by Ralph Gibbs
“I’ll tell him, sheriff,” Maggie said, sounding more somber. “You want ‘em looked at or taken to the pit? Over.”
“Take ‘em to the pit,” Carl said. “Over.”
“Any idea what happened?” Maggie asked. “Over.”
“They’ve been shot,” the sheriff said. “So make sure the boys don’t come empty-handed. I’ll look into this further when we get back from the prison. Over.”
“Okay, sheriff,” Maggie said. “Out.”
“All right, let’s load up,” Carl said to the men. “Hopefully they’ll get here before the sun ripens them too much more. I fucking swear, if I find out who did this, I’ll hang the bastards myself.”
“It was probably just someone passing through,” someone said. “We’re going to get a lot of that.” Franklin could hear them getting back into the truck. It heartened him to discover these were not the killers. He briefly considered, but then quickly dismissed, the idea of revealing himself. Popping up with an arsenal next to two dead bodies, he doubted he’d get out three words before they made him as dead as the two he’d found. He would have to be careful from here on out.
Franklin waited until he could no longer hear the truck. From that time on and until he reached the river, Franklin traveled at night and slept during the day. Bypassing towns, he reached the river about ten days after leaving the prison and immediately headed downstream looking for a boat. It wasn’t until the next evening that he stumbled upon a flipped, half-submerged, flat-bottom swamp boat. Righting the boat, he discovered a bloated body just under the water. Dragging the boat upwind, he dried it out as best he could before shoving off using the butt of his rifle as a paddle.
As he made for the center of the Shenandoah, where the current was the fastest and where he figured he’d be safer, it startled him to see, first one and then nearly a dozen bodies floating down the river. One was particularly disturbing. As he sat eating the last of his food, he passed the bloated corpse of a nude young girl, seemingly no more than sixteen. She was wrapped in barbed wire, and the word “WITCH” cut into her forehead.
“Who does shit like that?” Franklin said aloud.
A few days later, trying to sleep but instead thinking of a grilled cheese sandwich, Franklin lay huddled in the bottom of the boat drifting down the river, his upper body covered by a tattered brown plastic tarp as protection against heavy rain that started just after sundown. More than a year had passed since he had experienced his favorite lunch item, and with the world gone, and by extension cheese, he might never taste it again. Surely someone in the world still knew how to make cheese the old-fashioned way. Would he ever run into that person?
Since finding the swamp boat, he usually drifted off quickly as the roll of the water gently rocked him to sleep. Tonight, though, the tarp was amplifying the sound of the pounding rain, making it impossible to rest. It sounded like shotgun blasts going off in his ear. It was the price he paid for not finding proper camping equipment. Since starting out, he had passed several small towns where he could search for food and supplies but avoided them. At first, he was scared people would find out he was an escaped prisoner. Then later, he was worried he would end up like the people in the SUV. Now though, laying there, hungry and unable to sleep, he promised himself come morning, he would find proper gear.
Flinging the tarp aside, Franklin sat up in disgust letting the rain soak him. He decided if he couldn’t sleep, he could at least make better time paddling down the river. As he put the butt of his rifle in the water, he spotted a flash on the inner bank followed by several more in different locations. The sound of retorts quickly followed. Digging into his bag, Franklin pulled out his night vision goggles, untangled the straps and pulled them down over his eyes. Everything was still dark. As he chided himself for forgetting everything he learned in the special forces, he fumbled around for the switch. Even with the goggles now powered up, it required a few moments for his brain and eyes to come to a mutual understanding about what they were looking at. It was as if looking at one of those drawings where there was a hidden picture within a picture. One moment all you saw was the picture you were meant to see, and then suddenly your brain and eyes cooperated, and the secondary picture flared into existence, making you wonder how you ever missed it.
Peering into the night, Franklin spotted a group of two men and five women. Four of the women were dressed in white robes. All were frantically rushing across an open field perpendicular to a large two-story white plantation house. The fifth was dressed in a black and white pantsuit. One man, a boy really, was helping one of the robed women walk, who appeared to have sustained a leg injury. Behind them, three men emerged from the woods, stopped, pointed at the group, and then slowly started after them. If they were trying to catch the group, they seemed in no hurry to do so. Surveying the terrain, Franklin realized why. The field the escaping group was running across was part of a peninsula the Shenandoah River carved out as it snaked through the area. Now that the men were behind them, they might as well have been on an island as there was no escape except back the way they came, and the men were blocking their exit. The river was too broad and swift to cross without a boat safely. Even if they were all Olympic swimmers, Franklin doubted the injured girl would make it more than twenty-five yards.
The boy suddenly stopped and looked around in a panic after realizing their mistake. He turned and gestured to the professional-looking woman taking up the rear and the older man jogging beside her. The group stopped, turned around and started back toward the woods. The pursuing three men took up defensive positions and yelled something. In answer, the professional fired off two shots. The older gentleman beside her did likewise. It sent the three scattering for cover.
If the rest of the group were armed, they stood a chance of fighting their way through, but they would probably lose half their number. The odds changed when nine more men stepped from the woods. The woman and older man switched their targets and were rewarded when two fell. She turned and waved the group back toward the plantation house. As they did, one man knelt and fired off three rounds from a scoped rifle. The older man’s legs stiffened, and he fell grabbing at his back.
