“That’s more like it.” Carl and Marcus started heading back to the campsite. “I guess we tell him your story, Mark. He got mad at your decision and ran off.”
“Okay, so we have an understanding?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah, man. Don’t sweat it.”
Mitchell Homestead
Tonya was careful to make sure elder Mitchell was removed from the front room scene where Russell had been shot. Carissa cleaned up the blood while Darrick regained his composure. When he felt himself again, he picked up Russell’s body from the front porch, where Carissa had dumped him, and took him across the street, to the glade where he had buried Max’s body. Andy had come down from his hiding spot nearly an hour ago. He seemed unmindful of the bloodstains that his aunt Carissa was trying fervently to clean.
“Andy, hon, have you seen Kara?” Carissa asked.
Andy shook his head and went back to playing with his Hot Wheels.
She sighed, thinking,
How did I get stuck cleaning this up by myself?
MEMORIES FROM THE GLADE – MICE AND MEN
The Glade
Mitchell Homestead
August 16th
Darrick sat on the side of a hole that he’d dug into the earth. Just across from him, on the other side of the hole, lay Russell’s body. Darrick didn’t even know his name. To Darrick, he was a violent man who deserved no kind words, no memorial service, no anything. Just a cold, empty, unmarked shallow grave. Darrick believed he got what he had coming to him. Russell was the fourth man to be killed in recent days and the second man killed in the Mitchell home in as many days. Darrick was already tired of burying bodies and was hoping that the violence was over.
Across the glade, Darrick could see Jimmie’s grave. It was marked with a decorative cross that he’d made from wood he’d taken from the walls of the barn. Although Russell had nothing to do with the death of Jimmie, Darrick had a growing hate for the group he came from. Hearing small talk between the women in the house, he was able to piece together that Russell was from the same group Max was. Also, he was able to figure out that the two men he’d killed at the Berts’ house killed Jimmie and were also members of the group he knew only as the Omen. This knowledge was coalescing in his mind, and he was actively resisting the urge to run off and do something stupid.
Andy needs you in his life. He needs a father figure to teach him manly things. He needs to learn to hunt, make traps, shelters, survive and thrive. Who will be there for him if I run off and do something that could get me killed? What about Tonya? She needs my support, my strength, my skills. Stay focused, Darrick. Stay frosty and stay alive.
Darrick was hot. His energy levels were low. He’d easily burned through all of his calories and sweated out all of his water intake by digging this hole. Even though the shade was plentiful in the glade, the heat index was high. He looked into Russell’s lifeless eyes and wished he could access the things he knew about the Omen. There was nothing on him that he could use as a clue. The thought of having no answers to all of his questions only frustrated him more.
When he was finished catching his breath, he stood up and walked around to the back side of Russell’s body and stooped down to roll him over into the hole. He was heavy at first, but once the momentum was on his side, the body fell into the pit and made a thump as it landed. It was the signal Darrick needed to start filling the pit. Slightly easier than digging, he knew he was over halfway done.
In a way, Darrick loathed filling the pits more than he did digging them. When he was busy digging, he always focused on the work at hand. Filling the pits wasn’t much of a bother. It was in those times his mind began to roam. He reminisced. He missed his brother, Jimmie; he thought about the care Tonya needed and the lessons he had yet to teach his son, Andy. He thought about his new friend Kara and his ailing father. It was only a matter of time before he would have to dig another grave and bury another person he cared about.
One thought dominated his mind. It was the understanding that everybody dies – nobody lives forever. Whether he liked it or not, one day he was going to dig a hole for is father, or worse yet, his family would have to dig a hole for him. Darrick Mitchell was going to die. His wife, his son, his friends, and everybody in the world was going to die. So, with such a truth burrowing holes in his mind, how was he to focus on survival? What was the point in fighting and trying to live? Why postpone the inevitable?
Darrick didn’t know the answers. He only understood that he had an insatiably strong will to live. His combat training would be used to bring that inevitability to his enemies, and his friends and family would be standing beside him at the end.
