The Silent Ones

by James Hunt

  Distracted by Dennis’s words, it took Grant a moment to realize that the man had stopped talking. The silence was its own kind of noise, and Grant’s heart fluttered as he peered through the scope to find the man had vanished.

  Had Dennis dug out a hole? Had he moved? Grant pivoted the scope left and right, searching frantically for where Dennis might have gone, and when he heard the crunch of snow up to his left, he swung the barrel of the rifle just in time.

  Two gunshots fired, bullets sinking into the flesh of both men.

  Grant rolled right, grabbing onto his right leg that had been shot, and Dennis was flattened to the snow, staining the pure white crimson.

  Grant slowly removed his gloved hand from the bullet wound, but when he saw the surge of blood travel up through the cloth of the pants, he clamped down on the wound again.

  On his back, Grant’s breathing was quick and labored. But because of the rock ledge, he couldn’t see Dennis, and not having a line of sight on that man made him nervous. He forced himself up to his elbows and quickly ducked back down when he saw the barrel of the pistol staring him down.

  Dennis fired, the bullet zipping over Grant’s head and into a nearby tree. “How long until we both bleed out now, Grant?” His voice was pained, and he coughed up what sounded like liquid. Grant must have caught him in the gut. “Our stalemate continues.”

  Grant wiggled on his back, closer to the ledge, grimacing, pain rippling up his leg. All he had to do was get close enough and then it would be done. On his way over, he placed his palm on the handle of the pistol, the strap already loose, and removed the weapon from the holster.

  “Where did I get you, Grant?” Dennis asked. “Where… did…”

  Grant shimmied faster, spinning himself around so he could peek over the rock’s edge from a different angle.

  When he finally peered over the side, Dennis was on his back, the gun no longer in his hand. Grant quickly pulled himself over the ledge and knocked the pistol out of Dennis’s reach.

  Grant placed his fingers against Dennis’s neck, but by the time he realized that there should have been more blood on the snow, Dennis lunged upward, wrapping his hands around Grant’s throat and rolling on top of him.

  With his survival instincts kicking in, Grant immediately dropped the pistol in lieu of reaching for the hands around his throat.

  “You barely winged me, Grant,” Dennis said, his face turning red from the concentrated effort of choking Grant to death, then flicked his eyes toward the wounded leg. “Looks like I got you pretty good.” He pressed his knee into the wound, and the surge of pain caused Grant to buck Dennis off of him.

  Gasping for breath, his body riddled with pain, Grant flailed lifelessly over the snow. His vision was blurred and distorted.

  “You don’t think I could have killed you already?” Dennis asked, lunging for Grant once more, snot and drool dripping from his nose and mouth. “I could have ended all of this hours ago.” He leaned over Grant, smiling. “But I wanted to kill you with my hands. I wanted to feel the life run out of you.” Dennis squeezed tighter.

  Between the pain in his legs, the fatigue from the trek, and exhaustion from the past three months, Grant felt the life drain from him. And the closer he moved toward that sweet release of death, the more his pain was slowly replaced with relief.

  “That’s it, Grant,” Dennis said, clamping his hands down even harder. “Just let it go. Let me see that light die in your eyes. That raging fire that I stoked in you, I can also extinguish. Because I am a giver of both life and death. And with you gone, there will be nothing to stop me.”

  With his strength and life slipping away, and Grant embracing the relief and warmth of death, he saw images from some alternate life. He saw himself at the altar with Sam. He saw them in a house on the beach. Sam was sunbathing out on the water, her strong hands placed so delicately over her stomach which had swollen with life. She smiled at him, the blue of her eyes accentuated by the crystal waters behind her. He traveled through the years with her until he saw their end. They were old, brittle, and gray. But they were still together. Still smiling, laughing, and enjoying their company with the little moments they had left.

  And it was that vision, seeing the end with her, that pulled Grant back to the moment. Because while they were just figments of a future that he knew couldn’t exist, it reignited a hope he thought was gone. A surge of strength returned to his hands and he pried Dennis’s fingers from his throat.

