by Jack Kilborn
They were at the scene where the soldiers began to undress.
“Can I turn it off now?” Wiley asked.
Fran nodded. He reached for the knob and stopped the evil, grateful for the reprieve.
Darkness and silence filled the hallway.
“What happens next?” Fran whispered.
“The soldiers rape many of the people who are still alive. And some who aren’t. They don’t discriminate with age, sex, or orifice. Sometimes they even make new orifices. Based on the position of the sun in the shots, it went on for at least four or five hours. Then they kill the few who are still alive, dismember the bodies, put everything in a big pile, and set it on fire.”
“And then?”
Wiley took a deep breath, let it out through his clenched teeth.
“Then it gets kind of confusing. There’s a quick shot of them setting up charges, and then it jumps to a big explosion, and the camera spins away and dies out. I think the cameraman got too close before it blew, and he died. That’s how they lost the camera. But before that happens, it reveals the name of the village, on a sign. It was in South Vietnam.”
Fran turned on the lights. Wiley squinted against the sudden glare.
“South Vietnam?” she said. “We were fighting to liberate South Vietnam. They were our allies.”
“That’s why no one ran away when the chopper landed. They probably thought we were there to help them.”
Fran was silent for several seconds. Then she spoke a single word.
“Why?”
“When I saw the film the first time, I recognized the major. He was the man I went to after the war ended. I asked him the same thing.”
“What did he say?”
“He said the military was creating a new type of soldier. But before they went into the field, they needed to be tested. They picked a town that wouldn’t see it coming, wouldn’t fight back.”
Wiley turned the knob to reverse the film, keeping the bulb off. They both watched it slowly rewind.
“You went to the major to get money from him.”
Wiley didn’t answer. But he managed a slight nod.
“That unit,” Fran said. “Did it have a name?”
“The major called them a Red-ops unit.”
Fran stood. “Those fuckers outside. They’re a Red-ops unit, too.”
“I figured as much.”
“Why didn’t you expose this? Why didn’t you go to the press?”
Wiley had thought about that many, many times. He didn’t go at first because he wanted the money he thought he could extort from the major. But instead of paying, the major had sent two of his Red-ops team to visit Wiley, to get him to reveal the location of the film.
They worked on him for less than an hour. But they’d inflicted enough pain in that hour to last a lifetime. Nothing permanent had been done to him. Just squeezing. Hitting. Pulling. Breaking.
Wiley would have talked within the first few minutes, but the film was at his parents’ house, shipped back from Vietnam with the rest of his war booty. As selfish as he’d been in the past, as reckless and unconcerned for their feelings, he wasn’t going to let these animals get their hands on his parents. Even if it meant dying in agony.
He got lucky. The Red-ops soldiers the major had sent were geniuses at torture but pretty stupid otherwise. They talked slow. Repeated themselves a lot. Wiley convinced them the film was under his bed, and they believed him. When they couldn’t find it, they brought Wiley over. He reached into the hidden slit in his mattress, grabbed the gun he kept there, and killed them both. Then he hurried to his parents’ house, grabbed all of his stuff, and fled.
That had been the last time he ever saw them.
He could have gone to the press after that. But he was terrified that they’d find him. And they’d hurt him, and his mom, and dad, and brother. So he drifted around for a few years, coming back to Safe Haven after his folks had died, building this bunker where he separated himself from the world.
“You could have stopped them,” Fran said. “Even while you were hiding here. All you had to do was mail the damn film to one of the networks.”
Wiley told her the truth.
“That film cost me everything. My freedom. My family. I wasn’t going to give it away for free, unless I got something in return. I was scared. But mostly, I was greedy.”
Fran stood up, her face twisted with contempt.
“I hate you. I hate you so much.”
Wiley didn’t contradict her. He hated himself, too.
He watched her as she walked away.
Mom came into the kitchen, but she didn’t say anything. She walked to the sink and went at her fingernails with soap and a scrub brush.
Duncan said, “Mom?”
She didn’t answer.
He tugged her shirt.
“Mom? I need to pee.”
“I’ll be done in a few minutes, baby.”
“I can go by myself.”
Mom didn’t turn around. She kept scrubbing. “No. I don’t want you alone with that man.”
“He just saved the sheriff’s life, Mom. And he’s hiding us.”
“I don’t care. Wait until I’ve finished.”
Mom scrubbed even harder, so hard that Duncan wondered if the blood was coming from her. He took one step backward. Two. Three. Then he sneaked out into the hallway, Mathison hanging on his shoulder. The bathroom door was open, and the sheriff’s brother was wiping his hands on a towel.
Duncan stared at him. His dad’s parents died before he was born, and his mom’s parents when he was just a baby. It was weird to think that he actually had a grandpa.
“Is it okay if I call you Grandpa?” Duncan asked.
“I haven’t earned the right for you to call me that.”
“Your name is Warren, right?”
He glanced down at Duncan and cleared his throat. “Yep.”
“Is that what people call you?”
“They call me Wiley.”
“Why?”
“My brother stuck me with that nickname when we were kids. Because I was always sneaking around, trying to be crafty.”
“Like the cartoon? Wile E. Coyote?”