Because life and property, Darrick thought, are worth fighting for, and nobody’s going to destroy what is mine and live to tell the tale.
SNITCHES END UP IN DITCHES
Enclave Camp
August 15th
Cornelius was leaning against the corner of the barn with his right leg folded over his left and a piece of grass hanging from his lips. He tried to make a habit of making everybody’s business his own. When he wasn’t sulking in his own thoughts, he would watch others. Cornelius had an understanding that most people in the Enclave did not have. Knowledge is power. Watch people and learn everything you can. You never know when you might need something on someone. Some little piece of dirt, some piece of information might be a treasure trove, and holding it, the power of life and death.
On this particular occasion Cornelius saw Carl and Mark coming back from their scouting routine. But something was different. Russell wasn’t there. They knew the rules. Never, never separate from the team. They went out in scouting parties of three people for a reason. They supported each other, they assisted each other, and they made sure they came back with as many people as went out. Here was where Cornelius excelled. He wasn’t going to approach the two men. He was going to listen.
“Remember, just stick to the story, and everything will be fine,” Mark said.
“I know, I know!” Carl replied. “Russell didn’t like what you had to say, so he ran off on his own. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
Marcus looked up and saw Cornelius leaning against the barn. It was nothing new to them to see him standing there. Everybody thought Cornelius was shady, but they never questioned him. He had Rueben’s favor,and to mess with him meant flirting with disaster. Making eye contact with Cornelius caused a nervous sensation to fill Marcus with worry. It was the look that he gave. That cocky “I know something you don’t know” look. Marcus ignored it, broke eye contact, and continued on.
Carl followed close behind him, being careful not to make eye contact with anybody. Carl was not a very confident man to begin with. It was especially easy to tell if something was bothering him because of the way he behaved. He would look down, not make eye contact, or excessively scratch his nose.
Marcus and Carl were careful in their approach. Rueben was sitting at a table outside in the shade of one of the corrals. He had his pistol disassembled and a cleaning brush that he was using to scrape off the carbon. There was no cleaning lubricant or gun oil in his possession. So he did what most people did to clean their weapons. He used motor oil. Anything to smooth the operation of the gun was viable. Rueben saw them coming and knew immediately they were one person short. “Where’s your third man?”
“Ran into a problem, Rueben.”
“What kind of problem?”
“We went searching for Larry, Shawn, and Max. We stumbled on an old farmhouse. They weren’t there, but there were some pretty ladies. Russell was looking for action, but I wouldn’t have it. We got into an argument, he said he was done with it all, and he left.”
“That’s it? Just done with it? That doesn’t sound like Russell to me.”
Carl began scratching his nose. He broke eye contact with Rueben and began to excessively look around the property. Marcus saw what Carl was doing and wanted to choke the life out of him. He saw it as a weakness and wished that he had never broug
ht him along. Now they had this problem and they had to deal with it.
“Weapons check,” Rueben said as he reassembled his pistol.
Marcus and Carl began to panic. Marcus’s pistol was one bullet short. Scouts were not given extra ammunition. If they had a fifteen-round magazine, they received fifteen rounds. There wasn’t one extra for the chamber; there wasn’t one extra for good luck. They received exactly the amount, and that was how Rueben was able to micromanage things.
Marcus looked at Rueben and said, “I’m going to be one round short. I had an accidental discharge.”
Carl remained silent.
Rueben looked at Marcus with one eyebrow raised. Marcus was careful to look in Rueben’s eyes with confidence. Carl could not perform the same. Instead, he was looking around the property, uncomfortable in his own skin.
“You’ve never given me a reason to doubt your performance, Marcus. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Carl seemed excited. He smirked.
Rueben was picking up on the subtle changes in Carl’s behavior. He knew he was being deceived, but he was right in believing that Marcus had never done anything to make him question his performance before.
