by Tom Abrahams
He fired back. Even though he couldn’t clearly see them, there was enough there for him to find center mass on one and the arm of the other.
The injured one cried out in pain and staggered from behind the bookshelf enough for Marcus to plunk him in the chest. Marcus fired again. The weapon’s bolt locked back. His gun was empty. The man stumbled backward and collapsed, his head slapping against the side of the bookshelf with a crack, and he dropped to the floor.
The building was dimly lit. Shades of gray dominated the interior despite the rising sun outside. At this spot, Marcus was exposed. He couldn’t see beyond the first row of bookshelves. But whoever was on the first floor looking toward the landing could see his legs. They could disable him with a quick shot and he’d be done. Marcus backed up toward the corner of the landing. This way he could see anyone approaching the stairwell before they’d see him. It was a good spot. He quickly drew another magazine from his pack and saw the wide tear in the canvas bag. It had taken a shot. Marcus shook his head. If it weren’t for luck, he’d have died a thousand times.
He scanned the area in front of him, focused, determined. Nobody came. He checked the bodies in front of him. There were nine bodies. Nine. That was all. He replaced the magazine in the rifle and hit the bolt release lever. The gun slammed a new round in the chamber.
Where were the others? He’d counted two dozen. Two dozen and only nine dead? That left another fifteen men. Marcus wasn’t great at math, but he knew enough to understand something was wrong.
He started to turn back toward the second flight when he heard a commotion directly above him and Lou screamed.
CHAPTER 15
APRIL 21, 2054, 6:58 AM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
TYLER, TEXAS
Lou was about to follow Marcus to the first floor when she heard a bang to her right. She’d moved between her husband and the second-floor landing when what sounded like an explosion forced her to stop. It took her a moment in the dim light of the second floor to realize what she was seeing. A man was flying through one of the windows at the landing to the third flight of stairs. His feet filled the space first and he landed awkwardly inches from Dallas.
Then a second, third, and fourth man bounded through the window, barreling onto the second floor. It was like something out of a fantastic novel, pure fiction. Like monkeys flying through the air and dive-bombing travelers at the behest of a wicked witch, one after the other descended upon them. More men were running down the stairs now from the third floor.
Lou screamed for Dallas to move. She lifted her rifle and aimed it toward the dark figures filling the space. Her finger found the trigger and she pulled. Once. Twice. Three times. She hit a pair of them before they set their feet and steadied themselves.
Dallas was knocked to the ground. A man was on top of him, pinning him to the floor. A second kicked his rifle clear of his grasp.
Lou shifted her aim and fired. She hit the one who’d kicked the rifle, and he toppled back when a second round found his gut. He tripped over Dallas and the tribesman on top of him. The three of them were a heap on the floor. More men advanced.
There were six or seven of them now. Lou took aim. She hit two of them. Four kept coming. Dallas was still on the floor. She couldn’t get to him, and she couldn’t take a shot or she’d risk hitting him.
One of the men at the landing raised his shotgun. Lou didn’t see him quickly enough. He had her in his sights before she could take the first shot.
In that split second, Lou saw a lifetime flash before her. A flicker of images, one after the other, filled her field of view. She tried sucking in a breath but couldn’t. She realized she hadn’t yet named her newborn. She would never know the child’s name.
A loud pop sounded and Lou brought her hand to her chest. She gripped the damp fabric in one hand, the rifle falling to her side. She was light-headed.
Then something strange happened. The one with the shotgun stared blankly at her and dropped, a red stain spreading across his shirt.
“Get back!” Marcus shouted, taking aim at the horde. One after the other he took them down.
Stunned, Lou took a step back before getting her wits about her and lunging forward. She crashed on top of the one holding down her husband, pounding at the back of his head with her fists. He was stronger than her and elbowed her off him. Lou regained her balance and reached for her boot. Pulling free the smallest of her knives, she brought it up and jammed it straight down into the back of his neck.
