“We don’t want you stranded out here,” she had kidded him as she handed him the key.
His own key. A house he could stay in for as long as he wanted. That was what they had told him. He would soon find out if it was true. Could be that it might turn out like all the others. Foster homes, he had learned, were as chancy as a game of dice. Still, there was something about this family, something about this home, something different, he could sense it. His new mother had stood beside him, and he remembered staring up, skinny arms, shaggy hair, a healing bruise on his left cheek, his eyes wide in disbelief. She had looked down on him and smiled, and he had decided at that moment that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
From that day on, all he had ever wanted was to stay in their home. He had tested them. He had rebelled, sometimes fought them, even pushed them away. But they hadn’t given up, they had loved him, and now this was his home.
His mind turned to his father, General Brighton, and he almost shuddered with grief, thinking of the night he had found out about his father’s death.
He remembered it all so clearly. It wasn’t what he wanted, but sometimes he couldn’t stop the memory from playing like a movie in his head.
Late at night. He and Bono flying across the Iraqi desert in the helicopter, the pilots getting an urgent message and setting the powerful chopper down on the sand. Both of the pilots were crying. Bono moved forward to talk to them. Sam watching, a sickness rising in him. Bono’s face showed confusion and fear. He listened, then hunched over as if someone had punched him in the chest.
He looked up to ask another question, but the pilot shook his head.
“What is it?” Sam demanded after Bono had slid back across the helicopter floor to his side.
“Oh, geez,” was all he’d answered.
“Tell me!” Sam demanded, his voice angry now.
“There was a nuclear detonation. They said that D.C. is gone. They think a quarter of a million people are dead. The president, all his cabinet, the Congress, the Supreme Court . . . everyone . . . all the city . . . everything is gone.”
At first, Sam hadn’t believed it. No way it could be true! Then he thought of his father in the White House, his mother and brothers west of there. “No,” he muttered weakly. “Bono, you have to be wrong.”
“Everything . . .” Bono stammered, his eyes staring blankly at the night. “Everything . . . everybody . . . our government gone . . .” He turned back to Sam. “I’m so sorry, Sam . . . your family . . .”
Sam angrily shook his head. “It can’t be!” he almost shouted. Bono just stared at him.
Sam remembered the raw anguish in his friend’s expression, and how he finally understood. He had taken a slow breath and held it, then unbuckled his lap belt and fallen onto the desert sand.
Even now, he could feel it, the sand against his face, his salty teardrops, the bitter grinding of his teeth. The sand had been cool, but as he clenched his fingers, digging deeper, he felt the sand grow warmer underneath. The night was calm, and the ground vibrated gently from the helicopter near his legs. Inside his head, a thought kept screaming, “He might still be alive.”
But as he lay atop the Babylonian desert, he knew his father was dead.
* * *
Sam stood motionless on the porch, lost in thought, looking up at the great old house. Where was his mother? Where were his brothers? This family that had saved him, were any of them still alive? Would he ever see them again?
Bono cleared his throat, bringing him back to the present. Sam shook his head, mumbled something, then bent and moved his fingers carefully along the rough wood where the heavy paint was smooth and thick. He searched quickly along the crooked plank, then stood, staring at the front door.
“No key?” Bono asked him.
“Not where it usually is,” he replied.
Bono moved around the corner of the house to the side-entry garage and tested both doors. Locked. Sam followed him, then went to the back of the house. A six-foot fence surrounded the backyard, and he worked the latch through a gap in the top planks, pushed the gate back, stepped to the patio door, and found it locked. Leaning against the glass, he cupped his face with his hands and looked in, but it was far too dark to see anything but a few shadows from the table and kitchen chairs. Bono moved to his side, pulled out his flashlight, and shone the light through the glass. The narrow beam illuminated the kitchen and breakfast nook in weak light, making the inside look even more lonely and more eerie than before.
“Should we break the glass?” Bono asked.