The professional fired back, and the gunman went down hard, blood flying from his face. She rushed to her fallen companion. She tried to pull him to her feet, but he pushed her away. She refused to leave and tried again. Again, he pushed her away. When she tried a third time, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Despite the downpour and distance, Franklin could hear her scream. The tallest of the robed women ran to her and tugged at the woman’s arm urging her to follow. She resisted at first but eventually relented. With nowhere else to go, they headed for the plantation house. The boy, while still holding on to the injured girl, kicked in the door. A few moments later, the boy came out the back door followed by the professional who he could see now, was Asian. They spotted a boat covered by a tarp at the side of the house. It looked as if it could carry them all safely down the river. If they acted quickly and pulled the boat into the water, they could escape.
The two worked together and swiftly removed the tarp. Throwing the tarp to the ground, the woman looked inside the boat, and Franklin could see the despair in her posture. The Asian woman grabbed a paddle and beat it against the boat until it shattered. Franklin picked up his rifle and started paddling toward the riverbank with grim determination. It would be precarious, but he could get them in his boat, if only long enough to paddle to the other side.
The rain he was cursing just a few moments ago, now covered the sounds of him paddling back upstream. As he approached the shore, Franklin quietly slipped from the boat and into the icy water. Franklin stifled a cry of shock as the cold water soaked him. He beached the boat, ripped off his wet shoes, and tossed them in the boat. As he slipped into the tall grass, he pulled out and extended the two batons he had picked up from the prison. He smiled. It was time for battle. Damn, he missed this.
From the cover of the tall wet
land grass, he observed that the pursuing group surrounded the house. In the back, where he was hiding, were four men. The two closest to him was less than fifteen feet away, hiding behind two thick trees. The last two men were covering both sides of the house. As Franklin was about to spring on the closest of the two, the man’s radio flared to life.
“Ron,” a deep male voice said. Franklin froze as the other man turned toward Ron.
“Yeah boss,” Ron said.
“Anything?”
“Nothing yet. We tried to get closer, but the bitch shot at us. I don’t fancy getting a bullet in my ass running from her. They can’t stay in that house forever.”
“And just to make sure they can’t, I sent Brian to fetch the gas can from the back of the van. When he gets back, we’ll burn them out. If they run out the back, kill the Chinese bitch.”
“I think she said she was Japanese,” Ron said.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Will do, sir. What about Travis?”
“He threw his lot in with the wrong crowd.”
“But his father?” Ron said, sounding concerned.
“His father will understand. And if he doesn’t, I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Okay, sir. They won’t get by us.”
“Call me if there are any problems,” the boss said.
As soon as Ron finished his conversation, he and his partner went back to watching the house. Franklin burst from concealment with the grace and speed of a cat, and just as silent. He struck Ron as hard as a major-league batter could smack a home run fastball.
Never slowing down, Franklin angled toward the second man and was nearly on him when Ron hit the ground. The second man turned at the noise to see Franklin bearing down on him; baton raised like he was about to cut a branch with a machete. The man froze with shock and dropped his pistol. He recovered just as quickly and started to reach for the second pistol holstered at his side. Fumbling once, he finally grabbed the weapon and pulled it loose.
Franklin shifted his aim and struck the man’s hand before he could bring the gun to bear. Bone snapped, and the gunman dropped the second weapon. Franklin followed with his other baton striking him in the jaw. The gunman spit blood and teeth from the force of the blow and fell to the ground. Franklin had no doubt the man’s jaw was broken as it was protruding at an odd angle.
Franklin stuffed both the guns in his waist belt. Making sure he wasn’t noticed by the last two guards, he quickly made his way back to Ron and stuffed his weapon into the small of his own back. One of the side guards was hiding under a window and looked as if he would try to peek inside. As he lifted his head over the windowsill, a single bullet entered and exited the man’s skull, taking blood and gray matter with it.
“Ron, what’s going on?” the boss asked.
Franklin hesitated and then picked up the radio. Trying to remember what Ron sounded like he said, “Nothing,” raising his voice slightly. “Just them in the house shooting.”
“All right,” the voice said. “Get ready. Brian just got back.”
“We’re ready,” he said and threw down the radio.
There was one guard left. Franklin retraced his steps, trying to work his way around to the other side of the house where he guessed the gunman was hiding. Franklin spotted him hiding next to the boat. When Franklin was close enough, he sprang and ran into the gunman forcing the man’s head and body hard against the boat. Franklin staggered backward stunned, feeling as if he had just run into a brick wall. Recovering, he looked to see the man on the ground, his head tilted at an odd angle. Shaking his head, trying to clear the stars in his eyes, Franklin carefully made his way to the porch. Since he didn’t want to end up like the peeping Tom, he crawled over the railing and under the window.
As Franklin came up next to the door, he heard a female voice say in a strange accent, “I didn’t find anything.”
“I didn’t either,” the boy said.
“We can’t hold them off with just one gun,” a young female said.
