by Liam Jackson
Oh, like that's fair!
The unspoken response took Sam by surprise. He also noted an odd feel to Joriel's tone. It sounded strained, or forced, as if communicating was a struggle. She sounds so far away.
Hey, are you okay? he asked silently.
No time, Joriel answered. Listen. Tell the woman, Janet, to lie down and be very still. Tell Mark that he has to trust you and not to do anything unless this fails.
What? Unless what fails? Sam asked frantically. To his left, he heard the click of metal.
"Four rounds left," Mark whispered. "We have a chance, if I get lucky and don't miss. Kid, when the shit hits the fan, you and Janet haul ass out of here anyway you can. I'll catch up later."
"Joriel," Sam said aloud. "If what fails?"
"Who are you talking to?" demanded Mark.
"I told you, damn it! He's leading them right to us!" cried
Janet. She tried to scramble over the top of Mark, but he caught her before she reached the opening of the shelter.
Sam, tell Mark that he has to trust you. Hurry! You're out of time! Then take hold of his hand, and Janet's, too.
What? he asked, thoroughly confused.
Janet was struggling violently, her fear had blossomed into full-blown panic. Mark held her tightly against his chest, and growled, "Goddamn it, kid! I said who are you talking to?"
Sam could hear the dull rattle of metal as footsteps rose and fell on the emergency stairway.
Do it! Joriel screamed in his mind.
"Mark, no time to explain. You either trust me or we all die."
Janet froze, paralyzed by Sam's words.
Mark paused for less than a second then sighed. "No choice, huh?" he whispered. "Okay, what's the plan?"
Take their hands, Sam. Hurry! Then close off your mind. Shut me out. You know how to do it! If they can't hear you reaching, they can't find you. They can't even see you unless they hear you reaching. Mark reaches too, but not nearly as loud. It's you they'll home in on. Understand?
Sam suddenly recalled another conversation, one that seemed to have taken place in another lifetime, but in reality, had been only yesterday. Horace. The old man tried to tell me. He said they could hear me!
Sam groped blindly in the dark until he found both Mark and Janet. Startled, Mark roughly pulled away until Sam whispered, "Trust me."
Mark reluctantly relaxed and allowed Sam to take his hand. Janet, resigned to the fact that she was likely already dead, offered no resistance as Sam also took her hand in his. Sam grew still and emptied his mind.
The heavy steps on the stairway grew closer, then abruptly stopped, replaced by a vaguely familiar and terrifying sound.
Step, shuffle... step, shuffle...
Where have I heard that before? Wait. The bridge! No, no, no! Can't be!
The rhythmic, maddening sound drew closer, until it seemed just outside the opening of the shelter. Sam frantically tried to push everything from his mind, or at the very least, divert his attention from the horrible sound.
Desperate, he tried to visualize his parents, and wondered what they were doing at this very moment. Were they driving the highways, searching for him, checking every morgue and hospital along the way? He was certain they had reported him as a runaway by now. Nanna wouldn't have worried about him. It wasn't her style to ever panic or worry, not over "Lucky Sam." God, I miss her.
Try as he might, Sam couldn't push away all the sounds that came from the other side of the thin cardboard. He could hear other footsteps now, the sharp click of hard-soled shoes on concrete. There were other noises coming from outside now, the vicious snapping of jaws and menacing snarls, as if the room had suddenly been overrun by a pack of rabid wolves.
Over the din, he could hear something heavy being dragged across the floor, followed by a hellacious crash that shook plaster and paint from the walls. The crash was quickly followed by another. The putrid stench of raw sewage and rotting flesh filled his nostrils, coming from nowhere and everywhere, and he forced himself to swallow down hot bile as it rose in his throat.
Got to block them out... can't reach ...
Sam thought back, desperately searching for some memory that he could lock onto, anything that would help shield his mind from the Enemy. Something huge raked against the side of the shelter, and Sam nearly pissed on himself.
