by Dana Fraser
Finished clearing the nursery, he went to the next room, all of his senses locking immediately on the bed.
The desecrated body of a young woman made his cheeks flame with hate. She had the same dark brown hair as Marie. Her frame was a little softer. He couldn’t tell what her face had looked like. Blood, bruises and the swelling that had set in before her death left her head a lumpy, misshapen mess. More bruises dotted her naked body, a necklace of handprints around her throat suggesting she had been strangled. The fingers on her right hand were bent at impossible angles and the wrist was turned oddly, like it had been snapped while she was still alive.
Seeing blood under her broken nails, he knew she had fought fiercely, whether there in the bed for her life or at the front of the home to save her child.
Forcing his gaze elsewhere, Cash eliminated all the plain sight locations someone might hide, which left him just the closet and under the blood soaked bed to check. When he was done, he grabbed a long flannel robe hanging on the dresser mirror and draped it over the woman’s body. The gesture forced him closer than he’d like to the corpse, but he couldn’t leave her like that, not even knowing other eyes might never look upon her again.
Settling the robe around her shoulders, he noticed a small detail that had escaped him earlier. On each of the bruised and swollen eyelids, some sadistic bastard had placed a penny. Blood from her cuts had oozed down to conceal them against her purple and black flesh, but they were there. Chest tightening, he took a step back and heard the faint whisper of paper being crushed under his boot heel.
Lifting his foot, he saw a gum wrapper, strips of a bright yellow with bits of blue and red. He picked it up, inspected the way it had been meticulously torn off in a spiral. He didn’t need to piece it all back together to know it was a Juicy Fruit wrapper.
Daniels.
Cash shook his head, trying to untether the psycho he had seen the day before with Staff Sergeant Mulhern. He could believe the gunner doing something like this, maybe even the driver because he hadn’t interacted with him and therefore hadn’t taken the black kid’s measure. But Mulhern — he had felt like he knew the man, or at least the kind of man he was.
Bile coated Cash’s tongue but he refused to throw up again.
Stepping into the hall, he found the box right side up, a fat ball of yellow-gold fur unmoving. He started to step past and the ball whimpered. Cash shook his head and kept walking.
He had a limited amount of time in the house. He needed to find any resources he could before more soldiers came by or one of the couple’s neighbors mistook him for the kind of monster who would slay an entire family. The way the place looked, no one was going to ask questions before they opened fire, especially untrained civilians.
Returning to the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet to find it empty of anything but soap and lotion. He could make out the ring marks of missing contents. Small ring marks — some kind of container for pills.
Rummaging under the sink only came up with toilet paper, baby wipes, and unopened bottles of shampoo. He returned to the parents’ bedroom, his gaze carefully avoiding the bed as he rifled through the dresser and nightstand. Back out in the hall, he shot a look at the box. Like the woman, the puppy had a paw all wrong.
Remembering the water bowl near the playpen, the likely flow of events scrolled like a movie in Cash’s mind. One of the soldiers had punted the box, the puppy inside, down the short hallway. The negligible distance guaranteed the box and its cargo hit the wall hard. The pup’s leg had been broken either with the kick or on the second impact.
Tick tock, tick tock.
Right, he reminded himself. Supplies. Who cared how the fuck the dog got injured. It was dead or would be soon.
His mind turning numb from the carnage, Cash made his way to the kitchen. Bending down, he ran a hand along the man’s belt and patted his pockets, which were empty but for a wallet and a lighter. The cupboards had been cleared, just a few cans of soft puppy food left to litter the floor. With a little more light filling the room than when he had entered, Cash noticed two hooks by the door, nothing hanging from them. On the ground, the contents of a purse had been dumped. He looked at the hooks again. He had a similar setup in his house, one hook for his set of keys, another for Marie’s and a third for the keys to the many padlocks around the homestead.
Leaving the house, Cash searched the two vehicles in turn, looking for a spare key and anything he could use.
