by Jeff Olah
Without making eye contact Dalton quickly responded. “He wants you dead, all of you!”
“Marcus Goodwin?”
Dalton wasn’t exactly surprised that his former boss had made an impression on these people. “Yes, Marcus Goodwin.”
“And he sent you to execute this order?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Then he’s trying to get you killed as well.”
Dalton began to drift. His head throbbed and he was having trouble staying upright. Acting on instinct, he reached into his coat and pulled out the device he used to control the building at his back.
“What is that?” Randy asked as he snatched it away.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Are you saying I’m too stupid?”
Dalton scratched his head and winced, attempting to find the right words as he assumed they may be his last. “I’m sorry, what I meant was that you couldn’t possibly understand. Let’s just say it’s an extremely important remote control.”
Dropping his weapon and then Dalton’s tablet, Randy twisted left and swung quickly. The much larger man pulled his fist into his bicep, using his elbow to hammer into the left side of Dalton’s face.
Dalton was rocked backward and to the ground, caught off guard as a thin line of blood began running from a deep gash just below his left eye. He instinctively wiped at it, shielding his face in anticipation of another blow.
For a moment, the man above him looked away. He stared down at Travis, unaware of the extent of the smaller man’s injuries. “Get up kid, right now. There are people who need you. I need you, come on.”
When Travis failed to move or even acknowledge his request, Randy took in a deep breath, paused for a beat, and then dropped down to his knees. With nothing but rage behind his eyes, he pulled Dalton up by the hair and cocked back his right arm.
He wasn’t having second thoughts and although he did want it to end, Dalton needed more time. There were at least six others and if he could even just save a few more, this would have been all worth it. As the man above him rained down a series of unrelenting blows, he could only focus on the whirling of the blades in the distance.
Why was the chopper still grounded? Why hadn’t Nicholas taken that monster away? This needed to end here, tonight.
176
It was dark.
But not as dark as it normally was, not even close. Most nights, the only thing he could see were spot fires in the distance and the stars overhead. There was no wind and no noise. Not even if he held his breath. It wasn’t nearly as cold either. Living outside in the desert for the better part of two weeks had made Zach fearful to even open his eyes.
He felt safe with Mr. Ethan, but he wasn’t so sure about the others. As he slipped slowly out from under the blanket, his right arm tingled. It was asleep. He knew this because his sister had told him that the weird feeling in his legs and sometimes in his arms meant that he hadn't moved around enough, that it was his body trying to tell him to get up and do something.
Zach missed her.
Stepping carefully around Carly, he thought her face looked funny when she slept. She was smiling and her eyes turned up at the corners. He thought she was pretty during the day, but also very sad. Everyone was sad now, but she seemed sadder than the others. He wanted to ask her about it, maybe tomorrow when she was all by herself.
Yeah, tomorrow he would sit next to her and try to be her friend.
He was also going to thank Mr. Ethan again. Mr. Ethan needed more people to thank him. He was a good man who liked to help his friends. He would go to Mr. Ethan first thing in the morning and tell him that he was happy again and that he would help him keep his friends safe from the monsters.
Out away from the makeshift campsite near the pink flamingos, Zach tip-toed to the wall and then slipped out of his shoes. He learned that walking in socks made less noise, and not wanting to wake anyone, he quickly started toward the security desk.
With his back to the food court, Zach moved in short bursts. The cold tile under his feet felt good as he shuffled away from the fountain. Three steps and then stop, another two and then wait. He looked over his shoulder and when none of the others stirred, he ran the short distance to the windows near the entrance.
With the massive pane of glass boarded from the opposite side, he was unable to see anything but the reflections from inside the forgotten outlet mall. Untucking his shirt, Zach pulled it up in the back and leaned into the cool glass. His warm skin made a squeaking sound as he slid down into a sitting position. It gave him the chills and made him shake his head, neck, and shoulders.
“Ahhh.”
Zach pushed into the glass, placed his shoes at his side, and looked out past the security desk. Mr. Ethan was gone now. He was sleeping with the others. And the man who nobody liked had taken his seat. Mr. Frank sat beside that man, but they weren’t talking to each other.
They said the man’s name was Boone, but no one called him that. They called him other things, bad names that he wasn’t supposed to say. He had heard those kinds of words before, but didn’t like to use them, even in his own head.
With his eyes still focused on the doors behind the security desk, Zach leaned to the left. He could see Frank’s head moving, so he assumed the older man was talking to Boone. Up and down, and again up and down. Frank’s head moved slowly and in the same pattern, every few seconds, slowly up and down.
Still unable to get a good view of both men, Zach pushed away from the glass and slid a few feet in the opposite direction. He could now see the left side of Frank’s face and beyond that, the man who the others did not like.
Frank had obviously fallen asleep and on the chair behind him, Boone was now staring back across the darkened lobby at Zach. Without blinking, Boone looked at Frank, then back toward where the others were sleeping and shook his head.
Zach wanted to run back and tell someone. He wanted to let them know that Frank was asleep and that they needed to wake up and help him. But he didn’t want to get Frank in trouble or have them start arguing with one another. That’s how it started before, first the arguing, then the fighting, and then the monsters came and took them away, all of them.
