“Okay, so what do we do?” I ask, watching the doorway through squinted eyes for any signs of movement.
“We can’t just burst through, especially if there’s someone on the other side. I’ll use the edge of the doorway as cover and shoot around the corner until the room is cleared. Meanwhile…” She points at a small window a meter or so to the left of the doorway. “You’re going to attack through that window. We’ll take whoever’s in there from two different sides, and when the room’s clear, we’ll move inside and take the house room by room.”
I shift my weight to the side and turn my head to look at the window. It’s about half a meter above the ground, and roughly a meter wide. It’s too far away to see what’s on the other side from here, but I can make out the rough outlines of the fixtures of the room beyond.
“You can pick them off while I keep them busy from the doorway. Keep low and fire at them over the window ledge.”
I open my mouth to say that I’m not sure about the safety of her plan, but before I can voice anything, she climbs to her feet and, keeping herself in a crouching stance, starts running through the shadow of the barn to the back of the house. She gets about two feet away from me, then stops and glares at me over her shoulder.
“Hurry up,” she mouths silently. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get out of here!”
I swallow and force the building anxiety into a pit in the back of my mind, and then I take one last look at my gun to make sure the safety is off. Satisfied that it’s ready to fire, I gulp air one more time and then climb to my feet. Suddenly, my spine tingles with the realization of what I’m about to do and the trepidation starts to mingle with a bizarre feeling of excitement. I raise my gun to eye level, holding it out in front of me like a torch lighting the way, and run after Jessica, about to put my life on the line yet again.
“I’m here for you, you bastards!” Jessica shouts as she throws herself against the door frame and fires a burst of rounds around her shoulder.
“Lionel, get to the window!”
I hear panicked shouting from inside the homestead and then a hammering of gunfire. The door frame shudders as bullets pound into it and Jessica swivels around the corner to lean up against the outside wall, swearing.
She edges the tip of her rifle through the door and shoots blindly into the kitchen. More shouting emanates from inside, followed by a crash of breaking glass and the spatter of returning fire. I raise the barrel of my handgun to eye level and rush towards the window.
As Jessica stops firing to reload, I vault onto the weathered verandah. It takes a few seconds to orient myself as another barrage of gunfire assaults my eardrums, but I manage to pull myself up against the wall, only a few inches or so from the window ledge and…
“Hey! There’s another one coming there!”
A heavy-set man dressed in ragged hunting attire leans out of the hole and jabs the edge of a shotgun over the ledge. He takes a moment to leer in hatred and then his finger starts to depress on the trigger.
Shit! Get down!
I throw myself forward at the space under the ledge and my right shoulder slams painfully into the hard brick. The top of my head grazes the underside of the windowsill, and a pinprick of blood drops onto my knee. Something painful stabs at the nerves in my pain, and I just barely manage to stop myself reeling forward from the shock.
“You’ve made a big mistake!” growls the marauder above. He tilts the tip of the shotgun down. Blinking away the pain, I flatten myself against the wall.
He fires. The shell tears into the verandah, only an inch away from my left knee and a chunk of the wood launches into the air as scattering splinters.
The marauder laughs coldly. I see the tip of the shotgun withdraw into the window, and then I hear the click of another round being dropped into the barrel.
Beside me, Jessica ducks to avoid a bullet that sails over her head into the side of the door frame. She turns her head to me and shouts something, waving her hands. I can’t hear it in the commotion.
“You’re trapped, fuck head!” shouts the marauder in the window. He thrusts the shotgun out again. It starts to tilt.
Jessica points frantically at the window. She mouths something.
My head hurts. I shake it to fight off the pain.
The shotgun points right down, ready to blow out the top of my skull.
Work, brain!
Something clicks.
Now! Get him now!
I aim my handgun up above my head and fire twice. Something inside the house is wrenched loose and falls, making a loud crash, and the marauder swears loudly, pulling the shotgun away.
I raise my body higher and lean over the ledge.
The marauder, slowly backing away, leers with hatred as he sees me. He cocks the shotgun and points it at me.
I throw my gun out in front of me and fire again. Then again. The first bullet is slightly to the side, and digs itself into a plaster wall. The second is a direct hit.
Ochre blood spurts from a cavity in the marauder’s neck and he flails on the spot, screaming. He tries to steady himself, and, his shirt rapidly turning red with his blood, points his weapon in my direction.
I fire one more time. His skull tears in half with a sickening squelch. Flakes of skin and pulpy flesh stick to the wall behind him, and his still flailing body tumbles backwards over a wooden table.
I stand up, and lean in through the window. There are two more men, their backs turned to me, firing at what’s left of Jessica’s door frame.
“Hey!” I shout.
The closest one turns around. He sees the corpse of his friend, slowly convulsing, on the table. His face contorts in anger as he trains an assault rifle in my direction. He opens his mouth to shout something.
