Storm Horizon

by Brian Switzer

  He was chewing his first bite of patty and reflecting that it wasn't as bad as it appeared when Terrence strode into the dining room. His eyes darted about until they settled on Will and he approached. His mouth was set in a thin line and his face was dark with anger. Will wiped his chin with his sleeve and stood.

  "Sorry to interrupt your supper," Terrence said, "but it's serious." He leaned close and spoke in a whisper. "It's Charlie O'Brien."

  "Not here," Will said in a low tone. "Come with me." He gave Becky a comforting smile and gave Coy a quick shoulder rub. "I need to visit with Terrence. You guys stay and finish your supper."

  Danny looked alarmed. “Creepers?”

  "No. It's an administrative problem." He turned and walked to the exit with Terrence at his heels.

  Once outside, Will stopped and turned to Terrence. "What's Charlie into now?” Anger welled inside him, squeezing his chest and warming his cheeks. “Stealing food? Shirking? Did he figure out a new way to cook meth in the apocalypse?"

  "No, he got creative this time. He invited some gal to his place for a home-cooked meal, then beat her like a tied up billy goat.”

  "What gal? What woman would put herself in a room alone with Charlie O'Brien?"

  "That new bunch that came in on Tuesday? Two men and two women. I don't know who is with who, but one of the women decided she needed some quality time with Charlie."

  "Jesus Christ," Will said rubbing his forehead with a big meaty hand. "You almost have to believe a broad stupid enough to put herself in that position with a guy like Charlie is either too stupid to live here or shouldn't be surprised when the beating starts."

  Terrence looked at him, his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted. "Yeah, but I can't let my mind work that way. And you shouldn't allow yours to work like that, either."

  "Yeah, I hear you. But Charlie O'Brien? Come on." Will sighed. "How bad did he beat her?"

  "Bad enough. He dotted one of her eyes and split her lip. Her ribs will bruise up nice and pretty."

  Will shook his head and looked at Terrence. "Where is he now?"

  "I have him cuffed and sitting alone in an empty room down there. Todd and a couple other fellas are watching the door."

  "Bring him to that smaller meeting room in the old cheese plant. Alone, just him and you. I'll meet you there."

  Terrence nodded briskly. "I’ll have him there in ten minutes."

  Will gave him a piercing look. "Make sure nobody follows you. I want him alone."

  Eleven

  * * *

  Will was already in the meeting room when Terrence arrived. The ex-soldier wasn't sure what the boss had in mind, but it didn’t seem to be anything too intense. A glance around the room revealed it to be plain and nondescript- a place as sterile and anonymous as a hotel meeting room in the old world. A pair of chairs with a small table in between sat along the wall as you walked in. Across the room were two more chairs between an end table of their own. A bookcase took up the entire far wall, and the near wall featured a pull-down projection screen. A rectangular table made of pressed wood and encircled by chairs for six dominated the middle of the room. Will sat alone at the table on the side closest to the door. He turned and watched as Terrence led Charlie in.

  He wore a gun in a holster on his hip and a hunting knife in a sheath attached to his belt. But there were no weapons or instruments of punishment laid out anywhere. If Will’s goal was fear or intimidation, Terrence needed to give him some lessons.

  Will gave him a nod. “Take those cuffs off.” Turning his attention to the prisoner, he motioned to the chair across from him. "Come on in and grab a seat, Charlie.” His tone didn't hold any anger or carry a threat and Terrence’s confusion grew. He gave a mental shoulder shrug and slipped the key into the cuff’s lock mechanism. He guided Charlie toward the chair across from Will, who pointed to the head of the table. "Have a seat yourself, Terrence."

  He sat down without speaking and observed the two men. Charlie rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs had been and stared at Will with a hateful sneer. Will gazed back with no emotion.

  Charlie spoke first. "Yeah, I know. You're mad 'cause I had to school some whore, so you gotta drag me up here and give me a scolding." He gave a sarcastic chortle. "But can we get on with it so I can get back? Because I still mean to fuck that bitch."

