Afraid

by Jack Kilborn

  Merv slapped his massive thigh and laughed. “Good call, Jessie Lee. I’ll make sure you don’t get skipped.”

  Jessie Lee gave him a decidedly unsexy pat on the head, then made her way down the bleachers to the gym floor. A few people waved at her, giddy as children on Christmas morning. She waved back, grinning. Free money brought out the best in people.

  Jessie Lee headed for the side door to access the parking lot. Locked. She sighed and walked to the next door down. Also locked. Odd. These were emergency doors, with the long bar across the middle that you pushed on. They weren’t supposed to be locked. She had to walk back the way she came in. Rick Hortach eyed her as she walked to the entrance and pushed at the door lever. It didn’t budge.

  “Rick, what’s up with the doors?”

  His voice matched his appearance, thin and reedy. “The mayor wants them locked. If anyone leaves, there won’t be an accurate head count.”

  “Next up is John Kramer,” the PA system boomed. John gave a hoot, then made his way down the bleachers.

  “It’s a fire hazard, Rick.”

  “The mayor said—”

  “Does the mayor want me to smoke inside?”

  “There’s no smoking in—”

  “Look, Rick.” Jessie Lee leaned in close. “If I don’t get my nicotine fix I’m going to bite someone’s head off. Now open the door before I start screaming that you touched me inappropriately.”

  Rick blinked with sad basset hound eyes and then fished around for his keychain and opened the door. Jessie Lee smiled sweetly before leaving the gym and stepping out into the cool, dark night. It took a lot of fumbling through her purse to locate her cigarettes and lighter. She lit up, and the hot smoke saturating her lungs was a gift from God.

  After a few puffs she began to get chilly—it was much cooler outside than in the gym. The sleeveless top she wore didn’t provide much in the way of coverage. Neither did the denim mini. But the outfit showed off her figure, and it was damn cute.

  She rubbed her arms and took a brisk walk across the parking lot to kick-start her circulation. When she reached the end, she spotted the distinct shape of a Ford Fairlane. Seamus Dailey’s car. A 1955 Skyliner Crown Victoria, completely restored. Seamus had taken just about everyone in town for a ride at one time or another. Jessie Lee didn’t understand why the car was still here, because Seamus had been one of the first people on the list and must have gotten his check a while ago.

  Jessie Lee sucked in more smoke and continued to walk. An aisle over was another car she recognized, Mary Porter’s beat-up Pontiac. Mary had been driving on the undersized temporary spare for over two years. This also seemed strange. Jessie Lee could have sworn she heard Mary’s name called by the lottery commissioner a half an hour ago at least.

  Maybe they’re together, Jessie Lee thought. She smirked, imagining Mrs. Porter and Mr. Dailey, both well into their sixties, having a quickie somewhere. Jessie Lee leaned closer to the Pontiac, checking to see if the windows were foggy or the chassis was rocking. The car looked empty.

  She finished the smoke, ground it out under the toe of her pumps, and tried Erwin again on the cell. No signal. When she turned to head back in she bumped into a man.

  Jessie Lee let out a cry of surprise and stepped backward. It was the lottery commissioner.

  “Why aren’t you inside?” he asked.

  “I stepped out for a smoke. One of my many bad habits.”

  Jessie Lee smiled brightly. He didn’t smile back. Up close, he didn’t look as handsome as she originally thought. And something about him struck a chord.

  “If you want to get what’s coming to you, you need to get back inside.”

  He flashed a humorless grin, and Jessie Lee realized why he looked familiar. She was a Court TV junkie, and this guy was the spitting image of Marshal Otis Taylor. Taylor was a serial killer and murdered more than twenty women back in the 1990s. He did some really twisted things to them, too, like bite off their fingers and toes.

  Jessie Lee didn’t like biters. She had a terrible experience with one once.

  This guy certainly had the Taylor cold stare down pat. If memory served, Taylor had died by lethal injection about five years ago, so there was no way he could be the real deal. Still, it was kind of creepy. Jessie Lee wondered if she should tell him who he resembled. She decided there wasn’t any point—who would like knowing they looked like one of the world’s most notorious psychos? Besides, it wasn’t a wise idea to annoy the guy cutting forty-grand checks.

