by William Oday
A family that loved him.
A life that could mean something, if he’d give it more than a bottomless bottle of Jack Daniels. For his family, he chose more.
Dying was easy. Living could be so much harder.
Pushing the darkness aside, knowing it would never leave him, Mason rose to do what he’d been trained to do. In his last career and the current one. To end lives and to save them.
He stepped forward and a small, dark green metal ball clunked out of the open doorway and rolled toward him.
A frag.
Mason launched into the office door opposite him and crashed through as the world exploded.
A deafening blast twisted his guts and cranked up the piercing tone that muted everything else. A wave of pressure flung him to the floor.
Warm wetness leaked from his ears.
His vision blurred and his head ached.
A slender bald man wearing lime green glasses popped up behind a couch. He looked vaguely familiar. His clear blue eyes studied Mason with a calm intensity.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t a threat.
“Get down!” Mason shouted.
The words rumbled in his chest, but they seemed far away. He checked his body and saw all his limbs attached and functioning. His suit was torn in a hundred places.
But he was lucky to be alive.
The man behind the couch nodded and ducked back down.
Mason found his pistol and crawled to the open door. The wall next to it was a ragged ruin of small holes, shredded beams, and dangling drywall. The hallway outside filled with smoke and swirling debris.
As the numbness faded and his mind reconnected with his body, he realized he didn’t get quite as lucky as he thought. His back stung like a hornet’s nest busted open inside his shirt.
He’d taken some shrapnel. He’d felt it before.
Mason forced himself up and held the doorframe as the ground settled beneath his feet. He thought of Theresa.
A hostage to that animal. A shield.
Something in his soul, something long restrained, tore free. A thirst that only made sense in the grim necessity of war.
The killer came forward.
It burned in him. An atomic fusion of vengeance and fury.
He screamed as the rage boiled over. His body vibrated from a massive adrenaline dump. He raised his pistol and charged into the hall, through the smoke and dust. His choking breaths a remote and trivial sensation.
Only the blood mattered. To make it spill. To make it flow.
A short figure with a pocked face jumped into view and the muzzle of his assault rifle unloaded a fusillade of fire in Mason’s direction.
The whine and crack of bullets seared by, inches from his head.
Mason dropped to a knee as his trigger finger pulled again and again. His front sight locked onto the thug’s chest. Seven rounds dug fatal channels through lungs and heart.
Mason raised the muzzle and sighted again as he squeezed off two more rounds.
Both impacted the target’s head. The first round tore through his cheek and exploded in a pink mist behind. The second round pulped his left eye and blew out the back of his head. Gore splattered the wall behind and the guy dropped. The rifle went silent as it tumbled to the floor next to him.
Mason slammed a fresh magazine home and stowed the depleted one as he fast-walked forward and came upon the open doorway. He sliced the pie around the corner and came up face to muzzle with a shotgun barrel. A tall, lanky guy with more scars than minutes left on Earth squeezed the trigger.
A slug cut through Mason’s jacket as he fell back and tripped over himself, landing on his knees. More shots pulverized the opposite wall behind him.
He lunged forward with his pistol angled up. The skinny guy looked down in shock, but it was too late. Shock wasn’t an effective defense.
Mason unleashed five rounds less than two feet away. He walked them up the unlucky kid’s torso until the last one caught him in the throat and blasted out the back of his head. Chunks of brain and bone plastered the ceiling. A geyser of blood spouted from a severed carotid artery.
The punctured body tumbled back and collapsed.
Mason rolled across the doorway as movement flashed inside and a pistol boomed. Pain shocked his calf as he rolled. Like a cattle prod touched the skin and jerked the muscle inside.
He pushed himself up on the far side of the doorway and stumbled a little as his left leg faltered. The cloth over his left calf glistened a shade darker. He tested it with a little weight.
A jolt of agony shot up his leg, but his weight held.
He set it aside for now.
“Let her go, Cesar!”
“I’ll murder you all!”
Theresa screamed. The bleak terror in her voice nearly unhinged him. He fought to keep some measure of control. Simple madness wouldn’t save her.
But killing would.
CHAPTER NINETY-SIX
Elio crouched behind the desk with Theresa behind him. Like that made her safe. He was out of ammo and out of options. He looked back to check on her.
Her eyes were watching his right hand. He tried to move the sliced fingers and agony jolted to his toes.
Theresa ripped at her tattered pajama bottoms and a long strip tore free. She held Elio’s injured hand and wrapped the soft fabric around his fingers like a mitten. She secured the end, but didn’t release his hand.
Their eyes met. A silent, eternal connection in a frenzied, ephemeral environment.
She brought his hand to her lips and gently kissed the bandage.
Elio gulped and wanted to say so much. Words he didn’t know, yet felt. Things he couldn’t speak, yet knew. But he had to save her first. That before anything else. He turned back and considered their situation.
Mason might be nearby, but he was too late.
Only Elio stood between Theresa and that rabid dog Cesar.