“Hello,” Franklin said slightly above a whisper. When there was no answer, he tried again louder. “Hello in there.” Two shots shattered the backdoor’s window. He turned his head and shielded his eyes. He had their attention. He heard the magazine hit the floor and another slide home. “Stop wasting ammo. I’m not with them. I’m here to help.”
“Maybe—”
“Shh,” someone said harshly.
“I can prove it,” Franklin said. “Listen, don’t panic, but I’m going to break the rest of the window and throw in some guns.” Making sure not to expose any part of his body, he used a baton to clear the broken glass from the frame and checked to make sure the guns were on safety. “Here.” He threw in the guns and then pulled a flash-bang.
“Guns,” the accented female said in an excited voice. Franklin waited as the group made sure the weapons weren’t toys or empty. Someone even fired off a shot.
“You in the house,” a male voice yelled from the front. “It’s time to come out, or we will burn you out.”
“Fuck you,” someone yelled in answer and then followed up with three quick shots.
“We don’t have much time,” Franklin said.
“Show yourself,” someone that sounded as if they were used to giving orders said. Franklin hesitated. “I said, show yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just nervous. I saw what you did to the peeping Tom.” He put a hand in front of the window. “Here . . . Here’s one of my hands. Here’s the other. Okay, now I’m going to slowly show you my face.” Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes as if the act would make his death more bearable, which was a lot like watching a horror movie through your fingers, he moved to stand in front of the door. When a bullet didn’t pierce his brain, he opened one eye and then the other to see a dismal-looking lot. All were battered and bloodied. The two most striking of the group were the professionally dressed Asian woman and a blond fair-skinned woman that easily towered over everyone in the room. Another woman was sitting on the couch, holding her hand over a bleeding wound in her leg.
“What’s that in your hand,” the Asian woman asked.
“A flash grenade,” Franklin said. He forgot he held it.
“What were you going to do with that?” she asked.
“If you didn’t believe me, I was going to use it and rescue you against your will,” Franklin said, knowing how absurd that sounded.
“I know how to counter the effects,” she said.
“Well, then, it’s a good thing you believed me,” Franklin said.
“I didn’t say that,” she said.
“I’m not dead, so I’ll call it a good start.”
The tall blond woman lay her hand gently on the leader’s hand and lowered her weapon. “It’s okay Paris,” she said. “I think we can trust him.”
“Fine,” Paris said. There was a flash of anger in her eyes that quickly subsided. “What’s the plan?”
“We run to the river, get on my boat and leave,” Franklin said matter-of-factly. “I know it’s not much of a plan, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice. Next time, give me notice, and I’ll concoct a rescue involving hairspray, a slingshot, and water balloons.”
“I can’t swim,” the injured girl said.
“The boat doesn’t have a hole in it, so you won’t be swimming, hon,” Franklin said.
“I can’t run either,” the injured girl said.
“Gunilla,” Paris said to the tall woman with the foreign accent. “You keep the group together.” Paris turned toward Franklin as if waiting for something. “What’s your name?”
“Franklin.”
“Franklin will lead you to the boat, and I’ll follow,” Paris said.
“Listen,” he said to Gunilla when everyone gathered on the porch. “See that tree. My boat is past it at the river.”
“Where are you going?” Paris hissed.
“To the boat at the side of the house.”
“I’m going with you,” Paris said.
“Fine,” Franklin said. “Gunilla, one of the men is near that tree. He should still be unconscious, but just in case, be on your guard.”
“I’ll be ready,” Gunilla said, hefting her newly acquired weapon. Paris reached over, took the weapon, released the safety, and then handed it back.
“Thank you,” Gunilla said. “That would have been embarrassing if I pulled the trigger and the man didn’t die.”
Paris smirked.
Franklin and Paris made their way to the speedboat. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Gunilla’s group was just past the tree. He looked inside the tall motorized fishing boat. There was a fist-sized hole in the bottom. However, that wasn’t why he’d come.
“Oh, yes,” he said, lifting the second, unbroken, paddle. He handed the paddle to Paris. “Hold this.” Pulling his gun, he fired four shots into the engine. Paris gave him a look. “All they’d need to do is nail a board over the hole. It wouldn’t even have to be a large board.” When she said nothing, he felt like she was judging him, and he could feel himself becoming slightly irritated. “I like being safe. I don’t have an engine on my boat, so I’ve had to Tom Sawyer it down the river. If they get that in the water, even if they hold a bucket over the hole, they could run us down fairly quickly.” They heard someone shouting from the front of the house. “We better get going.” Franklin and Paris ran for the river. Paris stopped after spotting the unconscious form of Ron on the ground. She turned him over and checked for a pulse. Finding him still alive, she pulled her pistol and unloaded three shots into his chest before Franklin could stop her.
“What the hell?” he hissed. “You had no right to—”
“I had every right,” she said with enough heat in her voice to lead Franklin to believe she wanted to bring Ron back to life just so she could shoot him again. “With the world dead, that’s the only justice coming to these bastards. But once Gunilla and these girls are safe, I’ll be coming back. There will be no trial. That, I can promise you.” Franklin could see a tear in her eye and let it go.