“Hello! Is anybody in here?” Crackling flames drowned out his words as they ate at the other side of the door. Strong heat buffeted from below.
Whimpers edged along the edge of the wall.
Andy swiped his hand through the air in front of him, back and forth. Inside, the house was darker than the forest beyond the fence. His fingers brushed something warm and pliable. A squeak said he’d found what he’d been looking for.
Two people, teenagers by their size, huddled in the corner clutched together. At least they weren’t on fire like the dog had been.
“Come on.” Andy tugged them toward the open window. The boy clamored out, the girl a bit more hesitant, but they both shimmied down the make-shift ladder.
A hiss from behind and Andy turned. A red line streaked through the dark. Creaking followed by pops like gunshots and sparks drifted up, or was it down? A loud crash and immense heat.
Rachel?
Chapter 4: Tom
Tom wiped his forehead. Notorious for cool evenings, May held true to the standard and Tom was grateful. Running in a balmy August would have dehydrated him faster and he needed all the strength he could store.
Scrambling into the crawl space between his “radio station” and the kitchen, he clutched the small mic. Transmitting equipment would run when he clicked the talk button and continue to appear in sleep mode. But his voice would carry and the men in his house listened, waiting, hoping he would slip up.
A chance to escape had come and gone, but another would slide into view. The damnable thing was, he’d been out. Three times. Yet he continued to return in case his parents made it home.
Hopefully they didn’t come home.
The radio equipment had to be left behind. He’d take his portable unit, but how long would it work? Was anyone even listening? Did anyone even care? He couldn’t get anyone on the ham to respond. Spokane had been hit, and who else? How many Americans were still out there? Tom had to make another announcement. Just in case.
Guttural voices thudded through the drywall. Tom closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He focused on a mundane memory the way his psychologist had taught him to take on fear. He’d started hamming with his buddies. Borrowing his dad’s equipment until he’d paid off his own. He’d learned tricks and tips and taught his friends.
In class, his physics teacher had pulled them aside and warned them from pursuing the hobby further, something about Big Brother had Cousins outside the big 50. But Tom and the other three had ignored his conspiracy theories, certain the instructor thought everyone was out to get them. Heck, the man wrapped his cell phone in aluminum foil when he wasn’t using it, missing calls and text messages on a regular basis. He wasn’t the only one in the northern Idaho and eastern Washington region whose religious gospel was made up of theories conjured by men on the extremes of idealism.
Dang if the teacher’s prophecies hadn’t played out, one by one. Tom was the last of the original four… still alive. His friends had died in a car accident, built up as alcohol related, but Tom and his friends didn’t drink. Losing control had no appeal.
Sitting in on his dad’s radio conferences had added to his fear. Riding his bike and running for stress relievers, Tom had researched escape and survival, joined the Scouts and annoyed the owner of the local Surplus Store. He could tie a knot while tapping Morse code with his foot.
Pressure had built in the air, like steam in a kettle, needing release. Everyone had recognized the rush toward something, a change, but no one had understood what it was. Tom had broadcast his own ideas, but he’d been stupid. He’d never protected his location and hadn’t thought of it until a few weeks ago.
Too late. Invaders in his home.
Tom closed his eyes. He was an only child. If his parents had been hit during their graveyard shifts at the hospital, he’d be completely orphaned.
If the foreign-speaking men found him, his family could be demolished. He gulped against the tears. Hardened reporters didn’t cry. They listened and learned. Suck it up. He could do what was needed.
The sweat on his forehead and neck collected particles of dust, the itch unbearable in the mounting heat. Fortunately, his dad had never gotten around to remodeling this side of the house with new insulation. Fiberglass would not be welcome.
No more than eighteen inches wide, the crawl space allowed very little room for Tom to move. He stood sideways, his growing body large and awkward in the tight area. But clumsiness came when he moved… and he wasn’t moving.
A door slammed, the walls shook and dust sprinkled down on Tom.