He needed a weapon. With his left hand, he yanked open a drawer and heard the jangle of metal. He couldn’t stand up to see what was in it because his head would’ve popped up over the counter and been visible to the waiting room. He needed his head intact to save Theresa.
So he reached up into the open drawer and clawed at whatever he could get.
A razor edge sliced his fingertip.
“Dammit!”
He yanked his hand back and pinched at the blood welling out. He reached up again, intent on grabbing whatever had sliced him. His hand closed around a handle and out came a plastic tape dispenser.
He cursed and slammed it on the marble floor.
He shoved his hand back into the drawer and felt a sharp point dig into his palm. He tried to pull out whatever got him. A letter opener hopefully. Even a pair of scissors. Anything that could protect Theresa.
Out came a wooden spoon.
A wooden fucking spoon.
Were they allowed to eat at their desk? And if so, couldn’t they have used a fork? A metal fork? Something he could stab with.
He was about to reach back up when the crack of shots rang out. Not knowing if they were aimed at him, he ducked lower and squeezed up against the cabinet.
“What are you doing?” asked Theresa. Her words cutting in and out as more gunfire erupted.
They both instinctively dropped as low as they could.
“I don’t know!”
He looked at the spoon. Was he going to lull Cesar to sleep by tapping out a rhythm on his bloodied palm? Maybe break it apart and stab him with a splintered end? That could work.
He held the ends and tried to snap it like a chicken bone. It didn’t bend. It didn’t even creak. He lined up and slammed the middle down on his knee. The impact jolted through his body. He smashed the spoon again and again on the floor, and still it remained whole.
“What are you doing?” Theresa asked.
“Nothing that’s working.”
“Let me see it.”
Theresa grabbed the spoon and placed it diagonally against th
e cabinet and the floor. She leaned over and kicked it dead center. It cracked in half, leaving one side with a sharp tapered point.
He grabbed it and turned just as Cesar barreled around the corner, his polished gun spitting lead and flame.
Elio launched himself up and spun as something punched him in the side. Like an angry donkey landed a kick. His momentum carried him forward even as his body jerked around.
He landed against Cesar’s broad chest, and wrapped his arms around the shot caller’s thick neck like they were a couple at a slow dance.
He slammed his head up and caught Cesar on the nose. The two fell back into the wall. Elio scrambled for a hold. Some purchase that might slow down his much stronger adversary.
Cesar spun around and slammed Elio off the wall like a rag doll. He brought the gleaming pistol up to his face and rammed the barrel against his skull.
Never mind the bullet, the muzzle ripped a gash into his forehead. The pressure so fierce it felt like his skull was going to implode.
Elio watched as time slowed and Cesar’s finger curled around the trigger. The knuckles turned white as the finger curled in.
So this was how it would turn out. His violent end.
A sadness washed over him.
He would die. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst part was that he’d never know if Theresa made it.
“Don’t do it, Cesar!”
Elio turned to see Mason with his pistol pointed in their direction. He’d come.
But he’d come too late.
CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
Mason held a bead on Cesar’s temple, and then the bridge of his nose as the man turned to face him. Everything inside him screamed to take the shot. The animal inside wanted blood. Wanted death. Wanted to kill and kill until no threat remained.
Elio.
What was he doing here?
A remote part of his brain registered the pressure of Cesar’s finger on the trigger. Saw that a round through Cesar’s skull might end up with another through Elio’s.
Like father, like son.
Both dead at his hand.
The killer inside didn’t care.
It pleaded. Begged. And then shrieked when his trigger remained unpulled.
It wanted blood.
But Mason was more than the soldier he’d been forced to become in Fallujah.
He was a husband.
A father.
A man dedicated to protecting lives.
He couldn’t take the shot.
“Don’t do it, Cesar,” he said in a calm voice. Like you might speak to a vicious dog.
Mason released the grip on his pistol and let it pivot on his finger until the muzzle swung up to the ceiling.
Cesar watched him, perhaps surprised for an instant that another dog would roll over and expose its neck for the kill.
Mason bent over and laid the gun on the floor.
“Kick it away.”
Mason did as instructed.
“You dumb fuck,” Cesar said with a cold, mocking tone.
He swung the chromed Desert Eagle off of Elio’s forehead and around at Mason.
Elio’s left hand shot up and slammed into Cesar’s face.
The brute roared and shoved Elio’s head through drywall. Cesar spun, reaching for the short wooden spoon buried deep in his eye socket. He howled as his hand bumped the shallow cup, stirring the wound and spilling more blood down his cheek.
Cesar spun to Mason and unleashed a barrage of fire. The large, mirrored pistol bucked in his hand.
Mason dropped to a knee as a round ripped through his hair. More rounds sliced through the air inches above his head.
He yanked his right pant leg up and pulled out the subcompact Glock 26 from his ankle holster. In one fluid motion, his finger dropped inside the trigger guard and curled back as the sight picture lined up on Cesar’s nose. Two rounds punctured his skull in quick succession.
The shot caller stood for a moment, a look of surprise frozen in his eyes.
Mason fired two more shots into his broad chest and the big man collapsed.
