“He’s dead,” she whispered, walking past him. “I need some air.”
Inside the house, blood shimmered under ghoulish warm light; and Bradley halted midstep. Beyond the partial wall, a dead body with half its head missing lay amidst a swamp of blood and brain tissue.
He wasn’t sure how to feel. Relieved that Abby hadn’t accidentally shot her mother? Impressed that she had dispatched an intruder? Or devastated that she would have to cope with taking a life?
He grasped Mr. Murphy’s shoulder. “Is Mrs. Murphy hurt?”
“No, thank God ... And thank you.”
Gramps shuffled through the doorway, surveying the scene. “Come on now,” he said, urging Jessie to her feet. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Kyle, you help her shower. I’ll work the hand pump.”
Bradley tossed Abby’s rifle onto the couch and set out after her. He jogged down the hill, along the lakefront, and eventually found her kneeling behind the garage, vomiting, struggling to keep her long hair out of the way.
Bradley took a knee beside her. “Hey, I got this,” he said, gathering her hair into a loose ponytail. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He remembered, vividly, how he had felt—how he still felt.
She sat upright and wiped her mouth against her forearm, tremors racking her body. “C-c-can’t st-t-top shak-k-king.”
Bradley’s arms encircled her, drawing her snugly against him. He rested his cheek atop Abby’s head and hugged her tighter, wishing he could absorb all her pain and fear.
“Not much of a Sniper, huh?” she finally whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder. “Pull the trigger and puke up dinner.”
“Happens more than you think, Squirt.” He offered a sad smile. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Abby took a slow breath, starlight highlighting the turmoil in her eyes. “He broke in through the living room. He—he had a gun to my mom’s head.”
Emotions transformed over her face like a kaleidoscope: anxiety, guilt, and fear.
“I have never been so scared. My dad wouldn’t let me zero my rifle. If those sights had been off I could’ve ...” Her voice faltered and Bradley gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“What made you decide to pull the trigger?”
She shrugged absently as if searching for an answer. “He was going to shoot her. I could hear it in his voice. In my mind, I guess it was like she was already ... dead.” Abby forced out the word and a tear slipped over her eyelashes. “So I had nothing to lose.”
Bradley’s fingers curled beneath her chin, his thumb slowly brushed away the glistening streak, and he studied her with newfound respect. Abby could take down a human target—even under stressful circumstances. “You did great, Squirt. I’m proud of you.”
53A
KYLE ROSE FROM THE COUCH when Abby and Bradley walked through the front door. He hugged his daughter, kissed her forehead, then watched mother and daughter embrace.
Bradley’s gaze was volleying between the dead intruder and the deck.
Must be critiquing his shot, Kyle thought. “Bradley, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Sir?” he asked, confused.
“Don’t be so humble,” Kyle said, offering his hand. “You saved Jessie’s life. Thank you.”
A pained expression replaced the confusion on Bradley’s face. He turned toward Abby, now huddled with Jessie on the couch.
“Dad, Bradley didn’t shoot him,” she said, her voice wavering.
Momentarily speechless, Kyle gave Abby a sidelong glance of disbelief. “You couldn’t have; your ammunition’s in my safe.”
His daughter’s head bowed. “I found three rounds in the woods and forgot about them—until tonight.”
Shock and betrayal uncorked a Pandora’s box of emotions that had been festering within Kyle since the EMP. “Abigail, what the hell were you thinking?” he shouted, unable to contain his fury.
“But Dad—”
“Did you even consider the consequences of a miss? What if you’d hit your mother? You could’ve killed her!”
Indignation ignited in Abby’s eyes. “And what were you gonna do, Dad? You think saying please was gonna stop him from putting a bullet in Mom’s head?”
Kyle ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his scalp. “My, God, you could’ve shot your mother. That could’ve been her on the floor over there—”
“It would’ve been Mom if I didn’t shoot,” Abby screamed, red-faced, her voice boiling. “And what are you gonna do anyway, Dad? Take away my cellphone? The Internet? My friends?”
