Before long he realized where he was. The burial spot. It looked different in foggy darkness, but sure enough, there were towering pines all around. MacReady’s fresh grave was now snow-covered. Beyond were the graves of long-gone Traders—bodies he’d soon be joining if he didn’t get this situation under control.
More shots boomed. As he closed the distance, Karl clutched his gun, certain he’d have to use it.
Sidestepping between two pines, he stabbed his flashlight beam into the darkness, highlighting another footprint trail. He followed, gathering speed, until the prints tapered off. This makes no sense. The creek’s leading me toward the gunshots. If the footprints veer in a different direction, that means—
He’d almost finished the thought when something barreled into his side.
The impact knocked him off his feet and dropped him hard onto his shoulder. When he sat up, something slammed into his throat like a runaway truck. His whole head went numb before it struck the snow.
Above him, through the fog, he recognized Candace. Saw three of her. Her eyes were narrowed with rage. She dropped onto him, a knee slamming his stomach. It knocked the wind from his lungs, leaving him gasping, woozy, and weak. She confiscated his gun with ease. Next thing he knew, he was reliving the warehouse nightmare all over again. Except instead of having a gun jammed against his knee, it was against his forehead.
“Do exactly what I say, Karl.”
He rubbed his tender throat. “Just like always, huh?”
“You know the drill.”
“Had enough of the drill.”
“Good,” she said, voice edgy. “You won’t have to deal with it much longer.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Snare is holding Mickey hostage in his own body. That’s the matter. Only way I’m getting him back is if I help Snare get her parts back.”
“You believe her? Snare has done nothing but lie.”
“I don’t care. This is Mickey we’re talking about.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Truth or lie, it doesn’t matter. I already killed MacReady for Mickey’s sake. A few more Traders won’t weigh much heavier on my conscience.”
“No. No more. This ends here.”
“For you, it does, yes.”
She pressed the gun down harder. His skull ached.
“Candace, wait,” he said, panting. “You’re a smart lady. Think for a sec. You just said Snare wants her parts back, right? Only way she’ll collect them all is if she gets yours, too. Did you think of that?”
“My life for Mickey’s is a fair exchange.”
“What about Mick’s brain? Snare’s gonna take it back. You have to figure that much.”
The pressure eased from his forehead. “Snare said he’s a special vessel—that he can be spared, just like us Traders were spared from that fog disease.”
“Candy, it’s a lie.” Karl swallowed. “You’re too smart for this. The rest of us trusted Snare and look where it got us.”
“I warned you!” She reapplied pressure to his forehead. “Had you listened, this town wouldn’t be stuffed with corpses. I tried to protect everyone!”
“You’re wrong.” He pushed his head defiantly against the gun. “Truth is, you’re the one who put us in this position—forced us into it. You never saw the Traders as people. At best you saw people like John MacReady as livestock—critters you could order around day after day until you needed to slaughter them for parts. With you using us like that, it’s no wonder we accepted Snare’s gamble. At least with Snare, we had hope. Ugly as it turned out, I don’t regret the choice we made.”
“Here’s two choices for you, Karl.”
He watched her finger brush the trigger guard.
“I can shoot you, or you can drink this.” She pulled a plastic bottle from her pocket. Water swished inside. “You’ll lose your parts, but maybe you’ll survive. It’s win-win for both of us. Believe me, I’d rather not shoot you.”
Karl knew better. She was afraid to shoot him. Not because she cared but because damaging his traded skin wouldn’t score her any points with Snare. That might work to my advantage, he thought. To get Candace’s guard down, he needed to convince her that a bullet scared him more than the liquid sloshing around that bottle.
“Please put that gun away.”
“No can do,” she said. “Not until you drink this.
“Fine, I’ll drink it,” he muttered.
“Smart move, Karl.” She extended the bottle out to him. “Who knows, maybe losing your skin won’t kill you. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe I will.”