His efforts completely frustrated, he turned toward the road, his gaze on the tight grouping of trees where he had hidden his pack. He needed to get moving. Time wasted on the wreckage around him was time someone else could use to get the drop on him or discover his pack.
He couldn’t leave yet. He hadn’t lifted the blanket in the playpen. He had to make sure the toddler was dead. Not because he needed affirmation of the depravity that had swept through the young couple’s home. No, not that. He had to make sure he wasn’t leaving a living child behind.
There could be no gnawing doubt to distract him on the road home.
Cash crept inside, experience from all the years living in a war zone sliding easily into place when a normal, healthy human would have been screaming or at least still paralyzed as they puked their guts out. Reaching the playpen, he leaned down and gently pulled back the blanket. Cash’s chest turned to lead as he re-draped the fabric over the lifeless form.
He stepped toward the kitchen, stopping at the sound of another rustle down the hall.
The damn dog, a golden retriever, no more than eight weeks, just old enough to be brought home as a companion to the dead toddler.
Still clinging to life, it could last for days before dehydration finished what Daniels’ boot had started. All it had left was a miserable death of hunger, thirst and pain.
Unsheathing the K-BAR, Cash made one last trip down the hall.
Chapter Ten
A cold wetness brushed against Cash’s neck. Eyes closed, he felt the heat of the sun where it filtered through the trees shielding him.
After leaving the farmhouse two days ago, he had taken to walking only at night, using the stars to keep him roughly parallel to U.S. 45.
Gunfire sporadically pierced the air, day and night. Twice he woke while the sun was up to see smoke on the horizon, once to the west and once north of his location.
Cash felt the slick cold flick along his throat once more. He ignored the sensation.
Water, he needed water. He was almost out, the two bladders and the container he had taken from the farmhouse emptied too quickly on the road.
A whimper and a squirm finally forced Cash to open his eyes.
Grub looked at him.
He ran a gentle hand over the puppy’s head even as he cursed his own stupidity for its presence.
Slowly Cash sat up, careful to hold the retriever’s front left paw immobile as he shifted its body onto the ground. A dirty white bandage wrapped around several sticks worked as a splint for a broken bone Cash wasn’t sure would heal.
Opening up a tin of wet puppy food, he slid it in front of Grub’s face.
The dog was a liability — a huge liability. He was fifteen extra pounds of weight before factoring in food and water. The sling Cash had fashioned out of the woman’s purse let him carry Grub across his chest but interfered with Cash’s ability to shoot fast, whether he was bringing the rifle around or reaching for the M&P45.
The worst of it was the water, not the weight but its supply. With Grub’s body trying to mend the broken bone, it took half a liter a day to keep the dog hydrated.
Seeing the tin empty, Cash uncapped the water bladder and filled the makeshift dish before taking his own long draw. His fingers manipulated the container and he estimated he had a liter left. He needed at least two liters a day for his own body, especially with the hard miles he was hiking.
“You may need to start drinking my piss,” he warned the dog, taking the empty tin away
and hooking it to the pack for the next watering.
Checking his watch, he noted that a few more hours remained before sunset. Settling onto his back, he lifted the dog with the same gentle handling and placed him on his chest.
“At least you’re quiet.”
Stomach full, Grub let his body relax against Cash, only his head moving to nose at the big man’s hand. Cash rubbed an ear and was rewarded by a soft lick.
No doubt about it. Grub’s tongue was his secret weapon. He had unleashed it in the hall as Cash knelt beside the box, his hand moving to cradle the dog’s head so he had a clear line to pierce its heart with the K-BAR, ensuring a clean, swift death instead of days of misery before it succumbed to dehydration.
Just as he had raised the K-BAR, Cash had felt a feeble brush of the puppy’s tongue against his finger. Then the tail thumped weakly. He had already ascertained the Golden Retriever was alive, but the pup’s reaction to Cash made it clear it wanted to keep on living.