“That’s enough,” Jessie said, rising from the couch.
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do,” Kyle shouted. “I’m gonna throw that fucking rifle into the lake!”
“Kyle, calm down.” Jessie placed her hands on his shoulders, a human barricade between him and Abby.
“Our daughter just killed someone and you want me to calm down?”
“Next time, Dad, man up and do it yourself!”
54A
POOR ABBY, BRADLEY thought, sweeping up the glass from the shattered living room window. He recalled how he had felt, sitting slumped against that tree after Fern Ridge—and he didn’t have anyone screaming at him.
“Yelling isn’t helping,” Mrs. Murphy said as Abby stomped down the stairs.
Mr. Murphy was pacing like a lunatic. “Jessie, what if she’d been off a few inches? What if the guy squeezed the trigger when the bullet hit him? You could’ve been killed.”
“Kyle, I’d be dead if she didn’t shoot—”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you too.”
Unable to hold his tongue, words spewed from Bradley. “You know what your problem is?”
“Bradley, don’t,” Gramps told him. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“No. He needs to hear it.” Bradley marched across the room. “Abby had the composure—and the balls—to pull the trigger; and she put the bullet on target, eye level, killing him instantly, so there’d be no muscle movement, so he couldn’t fire his weapon. Abby did everything right. You should be throwing her a parade, not threatening to throw her rifle into the lake.”
“Bradley, enough!”
“No, it’s not! I was the one with her while she was puking and shaking. I finally calm her down, and he acts like this?” Turning toward Mrs. Murphy, he added, “Abby’s gonna have a rough few days. Keep a close eye on her.”
Then Bradley took a step forward, going nose to nose with Mr. Murphy. “Your daughter deserves the handshake and gratitude you offered me. And if I’d known you’d be such a dick, I would’ve let you go on believing I took the shot.”
55A
WILL HAD BEEN LYING behind an overgrown azalea bush, clutching Eli’s bolt-action rifle for nearly eight hours. His legs and back ached, his neck felt like it was on fire, and a wicked pain raged behind his eyes, but he refused to move. The other two thugs would return for the truck. He was sure of it.
He used to razz Bradley, claiming Snipers were lazy shits who got to lounge around for hours, doing nothing; then, in a split second, they squeezed the trigger and were lauded as heroes. In reality, all those “lounging hours doing nothing” were more demanding than expected. Beyond the physical discomfort of remaining motionless, it became a tedious mental challenge to cope with boredom and manage to stay alert.
Will rubbed his eyes, stinging from the smoke, lids drooping from fatigue. The dying flames from the barn were a visual lullaby, dimming along with his vigilance.
That truck is Billy’s only chance, he told himself. I can’t lose it again.
His son’s little body had become sweat-soaked with fever. How high? Will could only guess since the thermometer was back in Orlando. One obsessive thought was driving him. If he made it back home, Billy would survive; and for that, he needed the truck.
Just before daybreak, two shadows were moving across the yard. Will didn’t move. Rifle sights fixed on the base of the driver’s window, he waited until a target st
epped into the kill zone.
He squeezed the trigger. Screams wafted from the house behind him. Will cycled the bolt to chamber a new round.
The other man had entered through the passenger’s door, slid across the truck’s bench seat, and was frantically trying to start the engine, unaware that the vehicle was missing its coil cable.
Will fired a second time and watched the body sag onto the steering wheel; then he pushed himself to a standing position and retreated into the house, too emotionally depleted to grasp the fact that he had killed four people.
56A
DRAINED MENTALLY AND physically, Jessie flopped onto the bed, propped a pillow beneath her head, and rolled onto her side, facing her husband. Through the meager candlelight, angst and obstinacy shined in his green eyes like emotional blinders that kept him from seeing the larger perspective.
“Of course, I trust Bradley more,” Kyle was saying, his tone argumentative and defensive. “He’s a trained Sniper. Abby’s not.”
