Annabel Lee

by Mike Nappa

  The intruders appeared almost as silently as the night had become, giving only a slight rustling of dead leaves and crunching of dirt as the sound track for their arrival. There were four of them, each taking a position in sight of one corner of the sentry outpost. They all wore black that bulged with varied weaponry, heads covered with night-vision goggles that obscured their faces. Judging from body shapes, there were three men and one woman, all moving stealthily, all carefully aware to stay out of sight of the four surveillance cameras mounted at intervals around the roof of the camouflaged shed.

  The Mute calculated his odds and dismissed his chances almost immediately. He could take out one for sure, probably two, but they were spaced too far apart. They’d have him in sight and under fire before a third shot could escape his gun.

  He thought anxiously about the alarm mechanism wired into the sentry cabin. One push of a button and Truck’s main house would light up with warning. But since he was out here, and the alarm trigger was down there, that was another dead end.

  The Mute breathed a shallow exhale and let his training kick in. “When you don’t know what to do,” Truck had taught repeatedly, “wait. Too many men act too soon and pay the consequences for it. Wait, and you’ll likely see the course of action make itself plain before you.”

  So he waited.

  Below him on the forest floor, one of the men broke ranks and stepped toward the front of the sentry post, finally letting himself rest in view of one of the four video cameras stationed along the roof of the cabin. A quick wave of his arm and The Mute saw a canister of tear gas fly free. It broke the single window with an impossibly loud crinssh that marked a deliberate contrast to the previous silence of the surroundings. The Mute used that noise as cover for an opportunity to shift forward in the tree, letting his legs drop into the opening of the Y-shaped branch on which he sat. He pulled the Kahr from its holster.

  As the canister hissed its venom inside the small building, a second and a third man stepped forward, weapons raised. Hot bursts quickly eliminated all four surveillance cameras. And now the woman entered the fray, spraying automatic weapons fire geometrically across the back of the small sentry building, careful to follow rigid lines that rose and fell in crisscrossing stair-step patterns, aiming for insiders who both stood and crouched to avoid the onslaught.

  The Mute noticed that the other three intruders backed away into the darkness of the forest while the woman did her work, apparently intent on avoiding any stray lead fragments that might spring, hot and deadly, from the opposite side of the woodshed.

  And then all was quiet again. The woman waved a hand signal, and the intruder closest to her reapproached the cabin. A moment later, he was inside, then back out again.

  “Empty.”

  The Mute heard the voice echo in the greenish-blackness of the night. Where had he heard that accent before? Something to think about later.

  “Burn it.” It was the woman this time. So, she was in charge of this little night raid. “But be careful of the trees.”

  They were remarkably efficient. A few grumbled words into a radio, and two Kawasaki all-terrain vehicles pulled into the clearing, each carrying two more intruders, along with a range of supplies. First they bathed the ground around the sentry post in fire-retardant chemicals, then they doused the roof with the same. Next they set firebombs inside the building, watching as the place began to burn from the inside out. It didn’t take long. When the walls cindered and collapsed, the fire-retardant on the roof came billowing down into the flame, suddenly reducing the minor inferno by at least half. Fire extinguishers took care of the rest, leaving blackened, smoldering ruins isolated, deep in the heart of his forest.

  The Mute felt like his legs would go numb from disuse but still refused to move. As yet, they’d not seen him. He wanted to keep it that way.

  The eight intruders now turned away from the sentry outpost and faced southwest. No question where they would go next. Truck’s main house was that way.

  At last they moved away into the darkness. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. now, and The Mute was finally alone.

  He fished a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number, still waiting.

  The line rang once, twice, three, four times, but no answer.

  On the fifth ring, The Mute hung up. He cradled the cell in his palms, counting. Fifteen seconds later it vibrated to life in his hands. He pressed “answer” and heard Truck breathing heat on the other end of the line.

  “Fade thirteen,” his commander clipped, “ready B. Unsafe.” Then the line went dead.