  Dennis screamed, struggling to keep Grant still, but with every second, Grant was able to loosen the killer’s hold on him.

  With a final shove, Grant thrust Dennis’s hands backwards and bucked the man off. Unsure of how long his burst of strength would last, both Grant and Dennis lunged for the pistol in the snow.

  Both men’s fingers were tangled together around the pistol, locked together. Dennis screamed, pulling the weapon toward him, heaving both him and Grant through the snow, but Grant refused to relinquish his hold on the weapon, fueled by the images that he’d seen of him and Sam.

  Dennis headbutted Grant’s nose, breaking it and triggering a waterfall of blood over Grant’s lips and chin.

  “It’s over!” Dennis screamed, tugging to get the weapon free. “I’ve won! You’ve lost!”

  Grant’s body tensed, and he knew that this was his final moment, the last bit of power welling up from deep inside, and should he waste it now, he would die. And so would many others.

  Twisting at the waist and keeping hold of the weapon that he and Dennis held, Grant gained the upper hand by slamming Dennis on his back, and then used his size to pin the smaller man down.

  Dennis squirmed and screamed, but the wailing ended when Grant slammed the heavy mess of fists and pistol into Dennis’s face like a club. He broke Dennis’s nose, triggering a gush of blood, and when Dennis refused to let go, Grant slammed the hunk of metal, flesh, and bones onto Dennis’s face again, this time breaking a few of his teeth.

  It was the third blow that finally caused Dennis to let go of the weapon, and Grant aimed the pistol down at a bloodied and defenseless Dennis Pullman.

  Dennis coughed, spitting blood and bits of teeth over his neck and chest. He even managed a smile. “Here it is. You’ve been dreaming of this moment as much as I have.” He drew a ragged breath. “You truly are a remarkable specimen, Grant. You accomplished what no one else could have ever dreamed of. And to the victor go the spoils.” That plastic smile of his widened. “Do it.”

  Grant already had his finger on the trigger. All it would take was the lightest pressure, and a bullet would fly through the center of Dennis’s brain and that would be it.

  “I stole your future, Grant,” Dennis said.

  Grant trembled, the pistol continuing to shake no matter how hard he squeezed it. He wanted to kill Dennis. Hell, if there was anyone who had a right to do it, it was him.

  “You hold nothing sacred,” Grant said. “Nothing but yourself.”

  “So end it.” Dennis tapped his chest. “Stop the beating of this heart, and you’ll save more of those people. You’re already damned, Grant. You’ve been damned from your first breath on this earth. If you don’t kill me, I will kill again. I’ve already proven that walls won’t hold me. It’s only a matter of time. Do it. Kill me.”

  Grant felt his consciousness fade, and he slipped back into that frame of mind that had led him here. He wanted to kill Dennis. This was the culmination of the promise that he’d made himself three months ago.

  “I’ll kill her, Grant,” Dennis said, the smile gone from his face. “I’ll kill Sam, and Mocks, and Rick, and that bastard child of theirs. I’ll kill them all. So kill me. Become what you and I both know you are. The vengeful angel of death. Just. Like. Me.”

  Grant screamed, finger still on the trigger, body still trembling as if his bones were crumbling, and before he struggled with the decision any longer, Grant struck Dennis with the pistol, knocking more teeth from his mouth and sending him into an
unconscious state.

  Exhausted, Grant rolled off Dennis’s body and landed in the snow. He didn’t have much time. The bleeding in his leg had worsened and if he lost consciousness before Dennis was restrained, then all of this would be for nothing.

  Grant crawled to the backpack he left near the tree, streaks of red staining the snow, and then removed the zip ties along with the phone and clotting powder. He dumped the powder onto his leg, not sure how much blood he had left anyway, and then crawled back to Dennis, tying his hands behind his back, then tying his ankles together. He then sent Hickem the text and collapsed into the snow next to Dennis.