  Will didn’t react except to lean forward and place both elbows on the table. He scratched his nose with an index finger, his eyes locked on the man across from him.

  Charlie tapped an impatient beat with his foot. He patted the pockets of his grease-stained jacket until he found a misshapen pack of cigarettes. Pulling a bent smoke from the pack, he didn’t light it; instead, he flicked it in circles with his middle finger on the table’s smooth surface. He glared at Will and blew out an angry breath. “Look, man, this is stupid. I don’t know what game you have in mind, but I ain’t playing.” He jabbed his index finger in Terence’s direction. “You’re a rent-a-cop with no authority.” The finger moved to Will. “And you’re a pretend mayor that nobody elected. So quit fucking around before you piss me off. You’re lucky I don’t-”

  Will interrupted his diatribe. “Charlie? Buckle or leave.”

  Charlie gaped at him, confused. “What’s that?”

  Will’s tone was calm and conversational. “Buckle. Or leave. Those are your choices and you’re not walking out of this room until you’ve told me which one you choose.”

  Charlie held both hands up in a dismissive gesture. “Okay, that’s it. I’m done fucking around.” He rose from his chair; across from him, Will did likewise. “It’s been fun. I’m gonna go drink a beer and show that bitch a good time now. If she comes crying to you guys again? Well, that just means she still doesn’t listen.” He laughed and mimed dropping a microphone.

  Will’s left hand lashed out across the table fast as a rattlesnake strike and punched him in the throat; the shot was so fast Terrence barely registered it. Charlie did, though. He held his throat with both hands, his chest heaving as he tried to get air. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open, producing a harsh croaking sound.

  Will walked around the table, calm and collected. Charlie watched him approach, still holding his throat, his mouth opening and closing like a sun perch on the bottom of a Jon boat. When Will was a few feet away he darted in and clapped both his ears with an open and cupped palm- it looked like he was trying to squash live bees on each side of the man’s head. The redneck fell to his knees and toppled sideways. He writhed on the plush carpeting, trying to hold his ears and throat at the same time. Terrence had been on the receiving end of a thunderclap strike before and almost felt a touch of pity for the man since the blows had most likely ruptured both his eardrums.

  Will eyed the man on the carpet with an impassive expression. He sighed, pursed his lips, reached down and grasped him under each arm, and pulled him to his feet. Will stared at him, his eyes cold and hard. “You should have picked, Charlie. Now I'm picking for you.” Without awaiting a response, he drove his knee hard and fast into the man’s crotch.

  The redneck hit the carpet again, covering his wounded testicles with his hands. He made one sound, a loud one that sounded like "Gahh", and sprayed vomit all over his own stomach and legs.

  Terrence finally rose and strolled around the table. Will leaned against a chair with his arms crossed over his chest and peered down at the redneck. He’d stopped throwing up and curled up in a ball. He rocked back and forth and moaned, either not knowing or caring that one side of his face rested a puddle of his own puke.

  Terrence struck a conversational tone. “So, is this beating his punishment or is it for effect?”

  Will prodded Charlie with the toe of his boot; the stricken man mewled deep in his throat and covered his head with his arms. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice reflective. His boot lashed out and dug deep into Charlie’s ribs. There was an audible ‘snap’; Charlie emitted a choked sob and did his best to squirm away. “I really wanted hi
m to pick leave. It would have been easier all the way around.”

  Terrence pulled an old Altoids tin from his pocket and lifted the lid, revealing a pile of toothpicks. He selected one, placed it in the corner of his mouth, closed the lid, and put them away. He rolled the wooden swizzle around with his tongue and leaned against the table. “Have you ever killed a man?”

  Will gave him a level gaze but said nothing.

  “I mean in cold blood? Because I have. And while I have no problem in the world with you playing judge, jury, and executioner with this guy, you may not like yourself afterward.”

  Will didn’t respond. He clicked his tongue and kept his eyes on Charlie. After about thirty seconds he pulled the big knife from its sheath and held it out to Terrence. “Hold this.”

  Terrence nodded and accepted the knife.

