by Merry Jones
‘Stop!’ someone shouted.
Pete heard a gunshot.
‘Don’t – don’t shoot at him!’ Pete got down flat, hugged the ground, covered his head. Waited for a blast. But the blast didn’t come. More shots went off.
The moonlight gleamed overly bright; the moment seemed unusually long as Pete looked up to see Bob clutching his backpack like a pigskin, running like a wide receiver, gliding through the air, sailing toward the ground. Diving head first to the earth. Whether Bob had been shot or simply tripped, Pete didn’t know. And, as the earth shook and a blast of rolling hot orange swallowed him, Pete briefly realized that it didn’t matter, either way.
A fish in a barrel, Slader thought. He tried to focus on the light bulb on the ceiling, but his vision kept fading. The light bled into the concrete, became a blurry glow. He squinted, forcing it back into the bulb. But the light resisted, spilling out of the glass, into the air. His pain was spilling, too. Maybe he’d lost too much blood. Maybe his blood had carried his pain with it, removing it from his body, spreading it onto the mattress, the floor. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was staying alert. Being conscious when they came for him, exhibiting dignity right to the end. He was going to look straight into their pathetic eyes and shame them for their disloyalty. For following that clown Josh. The Bog Man. Really?
Wait. Where was the light? Slader opened his eyes. Had he been sleeping? He blinked at the halo on the ceiling. Where were the others? There had been others, hadn’t there? People who’d been taken with him? He was sure of it. He closed his eyes, wondered when the traitors would come for him. The cowards. Hiram, Mavis, Annie, Ax. Felt a stab, worse than his gunshot. Maybe they’d be too late; maybe he’d deprive them of the opportunity to execute him. He could feel himself sinking. Was this how it felt to die? A gentle tug, an easing of pain? He watched the light, tried to hold onto the image of the bulb. But heaviness pulled at him, the sense of being swallowed. Well, he wasn’t going to whine about it. Good leaders might lose sometimes, but they didn’t whine, not ever. And as a leader, he needed to set an example, couldn’t flinch, even when he’d been betrayed by his own people.
The light faded. Slader waited, listened to the rasp in his chest. Searched for the pain of his wounds. When the ceiling caved in on him, he wasn’t thinking about his leadership any more, wasn’t wondering what he could have done better. His final thoughts were of Mavis, how he should have married her. Maybe if he’d honored her that way, she wouldn’t have abandoned him at the end.
Harper kept asking what time it was, and Hank kept saying it was five minutes or two minutes or four minutes after the last time she’d asked. Harper couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand, couldn’t wait passively. She got up, turned in circles, examined the floor, the ceiling, the walls. She looked at Slader, who was unconscious. At Angela, who drifted, moaning occasionally, no longer talking.
Finally, Harper put her ear to the door, listening. Whatever had been going on in the outer room had stopped. She heard nothing. No one shuffling around or working on taking the door down. No one scuffling to remove bodies. And, if no one was coming down after them, she doubted that the shooters were still positioned at the trap door.
‘I think they’re gone.’
Daniels squinted at her.
‘What do you mean “gone”?’ Hank asked.
‘I don’t know. But it’s been quiet. Maybe no one’s watching the trap door—’
‘But if they are,’ Daniels said, ‘whoever goes out there to look will get his head blown off.’
Harper crossed her arms. ‘True. But if we wait here, we’ll definitely get our heads blown off. At least there’s a chance.’
Hank got to his feet. ‘You’re right. I’ll go.’
‘No you won’t.’ Harper stood between Hank and the door. ‘Your limp makes you too slow—’
‘You limp, too.’
‘But I’m lighter. More agile.’
‘Both of you are civilians.’ Daniels stood. ‘I should go.’
Harper shook her head. ‘No. My idea. I go.’ She went to Slader, took the key from his pocket. He didn’t react.
‘Harper, no.’ Hank stood at the door, adamant. ‘I won’t let you.’
What? ‘You won’t let me?’
‘Daniels or I will go—’
‘Why? Because you’re men? Hank. I was in combat—’
‘You’re not going.’
‘Excuse me? Since when do you tell me what I can or cannot do? I’m going. Step aside.’
‘Harper, I can’t.’
