Red Asphalt: Raptor Apocalypse Book 2

by Steve R. Yeager

  “No!” Jesse said firmly. He surged forward.

  Arms seized him from behind. Those arms pulled him backward until he was forced to sit.

  “Come here you,” Rose said to Kate. “I want a better look at you, sweetheart.”

  Jesse struggled to free himself. His right arm was locked in place by a solid grip. But his left arm was only being held by one hand. He jerked forward to break free from the one-handed grip. White-hot pain flared in his shoulder. His vision blurred and narrowed. He knew if he kept trying, he would pass out, so he stopped struggling and slumped backward in the chair, hoping the two holding him would ease up on their grips.

  They did not.

  There had to be another way.

  “Rose,” he said between stifled breaths. “This. Is. Not. Right.”

  “Who are you to tell Rose what is right? You can't even get out of your own chair, old man. Rose thinks you'd better sit there and keep your mouth shut.”

  Jesse didn't give a shit what she thought. He felt a burst of renewed strength flowing into him. He turned to Kate and whispered, “You need to resist her.” No, that wasn't right. Then he had it. It all clicked into place, and he knew what Kate had to do.

  “Don't fight her,” he whispered. “Run. Run and hide.”

  Something smacked into the back of his head. He pitched forward onto the floor. His vision blurred again. The room swam in and out of focus.

  “Come here little one,” Rose said to Kate.

  Kate timidly got up from her chair.

  Run, he thought. Run dammit! He pictured himself running to her and yanking her along, but he couldn't get up. He couldn't move. Holding the nape of his neck, he tried to raise himself but was kicked from behind and collapsed onto the soft carpet. Kate approached Rose, step by step. All he could do was to watch in growing horror. She seemed at peace as if she was okay with the decision or could not understand the implications of what Rose had planned for her. Despite the excruciating pain, he twisted and tried to stand. He got onto one knee. His anger flared, and he was filled with a primal rage. There was only one thing he could do to save her from being sold into a short life of pain and torment.

  He must kill Rose.

  Helpless as he was, he imagined his fingers wrapping around that fat neck and squeezing until she turned purple. She wasn't that far away. If he could just get a few steps farther, he might be able to rise and do it.

  “That's a good girl,” Rose said. “Such a pretty girl. Brave girl.”

  “Run!” Jesse croaked. He did not flinch from the expected blow. He inched forward. He could feel all his anger and rage directing him now. He would launch himself forward, grab hold, and not let go no matter how many beat on him, no matter how many bullets he took.

  Kate took another step forward.

  It was now or never. He pushed himself slowly, letting the tension build in his muscles.

  Kate opened her coat. She pulled something out from inside it. He was already prepared to launch himself at Rose and had to readjust. He leapt and swiped an arm at Kate, wanting to pull her out of the way. His fingers grasped only air.

  A single gunshot went off.

  The room fell to a dead silence. Jesse rolled over and turned toward Wilson, zeroing in on the revolver in his hand, hoping he had missed. He was temporarily disoriented. Something did not make sense, and his mind reeled to catch up and process what he saw.

  Wilson had not fired the shot.

  The scrawny man just stood there looking as confused as everyone else was.

  Rose made a gasping noise. She coughed.

  A single red-ringed hole had formed slightly below her multiple chins. She tried to say something but couldn't. What came out was a raspy gurgle. Her mouth then gaped wide like a fish starving for oxygen. Pink froth bubbled from both her mouth and the new hole in her neck. She choked and tried to cough. Wheezing, she sent out a crimson spray. With great effort, she lifted herself from the chair, tried to walk, wobbled, then gripped her throat and fell back against her gilded throne. Her head flopped back to stare at the ceiling.