Still covering him, Mason approached. He stood above the body. The body of the man who’d put his daughter’s life in danger. The body of the man who’d put Elio’s life in danger.
Before he could stop himself, he unloaded the rest of the magazine into Cesar’s chest.
The killer inside grinned. Vicious. Hungry.
Mason understood then that it would always be a part of him. And that he had to accept what he was. What he’d done. Perhaps he could even use it.
It might be a necessary partner in this new, chaotic world. So long as he kept it on a tight leash.
CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT
“Daddy,” Theresa said as she rushed into his arms. He wrapped her in a hug he wished would last forever. A hug that would keep her safe from the world.
She buried her face in his chest and burst into tears.
“You’re safe, honey. You’re safe.”
“Thank you, Mr. West,” Elio said. A smile flickered across his face and then he collapsed back onto the wall and slumped to the floor.
Mason stepped over and spun around so he could inspect Elio while still keeping an eye on the fallen gang members.
There was a lot of blood. Too much.
Elio’s face was waxy and pale. Several shades lighter than usual. His eyes fluttered and closed.
“Stay with me, Lopez!”
The relieved feeling in Mason’s chest clamped back down, tighter than ever. Echoes across time lent their mass to the weight crushing down on him.
“Don’t quit on me, Lopez!”
Mason peeled up Elio’s shirt and found the wound. On the side, at or just below the ribs. Maybe a lucky hit. Maybe a death sentence. He’d seen similar injuries go both ways. He felt around the backside and couldn’t find an exit wound.
He ripped off the tattered remains of his suit jacket and packed it on the wound. The layers immediately saturated. He tore off his shirt and added that to the makeshift dressing.
“Theresa, I need you to be strong, honey. Elio needs help and we’re the only ones who can give it.”
“He saved my life, Dad.”
“Hold this here.” He took her hands and showed her how and where to keep pressure applied.
He found some duct tape in a drawer and wrapped Elio’s torso, making sure the clothes stayed put. The kid needed immediate medical attention.
Mason had no choice but to hope his wife had made it home and could help. A call to 911 wouldn’t work because where would the ambulance take them?
An ER visit was out of the question. From the chaos on TV, few were receiving medical attention. Besides, he had no intention of exposing any of them to the contagion going around. Those dense, desperate scenes were ideal transmission vectors. Sick people, uncontrolled physical contact in a tightly packed space. People would leave the ERs once they saw no help was forthcoming, or once violence broke out and drove them away.
In either case, newly infected people would walk away from the encounter. They would go on to infect others.
Mason needed to get them home. And minimize further contact with others. At least until they had Elio stabilized and then had a chance to gather more information.
He dipped an arm around under Elio’s good side and pulled him to his feet.
Elio responded with a mumbled grunt. His eyes opened and gazed on Mason with slow recognition.
“Let’s get you out of here, Lopez.”
Elio nodded.
“You’re going to be fine. Just stay with me.”
With Theresa helping clear the way, Mason limped out of the office with Elio at his side. Elio’s head hung forward, barely moving. He’d lost a lot of blood.
Not again. Please not again.
They got out to the hall and ran into the bald man that Mason had seen earlier. The lanky man adjusted his overtly fashionable glasses and smiled.
“I’d like
to thank you.”
“Who are you?” Mason asked.
“I’m Gabriel Cruz.” He waved around to nowhere in particular. “This is my place.”
The Gabriel Cruz. The richest man in the world. No wonder he looked familiar.
“Looks like you need some redecorating.”
“True.” Gabriel looked at Elio.
“He was one of the ones trying to kill me.”
“He was just as much a victim as you.”
Gabriel considered that.
“Well, as I said, I’d like to thank you.”
“Wasn’t here for you,” Mason replied.
He nodded and pushed on as best they could. They walked down the hall and found the central elevators. By the time they reached the first floor, the thick wad of fabric stuffed under the duct tape was soaked through.
They descended to the lobby and exited the building.
The Bronco’s door flew open as they approached. Iridia jumped out and stared with wide eyes.
“You did it!”
Theresa stumbled and caught herself. She gaped at Iridia. “Are you—“
“I’ll explain later,” Mason said. “Get in.”
“Is this a normal day for you?” Iridia asked.
“Iridia, help Theresa climb into the backseat.”
She held the seat forward and helped his daughter inside. She climbed in behind her and pulled the seat toward her to lay it as flat as possible.
Mason gently laid Elio in the reclined seat.
Iridia peeked forward and grimaced.
“Is he going to make it?”
Mason didn’t want to conjecture. He didn’t want Elio to hear conjecture. You assumed the best until reality forced you to accept something worse.
“He’s banged up, but he’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
He shut the passenger door and ran around the front. He climbed in and glanced back.
Iridia held Theresa’s hand in hers. She picked debris out of his daughter’s hair.
He cranked the throaty V8 to life and remembered to breathe.
“Holly! Daddy, wait!” Theresa yelled. “We have to get Holly. She’s out there.”
Mason studied the innumerable cuts on his hands. He didn’t know how to tell her.