I shift my gun slightly to the left and pull the trigger, sending a bullet into his torso. He gasps out something illegible, stares at me with a look of disbelief, then coughs out blood and sinks slowly to the floor.
The marauder next to him hears the thud. He spins around on the spot and fires his semiautomatic. I swerve to the right and hide behind the edge of the window frame as the bullet speeds out and hits a sun bleached column behind me.
I move back in front of the window and, as his fingers start to pull the trigger once more, fire.
My revolver releases a feeble click.
My heart stops beating.
How many bullets have I fired?
Five? Six?
Empty!
The marauder smiles a cold smile.
The firing hammer on his gun begins to retract into the air.
I’m dead.
I dimly notice the shadow, moving up behind him.
A gun fires. I close my eyes.
Silence.
I hear the thump of a body slumping to the floor. I open my eyes. The marauder is face down in front of me, his lifeless eyes contemplating the pool of blood forming around his head.
Jessica stands over him. She’s smiling.
“Looks like you owe me one.”
Chapter Eight
We spend the next minute silently going through the bodies of the marauders. I find a brass key in a jacket pocket, which Jessica immediately snatches from me.
She bundles up their weapons—a shotgun and a semiautomatic handgun—and stows them in the rucksack she carries over her shoulder, and then thrusts the remaining assault rifle into my hands, along with a handful of liberated clips.
“You take this one,” she says. “It’s the same model as mine—an old police service weapon—and, seeing as how six bullets doesn’t seem to be enough for you, you might need it.”
I accept it gratefully, cocking it and aiming down the sights at a crack in the wall. It’s a lot heavier than my revolver, and it takes a little more e
ffort to hold it steady, but it isn’t unwieldy, and I feel like I can manage it. Something about the weight of it in my hands makes me eager to confront more marauders.
“What now?” I say. “Where’s your friend?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Cellar, attic, could be anywhere. We’ll just have to search the house one room at a time until we find him.”
“Are you sure he’s here?”
“Why would I risk my life shooting my way in here if I wasn’t sure? This is the only known hostile group in this area.”
“Can you be sure about that? Claire and I have encountered people like this everywhere we’ve been so far. They’re everywhere. We even have a name for them: marauders.”
She sighs.
“Okay, look. He was investigating this specific group. He even radioed back to say they were based in this house. Yeah, you’re right. There are other groups like this. More…marauders, as you say, but we keep tabs on them, and this is the only known group in this area. So you can say I’m pretty damn sure.”
“You keep tabs on them? Why were you investigating these people?”
“Can you stop with the questions, Lionel? This isn’t the time or the place. We keep tabs on the marauders because they’re dangerous savages, and the group based in this house has been particularly monstrous lately. New City’s only a day’s walk from here, and—”
“So you are from the city! What are you, a soldier or a cop of some kind?”
“Lionel…” She shoots me a tired frown. “Not now.”
She crosses the ruined kitchen, into a narrow hallway on the other side. I follow behind, without talking. We move past a decaying living room that’s been turned into a makeshift quarters, with sleeping bags and soiled mattresses scattered across the floor. A moth-eaten sofa sits against the back wall, next to a broken coffee table that’s been shoved to the side of the room. We stop and look at a faded Monopoly board laid across it, where the game pieces are spilled haphazardly, as if they were brushed aside in a hurry mid-game.
“You think they play board games?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t they?” she replies, shaking her head.
We come to another doorway, opening into an uneasy-looking staircase that leads to the second floor.
Jessica places a foot on the bottommost stair. As her weight presses down, the entire staircase shudders with a deep-throated lurch. Above the ceiling, something makes a loud bump, and then we hear the creak of a wooden door being quickly pulled shut.
Jessica moves onto the second stair, causing another lurch. She brings her rifle to her left eye and holds it closely as she takes another step, scanning the second-floor landing cautiously.
More hurried shuffling upstairs. I hear the indecipherable hum of a man’s voice, muffled by a thick layer of wood and plaster.
Jessica stops moving, and we pause to listen. Only some of the words can be made out:
“Coming…maybe…on the stairs.”
“No, get away. They won’t look! Hide!”
“But…what if they find—?”
“Shut up! They’ll hear!”
Jessica moves to the fourth step. She turns to face me, and mouths an instruction.
“Follow. Stay close. When we get to the top…” She taps her chest and points to the left, then points at me, and motions to the right. “Stay quiet. Shoot on sight.”
We slowly ascend the stairs, our eyes on the space above the landing. The wood groans under our weight each time we take a step forward and precariously wobbles. It feels like it’s going to fall down at any moment, but I have more clearly present dangers to worry about.
We reach the halfway point between the bottom and the top. Jessica turns and beckons for me to get closer. I take another step and press in against her, our shoulders rubbing together as we climb the remaining stairs side by side.
Jessica reaches the landing first. She steps onto the firm wooden floor and swivels to the left.
“Shit!” a man screams.
