by Jason Brant
Jim nodded, set his jaw. “Ready.”
Slipping outside, I hunched over at the waist, knees bent, and scurried to the front of the first car. I knelt down there and waited for Nami to catch up. She didn’t have to bend over because of her height, but she still struggled to match my pace.
We slid from vehicle to vehicle, stopping occasionally to look around and listen for the pattering of feet or the firing of an engine.
When we were halfway across the lot, the baying dog yipped twice and then fell silent.
“Aww.” Nami looked over the hood of a car in the direction of the dog. “Poor little guy.”
I hunkered down and glared at her. Whispered, “People are being slaughtered by dozens, maybe the hundreds, and you’re worried about a dog?”
“I’m an animal lover. Shut up.”
“Jesus. I’ve never understood—”
The whoop of a siren cut me off.
I rose up a few inches and peered through the windows of a rusted-out Mercury Sable. A groan caught in my throat when I spotted an ambulance slowly rolling down the street at the end of the parking lot.
The emergency lights flashed.
A man stood on the roof of it, wearing only boxer shorts. He held a machete in one hand, the severed head of a woman in the other. He gripped it by the hair, letting it sway around his knees as the ambulance rocked over the uneven road.
The dead lady’s mouth hung open in a silent scream.
Swirls of red covered the man’s chest, face, and arms in a kind of war paint styling.
He was surfing on the top of the ambulance like Michael J. Fox in Teen Wolf. The man leaned back and howled at the sky.
The sight forever ruined that movie for me.
Nami flinched beside me. “Do I even want to ask?”
“No.” I watched the ambulance slowly drift down the road.
The driver also had streaks of blood covering his face, conjoining at the tip of his nose. They moved at little more than a quick jog, both of them looking around for what I assumed to be more victims.
I inched up higher to get a full view of the ambulance and grimaced when I saw the grill.
A headless, female body was chained to the grill. The clothing had been stripped away, genitalia exposed.
Illegible words had been carved into the breasts and stomach.
“God help us,” I whispered. “This is madness.”
Nami and Jim turned around and looked over the hood of the Sable at the ambulance.
“Holy shit.” Nami blinked twice, as if she thought she’d seen a mirage and that it would disappear when she looked away.
Jim said nothing.
The man atop the ambulance roared and then punted the severed head like a football. It arced through the air before plunging into the leafy branches of a tree and disappearing.
Nami ducked back down, wide-eyed and panicking. “We have to go back in the garage.”
The man howled again, animalistic and savage.
“Back to the garage,” Nami repeated. She turned and headed back the way we’d come. “Fuck this.”
I grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the car again. “We have to keep moving.”
“That dude just kicked a head like he was trying to score a goal. There is no chance in hell that I’m going out there. I like my head just where it is, thank you very much.”
“If we don’t get some help on the way, that’s exactly how we’re going to end up. You think we can hide in there forever?”
“Forever? No. Until help comes? Yes.” She tried to yank her arm free of my grip, but I wasn’t letting go. “Let go of me, Ogre.”
“No.” I grabbed her other arm with my free hand and turned her around so we were face to face. “There’s no telling how many unaffected people are still hiding in their houses, hoping that someone will come help them. We have to do everything we can.”
Nami shook her head so hard that her hair whiplashed in her face. “You promised me no hero bullshit.”
“That was before I saw this.”
Jim slid down the front fender of the Sable and dropped to his ass. He had a dazed, confused look in his eyes. “That was Kim. They cut off Kim’s head.”
“You knew her?” I asked, and then immediately regretted it. Of course he knew her. He wouldn’t look as if he’d been sucker punched if he didn’t.
“We’d been dating off and on for years.” Jim stared at the parking lot, his gaze unfocused and distant. “People kept telling me that I should have proposed to her. Made an honest woman out of her. But I’m already too old for that kind of—”
Jim let the rest of the thought go unsaid. He just sat there, lost and bewildered.
Nami struggled in my grip again. “We have to get back inside.”
As if on cue, the man atop the ambulance jumped from the roof and did a decent job of tucking and rolling in the lawn of a cottage-style home. He hopped to his feet and jogged across the grass. The ambulance kept rolling by, finally disappearing on the other side of a fenced yard.
The sirens whooped one last time.
The insane man hopped up three stairs to the porch of the house and stopped in front of the door.
Rang the doorbell.
Hooted something unintelligible, then opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
A woman screeched from inside the house a moment later.
I released Nami and she fell back against the car, her head swiveling toward the house.
She let out a string of curses that would have made the Devil himself blush.
Jim started to shake.
My troops, as ragtag as they may have been, were losing their nerve. The longer we sat still, watching as a multitude of disturbing events unfolded around us, the more likely they were to freeze.
I scooted in front of Jim. “We have to get Short Round to the barbershop.”
Jim kept staring down, not acknowledging that I’d even said anything.
I snapped my fingers in front of his face, and he flinched. “Listen up, Jimbo. You have to help me get Nami to an internet connection. Nothing else matters.”
