by Joseph Souza
With his hands on the hood of the car, Tag caught a glimpse of his daughter hanging out the window and aiming down at the thugs. The end of the rifle jabbed him in the small of his back, and he cried out in pain, trying not to lose his balance.
“You take a shot, sweet thing, I got another guy here waiting to put a bullet in his head. Now I’m going to count to three, and by then you better have tossed that rifle down.”
His daughter looked out from behind the scope. She stared for a few seconds before dropping the rifle down in the bushes below. One of the other members ran over and retrieved the rifle out of the rhododendrons. The bald-headed guy jabbed him once again in the back and ordered him to head to the front door. He took three steps before collapsing to the ground. The man’s hand grabbed the back of his shirt and lifted him to his feet, and then pushed him forward. In front of him paced Versa and the gang member.
Tag limped up the front stairs, opened the door, and then walked inside the house, where he saw his wife standing next to his daughter in the living room. The man pushed Versa toward his wife and daughter. The bald guy then shoved him hard onto the sofa. He landed face first into the leather, struggling to lift himself into a sitting position. A puddle of sweat pooled up in the leather crater where his face had landed. The other members of the gang entered the house and now stood behind the bald-headed guy, waiting for him to give an order. They definitely looked like members of a motorcycle gang and seemed to know each other well. Four men and two women stared back at them, years of hard living etched over their leathery and tattooed faces.
“Whoa! Check out the elephant man,” the bald-headed guy said, pointing toward Tag and laughing. “You got some kind of disease, pal?”
“Poison ivy,” he said. “Or maybe a reaction to some bad shellfish.”
“Dude, that’s some gnarly shit on your grill,” one of the other guys said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.
“What do you guys want with us?”
“Yuppie scum. Thought you were protected on this island with all your guns and your expensive generator, didn’t you? Probably got a nice stash of food and booze somewhere in here too,” the bald-headed guy said, lighting a cigarette from the other guy’s tip. “Tie these assholes up, Gus.”
Gus put his face into Tag’s and blew a cloud of smoke. Tag coughed, gagging from the noxious odor, which made him want to vomit now that he’d come down with the pox.
“Got any rope, tough guy?” Gus said.
“Probably some rope somewhere in the house.”
“Better point it to us, dude, or your girls are going to pay.”
“There’s some twine in the drawer next to the refrigerator,” Tag said between fits of coughing. “And if you lay a finger on either one of them, you’ll only live long enough to regret it.”
“Oooooo!” The man started to laugh hysterically, staring back at the leader in mock fear. “You hear this asshole, Slade? We gonna regret it.”
“Shut the fuck up, Gus, and tie these fuckers up.”
While Gus retrieved the string out of the drawer, Slade walked over and jabbed the barrel of the rifle into Tag’s solar plexus, and Tag winced in pain. The man sat on the coffee table in front of him and stared into his eyes. Slade reached into Tag’s back pocket and pulled out his wallet, and examined his military ID. He let out a low whistle and then flipped it over.
“Looks like we got ourselves a bonafide military man, fellas.” He turned back to Tag. “What are you, part of some secret military operation taking place on Cooke’s Island?” He laughed and took another drag on his cigarette.
“I’ve had this summer house for years.”
“Well, I really don’t give a shit how long you had it, Colonel. As soon as I heard the motor of that generator humming away, I knew we had a live one.” Slade studied his ID. “What the hell does USAMRIID stand for, anyway?”
“We’re a medical branch of the military,” he said, trying to be as nonspecific as possible.
“Look, Colonel, we ain’t here to do you and your family harm, but you leave us no other choice. I know you weren’t about to invite us over for cocktails and lobster bisque. And now with the ferries out and the power down, we got no other choice but to take this place as our own until we can get off this shitty island. Soon as the ferries start up again, we’ll be well out of your hair, but for now we’re gonna stick you guys down in the basement and drink all your booze, which I know you got stashed somewhere. Once we split, someone will eventually find you.”