“Rueben, can I talk to you for a moment?” a voice said from the side.
Marcus and Carl looked over in the direction of the voice. It was Cornelius. Marcus remembered making eye contact with him when they entered camp. Marcus was already considering an exit strategy. A plan B, if you will.
Rueben always had three or four men surrounding him. It was his way of showing force and intimidation.
“Keep an eye on them,” Rueben ordered. On this particular occasion, Rueben had three armed guards with him, and when Rueben gave the order, the men surrounded both Carl and Marcus. Rueben stepped off to be alone with Cornelius. Marcus was trying to read their lips but he was no good at it. He assumed the worst, and in so doing, he was correct. Cornelius was squealing on them, telling Rueben everything he’d overheard.
The conversation was over. Rueben stepped back over to where Carl and Marcus were standing, and gave his guards the order.
“Take them to the hog trough.”
The guards immediately grabbed the weapons from their possession as if they routinely performed the task for Rueben.
It was not the order that either Marcus or Carl wanted to hear. The hog trough was a shameful and embarrassing place to be kept prisoner. It was located in the pigpen and consisted of two twelve-foot galvanized steel water troughs. The troughs were filled with water and were considerably heavy. The prisoners were tied at the wrists to galvanized steel pieces located within the trough. The ground around the hogs’ drinking source was sloppy with mud. Essentially, the prisoners were on their knees with their hands in the water, wrists tied together, and they could go nowhere due to the overwhelming weight of the galvanized steel filled with water. The curiosity of the hogs didn’t help much either. They would surround the prisoners and bite at them and lap up the water.
For Marcus, he knew he was at the end of the line. Carl had something else in mind.
“Wait!” Carl yelled. “I have more to add.”
Marcus had a deep gut-wrenching feeling that Carl was about to tell the truth. He wasn’t going to allow it.
Marcus grabbed Carl by the pack on his back and threw him to the ground before anybody could react. Marcus didn’t have to think about a way to kill Carl in a hurry. Years of training and rehearsing these kinds of moments over and over in his mind kept him prepared for the eventuality. It was natural for Marcus to go straight for the throat. He began punching him as hard as he could.
Carl’s esophagus collapsed with the first punch. Carl couldn’t breathe, but that didn’t stop him from fighting back. His body’s fight-or-flight response was to release adrenaline. He didn’t even know he couldn’t breathe.
Marcus punched him as hard as he could five or six times before the guards were able to grab him and pull him from the position of power he had over the suffocating man. It was too late for Carl. The guards beat Marcus as Carl lay on the ground, turning blue. He was trying desperately to breathe, but all Rueben did was watch as Marcus’s victim asphyxiated and died.
When Carl was dead and Rueben was done watching the ordeal, he looked over at the guards who were kicking Marcus. He was now on the ground in a fetal position.
“That’s enough,” Rueben said.
The guards backed away as Marcus vomited on the ground. He didn’t care to notice that his face was soaking in his own puke mingled with dirt, giving his bile a brown pasty appearance. He, too, was struggling for air. His diaphragm had been kicked several times, but his injuries were not life threatening. He would recover.
“Now take him to the hog trough,” Rueben ordered again. “We’ll get some information from him when he’s ready to talk.”
Two of the guards shouldered their rifles, and each one grabbed Marcus at the elbow. They pulled him over his vomit and headed to the troughs. His head hung down and the tips of his boots dragged against the dry soil. The trip felt like an hour. Within minutes, the guards dropped him at the trough and securely fastened his wrists with rope to a metal bracket that was located within the trough. The guards filled a few five-gallon buckets with well water and dumped them into the watering system.
The hogs came running up as if to fight for the best position for drinking. When they reached Marcus’s position, they violently pressed against him. For Marcus, it was reminiscent of a high school mosh pit. The incessant beating he took from the hogs paralleled the beating that he had received at the hands of Rueben’s men. There wasn’t enough room for all of the hogs at the trough, so there were some biting his arms and legs. He did his best to elbow them off and kick them away. Had he been any more lifeless, they might have eaten him.
