by Bowman, Dave
Charlotte looked down at Dan's .22 in her lap. She had screwed up the day before. She'd been too afraid to shoot Harvey when she’d had her chance. And she had paid the price for her hesitation.
She ran her finger down the shiny surface of the gun. She had never touched one before yesterday. Charlotte had never expected to be in a situation anything like this.
She sighed and looked out at the road to the west, hoping to see Annie's figure appear on the horizon.
Please hurry. Please be okay.
She leaned her head back in the seat. Overhead, a buzzard circled in the sky.
Maybe he's waiting for his supper. Harvey and I probably look like a sure thing.
As she watched the bird fly overhead, she heard a rustling sound behind her.
Instantly, a wave of fear spread through her body.
Harvey was waking up.
Momentarily forgetting about her injuries, she turned around in her seat too quickly. Pain seared through her torso. But that sensation was soon forgotten.
She looked in horror as Harvey struggled against the rope.
He looked up at her. Their eyes locked for a second. Charlotte saw the rage and darkness in him.
"You tied me up! I can't believe this shit!"
And he worked furiously at the knot at his wrists. He muttered, “You’ll pay for this. Oh, you’ll pay all right.”
Charlotte swung her legs out of the car. Trembling, she pushed herself to her feet and turned to face him.
She watched, horrified, as Harvey got his hands free. He glanced up at her, scowling, as he pushed himself up to sit in the grass. Then he started working on the knot at his ankles.
“We both know you ain’t gonna use that gun,” he said, keeping his eyes on his work at the rope. “Don’t even front.”
Charlotte took a breath.
She looked at the gun, flicked the safety off, and brought it up with both hands.
Harvey glanced up at her again. This time, he couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes. He kept fumbling with the knot, his hands shaking.
Charlotte aimed right for the center of his chest. She exhaled and pulled the trigger.
11
The man leapt toward Heather, reaching out for her in a furor.
Heather stepped to the side, just dodging his grasp. His arm brushed against her side as he stumbled. He nearly fell down the steps, but caught himself.
Before Heather could react, he turned and grabbed her. He grunted as he pulled on her arm.
With her free hand, she withdrew the knife in a sudden movement.
She tried to stab him again in his belly, but he grabbed her arm as she made the movement. Heather's hand was clenched tightly around the knife. She didn't let go.
“Give me that!” he roared.
The man grabbed her arms, twisting them around behind her. Enraged, she tried to jerk free.
She kicked him, then wrenched her right arm away from him.
Without hesitation, she plunged the knife in his thigh.
He screamed in agony, cursing at the top of his lungs. He released her arm and looked down at the wound, his hands shaking. His mouth opened, and a strange wailing noise began to flow out of his mouth.
Behind her, the little girl scrambled to her feet. She scurried off the porch, unnoticed by both Heather and the man.
Heather jerked the knife out of his body again. She stood in a defensive stance, waiting for him to make his next move.
The man took a step toward Heather, then stumbled.
Heather backed away, keeping her eyes on him. Finally, he fell to his knees on the porch. His hands covered the hole in his leg. Blood gushed out from the wound, making his hands slick and deep red.
Heather turned around to see the girl was gone. Heather jumped off the porch, then ran into the yard. She saw the little girl running down the street, away from the house as fast as her legs could carry her.
"Wait!" Heather called.
She ran a few steps down the road behind the girl and called after her once more.
"Wait! I'm not going to hurt you!"
But the little girl was long gone. Terrified from the encounter, she ran down the street without looking back.
Heather came to a stop. She had done what she could. She couldn't chase after the girl. Heather hoped the child had a safe home to return to.
She ran across the front yard of the house again, expecting to see the man lying on the porch, reeling from his injuries.
A tidal wave of fear coursed through her as she glanced over at the porch.
The man was gone.
Heather looked around in all directions, spinning in a circle in the yard. The man was nowhere to be found.
She broke into a sprint across the tall grass in front of the house. As she reached the parking lot, she looked behind her. She saw what she had missed before – a trail of blood across the porch of the house. The man had made his way inside the home.
He was either bleeding to death inside the house, or he was getting his gun.
Heather rounded the corner of the gas station and grabbed her bike. In her panic, she lost her balance as she pushed off. Tumbling to the ground, her hands and left arm broke the fall. Shaking from fright, she scrambled to her feet and mounted the bike again.
Suddenly, the sleepy town seemed full of eyes that were watching her. She feared that someone might be waiting for her out of sight, ready to pounce. And most of all, she feared the man would emerge from his front door at any moment and open fire.
She raced through the front lot of the gas station on her bicycle and began to pedal down the highway.
Her heart was pounding so quickly that nausea began to overtake her. Adrenaline flooded her system, making her confused and panicked. She glanced behind her shoulder, almost expecting to see the man coming after her.
