Maelstrom

by Susanna Strom

  “The phones and the internet are down.” Hannah set down her fork. I shot her a warning look. Despite her serene facade, I was beginning to suspect that all might not be well with our hostess. Hannah ignored me. “When’s the last time you talked to Peter?”

  Mimi waved her hand, dismissing the question. She leaned forward and her voice took on a confidential tone, as if she were sharing a secret with her best friends. “It’s our anniversary next week. We always spend our anniversary together. I know he’ll be here soon.”

  “Where are George and Lillian?” Hannah persisted.

  Mimi thumped her wine glass on the table. The ruby liquid sloshed over the side.

  “That’s enough,” she snapped. She closed her eyes and held her breath, visibly composing herself.

  “Hannah and I need to check on Hector and see if he needs more water.” I leaped to my feet and gestured for Hannah to do the same. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  I took Hannah’s hand and pulled her toward the french doors that led to an expansive patio. Hector had spotted us through the glass and was pacing back and forth, clearly agitated.

  “Bitch be crazy,” Hannah whispered once we were outside.

  “Yeah. I’m starting to think so. If George and Lillian are taking care of the place, how come the flower beds are a mess and there are dust bunnies and cobwebs everywhere?”

  “And why is she dishing up food for a husband who isn’t here and who probably died from the flu?”

  Hector stood at the edge of the patio, whining and pawing at a blue tarp covering a section of ground.

  “What is it, boy?” I lifted the tarp. The soil underneath had been disturbed. A dirty shovel leaned against the wall. A white artist’s canvas lay flat on the ground, the names George and Lillian scrawled across it in red paint.

  A painter’s twist on the classic grave marker?

  “Shit. George and Lillian must have died from the flu,” Hannah whispered.

  “Poor George and Lillian.” Mimi stepped onto the patio. She’d refilled her glass of wine and raised it in a silent toast to her dead servants. “Such a tragedy. It’s sad to lose good staff, and I’m afraid that the place is too much for me to manage on my own.”

  “We’re out of here.” Hannah stomped toward the house, then wavered, resting one hand on the patio table.

  “Oh, no, dear. You won’t be going anywhere.” Mimi placed her wine glass on the table and took Hannah’s elbow to steady the girl.

  “Led go of ur.” That wasn’t right. What was wrong with my tongue? I swallowed, saliva flooding my mouth. “Let...go...of...her.” It took a supreme effort to get the words out. I stumbled forward and batted at the hand Mimi had wrapped around Hannah’s arm.

  “You’re both feeling it now, aren’t you? The pills I crushed into your strawberry lemonade?”

  “Bitch,” Hannah murmured. She tried to wrench her arm from Mimi’s grasp, but succeeded only in losing her balance and falling down onto the concrete patio, her legs akimbo.

  “Lego-of-ver,” I mumbled, my vision beginning to swim.

  Hector lowered his head and growled, positioning himself between Mimi and Hannah.

  “I can’t have a vicious dog on the property.” Mimi pulled a small pistol from her pants pocket and took aim at Hector.

  “Hec-tor, run!” I slurred. “Ruuun.”

  He cocked his head, then bolted.

  My limbs were floppy and weak, still I managed to shamble forward and swing an arm against Mimi, just as she pulled the trigger.

  In the distance, Hector yelped.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Kenzie

  Hector.

  I shook my head, my vision dimming. Staggering sideways, I caught myself on the wall. My legs couldn’t support my weight, and I began to slide down toward the concrete pad.

  Mimi wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me to my feet. “Let’s get you to your room, dear.” Weaving like a couple of drunks after a bender, we stumbled into the house and toward the staircase. I grabbed the banister.

  “Up,” she ordered, in a voice that would brook no disobedience. I dragged a foot onto the bottom step and swayed, clinging to the railing. “Up.” We repeated the process, step by slow step, until we reached the top of the stairs.

  Mimi supported much of my weight as we lurched toward the first guest room. She deposited me across the bed. I lay in a stupor, only vaguely aware when Hannah’s semi-conscious body plopped down next to me. Gritting my teeth, I tried to lift my head, but my muscles refused to cooperate.

  Ripper.

  I saw him in my mind’s eye, standing barechested with his hands on his hips, grinning down at me after a sparring session. You got this, darlin'.

  I got this. Yeah. Nothing and no one was going to keep us from getting out of here, from getting back to the people we loved. I just...shit...I just had to...sleep...for a little while...first.

  I came to in a pitch-black room. My throat was parched, my mouth gummy, and my head felt like it was clamped in a vise. Groaning, I pushed myself up on one elbow, then patted the bed.

  My fingers found Hannah’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up.” She moaned, shrugging off my hand. I rolled closer, until we were nose to nose. “Hannah. Wake up,” I whispered, lightly slapping her cheek.

