by S. Ison
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here to take you back to your mommy,” Tim said between steam-whistle shrieks. He repeated himself several times until the message sank in to the child’s terror-filled mind.
Once she’d quietened down, he spoke again. “I’m going to come to the bed to fetch you now. Then another man who’s helping me will look after you.” He didn’t want to scare the child further.
Coming out of the room, he handed the child off to Paul.
Making his way toward the back of the house, he heard heavy wheezing. He followed the sound, and found Chum in a back room, trying to grab getting a shotgun and a bag full of food by flashlight. Looked like the man was bugging out.
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Chump,” Tim said in a nasty voice, the two weeks of fear and anguish coming back up. He’d kept it tamped down in the small locked closet in his mind.
He watched as Chum whirled around, bringing up the shotgun. Tim stepped to the side and put a bullet in Chum’s leg. The man screamed in fear and pain as he dropped the shotgun and flashlight, and fell heavily to the floor.
“Please don’t kill me,” Chum squealed, holding out a hand to defend himself from what he could not see.
“You aren’t fit to live. You took my wife and endangered my unborn child. You took the wives of others. You even dared to take a child and hold her hostage so you could abuse her mother,” Tim spat, the rage and hate falling out like vomitus.
“I just wanted ta live, I wanted to survive,” Chum whined.
“No, you fucking parasite. You wanted what others had, what they got by hard work, without doing the hard work yourself. While you filled your belly, you let the weaker starve, and tried to bully the rest you couldn’t steal from outright. You aren’t fit to inhabit this new world.”
Tim aimed his gun carefully, and shot Chum in the gut. Twice. The air was knocked out of the big man, but in a few moments, he gasped out a cry. “You aren’t going to kill me?” he asked, fear shaking his voice.
“You’re already dead. Your body will take a little longer to catch up. Those two shots will ensure that you die a slow, painful death.”
Tim spun and walked out of the room, grabbing the shotgun as he went. He didn’t want Chum taking the quick way out.
He went to the living room, and saw Paul coming down the stairs with a woman whom he thought may be John’s wife. Bundled in a quilt, her long legs were encased in dark pants, her feet bare. He passed Paul, telling him he was going to get the woman’s shoes.
“There ain’t any. Da bastads took their shoes so’s they wont able to leave less they want their feet ta freeze off,” Paul growled.
Any twinge of conscience Tim had felt about leaving Chum to die a slow and agonizing death faded like the mist on the pond on a hot day.
He followed Paul into the kitchen, and saw the dead men on the ground, the kitchen table overturned. Chum’s son was face down, arms outspread. The other man, a look of surprise still on his face, had a bullet hole in his forehead. Tim could hear distant cries from Chum in the back room, calling for someone to help him.
He and Paul left the child, the young woman, and John’s wife with John, and went back for the last two women, who were in the same room. They kicked the door in, and were greeted by screams.
“Ladies, we’re here to return you to your homes. It’s okay. We are here to rescue you. Please calm down,” Tim said loudly.
The women, who had clutched at each other, began to calm down.
Finally, he and Paul made their way to the bed in the dark, took a woman each, and led them to the kitchen to join the rest of the group.
⅏
“Don’t leave me like this. For the love of Pete, come finish me off,” Chum cried. He could barely hear the others in the kitchen. The pain was excruciating, but the fear was unimaginable. His heart slammed so hard against his padded chest, he thought it would eventually beat its way through.
How could this have gone so wrong? he asked himself. These people were monsters. Clearly, they had no respect for authority and government. All they’d had to do was give over a few supplies. It wasn’t as if he’d asked for too much.
He whimpered as the pain from the gunshot in his leg matched the beating of his heart. He’d soiled himself when that bastard shot him in the leg, and he could smell the blood and gore from his gut wounds. He brought his hands up to his gut, and felt the warm wet slickness of his life’s blood oozing out of him.