He swatted the gun away from his forehead and launched forward, shoving her onto her back. They both struggled to their knees. She swung the gun at his head, but he dodged, the barrel barely missing his nose. Before she could counter, Karl slammed his forearm against her wrist. With a sharp snap, the weapon flew free, clattering against a nearby tree root.
In the distance, several shots barked.
Karl’s palm met her cheek with a loud clap. It knocked her sideways, and he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking hard before slamming her face into the snow.
He turned, desperately searching for the gun. It was the only way he could stop both Candace and Snare. He grabbed his flashlight off the ground and shined it widely. The light illuminated the gun in a hollow of shallow snow beside the creek. Karl grunted to his knees and hurried toward it. Candace rose to her feet and rushed after him.
More shots thundered in the distance.
He snagged the gun by the barrel with an oomph and spun toward Candace. As he lifted the weapon, her shoulder smashed his chest. She tackled him with both arms, propelling him backward, down onto his rump. Their momentum drove the back of his head into the slushy bank. He heard the creek flush by, closer than he expected.
His arm pinned underneath her, he tried pointing the barrel into her chest. She flinched, but only momentarily. Her elbow hammered his sternum, knocking the wind from his lungs. His fingers went soft, and she ripped the gun from his grasp, stuffing it in her pocket. He made a grab for it, but her knuckles collided with his cheek, dropping him flat.
Candace then climbed off him. When he sat up, both her palms crashed into his chest. He was driven further back. This time his head slapped the water with an icy shock. It swallowed his face and he rose in a hurry.
That was when Candace dropped onto his thighs, straddling him—their old familiar bedroom position. Except this time, he felt no heat, no passion; only cold loveless fear. With her weight pinning him down, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t escape. And before he could fight back, her hands took his throat and dunked his head under.
81
Shots kept roaring. Every time Ash peeked around the tree trunk, gunfire forced her back. Mick, a pistol in hand, had a seemingly endless ammo supply and the cover of two thick, sturdy tree trunks, which he kept bouncing between. Ash, by comparison, was dangerously low on ammo, and she had a freezing, freaked-out eight-year-old clinging to her.
“I’m so cold,” Jake moaned. “It really, really hurts.”
“I know, tough guy, I know.”
To best protect him, she sandwiched him between her chest and the bark. Not only did it shield him from bullets, it took some strain off her back. She badly wanted to set him down, but knew if she did, he’d shiver away and become a target.
When things suddenly went quiet, she peered around the bark. A fallen flashlight—probably Berke’s—cast a white glow around Mick’s exposed foot and the tree root beneath it. Despite the bullet she’d put in Trent’s leg, Mick stood upright, apparently no longer fazed by the pain that had thrown him off the ledge. He slowly extended his leg, further exposing himself, daring her to shoot.
Not that she could. After returning fire earlier, she had only one round left. And factoring in her shitty aim, she essentially had zero.
Jake squirmed, pushing his head against her shoulder. A tiny hand crept around her side and scratched weakly at her b
ack. He murmured something.
“What, Jake?”
“Am I gonna d-die?”
“Hell no,” she said, hoping she wasn’t lying. “You’ll survive. Hang in there.”
Two more shots crackled. A bullet ripped the bark by her thigh. She jumped back and had to resecure Jake against the tree.
Could they survive this attack? Before long they’d be forced out of their hiding spot. She needed to act. If she couldn’t fire a miracle shot, she’d have to wreck her hand. But if she stabbed herself, she’d have a hell of a time carrying Jake back. Plus, ruining her hand wouldn’t necessarily stop Mick for long.
She poked her gun out.
Took aim.
Snowfall plummeted, whiting out her view. She pressed her shaky forearm against the bark to steady her hand. She lined up the barrel with the edge of Mick’s hiding tree, waiting for him to pop out. She could barely see the toe of his shoe. She needed a larger target than that.
Wind thrust against her eyes. She fought the urge to blink.