  The Mute stretched his cramping legs and stood up in the tree. He flung the cell phone into the dying embers that once were his sentry post, reholstered his gun, and slid down to the ground. Inwardly he cursed the pins and needles pricking relentlessly inside his bloodthirsty feet. He took his bearings and forced himself into a jog.

  Fifteen minutes later, sounds of the night cautiously returned, crickets and grasshoppers chirruped, country frogs belched, and the wind whispered a new melody. This time, though, no one was left to hear it.

  4

  Annabel

  Wednesday, September 2

  I hear Truck comin’ up the stairs before he ever says a word.

  I’m like that, I guess. I sleep solid and good, usually, but when Truck’s in a tizzy, it’s like this whole house can almost sense it from him—including me. Then I wake up at the slightest creak on the steps, the mildest noise or movement. If I can identify the noise, I can dismiss it and go back to sleep. But if it don’t belong, if it’s just a little bit outta the ordinary, I’m wide awake and waiting for something to happen.

  Something always happens.

  Truck stands in the doorway, looking at me. Does he know I’m awake? I’m not sure.

  Outside my open window, the night sounds just fine, with crickets and frogs and all them buggy types making a chorus. The air flows cool through my third-floor room, which is a relief. It’s been hot this summer. Too hot.

  Truck still waits.

  What’s he thinking ’bout? What’s he looking for?

  In the darkness I hear him sigh. It’s an old man’s sigh, like the kind my aged Appaloosa mare gave in the final moments before she passed on two winters ago.

  Somewheres I hear a clock ticking seconds away.

  “Annabel.”

  He says my name quietly, like he knows I’ve been lying here listening to him already.

  “What’s on, Truck? Something up?”

  “Get dressed. Good shoes. Now.”

  I feel a little awkward dressing myself with Truck standing in my doorway. It was different when I was six or seven, but now that I’m four months away from turning twelve, it just don’t seem right. But I learned a long time ago not to question Truck when he’s standin’ close by. So I do as I’m told, and I’m relieved to notice Truck has enough courtesy to at least keep his gaze focused out my window and away from me.

  “Okay,” I say when I’m ready.

  Uncle Truck looks me over and says, “No boots today. Tennis shoes. Hurry.” I know better than to argue.

  “Okay?” I say again after the switch, and he nods. The clock on my dresser tells me it’s a few minutes after 5:00 a.m., and now I hear a minor commotion going on downstairs in the house. Truck’s boys, I figure. Getting an early start on the day’s events, maybe?

  “Get your coat,” he says.

  “It’s been near a hundred degrees every day for the past week!”

  “Annie.”

  I get my coat and fold it over my arm.

  “What’s goin’ on, Truck?”

  “Quiet, girl. We got minutes only. Just seconds really. You understand?”

  ’Course I don’t understand, but I nod at Truck anyway.

  “Good.”

  He reaches down, and before I realize it, he’s swept me up and is carrying me down the stairs. I ain’t no baby girl, not no more, and the fact that he’s carrying me like a four-year-old sack irks me
more than a little. I start to complain, and then I notice he’s doing more than just carrying me.

  Is Uncle Truck hugging me close? Like something he don’t want to lose?

  In the kitchen I see Kenny, Rendel, Curtis, and Figgy slamming cupboards and moving furniture.

  “They making breakfast, Truck?”

  He ignores my question, ignores everyone, in fact. He kicks the back door open and starts jogging into the darkness, headed toward the big barn. When he passes by the front doors and lopes around to the back, I feel myself begin to stiffen.

  He’s taking me back to that dog.

  The German shepherd is runnin’ when we arrive. The dog stops the minute it sees Truck, but its eyes are still glowing crazy. I hear the growling start. Truck sets me down roughly, still jogging.

  “Keep up,” he barks.

  “Truck, what—”

  I feel his palm flash hot across my cheek, and two hot tears pop outta my eyes before I can stop ’em. I know he didn’t hit me hard, leastways not as hard as he could. But Truck has never laid a hand on me in anger before. Not ever. Not even when he was raging or I was awful.