“Not afraid I’ll call the cops on you after?”
“Dude, we’ll be long gone by then. So I wouldn’t recommend doing that. There’s about twenty of us stuck on this island, and by then we’ll all know where you live, and trust me, we won’t hesitate to come back here if you fuck with us.”
“Let us stay up here in the living room, and I promise we’ll fully cooperate with you and never tell the cops what happened here. We can even work together.”
“Ain’t gonna happen, Colonel. Few of us got ourselves some outstanding warrants. There’s no way we’re getting tossed in the slammer, so you and your family better keep your mouths shut and don’t touch any phones. Do as you’re told, and once we get back to the mainland, we’ll call the authorities and tell them where you are. Fuck with us and they’ll find four good-looking corpses.” He looked at Versa. “Okay, maybe three good-looking corpses.”
“Go to hell, Kojak! I’ll have you know I used to be a helluva looker in my day.”
“Yeah, as in look the other way,” Slade said, laughing.
“I’m a medical doctor,” Tag said. “If you let us stay up here, I can help any of your members if they become sick or injured.”
Slade laughed. “How we gonna get sick, bro? Now that we got this nice pad, a little booze and some cool weapons, there ain’t nobody gonna fuck with us.” He turned to the others. “Take the doc and the hag down to the basement. Keep the bitches up here. And cover their mouths so they don’t make any noise.”
“Sure, Slade. Okay if I take the mother and daughter to the bedroom and have a little fun?” Gus laughed, grinding his hips.
“You sick bastards ought to get your filthy mouths washed out with soap,” Versa barked.
“Get your hands off me,” Monica spat at Gus when he grabbed her by the elbow.
“I swear to God that if you lay even one finger on them, I’ll utilize every military option at my disposal to hunt you assholes down and wipe you off the face of this earth. And don’t think I won’t.”
Slade snarled, realizing that this was no idle threat.
“Shut your mouth, Gus, and take all four of them downstairs instead and leave ’em be. I don’t want no more trouble here. We’re going to lay low until this shit blows over, and then everything’ll be cool, and we’ll be on the road again.”
“Sure, Slade. You the one calling the shots,” Gus said, disappointed.
Gus lined them up and wrapped gray duct tape around their mouths. Once he’d silenced them, he led them down to the basement. Tag went last, hoping to be a buffer between Gus and his family. He’d burned the bastards’ faces into his memory in case any of them got any ideas. His legs felt weak and rubbery, and he prayed he wouldn’t cartwheel down the stairwell. The duct tape around his mouth adhered to some of the blisters, and now they itched like hell, and he had a difficult time breathing out of his nose. He’d pay just about anything to reach up and scratch his cheek. It felt like agony not being able to relieve the torturous tickle. And he knew it would hurt like hell when the time came to peel off the tape. It would probably take most of the blisters with it in a bloody mess.
At least the family room downstairs was spacious and comfortable. Once they’d been seated, Gus took out the twine and secured their ankles to the wooden legs of the furniture. He turned on the flat-screen TV and then stood in front of Tag’s wife, leering at her shapely body.
“Yeah, you’re a yummy mommy all right. I like my MILFs mature,�
� he said, smacking his lips. “If that Slade wasn’t here right now, I’d be showing you and the other little whore a real good time.”
Tag felt so angry he thought he might explode. The look he gave the guy would have bored a hole through his chest.
“Yeah, I see you looking at me, Colonel numb nuts.” Gus pulled out his pistol, walked over, and pressed it up against his temple. “Fuck you, man. I had assholes like you telling me what to do my entire life. School, prison, work. Even that shithead upstairs, Slade. Feels kind of nice to be in control for once. Maybe this situation will last for a while, and we can have a little fun if Slade somehow ‘disappears.’”