His leg slid out further, exposing up to his knee. If she landed a lucky shot, he would collapse and give her an opportunity to run ahead with her knife. One firm stab through his eye socket could end this. If for some reason it didn’t, she would grab his gun and blast his brains out. She had options, but first she needed to get him on the ground.
Her arm trembled. Her nerves tingled. She lined up the shot and prepared to fire. Then a silhouette appeared behind Mick. She hoped it was her father, but the shape wasn’t limping. It was probably Candace.
Great. Now I have two lunatics and only one bullet.
Then another silhouette appeared behind the first. She noticed something about the shadowy shapes. Both figures carried something long and pointed.
Shovels.
“Get him!” Ash yelled. “Get him!”
The first silhouette lifted a shovel and chopped it down from overhead like an ax. When the spade crashed down on Mick’s shoulder, he dropped one of his guns. Another blow pounded his side and sent him staggering out from behind the tree.
The attackers stepped into the light.
Father McKagan and Gina Narducci.
“Go for the head!” Ash yelled. “His head!”
Instead Narducci swung low. The strike left Mick visibly wobbling on one leg, and another blow from the priest dropped Mick to a knee.
Ash yelled again for a headshot.
The priest heard her and swung high.
But Mick caught the shovel handle. The men struggled, and Narducci wound up for another swing. Before her blow could connect, Mick pulled the shovel free, spun around, and jabbed its pointed tip through her neck. He released the handle, and she collapsed in blood-soaked snow.
“No!” Ash lifted her gun. “Father, move so I can shoot!”
The old priest never got the chance. Mick tackled him, and the two men left their feet, crashing into the creek, where they both went under.
Ash hurried over, Jake hugging her neck. She set him down beside a tree and quickly stretched her lower back. She then turned to the splashing waters, clutching her gun in both hands. At this range, even she couldn’t miss.
The dim moonlight shone on the limbs thrashing beneath the surface. A shoe poked through. Then a hand. Then Mick’s head.
She fired her last shot.
A splash kicked up. Mick sank under.
Excitement filled her chest. She knew she’d hit something. The head—I think it was the head! While waiting for them to surface, she searched nearby for Mick’s gun and grabbed it out of the snow. She stood over the bank, gun aimed at the water.
Finally a body surfaced. Father McKagan. She hopped in celebration, but her enthusiasm faded when she realized he was floating face down. Around his head, the water was black with blood.
Over by the tree, Jake moaned.
“Hang on, tough guy,” she said. “Need another minute.”
Heart pounding, she searched for any changes in the surface flow. The priest was dead, but any second now she’d make sure Snare joined him.
Long, agonizing moments passed. The creek pushed the priest toward the waterfall. Mick hadn’t surfaced, but he couldn’t hold his breath forever. Even if he were possessed by a water demon, he still had lungs and a brain that needed air.
Then a splash bubbled twenty feet up the creek.
Beyond the snow and fog, Mick pushed his head above the surface, gasped for air, and crawled out onto the slushy bank. He looked once in her direction before he turned his back and ran.
82
Trent lifted his head from the bloodstained snow. He heard Jake crying, or thought he did. Real or imagined, his son’s voice was reason enough to push himself up. As he did, wildfire flamed throughout his leg—an unfamiliar agony after ten years of suffocating discomfort. He twisted onto his back and lay there, seething, his teeth clenched.
The worst of the heat passed. He turned his head. When he looked past Berke—dead, murdered Berke—he saw two figures running upstream. The lead runner veered into the woods and the other pursued. The pursuer’s dreadlocks bounced behind her.
Ash. And maybe Trent imagined it, but she was carrying someone.
A boy. Jake. Has to be Jake.
His son was alive.
Trent’s relief dulled the raging thunder in his leg. But when he tried to rise to his feet, he dropped down again, screaming.