  After a while in the snow, Grant no longer felt cold. The pain that riddled his body was relieved as the sky above him darkened. He had come to the end of his journey, and despite all of the hate and rage that Dennis had pumped into Grant’s heart, he had proved to both of them that they were not alike.

  Grant had come up against the most vile and evil creature he could ever meet and beat him. Lying there in the snow, Grant knew he was dying. But he could rest easy, knowing that he would keep his soul as he traveled into whatever afterlife waited for him as the snowfall began to bury his body.

  60

  It was the warmth that woke Grant, which didn’t make sense. He had been in the woods, buried in snow, bleeding from the bullet wound on his leg.

  Grant fluttered his eyelids, and the darkness was replaced by blinding light. It was so bright that it hurt. He smacked his lips, his mouth dry, and he became aware of the dull ache that spread throughout his entire body.

  The small hospital room was old. The floors and ceiling yellowed with age and the air smelled of bleach. A window to Grant’s right was open, a warm breeze billowing the white curtains that had been drawn. Its motion was smooth and gentle.

  Something beeped loudly, and then a hand touched his, and he calmed.

  “Hey, it’s okay.”

  Grant shuddered. Still blinded by brightness, he couldn’t see her, but it wasn’t possible for her to be with him. She was safe. She was in the city, far away from the cold death that Grant had plummeted in. But he knew he wasn’t imagining it because he never could have conjured up the beautiful blue in her tear-filled eyes.

  “Hey,” Sam said, her voice barely above a whisper. “How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t…” Grant lifted his hand and pressed his palm against her cheek, and Sam leaned into his touch. Her skin was smooth and soft against his callused hand. “Is this real?”

  Sam kissed his hand and then nodded. “Yes, sweetheart. It’s real.”

  Grant’s chest swelled, and he was flooded with happiness as Sam lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, kissing his neck, his cheek, his forehead, the pair holding onto one another tightly.

  They lingered in the embrace for a while, and when Sam finally pulled back, Grant shook his head in disbelief. “How?”

  “Hickem,” Sam answered. “After you were caught at the festival, he brought you into protective custody. He then reached out to me and put me in a safehouse. He told me what you were doing, that you were going after Dennis, and he said that if you were successful, if you could really bring him down, then he was going to bring you down here.” She gestured to the room. “Viva la Mexico.”

  Between whatever drugs the hospital staff had given him, the euphoria of seeing Sam, and the fatigue from the fight with Dennis, his mind had struggled to follow what she was telling him.

  “We’re in Mexico?”

  “Baja Peninsula,” Sam answered. “I don’t really know how to pronounce the town’s name.”

  Grant squeezed her hand, reassuring himself that she was real. “Hickem did this?”

  Sam nodded, and the smile slightly faded. “But it does come with a price. We can’t go back. Neither of us. We’re in exile.”

  It made sense. Grant figured it was the only way for Hickem to pull it off, but to get him here, get them both here, it must have cost some considerable resources. “He told everyone I’m dead.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “With Dennis,” Sam answered, a flash of anger on her face, and then wiped her nose. “You’ve been out for three days. But it’s over, Grant. Dennis is dead.”

  The news didn’t have the effect on Grant that he thought it would. He would have thought he would have been elated, relieved, but he felt nothing. He only nodded.

  “They gave him the needle last night,” Sam said. “Hickem sent me the video on the phone that he gave me. Do you want to see it?”

  “No.” Grant had wasted more than enough time on that man, and he wasn’t going to spend a second longer thinking about him. Everything he wanted was here, in front of him. Dennis was behind him. All of that was behind him.

  Sam nodded. “Okay.” She gave his hand one final squeeze before letting go and grabbed a folded piece of a paper on the small table next to the cot. “Mocks wrote this for you. I didn’t get a chance to see her before Hickem’s people came and got me, but Hickem said that she wrote this for you.” She placed the note in Grant’s palm.

  Grant stared at it, unsure of what his old partner had written for him, and unsure if he had the strength to read it. But he unfolded the paper and took a deep breath before he continued on.

