“You damn wet back,” Jeff Dun's booming bearded voice came from one of the adjacent camp fires, it was a godsend. “You say we put race behind at the prison but all I see from you is more of the sneaky low blows that got you up north in the first place.”
The crowd seemed agitated. There were a lot of the gangs represented here, nor was Jeff the only Arian who made it out. “If you mean what you said you'll put a true white brother on forage duty, not your gang and spineless traitors like Ben. Give us our due cause to win the glory of a warrior's death.”
Ben pulled himself together, he still had to remain sitting or attract attention to himself but ever one of the fugitives around him were beginning to do that thing before a fight starts. The pacing to and fro, the tensing of muscles, the raised voices. You could often feel a fight before you heard one or saw one.
Ben could even smell it, the smoke had turned acrid and toxic as if someone had just fed the flame plastic. Then Dominique let the fight go out of his eyes, he stopped gritting his teeth pushed his black hair back into a bun.
Dom actually turned his back to Dan and came to where Ben was sitting.
Despite the whispers fluttering out behind him Dom looked collected, and he asked politely, “Ben, just give me your Glock. Ben, ignore that man. See this is why I can't trust guns to everyone, there is too many villains in our prison but I know I can trust you Ben. I just need your pistol. Nobody should bring something so dangerous while foraging. It's a dark path Ben. Benjamin. Benny Boy, you know I trust you, trust me back now. Like brothers.”
Every fiber in his body told Ben to run, to get himself out of that situation. Every fiber except the fibers need to reach his arm into his pants and then deliver his gun into Dom’s waiting hand.
The gun lifted out of Ben's hand and he handed it over.
Don performed a brass check on the weapon and gave Ben a little private wink, some real Hollywood shit. The gun was live and Dom let his limbs roll out. Dom danced to a silent beat spinning. Aiming. Spinning some more.
Suddenly, Dom FIRED the pistol! Ben’s ears were ringing, sand was flung in his face and hot brass bounced off his shoulder!
Heart pounding Ben scrabbled backwards away from Dom and his wild gun dance. He plugged his ears in time to see the gun fire again, behind Dom’s back, and again aimed in the air.
Dom was allowed to continue his wild man dance until his gun was spent, the action back, the chamber open, the gun smoking. Dom was breathing heavily and with an erotic grin on his face, his hair was creeping out of his bun so he flung the gun on the ground to collect himself.
The gun didn't make a heavy clink as if dropped on wood or rock, nor did it make a splashing crash as if dropped on dirt or in brush. The gun made a dull thud and then Ben heard to moaning. Dan was bleeding heavily from several wounds below Dom. Someone else clutched their arm. A crowd collected around a still body on the forest floor not far off.
When Dom had collected himself he crouched down over Dan who was gritting bloody teeth and muttering half pronounced curses. “No warrior's Valhalla for you, you piece of garbage. No, I'm gonna keep you around Dan – man. We'll fix you up good then when we're good and ready I can give you back to the cops. Eh? You like that Dan? I bet you will like that. I bet you will.” Dom stood and smiled over his victim for a moment and Ben though every sane man in the group must be occupied by the fearful thoughts regarding this wild man was thinking.”
Ben looked around, there were other guns in the camp but none of them were in hands that seemed alarmed. Some escapees were wide eyed, others were hiding a grin, still others were clapping each other on the back and joking.
The alarm bells went off in Ben's head. How stupid of me. How could I not realize how dangerous this is, these are killers and rapists. These people are felons! I don't belong here, I never even belonged in prison. I didn't even do anything! Got to get out, just go. He said I can go I should run. No! I should walk, then run. Slowly first. That's it.
“Pills,” rang the clear voice of Dom from behind, “Go with Benny. You two go east. Meet us back in the deserted town in two days. Got that?”
Ben slumped, he didn't look back. For now the escape would have to wait. Pills was Dom and La Familia's drug dealer, he was family and he was big. Besides, Pills had been carrying a riot shotgun ever since the breakout. The man's heavy foot fall crashed through the brush after Ben, his heavy feet in looted guard boots, that sound unmistakable. Ben realized in that moment he hadn't escaped anything but only the shift had changed, there was no freedom in these woods for him.
Chapter 4
Josie and Roy were laying together in bed, two candles burning on the dresser, one on the night stand, casting a dim glow across the room. Roy was holding her hand, but his expression was elsewhere. She looked over at him.
“What are you thinking about over there?”
“What else we can do to make this place safer… and maybe how we can solve our water problem. It’s going down faster than I thought it would, even though we keep everything covered.” he grunted.
Just then, Alex closed the front door to the house and walked past their bedroom door, and Josie called to her:
“All clear out there, Private?” Josie asked.
“All clear, sir.” Alex replied, before heading into the bathroom.
“Good, bed time, soldier!” Josie shouted with a smile. Roy looked over at her with a curious expression.
“She’s taking after her old man, after all, huh?” he asked, clearly convinced of it.