  “Let’s get back, then,” Jessie Lee said, offering the commissioner her arm. He took it, roughly, and walked her back to the gym. Once the door closed behind them he headed back to the locker room. Jessie Lee decided he was kind of a dick. Maybe he was pissed off at having to work so late.

  She rubbed her arms again and felt something sticky on her shoulder. There, where the commissioner had touched her, was a smear of blood.

  Fran’s eye fixed on the sledgehammer poised above her head, but rather than fear she felt rage.

  “Where’s Duncan?” she yelled.

  The man in black paused. Smoke swirled up around his shoulders, but Fran could still make out his smile. He bent down, his free hand squeezing her right breast.

  “Are you, are you his, Duncan’s, mother?”

  Fran recoiled from his revolting touch and she tried to push away his hand, but for a thin man he possessed unbelievable strength. The harder she shoved, the harder he squeezed, until Fran could almost feel his fingers touch each other.

  “Leave us alone!”

  “Yes, yes, you’re the mother. Fran. The pictures match. Tell me where—”

  And then the man was off her, rolling to the side, the sledgehammer thrown up into the air. Fran watched it arc upward—so clear and detailed it seemed like slow motion—and then crash into the floor just a few inches from her head, cracking the tile and peppering her with broken bits.

  She twisted to the side and saw the stranger roll across the foyer with … Erwin! He’d come through, after all.

  Fran turned her attention back to the basement door. She scrambled to it on all fours, staying under the hovering cloud of smoke, and banged on it with her open palm.

  “Duncan! It’s Mom! Open the door!”

  A grunt, to her left. The stranger, though smaller, had managed to get on top of Erwin and straddle him. Fran continued to pound.

  “Mrs. Teller! It’s Fran Stauffer! Are you in there!”

  “Mom!”

  Hearing Duncan’s voice made Fran want to sing.

  “Duncan! Open up! Hurry!”

  She put her ear to the door, listening to deadbolts turning and mechanisms engaging. But the door didn’t budge.

  “Mom! It’s stuck!”

  Fran coughed—hot, viscous, black smoke hovered at chest level—and reached for the knob. It wouldn’t turn. The stranger must have damaged it with the sledge-hammer.

  A scream, raw and high-pitched. Fran looked. The stranger had some sort of miniature flamethrower. He held it to Erwin’s face.

  She needed to protect Duncan, but if Erwin were killed she wouldn’t be able to fight the stranger herself.

  Erwin’s howl cut into her, forcing her decision. Fran launched herself at the man in black.

  Josh handed his cell over to Streng and listened to the sheriff’s conversation with the state police.

  “Safe Haven is under attack by an unknown military force … armed and very dangerous, they’ve already killed two that I know of, and there have been several fires and an explosion … as many men as you can spare … I’ll be at my office outside of town … reception is spotty, try me on my land line there … dammit!”

  The sheriff squinted at the phone, which had apparently disconnected. Josh took the phone back, tried to redial. No signal. He put the phone in his pocket and felt the container he’d taken from Ajax. He pulled it out. It looked like a cigarette case, but rounder, and the finish was blackened like gun metal. A latch on the
side opened it. Inside, nestled in the felt lining, were rows of amber capsules.

  “What are these? Pills?”

  Streng opened a matching case and squinted. “Kind of big for pills.” He took one out and rolled it between his fingers. “They look like poppers. Who the hell knows? Probably shouldn’t mess with them.”

  Josh considered throwing the case out the window but wound up pocketing it again. Then he studied the electronic device he’d found on Ajax. Like the case, it was made of smooth black metal. But it was solid rather than hollow and had a USB port on the bottom. It also had a large dent in the face, possibly from one of Streng’s bullets. Josh played with it for a few seconds, trying to get it to do something. He failed. Then he gave it to Streng, who had similar results.

  “Maybe it’s a tracking device, like a GPS. Lemme have that canteen.”

  Josh handed it over. Streng unscrewed the cap and sniffed. He must have judged it safe, because he took a long pull and passed it to Josh. The firefighter drank greedily, surprised at how thirsty he was. They each took another sip, and then the canteen was empty.