Why couldn’t they have just done what he asked? Now look at him. He’d been assassinated. His mind began to wander as the house became quiet around him. He no longer felt his hands, and his gut was awash with horrible pain. Chum moaned and cried, and awaited death. Alone. In the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bridgman, Michigan
Mike looked over to Jada. The smoke was starting to clear. He saw her waving for him to join her. He nodded, and began to move, legs bent and body low. Making his way down the stairwell, he exited the building and came around to the street. Looking up and down the street, he saw no movement. The smoke was heavy down here, hanging low to the ground.
As fast as he could, his long legs took him across the road, down the alley and to the back of the brownstone. He met Jada at the door, and almost had a heart attack. The squeak that came out of him caused Jada to giggle quietly.
Mike tried to give her a stern look, but felt a smile tugging at his mouth. He stepped into the doorway of the brownstone. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s the last one left. I think we got them all,” Jada said.
“I don’t think we should wait. I want to go and hunt him down.”
“I’m coming with you. I can watch your back.” Jada set her mouth in a mulish tilt.
Mike knew that look now, and that she wouldn’t budge. “Okay. But please stay behind me at least ten feet. Keep your eyes peeled behind us and around us. We don’t know if that bastard will sneak up from behind. Stay low, and stay alert.”
On her nod, they exited the brownstone and made their way along the backs of the buildings to where they thought the raider would be. Mike signaled for Jada to get behind a large commercial trash dumpster. Crouching, he made his way to the building, and opened the door.
A shot shattered the door and large wood splinters exploded out, causing Mike to jerk back. A large jagged piece embedded itself in Mike’s upper left arm. He couldn’t feel it, and just looked at it, surprised. What he did know was that if he pulled it out, he would feel it.
Not knowing what kind of damage it had caused, he backed up to where Jada stood behind the dumpster. Her eyes grow large. She reached for the large splinter, and he pulled back.
“Don’t, not now. I don’t know how bad it is,” Mike said. “Take my bandana and secure it around it to hold it in place.”
The air hissed out of his teeth, and he tried to hold back a scream as Jada wrapped first his bandana and then her own around the wound. Mike tried to flex his hand, but to his horror, he found it numb and nearly unresponsive. There was no way he could use his arm.
“Shit. I don’t think I can shoot with my arm fucked up,” Mike said, fear taking over.
“Don’t worry. I got this asshole. He might think he got you. I’m going to go out front. First, I’ll prop your weapon on this dumpster so you can aim at the door. I’ll flush him out the back, but you gotta kill him fast, Mike.”
“Okay, but be careful. Keep something big and metal between you and the front.”
She grinned, then winked at him. “Gotcha.”
Jada set the rifle up for him, then he watched her disappear around the corner of the building. He waited. He sighted the door, and held his breath, trying to clear the fog of pain that was starting to creep up his neck, like a serpent up a tree, and into his brain.
He was jolted out of the fog when he heard the shots from Jada’s pink AR15. There was some return fire, but she kept up a steady stream of bullets. Good girl. Mike watched the sh
attered back door, waiting. Just as they’d hoped, the balding scumbag came running out. He really did look like a rat with his long face and close-spaced eyes that shifted back and forth in a frantic search for escape.
Mike took aim, pulled the trigger, and saw the man jerk up and back, then fall to the ground, his gun flying through the air and away from him. Mike followed the movement, and when the man bounced on the ground, he took aim once more and let another bullet fly. Blood bloomed on his chest. The man’s weapon was too far away from him, though he reached for it.
Mike walked up to the man and looked down at the rat-like face. Blood was bubbling out of his nose and mouth. The hatred in his eyes was starting to dim. Mike squatted down, ignoring the jolt to his arm.
“You killed my family, motherfucker.”
Reaching out with his good arm, Mike dug his fingers into the bullet hole in the man’s chest.
The rat man screamed, his voice high, then breathless, then hissing.
“If I could keep you alive to torture you, I would, you piece of shit. Unfortunately, you’ll be dead soon.”