Slowly pushing himself back toward the glass, Zach slipped his shoes on and waited for Boone to look away. He began to count and when he reached ten, he lifted himself off the floor and stood. Boone sat forward and now smiled at him. It wasn’t the kind of smile a friend would give you, it was something else. Something you would see in a scary movie.
Zach lowered his head and looked away. He closed his eyes for a moment and took two sideways steps back toward the fountain. When he looked up again, Boone was still watching him. The scary looking man continued to smile, but now waved him over.
He was afraid of the man who no one else liked, although he didn’t completely understand why. It wasn’t because the others had told him he should be, and also not because of the way the two were introduced. And it wasn’t really the same way he was afraid of the monsters. The ones that chased him and killed his family, although he did get that same feeling in his stomach telling him to go the other way.
Zach shook his head and mouthed the word, “No.”
Without moving, Boone quickly shifted his eyes to Frank and then back to Zach. He pulled his right hand down in front of his face and extending his index finger, shaped it like a pistol. He pointed it at Zach and with an even wider smile, mimicked firing off two shots.
Zach shook his head faster and again took a few steps in the opposite direction. And although he was further away, he thought he could hear Frank breathing in and out. The friendly older man sounded the same as his uncle did when he’d fallen asleep on the recliner. Deep and heavy, in and out, in and out.
Boone shifted in his seat and started to stand. Zach turned and calculated the distance back to the fountain. He would easily make it before he was caught, but still didn’t want to wake the others. He liked being here with them and di
dn’t want to cause any trouble. If they knew what he was out here doing, they might not be too happy. They might just want to leave him behind.
Now standing, Boone looked toward the pink flamingos and then back at Zach. He shook his head and placed his right hand against his neck. He offered one final smile and then ran his index finger from one side of his throat to the other, before placing it against his lips.
“Shhhhh.”
Almost instantly, Frank quaked in his chair and sat up straight. He turned to Boone and without speaking, pointed him back to his seat. The older man then stood and stretched the stiffness from his back, neck, and shoulders.
Zach was frozen in place as Frank twisted to the right and spotted him standing twenty feet from the others. They shared a smile and a nod before Frank waved him away.
As he hurried back to the fountain, Zach tucked the back of his shirt into his pants and reached into his pocket. He slipped back under the blanket and unwrapped the napkin that held his stash of orange Tic-Tacs. He gently took one from the middle, popped it into his mouth, and shoved what remained back into his pocket.
Zach rolled onto his side, closed his eyes, and attempted to forget about the monsters. The ones that came out in the daytime, and also the ones inside his head.
177
James Dalton was ready. It was what he’d come here for. Well, not exactly, and his plan hadn’t completely taken shape; however, there was still time. He attempted to speak to the man who had taken a break from pummeling his face.
His voice cracked and his words came out uneven. “Get me inside, you’ll want to have the others—”
Randy reached back, and with an open hand, struck Dalton yet again.
The left side of his face began to swell and as he blinked away the blood, his vision only worsened. He swallowed a mouthful of mucus and tried to clear his throat. “Please, there isn’t much time.”
As the man above him again pulled back his hand, Dalton was able to see the door to the chopper and Marcus Goodwin stepping out. With the massive bird still idling, Goodwin appeared to be momentarily assessing the scene before he quickly turned back to the door and reached inside for a weapon.
Randy landed another blow, but his strength appeared to be waning. He was breathing hard and again leaned back on his knees, rubbing his right hand in his left.
With his view of Goodwin and the chopper now blocked, Dalton’s eyes were drawn to the right. One of the two men who wore the black and grey fatigues was moving. He rolled onto his stomach and was using the barrel of his rifle to push away from the saturated field.
Randy noticed the man attempting to get to his feet as well. He shifted his weight forward, placed his left hand on Dalton’s neck, and scanned the area for his weapon. Shielding his eyes from the flood lamps overwhelming the rear courtyard, he spotted Goodwin only a second before the well-dressed man fired his weapon.
Dalton flinched as did Randy. The man in the black and grey fatigues didn’t appear fazed and continued to push to his feet.
The round went wide right and tore into the three-foot retaining wall. It was a warning shot. The grin riding across Marcus Goodwin’s face indicated that he wasn’t intent on actually eliminating the man assaulting Dalton; instead, he was simply alerting Randy that he was coming.
As Goodwin leveled his pistol and stepped quickly around a pair of downed Feeders, he motioned for Randy to stand. “So, what do we have here?”
Dalton slipped backward and with his eyes darting between the three men, he winced as he got to his knees. Leaning onto his hands and pushing up, his head throbbed and his left eye felt as though it may just fall out of the socket.
“Dalton,” Goodwin said, his voice booming above the spinning blades of the chopper. “Get yourself together, I can’t have you—”
Randy stepped to the side and took a swing. His balled fist struck a glancing blow that knocked Goodwin off balance, but only for a second. And as Randy pulled back his right arm a second time, Goodwin swung back around, placing the nine millimeter against his temple.