  Jesse pushed himself all the way to his feet, ignoring the pain. Wilson had been watching Rose die. Jesse could see the man changing from shock to response. Wilson raised his gun to fire at Kate. Stumbling and off balance, Jesse barreled forward at Wilson. It was enough to cause the guy to hesitate and switch targets. He lunged for the gun in Wilson's hand and shoved upward, pinning him against the wall with the gun pointed away. The gun fired into the ceiling. Wilson tried to jerk the trigger again, but Jesse wrapped a hand around the gun, twisted, and pulled down. He heard the snap of bone. Wilson's finger bent sideways into an L-shape.

  A flicker of movement drew his eye. Cory was speeding across the room, going directly for Javier and Scott. He didn't have time yet to deal with that. He just hoped that he and Cory were on the same side. With his left hand, he grabbed a fist full of Wilson's shirt and drove his other elbow into the man's jaw. The blow landed with a dull crunch and clack of teeth.

  Wilson's eyeballs rolled to white.

  Jesse released his grip and scanned the room for Kate, letting the now unconscious man slump to the floor. Javier was curled up into a lump on the floor. Cory was kicking him in the head with his heel. The one-armed man tried to get his single hand up to protect himself, but Cory switched positions and crashed his foot straight down on the guy's face like he was stomping on a bug.

  Kate was standing still, holding up the Beretta. She changed targets between the two men who were fighting. She didn't seem to notice that that slide was locked open and the gun was empty.

  Fortunately, she was not the only one who had failed to realize the gun was empty. Scott was raising his hands and backing away. Jesse rushed him. Before he could get there, Cory came in from the left and tackled Scott to the floor. He pushed Scott off the edge of the carpet and onto a patch of exposed concrete. He then lifted Scott's head and bashed it hard against the floor. The collision of head and concrete made a hollow thwack. He again pulled Scott's head up and bashed it against the floor. Then again, and again.

  On unsteady feet, Jesse went to retrieve Wilson's revolver. He opened the cylinder and checked the chambers. Two rounds remained unfired. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the cylinder shut and spun it so a round would fire on the next trigger pull. Cory held onto Scott's hair and continued to bash the guy's head against the floor repeatedly.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. It was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

  “Stop,” Jesse said calmly.

  Cory did not stop.

  Thwack. Thwack.

  Jesse raised his voice. “Stop! Enough. He's dead.”

  Grinning manically, Cory gave the head one final shove then moved the head so Scott's eyes looked toward the ceiling. Curling his thumbs, he pressed downward on Scott's eyeballs until they popped. Then he got up. Fingers dripping red, he shook his wrists and wriggled his fingers to fling away the gore. All that was left of Scott's head was a pulpy, red mess.

  Jesse was sick with disgust. He stroked his jaw with his hand, closed his eyes, and tried to clear the gruesome images from his mind. Why had Cory killed them? He didn't need to do that. It was completely unnecessary. Was this guy a psycho? Shaking his head in disbelief, he went to collect the Beretta from Kate. She gave it up without comment. Her expression was blank and unreadable, and he realized he'd underestimated her yet again. He hoped this would be the last time he did.

  He wobbled his way over to check on Javier. Blood ran from the man's ears and nose and was pooling around him. Jesse could tell the guy was headed down the tunnel to his maker.

  “Oh my God,” Eve said to Cory. “You killed them. You killed them all. Why?”

  Jesse again shook his head and went to examine Wilson and Rose. Wilson was still unconscious but looked as though he would live. When Jesse got near Rose, she was making a spastic gurgling sound. She was not breathing. The sound was coming from somewhere other than her nose, mouth, a
nd the weeping hole in her throat.

  Disgusted, he turned away.

  “So, what do we do now?” Eve asked.

  Jesse sucked in a breath through his teeth. They were done here.

  “We steal everything we can lay our hands on and get the hell out of here,” he said. Then, after another deep breath, added, “Pronto.”

  -16-

  COMING HOME

  CORY RECOGNIZED THE house. It appeared smaller than he remembered, much smaller. He considered this and ultimately decided that being six years old the last time he had seen it was what was altering his perspective of the place now.

  Tall weeds filled the surrounding yards. Shards from the many broken windows hung loosely in their frames. None of the homes in the area had plywood or FEMA markings, nor had they been burnt to the ground as so many others had on the way here, so he figured the community must have been abandoned early.

