Exhaustion overcame him. After all the pain and suffering he'd been through to come this far, he lost his bike, the seeds, and nearly lost his life to a couple of punks.
Jack wiped his eyes, the tears washing the blood out of his good eye. He could see more clearly now, and he sat numbly, staring off into nothing in the alley. Something caught his eye, vibrant printed colors standing out from the grey muck on the pavement.
It was a single packet of seeds, laying in the alleyway a couple of feet away.
The seeds. His mental picture of the homestead came back to him, the same one he'd pictured in the warehouse. Freshly turned fields with green sprouts poking up out of the soil. He saw his family happy, secure, and safe. It was a promising future, not just survival.
Anger filled him, adrenaline surging through his veins and pushing away his despair. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists, unable to contain his rage. Those weren't just some packets of seeds. They had taken the future of his family. They took his hopes, and his dreams.
He could pick himself up and limp home to his family, and he could do his best to put food into their mouths. They might survive, but that's not what he wanted for them, to eke out a living.
He pushed himself off the alley floor, and stuck the packet in his pocket. His anger intensified into fury. He wasn't helpless. He'd just ridden a damn bicycle across half of the United States, living off of dog food and squirrels, just to get back home.
Something Wyatt had said came to mind, reaching up from the corner of his mind. What was it he said? Something his father the bootlegger had said. That was it, he remembered now.
A man will do anything he has to for his family. Nothing can stop a determined man once he hardens his mind to a task. It's just a matter of making up your mind to do it.
All doubt and despair left him. The pain in his body became a distant secondary feeling to the rage, the determination that filled him. His mind was focused on the problem with a razor sharp clarity he'd never felt before. He knew what he had to do, and he was going to do it. It was just that simple. He'd find the thugs, and get his seeds back.
Looking around the alley, he searched for a weapon. He couldn't go empty handed. That would be foolish. He needed a weapon. He couldn't see out of his swollen eye, he had to do something about that too.
Sliding underneath the cracked bay door of the seed warehouse, Jack got to his feet and moved with a purpose through the aisles, making his way to the restroom he'd spotted earlier. In the mirror, he recoiled from the nasty wounds on his face. His left eye was swollen shut. Nicks and cuts covered his face from where the punks had stepped on his head, grinding his face into the pavement.
Jack slipped his shirt over his head and bunched it up over his knuckles, making a fist. He slammed his fist against the mirror. The mirror shattered in hundreds of pieces, shards of glass falling from the mirror frame. He took one of the smaller shards from the sink, it's sharp edge held against his swollen eyelid. Not entirely certain this was a smart thing to do, he hesitated. Boxers used to have 'cut men' who would drain the blood if their eye was swollen shut during a fight. But he wasn't a boxer, and he wasn't a cut man. He didn't know what he was doing, but if he couldn't see clearly, he had no chance against the two thugs.
Screw it. He drew a deep breath and sliced into the swollen eyelid just below his eyebrow, then made another cut into his upper cheek, just below the eye. He dropped the mirror shard into the sink and squeezed the swollen tissue, blood squirting everywhere.
A few moments later and the sink, mirror, and Jack were all coated in blood. The swelling had gone down, drained away. He opened his eye and blinked, regaining some vision out of the eye.
Wasting no time tending to his other wounds, he stormed out of the bathroom. He had to catch up to the punks before they got too far away. He ran through the aisles, scanning the shelves for something he could use as a weapon. Row after row held nothing but dust and empty cardboard boxes.
The place was empty. Everything of use had been looted. He searched the office next, wildly flinging open desk drawers and filing cabinets, desperate to find something. He could use a pair of scissors, a letter opener, or anything. He came up empty as he rummaged through cubicles. About to give up and find a weapon in the street, he rounded a cubicle and found a small hall closet.
A janitor's closet, the door left wide open, stuffed with cleaning chemicals, towels, and a janitor's broom. Perfect, exactly what he needed. He unscrewed the broom head from the handle, hefting it and getting a feel for the weight and balance of it in his hands.
With a two-handed baseball swing he brought the broomstick down onto a computer monitor. The broomstick sent the monitor flying across the room, impacting the wall with a satisfying explosion of glass and sending a cloud of dust into the air.
Jack made his way back to the alley. They had gotten the jump on him last time. This time he would make sure he had the element of surprise. He would find them, and he would make them pay for what they had done. Then he would take the seeds and his family's future back.
Chapter 34
The narrow alleyway was pitch black as Jack snuck down the alley, silently padding around trashcans, feeling along. Row homes on either side of him created deep shadows, preventing the dim moonlight from revealing his presence. The alley ended just ahead as it intersected with a road, moonlight reflecting off of the wet city streets. He hunkered down in the shadows just a few feet from the road.
There they were. The two thugs walking down the street, heading in his direction. As loudly as they talked, it had been an easy task finding them in the dead quiet city.