Ninja level nine, maybe ten factoring in the tail, Cash thought with a rare smile as he drifted to sleep for a few hours.
The water ran out at a quarter past two in the morning, the last of it going to the dog to keep its protests from drawing the attention of anyone nearby. Cash kept walking, the cloudy night obliterating the moon’s light and making the ground one trip hazard after another, especially as he began to experience signs of dehydration from the lack of water and the heavy sweating from the long march and all the weight he carried.
He had stopped sweating. His mouth was dry, his tongue swelling. His thoughts drifted. Halfway across a field, he realized he hadn’t stopped at its border and scanned the area for threats.
As the sky purpled with the promise of another sunrise, Cash entered the safety of a thin line of trees between two fields. Fat round bales of hay harvested before the power had gone out dotted the field in front of him.
He continued scanning the surrounding area, a burst of joy unfolding in his chest as he spotted four vertical towers. Guessing the trees on the other side of the field were as tall as those that hid him, Cash figured the structures were some twenty feet high and ten feet in diameter. They didn’t have the look of grain silos, which wouldn’t have made sense along the side of a field anyway. They did have what looked like a bank of solar panels in front of them.
The location of the tanks, the purpose of the land and the presence of the solar panels meant one thing and one thing only.
Water!
“Looks like we might get to live a few more days,” Cash whispered to Grub as he quick timed it down the length of the field until he was opposite the towers.
Another sweep of the area with the night vision didn’t reveal any threats, so he hustled across the field to the tanks, his mind racing ahead of him with the hope that the outlet valve could be opened with muscle alone instead of requiring some kind of tool.
Reaching the first tank, he restrained the sharp urge to whoop for joy upon seeing a big wheel attached to the outlet valve. He made quick work of taking the pack off and putting Grub down. Leaning his rifle against the pack, Cash pulled out the stored water bladder then stripped off the one he was wearing. Draping them over the valve, he grabbed the wheel with both hands and turned it an inch counter clockwise.
Water sputtered from the pipe. He turned it another inch, provoking a short gush and then a steady, thin stream. Cupping his hands, he took greedy gulps as the water tried to slip through his fingers.
Grub whined.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered and started to turn. “I’ve got your—”
The last word died on his lips as he saw an Army assault rifle pointed at his face.
“Well now,” a familiar voice smirked from behind at the same time a hand slid his M&P45 from its holster. “I said I’d see you on the road and here you are.”
Fucking Daniels!
From what little he could see of the soldier in front of him, it wasn’t the driver or Mulhern. The psychopathic gunner was running with a new crew.
“Against the tank,” Daniels ordered.
Grub softly whimpered, his form barely visible in the pre-dawn light. Daniels kicked but only hit the side of the pack.
Pressing the tip of Cash’s own rifle to the back of his head, Daniels did a quick pat down, removed the K-BAR from Cash’s hip then stepped back.
“Fill them,” he said, gesturing at the bladders.
Cash did as ordered, filling his two empty water containers and then three more that the other soldier had been carrying. The whole time, his mind churned over the situation. The pack was nearby, the shape of the Kukri blade discernible. Other than that, he would have to use his fists or take one of the weapons.
“Clark, check the outside pockets,” Daniels ordered. “Make sure there’s nothing he can use against us.”
The second soldier complied, coming away with the Kukri.
“Good.” Daniels prodded Cash with the end of Cash’s rifle. “Get the pack back on.”
The lead weight in the center of Cash’s chest lightened at the order. For the moment, at least, they intended on using him as a pack mule.
He obeyed, his movements slow to avoid giving them a reason to shoot and to buy him time to study what he could see of them in the low morning light.
They both carried M16s. Clark carried his at the ready. Daniels had his slung over his shoulder while he kept the Browning trained on Cash. The K-BAR was shoved in one pocket and the M&P45 in the other.
