Breakdown: Episode 8

by Jordon Quattlebaum

  Let this be my penance, he thought. Let me pay my debt.

  Time passed, and the two men sat in silence. It was dark behind his eyelids. It felt nice.

  “Mr. Linus, please open your eyes. You don’t want to sleep right now.”

  Linus obliged groggily and tried to sit up. It wasn’t easy. He fought gravity and his equilibrium the entire way, but in the end he managed a reclined position that reminded him of the paintings he’d seen of ancient Greek’s eating on those silly little couches.

  His mind swam, looking for answers. He needed more information.

  “What sort of currency do they take?”

  “Cash, of course. I’ve also seen them take drugs, medicine, guns, ammo, food, and” David cringed, “…women.”

  Linus nodded grimly. “What about scrap metal?”

  “What, like gold and silver?”

  “I was thinking of something a little less valuable.”

  David shook his head, “I doubt it Linus. I really do.”

  Linus nodded once again, a small, wicked smile gracing his lips. “Well, then…let’s just hope our hosts are on good terms with God, David.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the only ransom my friends will pay will be in lead.”

  Chapter 5 – Return

  It was late afternoon when George heard the truck roar back through the plant’s security gates. He was outside enjoying some much needed sunlight and a bit of fresh air. The few benefits his position at the plant now afforded him were the two “smoke” breaks: one in the morning, and another in the afternoon. He used them to walk, and stretch, and breathe. He also used them to collect information.

  George watched as the truck pulled into the garage, watched as the Colonel walked in, his face red from exertion or emotion, George couldn’t say. Then, he heard raised voices. It was the Colonel talking, but he couldn’t make out the words. The tones were harsh, angry.

  One soldier who George recognized as Ramirez left the garage and walked quickly to a nearby outpost, where he gestured to two other soldiers. He barked something at them, and the two other soldiers laughed and nodded before turning and opening a large toolbox in the back of a pickup. They pulled a couple of plastic five-gallon buckets from the back, filled them with water at a nearby tap, and headed to the garage at a trot. Ramirez led the way.

  George’s curiosity was piqued. He wanted to know what was going on, and in order for that to happen, he needed to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the garage. So he did what he always did on his smoke breaks.

  He walked.

  Step by step, George focused on acting casual. Nothing was wrong; everything was right with the world. Nothing to see here. Just a guy on his smoke break. He waved to two nearby soldiers, nodded to a small huddle of plant employees that were running an errand. Everything was normal. Nothing to worry about.

  Each step brought him closer to the garage, closer to the arguing men.

  He couldn’t see them yet, the wall of the garage was still blocking his view, but he angled around, and could hear that one of the voices was definitely Ramirez. Yes, Ramirez and the Colonel. They were arguing, their dispute occasionally punctuated by issuing some order or another, presumably to the soldiers Ramirez had grabbed from the outpost.

  George was close now. One more step, and he’d cross in front of the garage opening, giving him a clear line of site. So he stepped again.

  The truck...

  It was riddled with pock marks; the bullet resistant windows and windshield were cracked and cratered, and the canvas that covered the back was full of holes.

  “Damn it, Ramirez…you were charged with bringing those men and women safely to their homes. What in the hell happened out there?”

  “We were attacked, Colonel. McGuire got lost, and we stopped to figure things out. Someone started shooting. They took out McGuire first. The other three went down quickly. I had to get out of there, sir. I had no other choice. They were dead.”

  The Colonel looked furious, his face a deep shade of red. George worried that the man was going to have a stroke. After a moment of tense silence, the Colonel opened his mouth and spoke.

  “You’re sure?”

  George watched as Ramirez exhaled a breath that he probably hadn’t even realized he was holding.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Gambler Lane. Just before it crosses the creek.”

  The breath caught in George’s throat, and he inhaled sharply, unintentionally.

  Just up the drive from his house. Martha might have heard the shots. He hoped she was okay, that Ramirez had been able to fight off the attackers.

  Heads turned instantly away from their conversation, and the eyes of Ramirez and the Colonel soon rested squarely on George.

  He offered a nervous wave and took another step. He even started whistling as he took a second, and then a third step across the opening of the garage bay.

  “Colonel?” Ramirez asked, leaving the remainder of the obvious question to hang in the air.

  The Colonel waited in silence. He held up his right hand, palm up, and Ramirez stood still. The Colonel’s steely gaze drilled holes into George as he walked, but that was it.

  “We’ll send a team out in the morning,” the Colonel said, finally breaking the silence, “Get rid of the evidence.”

  Ramirez nodded, grabbed a rag and started scrubbing down the truck. It wouldn’t do to startle the sheep.

  …

  A few heart-pounding steps later, and George was out of sight of both of the men.

  It took all of his courage not to run inside and hide in some distant, poorly lit corridor, but he managed. He found himself a few minutes later in that dimly lit hallway, but at least he’d walked there. George fell to his knees, his thoughts on his wife. He needed to see her, to know that she was All right.