As he sought to distance himself from the corporeal world, he felt a pressure, a "presence" at the edge of his consciousness, at once both familiar and alien. Writhing, malevolent tentacles of thought probed blindly, searching for some clue of his whereabouts. Sam knew that if even one of the probes touched him, he and his new companions would all die.
He bit down on his lower lip. The harder the presence pushed, the harder Sam bit into his flesh. Something brushed against the other side of the cardboard shelter. The harsh snapping of teeth was followed by sharp yelps. Sam's heart threatened to explode in his chest. They're all around us! The distance that separated him from the Enemy was now defined by the thickness of a piece of cardboard. So close. No way out.
The taste of salty copper filled his mouth as his upper and lower teeth came together, splitting the tender flesh of his lip. For the second time in three days, Sam was certain that he was about to die at the hands of something terrible, an aberration of nature. His mom and dad, Kat... they would never know. Charlie would never know.
Charlie. Sam felt the familiar sting of remorse. Why hadn't he confided in her when he had the chance? Why couldn't he have met her in another place, at another time?
Her face, her voice... Sam locked onto Charlie's memory, pushing aside all other thoughts. How long had he known her? Two hours, three? An eternity? If only... what would it have been like had I found Charlie sooner? What might have been?
Sam was dimly aware of the scream as it rose above the din outside the fort; a single gut-churning screech. He hung on tenaciously to his thoughts of Charlie, of Kat and of his family, vaguely aware when the snapping and snarling came to abrupt end, replaced in an instant by whimpering, frightened cries of the other, lesser enemies. He was isolated inside a special place now; a place where the Enemy couldn't follow. Sam remained in that special place until the menacing step, shuffle disappeared down the iron stairway and into the night.
The first light of dawn broke over a bitterly cold landscape as Mark emerged from the shelter. Janet, still bundled tightly in the old army blanket, was close behind. Sam was already standing at the third-floor window, looking out over the snow-covered city. He had torn a large strip of cloth from an old shop rag and held it to his badly wounded lip.
The cloth had long since been saturated, and blood trickled down his wrist and onto his jeans.
Mark stared incredulously at the damage. Stainless-steel workbenches, once bolted to the floor, had been ripped up and hurled along the length of the building. An old Peterbilt engine block, weighing well over a ton, had been hurled through the side of the building and now lay in the middle of the alley below. Tufts of coarse brindle hair lay scattered about the floor in clumps, and bloody, foul-smelling feces had been smeared along the walls.
Mark made his way to the window and stood quietly beside Sam. After a moment, he cleared his throat and softly said, "Kid... I mean... Sam. I don't know what you did, but... I almost lost it. If you hadn't..."
Janet wandered over to stand by the window and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I... uh, I want you both to know... I'm sorry about what I said... you know... earlier." Looking first at Mark, then Sam, she took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "I had no idea. What did you do back there?"
Disturbed by what sounded like a sense of awe in the woman's voice, he didn't answer. Sam was exhausted both mentally and physically, and badly confused. He wanted to just walk away from everything. Instead he was now bound to Mark, just as he was bound to the mysterious Abbotsville. Sam looked at Janet, then at Mark. Didn't they understand this was just the beginning, that the worst still lay ahead? Would they be as lucky next ti
me?
He decided that the question was moot. In his heart he knew that "next time" didn't matter. A thousand "next times" made no difference. He could no more refuse the compulsion that drove him than he could deny his need to breathe.
"It's okay. You had no way of knowing, but I've been running from that son of a bitch or his buddies for months now. On the way to school, at the mall, going over to a friend's house, it didn't matter. The Enemy always seemed to show up when I least expected him.
"It got to the point that I was afraid to leave my bedroom.
A couple of weeks ago, he started trailing my kid sister. That's when I decided to take a little road trip."
"Who are they, Sam? Got any idea?" Mark asked.
Sam shook his head. "Nah. Not a clue. But there's this place... a little town called Abbotsville, maybe a hundred miles east of here. It's connected to this whole mess and I'm supposed to go there and ... I'm just supposed to go there. I think those bastards are doing everything they can to stop me. It's a long story, man, and I don't understand half of it myself. I just know that if the Enemy catches me, I'm dead, and if I don't go to Abbotsville, I'm dead. No choice but to keep moving."