She fires a burst of rounds. I hear the sound of a heavy weight collapsing into a wall.
I step out onto the landing from behind her, swinging to the right as I move.
A trench coat-clad marauder aims a service revolver at her back from the end of the hallway.
“Oh, fuck!” he splutters as he sees me move into his vision.
He waves the revolver to the left, towards me. It trembles in his hand, and he almost drops it.
“Fuck…fuck off!” he stutters, in a wavering voice.
I lean over my rifle and take aim. His dirty face stares back at me, with unnerving bloodshot eyes. He’s shaking. Scared. He doesn’t look savage, like the other marauders. He’s young, Claire’s age at the most, if not slightly younger.
Go away! His terrified eyes seem to scream.
My trigger finger wavers slightly.
Is this a marauder? asks the voice my head, confused.
I start to lower my gun. His fingers make for the trigger of his weapon. The surprised O of his mouth contorts into a smile as he yells in rage.
My gaze is locked on his teenaged face. The firing hammer on his gun starts to draw back. I don’t want to…
Stop hesitating! urges the voice.
He’ll kill you!
I pull my rifle back up. I take a fraction of a second to aim down the sights, and then I shoot. My bullets hit him in the chest, and he topples backwards into an overturned bookcase.
His arm twitches as he tries to raise it, to shoot back at me, but it slackens and drops back down as his throat releases a congested gurgle. He doesn’t move again.
* * * *
“Right, you check those rooms there,” Jessica orders, pointing to a row of closed doors behind me. “I’ll go through and search the other end of the house, and then move into the cellar.”
I nod and turn away from her, and start to walk to the nearest door.
“Be careful,” she cautions over my shoulder. “My friend could be in there. Don’t shoot anyone unless they’re armed, and if you find a guy who says his name is Rowan, call out for me, but make sure you calm him down first. He has an itchy trigger finger.”
“What if I find any other prisoners? Anyone who’s wounded?” I ask, turning around to face her again.
Jessica shakes her head. “These people don’t take prisoners. Not for long, anyway. The only person we’re taking out of here today with us is Rowan.”
I nod again.
“What about supplies?”
“If you find any, take them, but don’t keep your hopes up. Marauders don’t survive out here by stockpiling canned food.”
She asks me if I have anything else to ask. I tell her no. She waves in mock good-bye and walks briskly down the hallway. She reaches a corner at the end and, gun raised, disappears around it without a word. I listen as her footfalls on the wooden floor grow duller as she gets further away. Finally, they stop, and I hear the sound of a door being pushed open on the opposite end of the house.
Alone now, I double-check that the safety tab on my gun is off, even though I only fired it a minute or two ago. Satisfied, I sling it over my shoulder and carefully move towards the first door.
I knock twice, loudly, and then pause to listen for movement on the other side.
Silence.
I grasp the brass handle and slowly twist it. The door begins to swing open without my input, releasing a tired creak that echoes through the house. Is it a death knell?
On the other side of the door is an empty bedroom. What remains of a bed frame is left discarded on the floor, its mattress already relocated elsewhere (presumably downstairs) and most of it chipped off for firewood. A desk made of slightly rusted steel sits against the far wall, under the window, on top of which is an open laptop. The
screen is cracked, and dust has settled on the keys. Out of curiosity, I try to turn it on, but nothing happens. It’s been in disrepair for a long time.
There’s a yellowing, dog-eared book lying open beside it. Someone’s used a human skull as a paperweight, stopping the book from clamping shut with a horribly dislocated jaw. Feeling sick, I wrench it out from underneath, causing the skull to roll onto the floor with a loud crack. On one of the pages, a verse of a poem is marked with red ink:
Sun bleached earth,
Cleansed by flames
The birth of death, the end of birth.
A calamity wrought by man
Retaliation for a minor offense.
A broken earth,
Impossible to mend
Befallen by tragedy,
Brought to its end.
There’s something appended to the end, in messy handwriting:
Yeah, we’re all fucking dead.
I turn away, feeling strange.
Something indefinable rumbles hungrily beyond the floorboards. The house shivers.
This is the bedroom of a ghost.
I leave without looking back, and pull the door shut behind me.
* * * *
The second door is jammed shut, the hinges fused into the wall long ago, and I can’t open it no matter how hard I try, so I move on.
When I come to the third door, I hear movement from the other side.
Cautiously, I rap on it with my knuckle.
“Rowan? Is there someone in there called Rowan?” I ask.
I’m answered by a loud crash, then a high-pitched gasp, which is stifled immediately by someone’s hand.
“Shush. Don’t be scared,” manages a soft, terrified voice, probably in an attempt at a whisper. “They’ll move on, they’ll move on!”
I place the palm of my hand on the door and start to push it open. The sounds of movement start again, this time more frenzied. I pull the door back to stop it from opening any further.
Sun Bleached Winter Page 6