Sam thought a moment. “Hate to do that. We won’t be able to repair it, which means the house will be unsecured when we leave; critters, raccoons, robbers, anything could go crawling in. I’d hate to leave the house open like that when it might be weeks, maybe months, before we come back here again.”
Bono nodded, understanding. He also knew it was very likely it would be much longer than a few months before anyone lived here again. Years. Maybe never. Still, he didn’t argue.
Sam thought some more, then turned and trotted around the side of the house to the front porch again. Bending to his knees, he felt along the wooden planks, holding his narrow flashlight in his teeth. He slowly felt along the same crack in the wood on the underside of the railing. This time his finger touched something, and he bent to inspect the crack, holding the light near his face. The tip of a folded piece of paper caught his eye. Picking with his fingernail, he pulled the paper from the crack in the wood. It was folded four times, and he opened it carefully.
Sam:
Remember where we used to hide our firecrackers when we were in 8th grade? Take a look there. You’ll find what you’re looking for.
We really, really miss you!
Ammon and Luke
Sam shoved the paper into his front pocket, thought a moment, almost laughed, then moved. Bono followed him into the backyard. Sam shone his light against the tallest oak tree in the far corner of the backyard, finding the remnants of an old ladder and a tree house. He tested the wooden ladder and started climbing. Six feet up, just above the second branch, a large plywood board was still fastened against the tree. A crack formed between the tree and the plywood, and Sam shoved his fingers between the wood, extracting a key. “Way to go, guys,” he whispered as he dropped to the ground.
“Got it,” he said to Bono, holding the house key up against the moonlight.
Bono didn’t answer, not seeming to hear. He stared across the yard to the fence and the house across the way. “Who lives there?” he asked, nodding to the old brick Victorian.
“I don’t know, an older couple, I think. The Hendricks used to live there, but they moved away about the time I joined the army. Don’t remember who lives there now.”
Bono answered slowly. “They’re watching us,” he said. “Top window, on the right side.”
Sam didn’t turn but instead began to pace around the grass, moving toward the tree to position himself on Bono’s other side. Bono turned toward him, allowing Sam to look over his shoulder at the house next door. Sam quickly surveyed the old home, his eyes stopping on the second-floor window. Someone was standing there. She stared down, not moving as she watched them in the moonlight.
Sam shrugged, then turned toward the house. “Come on,” he said.
The key opened the front door. The two soldiers grabbed their packs and stepped into the house. It was as cold inside as it was out. “No one’s been here for a while,” Sam said as he sniffed the air.
Bono nodded, noting the staleness. “Your mom got any candles?” he asked.
“Hundreds,” Sam said as he moved to the kitchen cupboard. “She was a preparedness freak. The entire Russian army could survive here for years on the food and supplies in the basement storage.”
He reached to a second shelf in one of the kitchen cabinets, shifted his flashlight, found a box of eight-inch candles, and pulled it down. Sam fingered the nearly empty box, pulled out his Bic (every soldier ke
pt at least a single lighter in his pocket), and lit one of the two remaining candles. Its soft light filled the room.
The house was empty and dark and lonely. And it seemed so big. Way too big for just the two of them. Way too big in the dark. The soldiers walked from room to room. Everything seemed in perfect condition, nothing out of place. Sam called out occasionally, “Mom? Ammon? Luke?” It was obvious that no one was there, but he wanted to hear the sound of their names. They walked through every room except the basement, finding nothing that would give them any indication of the whereabouts of Sam’s family, then found themselves in the kitchen again.
“So?” Sam asked as he looked around. “What do you think?”
“I think we’ve got some long, long days ahead of us and we need to get some sleep,” Bono answered. “There’s nothing we can do now. We need to save the candle. We ought to go to bed.”
Sam suddenly felt exhausted. “Come on,” he said.