He immediately went limp. His body shuddered, twitching oddly, before all movement ceased.
Above her, around her, Marcus fought. The sound of gunfire was relentless.
Lou shoved the body off her husband. Dallas was unconscious. His neck was bruised, his mouth hanging open. The gunfire stopped abruptly.
Lou knelt beside Dallas and placed her head to his chest. Then she put her cheek next to his nose and mouth. “He’s breathing,” she said. “He has a pulse.”
The floor around her was littered with dead men. A half dozen of them were splayed out, their limbs and necks at awkward angles. They’d come from the roof, from the third floor.
The third floor.
“Marcus,” she said, “the children. Andrea.” Her vision blurred; her eyes flooded with tears. They rolled down her cheeks. “The children,” she repeated.
Marcus’s expression tightened. He dropped to one knee, put the rifle on the ground, and shrugged his pack from his shoulder. With his right hand he fished out a fresh magazine. “Last mag,” he said, and with one hand he swapped out the magazines. “I’ll be back. They’ll be fine. You worry about Dallas.”
Lou suppressed a sob. Throbs of pain swelled from low in her gut. She focused her attention on her husband, not sure what she could do for him.
When she heard the voice behind her, Lou thought it was Marcus at first. But the voice didn’t sound like his. It was higher pitched and thick with a Southern twang. And what the voice said didn’t make any sense.
“Put down the gun,” said the rail-thin, stringy-haired man at the landing that led to the third flight of stairs. He was staring at Marcus with his near-set beady eyes. There was a rose red tattoo on the back of his hand.
“I ain’t gonna say it a third time,” he warned. “Next thing you’ll hear is a gunshot and your head explodin’.”
CHAPTER 16
APRIL 21, 2054, 7:06 AM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
TYLER, TEXAS
Marcus didn’t like people telling him what to do. He especially wasn’t fond of threats that came at the end of a gun barrel. He stole a quick glance at Lou before settling his gaze back on the tribesman who had him in his sights. The tribesman, despite his bravado, looked young to Marcus. He couldn’t be more than twenty and was definitely a greenhorn.
The gun trembled in his hand. His eyes, though close set and dark, were framed with apprehension. The kid was more afraid of Marcus than Marcus was of him.
Had Marcus been able to use both hands, he likely would have managed to get off a shot before the punk could do anything about it. If the young tribesman had returned fire, there was a good chance the shot would have missed.
Unfortunately, though, a previous shot hadn’t missed. The skin between his left thumb and forefinger was shredded. That part of his hand was called the purlicue. Marcus knew this because Lou had long ago schooled him on odd anatomical terminology she’d picked up from books. Although he’d forgotten most of the words, purlicue stuck. It sounded like curlicue to Marcus.
He was losing blood, not having had time to do anything about the wound, and he wasn’t about to hassle Lou over a flesh wound. The injury throbbed. Cold sweat formed at his forehead, behind his ears, and on the back of his neck. He guessed the young gun across from him figured the perspiration was because of him.
“I’ll put down the gun,” said Marcus, “but I’m gonna need some answers first.”
“You’re not in any shape
to make demands,” said the punk. He stressed the first syllable of the word demand with a long e.
Marcus held up his blood-soaked left hand. Lou gasped. Marcus forced a smile at her and then turned his attention back to the tribesman. “You’re right,” he said, his voice calm and even. “I’m not in any shape. I can’t use my left hand. So there’s no way I can shoot you with my right before you’d empty that Sig Sauer into my chest. I’d be Swiss cheese before I take aim.”
The punk’s eyes focused on the wounded hand, his brow twitching. He glanced up the stairs, where Marcus couldn’t see, at Lou, and then back to his target. His hand still trembled. “You need to drop that weapon,” said the kid. “I—”
“I will,” Marcus said, turning his bloody hand back and forth. “I’m a man of my word. But you need to stay calm and answer a couple of questions. You help me; I help you.”