“She’s adapting to the situation. She’s finding ways to fit into how things are now.” Josie said, speaking up to the ceiling. “Anything she wants to do that will keep her mind occupied and keep her active, I’m okay with. Her body isn’t doing well on the insulin restriction.”
“Oh…” Roy said, turning back to the ceiling and pondering.
“Did you give her that book back? I gave it to her, you know.”
“So she lied about finding it on your shelf? And no, I haven’t finished reading it yet. And frankly, Roy, I’m not happy about how this book is informing our daughter about the things her father had to go through. I’m really not happy that just in reading it myself, I’m learning more about the war than you’ve ever told me. Seriously, you’ve never told me anything about what it was like over there…” Josie said, trailing off as she felt her husband tensing up next to her.
“There’s some things you’re better off not knowing.” he said quietly.
“Oh, but your 10-year-old daughter is okay knowing?” she shot back.
“Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” he said, letting go of her hand and rolling over.
Six hours later, Roy jolted awake in the dark to the sound of scraping metal and muffled voices. He turned to Josie, and her eyes were wide open.
“Roy, what the hell was that?” she mouthed anxiously.
“Go to Alex’s room, now.” he said quietly, jumping out of bed and grabbing his 9mm Beretta 92FS from the nightstand, along with a small Surefire flashlight.
“And stay there!” he said, as she flew across the hall into their daughter’s room.
Roy held his pistol in front of him, staring down the sites, with the flashlight in the left hand crossed under his right, thumb pressed to the ‘On’ button, ready to blind whoever was inside the house. He glanced down the hallway: the front door was ajar, with no sign of forced entry, and the basement door (which was closest to the front) was also wide open.
Roy identified two distinct male voices coming from the basement.
He took one step down the wooden stairs before being reminded loudly that they were made of old, creaky wood. Suddenly the voices hushed.
“Screw it…” Roy said to himself under his breath, and kept the light off while he walked slowly and deliberately into the basement, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the pitch darkness. His ears perked intently on every scratch and brush of clothing or feet, and he quickly isolated the so
unds as coming from the far corner of the basement. The bunker door.
Gradually, he positioned himself in a corner where he could hit somebody trying to escape the staircase, and also see the bunker door. The combat veteran took a deep breath in, and listened again in silence, without moving, for what felt like hours, and slowly exhaled. He could hear somebody breathing by the bunker door, just fifty feet away, down low to the ground. Even though his eyes were useless in this darkness, the intruders were crouched and keeping their heads down. Roy took another breath in, slowly, but only halfway.
The Beretta 92, in all its variations, was a proven and reliable sidearm. Standard issue in the United States military since 1985, Roy preferred it due to his experience with it in the military, its 15-18 round capacity depending on the magazine, and the fact that its limited recoil meant faster re-acquisition of the target and thus more accurate subsequent rounds, even when tracking a moving target, like one that is about the be revealed in the dark. The result was a tight grouping of three to five bullets instead of two or three shots. Roy kept this in mind as he tightened his grip, held his breath, and clicked on the flashlight.
A bright beam of light lit up a hooded figure, crouched next to an open bunker door. A blur of motion from the figure as he tried to flee was halted by four rapid, deafening POPS from Roy’s Beretta.
The hooded man slumped face-first onto the cement floor, still kneeling, one arm splayed awkwardly underneath. The fingers twitched and the torso writhed as Roy stepped closer, silent as death, keeping his bright light shining on the intruder.
He edged closer, his Beretta trained on the man’s head. He nudged the twitching body with his bare foot. No response. He kicked it, and suddenly lost his balance as the figure reached out and grabbed his foot and ankle, yanking him off his feet.
A violent scream erupted as the intruder clambered on top of Roy, who drove his knee up into his attacker’s head.
The hooded man screeched, and in the brief instant that the flashlight shone on the attacker’s face, Roy could see a partially-severed tongue bleeding profusely from between mangled lips. Roy wrapped his legs underneath and around his attacker’s neck, and twisted his hips to bring the back of the man’s head cracking against the floor.
The man clutched and pulled at Roy’s hair and shirt, struggling to find purchase in the pitch dark illuminated only by the single flashlight. Another scream, then another shout from the bunker doorway as Roy rolled on top of the first intruder and straddled him.
“Mike!” the hooded figure shouted, words mangled by blood and tongue and broken teeth. “Go get the others! Go!”
His words were cut off as Roy pushed the man’s head against the pavement with his left hand, put the muzzle of the pistol to his temple, and shot him point blank as he squirmed and ripped at Roy’s face.
The top of the man’s head erupted in gelatinous gore as the bullet punched through his skull. The steamy stench of blood and brains rose up from the cold floor, and the unmistakable spattering sound of blood and skull chips smacked wetly against the shelves.
Roy heard the smacking of shoes run past him and to the stairs. He raised his Beretta and FIRED two more rounds, single handed, as the second wraith-like figure started to ascend. It yelped, stumbled, and continued to limp and clamber up the stairs. Roy fired two more rounds as the feet disappeared.