  Hannah had downed more of the doctored lemonade than I had, and she was a good twenty-five pounds lighter than me. The pills had really knocked her for a loop.

  “What?” she grumbled, batting at my hand.

  “Shhh.” I pressed my fingers over her mouth to keep her quiet. “You have to wake up.” I tapped her cheek again.

  “Kenzie?” She shook her head back and forth, as if trying to clear out the mental cobwebs. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

  “Mimi drugged us. She shot at Hector. I think she intends to keep us here as replacements for George and Lillian.”

  “Shit.” Hannah wobbled into a sitting position. “How’s Hector? Did she hit him?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice broke, but I pushed back the worry. First we’d escape, then we’d think about Hector. “We’ll look for him after we get out of here.”

  “Okay. What time is it?”

  I tiptoed to the bedroom window, peeked behind the drawn blind, and saw a cloudless night sky. A battery-operated clock hung in the bathroom. I crept into the bathroom, gently shut the door, and switched on the overhead light. 2:57 a.m. We’d been out of it for almost twelve hours.

  Mimi had been throwing back a lot of wine at lunch. Maybe she kept drinking and was passed out somewhere in a drunken stupor. Or maybe she was sitting up, waiting for a sign that we had regained consciousness. Since there was no way of knowing, we’d have to assume that she was awake and alert.

  My gaze fell on Hannah’s sneakers and my boots, tossed into a corner of the bathroom. Thank God. Mimi hadn’t given us back our clothes, but at least we wouldn’t have to escape over miles of rough ground on bare feet. I glanced down at the white, fluffy, terrycloth robe I was wearing. It was preferable to fleeing butt naked, even though we’d look like refugees from some luxury spa resort.

  I clicked off the light and padded quietly back to the bed.

  “It’s 3 a.m.” I handed Hannah her sneakers. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to go into the bathroom and use the manicure scissors you found to cut the bedsheets into strips that we can use as a rope. We’ll open the window and tie one end of our rope to the bed frame. We’ll barricade the door in case Mimi comes to check on us. Then we’ll climb down the rope, retrieve our backpacks, and get the hell away from here.”

  We removed the top sheet from the king-sized mattress and tiptoed into the bathroom. With the tiny manicure scissors, we cut slits into the top hem of the sheet, then slowly tore it into twelve-inch strips. Luckily, I’d learned how to tie knots in Girl Scouts. I secured the strips end to end, creating a rope of fabric long enough to reach the ground from the second-floor window. Knots along its length would provide handholds.
<
br />   “Hold on,” Hannah whispered. She opened the drawers in the bathroom cabinet and filled her robe’s pocket with fingernail polish, lip balm, and a box of condoms.

  That answered that question.

  We left the bathroom door open a crack, to allow a sliver of light into the bedroom. I jammed a desk chair under the doorknob, blocking—or at least delaying—entry from the hall. After securing one end of the rope to the heavy bedframe, I carefully unlatched and slid the window open, then lifted out the screen.

  “Ready?” I mouthed.

  “Yes.”

  I sat on the window ledge, took the rope in my hands, and tugged. The rope seemed secure. Bracing my feet against the log siding, I slid off the window ledge, then worked my way down the rope. When my feet touched the ground, I looked up. Hannah was leaning out the window. I gave her a thumbs up and nodded encouragement. She climbed onto the windowsill, clutching the fabric rope. When she hesitated, as if reluctant to begin her descent, I held up my arms, assuring the girl that I’d catch her if she slipped. Hannah nodded, then swung away from the window, dangling for a moment before easing down the rope.

  We landed in a flowerbed at the front of the house. Light streamed from the floor-to-ceiling windows to our left, the living room windows, if I remembered correctly. I crawled through the dirt and peeked into the room, then quickly retracted my head. Mimi was pacing back and forth, one of her Persian cats cradled in her arms.

  Hannah and I scuttled in the opposite direction, toward the far corner of the log house. Bent over double, we dashed for the gravel lane and grabbed our backpacks from under the rosebush.

  “The driveway leads to the main road. It’s a sure way out of here,” I whispered.

  “Unless Mimi figures out that we’re gone and comes after us.”

  “It’s worth the risk. We can’t afford to get lost again,” I said.

  “And I suppose, if we see headlights coming up behind us, we can run off into the hills.”

  We slung the packs onto our backs. Holding hands, we walked forward, following the narrow ribbon of gravel as it wended its way over and around the rolling hills. When we’d traversed at least a mile—well out of Mimi’s earshot—I stopped.

  “Hector.” I whistled. “Hector.” Craning my neck, I swept my gaze over the murky landscape. “Come on, boy.”

  I held my breath, praying for some response, an answering bark, a flash of movement, anything that would indicate that Hector was alive. Nothing.

  A cold hand clenched my heart.

  “Hector’s smart,” Hannah said. “Maybe he found his way home.”