He dug his fingers in once more, then stood and spat into the man’s face. Jada come up from behind, put a hand on his good shoulder, and squeezed.
She came around and looked into his eyes, holding up the cleaver. “Do you mind if I finish him?” She was solemn.
“No, no, don’t let that bitch cut me up!” the rat man screamed. His eyes were wide, rolling, his face pale white. “Pleaaaasssssssssssseeeeeeeeee!” he screamed.
“Go ahead, but do me a favor. Take your time, and make it hurt.” Mike said darkly, then turned and walked away.
The man’s unearthly screams followed him down the road, and the chopping sound of blade on bone. It was slow and methodical. A satisfying sound.
The pain in his shoulder began to return as the adrenaline rush wore off, making him queasy. Dark spots were dancing around the periphery of his vision. He made his way back to the brownstone and found his pack by the back door. He dug in it one-handed, pulled out a bottle of water, and took the cap off with his teeth.
He took a long drink, then poured some over his face. The nausea began to recede. Jada walked up, and he handed her the bloody bottle. She took it, and smiled wanly in thanks. She took a few gulps, then poured the rest over her hands.
Reaching into Mike’s backpack, she pulled out another bottle. “Give me your hand, then sit down and let me clean the wound on your arm,” she ordered.
Mike nodded, and sat on the doorstep. He gritted his teeth as she unwound the bloody bandanas. Taking his knife, she cut the material away from the large splinter. Then she pulled out a small medical kit from the pack.
“Just looks like a single shaft, not ragged or anything. I think I can pull it out in one piece,” Jada said, looking at the wound with a critical eye.
“Take it out quick. Just get it over with,” Mike said, the muscles around his jaw sticking out as he clenched his teeth tight.
Jada didn’t say a word as she pulled the large splinter out with a smooth upward motion. Mike sucked in and swallowed a scream, then stretched his uninjured arm out, fist clenched. He looked over and saw blood ooze out, bright red. He watched as Jada poured a new bottle of water over the wound, washing out the gash.
The gash was about an inch and a half wide, but Mike wasn’t sure how deep. He didn’t want to know. He reached into the bag, pulled out a clean shirt, and handed it to Jada, who began to rip it into strips. She then took a small bottle of peroxide, drizzled it over the wound and watched the pink bubbles. There was a nearly empty tube of Neosporin in the kit, and she gently dabbed it on the wound. Finally, she balled a section of the clean shirt and place it on the injury, then took the strips and wrapped them securely around the gash.
“How do you feel, Mike?” Jada asked softly.
“Empty, spent. I thought I’d feel better, but I just feel hollow.”
“I know what you mean. I almost feel let down. I thought I’d feel happy,” Jada said.
“I guess that is just as well. I’m not sure it would be normal to feel all happy and laughing and all,” Mike said, getting up, trying to keep his arm still. “Let’s go home. I’m so done with this shit. Hopefully the keys are in the van.”
“Naw, I got ’em. Took them off that asshole. Had them in his pocket.” Jada grinned, holding the keys up, her tapered eyebrows working up and down. Mike took one of the damp clean rags and wiped Jada’s face off awkwardly. Speckles of the man’s blood were splattered across her face. Jada took the rag and scrubbed her face hard, then tossed it aside.
Mike laughed, and used his good arm to draw Jada in for a tight hug. He kissed the top of her head, then let go, bent to pick up his pack, and slung it over his good shoulder. His mood was starting to rise at the thought of going home and seeing Zack. It felt like years since they’d left.
San Gabriel Mountains, California
The trail had gone cold, thanks to a hard rain storm during the night that had sent the small search party to ground. Charmain and Rubin sat under a poncho, the rain hammering down on them. Charmain feared flash floods, and had pushed for them to go to higher ground.
Charmain thought she would lose her mind. The trail of the kidnappers was difficult to follow, but either Larry or Jewel had left small clues from time to time. They’d had to backtrack a few times, but had managed to pick up the trail again and again. The topography of the land shifted to downhill, and was starting to flatten out. They were clearly coming down out of the mountains.