Crouching hidden behind a trashcan, he waited for the men to walk by. Two men, pushing a bike... but he had to be sure it was the right men. He slowed his breathing down tried to calm his nerves. Could he pull this off?
"Yeah man, I told you she was a freak," a voice said. His companion slowly circled the bike around him as he strutted down the street.
Jack peeked around the corner. A red mohawk. There was no mistaking him. An image of the man was burned into his brain, brick in hand, smashing it down over his head. Not something you tended to forget. Yeah, it was the thugs all right. The other thug circled him on his bike, Jack's backpack slung over his shoulder.
His heart beat so loud in his chest, he was sure they would hear it. It was so quiet, even his breath seemed impossibly loud.
The two men walked right by him, oblivious to his presence. They moved the street and disappeared from view as the street curved around a corner.
Jack ran back along the alleyway and crossed over a couple of streets. He ran as fast as he could without making too much noise. He would get ahead of them and cut them off. An ambush. Three streets up, he cut back over to the road and listened for sounds of their approach.
"Big D said he was going to string that dude up. I wouldn't mess--"
Jack inched out of the alleyway along the side of a row home. This was the perfect spot. The row home stood on the inside bend of a corner, the area dark and secluded. Even if he screwed up badly and was caught out in the open, the men wouldn't be able to see him until they he was already on top of them.
He crouched next to a porch stoop, keeping to the deep shadows. Jack wiped the sweat from his hands and gripped the broom handle in both hands, white knuckles gripping the heavy wooden shaft. Their voices grew louder as the two men approached. Jack's heart beat faster, not from fear this time. An adrenaline rush fueled by his anger surged through him. These two punks had left him for dead in his hometown after a thousand mile journey to get back. What right did they have?
The bike's gear chain rattled louder as the thug coasted down the street, keeping pace with his companion on foot.
Click, click, click.
The noise stopped periodically as the thug coasted around, riding in a circle around his companion.
Jack held the broomstick like a spear, his muscles tensed up, ready to strike. Everything was riding
on this. He would only have one chance to strike. If he failed, they would be on him in an instant.
Click, click, click.
A bike tire appeared just in front of the stoop.
Jack lunged out with the broom handle, jamming it through the spokes of the front wheel. He tensed his body, hanging on to the broom handle as it lodged itself between the tire spokes and the frame of the bike, causing the front tire to immediately stop.
The thug went flying over the handlebars of the bike, his face smacking into the pavement with a sickening sound. He lay unmoving on the street, the bike tumbling down onto the street next to him, with its back tire spinning uselessly in the air.
Jack wrenched his broom handle free of the bike and turned to face the other thug.
"What the--," the thug with the mohawk said.
Jack sprang to his feet and jumped out of the shadows. He swung the broomstick around like a baseball bat, hitting the man in stomach. He raised the broom up again and brought it down on the thugs arm with a heavy crack.
The punk screamed in pain, falling to the ground. Just as fast as he went down, he sprung back to his feet, whipping a knife out of his pocket. He stepped backwards out of reach of Jack's broomstick. "You just messed with the wrong people. We're in Big D's crew. He runs this town," he said.
Jack stabbed forward in a feint with the broomstick, causing the thug to jump back. As the man danced backwards, Jack gripped the broomstick in a baseball grip and wound up for a powerful blow. He would end this once and for all.
The thug was quick, and stepped into his wind up. The knife flashed in his hands, carving a deep slice into Jack's cheek. He made a second stab at Jack's midsection.
Jack brought his elbow down into the man's arm, deflecting the blow away from his midsection. The thrust had too much momentum though, and the blade sunk deep into Jack's thigh.
Jack yelled, paint shooting through his leg as he struggled to stay on his feet.
The thug jerked at the knife, trying to free it from Jack's leg. He held on tightly to the broomstick away with his other hand to prevent Jack from using it. The two men went to their knees, each struggling to overpower the other.
Adrenaline surged through him, and his analytical mind shut off completely as the fight or flight response took over. Conscious thought fell away, and he committed himself fully to the fight. His senses seemed hyper aware; his eyes noting every detail, his fingers feeling every grain of the texture of the broomstick, the iron taste of blood in his mouth. Everything more clear to him in that split second than at any other point in his life. He was alive.
Jack let out a scream of primal rage into the punk's face.
The punk's red mohawk quivered as he flinched from Jack's shout. His grip loosed on the broomstick, stunned by Jack's outburst.
Jack took advantage of the lapse. He slid his hand down the broomstick until he felt the cold metal of end cap under his fingers. Four inches of metal screw stuck out of his clenched fist, and he drove it into the punk's face with all his might.
The punk dropped to the ground, screaming incoherently, clutching at his eye. He writhed on the ground, kicking his feet about in agony.
Jack raised the broomstick over his head and brought it down like a club on the man's leg with all his might.