After several minutes, the hogs had had their fill. The action died down and the water ran low. The ground beneath him was no longer stable. The mud was slimy and slippery. Marcus’s muscles were tired and fatigued. No longer able to support himself, he relaxed himself and the weight of his own body fell prone. He could no longer feel his hands and wrists, which were still secured. The rope had soaked in the water, making it all the tighter and difficult to adjust. The rim of the trough was pressing hard against his forearms, which were now shooting with pain.
Marcus opened his eyes and saw a crowd of people gathering around the pigpen. They were spectators. Each and every one. He was the show that was put on by Rueben as a deterrent to anybody that considered betraying him. Marcus had seen this before, but he assumed he would always be able to meet the strict requirements as set forth by the Enclave. Never in a million years did he believe he would fail a mission or get caught doing something that was unacceptable to Rueben. From the day he joined the Enclave until now, Marcus never considered the possibility that he would be reunited with old friends. With old flames.
Pleasant Bray, Georgia – 10 years earlier
Marcus Guy was nervous. He’d made a promise to his friend Darrick Mitchell that if anything happened to him, he would visit his girl crush, Tonya Ross, and give her a message that he had intended to marry her. It took him a year of routine internet searches to find her. He wanted to contact her on Facebook, but thought it would be too impersonal and insensitive. When he finally did locate her, he tried to plan out his approach, but nothing seemed feasible. The moment had come, and Marcus was particularly anxious about giving a girl he didn’t know bad news.
Well, I’m not going to get anything done just sitting here.
Marcus took a deep breath in and let it out before exiting the car.
Inside the house, Tonya Ross was putting her dishes away. In the background she had the TV on and was listening to a news station, hoping to hear some word on the war and when it would end. Since Darrick’s last deployment, she had received two, maybe three letters from him. Then suddenly, they’d stopped coming. It wasn’t like him to stop writing letters or coming home from leave to
spend time with her. She was dreadfully expecting the worst, but since she wasn’t married to Darrick, his unit wouldn’t tell her anything.
Knock, knock, knock.
Startled, Tonya dried her hands and headed for the front door. She looked through the peephole and saw a man with flowers. Hoping he was a deliveryman with news about Marcus, she opened the door and smiled at him. The stranger did not smile back, but instead, returned a solemn look of sadness.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you Tonya Ross?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Marcus Guy. I served with Darrick Mitchell in the Marines.”
Tonya unlocked the screen door and pushed it open, inviting him into her house. Please, come in. Have a seat,” she said, clearing a spot on the couch for him to sit.
He looked about the place and saw several framed pictures of her and Darrick on the bookshelves and on the coffee table. There were no toys or men’s work boots to be seen. He was mindful of his environment and trying to absorb as much information as he could about the woman he was preparing to address.
“Um, here, these are for you,” he said, handing her the flowers.
“Thank you,” she replied, taking them from his hands with a smile. She headed to the kitchen to get a vase to set them in.
Marcus took advantage of her absence and moved closer to the bookshelf. Nestled behind the photos of Darrick were books by Angery American, L. L. Akers, G. Michael Hopf, Boyd Craven, C. A. Rudolph, Tom Abrahams, W. J. Lundy, Franklin Horton, Steven Bird, Patti Glaspy and others. The woman was obviously interested in survival-type books and scenarios. No doubt Darrick had an encouraging effect on her.
“That’s me and Darrick when he came home on his first leave,” she said, surprising him. She reached in front of him and grabbed a picture. “He doesn’t know this, but I put his first letter to me that he wrote from boot camp in the back.” She pulled the back of the frame out, and sure enough, there was a tightly folded letter. She held it to her face then put it back. “He’s never been a particularly talkative fellow. If he would have wrote more than a page, I wouldn’t have been able to hide it there.”
After The Pulse (Book 1): Homestead Page 11