He gathered his flashlight, bare feet slipping on the gushing head wound of the fresh corpse beneath him, and ran up the stairs after the second intruder.
He heard the front door slam against the wall and the footsteps hurling themselves out into the yard. He stood in the doorway, sweeping the dark yard with his flashlight, but couldn’t find his target. The second intruder had vanished into the night, leaving a wide trail of blood behind.
In the ensuing silence, Roy heard the sound of his daughter crying in her room.
***
Ben stopped and gave a sigh as the truckstop town of Shneeton peaked through the trees around the bend in the highway, and awful name for an awful town.
Pills shoved the butt of his gun between his shoulder blades and he stumbled forward, the bastard had been doing that the whole trip. It got so bad on the second day that had they been out a third night he seriously would have considered waiting for the man to fall asleep and beating him one of the logs from the fire.
The problem was Pills was a fitful sleeper. Turns out he ran out of his name sake and was alternately woefully depressed or cruel and jabby the entire trip. Another blow from the shotgun butt brushed Ben aside as his foraging partner beat ahead towards the town.
Shneeton's population looked to have soared in the two days they had been out. Although there was just over 20 of them it was surprising how much of a mess the gang could make when they put their mind to it.
Ben figured there could be no harm in letting Pills get in first, not that there was much he could do about it. The two of them had found nothing in the woods.
This time of year chanterelles were crumbling away, the berries had all been long picked off, most little critter that Pills shot at scampered away, the few squirrels they caught they ate char roasted on the fire. Pills wasn't too interested in any of it, kept grumbling about finding a ride, something highway worthy.
Had they found anything with wheels Ben would have taken that bet. Pills seemed like a nice guy if he weren't a druggie. As it turned out their foraging attempt didn't even meet any roads that highway wheels could navigate nor did it turn up any food to show for their efforts.
Yelling could be heard from the the garage as Ben caught up with Pills and the crowd and the scraps of sheet metal and screen of scattered tools there.
For a brief moment Ben's brain warned 'Fight' but the cadence was different, lilting and higher in pitch. There was only one voice creating the ruckus and upon second thought, it was Dom's, strangled with emotion.
“So much blood. Can't anyone of you do first aid or something.”
Dom was pacing back and forth in the garage there. He moved so quick like he had somewhere to be but he had that back and forth prison cell pace that everyone knows goes no where. Dom's hair was loose and the crowd have him a wide space.
Dom was a small man so seeing him pace from far away like that made him look like a child, a child having a fit about a toy that had broke, only it wasn't a toy that was broken and he had killed too many to be considered a child by any standard. The others reel back out the range of his fury.
Blinded by curiosity, Ben wondered could it be who's blood it was leaking out of the garage like so many oil changes spilled on the concrete.
Dom stomped into the office and quickly brought a chair from there out into the garage lobby. Then, beside himself, started smashing apart the reception, each blow splintering another dowel from the chair back. Dom wails as he focuses his rage on the register, each new blow ringing the old fashioned bells like so many failed transactions.
Ben cautioned a few sideways steps to peer into the face of the dead man on the floor there, his pants were soaked in blood, a wound on his thigh somewhere must have caught an artery, above that he looked are pure as any of the inmates could have black hair, a clean La Familia tattoo on his neck, eggshell skin either from loss of blood or the mother who lost him.
Eyes, dead eyes, black as two empty moons, empty of all life but the resemblance was there. Once those eyes were wild, once they were a veil for wicked thoughts but now they were a startling image of what Dom's eyes might look like if they avoided life and saught the cold darkness of death instead.
“Get away from him!” screeched Dom. He was completely unhinged and stomping towards Ben with the splintered leg of his the chair in his hand. These eyes were alive and swimming like a pool of barracudas.
He's going to kill me! Benjamin realized.
Just then the bloody mess coughed and sputtered. Wheezing he rolled his head to one side and moaned. Not dead yet.
Dom flung himself to the floor and others finally let the
air out of their lungs. One man even dared to speak. It was a man they called 'Sarge' a straight laced kind of guy, dishonorably discharged and still hung up about it.
He had a bald eagle tattooed across his muscled chest but smeared ink looked more like a raven. Since they arrived in town he had taken to wearing aviator sunglasses he took from the gas station.
“He said they struck pay dirt. South East he found a single house. Food. Guns. Couldn't get anything else out of him.” For a long moment Ben wasn't sure what he was talking about then he realized he was speaking to Dom.
Dom was silent Mikey was still again. “Do they have medicine.” The question seemed absurd, that must be why Sarge blanched. “I asked if they have medicine!”
Chapter 5
A pale, cold sun rose over the homestead, illuminating evidence of the night’s struggle. Roy stood in the doorway of his daughter’s room, arms crossed, looking sternly at her curled up in her bed, white rabbit clutched to her chest.
Our Survival: A Post-Apocalyptic EMP Survival Thriller (Grid Down Book 1) Page 3