  Was that providence? A sign he was on the right track? That remained to be seen.

  Along with Jesse, Eve, and Kate, he had been hiding out for nearly a week inside a Mr. Speedy Oil Change shop south of Rose's walled-in fortress. The Dodge truck they had stolen was now parked in front and loaded down with guns, ammo, food, medicine, and camping supplies.

  As he turned to take in the neighborhood, he touched on a memory of the house across the street and the kind old lady who lived there, Mrs. Wheeler. She had treated him nicely, baking him cookies and thick, gooey cinnamon rolls. He could almost smell them now, wishing he could have one. The house number affixed to her garage read 1053, and a white Toyota Camry sat in the driveway. The car's windows were cloudy from exposure, and the tires had long gone flat.

  Jesse stepped up next to him. “This it? This the place?” He looked away and began fiddling with his shotgun.

  “Yes,” Cory said then headed for the house.

  Jesse moved to block him. They locked eyes. “Why is this place so damn important?”

  Cory dropped his gaze. “Do not follow me inside.”

  “Why?” Eve asked, coming up the driveway.

  Cory glanced at Eve and pointed at the truck. “Wait over there.”

  “Why?”

  “Just wait over there.”

  “What's in there? What's so important?”

  “Nothing. I have to do this…alone.” He was not about to explain further. Apparently, Eve saw that. She wandered toward the truck, shaking her head in a way he could not miss. Kate was there leaning against the driver side door, looking at herself in the mirror, and wiping at something under her eyes.

  Jesse, it seemed, was the only one not willing to back down. He continued to block the path to the front door.

  “Let me do this alone,” Cory said. He hesitated. “Please.” It was a word he had not used in a long time, and he felt odd saying it.

  Jesse stared at him for a few seconds. Finally, he dipped his head. “Okay, then,” he said, stepping aside.

  Cory had read something on Jesse's face. Was it anger? Hatred? Whatever it was, he was not about to explain his reasoning for coming here. It was just important that he did so.

  The house's front door had been kicked in and hung askew from a splintered door jam. Behind it was a debris-filled linoleum entryway. He stepped over the threshold. Something crunched underfoot, and he touched the sword on his back and sniffed the air, listening.

  No threats. Nothing moving.

  To his right was a sparse living room. Torn sofas, chairs, and broken tables lay scattered about the room. He stooped to pick up a picture frame from the floor. It had once hung on the wall to his left. The pane of glass protecting the image had shattered, and fragments tumbled out when he examined the photograph. It was a picture of a happy family, a father, a mother, and three young smiling boys. He did not recognize the three boys nor did he recognize the mother and father. Everyone in it was foreign to him. This was not his family.

  He extracted the photograph from the frame and tore it into pieces, thinking it was yet another family he'd destroyed. He flicked the pieces at the broken furniture then made his way through the living room and into the hallway to his right. That hallway led to the bedrooms at the rear of the house. Hanging on the wall at eye level was a large crucifix. A porcelain Jesus, bloody, emaciated, and suffering. Next to the cross were images of Christ in various stages of pain and torment. The juxtaposition of the happy family and the suffering Christ caused him to stop and stare, as if he could somehow understand the contrast if he thought about it hard enough.

  But he could not. He just could not understand it.

  Making a claw with his hand, he swiped at the pictures, the crucifix on the wall, everything. With a series of crashes, all that was on the wall scattered across the floor. He glared at the broken pieces for a moment before stomping down hard and twisting his heel on the crucifix. The wooden cross snapped in half, showing the orange wood inside, and the porcelain Christ figure shattered into shards and dust.

  He raised his foot to look at what he had done. And, with one hard downward blow, pounded what remained into the moldy carpet.