She continued through the small town, passing block after block of homes and businesses. Most of them were empty, but she saw a few people scattered here and there. Suddenly paranoid, she was terrified of them all. She pressed onward, not wanting to be detained any longer in the town.
Finally, she made it to the southern outskirts of the town, and then to an unpopulated area. Once again on a deserted stretch of highway, her panic did not subside. Instead, the desertion of the area seemed to heighten her anxiety. She continued to pedal furiously, trying to shake the feeling that someone was following her. She knew it was unlikely the man was on her trail, but she couldn't help looking over her shoulder again and again.
Her heart pounded as she glanced at the thick woods surrounding the road. The forest seemed to be a wall, hemming her in on both sides. She felt her heart beat faster. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
What if she never made it to Tennessee? What if she made it, but her family were missing – or dead?
Maybe she'd never see any of them again.
Fear took her over more completely now. She felt a chill, despite her exertion.
In a matter of days, the world had turned dark and unwelcoming. The attacks on the nation had torn apart the fabric of society. Everyone's morals seemed to have collapsed. Not even the government had been able to protect its citizens from a devastating national disaster.
Heather was all alone.
Her panic increasing, she felt herself toeing the line of hyperventilation. The muscles of her hands, deprived of oxygen, began to contract into claws around her handlebars. Her vision was quickly blurring, the road and the trees becoming distorted shapes.
She pushed the bicycle faster, glancing behind her once more. Any moment now, she expected the man to appear on the road, chasing her to exact his revenge. Her only chance at survival was to get as far away as fast as she could.
12
Jack watched the alley from the apartment. No other guards had run through after the first one.
Where are they?
The lack of activity on the street below was unsettling. He almost would have preferred to see the guards search
ing for him. As it was, the relative calmness outside the apartment had him wondering what they were up to.
The anxious minutes in that room had a distinct feeling of a calm before a storm.
Were they waiting for him outside, lulling him into a false sense of security to make him think he could leave unnoticed, then ambush him?
There was only one way to find out.
He didn’t risk everything by taking out the five guards and re-entering their territory only to turn tail and run.
He’d have to leave the shelter and go out looking for Brent and Naomi.
Gathering his weapons, he shot one more glance down below. Still nothing happening in the alley. As tempting as it was to descend the fire escape ladder, he left it behind and headed toward the front door of the apartment.
He would have to go out another way. The alley opened up onto a main street, where a work crew was supervised by several guards. And the other end of the alley pointed toward the road he had just crossed, where the men had been on his trail.
Opening the front door, he checked the hallway of the building. Empty, except for scattered debris of the looters.
Jack emerged from the apartment and found the stairwell. Light filtered in from a skylight, illuminating his path down to the first floor. Quietly and cautiously, he opened the door to the first floor, walked into the hall, and approached a door with an exit sign.
The door was a side exit out of the building. It was a solid metal door without a window, which meant Jack would walk out of the building blind. But the front door wouldn’t work, since it opened onto the main street and well within view of the work crew.
He positioned the rifle just right, then pushed the door open slightly with his foot. He waited and listened for any movement or reaction on the other side, then brought his face up to the crack to look out.
The door opened onto a small street. Other than several useless and abandoned cars lining the side of the road, there was very little cover. Across the street, a large semi was left sprawled across a large parking lot. If he could cross the street and take cover behind that truck, he could get a better view of his surroundings.
This side street was empty, but he could hear the voice of the work crew around the corner on the adjacent street. One of the guards might spot him, but he had to take the risk.
Jack stepped outside the door and let it shut quietly behind him. He quickly bolted across the street, stepping lightly as he ran. The rifles he wore over his shoulders limited his mobility, but he pressed onward.
He made it to the rear edge of the semi. Panting to catch his breath, he looked around. So far, no one appeared to have seen him. The sounds of the work crew nearby continued.
Jack advanced behind the cover of the truck, which was parked right behind a pharmacy building. Jack peered around the front cabin, looking across the street at the blocks ahead of him to the west.
Several hundred feet to the north and three or four blocks away, a work crew of about five male prisoners stood digging a large hole. Jack spotted two armed men guarding them. He was too far away to make out any distinguishing features of the prisoners.
Could Brent be in that group?
Farther to the south, several people pulled trailers on bicycles. Scattered throughout the area were more armed guards walking through the streets, patrolling the area.
Jack had to find a way to the work crew.
He waited until the closest guard had gotten a good two blocks away on the street facing the pharmacy. Then, holding the rifles close to his body to minimize noise from the clanging metal, he crossed the street and the parking lot on the next block.
He took cover behind a garbage dumpster, surveyed the scene, then crossed the next street. Slowly, he made his way to the edge of another alley. Hiding himself behind an abandoned car, he crouched down and watched the work crew nearby, on the other side of a chain-link fence.
The men were scattered around a large, empty lot. Jack was almost within speaking distance of the closest prisoner, a young man who labored with a shovel. Jack squinted, trying to see the other prisoners.
