyway, if not for the single gunshot, which meant either the woman was dead and there was no reason to stay, or the attacker had given his life and the witch would be ready for anything. They had watched her stumble out the door, looking like easy, terrified prey, but they knew she wasn’t. They also hadn’t missed her fast recovery.
The twins had finally accepted that they needed help. It was something they’d rarely encountered, even before, when only a cell had controlled them, stopped them from doing what they wanted. Now, a mere woman had hurt them, had made them feel fear, and they loathed her for it.
“Where do you think the deformed bastard is?”
Dillan’s glassy stare went to the map and then checked his watch for the date, wincing at his mangled arm. He had splinted it, and it was healing, but it would be almost useless. “He said every big town along 25. Maybe three days each, four on the bigger ones, skip every other, empty... He should be near Denver. We’ll follow Interstate 80 until we pick them up on the CB. Or until we see smoke after a storm.”
Dean stood up. “‘Cause where there’s a storm, there’s Cesar.”
11
Ccrrraaackkk!
Thunder from the fading storm rattled the ground, shaking the tent, and Marc woke suddenly from his dreams of thick smoke and desperate screams. He was alone.
Surprised he hadn’t woken, Marc quickly stepped out into dawn’s early dimness, immediately finding her standing by the open passenger door of her Blazer. Medical supplies spread across the seat; she was using the mirror to clean the injuries on her face.
Marc moved to her side slowly, making sure she was aware of his presence. He gently took the alcohol pad from her trembling fingers, wincing when she winced, heart breaking at her pain. She didn’t seem afraid of him like she had been, wasn’t nervous about being hemmed in by his large body, but he was careful not to crowd her as he applied the gel she held out.
He saw her tears, could feel the agony coming off her in waves. When she tried to turn away, he gently wrapped his arms around her. “It’ll get easier, in time.”
Her tears were falling thickly, yet even in her misery, she noticed the body pressed against hers. Noticed and compared it to what she remembered. Angela slowly retreated.
“You want to stay here a day or two?”
“And do what?”
Marc pulled a thoughtless an
swer out, not expecting the question. “I could teach you to hunt.”
He heard himself and braced for anger or more tears, but was amazed by her strength when she gave him a tiny, rueful smirk of accomplishment.
“Might as well. I’ve passed the gun test.”
They spent two full days at the preserve, and Angela improved quickly, telling herself repeatedly that she’d had no choice. They passed the days working out, drilling on what she’d learned. Marc’s arms during the darkness kept her nightmares at bay and her heart frustrated by the walls keeping them apart.
They were back on the road soon after, and then to separate tents without a word spoken about it, but things had changed between them. Angela felt it and worried over who would survive the resulting firestorm when Marc realized it too. Everything was getting closer now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
True Grit
March 7th, 2013
Wyoming, mid-state
1
Waking with the feeling that something valuable had been stolen from him, Adrian listened first for the sounds of his flock. Tents flapped, dogs yapped almost casually, there was the soft, calm crunch of footsteps, the murmur of voices. The sounds were there and normal.
He sat up, reaching for his cigarette pack.
Naked except for his boxers, Adrian lit a joint, not cold but aware of the chill in the tent. His watch showed it was five thirty-three in the morning–time to get his busy day going–but he took an extra five to get set. The day’s list was almost double what it usually was, and everyone would be busy right up to the shooting contest after dinner.
He hit the joint hard and rubbed the sleep from his face, thinking his goatee needed a trim. He coughed at the lungful of smoke and chuckled. Tonya sure knew how to grow it. Too bad that wouldn’t be allowed when they settled down somewhere, but if he let in one drug, all the rest would follow. In the meantime, stashes and supplies would run out like everything else, forcing people off their habits without him having to be a cruel leader.
Adrian inhaled harder, holding until his lungs burned. He was tired and worried, his usual state of being since the war, and it took only a few hits for him to feel the effects. He gathered himself, lower mind planning the day, fitting things together for convenience, while his higher mind searched for those he had to believe were still on their way. Maybe they were already here. Maybe he’d passed them by.
I need help! Adrian shouted silently. I can’t keep doing this alone!
The leader let out a harsh sigh, knowing he would keep trying until he was used up, and probably even beyond that. He wouldn’t give up as his father had. The guilt rolled over him at that, and behind it, came the overwhelming need to right the wrongs that he could.
Adrian got up, again listening for his people, something he did when he woke each morning. They were the reason he labored so hard, and he moved faster, eager to be with them.
Pulling on his jacket against the chill of mid-forties, he stepped out into the strong wind, and his attention went immediately to the sky. Adrian frowned at the ugly feel of it. Something was racing their way. Rain? Snow? Both? He would have to use his gifts, something those he was searching for would also have–to one degree or another.
Adrian did a slow sweep of the area, seeing only the guards’ attention on him, and he concentrated.
Show me! he demanded silently, and as his eyes opened, the wind gathered strength. A two-foot dust whirl rose off the dry ground, spinning wildly toward him. It broke apart against his legs, covering his jeans in thick dust, and Adrian’s heart thumped. A sandstorm.
Observing from nearby, Kenn joined Adrian and opened his notebook without being told, erasing his neat mental chalkboard with one swipe. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but it gave him a flash of the determined woman on the way to her son, and he kept his eyes on the page so that Adrian couldn’t read his guilt.