They were on their fourth day, and Jack was getting more and more desperate, wanting to push harder and faster. Hubbard hadn’t been able to keep up, so they’d sent him back to his home, promising to let him know what happened. It looked like they wouldn’t be finding the pair any time soon. It was as though they’d disappeared. If not for the small clues left behind, they’d definitely have gone off in different directions.
Now, there was no trail. Jack was ranting, going up and down the trail that they’d backtracked the previous evening. Their own tracks had washed way, along with any trace of the kids’ passage.
Charmain didn’t want to call it hopeless, but it seemed that way. They’d have to split up. That was their best bet. She certainly wasn’t going to give up, even though she wasn’t sure how long it would take.
At least Kaluchia could take care of herself. She had plenty of water, and her two-gallon food dispenser would keep her fed for a long while. The cat had a secret door to the outside. As long as she didn’t bring dead things into the house. Charmain didn’t relish the thought of coming home to small corpses. The cat was a prolific mouser, and could catch small birds in mid-flight.
Jack came to stand in front of her, his graying hair standing on end. He’d been pulling on it. “We gotta go. We gotta go now.” Worry was etched deeply in his face, his gray eyes dark with fear.
“I know, Jack. I think we should split up. That way, we have a better chance of one group finding them.”
Jack nodded enthusiastically. “Good, that’s good.” He looked around, and Charmain worried that he might be going near an edge he shouldn’t.
“Harley, come here, can you?” she called.
“Yeah?” Harley said, coming up. His eyes cut over Jack’s disheveled appearance.
“I think we should split into groups. You and Jack, head farther south. Rubin and I will go northeast, and Woody and Donny can head farther north. That gives us three times the chance of finding them.”
“Good idea,” Harley said. “Maybe, after four days, Woody and Donny should backtrack and join you and Rubin. Then you guys keep going for a few more days. If you find nothing, backtrack and join me and Jack. If we do that, I think we might come across them, or some sign of them.”
“Sounds good. Like a grid search on an enormous scale,” Charmain said.
“I wished I’d brought my dog. He’s a good tracker,” Jack said morosely. “I left him with Widow Hill.
Harley r
eached over a large paw and patted the frantic man on his back. “Try not to worry, brother. We won’t stop until we get those kids back.”
Charmain turned her head away from the naked gratitude in Jack’s eyes. She was faintly grateful she’d never had children. The pain in the man’s face was heartbreaking.
Everyone gathered up their gear and hugged their goodbyes. Charmain watched as each group headed off in their assigned directions, then looked at Rubin. He reached over and kissed her forehead. “Come on, babe. Let’s go find us some kids,” he said, his face sincere and calm.
Charmain’s heart filled with a quiet joy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina
Randal walked ahead, carrying a bucket and a fishing pole. He could hear Greg behind him chattering to Mean Dog, who was following them to the beach. The boy had insisted on bringing the dog as an early warning system.
The ugly three-legged dog kept up well, and seemed to have endless energy, just as Greg did. They reached the dunes, and Randal paused to let Greg and the dog catch up. He looked out over the ocean, ensuring he didn’t see any boats filled with strangers.
It had been a week since the invasion, and though everyone was still a little shell-shocked, things were starting to return to normal. He turned and looked at Greg, and smiled. Greg’s cheeks were flushed with good health and happiness.
Randal and Pearl had worried that Greg might relapse or shut down after all the commotion. They’d been pleasantly surprised when the boy had shown no ill effects.
“Let’s sneak off and go fishin’, PawPaw,” Greg had said earlier, a mischievous gap-toothed grin on his face. Two days before, Greg had come to him and asked him to pull the dangling tooth.
“All you have to do is say foooourrdy over and over, and your bottom lip will push it out,” Randal had told the boy. For most of the day after that, Greg walked around saying foooourrdy and sure enough, the tooth fell out. It had been placed under his pillow, and he’d found a piece of butterscotch candy the next morning.