He cleared his throat again. “Kinda like that.”
“You clear your throat a lot.”
“I haven’t used my voice in a while. Now how about we stop with the questions and go get some guns.”
“Okay, Wiley.”
Wiley hung up the towel and Duncan followed him back to the storage room. Wiley stopped by his brother, examined the bandage, and grunted. Then he went on to the back wall, by all the guns. Like the tools in the purple room, all the guns were on a pegboard. Wiley had about thirty of them.
“You ever shoot a gun before, Duncan?”
“Just one. A shotgun. I shot a vent, Wiley.”
Duncan liked saying the name Wiley.
His grandpa removed a gun hanging by its trigger guard.
“This should be easier to handle than a shotgun. It’s a Hi-Point 380 Polymer. Hi-Point is the maker, 380 is the caliber of the bullet, and it’s called a Polymer because some parts are made out of composite plastic, so it’s lighter.”
He held the gun out to Duncan. Duncan shook his head.
“Mom doesn’t want me to touch guns.”
“Why not?”
“Because I could die.”
“Do you know which end the bullets come out?”
Duncan pointed to the barrel.
“Don’t aim that end at your head,” Wiley said, “and you won’t die.”
That seemed sensible to Duncan. He took the gun.
“It feels like a toy.”
“It’s not a toy. It’s a deadly weapon. The first rule when using firearms is to treat the weapon with respect and always assume every gun is loaded.”
Duncan nodded. “Did you ever get shot?”
“No.”
“I did.” Duncan proudly showed off his bandaged leg. “With a shot
gun. It hurts, but not too bad. Josh said he doesn’t think the pellet is still in there. He’s the one who put the bandage on.”
“Is Josh your friend?”
“Yeah. He went out with my mom a while ago. I think he’s going to go out with her again. They look at each other a lot, you know, like they’re going to kiss and stuff. He’s going to take us muskie fishing. Do you fish?”
“Not for a long time.”
“Maybe you could come with us. I mean, if you want to. Do you want to?”
“I’m not very good company.”
“Maybe you’re just out of practice.”
“I wasn’t good company even when I was in practice, Duncan.”
“You should come with us anyway. It will be fun. Is that a Desert Eagle?” Duncan pointed at a large handgun near the top of the pegboard.
“Yep. How’d you know that?”
“Grand Theft Auto IV,” Duncan said. “Mom won’t let me buy it, but I play it over at my friend Jerry’s house on his Xbox 360.”
Duncan gave Wiley the Hi-Point, and Wiley unhooked the Desert Eagle from the wall and handed it to him, butt-first. The gun was cool-looking but heavy.
“It’s too big for my hand,” Duncan said.
“You’ll grow into it.”
Duncan extended his finger, but he couldn’t reach the trigger.
“Did you ever kill anyone?” he asked without looking at his grandpa.
Wiley crouched down, so he and Duncan were face-to-face. He didn’t look angry, but his face was very serious.
“When you ask a man a question like that, Duncan, you need to look him in the eye.”
Wiley’s eyes were light blue, just like his. Duncan stared right at them.
“Did you ever kill someone, Wiley?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Bad guys?”
“Some were bad.”
“Did you ever kill any good guys?”
Wiley cleared his throat. “I have.”
“Why?”
“To cover up some bad things I did.”
“Couldn’t you have just shot him in the leg or something?”
“I could have. But I didn’t.”
Duncan thought it over.
“I know bad people do bad things,” Duncan said. “But maybe sometimes good people do bad things, too.”
Wiley appraised the child.
“I go to bed every night hoping you’re right, Duncan.”
“DUNCAN!”
Mom yelled so loud that Mathison jumped from his shoulder and went running off. She stormed over to him, pointing her finger.
“Put down that gun!”
Duncan set it down on the table. “Mom, I was just—”
“You!” Mom’s finger went from him to Wiley. “What kind of man gives a ten-year-old boy a gun?”
Wiley cleared his throat. “Some people are going to break in here, Fran, and try to murder us. Duncan has a right to defend himself same as me and you.”
Mom grabbed Duncan’s hand, but she kept her eyes on Wiley.
“You’re insane! Stay the hell away from my son! Do you get it? We don’t need you in our lives! We never did!”
“Fran …”
Mom pulled Duncan away from the guns and was leading him out of the room when they both heard a beeping sound. Mom stopped, looking around for the source. Wiley hurried past them both.
“That’s the alarm,” he said, strapping on his shotgun holster. “They’ve found the entrance.”
Josh broke another capsule under his nose—his fourth—and swung the Bronco onto Deer Tick Road. The Charge no longer gave him a head rush—just a headache. He was also short of breath and queasy, symptoms of both cyanide poisoning and amyl nitrite overdose. Josh didn’t know if that meant he needed more Charge or less.
I’ve got to get to a hospital, Josh thought. He even had a plan on how to get through the roadblock. But first he had to find Fran and Duncan.
He used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off of his forehead, pushing the speedometer to thirty-five. The Bronco ate up the dirt road, easily taking the bumps and turns. When he passed the final bend he saw Mrs. Teller’s Roadmaster in the distance, the headlights still on. And next to it, Olen’s Honey Wagon.