“Now the water.”
Cash clamped down on the string of swear words that wanted to leave his mouth. The five water bladders would push the total weight they wanted him to carry well over a hundred pounds, and he was still dehydrated.
He started to loop his arms through the straps.
“Not like that,” Daniels said, the smirk never fading from his tone. He waved a finger back and forth in front of his throat then did a little loop gesturing that Cash should wear some of them around his neck.
Gritting his teeth, Cash continued to obey. The position, he realized, might even be to his advantage. The pack and the bladders formed a protective barrier at the front and back of his torso. The soldiers, on the other hand, weren’t wearing their heavy protective gear.
Now he just needed one of them to screw up and give him a chance to grab a gun.
When Cash had collared himself with the last water bladder, Clark stepped close and raised his rifle, his hands moving to wrap around the stock, the butt pointing at the ground.
Grub — he was aiming for the purse sling that held the dog.
“Wait,” Daniels said. “We’ll take it back to the Humvee. No need to give it a quick death when we’ve got so much time to kill it.”
Not if I kill you first, you sadistic bastard.
Careless of the delicate cargo, Clark jerked the purse up from the ground. Grub yelped, his broken leg jarred by the rough treatment.
“Hate dogs,” Clark said, adding Grub’s fifteen or so pounds to the load Cash carried.
The puppy, probably remembering Daniels’ voice from the farmhouse or just generally feeling the malicious vibes rolling off the two men, had pissed inside the purse. The liquid soaked through, wetting Cash’s shirt where the bag slipped between the water bladders to make contact with his clothing.
Stepping back, Clark gestured with the M16 for Cash to head into the trees.
Fifteen minutes into the march to their camp, the sun had finished rising. Daniels and Clark stayed behind Cash, one on each side of him, a rifle’s length between his body and the barrels of their weapons.
Daniels still hadn’t swapped out holding Cash’s Browning for the much more powerful M16.
Glancing over his shoulder, Cash saw that Daniels was no longer a specialist but a base sergeant, one step up from just a few days ago.
“What happened to Mulhern?”
“Your boyfriend can’t save you this time. His dumb ass was court martialled,” Daniels giggled before clos
ing the distance between them long enough to jab at the pack. “You weren’t the only piece of shit he warned.”
Clark grimly reminisced. “Other was an entire Mexican family with a full fucking tank of gas and an abuela in the back seat praying with her rosary.”
“That was treason,” Daniels said. “Turned him in myself.”
Cash stopped cold. Rage boiled inside him at the thought that the man who had tried to help him was locked up while Daniels was free to go around murdering innocent families.
Daniels whacked the barrel of the Browning against Cash’s head, the sight at its end hitting and cutting deep enough that metal scraped against bone.
The pain sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Cash, but he calmly turned and continued walking.
“I not only got a promotion,” Daniels cackled. “I got to the pull the trigger on his traitorous ass. When I take you in, maybe I’ll get another promotion, at least if you’re smart enough to join up.”
“Join up?” Cash asked. Daniels might be toying with him, but he’d play along until they shot him in the back or dropped their guard long enough for him to shoot them in the face.
“Yeah,” Daniels said as they reached the edge of a clearing. “Aside from letting us sneak up on you like that, you’ve got experience and skills the XO wants.”
“Commander now,” Clark reminded mechanically.
“Yeah, Commander,” Daniels agreed. “We’re not the only unit in on this. Some of the orders coming down from the Feds want us to offer shelter to everyone, even if they’re stupid enough to show up clutching a Koran or wearing some Malcolm X t-shirt. That aint happening. Why save some raghead to have him turn around and blow up the camp, know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Cash agreed, his tone free of the disgust churning in his stomach. The family at the farm hadn’t been Arabic. They’d been nothing but white, corn-fed Americans, from the husband’s blond hair to the wife’s pale skin. “That the skill you guys looking for — killing ragheads?”