  His thoughts turned to the four that hadn’t made it back. They’d won the lottery; won the chance to see their family, to visit their homes and relax. Now they were dead, just down the road from his house.

  George though back to the drawing, the suspicion he’d felt when he realized all three of the winners were from the security team. He’d calmed his nerves, convinced himself that he was being paranoid. Now those three were dead, along with the driver.

  If there was a plot, the Colonel didn’t seem to be in on it. The look on his face, the tone of his voice when he’d found out the truck had come under attack…they just didn’t add up.

  “Think, George. If this is a plot, who’s in on it?”

  George had so many questions, and nearly all of them could be answered with one name: the man who’d survived.

  Ramirez.

  George managed to work the rest of his shift in relative peace, floating from job to job, touching base with the others, making sure everything was in good working order. Temperatures were stable, which meant the pumps were doing an adequate job supplying water to cool the fuel rods. Pressure was good, which meant the pipes carrying steam had a relatively small chance of bursting and boiling someone alive.

  After several long hours, his shift was up, and George found himself staring at his cot. His makeshift bed was neatly made, something he’d hated doing when he was in the service, but which now felt like a necessary measure of order in all of the chaos. Under the sheet that served as his blanket, George could make out the rectangular outline of something.

  An envelope.

  He looked around, making sure that the room was empty before he reached in. The eggshell envelope was unmarked, and George looked it over in great detail before sliding the blade of his pocket knife under the flap to slice it neatly open. He was amazed they’d let him keep the blade, but they didn’t have a whole lot of choice. He’d convinced t
hem it was a necessary tool to do his job properly. Not a lie, but certainly a bit of an embellishment.

  Inside of the envelope was a blank sheet of thick paper, nearly cardstock in weight. George’s eyes scanned the short message and rubbed the paper between his thumb and forefinger. It was remarkable that someone would waste such high quality materials for so simple a message.

  Garage. 2AM. Come alone.

  George pulled the pocket watch from his pants pocket, and flipped open the cover. 10:30pm.

  “Well crap.” He muttered to himself. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Chapter 6 – Cellar Door

  Martha Henson couldn’t sleep. Something didn’t feel right. The night was just too still, too quiet…but that wasn’t it. She was used to the silence the new world brought with it.

  Something else was wrong.

  The old grandfather clock showed 10:30PM, and Martha opted to do what she usually did when her nerves were frazzled and sleep wouldn’t find her.

  She decided to bake.

  From what the soldiers were saying, George would be allowed to visit home on a lottery system. He could be home any day now. It made sense to have something sweet waiting for him after all of that work he’d been doing. Maybe he would notice that she’d lost a few pounds since all of this started. If he didn’t, she’d make him notice by slipping into the little something he’d bought her last Christmas that hadn’t quite fit. Boy, she’d given him a hard time for that. Secretly, though, she thought it was sweet that he thought she was smaller than she really was. To him, he was still the little wisp of a thing he’d married nearly three decades past.

  Martha slipped on her house shoes and slid out of the old four post bed, which creaked an objection as she stood. One foot in from of the other she snuck down the stairs, quietly avoiding the third stair from the top, the squeaky one that was on George’s list of things to fix that he never seemed to get around to. That brought a smile to her lips. She loved that man, but boy could he procrastinate.

  She passed the open door of the bedroom the soldiers had taken as their quarters. It still held the old bunkbeds the boys had slept on, even through high school. George had built that frame, and he’d built it solid. Usually two of the men slept in there, and a third slept on the couch while the others patrolled.

  She could hear one of them as they paced across the hardwood floors, not knowing where to step to keep the old beams from creaking. The men slept in shifts now—did everything in shifts, really. She didn’t mind, though. It was nice to have the company, and she enjoyed getting to know them, even if they were a bit tight-lipped about who they were and why exactly they were there. She’d find out eventually.

  The shifts meant there was always someone ready for a meal. Martha smiled again, thinking of her sons at this age, how voracious they seemed, and how much George complained at the food bills, especially when they had their friends over. They’d played football, and those boys could put a hurting on a pantry.

  These men certainly wouldn’t object to another pie.

  She stepped down at the bottom of the stairs, and with her mind distracted by thoughts of her boys, stepped on one of the noisier floorboards, which greeted her with its customary squeak.

  Martha sighed, and the soldier who’d been pacing just a few yards away jerked her direction, his flashlight trained on her face. That wouldn’t have bothered Martha, but she knew the flashlight was mounted to the underbarrel of an automatic rifle, and that was a little concerning.

  She raised her hands, waiting for the young man to speak.

  The light slowly dropped to the floor as the soldier lowered the barrel of the rifle. “Sorry Mrs. Henson. You put a scare into me. I guess I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.”

  Martha nodded. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, but the soft smile on her face didn’t show it.

  “It’s all right, Samuel. I’m sorry for sneaking up on you like that. I thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s baking. I’m having trouble sleeping.”