Daniels stepped over to them. ‘If we stand here arguing long enough, we’ll miss the opportunity. One of us has to go. Now.’
‘Hank, let me. I appreciate that you’re worried, but I’ll be quick. I’ll just step out there and look. If no one’s there, you’ll come join me.’
Hank didn’t move.
‘Dude,’ Daniels said. ‘We might be able to get out of here. But we have to go now, while they’re busy doing something else. We’ve got to move before they come back.’
Hank looked at Harper. ‘Don’t get shot. I love you.’ He stepped aside.
Harper unlocked the door and slowly turned the knob. Opened the door a sliver. Then another. Finally, she pushed it open. The room was untouched. Jim, Ax and Moose lay where they’d fallen, cots upended. The ladder was flat on the concrete.
Harper stepped into the room, looked up at the trapdoor. It was shut tight.
They were locked in.
She motioned for the others to come out, pointed up at the door. Opened her mouth to ask someone to help her raise the ladder so they could investigate the lock, but never got a word out. A deafening bang interrupted, shaking the foundations of the compound. Harper pulled Hank down against the wall, eyed the ceiling. She recognized the sound, the reverberation.
Daniels held onto a wall. ‘What the hell was—?’ But the rest of his question was lost in another blast. Chunks of concrete dropped from the ceiling.
‘Get down.’ Harper motioned for Daniels to hunker with them by the wall and grabbed a mattress off a cot. Hank and Daniels helped her lift it, used it to cover their heads just before the next explosive crack loosened more chunks of concrete.
In the adjoining room, Angela was screaming.
‘Don’t panic,’ Daniels shouted. ‘Just keep your head down.’
But Angela’s screams continued. Upstairs, people were also screaming, their panicked stampede pounding the ceiling, halted by another fierce blast. Then by a series of smaller pops in rapid succession, like a barrel of uncontrolled firecrackers. Or an onslaught by an entire army platoon, all firing at once. Bang bang bang bang. The vibrations rattled the room, cracked the walls, crumbled the ceiling. Soon, even the mattress wouldn’t protect them. The light bulb flickered out. Left them in total darkness. Came back on again. Flickered out again. Chunks of concrete rained onto the mattress. A heavy slab fell beside them, thudded onto Ax’s remains.
‘Our Father, who art in Heaven,’ Daniels began, but his prayer was drowned out by a resounding chorus of exploding ammunition. Harper knew the sound – hundreds of rounds, firing simultaneously. Sequentially.
Damn. There had to be a thousand men out there. This was no normal ambush. No typical sniper attack. This was a full-out surge by a huge military force. Harper stayed down, barked out orders, telling her patrol to keep down and hold their fire.
‘What are you talking about?’ someone asked. ‘Hold our fire?’
‘This isn’t a discussion,’ she snapped. ‘Just follow orders.’
When the shooting finally stopped, the bunker was a shambles, the air clouded with dust.
‘Everybody okay?’ She kept her voice low, in case the enemy was close.
‘Harper, are you okay?’
Harper? Really? ‘Call me “Lieutenant”.’
‘Damn. Not again. Do you have your lemon?’
Her what?
The men lowered their mattress. Debris rolled off it.
‘Y
ou’re having a flashback,’ the dark one said. He looked familiar. Like Hank.
Hank?
‘Harper, you’re not in Iraq. This isn’t the war.’
She backed away from him. Why would he say that? Why did he look like Hank? Had she been injured? Was she imagining the resemblance? She grabbed a machine gun, held it up as she backed away, stepping over a corpse.
Somewhere a woman wailed.
‘Come here, Harper. If you don’t have the lemon, bite your lip. Hard.’
What?
There were two of them. She waved the gun. Stepped back.
On to something that moved. A woman screamed, ‘My hand!’
Harper tripped, toppling backward, landing hard, not letting go of her gun. Pain radiated up her back, down her legs. Jolted her back into the moment.
Angela was next to her on her hands and knees, glaring at her, cradling her hand. ‘You crushed my fingers!’
‘Harper?’ Hank came to her. ‘You all right?’
She wasn’t sure. She blinked, looked around. Got her bearings. Saw the metal cot leg she was clutching like a rifle. Dropped it. Felt her face heat up. Damn. She’d had another flashback? Two in the space of a few hours?
