by Bowman, Dave
Brent laughed. "You make it sound so easy."
"It's never easy taking a man's life," Jack said. "But if it comes down to a choice between me or them, it's not as hard as you might think."
"And in a way, the rage helps, too,” Brent added. “You know, the anger that makes it possible to do things you normally wouldn’t."
"In this kind of situation, I guess it's helpful," Jack agreed.
"I was so mad when that guy stabbed you, I didn't even stop to think. I just hit him," Brent said.
Jack nodded. The truth was, he was tired of fighting. He was tired of bloodshed. But as long as there were tyrants threatening his freedom and that of the people close to him, he knew he'd have to fight.
Going back out there, facing the gang and their guards, wouldn’t be easy. Each confrontation meant putting his life, and now Brent’s, on the line. But Jack knew they had to do it.
"So that's what we'll have to do when we go back out there, right?" Brent asked. "Just take them down one at a time?"
"Not exactly. This time will be a little different."
"How so?" Brent asked as he leaned forward.
"First, did you get a good look at the lay of the land out there when you were looking through the sheds?"
Brent smiled. "I had a feeling you'd ask me that. Yes, I did. I figured it'd be important, especially since it was starting to get dark."
"Good," Jack said. "Now, I need you to tell me everything you know."
25
Paul woke with a start. He sat bolt upright in his makeshift bed, looking around nervously.
For a second, he had forgotten where he was. He had forgotten everything. Then, with a sudden agonizing blow, he remembered it all.
It was the middle of the night, and he was still in the cornfield. He was still all alone. But his dream stayed with him, haunting him.
He had dreamed that Jack was dead.
It had been so vivid, so real, that for a second, Paul thought he was actually there, watching his brother be shot.
In his dream, Jack had gone into a tall building. He was armed, and had charged in like a movie hero. But his enemies had been waiting for him, and they pumped him full of lead until his body lay lifeless on the floor.
But it was just a dream, Paul told himself.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead and kicked the blanket off his legs. Even though the temperature had dropped while he slept, he was wet with perspiration and burning hot.
Had it been a dream, or a premonition?
Paul lay back down on the hard ground with only a blanket he had found in the empty house for padding. It had just been a bad dream. Paul hadn't spoken to his brother for years. There was no way that Paul could have a sixth sense about his estranged brother's death.
But wouldn't that just be Paul's luck – to walk halfway across Texas only to find Jack gone, or dead? Paul had already lost so much. He needed his brother to still be alive.
His mind wandered to the two brothers' falling out. They had disagreed about what to do with their mother in her final years. Jack had always denied it, but he was their mother's favorite. Everything that Jack wanted, Mom had agreed to. Jack wanted her to have in-home care when she grew too old and weak to care for herself. No one had listened to Paul's reasoning for wanting to put her in a home, where it would be safer and she'd have access to specialized care.
Paul felt his face become hot just thinking about the troubled memories. What had started as a simple disagreement had turned into an immense rift between the brothers. And in the end, Paul had lost Jack.
It seemed so silly now – losing a family member over a disagreement. Paul thought of how he and his wife had fought so much in the past two years. Was it all Paul's fault somehow? Was he just impossible to get along with?
He stood up, wanting to stretch his legs. Sleep was eluding him. He strode along the outer row of corn, which had yet to be harvested. In the darkness, he could only make out vague shapes of the tall stalks.
At the end of the row of corn, he looked out on the empty field before him. The tall grass waved in the slight breeze. Overhead, the clouds slowly parted. The silvery moonlight gradually cut through the clouds, casting the field in an eerie light and making the darkened forms in the field come into focus.
Paul jumped.
Far away, a woman stood in the field. His pulse racing, Paul stared at her silhouette.
It was Marie. It was his wife.
His throat seized up, shutting off his air supply. He looked away, stricken with terror. Anguished, he turned back to the field once more.
Nothing was there.
Paul kicked at the ground in frustration. He didn't believe in ghosts. But he was starting to believe his mind was slipping.
He hurried back to his blankets and pulled them over his head. He closed his eyes, wanting to fall asleep quickly. But even with his eyes closed, he saw his family. Their arms were reaching out toward him, begging him to help them.
He turned over in bed, trying to shut their images out. Why was his brain torturing him like this?
Gradually, he started to doze off once more. But again, he jerked awake violently, disturbed by the image of his dead brother.
What if Jack really was dead?
What if Paul made it all the way to the ranch house, only to find it deserted?
As worrisome as that thought was, Paul had yet more pressing dilemmas. He was starting to doubt his own sanity. And why not? After all, he had a mental breakdown for a day or two. After finding his family crushed dead under the rubble of their house, he had wandered in the woods aimlessly. He hadn't known where he was. He had completely lost touch with reality.
Paul had never had problems with mental illness before. Neither had anyone in his family. So why was this happening to him now?
He lay still underneath the blanket, praying feverishly that he wouldn't lose his mind.
26
It was an hour after nightfall when Jack and Brent left the shed.