  “Here’s Pine Village.”

  Olen swung the Honey Wagon onto Montrose Street at a sharp angle, and Josh heard the liquid contents in the tank behind him slosh in protest. He could see the fire behind the hill ahead. Josh’s thoughts shifted to Fran: smart, funny, sexy, a great mother, and great all-around person. He really messed up a good thing with her.

  Josh willed her to be okay. For her sake, and for Duncan’s, but also for selfish reasons. Josh was surprised how much the thought of her being in trouble made him angry.

  The Honey Wagon crested the hill, and Josh set his jaw against the inferno before them. Fran’s house looked like a palace in hell, every window and doorway belching flame, not a square inch untouched by fire. A lost cause. Anyone trapped inside would be dead by now.

  Olen slowed down and uttered, “Wow.”

  Across from it, another home, burning but in better shape. Josh saw an unattended garden hose, pumping water onto the porch. That had to be where Erwin was. And, hopefully, Fran and Duncan.

  “Park by that house,” Josh instructed Olen. “What’s in your tank right now?”

  “Sump water.”

  “How do you pump it out?”

  “Way ahead of you, boss. It’s gonna smell to high heaven.”

  “Smelly is better than burned to the ground.”

  Before Olen came to a full stop Josh swung open the passenger door, hopped out, and sprinted for the entrance. His groin still ached, and his neck felt like he’d been whiplashed, but neither slowed him down. He heard Sheriff Streng bark something behind him, the words getting lost in the roar of burning house. Josh pulled his shirt up over his nose and hunched low under the cloud of smoke hugging the ceiling. Small fires dotted the walls and furniture, and the inside temp had to be over a hundred degrees.

  Josh scanned the foyer and spotted three people rolling around on the floor. Erwin, Fran, and—Josh couldn’t believe it—Santiago. No … not Santiago. But someone just as creepy, all dressed in black and sporting a rapturous expression as he tried to hold a flame to Erwin’s face.

  Josh rushed over, helping Fran pull the intruder off of Erwin. Even with four arms against the intruder’s one, it was a battle. But then Erwin became aware of Josh’s presence, and he added his weight and strength to the cause. They peeled the intruder off of Erwin, pinning the hand that held the large lighter to the floor.

  When Erwin got back to his feet he touched the raw burn on his cheek, grimaced, and made a fist the size of a small ham. He dropped onto the intruder, bellowed out in pain and rage, and began to smash him in the face. As Josh watched, Erwin split the man’s nose, cracked his teeth, and bloodied both eyes. The intruder kept a sick grin on his face the entire time, a grin that stayed on even after he lost consciousness.

  Josh pried the lighter out of the man’s hand and locked eyes with Fran. She looked like she’d been in a war. Her hair was a rat’s nest, her clothes were torn, and her skin was a mosaic of soot, mud, and blood. Josh reached out for her hand, but she had already spun away, heading deeper into the house.

  “Watch him!” Josh yelled at Erwin. Then he went after Fran.

  She knelt next to a closed door, tugging at the knob. He bent down next to her.

  “Duncan and Mrs. Teller are in there! It’s a bomb shelter!”

  Josh’s hands joined hers on the knob and they both tugged. The door didn’t budge. Josh knocked on it, surprised by how warm it felt. Metal. All firemen hated metal doors. Even worse, the frame also seemed to be reinforced.

  “Duncan! It’s Josh VanCamp! Can you hear me!”

  “Yeah!” The boy’s voice was muffled and filled with fear.

  “We’re going to get you out!” Josh yelled. Then he pulled Fran close and said into her ear, “I have to go to the truck.”

  Fran grabbed his arm and dug her fingers in. Her eyes got wide.

  “Don’t leave.”

  “I’m not leaving. I’ll be right back.”

  Fran nodded and released him. The smoke had built up on the ceiling and floated at chest level. Josh moved in a crouch to stay under it. He squinted at Erwin, who had been joined by Sheriff Streng. They had tied up the intruder and were tugging him out of the building.