  Will drew the .9mm from its holster and racked the slide; the noise was loud in the quiet meeting room.

  Charlie moaned and turned his puke-splattered head away.

  Will held the gun in his left hand. He kneeled down next to Charlie, reached around, and stuck the index and ring fingers of his right hand up the redneck’s nostrils- way up, judging by the way he squealed. He pulled the beaten man’s face to him by the nose and pressed the gun against his forehead. “You want to listen now, Charlie, like you’ve never listened to anybody in your life.”

  Charlie’s eyes rolled in their sockets and he tried to nod. Twin rivulets of blood ran from his nostrils over Will’s hand and down his forearm.

  “A couple of guys are going to drive you down the road and leave you. They’ll leave you a little food and a bottle of water. Maybe you’ll live, maybe you won’t. Depends on how much want you have.” He jerked his hand to the left and back to the right, hard. Charlie barked a series of choked, nasally sobs and the flow of blood from his nose grew. “But here’s the important thing. If you live, you might let your pride kick up on when you think about our time together this afternoon. You might come back and pay me a visit. Get your revenge.”

  Charlie held up both hands in front of him. Tears poured down his cheeks. “No!” He spat, as best he could. To Terrence he sounded like a dying goose.

  Will jerked his head both directions again. “Don’t talk, just listen. Because what you need to take with you from this little lesson is a promise. If I ever see you again — and Charlie, I promise that if you come for me, I’ll see you first — if I ever see you again, I’ll make today seem like a massage. But before I do, I’ll find out who’s important to you. If you have a woman, or a kid, or just a few scum-bag meth-cooking buddies, I’ll make them bleed in front of you. They’ll die screaming and cursing your name.” He leaned close and spoke so softly that Terrence barely heard the last thing he said. “It’ll be slow, Charlie.” He raised the Beretta, flipped it around, and clubbed Charlie above his ear with it. The man’s eyes rolled back and he went limp; Will let him crash to the ground.

  He rose to his feet, holstered his weapon, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped at a splash of blood on his shirt and another on his forearm, folded the handkerchief into a neat little square, and looked at Terrence. "Tell Danny and Coy to back a truck in here and load this fool in the back. Have them tie, gag, and blindfold him. Give him a bag with four cans of food, two bottles of water, and a knife. Not one of our combat knives, just something with a blade. Send them by the doc’s to grab a bottle of antibiotics, too. They need to drive at least twenty miles away. Let him out of the truck, loosen his hands so he can get them untied, but leave him gagged and blindfolded. They should remind him that the best thing that will happen him if he ever shows his face here again is that he'll be shot on site."

  "Is there anything else?"

  “No, but Terrence- thanks for being here with me. That's not the only one of those were going to have to do, is it?"

  "No, sir. No, it's not."

  Twelve

  * * *

  Terrence left the old cheese plant and exited the tunnel onto the quarry floor.

  The place had been a limestone mine north of the little town of Carthage in Southwest Missouri. Mining had gone on there from the thirties until the peculiar form of limestone they mind no one as Carthage marble lost its popularity in the early seventies. The miners left behind an enormous L-shaped pit, 300 yards deep and 400 long. Mine shafts started on the quarry floor and extended into the earth for dozens and maybe hundreds of miles. Nine shafts were dug into the west wall of the quarry and five more into the north wall. The shafts, known as tunnels to the people riding out the apocalypse within, were feats of engineering.

  They were enormous, twenty feet high and wide at the entrance, and widening inside into two lanes, each wide enough to fit three semi-trucks side-by-side with room to spare. Twin limestone pillars thirty-feet across ran from the floor to the ceiling at regular intervals to provide support. In places, the tunnels opened into caverns as big as college football stadiums. The concrete floors ran as level and smooth as a modern-day basketball court; the tunnel ceiling was forty-feet high at its lowest; in other places it was so high they were unable to see it without their high-powered Maglites.