The broomstick hit his ankle, the sharp crack of the bone breaking echoed against the brick buildings. The punk screamed, drowning out all other sound. He wouldn't be standing up anytime soon.
Jack got to his feet, clutching at the knife in his leg. He pulled it out of his thigh, and wrapped his shirt tightly around his leg to stop the bleeding. The knife had sunk deep into his thigh muscle. Three months of biking had made his legs bulky and muscular. Without the padding of extra muscle, the blade would have nicked his femoral artery and he would have bled out in minutes.
Jack sank to his knees, the adrenaline rush had run it's course, and he was winded from the fight. He breathed deeply and smoothly, allowing his heart rate to slow down to a normal pace.
The man with the red mohawk stopped his moaning long enough to hurl insults at Jack.
"Big D is going to kill you for this. He's gonna feed you to his dogs," he said. He rolled onto his side, his hand covering a bloody eye socket. Hatred blazed from his remaining eye as he glared at Jack.
This wasn't done yet.
He was alone. He couldn't leave these men alive. They had already tried to kill him once and had left him for dead. There were no police to cart the thugs off to jail, nobody he could call for help.
In a corner of his mind, a small voice shouted, "This is against the law, you can't do this!"
Jack shut the voice down. There was no law here any more. That was all gone, wiped away by the EMP. The only law now was the law of the jungle. The law of survival. Kill or be killed.
The man with the red mohawk crawled towards the alley, dragging his broken ankle behind him.
Jack limped over to the man, pulled his head up by the mohawk, and brought the knife across his throat. He moved to the other thug lying by the bike and dispensed justice, surprised at how easily the blade sank into flesh.
Jack picked up his backpack and slung it across his back. He stood up his bike and climbed into the seat, wincing at the pain in his leg. His mind on one thing only, he turning the bike around and pointed the handlebars home.
Chapter 35
A loud thump at the front of the house snapped her out of her woolgathering as she made the rounds checking windows and doors at the rear of the house. Amy moved to the foyer, her stomach a tight ball of fear. Was this it? Was Rob finally making his move?
Someone was on the front porch. She heard liquid splashing as it spilled onto the concrete front porch.
Curious what they were up to, Amy peered out the peephole and looked outside. The smell of gasoline seeped into the foyer, and one of Rob's gang ran away through the yard. A five-gallon gasoline container had been spilled across the front of the house, and the empty container discarded on the porch.
Standing in her front yard, several members of Rob's gang cheered the man on as he ran back to join them. Each of the thugs held a gasoline can. Their leader Rob stood defiantly in the middle of the street, his glare menacing as he directed his men.
"Spread out around the house, don't let any of them get out," Rob said.
The men hurried to obey, splitting up as they carried their gas cans around the house.
"All I wanted was to be with you, and you messed up my face. Now we're going to burn you out," Rob said.
Panic hit her. She ran to the side window and opened the peephole in the plywood. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. They wouldn't really burn the house down with the boys inside?
A scrawny man covered in tattoos splashed gasoline on the side of the house, his face cold and expressionless.
"Boys! Get down here! Run," she screamed.
Danny and Kenny came flying down the staircase, taking it two steps at a time, Danny looked frightened, his brother alert and serious.
"Mom? What is it?" Kenny asked.
"Rob is outside with a gang, they're pouring gasoline all over the house. He's trying to burn the house down."
Kenny unslung his shotgun from the strap on his shoulder, and moved to the back door. He quietly slid open the shooting window in the plywood, and crooked his finger at her in a silent 'come here' motion. He peered out, and then held two fingers up, indicating that two of Rob's men were out back of the house.
Rage filled her. That Rob would try to hurt her was no surprise. She had destroyed his face. Of course he would try to exact some sort of revenge. Trying to burn her out of the house while her children were inside... that was inhuman.
Amy snatched the shotgun out of Kenny's hands, pumped the action and put the barrel up to the shooting slot.
A heavyset gang member with teardrop tattoos in the corners of his eyes wearing a leather jacket lugged two five-gallon containers of gas toward the back door. He said something t
o his companion, a large and muscular convict with a shaved head and tattoos covering his face, who laughed maniacally.
She seated the shotgun against her shoulder, and tapped the laser sights on. A bright green dot appeared in the middle of the thug's chest. She controller her breathing, a steady stream of air moving across her lips as she tracked the man's movement with the barrel.
He set down one of the canisters, and unscrewed the gas cap.
Her finger slid over the trigger, her hands steadying the green dot painted in the middle of the man's chest, five feet in front of her. She squeezed the trigger, and the shotgun erupted. The heavyset thug sank to his knees, clutching at the large smoking hole in his chest. He flopped down onto his face, his body twitched and jerked erratically as a pool of blood formed beneath his body.
EMP Aftermath Series (Book 1): The Journey Home Page 20