Thick beads of sweat bloomed on the punk’s face. He licked his lips and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Go ahead, ask. But if I see one false move, you try anything, I’m gonna shoot you and your woman here.”
Marcus didn’t bother correcting him. “Are you alone?”
The man hesitated then shook his head. His eyes again darted up the flight of stairs.
“How many?”
The punk frowned. “I ain’t answering that.”
“Are the kids—”
An impatient shout from upstairs boomed. “What’s goin’ on down there, Reaper? Is it clear?”
A smile twitched on Marcus’s face, but he frowned to mask it. The pain in his hand pulsed with every heartbeat. “Reaper?” he said with as much sincerity as he could muster.
“Hold yer horses,” Reaper called upstairs. “I’m clearin’ it.” Then he addressed Marcus. “You got two more questions. That’s it.”
“Are the children okay?”
“Fer now.”
“And the woman? Her name is Andrea. The children’s names are—”
Something flashed at the corner of Marcus’s vision, zipping into view, and the man’s eyes went wide. The gun fell to the floor. He grabbed at his throat, at the knife sticking out of it to one side. He wobbled, gargled, and collapsed.
Marcus found Lou still huddled over her husband. Her attention turned from the dead punk to Marcus. “Dallas keeps a knife in his boot,” she said, “and I was tired of the conversation.”
Marcus lifted his left hand and tried putting his index finger close to his lips. He took a couple of quick steps to Lou and crouched, the rifle still in his right hand. “I don’t know how many men are up there. I’m guessing three or four.”
Lou looked past him and up at the ceiling, as if she could see through it. Dallas coughed and his hand went to his throat. His eyes fluttered open and he tried moving.
Lou touched his forehead and leaned in. “You’re okay,” she said. “You’re going to be okay. But I need to go. Can you wait here?”
Another cough. When he tried speaking, what came out sounded like a raspy squeak.
“Shhh,” said Lou. “You’re okay. Just lie here for a minute. I need to check on something. Just stay here on the floor.”
Dallas reached for her, gripping her wrist, and shook his head. The terror in his eyes told Marcus the man still didn’t understand what was happening.
Lou looked over at Marcus for help, her expression somewhere between fear and desperation.
“We’ll be right back, Dallas,” Marcus said. “It’s almost over.”
Before he could protest, an impatient voice called from upstairs, “Reaper? We’ve got to do this.”
Lou moved to the dead punk and pulled the knife from his neck. She didn’t bother wiping the blade. Turning to Marcus, who stood next to her now, she looked down at his hand. “Can you use that thing?” she asked, tucking the bloody knife into the small of her back and picking up the semiautomatic pistol.
“My hand or the rifle?” Marcus asked as they both took the first step toward the third floor. The landing above them was empty.
“Either,” she said. “Both.”
“I think so.”
He lifted the rifle and held his forearm out in front of him, parallel with the floor. With his right hand he adjusted his grip on the trigger and tucked the butt as tight as he could against his shoulder.
Lou held the pistol with both hands, her elbows bent. She leaned forward into each step as she climbed. Marcus stepped past her, taking the lead.
Unlike the first two floors, there was no open railing, no balustrade on one side that gave someone a view onto the steps as someone walked by them. It was a solid wall on both sides of the steps.
They were a few steps from the landing when a shape emerged. The end of his shotgun appeared before he did. “Reaper, you are gonna—”
Lou aimed. Two quick shots found their target. Still, he managed a single blast, which tore into the wall next to Lou. She shrieked and grunted as the enemy fell forward and tumbled headfirst down the stairs between her and Marcus.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Let’s do this,” he said.
They bounded up the final steps and onto the landing. Marcus spun to his left and scanned the open hallway. Lou was at his shoulder, behind him, mimicking the sweeping motion.
It was empty. Together they moved forward, taking long strides. Marcus’s vision wavered. Breathing was becoming more difficult. His movements felt stilted, off-balance. He was still bleeding.