“What’s going on? Why haven’t you found the boy?” English but heavily accented, the voice hummed through the wall where Tom rested his head. He pulled back and stared at the studs, trying to predetermine if the man sensed he was there.
Shuffling feet, a barked command in another language and sudden quiet unnerved Tom more than the rummaging and rifling of his family’s belongings. He pressed his ear to the cardboard colored backing of the drywall, the stamp in line with his nose. His stomach hurt. He desperately wanted to hold his mom and dad – but thinking about them would have to come later, when he could cry or plan or something. But he had to be alive to get to that point.
“Tom. Tom, where are you, little boy?” Sing song, the man’s voice raised like he talked to a small toddler, the contrast extremely offsetting like fangs on an Easter bunny.
Tom’s stomach no longer hurt – maybe it had vacated his body. He held his breath. Fingers numb and tingly. His legs wobbled. The other men would be outside or downstairs, or up, or wherever. But Tom had to get out. A promise in the newcomer’s voice scraped Tom’s vertebrae with ice and dread. He’d escape or the man would make him regret ever waking up.
Determination won against the impulse to flee. Tom clenched the microphone in his hand, grateful for something to hold onto. Before running, he’d need his backpack he’d left in the radio room which so far had remained undiscovered. His dad had built him a nook in the back of his closet for a private calling space. Tom would pretend to be a spy or reporter on a special mission. He’d give anything to be pretending right then.
The man’s stealth couldn’t sneak past the creaky floorboard in the hallway to his parents’ bedroom which meant he walked in the opposite direction of Tom’s room.
Only a moment’s reprieve before the man would redirect toward Tom’s room to inspect and maybe destroy his radio equipment. The further the enemy walked to Tom’s parents’ room the higher Tom’s chances at escape.
A click from farther down the hall, probably the linen closet came through the plaster. Attic stairs would distract the accented-intruder for a minute, maybe less. Tom had to run for it.
The thin wooden panel slid into the wall. He waited. The rub almost imperceptible, but in the stillness of the house anything could carry. A footstep sounded overhead.
Tucked under his desk across the room sat his pack with his supplies. He could do anything or go anywhere with the items in that pack. He needed to grab it and get to the front door. And get the hell out.
Eyes trained toward the door with the occasional glance at the window, Tom darted across the thin carpet. He knelt on the ground and grabbed the bag. He didn’t have time to collect anything else. Escape had to be the primary goal. Tom would find food and other supplies along the way. The weight of his and his dad’s ham radio conversation pads thunked him in the lower back.
The lack of time didn’t stop him from pushing the small family picture from the wall into his front coat pocket.
Who knew when, or… gulp… if he’d see his parents again.
Pressed against the door jam, Tom waited for the hall clock to tick ten seconds. The footsteps dragged out slow and steady across the ceiling, stopping every few feet. Around the corner would be the empty kitchen, and the hallway to an office, the master bedroom and bath, the linen closet and laundry room, with stairs making up the far wall. To the right, down his hall, was his room,
another bath, a storage room and the door to the lean-to garage. He’d never make it out, if he went to the garage. His dad had covered the entire thing in plastic and sided it to eventually be made into a workout room, but he’d never gotten around to finishing the project. His mom had asked for help with the garden, then the kitchen, then something to do with patio furniture. The time to finish it came and went, lost in the busyness of the Honey-Do lists.
The lean-to exit was blocked and the front and back doors had men covering them, exact number and location he didn’t know. Tom was stuck in a raccoon trap with no experience getting out. He wanted to pinch his arm, wake up in his bed, his dad yelling for him to get a move on, or rain pattering the window.
Wait a minute, he could use the window, maybe not in here, but off the kitchen. The large bay window led to the greenhouse over the deck. Hide under the wooden slats. What did he have to lose? Best not to think about that.
A footstep thudded on the narrow stairs. Tom held his breath and dashed over the tiled floor into the oversized pantry. It would have to do. The man would head into Tom’s hallway next.