After three hours, he hadn’t budged from his position, which meant the nerve-racking daddy-daughter war would resume in the morning. With an exasperated sigh, Jessie said, “I love you, Kyle, but you’re wrong. I have another day to spend with you—with Abby.” She took a moment to control her tears. “It’s a blessing. And I’m going to enjoy every minute. Why can’t you just let it go?”
Mouth thinning with anger, Kyle said, “Because there’s a dead body in my dining room!”
How can I get him to understand? Jessie thought. For twenty years marital communication had been effortless. They had always been able to hear each other, to feel each other’s emotions, but that empathy was slipping away. Kyle was slipping away.
“Imagine that the guy shot me—”
“Jessie—”
“Do it!” she said, impatient and insistent. “I’m the one dead on the floor. You look up and see Abby at the window. Armed. Just standing there. What would you say to her?”
He averted his eyes, but Jessie refused to let up. Her husband was worth fighting for. “You would be screaming, ‘Why didn’t you shoot? Why didn’t you try to save your mother?’ ”
After a flustered silence, he said, “You’re right. But Jessie, when I saw that gun to your head ...”
His voice faded into a tear-smothered whisper.
“... You are my world. I would sacrifice my life for you without a thought, but I ...”
The words seemed to coagulate, choking him.
“... I couldn’t save you.”
“And Abby did?” she asked softly, resting a hand against his face, thumb stroking the stubbly growth on his cheek. “We’ve been going round and round for hours about Abby, and it’s not really about her. It’s about you.”
Kyle let out a tortured groan. “Jessie, I have failed more this past week than in my entire life. I feel inept and useless. It’s frustrating. Terrifying.”
“And all that erupted tonight?”
After an extended silence, he said, “I guess I took it out on Abby ... Jessie, I am so sorry.”
She leaned closer and kissed the top of his head. “I’m not the one who needs the apology.”
“I’ll talk to Abby in the morning,” he said, chin rising, face still drawn with regret. “But I do owe you an apology. For not being able to protect you and take care of you—”
“Kyle—”
“No, I mean it. I’ve always been the guy who could give his wife everything—houses, cars, jewelry, vacations. Now suddenly, I’m the guy who can’t even feed his family.” The torment in his voice made Jessie ache. “I don’t know how to hunt, or fish, or farm, or shoot, or anything else that’s useful—from millionaire to imbecile in one week.”
“So, we’ve got a lot to learn,” Jessie said. “We’ll get through it. Together.”
He forced a fragile smile. “I want to give you everything.”
“You ... are my everything.”
He met her gaze, green eyes still shimmering with tears. “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
Jessie hoisted a bare leg over his waist; and with a seductive, breathless voice, she said, “Show me.”
Grinning, Kyle rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. “Okay, maybe I still have one skill that’s useful.”
“Hell yeah!”
57A
“SON, THAT WAS A FAMILY dispute.” Gramps’ angry blue eyes burrowed into Bradley. “And you should’ve stayed out of it.”
Bradley threw back his head, shoveled a handful of dry cereal into his mouth, and chased it with a gulp of water. Last night, he had deferred this conversation, expecting time to defuse his emotions, but after five sleepless hours his anger had not dissipated.
“Come on, Gramps. You know what Abby’s going through. Do you think she needed to listen to that bullshit?”
“No. And I think Kyle was dead wrong,” Gramps told him. “But when a man can’t provide for his family, it eats at him. A week ago, he had the world at his feet and today, it’s sitting on his shoulders. That’s a tough adjustment. He’s going to make mistakes—”
“At his daughter’s expense.”
Gramps nodded as though he had solved a puzzle. “Son, what’s the source of that overprotective outburst? Brotherly love? Or hopelessly in love?”
Bradley harrumphed, his chin dipped, and his face swung away from Gramps. “Neither. I just call it as I see it.”
“Yee-yup,” Gramps said. “Hopelessly, it is.”
Hopelessly, my ass, Bradley thought. Sure he was attracted to Abby—more than he cared to admit—but that didn’t mean he was in love with her.
Bradley squinted. Was that a shadow moving across the living room window? He grabbed the 1911 Springfield from the table and hurried to the front door. After peeking through the window, he grimaced and returned to the kitchen.