He put away his gun and scampered back upstairs, shutting off the lights. All the curtains were closed and the blinders shut tight. The flickering picture of the TV threw off flashes of illumination into the room, and every few seconds he could see the scared faces of Monica and Taylor sitting on the sofa next to him. Versa was tied to an armchair in the back and out of sight. He nodded, trying to convey to them that everything would be okay. At least they hadn’t discovered the supply room in the rear of the basement, filled with food, ammo and guns.
Tag turned toward the TV and saw the news coming on. Because the flat screen was on mute, closed captioning streamed at the bottom. The lead story was the mysterious situation on Cooke’s Island. The mayor and police chief had no comment other than to say the matter was in the hands of the feds and that they were waiting for more information to come in before they offered an official statement. The feds had refused to provide any insight other than a written release to the effect that the investigation was pending and that no other information could be provided at the moment. Video footage from the top of Munjoy Hill showed Coast Guard cutters circling the island. Several hundred spectators were standing along the Eastern Promenade and watching the mysterious situation taking place on Cooke’s. Some people had binoculars and telescopes, and there was increasing speculation that the feds would soon be closing off any areas with a view of the island.
The gang of thugs upstairs had no idea what was about to hit this island.
Tag’s head hurt, and his blisters burned deep. He felt sick to his stomach and prayed that he wouldn’t vomit with his mouth taped. That would be a terrible way to die. His breathing became labored and difficult because of the blistering inside his nasal cavity. The news ended, and one of those stupid sitcoms came on TV. He felt his eyes starting to close. The three women were already asleep, and as hard as he tried to stay awake, he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Before he knew it, he fell into a deep slumber, punctuated by some of the most disturbing, terrifying nightmares he’d ever experienced.
Chapter 9
Tag spent a fitful night, waking periodically to check on Monica and Taylor. The intruders upstairs made lots of noise, stomping around, laughing and generally having a good time. He figured that they must have discovered his liquor cabinet and twelve pack of Geary’s sitting in the fridge. They’d turned the stereo up to full volume, and every so often he heard the sound of a gunshot going off. As much as he wanted to try to remove the twine wrapped around his wrists, he was too weak to attempt it. The effect of the vaccination was still wreaking havoc on his body. He glanced over at his wife and daughter both asleep on the couch, their faces reflected in the splashes of light given off by the fifty-inch flat screen.
His head pounded, and his body ached. It was the worst he’d ever felt. The blisters on his body screamed for relief, and he knew he had to get some medicated cream on them soon so that infection wouldn’t set in. Despite the fact that he now had variola minor—a minor case of smallpox—it didn’t mean he was out of the woods yet. With proper medical care, this infectious disease was easily treatable, but without treatment the chance of infection posed a much greater health risk.
He tried to keep his mind occupied by watching an infomercial for a vegetable chopping product. He was never so happy to watch an infomercial than he was at the moment. It kept him alert and awake. Soon fatigue overcame him, and he fell back asleep. When he woke up sometime later, he sensed daylight breaking. Thin slivers of light slipped through the blinds and illuminated the finished basement, causing a painful sensation in his eyes. He heard nothing coming from upstairs and deduced from the time of day that they must have passed out from their excessive partying.
Something seemed different. He glanced over at the sofa and realized that his wife and daughter were not there. Panic filled him. He looked back and saw that Versa was also gone. Wriggling unsuccessfully against the armchair, he tried to free his bound ankle from the leg of the couch. His fever had broken, and he was no longer drenched in sweat. The tantalizing itch had passed, and he no longer felt the need to scrub his body from head to toe with a wire brush, although he knew this sensation was fleeting and that the torture would most likely return. More importantly, he didn’t feel deathly ill like he had last night, but hungover and fatigued. The pounding in his head had lessened to a murmur and given way to clarity and reason, and he knew if he could just free himself from these restraints, he could save his wife and daughter. A sense of vengeance filled him as he considered the worst-case scenario. He lifted his hands and tried to position the twine against the wooden arm. Standing as best he could, his ankle tied to the leg of the chair, he vigorously rubbed the twine against the carved wood, hoping he could create some heat from the friction and burn off the splintery strands. He tried to listen for any sounds upstairs but heard nothing.