Tom slipped between the partially folded doors and froze amongst cans of soup and boxed pastas. Another missed opportunity because he’d waited too long. He deserved a swift kick in the butt. Come on, Mason, get your head in the game. Life or death now.
Heavy tread from boots scraped past his room. A moment later the lean-to door creaked. Tom poked his head around the white bi-folds. No one in sight. The window was inches away and cracked. He wouldn’t have to flip the lock.
Kneeling on the cushions, Tom grimaced as he slid open the window. Angling his body through the opening, Tom rolled onto his front to wiggle the rest of the way. Maybe he’d find his stomach under the deck.
The hammer of a revolver clicked and Tom jerked his head up.
Chapter 5: Rachel
Andy. Her back hurt but the ache paled each time she glanced in the direction of her son driving their four-wheeler, the man of the family. Where her husband should have been.
She’d made them leave. The house had caved in. Rachel had swallowed her scream. Clenched her gloved fingers into the rubber of the handles and hollered at Cole. He’d stared. He couldn’t move. How many times had she called his name? Five minutes? Try ten. They’d sat there for at least ten minutes but the sound of a helicopter had chopped through the haze.
Cole’s name had exited on a scream. They’d tore from there with flames at their backs. Andy was behind them. How could she move away from him…
They crested the hill, dust billowing behind them. Nothing stirred down either side of the fork.
Noon had to be just around the corner. Their mouths were dry as the powdered tire ruts stretching behind them. Rachel had pushed them, not stopping for even a sip. They hadn’t seen anyone after they’d passed the main highway.
Cole’s eyelids drooped and his head lolled.
“Cole, we’re almost there. I promise.”
He rubbed his eyes and slurred, “I’m tired. I miss Dad.”
“I know.” But Rachel’s heart whispered it hadn’t been long enough to miss Andy yet, even with the loss so glaring and sharp. She did, even though it wasn’t logical.
The radio hadn’t given anything more than static and Rachel hadn’t asked anyone if they had news. Andy had worked into her brain the importance of keeping clear of people for a while once the end began to wrap its tentacles around the world. Desperation can drive otherwise humane people to do the unthinkable. Keep going. Get to the ranch. Had Bob and Martha made it to safety?
“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Beau’s whines had increased until he was saying something every five minutes. Her patience wore thin, but she bit her lip.
Rachel didn’t know how much more she could take before snapping. She sighed and waved Cole to drive beside her. Over her shoulder she answered in a normal voice with a hint of ‘that’s enough’, “I know you are. We all are. Only a few more minutes and we’ll be at the ranch. I’ll make a big huge lunch, okay? Maybe we can have some fruit or something.”
Beau mumbled, his words lost beneath the growl of the engine. Rachel ignored him. They were so close. She had to hold it together – for her kids and her sanity – until they were safe on the property. One more corner.
Across a small bridge over a deep snowpack-fed spring, the road led them deeper into the northern National Forest. Rachel and Andy had saved and penny-pinched like misers to purchase the modest ten acres in the middle of nowhere up the side of a mountain.
And like they crossed a line, the heat vanished with the dust and a chilly breeze whisked at her hair. Cole’s teeth chattered and he shrugged his jacket on. Winter lingered in the deeper regions of the mountains. Gray crusts on snow burms struggled to melt in the high altitude and little sun streaming through the thick evergreens.
Creeks and springs would be glutted until mid to late-June when the real heat waves began and triple digits ate at the moisture corroding the land.
She’d forgotten the slow awakening of spring in the higher altitudes.
Just as suddenly as the temperature changed the road ended in a clearing. The only vehicles so high up would be the contracted logging trucks to preen the forests a little at a time. Cole braked and Rachel motioned for him to wait.
Off the quad, Rachel retraced their tire tread the hundred yards to the bridge past the bend and watched for anyone following them. Secrecy at this stage of the journey was tantamount to their future safety. No one could see how to get it in. Even if looters or enemies weren’t following them, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen later. The stakes in the game had changed and every precaution, while seemingly paranoid, would at some point be an asset.