Josh mashed the brake, causing Woof to lose his balance on the front seat and slip onto the floor.
“Sorry, buddy. We’re going to find Duncan. Do you want to find Duncan?”
Woof barked.
“Good boy. We’re going to find Duncan. Yes, we are.”
Josh jammed the Bronco into park and hunted around the back seat. Adam kept a load of crap back there, and Josh swore he saw a clothesline earlier. He found it and tied an end around Woof’s neck. Then he grabbed his Maglite and his pillowcase of supplies and climbed out of the truck. The world seemed a little wobbly, and he felt more than a little woozy, so he leaned against the fender and rested for a minute.
Woof barked again—it was too high for him to jump. Josh helped him to the ground.
“Where’s Duncan, Woof? Find Duncan. Go, boy!”
Woof tugged on the makeshift leash, and Josh jogged behind him. Part of Josh—the tiny part that still remained rational through all of the fumes he’d inhaled—knew that wandering around with a flashlight and a barking dog would attract the Red-ops. But he wasn’t scared. In fact, he felt in control and powerful. Invincible, even.
The dog sniffed everything: trees, bushes, leaves, sticks, rocks, and the open air. Josh began to wonder if Woof was just out for a good time, but then he strained against the rope and started barking like crazy.
“Duncan?” Josh called, sweeping with the flashlight.
The beam landed on a woman. A woman wearing hiking books and a blue-jean miniskirt. She was in her thirties, attractive. Her face looked like she might have been crying recently.
“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “You’ve got to help me!”
Woof snarled at the new arrival, and Josh reined him in so he didn’t bite her.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
“My friends and I were camping and we got attacked by these guys—oh, my God, it was awful! Do you have a phone or a car?”
She moved closer. Josh noticed she had long blond hair tied back in a ponytail and the sleeveless top she wore was dotted with blood. She was seriously built. Her calves above the boots bulged with muscle. So did her bare arms. She didn’t appear to have any makeup on, but she wore several pieces of jewelry, including a thick gold Omega necklace and matching anklet. On her finger was a large diamond engagement ring.
“Can you help me?” she repeated. “Please?”
Josh shook his head—not to say no, but to clear it. Woof kept barking. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t pin down what. He was on edge. No, not on edge. Excited. He felt a tremendous urge, a need, to do something. But he wasn’t sure what.
He blinked, his mouth went dry, and suddenly he knew what he needed to do.
You have to kill her.
The thought didn’t shock Josh like he felt it should have. Rather, it appealed to him.
That’s the drugs talking. It’s the Charge.
No, it’s not the Charge. She’s Red-ops.
“Where’s your car?” she pleaded. “What’s wrong with you? Are you drunk?”
How could she be Red-ops? She’s just some scared girl. It’s the Charge. The chemicals are messing with your mind.
Then what is she doing out here, all by herself? She’s one of them. You have to kill her.
Josh dropped the rope and Woof charged at her. She kicked the dog in the side and he yelped and rolled into the bushes.
“Your dog just attacked me!”
She was four steps away.
You can’t kill her.
Yes, you can. This woman is the enemy. Kill her. Bash her head open.
Three steps away now.
She’s just a camper. She needs your help. The drugs are making you aggressive, making you crazy.
It’s not the drugs. She’s one of them. You need to kill her before she kills you.
“Please. You have to protect me.”
Josh held his hands out in front of him.
“You … you shouldn’t come any closer.” But even as the words left his lips, he wanted her closer. Much closer.
“I need your help, mister. Please.”
Kill her kill her KILL HER!
Two steps away.
“Stay back. Stay away from me.”
The Charge is warping you. Making you violent. But you’re in control. You don’t have to give in to every little urge. Fight it. Do the right thing.
“I was attacked.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you care?”
One step away.
“Yes, I care. Look how much I care.”
Josh used the Maglite like a club, smashing it across her face, trying to bust her skull open. The woman almost kept her balance but tripped on something in the weeds and kissed the ground.
SNAP!
Blood blossomed upward like a Roman candle.
Yes!
No …
“Oh, God, no …”
The woman stared at Josh with dead eyes, her head squished in the center like Mr. Peanut, the bear trap dripping crimson.
You killed her.
Woof limped over and Josh backed away, scared he might hurt the dog, too. Jesus Christ, what did he just do? Why did he hit her when she was obviously just looking for help? He killed her. He freaking killed her.
An accident. It was an accident.
No, it wasn’t.
You didn’t mean to kill her.
That’s what all killers say.
Josh looked at his hands. Murderer’s hands. They were shaking. How was he supposed to live with himself? He felt his stomach do flip-flops, like he’d swallowed a live carp.
What now? Run away? Hide the body? Turn himself in?
He wanted to save lives. That’s all he wanted to do. That was the promise he made to himself. To help others. To make the world a better place.
And now …
Over. His life was over. He couldn’t live with this.
Could he?
Maybe the Charge contributed, made him paranoid. Maybe it even made him temporarily insane. He didn’t mean to kill her. Just stop her. He didn’t know she’d fall on a bear trap.