  Leaving the hallway, he stepped on the glass that had fallen and listened to it crunch under his feet as he walked away. It brought him no satisfaction, only more anger. He went from the hallway, to the living room, to the kitchen, letting the memories of his childhood pile up as they returned in slivered flashes of the past. Some were happy moments. He remembered sitting and watching cartoons with his sister, Carina. They would laugh at the not so simple-minded Road Runner as he escaped from that coyote. Then that damned coyote would try and try, but it always failed to catch the speedy bird. As Cory had grown older, he wondered how that was even possible and how it related to real life. In real life, Wile E. Coyote would have caught the Road Runner and eaten it without a moment's hesitation, or would have died of starvation. Predator and prey. Life was just that simple. So many never saw that. Instead, they blissfully chose to believe the lies told by all the hungry predators out there. He had also learned that predators needed prey far more than prey needed predators.

  His sister was prey, and she had meant everything to him. Neither his mother nor his father had. He was glad they were both dead. Too much red colored his memories of them. Maybe his mother had once loved him, but after what she had done to Carina, he could never love her back, ever. At the time, he was too young to comprehend what she had been doing to his sister, but he had often caught her doing things that he felt were wrong.

  He remembered it well.

  And, when he was old enough to understand, everything she had done to Carina haunted him, tormented him. A few times in his life, he had tried to have sexual relations with different women, but each time he had found it wrong and failed to complete the act. The naked intimacy felt dirty. He could never get past watching his mother hovering over his sister and doing the same vile things to her.

  He had overheard his mother once say something to his sister that he would never forget: It's a man's world. Men will do the same things to you, or worse. I'm just getting you used to it.

  Carina had been through hell. His mother was a monster, but even with what she had done, his sister had hidden it well. She had protected the secrets of the family by not telling their father, and in doing so, had kept everyone together.

  Cory wiped the corner of his eye. He also remembered the good times with her. Once, his sister had dressed him up in a Sunday school dress and high heels. She had convinced him to prance around the house, click clopping on the fake wooden floors. She would snicker and hand him dainty things to carry. He would play it up until she was laughing hysterically. Another time she had colored his lips with red paint and told him it was lipstick. He could almost taste the chalky paint now.

  Those were some of the best times in his life.

  But, all too often, he would find her crying in her room. He would then try everything he could think of to cheer her up. All he had wanted to do was to make the crying stop and for her to be happy. Somet
imes it had worked, but most of the time, it had not.

  Their father had been a good man, which took years to realize. He was well respected in the community, and his sister adored him. When he was not working, which was infrequent, Carina would cuddle up next to him on the couch as he watched television. Cory had later come to know why his sister had so loved their father. He was the only one strong enough to give her the comfort she truly needed. He could protect her from the monster, from mother.

  His father had come home one day and caught his wife doing things to Carina on the kitchen table. Strong as he was, he lost it and went berserk. He chased his wife through the house, throwing things at her, and shouting so loudly Cory could remember cowering in a corner with his hands covering his ears, hoping it would soon end. His last memory of his mother was of her standing in front of him in the kitchen. She was smiling down at him. She looked so tall, her arms were open, and she was awaiting his embrace.

  Then his father split her head open from behind with an axe.

  That memory played out repeatedly in his mind like a bad movie, a movie from which he could not escape. Each time he reexamined the look on her face he came to a different conclusion. What was it that she wanted from him? Was she asking for forgiveness? Was she asking for his love? What? But the memories were so clouded now that he knew he would never be able to know the truth.

  After killing mother, father had chased him through the living room with the bloody axe and yelling. He remembered being too terrified to remember what he was saying.

  In the kitchen, he looked at the corner where he had cowered before. He saw himself as a little boy—afraid, covered in blood, and trying to back himself into the wall behind him. Then he realized something that had never quite made sense. Somehow, he had gone from cowering in the corner to standing in front of his mother's willing embrace. He'd never been able to reconcile that. What was stranger still was he remembered his father being naked at the time. He could not have been naked, yet in all his memories of that day, he was. He also remembered being chased out of the house and hiding under his father's truck, and that poor old lady too, Mrs. Wheeler.