  Now his nose is right next to mine, eyes searching. “You got to trust me, Annie.” His breath was warm, smelling faintly of tobacco. “No questions. Just follow what I say. Follow what I say or we lose everything. You got it, girl?”

  I nod and am embarrassed that two more teardrops leak outta my face. I wipe the waterworks away and nod again. Truck hates crybabies. And clearly this ain’t no time for crying.

  “Ruhig sein!” Truck shouts at the dog. “Hinlegen!”

  The animal backs away from the fence and lies down on its belly, head raised, eyes flaming. Teeth bared.

  German, I think. Truck commands this dog with German? Why didn’t I ever know that before?

  It bothers me that I can’t remember all my German verbs right now. Can’t remember any of ’em, in fact. But I don’t have time to worry on that, not yet at least.

  In seconds, Truck has the gate open and is dragging me inside. The dog watches me. I watch the dog. With Truck here, we’re at a stalemate, I guess.

  He pulls me toward the beat-up old doghouse. He kicks dirt away from one corner, revealing a lever buried just under the ground. He steps on the lever and, at the same time, pulls up on the roof of the doghouse. I hear hydraulics kick in and watch as the entire structure lifts off the ground like a door on a sideways hinge. A yellow-green glow flickers below, and now I see it for what it is.

  Underneath this doghouse is a hiding place, a tunnel dug right into the ground. There’s narrow steps that jut inside the tunnel, going downward deeply and quickly to a wide flattened area. From there the tunnel floor ramps around, curving off and down to the right.

  “Go.”

  Truck shoves me so hard I fall down the first three or four steps before I regain my balance. Soon I’m standing at the base of the steps, trying to take it all in, thankful someone thought to install some kind of low-glow lights in patches all the way down the tunnel. Then I hear Truck shouting a command from the top of the opening.

  “Geht!”

  I hear the dog respond, hear its claws digging at dirt and stone. Truck’s sending that dog to chase me down here!

  I start running.

  The air smells wet and dusty at the same time. Running now, I barely notice the dim, round lights spaced out and plastered into the walls. The tunnel is narrow, barely big enough for Truck to fit through frontways, but plenty of room for a smaller body like me. And for a dog. I hope there’s nothing on the ground beneath my feet, because I don’t have time to be cautious about where I step.

  The tunnel keeps making wide loops, winding down, down, down until I figure I must be somewhere between ten and twenty feet underground. It takes only seconds for me to feel claustrophobic in here, only a few steps before I know I’m being buried alive. I don’t know what’s ahead of me, but I know what’s behind me, so I keep running.

  Finally the dirt floor levels out underneath me, and the path straightens. Twenty feet down, I see an end. Twenty more feet and I’m standing in front of a narrow steel door. No place left to go.

  I hear scraping and scratching behind me and turn back in time to see that dog and Truck headed directly for me.

  “Setz dich.”

  Truck says it breathy, like he too ran down to this confined space. The dog reacts without hesitation just the same, crouching down on its haunches beside my uncle, staring at me eye-to-eye the whole time. Truck steps past the sitting shepherd and stands next to me.

  “It’s open,” he says, and I finally see the space between the edge of the door and the built-in steel frame that holds it in place. I reach out and push. The door is heavy, and it complains against me, barely moving, so Truck reaches over my head and slams it with his palm. It swings wide into the opening, revealing a large, sculpted room, square in shape, with a low ceiling that seems to me to be just about two inches taller than Truck himself. Uncle Truck presses my shoulders, and we both tumble into the big room.

  “Komm her,” he commands, and now my brain starts working better. Come here. The dog scampers through the doorway, dashing past me and beginning to sniff at the nooks and crannies in this place.

  “A bunker?” I say. “You built a bunker under the doghouse?”

  In spite of everything, I see a grin fight its way to the edges of Truck’s lips. Then he’s all business again.

  “You trust me?” he says.

  I nod, because I know that’s what he wants me to do. But inside I’m not so sure.

  “Give me your hand.”