Rachel glanced at the swirling rivulets. Had it been just that morning her kids had slept in their beds? It felt as though decades had past. Her husband, love of her life, hadn’t died in a terrible house fire saving someone else’s kids. Terrible things didn’t happen to Rachel. She planned for them, saved for them, but they never actually happened. Until that point, she’d been unrecognizably blessed. No deaths in her family, unremarkable work. She’d been traumatized by experiments, but in actuality she’d do the invaluable psychoses training again, if she were given the choice.
The list of terrible was mounting and Rachel didn’t appreciate the load dumping in her lap. Her clients weren’t the only ones who needed stress management skills. Her favorite? Listing the last names of the Presidents of the United States in chronological order. The most mundane, rote mind exercises were the best. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe…
One minute of grief. But not until her children were safely ensconced at the cabin, after they slept that night. Heaven knew she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes without seeing the house fall in on itself in red and orange flames, her husband inside. On repeat.
Tripping over a jutted root, Rachel caught her balance. She was clumsiest when she was tired.
The perimeter of the clearing hid the entrance to their land. A tree carved with a large heart and her husband and her initials marked the start of the search. Count three over from that trunk, turn east to its mirror and count two trees to the right into the bushes. Behind the tallest brush a log led the way into the forest where halfway between a large cedar and a tamarack a hard right finally led in the right direction. Another mile in and their home-off-the-grid nestled in the protection of the trees.
Andy had loved spy novels and Louis L’Amour stories. Rachel counted and the journey continued. Branches hung low, bent from holding heavy snow throughout the winter, in their long held positions. Moss shaded the sides of bark like a child had colored on the trees with different hues of green crayons. Small patches of snow warred with the vegetation for a grip on the land.
Trees had fallen, thin trunks blocking the way of the path.
Cole stood on the foot plates of his quad and powered over them, the crunch and snap of wood too loud for comfort. Rachel winced and stayed
a modest distance behind him. She couldn’t let him drive in back. She had to see him, make sure he was fine. Besides, each and every one of her children had memorized the way into their land. Andy had treated it like a spy game and the kids had eaten the directions and clues like cinnamon bears, soft and chewy with a hint of danger – who knew if the next one would be too spicy for fun.
Dang, he was everywhere. She could smell him in the fresh breeze pushing pine scent through the forest.
Steam from their engines rose in the mid-day shades of the forest. The last tree marking the beginning of their land came into view and Rachel’s shoulders sagged. Home, their new one and until things straightened out – if they straightened out – it would be for a while.
The tarp rustled from her trailer. Glancing over her shoulder, Rachel smiled at Kayli and Beau. Even with the circumstances surrounding their reasons for coming, their dad gone and whatever else awaited them, the magic of the land and its memories were stronger than the fear or uncertainty. They had more fun times with Andy at the cabin than anywhere else on Earth.
Rachel faced forward. Smack dab in the middle of the ten acres where a knoll jutted out from the side of the sloping mountain, Andy had built a “green” home in the land.
Living in a “cave” was the last thing she wanted, if anything should happen. Heck, on vacations, she didn’t want to wake up to dirt. She wanted room service and hot baths. But her husband, her beautiful smart husband had laughed. “Rachel,” he’d said, “You can and will have all that here. You just need to give me time to create it.” And she had, because anywhere Andy was, she was.
And he’d given her everything he’d promised.
“Cole, stop by the door and we’ll unload the stuff there. After that, you and Kayli can take the quads and trailers to the lean-to and store them behind the wood. Beau, you can help Mommy.” Rachel stood and, after stretching out her lower back, turned off the engine. She rescued her two youngest from amongst the supplies packed with so much care. Beau’s little legs couldn’t contain his excitement and he ran around the front “yard”, jumping over the white patches and whooping at each new thing.
Try Hard: a post-apocalyptic thriller (180 Days and Counting... Series Book 7) Page 12
