The area held dangerous zones, old houses ready to fall, shelters of rotten wood that were prepared to break apart with a small weight, all dust-covered except where he roamed around. By noon, he had the area bright, dust and dirt removed or pushed aside so not pointing out every trap in the sand. It was dirty work. Stopping for food and water, he woke Layla to make sure she knew where everything was, including extra weapons and traps. He took her to show her the additional hiding places, where dangerous areas laid and how to avoid zones ready to explode with weight. It would be a mess if they head to run around the field, but it was a hazardous area they knew better than the opposition.
Layla began to help as the day progressed forward, heat and exhaustion taking them before the sun descended. They would start again in the morning, after the call to the General that they had arrived. This gave them another night away from the danger, a night to be together one more time before everything started. Through this, they found a way to be together, joining quickly in a rush of desire neither were expecting but had learned to go with it. Curling into his arms, Layla began to fade as the first trap with bells was set off.
Chapter Fifteen
Thomas
He had found them, watching from a distance as they had made the town dangerous, trapped, and ready for him. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t know all the points but enough to set off a trap to enter the few basements that had been discovered by the hacker from a deep dive into the old records. Some of these houses were used for fallout shelters to see if that made a difference for subjects hit with the radiation from bombs set off through the desert, testing the results before using them against the nation's enemies. He left several grenades, pulling the pins, causing damage randomly and hiding where he was going. He found which house they had set up camp in, one without a useful basement, but nearby, he just had to make it through the broken remnants of the structures to approach the house. The man would leave the house, leaving Clark time to get into the house to kill the woman and set up the house to take out the man before leaving. Neither would survive before Thomas returned to hiding. They knew what he looked like again as the heat had been turning on full blast. He would enjoy a vacation once these two were dead.
He felt the explosions of his grenades, powerful and dangerous as a new set went off, meaning he hit some of the traps waiting for him around the town. Fewer things he had to watch for on his exit. Crawling through the tunnels, long collapsed upon age and weight, he was able to cross nearly a quarter of the zone without leaving the crawl spaces. He would be close enough to the house to surprise the woman in hiding. She was right in the desert, but with a gun in a small space, she would go quickly. The military man he had to worry about given his training, but he had backup plans ready, the thrill of the hunt taking him.
Exiting the dingy house remains, he could make out fires around the town, several buildings had caught, kindling for the destruction he was bringing. The flames might help him smoke out the man once Thomas finished with her, the one who started this hunt, an unexpected thrill unwanted and needed but a rush all the same.
Crossing the pass, he left several grenades around for his return. He cut which wires he could make out in the new light blazing the area in feral flames. He snuck past the trap he could make out at the side of the house. Everything here had been boarded up and prepared for him, not leaving many entrances but even fewer exits. He left one of the small mines at the front. In case she ran out, he would take her out and hit the back entrance.
Pulling down the shotgun, he blasted through the door handle and kicked the remains out of the way. He heard noise everywhere, fires and explosions, but he could make out the movements within the house. She knew he was here and started to run. He wanted her to fight, attempt to at the very least, but it sounded like she was going to run instead of trying to defend herself. A pity, he thought, to enter the house to make his way through a similar layout as the rest of the homes burning around them. The smell of burning clouded his senses, unable to sniff her out through the pitiful house. He searched the small kitchen and living area and found the front door unopened. Turning, he found the bedroom doors all closed with wood snapping from within the main bedroom. She was trying to escape through a window. He nearly laughed but resisted the urge, shooting through the door. He could see her, up close and personal. She was taller than he expected, nearly six feet of angry female with odd-colored eyes and fire already blazing around her in the room. The breaking wood came from the woodpile burning within the room, the smoke a dangerous smoky and then floral scent, something he hadn’t smelled before. He leveled the shotgun at her with a smile.
“You gave me many problems, and now this hunt is done,” he spoke casually, not often given a chance to talk to his prey. This one had turned his life upside down, giving him an actual hunt before his new vacation began. He could give her a moment in the room of smoke and fire. She didn’t scream, cry, or even move. She just returned his smile with a brighter, whiter one as she spoke one word.
The room exploded, a fiery ball hitting him in the chest, sending him back into the hallway through the weakened wall into the dining area with a scream. The fire tore into him, burning him from within. He began to roll, attempting to put out the flames she had thrown at him. He screamed as fire licked through him, dancing into his lungs, killing him even as he tried to live. Nothing was putting out the fire. It kept burning through him, dangerous like a white phosphorous grenade or something. He couldn’t stop it. He only saw her look at him from the wall before disappearing out of the back of the house. He felt the fire destroying him, taking everything within him along with it. The explosion of his remaining grenades finished the job before the fire consumed him.
Chapter Sixteen
Layla
Layla ran from the house. The fire had done its job taking out the hunter, killing him. The explosion surprised her, hurling her from the house to the ground roughly. He must have had grenades on when the fire hit him as the house went up in a blaze of glory. Nothing would remain. She could barely make out Alex in the distance, her head and ears ringing off the hook from the damage and landing poorly from her ungraceful escape from the house. She would live, but the hunter was dead, and they made it. It was beautiful. She used her powers, but it took him down without exposure and saved them both from his early arrival.