“We’ll only have an hour. It’s moving fast.”
Kenn swept the area around them. Their mountain view to the south was becoming obscured by the wall of danger racing toward them, and the sandy wind was starting to beat on their tents, tarps, and cars. The dogs were now barking in an agitated manner, and panicked animal sounds came from the livestock.
Kenn’s gut unclenched from the boring resignation that had woken him. This would not be an average day.
“I’ll keep ‘em rolling,” Kenn promised.
Adrian lit a Winston, sorting details, and Kenn gave a negative gesture to the Level Two Eagle from Neil’s team who’d stopped nearby.
Jeremy started walking again at the denial, grumbling.
“We have to roll in the camp by at least half a click. It’s too big to protect.” Adrian took the knife from his boot and knelt down to draw in the dirt. He made deep marks to keep the wind from distorting it, thinking the sound of tent flaps smacking harshly in the heavy wind was a warning that few would understand. This storm would kill as many survivors as the blizzard had. Nature was pissed.
“Put the mess in the center. Line seven rigs up on the redline in front of it. Back them in as close as you can get. Make the wire tight and put a bathroom camper on each end. The weight of the water will hold them better than a semi. These two ends have to be right up against the corners of the mess, and then line the other vehicles up behind us, sideways, big to little. It’ll create a barrier. Put tarps on the sides to wall it off. Tie ‘em to the trucks, but be careful of gaps. If they billow in the wind, we’ll be one big sail.”
Both men looked up at an odd whine to the wind, just in time to be hit with a small tornado of dust as high as a car. It slapped them with bits of stinging sand, and Adrian’s dirt map disappeared.
Wiping his face with a gritty hand, Adrian continued as if it was still there. “Put the ends under the tires and heavier stuff. Make sure it’s secured right. Everything else has to be broken down and shoved into the outer trucks to add weight. Cover the livestock and dogs. They go in the very front.”
Kenn was copying–orders and the map–and those nearby watched alertly in the gritty dimness as the wind increased. The sense of something big about to happen was spreading.
“The sheep in the center trucks?”
Adrian’s blade flashed through the dirt again, ringless fingers nicked and scarred. “Yes, here and here. Make the weight as even as possible. Do the best you can. One bag of possessions allowed and put the stickup dome lights inside, so there are no fumes or flames. Gear: goggles, boots, ski masks, orange safety vests–all Eagles on shift inside the area.”
Kenn finished writing. “What about the guards on the perimeter?”
Adrian looked back to the brownish-black wall of sand that was now advancing noticeably, vaguely aware of raised voices as people spotted what he and Kenn already had–danger coming their way.
“Only put them in the front trucks. Anywhere else is voluntary, and I don’t recommend the rear. Even inside cabs, there’ll be flying glass and debris if the windows go, and they probably will. Make it clear that anyone crazy enough to do it had better bring the right equipment.”
Still writing, Kenn wanted to volunteer for the credit, but he also knew Adrian would need him to help with the herd. Waving Eagles over, Kenn barely hid a grin of excitement. He thrived on shit like this, couldn’t wait for it to begin.
2
The dust storm bore down on them like an angry swarm, first invading with fierce winds that ripped tent pegs from the ground, and then hit them with a thick wave of sand and grit that blanketed everything. The sky darkened, turning almost black as it came over the last ridge, and the sand smothered the land like night falling. They gaped in amazement as great chunks of buildings were torn away from their foundations and sent flying.
The dust storm raced toward Safe Haven like a missile racing for a target, and Adrian felt his stomach churn. He hated it that his people weren’t safe, but he loved the fury of nature. There was nothing else like it.
“Here it comes.�
�
Adrian and three levels of Eagles were in the much smaller mess. The thick telephone poles were a great anchor and the tarps kept out a lot of the grit. All the men wore the gear they’d been given, ready to assist wherever Adrian told them to.
“Brace for impact!”
They moved to the center as the winds picked up, tarps slapping violently, and then the air came alive with tiny, stinging bits of sand that filled every inch of the rolled-in camp.
“Damn!”
“Look at that!” Kenn pointed excitedly to a shed, faded red and breaking apart, rolling by in the thick grit. It just missed the end truck.
The winds increased, dust burning its way through their masks, and men began to cough.
“Bandana’s too! Use your shirts!”
Adrian pulled his turtleneck over the bottom of his mask, struggling to stay on his feet as the storm engulfed them. The wind was awful, whipping, slapping, pulling violently, and the air around the area and trucked-off camp was alive with flying debris of every shape and size.
Caruunncch!
“What the…”
Bang!
The men by the mess truck stumbled at the impact as the rig was hit by the storm, and pushed forward. Only the two trucks on the end kept it from going further.
Dust flew up in monstrous clouds, filling the area with a blinding whirl of dark sand the guards could hardly see through.
“Get those edges shut! It’ll rip us apart!”
Men rushed to grab the ends of the snapping plastic, retying it to the poles. It immediately became easier to breathe as the dust sank down to their knees.
Adrian keyed his mike. “Check-in. One, clear.”
“Two, clear.”
“Three, all good here.”
“Four, no problems.”
There were noises in the background of each truck that made Adrian unhappy. Crying kids, voices on the edge of panic, arguments, and as soon as the last one checked in, he hit the button again. “Turn your radios up, Eagles. Let them hear me.”