For several seconds, neither Janet or Mark said anything. Finally, Mark broke the silence. "I think I've been waiting for you," he said awkwardly. "I mean, I didn't even know it until just now, but I think you're the reason I came here."
Sam thought on this a moment, then said, "I think there's more of us. People like you and me. I think I'm supposed to find them. Before it's too late, I have to find them."
Mark gave him a slight smile and said, "Then we'll find them together, kid."
CHAPTER 28
Knoxville, Tennessee
Michael stood in the crowded baggage area, waiting impatiently for the baggage conveyor to deliver his suitcase. But the conveyor showed no signs of life, leaving Michael in the midst of a restless, frustrated mob. Normally the baggage area was relatively free of crowds except for new arrivals searching frantically for luggage. Tonight it looked like an army of the homeless, all looking to lay claim to an inch of floor space.
Michael had been lucky. His had been the last flight to make it into the airport before officials closed down all runways. The storm had worsened, and now nothing was coming in or going out of Knoxville.
Thank God for Pam. She had the foresight to call ahead and book a room at the Knoxville Marriott. And that wasn't the only thing that awaited him at the hotel.
As he waited, Michael learned that the storm wasn't the only newsworthy item surrounding the Knoxville Airport tonight. Standing directly behind him, two men were loudly discussing the other story. One, or maybe both, reeked of one too many in-flight whiskey sours. Mentally, Michael pictured them by their speech patterns and raspy voices, seared by cigar smoke and years of hard drinking.
In his mind's eye, one of the men was short and thin, too much of a couch potato to be called wiry. More like "atrophied." The other was a large man, red-faced with a paunch that hung precariously over his belt. He was completely bald on top, and insisted on combing over a few loose strands of hair from the side, as if that would hide his shining dome.
Both men wore well-fitting suits, and identical black wing tips. Michael hadn't seen either of them on his flight, but that wasn't surprising. Men like these two always flew in the first-class section.
"Killed him deader than a ten-dollar car battery, right there on the plane and nobody heard a gawddamned thing. Blood and shit all over the restroom. They finally rounded up enough pieces to identify the body, some priest from Georgia. I got it straight from my nephew and his wife's brother, works for TSA, you know." The man spoke with the omniscient authority of "somebody who knew somebody who had a friend who had a cousin who had a friend who saw it all."
"I'm telling you, it's a crying gawddamned shame," lamented the second man. "A white man ain't safe these days. Point in fact! You read the papers? Children, babies, being snatched up all over the gawddamned country."
"Cotton, if it ain't them gawddamned A-rabs, it's the gawddamned niggers. Nothing but scum and natural-born terrorists, all of 'em. Born to rapin' and killin' like ducks born to water! At least the stiff on the plane was a gawddamned Catholic wetback instead of a God-fearing Baptist white man. And I'm telling ya, a white man ain't got a chance these days. Point in fact!"
"Damn straight, Mort," agreed Cotton. "Point in fact!"
"Know what I'm gonna do, Cotton? I'm gonna call the governor's office in the morning and demand he puts the National Guard on the gawddamned planes. And he damn well better listen, 'cause one of these days, white folk are gonna get a bellyful, and when that happens... well, A-rabs will be looking for a getaway camel and niggers will hunt for a fast boat back to Africa. Point in fact!"
His anemic companion nodded vigorously. "Hell yeah, Mort, that's what you oughta do! Call the governor! And feel free to mention my name when you do. Tell 'em I said I'm sick and tired of this gawddamned shit, too. Tell 'em I said we oughta segregate the planes!"
Cotton seemed certain his name carried weight at the state capitol. Maybe it did, mused Michael, but if that was the case, it said damn little for the great state of Tennessee.
The conversation continued for several minutes with both men exchanging more speculation and supposition on the murder and crime in general. Each theory ended with some asinine ethnic slur or lame, groundless accusation. Michael wanted more facts about the murder, but it was obvious that he wouldn't get them from these two bigots. Finally, having heard "nigger" and "beaner" one time too many, he turned around.