“Gramps, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are here.”
“Well, why didn’t you let them in?”
“You talk to them,” Bradley said, letting his weight fall against the kitchen chair. “This time, I might knock him out.”
Gramps began whistling and shuffled toward the front door.
What song is that? It crooned through Bradley’s head until he recalled the old Elvis tune, Can’t Help Falling In Love.
The memory of holding Abby in his arms crept into his mind, and Bradley downed the remainder of his water as if he could drown the recollection. He heard Gramps open the front door.
Without pleasantries, Mr. Murphy’s frenzied voice asked, “Is Abby here?”
“No,” Gramps told him. “Why would she be here?”
“We can’t find her. And her bike’s gone.”
Bradley fired his empty water bottle across the kitchen, shoved back his chair, and stalked into his bedroom. Images of that girl tied to the swing set assailed him. He jammed his feet into his boots, shouldered his backpack and rifle, and strode back to the foyer.
Mrs. Murphy was saying, “I checked on her around four a.m. Abby was asleep ... or pretending to be.”
Damn it, Bradley thought. She could have a three-hour head start. Squatting to lace his boots, he said, “Any idea where she might have headed?”
Shrugging, Mrs. Murphy said, “Maybe to Allison’s house. That’s her best friend.”
“Where does she live?”
“About six miles from here,” Mr. Murphy told him. “Over near the elementary school.”
Fuck! The word had nearly squirted from Bradley’s mouth. His stomach turned inside out and spontaneously combusted.
Sensing his alarm, Mrs. Murphy asked, “Is that a dangerous area?”
“I’ll find her,” Bradley said, projecting a confident demeanor at odds with the fear upwelling inside him.
“I’m going with you,” Mr. Murphy said.
“Like hell you are. You’ll just slow me down.”
“Bradley, you were right. I acted like a dick last night. I know this is my fault, and I need to make things right.”
Surprising, Bradley thought. Abby’s well-being outranks his pride.
“You go; you follow my orders,” he said, then his face drifted upward, praying for the guidance to find Abby—before the savages did.
58A
BLEARY EYED, EXHAUSTED, and aching, Will ventured outside. The sun was shining, a light breeze was rustling leaves, and birds were soaring across a cloudless blue sky.
A beautiful day on the farm, he thought, except for one dead brother-in-law, four bloody corpses, and a smoldering barn.
Beside the rising wisps of gray smoke, the pasture was empty. Was the cow stolen or did it wander off?
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Either way, there would be no milk for his kids.
Head shaking at the insanity, Will approached the chicken coop, its frame mangled from having been dropped. The chickens had exploded into a grisly paste of blood, flesh, and feathers.
No more eggs, he thought.
Will watched Heather and Erica emerge from the bullet-scarred house. Buckshot had shattered all the windows and clusters of pellets had tunneled through peeling paint into the clapboard siding.
Heather had a blanket over her shoulder, nursing their infant daughter. Erica walked beside her, Billy propped against a hip. Despair siphoned the color from his sister-in-law’s face as her eyes roamed from the barn, to the empty cow pasture, to the chicken coop.
“You should stay inside,” Will told both women. “It’s pretty gruesome out here.”
Erica’s accusing glare was a biting slap to wet skin. “Not as gruesome as staring at my dead husband. This is your fault, Will. You led them here. Everything was fine until you showed up.”
Frightened by the raucous argument, Billy began to cry. Will reached for his son, but Erica pirouetted and slogged toward the house, shouting, “Eli’s dead. The house is ruined. The livestock is gone. I have nothing! And I hate you, Will!”
“What happened to country folks helping each other? Huh?” he shouted after her. “Eli’s dead because Eli was stupid!”
Heather’s eyes contracted into surgical blades. “Do you have to be so obnoxious? She just lost her husband.”
“I’m tired of being blamed for everything—”
“You lost the truck,” Heather said, poking her index finger into his face. “Then they showed up. How is it not your fault?”
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