“Layla!” She heard Alex approach closer before attempting to speak back, her voice raw from the smoke and pain flaring through her system. Waving her hands, he ran toward her, fully armed and prepared for a battle, to lean down, taking her pulse first and helping her off the ground. Blood poured freely from her head where she had cracked it on the landing. “Where is he?”
“In the house, dead. I threw sticks with fire on him and ran. He had on several grenades, and I thought it would work. He set the house on fire before, so I was out of options.” It was close to the truth. She had set it on fire and tossed a fireball at him, but in general it was close enough to be accurate, for now.
“We need to get out of here. The whole town is on fire, and he left grenades scattered,” he said for the second time since she was not making out all his words. Grabbing the backpacks, she had tossed out once the alarms set off, they ran out of the town, avoiding the fires and traps, to the edge, watching it burn down. The few buildings had become an inferno and out of control. Not that the fire department would know or arrive. The kindling of the homes would die out with the fires, leaving only a husk of the town, a blackened scar to be taken back by the desert.
Alex took several minutes to bandage her head and sling her shoulder that had been knocked out of place from her fiery exit. The frayed edges of her braid had seen better days, and her throat had begun to scream in pain from the smoke she sucked in, but she would live. Once he was satisfied, he made the call to the General, explaining the situation quickly and that they needed an evacuation out of the area with medical. It helped that Thomas Clark was dead. They would be able to find whatever remai
ns in the house once the fires died down, but they had succeeded without either of them dying.
Alex fussed over the bandaging until the first set of helicopters arrived with blinding lights, landing to take them to safety. Others swarmed the area, to do whatever they needed, Layla thought but didn’t care. She lived and was getting out. Soon she would be free of this. She survived the dangerous man and somehow got the guy. It was not all terrible.
Chapter Seventeen
Alex
He explained for the third time what had happened, leaving nothing out as medical had taken Layla in to make sure nothing was broken, or any surgeries needed to be done. She looked terrible but seemed to be handling the damage and situation well. Adrenaline had its uses, but once it wore off, she would probably feel worse, and the doctors could make sure she was decent before they would be released. The General has been asking over and over all the details as Alex dutifully explained. For now, he just jumped through the hoops they laid out for him.
Several long hours later, they finally released Alex to medical, where Layla slept. He stopped to check on her before taking a quick shower and checking himself out medically. He had far less damage but needed to get his stitches replaced and patched up. They wouldn’t be allowed to leave until tomorrow, if they were lucky. The paperwork was already being churned out for them not to discuss what they saw, what happened, and taking care of them both medically. Everything has been made to search over by the military. Alex accepted it before taking the cot next to Layla to sleep for a few hours.
The next day came too quickly, but lasted for hours of debriefing, explanation, discussions, and signing enough paperwork to kill a small forest. Layla would have to see a doctor regularly for a while to make sure she recovered and was given an explanation to give to others about her injuries, but they would allow her to go. The days it took allowed Alex to set up a short vacation in Vegas for them to head to once released. She would have to head to California afterward, but they would finally get to sleep in the oversized bed, with room service, showers, huge towels, and sex for days as she had asked for once they survived.
About the Author
W.M. Dawson usually writes under her name Wendy Cheairs but when she explores out of dark fiction and horror, she uses her pen name. She currently lives in the middle of a completely different desert in the southwest with her husband and herd of cats. W.M. Dawson spends her days editing technical manuals for her day job and is working evenings on her writing. She has published several short stories, a short story collection, and is now working on several novels. You can follow her at her social media links below.
Social Media
Website:
https://indigowriter.com
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/Mauvekat
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorWendyCheairs/
Email:
[email protected]
Amazon Page:
https://www.amazon.com/W-M-Dawson/e/B081S92KSY
Goodreads Page:
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18433753.Wendy_Cheairs
The Thong Diaries
Taylor Dawn
Chapter One
“Who even reads this garbage?” Ian Parsons tossed the worthless scrap of newspaper into the trash bin next to his desk.
“Didn’t you just read it?” His brother Lance asked with a quizzical brow.
“That’s not the point.” Twisting around in his chair, Ian looked out across the skyline of Miami. Damn, he loved living and working there. Something was relaxing about the way the sunlight glinted off the water and the way the buildings resembled perfectly constructed Lego structures. He’d always enjoyed playing with Legos as a child.
“And I suppose you’re going to enlighten me as to the point of this entire tantrum?”
“First of all, I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t throw tantrums. And my point is that some airhead gets paid money to write a bullshit column each week. She or he more than likely hasn’t even hit puberty yet.”
“Wow, that’s harsh.” Lance blew out a breath.
Ian ran both hands through his hair and groaned. “How is it that we sit here on the verge of bankruptcy at this paper and they have fluff shit like that keeping them above the waterline?” he pointed at the discarded paper.