His eyes locked onto mine, and then he gave me a small nod.
“But first I have to help that woman in the house.” I stood and looked around, making sure no one was around. “I’ll go inside, you two meet around the back. It should only take me a minute or so to beat this guy’s ass.”
Nami gaped at me. “You’re going to leave us alone outside?”
The woman screamed again. The man laughed.
“I’ll be fifteen feet away. Just wait for me in the backyard and stay hidden until I come out.”
Then I ran across the parking lot, heading for the house.
21 – Knock, Knock
I sprinted across the lawn, leaped all three stairs at once, and plowed through the front door. It didn’t pop open as much as explode. My speed and weight damn near ripped it off the hinges.
My momentum sent me bursting into a hallway.
The crazy man stood over a woman in a dining room off to the left. A long, dark wood table stretched the length of the room behind them, ornate chairs surrounding it. Antique china sat at each place setting, expensive silverware flanking plates and saucers.
Fancy.
The woman was sprawled on the floor between his legs, curled into the fetal position.
He held the machete above her face.
Deep lacerations covered her arms, hands, and shoulders. Blood stained her blonde hair.
It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going down.
They both snapped their heads around and stared at me as I stood just inside the front door.
“Knock, knock.” I squared my shoulders with them, ready for a scrap.
The man who liked to pretend that severed heads were soccer balls grinned. “Fresh meat.”
“Actually, it’s Ash.”
“What?”
“My name is Ash, not Fresh Meat.”
I used my ingenious wordsmithing as a distraction. While he tried to figure out what in the hell I was talking about, I grabbed a standing coatrack by the door and threw it at him like a spear.
Jackets and scarves fell to the floor as it flew at him, jamming into his chest.
The throw didn’t have much strength behind it, so the impact didn’t cause any damage to the pyscho, but it bought me a few seconds. He grunted and took a step back as the rack clattered to the floor beside the woman. She cried out, but didn’t bother to scurry out of the way.
Paralyzed by fear.
Great.
As the man extricated himself from the jackets and kicked the rack out of his way, I crossed the room in three steps and grabbed his wrist. As long as I could control his machete-wielding arm, I knew that he couldn’t do much to me.
I was a trained badass, after all. A soldier, a mind reader, and a fucking terrorist killer. He was a crazy man who had answered his phone that morning. He had no chance.
And then he head-butted me in the nose.
Tears instantly filled my eyes, blood ran from my nostrils. Getting hit in the nose could make any man’s eyes water, no matter how tough he was. The blow caught me entirely off guard.
I’d let my arrogance and anger cloud my judgment.
My feet tangled on the legs of the woman on the floor, and I went sprawling backwards.
Snot clogged my nose.
Tears blurred my vision.
My spine jarred as I thudded on the hardwood floor.
The man was on me in an instant. He howled as he lunged forward, the machete driving straight for my heart.
I rolled left as the blade flashed past me, slicing through the sleeve of my shirt. The tip thunked into the floor. My elbow thrust back, the point catching the man in the temple. He grunted and fell to his side.
We glared at each other from two feet apart—two bulls preparing to charge.
The machete jutted in the floor between us, the tip of the blade wedged into the wood.
He went for the weapon.
I went for his face.
My left fist caught him in the eye, filling the living room with a fulfilling smack.
The woman screamed again and finally crawled away from us.
I hoped she would stop shrieking like a banshee. My hands were already full with Captain Soccer, and we didn’t need any more attention brought on us.
The man shook his head, as if trying to clear away the dizziness my blow had caused. A shot like that would have normally put someone down, but I couldn’t generate any power because I was on the floor.
I grabbed the handle of the machete and yanked the blade clear. It was sticky, warm, and made me want to toss it away like a snake that might bite me. God knew how many people it had sliced into that morning.
The streaks of blood covering Captain Soccer’s body, arms, and face had begun to smear because our little fracas had him sweating like a whore in church. He scrambled away from me until his back hit the brick edge of a fireplace behind him.
A poker leaning against the mantle fell over, clattering on the floor.
He grabbed it and stood, sneering over at me. “A poker for Ash.”
“You’re so clever.”
“I’m going to eat your face.” The man licked his lips in a hungry, sensual manner that made me want to yack.
These people were seriously fucked.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” I brandished the blade in front of me. “How about you eat this instead?”
Now, I’d talked a lot of shit in some really inappropriate times, but that one might take the cake. I’d seen that guy play rugby with a human head. Taunting him might not have been the best move I’d ever made.
“Get out of here.” I looked to the woman for a moment before returning my gaze to Pelé. “I’ll take the trash out.”
The woman clambered to her feet, but didn’t run. She stood in the door leading to another room. “What’s happening?”
“Now isn’t the—”
Pelé lunged at me with a snarl, swinging the poker like a baseball bat.
I ducked down, barely getting under the swing in time, hearing the metal zip over my head.
The middle of his torso was completely exposed, practically begging me to plunge the machete into his chest.