Moving under cover of night, they headed south through the alley. During Brent’s search for medical supplies and clothing, he had spotted a large work crew of female prisoners two blocks away. Their housing was probably nearby, which meant they had a good chance of finding Naomi. According to Brent, the prisoners were corralled to their dorms just after dark, where they were fed. The gang ran things on a tight schedule. Now that they were without electricity, daylight was never wasted. The prisoners were brought out to work as soon as the sun rose, which meant they were sent to bed early.
If the female prisons were run like Brent’s prison had been, Naomi’s group would be just finishing dinner around then.
Brent directed Jack to take a turn toward the right at the end of the second block. He had spotted a three-story office building earlier. With any luck, the building would be empty, and Jack and Brent could make their way to the roof. There, they would have a prime view of the hotel across the street.
At the end of the block, they stopped and looked at the hotel. Sure enough, both male and female guards patrolled the area. Some of them wore headlamps, and others stood in the darkness.
Judging from the presence of several female guards, the hotel was serving as a women’s prison.
Keeping to the shadows, they ran up the steps of the office building. The glass doors had been broken, but no one had bothered to board them up. Hopefully that meant that the gang was not using the building.
The two men crunched the glass underfoot as they entered the building. The interior had been graffitied and destroyed. Jack and Brent walked past broken furniture and ransacked boxes on their way to the stairwell.
They climbed the stairs quickly. Jack wanted to get this over with as fast as possible. But he had to be careful, too. He was fully aware of the danger of the situation. Brent's quiet, somber attitude conveyed his understanding of just how dangerous this mission was.
The stairs opened to the third floor. Jack was disappointed there was no roof
access, but maybe it was better this way. They could take cover behind the walls and aim their rifles out the windows of the third floor.
They would pick the guards off sniper style.
They walked to the southernmost office, which was an open floor plan dotted with vandalized workstations. Jack positioned himself behind a small window that had been left open. Brent chose to set up a few yards away, aiming the barrel of his rifle out a busted-out window.
"You remember what to do, right?" Jack asked, breaking the silence of the dark office.
Brent nodded. "Stay calm, keep covered, and get out of here as soon as the guards are down."
"Right. And if I get hit, don't waste any time. Just clear out of here no matter what. Find a place to hide until things calm down, then head north to the interstate."
"I remember," Brent said evenly.
"Good," Jack said, turning his eyes toward the guards below. "Are you ready?"
Brent took a deep breath. "Ready."
Jack aimed at a man holding a flashlight who paced back and forth along the sidewalk across the street. Brent trained his rifle on a large guy wearing a headlamp nearby.
Jack moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger.
He steadied himself, focusing all his concentration on that man's chest down there. Not only his concentration, but his outrage and fury, too. These people couldn't be allowed to get away with all they were doing. This was Jack's chance to set things straight. Not just for Naomi, but for all the people trapped in this town.
He pulled on the trigger and felt the recoil slamming the rifle against his shoulder.
Down below, the man fell to the ground.
Brent began firing. As Jack anticipated, his aim was terrible.
The guards scattered, running for cover and reaching for their weapons.
Jack chose another guard – the fastest of the bunch, who had already begun firing toward the third-story office building. Jack missed, going too high on the first few rounds. Finally, though, he hit his target, and the man fell to his knees, then collapsed on the ground.
Brent's target had run behind a car and begun firing at Brent. The man's aim was good, and Jack turned his rifle toward this guard. When the man next raised himself to take aim after reloading, Jack hit him in the head.
Jack turned toward the man in the left end of the parking lot who was shooting toward Jack. But while he was focused on this target, Jack saw movement in his peripheral vision.
A tall, chubby guard circled around the parking lot and began to cross the street toward the office building. His intentions were clear – he was planning to attack Brent and Jack in their sniper’s nest.
Jack swiveled his rifle toward the man and tried to aim, but he was too late. He had already disappeared out of sight. In moments, he would be entering the building. And maybe he would bring backup.
Brent continued firing at the man in the parking lot, getting closer to his target. To Jack's surprise, one of Brent’s rounds hit the guard. The man stumbled and fell backward, his rifle crashing against the asphalt.
Jack knew they were running out of time. They would have to leave their posts and face the attack that he knew was coming from behind.
But first, he turned his sights on a man who had snuck across the street, unnoticed at first. The man was sending bullets through the brick walls and getting dangerously close to Jack's position.
Jack opened fire on the man, breaking the glass of the vehicle the man crouched behind. For a moment, there was no return fire.
Was he down? Reloading?
A barrage of bullets pummeled from the rifle down below once more. Jack struggled to keep up with the guy. Flying debris from the bullets blasting through the bricks got in Jack's eyes. He blinked, keeping his focus on the man below.
The guy raised up just a little too much, exposing his upper chest through the vehicle window for a split second before he ducked down. Jack was too quick, though. He put a bullet in the guy's chest.
Jack glanced over at Brent, who was reloading with shaking hands.
"We've got to get out of here!" Jack shouted over the roar of bullets pounding into the brick wall. "They're on their way up now."
Brent crawled away from the window and pushed himself to his feet. He looked over at Jack.