‘Can you stand?’
Harper tried; Hank helped her up.
‘Hey, can somebody stop fussing about Harper? What about me?’ Angela was surprisingly alert, covered with dust. Blood trickled down her forehead. ‘I’m the one with a broken ankle, a gunshot wound in my back, and a bashed skull. And now, I’ve got a crushed hand. You guys left me in there – I was almost killed. I had to crawl out here on my hands and knees like an animal.’
‘The captain.’ Daniels looked at the door.
Oh God. ‘Slader?’ Harper bellowed, turning, rushing into the next room.
The captain’s boots protruded from a collapsed slab of concrete. Harper went to him. Found a hand in a heap of rubble. Felt for a pulse. Found none. Captain Slader was gone. Much of the ceiling, including the floor of the room above – had caved in on him.
But above them, where the ceiling had been, was a gaping hole. Which meant they had a way out.
Daniels insisted on going up first. It was, after all, his park. He pulled rank. Harper and Hank had held the ladder.
‘Careful,’ Harper whispered. ‘Some of them might be up there. And they’re armed. Be ready to duck.’
Daniels just began climbing the ladder, Ax’s gun tucked into his belt.
‘What about me?’ Angela was losing energy. ‘I can’t climb a ladder in my condition – you guys aren’t going to leave me alone down here.’
‘Not for long,’ Hank said. ‘Only until we can get help—’
‘No – you can’t – don’t leave me …’ Her shouts were deflated.
Daniels’ head was out. ‘Mother of God,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘What do you see?’
Daniels stood on the ladder, ‘Lord Almighty have mercy.’
‘What?’ Harper snarled.
Daniels still didn’t answer. He continued up the ladder and climbed onto the remains of the floor above.
Harper met Hank’s eyes and started up the ladder. When her head poked through the opening, she saw why Daniels had been speechless.
‘What is it?’ Hank called from below.
Harper bit her lip, grounding herself with pain to fight off another flashback.
‘Harper?’ Hank asked again. ‘What?’
Harper couldn’t think of an answer, so all she said was, ‘Damn.’
The foot was the first identifiable thing she saw. No shoe or boot. No sock. Just a seared bare foot, toes polished sky blue, ripped from the rest of its body. The past rose up, assaulting her with images: A boy whose face had been blown off. Detached limbs. The smell of burned rubber and flesh mixed with explosives. Cries of pain and horror. But Harper kept moving, climbing out of the hole. Staying in the present even as her memories clawed at her.
The compound roof had blown away, creating gaping holes above them. Exposing the night sky. Under the starlight, she saw devastation. Dust. Spots of fire where wooden beams glowed hot. An expanse of broken cement blocks, rocks, dirt, concrete chunks. And a terrible, deadly hush.
Hank climbed out behind her.
Angela’s voice shattered the silence. ‘Don’t leave me down here! I’m coming up.’
The ladder wobbled. Angela cried out in pain. Daniels knelt at the opening. ‘Be careful. Hold on – don’t fall.’ He turned to Harper and Hank. ‘She’s hopping. Even with that gunshot wound, she’s pulling herself up. Can you believe her?’
Harper paid no attention. She waded cautiously through rubble, crawling over wreckage, looking for survivors. Her left leg throbbed, but she moved on, examining spaces between rocks and under concrete. Hank made his way to her.
‘Anybody here?’ he called. ‘Anyone need help?’
Nobody answered.
A woman’s hand protruded from under a heap of concrete. Harper took it, felt for a pulse. Moved on.
Hank stopped, wiped dust and soot from his eyes.
‘You okay?’ Harper asked.
He was standing near a burning beam. His eyes flickered, reflecting the flame. ‘There’s a bunch of them here,’ he said. ‘So far all gone.’
Harper wouldn’t give up. Went in the other direction, into the far end of the space. Finding a boot. A rifle butt.
Daniels grunted, trying to pull Angela up the last few rungs as she cried out in pain. ‘Ouch – be careful – you’re hurting me. Oh God, my back. My ankle.’