But I couldn’t do it.
This guy might have been a baker, teacher, or firefighter just a few hours ago. Yes, he’d committed indescribable atrocities, but they hadn’t been actions performed by a normal, healthy mind. Something had infected him, like so many others, and I couldn’t bring myself around to the idea of killing them.
Maybe there was a cure that could bring them back. If I killed a dozen of them and they could have later been saved, I didn’t know how I’d live with myself.
“Don’t!” the woman shrieked. “He’s my husband!”
I’d paused at the brink of the killing blow.
I never hesitated. Except for today.
As I stood there, hunched over, not doing anything like an idiot, Pelé swung the poker back around and slammed it against my shoulder.
The pain was immediate and intense. I dropped the machete to the floor and straightened out, fingers kneading the sore spot on my shoulder.
He grinned.
I didn’t. “It’s sleepy time.”
I nailed him with a right straight in the nose.
His head rocked back.
Threw a left hook to the liver that doubled him over.
Caught him with a right uppercut that dropped him like a bad habit.
I stood over his unconscious body, doing my best Muhammad Ali pose.
My boxing was still on point, even after all this time.
His wife screamed and took a step forward before giving me a fearful look. “Please don’t hurt us!”
I held my hands up in a pacifying gesture. “I just came to help. The last thing I want to do is hurt anyone.”
“Dad?” a small voice asked from behind the woman.
She turned around, and I caught a glimpse of a young boy, maybe ten years old, standing in the doorway.
“What happened to Dad?”
I didn’t have time to stand around and explain what little I understood. I’d managed to incapacitate the man, and I needed to be moving along. Nami hanging around outside without any parental supervision scared me almost as much as a man drop kicking a head.
“He’s sick.” I looked to the wife. “He’s not going to be out for much longer, so I need to tie him up. You and the boy have to hide upstairs and don’t come out until the police get here.”
“But I can’t just leave Stephen down here by himself. What if someone—”
“Have you looked out the window, lady? People are killing each other out there. Stevie here has the same thing they have. I won’t hurt him, I promise. Just going to tie him up.”
Blood pattered to the floor from the cuts on her arms.
“And get those bandaged up.” I spotted two floor-standing lamps in opposing corners of the room and headed toward them.
The woman and her son didn’t move.
I bent down and picked up the machete, looking back at them. “Get upstairs. Now.”
That got them going. The wife gave her husband one last look before fleeing through the rear of the house. I hated having to scare them, even a little bit, but daylight was burning outside.
I unplugged one of the lights and cut the six-foot power cable free from the base. After doing the same to the other light, I lashed Steve’s hands and feet together behind his back. As I finished hogtieing him, he groaned and his eyes fluttered.
The length of time someone was unconscious after getting knocked out varied. He’d been down for a while now, and I was starting to wonder if I’d punched him even harder than I’d thought.
His head slowly turned and his unfocused eyes looked up at me, confusion lines etched betwe
en his eyebrows. “Wha?”
I didn’t need him calling out to his wife and having her come downstairs and untie him. I couldn’t imagine how difficult the situation was for her, so I decided to take away some of the temptation she might have to trust her hubby again.
“Whazzit?” Steve asked.
I stepped over him and walked to the table, grabbing hold of a corner of the white cloth covering it. “You know, I’ve always wanted to try this.”
With a yank, I tore the cloth away, attempting to keep the expensive china and fancy table settings in place.
Plates flew off the table and shattered against the wall.
Silverware fell to the floor.
“Well, that didn’t work.” I balled the end of the cloth up and stuffed it into Steve’s mouth.
He wormed around on the floor, letting out muffled cries.
“That’s better.” I left the room and walked into a kitchen.
The counters were spotless, the floor recently polished. The smell of something baking made my stomach rumble. I hadn’t enjoyed a home-cooked meal in a long, long time. Food and I weren’t the best of friends the past few years since I preferred to get the majority of my nutrition from yeast and hops.
The woman and boy stood at the bottom of a flight of stairs leading to the second floor. They gave me fearful glances as I got closer, neither wanting to make direct eye contact with the man who had just beat the crap out of the family patriarch. The wounds on the woman’s arms were even deeper than I’d first thought. She’d need stitches soon.
“Do you have any butterfly bandages upstairs?” I asked.
“What?” She recoiled away from me, holding the boy tight to her side.
“Those cuts on your arms. If you don’t get them closed, you’re going to have some horrible scars.” I pointed at the stairs. “Now go up there and find a good hiding place. Don’t come out until you see the police or the military outside.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed and fearful.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I asked. “Don’t come downstairs for anyone but the authorities.”
“What about Steve?” she finally asked.
“He’s tied up. He can’t hurt himself, or anyone else, for now. Leave him that way and he’ll be fine.”
Through a window in the rear wall of the kitchen, I spotted Nami and Jim standing by a white fence, watching the back door. It hadn’t taken me too long to help the family out, but time was ticking by faster than I’d hoped.