Now ignoring Dalton and the man in the black and grey fatigues, Goodwin held the pistol to Randy’s head and grabbed him by the collar. “I should have let you die seven years ago. You weren’t worth the money then, and you sure as hell aren’t now.”
Randy didn’t respond.
Without turning, Goodwin moved the weapon from Randy’s head and held it out at his side. “Dalton, kill this man.”
He didn’t move. Dalton instead looked away, feigning interest. He wasn’t intentionally trying to further escalate the already out of control situation; he simply needed to reassess his strategy. And as the man in the black and grey fatigues continued to struggle on his knees, Dalton scanned the area and forced down a smile.
His Trojan Horse had revealed itself.
Over the wall at the south corner of Building Six, a man sprinted out of the darkness and into the light afforded by the chopper. He was moving in a straight line toward Goodwin and within twenty yards—as the man’s face came into view—he slowed to a stop and raised a weapon.
Dalton recognized the man as Richard Daniels’ son-in-law, Mason Thomas. Earlier dressed in the same black and grey fatigues as the man at his back, Mason now wore a dirty pair of blue jeans and a badly saturated white t-shirt. Only minutes before he had retreated to Building One, probably thinking the worst was over. However, he was back and only a few seconds from putting a bullet into Goodwin’s head.
Unaware of the new development, Goodwin pulled back his right hand and knocked Randy to his knees. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and cocking his head to the left, placed his hands on his hips. “Get up Stiig, you’re embarrassing yourself. I only hit you once.”
Dalton took a step back as the man in black and grey finally got to his feet and pulled a handgun from under his left arm. He leveled it at Randy. “Let me do it.”
Goodwin shook his head. “You had the opportunity to end this, and you failed. Now just sit there quietly and bleed.”
As Goodwin’s words trailed off, the dejected man turned his eyes toward the chopper and noticed the man standing twenty yards away. He quickly pointed it out to Goodwin and raised his weapon.
Dalton took another step back as Goodwin turned to face Mason and the two locked eyes. Their weapons now sighted on one another, neither man moved. And as the disbelief washed over the man who brought hell to Blackmore, everything again fell into darkness, save the moon and stars. Nicholas had killed the helicopter’s exterior lighting.
Through the confusion, Dalton took the opportunity to step away from the others. He had a few things left to do and getting shot by a bullet that was intended for Goodwin was not one of those things. In his place, the man in the black and grey fatigues limped forward and also pointed his weapon at Randy.
With his eyes still adjusting, Dalton winced and ducked his head as a crack sounded from somewhere in the distance. He couldn’t quite place it, although a fraction of a second later, he watched as the man in the black and grey fatigues twisted to the left and nearly lost his footing. Only a glancing shot, the man grabbed at his ear and frantically looked from side to side.
Back to his right, Goodwin had moved away and was now sprinting toward the chopper. He stopped only once to fire off two quick shots before turning and again running in the opposite direction. It wasn’t exactly what Dalton had expected; however, he imagined that things may still play out the way he had hoped.
As the man in the fatigues cried out in agony, still holding on to the right side of his head, another round was fired from somewhere along the front gates of Blackmore. Just as the sound of the weapon being fired died away, the already injured man was thrown backward as the top portion of his head exploded in a fine pink mist.
Before he could collect himself, Dalton was grabbed from behind and a pistol was shoved to the side of his head. “WHERE IS HE?”
Growing nauseous from the pain, Dalton only looked back at the incens
ed man.
“I SAID—”
Dalton raised his blood-soaked face, the contusions already prominent below his left eye. “I heard you.”
“WHERE’D YOUR BOSS GO?”
Spitting a mouthful of red velvety liquid to the damp grass below, Dalton said, “Your friend here just attempted to end my life and you want answers? You think that my boss has any interest in anyone but himself? I’m sure he’s long gone; good luck trying to catch him.”
Mason pulled Dalton up by the collar. “I’m going to find your Mr. Goodwin and I’m going to kill him, with your help or without. Just thought you’d like to save yourself in the process.”
“Save myself? You’re kidding right? The things that man is capable of make your threats laughable. Why don’t you just paint a target on my back?”
Dalton was pushing him. But he needed to be careful. It had to end, but it also had to be right. Sending Mason over the edge too quickly and this whole thing would be for naught. The rage needed to be there, but not just yet.
Quickly scanning the rear courtyard, Mason pulled Dalton in close and dragged him forward as Goodwin could be seen boarding the chopper. “Still think he’s coming back for you? I’d have to say it looks like you are on your own.”
Under his breath, Dalton said. “Yes, I know.”
His legs were heavy and with his left eye nearly swollen shut, Dalton focused on the area near the front gates. A destroyed helicopter sat quiet near the west corner of Building One, where a silhouetted figure raced out from the shadows. The man carried a rifle and stepped quickly through the minefield of downed Feeders.
The man shouted from thirty yards. “MASON … MASON!”
To his right, the door to Building One shot open and two women moved out into the courtyard. Dalton recognized the first as Mason’s wife April. Dalton had remembered her face from the files he put together on Richard Daniels. She brushed her shoulder-length blonde hair from her face and wiped away tears as she noticed the man speeding past her.