So much for playing catch-up. Still, he couldn’t just lie there. He had to reach Jake. Then he would keep the promise he’d made earlier. He would be with his son every step of the way. No exceptions. Otherwise, all the lives he’d sacrificed would be wasted. Rosita, Lauren, Berke—he cringed at the thought of what he’d done to them. Groaned at the thought of Jake joining them.
He sat up. Pain yo-yoed through his leg, a not-so-friendly reminder that he wouldn’t be navigating the woods on foot. In that case I’ll crawl.
When he rolled onto his chest, something crinkled in his pocket. The plastic bottle. The one Mick told him to drink from once the final parts were reclaimed. If he drank it, he’d lose his leg.
Right now that wasn’t the shittiest idea.
Karl thrashed for his life. Every time his nose broke the surface, he sucked air before Candace stuffed him back under. The water swallowed him with an icy gulp, digesting him in its cold, merciless juices, soaking his skull, numbing his brain. All he could think about was breathing and how he was failing at that usually mundane act. His lungs burned, the few breaths he did claim stifled by her grip around his throat.
It became harder to fight back. With Candace straddling his hips, he couldn’t shake free. His frantic hands tried shoving her off, but her weight held firm as his arms grew weaker. He tried launching forward and whipping his body sideways, but she met his every move with greater strength. He couldn’t escape the waters along the creek’s edge.
Which left him with one choice.
Instead of pushing his face toward the surface, he flung his head backward. It caught her off guard, and she flinched as her arms sank deeper into icy water. The grip around his throat loosened, and he jerked his neck free of her grip. Rather than savoring the relief, he punched his forehead through the surface.
Cold air burned his drenched scalp. Before Candace could reclaim his throat, he reached for the slushy mud and yanked himself forward onto solid ground. As he gasped for air, she jammed something between his lips.
The water bottle.
Grimy liquid splattered his tongue, tickling the back of his throat. He twisted his head, desperate to spit, but she gripped his cheek, her thumb burrowing into his eye socket with unsavory pressure.
More liquid flushed into his mouth. He spat, and water dribbled from the corners of his lips. Before he could force more out, Candace dropped a knee onto his gut. Air whooshed from his lungs, and then he gasped, sucking down the cold, awful slime. It poured into his stomach, coiling like a swallowed serpent.
“We’re done here.” She slammed her forear
m across his neck. Her weight shifted, and he was pinned again. He noticed the pistol grip jutting from her coat pocket, just out of reach. “Shame it had to be like this, Karl. We had quite an arrangement, you and I.”
Her words struck deep inside him.
For thirty-two years he’d played lapdog to this rotten woman. Cover-ups, burials, bad decisions—he always went along. He’d been afraid not to. Whether she was his leader or his lover, he obeyed. It was survival instinct. He’d been running for his life ever since he’d lost his knees. She could protect him—and she had—but only when he played his part. If that meant lying to the group, good enough. If that meant endangering those he needed to protect, good enough. If that meant leaving John MacReady to die, good enough.
All those sacrifices. All those years. And now his loyalty was being rewarded with a stomach full of death.
Enough is enough.
He clenched his right fist and flung it at her scowling face above him. His knuckle struck curved bone, the edge of her eye socket. The hit felt solid.
He threw another punch. Pressure vanished from his neck, then his chest as she rolled off him.
He sat up, but her fist smashed his nose. Pain cracked across his cheeks. He raised his arms to guard his face, but she knocked them away and drilled her knuckles into his forehead.
His vision vibrated.
Deep inside him the creek water swirled. He didn’t have much time. This is it.
“Stop this!” he said. “You’re hurting Mick!”
“Hurting him?” she said, cocking her fist for another blow. “How?”
“He feels pain when his parts are hurt.”
“I’m well aware.”
“You knew?”
“Snare told me.”
“Then why you hitting me? You think Mick likes getting his skin pounded on?”
Candace hesitated, giving Karl an opening. He lunged for her jacket pocket and caught the pistol by the grip. The moment he yanked it free, she clutched his forearm.
Bad Parts Page 28