  Dear Grant,

  Hickem told me about the plan at the last second. I don’t know what caused the big brute’s heart to change, but I’m glad it did. There was a small funeral service that was held after you were declared dead. I didn’t want to go, but Hickem suggested that I show up for the papers to make it look more authentic. You’ll be glad to know that I didn’t speak. God knows how that would have gone.

  Rick wanted me to tell you that he hopes you’ll recover soon, and says to make sure you have plenty of shows loaded on your tablet (if they give you one). He says it makes some of the more monotonous physical therapy exercises a little more bearable.

  I haven’t really explained anything to little Chase, but I’ll tell him about you when he’s older. He will know the man he was named after. He will know I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to watch my back when I worked the streets.

  You know that I’ve never been a religious person. And I know that you weren’t really either. But you should know that you were nothing less than a guardian angel. Without you, I wouldn’t have a family. And that’s a gift no amount of words or gratitude could ever repay.

  You were, and are, my most trusted and closest friend. I love you, Grant.

  Mocks

  A tear fell onto the bottom of the page, and Grant wiped it away, nodding his thanks. “I love you too, Mocks.” He carefully refolded the paper to include its edges, and then pressed it against his heart.

  Sam gently pressed her forehead against Grant’s and the pair cried together. They cried because they were sad of what they had to leave behind. They cried from the hell that they survived. But most of all, they cried because of the future they had been granted.

  When a nurse entered, Sam leaned back, wiping her eyes while Grant wiped his.

  “How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “The doctor will be in to follow up with you in just a moment,” she said, and then disappeared out of the room.

  A sparkle caught Grant’s eye, and he glanced down at Sam’s hand. The sunlight from the window caught the diamond from the engagement ring he’d given her three months ago. He lifted his gaze from the ring to her face, and then smiled.

  “I don’t suppose you still want to marry me?” Grant asked.

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “Chase Grant, if you think that dying and being transported to another country to live out your life in exile is going to scare me away, then I’m afraid you don’t know me at all.”

  Grant smiled. “I know exactly who you are.”

  Sam leaned closer. “Yeah? And who am I?”

  “You’re my wife.”

  61

  Six Months Lat
er

  Waves gently rolled onto the beach, providing soothing background ambiance to the ceremony. It was a beautiful summer day, hot, but made more palatable by the ocean breeze. The backdrop couldn’t have been more perfect, but as Grant stood at the altar, the only thing he saw was Sam.

  She wore a white summer dress and flipflops. Forgoing a veil, her head was crowned with a ring of flowers, and her blonde hair flowed freely down her back and over her shoulders. She smiled as the padre finished the ceremony, sealing their vows with a kiss as he pronounced them man and wife.

  While there were only a handful of spectators, there was one who more than made up for the lack of guests with her overexaggerated, but genuine, enthusiasm.

  “WOO! Yeah!” Mocks clapped her hands together excitedly, bouncing up and down as she stood next to Rick, who held little Chase in his arms.

  “The idea is not to draw attention to yourself.” Hickem stood by Mocks, hands in his pockets, his face drenched in sweat.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like there are any cameras nearby,” Mocks said, then quickly returned to her cheering as Grant and Sam walked over. “Congratulations!” She planted a kiss on Sam’s cheek. “You look beautiful. And you,” she turned to Grant. “Glad to see you’ve healed up nicely.” She slapped his ass and then laughed.

  Grant rubbed his backside. “Easy. I’ve only been back to normal for a couple months.”

  “Congrats, Grant.” Rick shifted Chase to his left arm and shook Grant’s hand.

  “We appreciate you guys coming,” Grant said. “Thanks for arranging this, Hickem.”

  “Yeah, well, she threatened to kill me if I didn’t, so,” Hickem shrugged, and then fished out his phone. “I’ve got to take this. Congrats.”

  The group watched Hickem step away, and Mocks stepped between the newly married couple and then draped her arms around both Sam and Grant’s waists. “So what’s next, my tall, giraffe-like friends?”