Jack gave one last glance toward the hotel below. What he saw made him do a double take. Brent turned to get one last look as well.
A stream of female prisoners had began rushing out the front entrance of the hotel. Wielding weapons of every description – knives, shovels, folding chairs – they descended upon the guards.
As their enslavers continued shooting toward the office building, the prisoners crept up silently, fanning out through the street and parking lot.
Then, they attacked.
Two women beat a male guard with shovels. Nearby a young woman plunged a kitchen knife in the back of another guard. Across the parking lot, a female prisoner let out a war cry as she lunged at a guard with a rifle she had picked up off a downed guard. She hit the guard over the head with the rifle, then ran off to the south, disappearing from the scene.
Jack and Brent watched as more women ran screaming from the hotel, adding to the chaos of the scene below as they charged at the people who had tortured them.
A rebellion was beginning.
Footsteps in the stairwell broke their trance. Jack motioned for Brent to follow him toward the door.
The two men hid behind the open door to the south office, out of sight. They listened as the man exited the stairwell and moved slowly through the hallway. Within seconds, the overweight guard stepped in the office, panting for his breath. His rifle was raised. He was clearly expecting to take care of the snipers easily.
From behind the door, Jack kicked the door out and made contact with the guard, who dropped his rifle.
The guard began to crawl on his knees, lunging at his gun. But Jack kicked the man square in his belly.
The guard slumped on the floor, groaning in pain. Brent appeared at Jack's side. Brent stared at the guard for a moment. Then in one sudden, frenetic movement, he hit the man's head with his rifle.
Jack grabbed the man's rifle and hurried over to the hallway to look for any more guards. He waited and listened for a moment, then went to the stairwell. It was empty.
He returned to the office. Something had snapped in Brent. He had lost control of himself and he was beating the man over and over with the gun.
Jack grabbed his arm before he could lower the rifle on the man's body again. Brent looked up at Jack.
"Let it go," Jack said.
Brent looked down at the man and blinked, rousing himself from his trance. The guard was unconscious.
He followed Jack to the window, where they watched the unfolding scene of the rebellion.
Women continue to attack the guards, though there were very few guards standing anymore. A few new guards came running up, having heard the outbreak. But they were ambushed by the women, who now were armed with guns. They shot down several guards. Another group of guards, late to arrive on the scene, saw what was happening, and fled in the other direction. Three armed women took off after them, chasing them down the street.
Jack kept his eyes on the front doors, hoping to see Naomi. But woman after woman escaped, until only a few stragglers emerged from the building now and then. But Naomi never appeared.
The female inmates ran off in every direction, crazed by the excitement of the rebellion and their newfound freedom. Most of them scattered in random directions, seemingly unsure where to go.
But Jack noticed a group of about five women run from the hotel and head south in a determined way. They ran uphill, evidently focused on a predetermined location. They knew where they were going, unlike all the others.
The group disappeared out of sight, scrambling up the street on a mission.
Brent sighed. "I guess Naomi isn't in this hotel. How many women's prisons could they possibly have?"
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But Jack didn't answer. He was focused on the sudden noise of engines starting. Several blocks to the south, two or three vehicles cut through the noise of the violence breaking out down below.
"Let's go," Jack said, turning and running toward the stairs. "They're going after the cars."
27
Naomi was on cleanup duty again.
In the dark, dingy kitchen of the motel where she was kept prisoner, she worked by candlelight to wash stacks of dishes. Joanne poured water sparingly from one-gallon bottles in short spurts as needed, just enough for Naomi to scrub the food from the plates.
If Joanne was a little too liberal with the water, the guards barked at them.
"Conserve water!" the guard known as Morticia screamed. "Don't you idiots know we have to conserve water! Do you think we can just turn on the tap when we need more?"
"Sorry," Joanne said nervously. When the guard turned her back, Joanne rolled her eyes at Naomi.
Naomi gave a weak smile at her friend. Joanne was the only person who made this nightmare bearable. If the older woman hadn't been so kind to her, Naomi would already have been dead. More and more, Naomi was depending on Joanne’s support.
Naomi glanced over at Brooke, who worked cleaning the knives nearby. Brooke gave Naomi a smug, condescending smile. She was gratified whenever the other inmates got in trouble. Brooke was a fellow prisoner, but she had kissed up to the guards enough to get special privileges, like less work and bigger portions of food. She was the only one allowed to use and clean the kitchen knives. Fearing attack, the guards didn't trust anyone else with them.
Naomi looked back at the plate she was scrubbing, then nodded for Joanne to pour the water while she held it to be rinsed clean. Dinner was over, but she was still hungry. The food rations were much too small for the amount of work these people expected.
Naomi grabbed another dish, this one encrusted with dried food bits. She felt her stomach turn, both from revulsion and hunger pains.
Across the room, four other prisoners worked at the big, industrial sink, scrubbing pots and pans. A couple of women nearby worked to clean the gas stove, and another pair of women washed dishes at a third sink in the corner. Two or three other prisoners put the food away and swept the floor. Four female guards patrolled the women as they worked.