He led the way upstairs. His parents’ bedroom was on the left. Ahead of him, at the top of the stairs, was the bedroom he and his brothers had shared since they were teenagers. There was another room to the right, an unused guest room, and he pointed toward it. “There’s a good bed in that bedroom down the hallway. I’ll sleep in here.”
Bono didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed back the door to the boys’ room and saw two beds. “You going to sleep in here?” he asked.
Sam nodded. “That’s my old bed over there.”
Bono walked into the room and dropped his pack on the other bed. “I’ll sleep here,” he said.
Sam hesitated, then followed, throwing his own pack at the foot of his bed. He glanced at his watch, the luminescent numbers barely glowing in the dark, but it had quit. “I’d guess it’s almost midnight,” he said.
“We’ll sleep until sunlight. Not much we can do in the dark. Then we’ll take a look around, see what we can find. Your family must have left you something, a message, a letter, something to let you know what happened and what their plan is. We’ll find it in the morning, then decide what to do from there.”
Sam slumped onto his mattress. “Yeah, they surely left me something . . .”
They lay atop their beds, staring at the dark, the gentle wind blowing through the sycamore trees outside the window. “I wanted to ask you something,” Sam said as he listened to the wind.
“What’s that?”
“We’ve been talking, you know, about all the things that used to happen back in the old days. The early days of the Church, but back in the Bible times too. It seems there were a lot more—you know—miracles, I guess. Strange things used to happen. People were healed. Amazing revelations. Angels. All sorts of things. You don’t see things like that happen so much any longer. Is there a reason why?”
Bono thought for a long time. When he answered, his voice was tired and he spoke slowly. “I don’t know for certain, Sam. I think there are miracles like in the old days, I know that I have seen some, but people might not talk about them. The Church itself is a miracle, one we might not appreciate. It also might be that we don’t need the miracles quite as much as they used to. Back in the old days, there was more danger. God required much more of a physical sacrifice of his people, so maybe he helped them a little more in that way. Then life got easier, medicine and science grew. We have great doctors and hospitals now. Maybe the Lord expects us to use the tools he has given us, whereas back then they didn’t have anything but faith.”
Sam thought, then rolled over on his bed. “You want to know what I think?” he asked.
Bono barely grunted.
“I think that times have changed now. I think that pretty soon, the only thing we’re going to have is faith. The power of darkness is increasing, but I think God’s power is getting greater too.”
“I think you’re right,” Bono answered slowly.
Seconds later, he was asleep.
Interstate 65
Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago
Luke and Ammon worked together. They were quick and efficient but also panting with exertion, for they were as tense as they’d ever been, the adrenaline pumping through them like a narcotic in their veins.
They dragged the two men to their feet, holding them around their necks. The first one, the man who had slapped their mother, was tall and lanky, but weak and fine-boned. The second man was smaller, with a roll of baby fat still tucked around his middle. They smelled like beer and peppermint and tacos, and their eyes were blurry from the beating they had taken.
Ammon’s man cursed and halfheartedly tried to fight him, swinging slowly through the air, but Ammon squeezed his throat and shook him and he folded instantly, gasping as he clutched his chest. The broken ribs would heal, but not for a long time, and every breath he took for the next three months would remind him of this night.
“What are you doing!” Ammon shouted, rage and adrenaline pushing him to the very edge of control. “What are you doing, man!”
The man swallowed against the tightening grip against
his throat. “We were . . . just . . . you know . . . looking
around . . .”
“You picked the wrong guys to fool with! You picked the wrong woman to assault! I’d just as soon kill you now as look at you, you stupid, retching fool.”
“It’s . . .” the beaten man took a tiny breath and grimaced. “It’s cool, man, we were just . . .”
“Shut up!” Ammon screamed into his ear.
“Listen, Sergeant Black,” Luke hissed to his brother from the darkness. “We’ve been back from Afghanistan a real long time. I haven’t killed a man in weeks now. ”
“Shut up!” Ammon shouted. “Shut up, Sergeant Smith. Shut up and let me think!”