  Josh beat them outside. He coughed, spat out black, and took a big gulp of cool night air. Olen had a filthy hose clutched in his gloved hands, spraying the side of the house with human waste. Josh could smell it through the smoke. He wrinkled his nose and hopped in the cab of the truck, grabbing the rifle. The stock had a split in it, but it looked able to fire. He didn’t think a .22 would do much against a steel door, but he had no other ideas.

  “Keep it low, at the foot of the flame,” Josh told Olen.

  “I am. It’s not working.”

  The fire had reached the second floor. Josh realized that with the equipment they had the house was a goner.

  “Keep going. There are people trapped inside.”

  Olen nodded at him, and Josh went back into the building. Smoke and soot stung his eyes, and the temperature had gone up a dozen degrees. Fran was still next to the door, hitting it with a sledgehammer. Josh touched her shoulder, tugged her away.

  “Duncan! Stand away from the door!”

  The boy yelled okay.

  Josh aimed at the knob, black tears stinging his eyes, and fired. The bullet pinged off the knob, making a shallow dent and nothing more. Josh swore.

  “Josh!” Duncan banged on the door. “You have to hurry! The smoke is getting bad!”

  • • •

  Duncan’s eyes stung like someone poked dirty fingers in them, and his nose was running like he had a cold. The smoke was getting really thick at the top of the stairs. Every time he breathed, he coughed.

  “Duncan!” Mrs. Teller called. “Come here!”

  Duncan didn’t want to leave the top of the stairs, even though the walls on either side of him were on fire. He was really scared, but his mom was behind the door, trying to get in. He wanted to be there when she did.

  He crouched down, trying to get under the smoke, but it was just as bad by his feet. Duncan pulled his shirt up over his mouth, shrunk back against the heat of the flames, and closed his eyes, hoping Mom would hurry.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him. Mrs. Teller.

  “We need to get downstairs, child.”

  Duncan shrugged away.

  “I want to wait for Mom and Josh!”

  The old woman coughed. “We’ll wait for them downstairs. Come on.”

  She reached for Duncan’s hand, and he fought it, pulling away.

  “No!”

  “Please, Duncan. Smoke rises. We have to get lower, or we’ll die from the smoke.”

  Duncan sucked in more bad air, filling his lungs with scratchy heat, and coughed it out. It hurt. When Mrs. Teller grabbed his hand again he didn’t struggle, reluctantly following her back into the shelter. It had
gotten brighter, the soft green light of the glow sticks replaced by flickering orange. Duncan looked up, saw patches of fire on the ceiling, spreading out like an upside-down spill.

  It was so hot.

  Mrs. Teller took him to the middle of the room, and they crouched on the floor. Woof came over, whimpering. He was scared, too.

  Mrs. Teller put her arm around Duncan.

  “Remember all the cookies we used to bake together?” she asked.

  Duncan coughed, nodded. Sometimes they made different shapes, like squares and triangles. Or giant cookies, as big as the pan.

  “You always liked to lick the bowl. Mr. Teller liked that, too. We’ll bake cookies again, when we get out of here. Would you like that?”

  “Yes,” Duncan answered.

  But his mind wasn’t on cookies. It was on the flames, rapidly spreading to the walls and the supplies on the shelves.

  Revulsion coursed through Jessie Lee. The lottery commissioner had gotten blood on her arm. Blood had tons of diseases in it. She could practically feel the viruses soaking into her pores. Who knew where he’d been, who he’d slept with?

  She dug around in her purse and found a pack of tissue and some moist towelettes that she liberated regularly from the diner. As she wiped her arm and hands, her thoughts of getting sick were replaced by other, more sinister thoughts.

  What if the blood isn’t his?

  She hadn’t noticed him bleeding. And this was more than just a few drops.

  The scenario popped into her head fully formed. They weren’t there to get lottery money. They were there to be killed, one by one. That’s why the electricity was out. That’s why the doors were locked. That’s why the cars from the first people on the list were still in the parking lot. That’s why they were taken into the locker room one at a time. That’s why, once in the locker room, people would scream. That’s why the lottery commissioner looked like that serial killer Marshal Otis Taylor. He actually was Taylor. Somehow he escaped the death penalty, and now he was here in Safe Haven, wiping out the entire town one by one.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jessie Lee said out loud.