An hour passed, and he fell back, exhausted, to catch his breath. He could feel the twine loosening ever so slightly. Or was he imagining this? It didn’t matter. He’d keep doing whatever he could to pry himself loose until he was eventually free. The Today Show came on, and he read with rapt interest as the news anchor spoke of the curious situation unfolding on Cooke’s Island. A commentator speculated that a rare Hantavirus had struck the island, but there was no official comment either way.
He stood up, gathering his strength again, and slid the twine back and forth against the arm. Sweat poured from his forehead, this time a result of his strenuous efforts. If he could free himself, he could get inside his supply cabinet, get one of his pistols and some ammo, and rescue his family, assuming it wasn’t too late. No, he couldn’t let himself think that way. His family was fine.
Two hours passed, and he still remained tied to the chair. He collapsed again, needing a few minutes rest before he started anew. The muscles in his arms and stomach throbbed so badly that he feared he might have strained them. After a few deep breaths he started up again.
A soap opera came on, and he watched two actresses argue, one slapping the other in the face. He moved his wrists and felt the last two strands of twine snap apart. With newfound energy, he untied the twine from his ankle and lifted his foot out of the loop. A sense of purpose came over him as he ripped the tape off his mouth, trying not to cry out in pain. Blood and skin bits had collected along the sticky side of the strip. He sprinted to the door to his supply room, remembering that Slade had taken his set of keys, and thanked his lucky stars he’d had the foresight to hide another key behind one of the bookshelves. Retrieving it, he opened the door and took out his Saiga 12 semi-automatic rifle and a .357 Magnum loaded with 125 grain hollow-point bullets. One-shot stopping power. He checked the cylinder and confirmed that every chamber was filled. The Saiga was a monster of a weapon. Its speed and firepower would clear out a large crowd, and it gave him the ability to use different magazines. In close-quarters combat, the Saiga would do the job rather nicely.
Locked and loaded, he took off his shoes and tiptoed up the stairs. At the top, he found that the door was locked from the outside by the hook at the top. Tag and Monica had put the hook up there to keep Salty, their Golden Lab, in the basement so that he wouldn’t chew up the furniture whenever they left him alone in the house. The hook brought back memories of Salty, who they put down last year when he got sick with bladder cancer.
Tag took out his cre
dit card and slipped it up the crack until the latch popped. He slipped the Magnum into his waistband, waited a few seconds, and then burst into the living room, gripping the Saiga. What he saw shocked him. Monica and Taylor were sitting together on the leather couch, bound at the wrists with their mouths still taped. They gazed up at him with fear in their eyes. On the floor lay the bloody corpses of the six gang members, pools of blood puddled around their heads. He snatched a steak knife out of the drawer and cut his wife and daughter loose. Beer and booze bottles lay everywhere. Furniture had been upended, and the gang had put holes in the wallboard. Scrawled on the wall in what he assumed was blood were the words, The Liger Has Landed! The sight of the word liger sent a chill through his spine.
He started to remove the tape from his wife’s mouth when he noticed a series of small red spots on her skin. Once he’d removed the tape from her mouth, he went over to his daughter and saw that she had the same spots as well. The smallpox was beginning to set in.
“Did they hurt either of you?” he asked, tossing the balled tape behind him.
“No, thank God,” Monica said, falling back against the sofa. Sweat had dampened her hair and dripped down the fine bones of her pretty face. “They brought us upstairs when you fell asleep. I don’t know what they did with the lady who came by. You have to go find her, Tag.”
“Jesus! What the hell happened up here? Did they start to fight?”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Monica said, vomiting on the floor. “I can barely stand I’m so dizzy.”
“Same here,” Taylor said. “My whole body feels like it got hit by a truck, Dad.”
He knew instantly that they’d contracted the smallpox virus and only hoped it was a case of the minor strain.