The battered man began to tremble against his arm.
Ammon shot a glance to the inside of their car, thinking of the gold coins and cash hidden there. They hadn’t found it. Not yet. But they surely would have, if Ammon and Luke hadn’t come when they did.
Shoving the attacker, Ammon pushed him toward the shattered window of their car, pointing to the rumpled bedding and scattered clothes. Everything had been dumped out: their suitcases, the food and water, everything searched and thrown about. The two men obviously weren’t thinking of survival—it hadn’t even entered their stupored minds. Beer and money were the only things they had been considering, that was pretty clear.
Ammon glanced to Luke, barely able to see him in the dark. Luke held the smaller man from behind, his arm around his throat, one hand viciously grabbing his head by a handful of hair. Ammon turned toward his mother. “Are you okay, Mom?” he asked, his voice a growl.
His mother touched her lip. “I’m okay, Ammon,” she answered quietly, seemingly defeated and in shock.
Unlike her two sons, she wasn’t pretending. The attacker’s angry words and slap across the face had sucked the life out of her, leaving her weak and helpless as she stared at her sons. Sara had lived a peaceful life, a quiet life, and the possibility of being attacked in anger had never really crossed her mind. She had never been hit, not so much as a single time in her life, and she felt violated and helpless at what had happened to her.
“Let’s just kill them,” Luke sneered again, shaking the stranger he was holding by the hair. “Let’s just kill them and leave them out here. No one’s going to come looking for them. There’ll be no police, no investigation. And we could always claim that we had to kill them in self-defense.”
Ammon felt the man struggle against him and he tightened his grip, squeezing against his neck. The stranger bent his legs, dropping his weight against Ammon’s arms, fighting to get away, but Ammon dropped with him, both of them landing on their knees. He pulled his arm into a death grip and felt the man grow weak. He seemed to think for a moment, then nodded to his mother.
“All right. Get the gun, Mom,” he said in a deadly voice.
Sara hesitated. He sounded so serious, she was starting to believe him. “No, Ammon, you can’t kill
them . . .”
“GET IT, MOM!” Ammon screamed.
Sara didn’t move.
Mary stepped toward Ammon, trying to remember the things he had told her to say. “I know this type,” she said, her voice cold and unfeeling. “I think you ought to kill them. If you don’t do it, they’ll be back. We’ll have to deal with them later. They’ll follow us and give us trouble—or if not us, then someone else. They’ll give the world nothing but trouble now. It’d be better off without them.”
“You got that right,” Ammon hissed. “Go on, Mom, get the gun.”
The man cried again, his ribs on fire, every breath, every movement sending jolts of anguish all through his chest. Ammon squeezed against his back and he went limp. His lips were growing blue now, his broken ribs struggling to give his lungs room to breathe. “No, no, no,” he begged, as if believing for the first time that he was just a few seconds from death. “Please, you don’t have to do this.” He started crying, his voice drunk and thick. He took a painful breath and sobbed. “We didn’t mean nothing, okay. We’ll go. We’ll get out of here. I promise you, you’ll never see us again.”
“The only way I’m going to see you again is if I dig you up,” Ammon snarled. He squeezed against the attacker’s neck again and pulled him to his feet. “I could shoot you now or save the bullet and just strangle you.”
Luke almost started laughing. That line was just too much. Like something from a Clint Eastwood movie. Ammon was so into this role.
These two men were no threat to them any longer, he could see that. Drunk, defeated, and scared, they were two young bulls who’d just been branded with a very hot iron.
The man stammered in fear, “I swear to you, we’re sorry. I swear it to you, man, you’ll never see us again.”
Ammon pulled again. “I hope I do,” he whispered in his ear. “If I see you, I can kill you. I will kill you. Is there any doubt in your mind?”
“No, man. You’re crazy. You’re some crazy, wagged-out soldier. I got no doubt at all.”
The Great and Terrible Page 104