Puffing air through his cheeks, he advanced, sweeping past the open door of the computer lab and one of the offices. They were getting closer to the end of the hall.
Lou was to his right. She moved gracefully, especially considering she’d given birth since she’d last had a good night’s sleep or a hot meal or a shower. She was a singular woman. He was proud of her.
Had he told her that? He had. Hadn’t he? Or had he just told her that her father would have been proud of her? His memory was fuzzy on the subject. The edges were soft on a lot of memories now. Faces were blurry shapes, features only rough caricatures of what they’d been.
He couldn’t remember Sylvia’s face anymore. Lola’s neither. Had Wes’s eyes been brown? Green? Or was Sawyer the one with green eyes? Penny?
Marcus wobbled. His shoulder bumped against the wall and he teetered forward. Lou caught his right elbow and steadied him. He nodded at her, blinked his vision back into focus, and pushed toward the door at the end of the hall.
“They’ve got to be in there,” Marcus said under his breath. “I’ll go first.”
Lou started to argue. “They’re my kids. I—”
Marcus bolted to the door, covering the last few feet in an instant. He burst through with all of his might, and the wooden door banged off its hinges. Splinters of wood exploded around him, and the door slammed against the wall behind it.
Marcus leveled his rifle. Lou had her finger on the trigger. Both of them were ready to kill. The room was empty.
They swept in circles, confused. The window at the far corner of the room was open. Outside, the familiar crack of gunfire punctured the silence three times in quick succession. Then another volley of rapid fire echoed from the street below.
Lou beat Marcus to the window. Her gasp worried him. In the orange light of early morning, he saw Andrea holding the two babies. They were in the back of the truck Marcus had seen reflected in the tinted glass. David and Javier were next to her. All of them appeared okay.
Bodies surrounded the truck, lying still where they fell. A man stood at the tailgate, a rifle in his hands.
“Hey!” yelled Lou. “What are you doing with my kids?”
Swinging quickly, he lifted the rifle toward her. She raised her hands over her head then tossed the gun out the window. It bounced off a fire escape and slapped the ground three stories below.
He lowered the rifle, but kept his finger close to the trigger. He motioned to the truck bed. “These are your kids?”
“Two of t
hem,” Lou said. “The other two are hers. She’s Andrea.”
“We’ve met. I’m your new conductor. You’d better hurry. We’d best get a move on before reinforcements show up. La Rosa won’t take kindly to your lack of hospitality.”
CHAPTER 17
APRIL 21, 2054, 8:20 AM
SCOURGE +21 YEARS, 7 MONTHS
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Rickshaw stood outside the cell. The lead from his West Virginia team was next to him. The soldier’s heavy lids struggled to stay open even as he stood there. He startled when Rickshaw slapped him on the shoulder.
“Good work,” he said to the soldier. “You made excellent time.”
“Thank you, Captain. Do you need anything else?”
Rickshaw looked through the door at the ragged man chained to the stainless-steel table in the middle of the cell and shook his head. “No, I can take it from here. Get some rest. You look like hell.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
In his mind, Rickshaw replayed the message he’d received just before leaving his office to come to the cell. It was from a superior, reminding him of his failures, failing to recognize his successes, and warning him he was running out of time.
“If you can’t find the Harbor,” it had said, “we’ll get someone else who can. And if you can’t put a stop to the fugitives who break our laws and then find refuge outside our sphere of influence, we’ll get someone else who can.”
Rickshaw had replied to the message, “Understood.”
That was the only thing he could say. His superiors had long proven they were immune, if not allergic to, excuses. He’d learned from them the value of constant pressure, how the threat of painful consequences was more effective than the application of them. He knew that if he didn’t accomplish the task they’d assigned, and do it on his own without their assistance, he’d be out of a job or worse. Pop Guard captains didn’t grow old if they were ex-captains.