“People like it. It’s funny, intuitive and right now, stuff like that, sells.”
“Grandpa Mick would be rolling in his grave at this conversation right now. There’s no way in hell I’m turning this publication into some sort of porn enthusiast paper. It’s not happening, Lance.”
“Then what’s the plan? Just let our legacy fail? You know as well as I do, that can’t happen. This business was built from the blood, sweat and tears of our family.”
Ian paced the room thinking. What would help them pull their failing news publication from the red to black again? How was it in this digital age they could get the readers focused on picking up a physical copy of the Miami Gazette once more? Ian pondered while Lance sat silently in the chair across from his desk.
“This seems strange coming from you. You used to be worried about only the bottom line. What’s changed?” his brother asked.
“I guess my priorities have changed, since I’ve gotten older.” Lance was right in a way. Ian usually focused more on the business aspect of things and rarely mentioned their family. Maybe he was getting more sensitive in his old age.
“Is that what I have to look forward to?” Lance laughed.
“I’m only six years older than you, dick head.” Ian hurled a company ink pen across the office, hitting his brother square in the chest.
“Well, I’m on board for whatever. You know me, I like a challenge. The question is, what are we going to do?” Lance placed the offending pen on a nearby table.
“I’ve got it!” Ian pounded a fist on the corner of his desk.
“Do tell.” Lance sat forward, tapping his fingers together in anticipation.
“We go undercover and find out what makes the writer of that column tick. Maybe pick their brain and figure out why people like it so much.”
“We aren’t detectives, Ian. This is the dumbest idea you’ve had since we were eight and you thought our dog Spaz could fly.”
“He could fly . . . until he hit the ground and broke two legs.”
“My point exactly. This won’t work.”
“Sure it will. One of us will have to apply for a job and find the mystery writer.”
“You know damn well that can’t be me. They’ll know me as soon as I walk in the door.” Lance laced his hands behind his head, staring Ian down.
“Guess that means I’m in the hot seat, huh?”
“Guess so, big brother. You’re the elusive bachelor. Time to step up and save the family business.” Lance chuckled.
Ian knew his brother was more than right. He’d spent most of his life staying out of the spotlight whereas Lance was all up in it. When Lance went to charity functions, Ian stayed at home, stashed away from every person he could manage. It wasn’t that he had a phobia of crowds or people in general, no, he just preferred to be somewhat of a loner. He guarded every single aspect of his life and rarely let anyone in. When you didn’t open the door, it was easier to keep people from coming inside to hurt you.
“Look, I’m headed to the yacht club. Call me if you need anything.” Lance stood and clapped Ian on the back, “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
If luck were on his side— and he hoped it would be— Ian could pad his resume and have a job at the competing paper within twenty-four hours. If not, well, he’d have to find a new way to save his legacy. He’d be damned if he’d let a silly little column called ‘The Thong Diaries’ take down what took his family generations to build.
Audrey Chandler sat at her desk with both hands holding up her chin. She’d read through her newest column six times already and it was time to send it to her editor. Every time she clicked
the send button, butterflies decided to do some sort of goofy tribal dance in her stomach. Maybe that was how all writers felt when they sent their baby off to be scrutinized by another set of eyes, or perhaps she had an extreme case of self-doubt that never faded. Either way, next week’s words would be out of her hands and into someone else’s in just a few nanoseconds. Audrey stared at the screen once more. “I’d better read over it just one more time,” she mumbled to herself.
Thong and Go Seek
I know what you’re thinking . . . and trust me, this isn’t it. As the title of this week’s column might suggest, you’d think I was speaking of trying to find your thong after it crawled up your butt so far you now need the Jaws of Life to extract it. Even though that would’ve been a prime topic for this week, alas, I have other ideas to roll around with. I thought I’d touch on the topic that has plagued me for quite some time now . . . the elusive ‘Mister Right’. No, not ‘Mister Right-Now’. The latter is the one we latch onto at the clubs on South Beach who aren’t good for more than a few hours of kinky fun. The one I’m talking about is the one who not only helps you build the picket fence, but also helps you paint it. Some of you will continue to patronize the Mr. Right-Nows for the foreseeable future, but for me, I’m looking for long term. My thong is ready to find its soulmate. I’ve tested out the dating pool online and have come to find that unless you’re searching for a guy with a God complex or one that wants to add you to his growing arsenal of chicks . . . it’s not really for me. Also, forget about the whole club scene. Like I mentioned before, I’m looking for a bit more than a quick slap and tickle in the back of Surfer Joe’s 1976 Dodge Daytona. What is a girl to do? Am I destined to stay unattached until the zombie apocalypse takes over and I’m left wandering the streets of Miami as a brain-eating maniac? Please, someone tell me it’s not too late to find a happily ever after! As usual I will take all suggestions on our website at www.southbeachtribune.net. Keep those comments coming and maybe one will help me end my stint as a spinster and find my picket fence.
Web of Lies Page 27