Brent wasn’t there.
Jack fought back frustration. He had chosen the wrong work crew. And now he had gotten himself into a bad situation – he was too close to the guards who might see him trying to leave.
And where would he go? He didn’t see any other work crews. The gang’s territory was sprawling. Brent could be working on any of several dozen blocks to the south, east, or west.
The guard inside the lot was slowly making his way around the fenced-in area, supervising the men digging. When he began to make the loop facing away from Jack’s end of the lot, Jack made his move.
“Hey!” he hissed at the prisoner on the other side of the fence.
The prisoner startled, then turned to see Jack crouched in the bushes nearby. The young man was confused and stared at Jack for a moment. Then, remembering the risk in stopping work, he began digging again. But he positioned himself to face Jack as he worked.
“What are you doing out there?” the prisoner asked under his breath. “And who the hell are you?”
“Nobody,” Jack said. “But I’m looking for someone. Do you know a guy by the name of Brent, early twenties, tall and thin, wears glasses? Maybe you know where they have him working?”
The prisoner glanced at Jack, looking at Jack’s obvious injuries and wounds, and the weapons strapped to his body.
“You’re that guy who escaped, aren’t you?” the prisoner said.
Jack shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flitting up to the guards making their rounds.
"Yeah, I heard the guards talking about that this morning!” the guy said, getting excited. “You killed some of them, didn't you?"
"Listen, I'm just looking for my friend," Jack said, keeping his eyes on the guards. The closest one was nearing the end of his loop through the yard. Soon, he would be turning toward Jack and the prisoner.
"Hey, take me with you," the prisoner whispered. "Get me out of here, please!"
"I can't right now," Jack said. "Sorry."
Jack readied himself, preparing to make a run for it before the guard got too close. The prisoner wasn't going to help him. He probably had never even seen Brent.
"I'll tell!" the prisoner said, growing agitated. "I'll call them over here right now if you don't help me get out!"
"Keep your voice down," Jack hissed.
"Then take me with you!" the prisoner pleaded, talking a little too loudly. He had also stopped digging, which Jack knew would draw the attention of the men in charge. Any second now, the guards would notice the prisoner’s disruption and come running.
Keeping to the ground, Jack crept away from the fence. He set out in a low run, breaking away from the cover of the vehicle. Darting between the bushes and trees that lined the fence, he ran to the west.
As he ran, he heard the prisoner’s voice again behind him, angry and laced with hysteria.
Was he calling after Jack? Was he alerting the guards of an escaped prisoner’s presence?
Either way, the guards might have already spotted him. Jack sprinted toward the next street, half-expecting them to open fire on him at any moment.
13
Myra rode her bicycle toward the truck, glancing at Katie as she approached.
"Is he –" Myra began to ask, then stopped herself.
Katie stood frozen in place, paralyzed with fear as she stared at the truck.
Myra came to a stop a few feet away. The door was closed. She moved her eyes frantically over the cab.
It was empty.
With a trembling hand, she opened the door and looked inside. In the middle console cup holder was Henry's coffee Thermos. A paper bag from the hardware store rested in the passenger seat. There were no keys, yet the doors were unlocked.
Myra suddenly felt dizzy. Without thinking, she dismounted the bike and let it fall over onto the gravel road. She took a few steps away from the truck, then started to
look around.
"Don't move," she told Katie. "I want to see if I can find any footprints."
She bent over, looking closely at the gravel road, trying to find any footprints. But the heavy winds the day before had blown the road clean, and she couldn't find any tracks.
Searching for any other kind of sign of where her husband might have gone, she spun around in a circle.
Frustrated, she kicked at the rocks on the road.
"Grandma?" Katie asked. "Are you okay?"
Myra wiped the tears from her eyes, but she didn't turn to look at her granddaughter. Instead, she kept staring at the side of the road, which was hemmed in by the thick forest.
Katie got off her bike, looked in the truck, then went to stand by her grandmother. "Why would he leave his truck here like this?" Katie asked after a long silence.
Myra shook her head. "I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know."
She walked to the woods at the edge of the road and stared at the greenery in front of her.
Katie followed her. "What are you looking for?"
"Broken twigs, snapped branches, trampled saplings. Any disturbance that might be caused by a man walking through here," Myra said. "Can you help me look for something like that?"
"Okay," Katie said as she crouched on the edge of the gravel and studied the land.
Myra walked a few steps away, slowly surveying the scene. Then they crossed to the other side of the road where they repeated the process. They found a few areas that looked like an animal had passed through – broken twigs and torn leaves near the ground. Myra followed the animal paths several yards into the woods, but they always lead nowhere. They could find nothing that looked like a human had walked through.
"Well, at least there's no blood or anything like that," Katie said hopefully.
Myra nodded. She she had been thinking the same thing, though she didn't want to say anything to Katie about it. But as it turned out, Katie was already considering the worst possibility.