Up ahead, the rubble lay in a convex pile, as if covering something. Maybe someone had taken shelter under a sofa or chair. Harper hurried, listening for movement, for a voice other than Angela’s. Carefully, she lifted a chunk of concrete, pushed smaller pieces aside. Saw the shiny gleam of a gong. And under it, Hiram, his eyes wide, his hand clutching a mallet.
She was looking at him when the rest of the ceiling came down.
‘Mrs Jennings?’
A light shone in her eyes. She blinked, turned away.
‘Try to hold still.’
The light came back. Harper closed her eyes again. Turned away again. ‘Stop it,’ she said. Why was this kid blinding her with a light?
‘Welcome back, ma’am.’ The kid was in a white uniform. A sailor? Were they on a ship? ‘I’m an EMT, ma’am. You’ve been out for a bit. I was trying to take a look at your pupils.’
‘I’m fine.’ She started to get up. Had to go look for survivors.
‘Ma’am, please lie back.’
The ground was spinning. Harper couldn’t step onto it. She settled back, closed her eyes. Waited for the spinning to stop. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the inside of a large tent. Cots. Medical supplies. Oh God. She bit her lip, but nothing changed. So this wasn’t a flashback? Was this actually the war?
‘Ma’am, please hold still. You’ve got a pretty impressive gash on your leg.’
She did?
‘It’s going to need some stitches. But honestly, even with the concussion, you were lucky.’
Lucky? What had happened? Where was Hank? ‘Where’s my husband?’
‘Your husband?’
‘Hank. He was with me …’ Harper bolted up, looked around the tent. Saw a row of coroner’s bags.
‘Is that him?’ the kid asked, pointing.
Harper looked. Hank was limping toward them.
‘Yes.’ She let out a breath. Sat back and allowed the kid to do his work. Hank was covered with dust and grime. His shirt was soiled and torn. He had a cut above his eye. Ragged scrapes speckled his arms. But as she took his hand, Harper’s heart fluttered, and she had to slow her breath. In all their time together, Hank had never looked better.
Late the next morning, Harper sat talking to the ATF agents back at the ranger’s station. Apparently, she had no memory of a chunk of time. She remembered searching for survivors, finding bodies and parts of bodies. And then, nothing unti
l she was with the paramedic.
‘We found the body of a man in what appeared to be an ape costume,’ Agent Byrnes said. ‘It was in the field just outside the compound. Do you know who that was? Or why he might be dressed that way?’
‘It was Josh.’
‘Josh.’ An agent raised an eyebrow. His name was Meyer.
‘I told you. The locals rebelled against Captain Slader. Josh was the new leader.’
‘And he was dressed like that – why?’
Harper sighed. Didn’t have the energy to go through it all. ‘From what I can tell, Josh liked to dress up like a Yeti and roam the woods, scaring campers away. They called him the Bog Man. He and his followers were planning to kill us and decorate the woods with our remains. Maybe Josh put on his costume so no one would be able to identify him. If they saw him killing us or distributing our bodies, they’d blame the Bog Man.’
‘The Bog Man.’ Agent Meyer exchanged glances with his partner, Agent Byrnes. ‘And this Bog Man. You said he’s … what? A Yeti?’
‘Like Big Foot. Or Sasquatch.’ Harper explained that she didn’t know much about it, except that he was an almost human creature in local lore. People said he lived in the bogs. She told them that Josh seemed to have been exploiting the legend to scare away outsiders and reclaim the woods for the locals.
‘Reclaim the woods? But these woods are state property.’
‘I know that, Agents. But I’ve been told that some local people believe that the government stole their land to create the park, and then handed that same land over to the energy companies, who fracked it, polluted it, and built a pipeline through it. In the process, homes were destroyed, water became undrinkable, and people became sick.’
The questioning went on. Harper felt no pain, only detached disbelief. God, what had happened? An explosion of fracking chemicals? A problem with the pipeline? Or had the locals planned a terrorist bombing but accidentally blown themselves up?
Agent Byrnes asked her again about Slader. ‘So. You’re saying that the police captain was the leader of this extremist group?’
‘Yes.’ They’d already been over all of that.
‘And, in his role as police captain, Slader was in charge of investigating the deaths of Al Rogers and Philip Russo.’