  Samuel was one of the good ones. He’d opened up to Martha shortly after their arrival. He said she’d reminded him of his own mother. He worried about her all alone on their family farm up in Iowa. They’d talked about farm life, growing up in a big family of brothers and sisters, and of joining the military to help pay for school. She tried to get him to talk more about that, but the conversation hit a brick wall.

  Samuel licked his lips. “That’s fine, Mrs. Henson. I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, though. I’m not supposed to allow you outside after dark.”

  Mrs. Henson nodded sweetly. “I understand, Samuel. It can wait until the morning.” It really could, but it wasn’t a matter of waiting to bake really, not at this point. Honestly, Martha just wanted to see how far she could get this particular soldier to bend.

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Henson. Have a good night.”

  “I will, Samuel. I’m making blackberry cobbler. It can wait until tomorrow. I just hope there’s still some left when you wake up.”

  It was a calculated move. She’d learned that blackberry cobbler was Samuel’s favorite. She’d also learned that the hardest part of growing up in a big farm family was never having enough of the things you really loved. A cobbler didn’t stretch far when you split it between eight mouths.

  She pivoted softly on her slippers, and began to head back up the stairs when Samuel spoke again.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Henson. Just don’t wake the others.”

  Martha smiled before the words even left his lips. She looked over her shoulder, “You’re sure?”

  The young man nodded. “Just be careful, and come and get me if there’s something you need.”

  Martha nodded, and turned back to the kitchen. She arrived at the pantry and opened the door, scanning the shelves for her blackberry filling and found none. She put her hands on her hips. “There’ll be some in the cellar.”

  Martha slipped out through the back door, and onto the screened-in back porch, and closed the door quietly. The night air was cool and crisp, and she took a moment to savor it. In a few short weeks, nights like this would be hot, humid and chock-full of mosquitos. She inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. Any other time, she might sip a cup of sweet tea and watch the stars as they peeked out from the cloud cover. Not tonight though. First, there was the matter of that cobbler, and then, it would be time to figure out what was gnawing at her so she could get some sleep.

  She reached a hand out, unhooked the lock of the screen door, and took a step out onto the stairs. The cellar door was just to the right. She opened it, breathing a sigh of relief that the hinges didn’t squeak. It was one of the last things on the honey-do list her husband had completed the weekend before all of this happened: oil the hinges. The squeaky doors drove her crazy. Fondness for her husband and all of his quirks forced her lips into another smile as she stepped down into the cellar.

  Martha scolded herself for not bringing a lantern or a candle to light her way, but the moon was bright, and her eyes would adjust. She stretched her left hand out and felt it touch the stone foundation. A few steps later her feet touched down on the old dirt floor. She liked how it smelled down here, a strange combination of dried flowers and jam—a testimonial to how she spent the majority of her time down here. Tonight though, something smelled different. Martha inhaled deeply once more, trying to figure out what new addition she’d detected. Metal. Something metallic.

  She knew that smell.

  At that moment, the moon and stars decided to toss aside their cloudy blanket, and their light broke through the night and found its way to that cellar floor.

  It was then that she saw the blood…a lot of it, in a trail that led further into the dark.

  Martha knew she should have gotten Samuel, should have screamed, or done something other than wha
t she did do. Instead, she followed the bloody trail further into the stygian confines of the cellar. A noise pierced the darkness, something soft and subtle.

  Martha froze, her eyes wide.

  Her heart beat once before something skittered from one side of the room to the other. She paused, turned to head back up the stairs, to run outside and scream and shout when a jar smashed behind her. She gave out a slight yelp, stifling it quickly with both hands.

  She didn’t want it knowing where she was.

  Her heart beat into her throat, but only for a moment. Then it migrated further north until it pounded beneath her eyes. Her hands shook as she held them firmly against her mouth. Her terrified mind attempted to throw together a plan. If the noise was behind her, she reasoned, it meant safety was further ahead. That was the logic of her terror: move away from the threat.

  Slowly she stepped one daintily-slippered foot forward and eased herself around the large brick pillar in the center of the cellar that helped support the old farmhouse. She stepped on something that crunched softly. She held her breath, hoping none of it had been heard. Hoping that maybe it was just a rat. A really large rat.

  Then an arm like a steel cable took her around the neck in a chokehold. Her instinct shouted at her to fight back with all of her might, to kick, punch, and claw. But reason drew her mind to the sharp bit of something that was pressed against her neck.

  “One sound,” a man’s voice snarled. “One sound is all you’ll have the chance to make. Nod slowly if you understand.”

  Martha nodded ever so slightly.

  “I’m going to move my right arm off of your neck so you can breathe a bit easier. I’m keeping the glass right where it is, pressed just against your jugular. Move, and it’s over.”

  The arm left her throat, and Martha could feel the man rummage through his pocket. The flick of a thumb brought the flame of a zippo lighter to life.