  In the 1980s a bevy of local heavy-hitters bought the abandoned quarry, cleaned it up, ran electricity through the shafts, and leased them out as subterranean warehouse spaces. A conglomerate bought out the heavy hitters, who was in turn purchased by a bigger conglomerate and so on until the quarry called itself the nation's largest underground logistical center.

  The warehouses serviced 1100 trucks a day and a disparate group of companies called The Underground home. They ranged from concerns as small as an underground health and tennis club to a cheese plant that employed 250 people. Now it was home to 225 souls trying to ride out the end of the world in relative safety and rebuild a semblance of their old lives.

  Terrence was their head of security. He was considerate, kind, and exceedingly polite- until the time came for him not to be. And then he was a holy terror.

  He and his partner, Riley, had made it a good living as bounty hunters before the outbreak. After, it didn't take them long to figure out they possessed skills much in demand in a world with no law or authority. The pair worked up and down the Missouri River from Chicago to Memphis, running down the men (and sometimes women) who saw the outbreak as an excuse to create mayhem. They chased murders, slave traders, and thieves for both individuals and the little communities that sprang up as mankind tried to gain a foothold in the new order of things.

  They almost always caught their man. What happened next was up to their employer. They meted out justice on the go if their customers called for it. Sometimes a severe beating, sometimes two bullets in the back of the head- whatever those footing the bill asked for. More than once they carried out a roadside execution on behalf of a grieving man whose abused wife or daughter would never be the same. Other times they returned the culprit to the scene of the crime and let the wronged party administer justice.

  They chased the bad guys from inside an up-fitted and armored Humvee. It had fold-out beds, bulletproof glass, run-flat tires and it overflowed with weapons. Their arsenal included grenades, flash-bangs, and handguns and rifles of all sizes. They had a sniper weapons system that Terrance had never used but Riley was an expert with. The Humvee held box after box of ammo, night vision goggles, and a two-way radio system. But their pride and joy was the roof-mounted fifty caliber machine gun that sat atop the truck like a futuristic insect looming over its prey. Two-inch thick sheets of bulletproof metal protected the weapon’s operator. It fired chain-driven, five-inch-long projectiles in a 360-degree trajectory and at a rate of up to five hundred per minute. The shells could penetrate the engine block of a car four hundred yards away. Terrence loaded the shells so that a tracer fired every fourth round and an incendiary round every fifth.

  The method of payment varied. Ammunition was always a popular medium of exchange. In addition, they accepted equipment, food, clean water, or whatever trifle a poor
man in bad times with little to his name could part with. Though important, the payment didn’t motivate them. The opportunity to help wronged people with nowhere else to turn motivated them.

  "Don't ever tell anybody this," Riley had said one day," but most of the scumbags we go after I'd hunt down for free. It's bad enough that these folks are out here trying to re-create civilization without knowing when a herd of zombies will come roaring through and destroy all their hard work and kill their families. But to have to fear that any day a gang of men will show up, shoot you in both knees, gang rape your wife in front of you, and take your daughter away to be abused and then traded for a meal? Anything I can do to make sure the men who would do that no longer this earth I'm more than willing to do for free."

  The cafeteria was empty when Terrence returned, looking for Danny and Coy. He hurried three tunnels south to the shaft where Will’s team lived. Inside, a crew of was busy building permanent living quarters. It took a minute to locate Coy, but he didn't see Danny anywhere.

  Will's son was digging through a large pile of metal and cheap wood and wearing a mighty frown. When he caught Terrence approaching, the frown dissolved and he gave him a broad grin. "How they treating you, Sheriff?" He extended a gloved hand and gave Terrence a firm shake.

  Terrence returned the smile. “They’re lying to me and kicking me when I'm down, mostly.” He looked the younger Crandall over. Coy was tall and wiry with dimpled cheeks and long, delicate lashes. You could make the mistake of dismissing him as effeminate until you looked in his eyes. Coy’s hazel eyes were a shade lighter green than his Dad’s, but they had the same piercing quality and the same ability to make a man melt like wax under their glare.

  Terrence prodded some wood in the scrap pile of scrap with his foot. "You don't seem too happy with your construction materials."