  I barely move before he takes my wrist, leaving my hand dangling free just outside his vise-grip. He looks at the dog and barks the command again. “Komm her.”

  Come here.

  “Truck, wait—” I say, but it’s too late. The dog is inches from me, looking at me, then Truck, then back again. Involuntarily, I wrap my fingers into a fist. I feel tears threatening to come again, but I force ’em away.

  My uncle shoves my fist toward the open mouth of the dog. I start to scream, but then I feel Truck’s hand clap over my mouth and hear his growl close in my ear. “Quiet, Annie. This is important. Trust me.”

  I think I might pass out from breathing so fast, and apparently Truck thinks so too. He lets loose my jaw and says, “Breathe through your mouth. And hush.”

  My fist tenses, white-knuckled and cramping, looking plump next to the saliva-soaked fangs of that big, ugly dog. I hear it growling, low like a cicada hum, and watch its long red tongue caress the pointed canine teeth at the front of his jaw.

  Truck holds my hand firmly in front of the dog’s nose, holds it so close I feel the hot bursts of breath between my fingers as they fly out of the animal’s broad, black nose. The dog bares its teeth but stops growling.

  I try to imagine what it will feel like to have my hand cut clean off in the dog’s mouth. Will its teeth simply slice through my bones? Or will they crunch my bones first, then finally tear my hand off in pieces? Will I pass out when it starts slicing at the flesh of my fingers?

  I suddenly feel like throwing up, and then before I can control myself, I do. It’s green and watery, just bile left in my empty stomach. Truck ignores the mess. The dog sniffs it once, then also ignores it.

  Slowly the seconds tick by, and with every notch on the clock, my hand remains un-severed, hanging in the air in front of this monster’s maw. And I see that dog sniffing my hand, eyes locked now on Uncle Truck, asking for permission.

  Finally Truck speaks.

  “Prōtos.”

  Not German this time.

  Greek?

  Is that ancient Greek? Nobody even speaks that language anymore. Prōtos. What does that mean? What’s Truck doing?

  The dog stops growling. It looks confused, if a dog can look like that. It leans back on its haunches and levels a slight whimper, then looks at me again and starts to bare its teeth.

  Truck is swift, catching
both me and the dog off guard. The backhand that rifles into the animal’s snout brings a yelp from the dog, and it tumbles off-balance for a moment. Then Truck grabs the dog’s mouth and shoves it up next to my fist again.

  “Prōtos.”

  He says it like a dare, as if he almost wants the dog to argue so’s he can hit it again. The animal flinches. Then it paws back away from me and it sits down at attention, eyes alert, no longer growling, no teeth baring, eyes flicking from Truck to me and back again.

  “Prōtos.” Truck says it quietly now, straight into the dog’s eyes. For the first time I’ve ever heard, the dog barks, a quick snap of its jaw that almost seems like a soldier acknowledging a commanding officer.

  I feel Truck’s grip beginning to relax on my wrist, feel my blood beginning to rush needle pricks down into my fingertips.

  “Schützen,” Truck says, switching back to German.

  I try to call back my German vocabulary. I know I’ve heard this word before. What does it mean? Peace? Pray? Why would Truck want a dog to pray?

  The animal responds to Truck’s command, trotting to the door and lying down across the opening, and then Truck finally releases my hand. I see sweat trickling behind my uncle’s ear and down his neck. His hand is trembling, his lips are flat, and for the first time I see that Truck might also be just a little bit afraid of this dog.

  “Uncle Truck,” I say, but he cuts me off again.

  “No time, Annabel. No time.”

  He’s breathing hard. I watch his eyes sweep over the wide-open room and can also see his mind deciding what he has time to say.

  “Stay here,” he says quickly to me. “No matter what. Even if you’re here for days. Or weeks. Stay here. There are enough supplies for four adults to last ten days. With just you and a dog, you should last more than a month. Maybe two months if you’re careful. So stay here until I come back for you.”

  Uncle Truck reaches into his pocket and produces a key. He points to the steel-reinforced door. “Three dead bolts on that door,” he says. “One key. My key. Understand?”