He probably should have been surprised at how accurate his mental picture of the two really was, but from experience, he knew he would be dead on the money. And he was.
The larger man, Mort, was nearly as tall as Michael, with no neck and bullish shoulders. He had the look of a former high-school athlete who had enjoyed a few too many bourbon and Cokes over the years. Michael tapped him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir."
The man turned away from his friend and gave Michael an appraising look.
"Yeah, son? What can I do for you?"
"Sir," began Michael with an apologetic grin. "I couldn't help but hear some of your conversation, but, well, the lobby isn't all that large."
The man nodded and smiled broadly. "Not a problem, son. So, do you want something, or just statin' the obvious?"
Michael smiled, a tight-lipped, humorless smile that left no doubt that he wasn't being the least bit friendly.
"I just wanted you to know that I'm married to a black woman ... from Kuwait. And if I hear one more racist remark come out of your mouth between now and the time I get my bags, I'm gonna pull your pointed head through your fat ass, then kick your teeth out, point in fact."
It took a few seconds for the full weight of Michael's words to register, but when the moment came, the results were impressive. Cotton, with spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth, began dancing back and forth from one foot to the other as if he needed to visit the head in a bad way.
Mort's eyes bulged, and his face turned several shades of red before, eventually, settling on a deep purple hue. Michael figured that it had been a long time, maybe never, that anyone had called the big man's bluff. He also figured it was long overdue.
"Now, I'm going to turn back around and wait on my luggage. If I have to turn around again... well, I suggest that you just bend over and spread 'em to make room for your head." Michael didn't wait for a response and turned his back on the two sputtering, mewling racists. Behind him, Michael could hear a half-dozen people chuckling while one couple applauded.
As if on cue, the luggage conveyor began moving. A few minutes later, Michael stepped out into the blowing snow, suitcase in hand. He wondered how his green-eyed, auburn-haired, Belgium-born wife would take it when she learned that she was actually a black woman from Kuwait.
It took a half hour for the Avis clerk to locate Michael's rental SUV, and
another half hour to navigate five miles through the blizzard to the Knoxville Marriott by the airport. The lobby of the hotel looked much like the airport, crowded and unfriendly. It had the eerie feel of a refugee camp, with stranded families clustered together on makeshift pallets while single travelers lay in bundled heaps along the walls.
Once again, Pam had saved the day by making reservations at the hotel before Michael ever left Kansas City. At first, he had protested, saying that he had no intention of spending the night in Knoxville. Instead, he intended to pick up his rental vehicle and make the hundred-and-fifty-mile trip into Abbotsville. He wasn't just anxious to be on his way, he was desperate. Michael knew that the quicker he reached the tiny community, the quicker he could be about the business of reclaiming his sanity.
He signed the guest register, and asked the haggard clerk to check for a FedEx package. As he waited, he watched a young mother as she sat on the floor rocking an infant in her lap, while trying to corral a rambunctious towheaded toddler with her free hand.
Michael was embarrassed when the woman suddenly looked up and caught him watching. Truth be known, he was more embarrassed by the room key in his hand. Tonight he would shower, change into fresh clothes, then stretch out on a comfortable king-size mattress. Meanwhile, the young woman and her children would settle down on the floor and a thin pallet of hotel blankets. It couldn't really be helped. He would need some privacy in order to complete his final preparations.
He nodded uncomfortably to the woman, then turned to the counter as the clerk handed him a small, heavy package. Michael thanked the clerk and quickly headed for the elevator.
It didn't take him long to find his way to the eleventh floor and room 1107. Once inside, Michael tossed his suitcase onto the Queen Anne sofa and plopped down beside it. He was bone weary, but there was work to do before he could rest.
He wasted little time before ripping into the FedEx package. Inside was his duty gun, a Sig Sauer .45-caliber semiautomatic, a box of ammunition, and two spare, high-capacity magazines.
