“Yes, of course it’s mine. Now perhaps you could explain what you’re doing rummaging through my clothes!”
The man hesitated, then glanced past her shoulder. “You alone?” he demanded.
“No,” Sara answered far too quickly. “Both of our husbands are back there, just a little way down the road.”
The man smiled, his shoulders relaxing at the obvious fabrication. He glanced toward his buddy, snorted, and turned back. “You got an awful lot of stuff here.” He kicked a loose pile of clothes that had been thrown at his feet. “Looks like you’re pretty much prepared for anything.”
Sara didn’t answer, her eyes still glaring in the night.
“We figure if you got all this stuff, you’re on a long trip. Maybe you’re never going back to where you came from. Which means you got some money—and we want it.”
Sara swallowed. “We’ve got a little. Maybe fifty or sixty dollars.”
The man scoffed and stepped toward her. “I’ll bet you got a whole lot more than that.”
Mary reached for her purse. “I’ve got a little here,” she cut in.
Sara watched, her anger boiling. She simply couldn’t hold back. “Money?!” she shouted at their ignorance. “Are you that stupid? Do you think money has any value now?”
The man stopped, shot another look toward his friend, unsure of what she was saying, then turned and took a long step toward her. “Money! Yeah, I want your money.”
Mary saw his eyes, cold and hungry and slippery in the dark, and shuddered. “It’s OK, I’ve got some money,” she offered again in desperation. “It isn’t much, but you can have it. Whatever I have, it’s yours.”
“No!” Sara shouted. “You put that money back.” She turned toward the young men. “Do you two guys understand? Do you have any idea what has happened here! Haven’t you even looked around?”
The man took another step and glared menacingly into her eyes. “I don’t like you,” he hissed, his breath stale with alcohol and smoke.
Sara glared back at him. Mary shot an elbow to her ribs.
Sara stared a moment longer, then dropped her eyes. “All right,” she whispered. “You can have our money. But that is the only thing that you may take.”
The young man pulled back his hand, telegraphing his intentions with the windup. Sara was prepared. She stepped back and crouched, pulling Mary down with her. Sara cried out, “NOW!”
Luke and Ammon jumped the two men at exactly the same time, emerging from the darkness like two wild animals, screaming and pounding their fists and legs. Ammon hit his mother’s would be attacker at a flat-out run. Lowering his head, Ammon buried his skull into the small of the man’s back. He heard a sudden huuufff as he knocked every ounce of breath out of the attacker, then kept driving, his legs pounding, pushing the man to the ground, Ammon’s shoulders crushing against his attacker’s ribs. Ammon and Luke were holding baseball-sized rocks in their hands and he brought his fist down against the attacker’s head, feeling the man go limp. Beside him, Ammon heard a high-pitched cry as Luke knocked the second man to his knees. Sara jumped into the fight, kicking at her attacker’s legs, the only piece of him she could reach. Ammon held him tight, his arm around his neck, and kept on squeezing until the attacker’s head fell against his chest.
Washington, D.C.
Sam and Bono stood outside the Brighton home. It had been more than a year since Sam had been there, but it all looked the same and for a moment it felt as if he’d never been gone at all. The old southern oaks and sycamores in the front yard whispered to him, their huge branches moving gently with the night wind. The grass was long, longer than Sam had ever seen it, with at least two weeks’ worth of growth. The late summer leaves were beginning to drop, leaving patchy shadows across the walk. The house was dark, the windows blank and expressionless in the moonlight. Although it looked the same, there were a few hints that Sam’s family hadn’t been there for at least several days: the swirl of twigs and dry leaves that cluttered a corner of the porch, a single newspaper on the sidewalk, the utter darkness inside. Sam moved to the front door, tested it, and found it locked. He turned to his right and felt along the wooden railing on the front porch. Under the third rail was a small crack in the wood where his family always hid an extra house key for an emergency.
Searching, Sam suddenly stopped, his mind going back to his first day in the old Brighton home in southern Virginia: Sara showing him his bedroom, his own closet, the shelf where they kept the clean towels, the Ping-Pong® table in the game room. The final stop on the tour had been the front porch. She had given him his own key, urged him not to lose it, then showed him where they hid the spare in case he ever got locked out.
“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 it 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 at 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 helicopter 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 could it 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. “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, look
ing 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, studying 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 weakly the kitchen and breakfast nook, 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,” Sam said to Bono, holding the house key up against the moonlight.
Bono didn’t answer, not seeming to hear. He looked 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 backpacks and stepped into the house. It was as cold inside as it was outside. “No one’s been here for a while,” Sam said as he sniffed the air.
Bono nodded, noting the stale air. “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 kept at least one 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 very 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 backpack on the other bed. “I’ll sleep here,” he said.
Sam hesitated, then followed, throwing his own backpack at the foot of his bed. He glanced at his watch, the luminescent numbers barely glowing in the dark, but the watch had stopped. “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, peering into 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, way back in biblical times. 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 anymore. 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. Freedom 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 did. 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 hospit
als 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.
SEVEN
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 they’d ever been, the adrenaline pumping through them like a stimulant in their veins.
They dragged the two men to their feet, holding them around their necks. The first one, the man who was going to slap 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 of beer, 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 Ammon’s man 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 at least the next six weeks 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 try 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—”
(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012) Page 4