  “Maybe.” Or maybe Mimi’s bullet had hit its mark, and Hector had died alone, with nothing but rabbits and coyotes to witness his passing. I couldn’t say those words out loud. Instead, I squeezed Hannah’s hand. “We have to keep moving. Sooner or later, Mimi will realize that we’re missing, and she’ll come looking for us. She has a gun, and she probably has a car. We are not going back there. Levi and Ripper are waiting for us, and nobody is going to stop us from making it back to them. And nothing is going to keep us from rescuing Sahdev.”

  Hannah squeezed my hand in return. “We have things to do, and we don’t have time for Mimi’s shit.”

  “Amen, sister.”

  By unspoken agreement, we picked up the pace, jogging over the moonlit lane. My imagination played tricks on me. I kept glancing back over my shoulder, certain I heard Mimi’s car or spied a headlight. Nothing. Hannah and I were alone in the dark, racing desperately toward home.

  Ripper, I’m coming back to you.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Kyle

  Dwight and Darryl walked out on the porch for a late-night smoke. Leaning back against the railing, they competed to see who could blow the biggest smoke ring, laughing and elbowing each other like a couple of twelve-year-olds with a bad case of the giggles. After seeing them on the news a few years ago, I’d started thinking of them as the doofus brothers. They were living up—or down—to that reputation.

  When their whoops got loud, a stocky older woman threw open the door. Jerrilyn, the infamous Widow Wilcox, glared at her nephews. “Libby is trying to sleep. You two jackasses need to pipe down.”

  That sobered up the morons.

  “Shining examples of the master race,” I muttered.

  Ripper snorted.

  They flicked their cigarettes into the yard. Their heads swiveled around as something apparently caught their eye. One of them pointed. In the distance, a car’s headlights poked holes in the darkness, glowing when the vehicle crested a hill, then winking out when the road dipped below the horizon.

  One of the men dashed into the house, returning thirty seconds later with Boyd in tow. Boyd tossed a set of keys to one of his cousins, barked out an order, then took position on the top step, shotgun in hand. Dwight and Darryl took off. The taller of the two jogged toward a black pickup parked in front of the house, next to a red Harley. The other ran toward the attached garage and threw open the door. He reappeared a minute later, behind the wheel of a silver pickup. They tore out of the driveway, racing toward the mysterious headlights.

  The commotion must have roused Libby. Yawning, she stumbled onto the porch and stood next to Boyd, peering out into the darkness. He kissed her cheek and laid a hand on her swollen belly. That mystery was solved. Libby was Boyd’s woman. No wonder Jerrilyn was so protective of her; Libby was carrying the “martyred” Eben Wilcox’s first grandchild.

  “I was going to suggest that we make a move, now that two of the four men are gone,” I whispered. “But I don’t suppose we should, not with a pregnant woman standing on the porch next to Boyd.”

  Ripper nodded. “Same thing occurred to me. We don’t want to endanger a pregnant woman. Not unless we got no other choice. Not unless she draws on us.” He scrubbed a hand through his stubble, gazing thoughtfully at the house. “Besides, we got no clue where Bear’s being held. Wouldn’t put it past Tuck or Jerrilyn to put a bullet in him if we try to breach the place.”

  Boyd and Libby retreated into the house, and once again silence reigned. Ripper sat back, resting his arms on his bent knees. Tilting his head, he looked at me, and I squirmed under his appraising gaze.

  “How’d you all meet Sahdev?” he asked in a low voice.

  Shit. Here it was. The moment I’d been dreading. Like a coward, I’d hoped that Kenz would’ve told Ripper about the night Miles died. Sure as hell, I didn’t want to. I guess she wasn’t up to the task either.

  “Miles was very sick and seriously dehydrated.” I swallowed, but forced myself to keep going. “The pharmacies and hospitals had been ransacked. There was no way to find IV fluid—and truth be told, we wouldn’t have known how to administer it even if we found it. Kenzie suggested that we check out vet clinics for bags of subcutaneous fluid.”

  “Vet clinics?”

  I nodded. “Her Aunt Debbie used to give sub-q fluids to a dehydrated cat. We didn’t know if it would work on humans, but we figured it was worth a try. The plan was for me to drive out and search the clinics, but the flu hit me hard and fast, and I was too weak to drive.”

  “So Mac went?”

  “Yeah. She can’t drive a stick, so she took off on foot with Hector in the middle of the night.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Ripper shook his head, clearly appalled by the thought of Kenzie wandering the streets of Portland alone after dark. By then, most of the population had died, but there’d still been plenty of dangerous survivors cruising the city, looking for an opportunity to score. Pride battled with horror in his eyes. “And she’s afraid of the dark.”

  “She is, but she went anyway. Kenz found the sub-q fluids, and on the way back home, she came across Sahdev. He’d been jumped by two men, and she scared them off with her gun, then invited Sahdev back to the compound.”

  “And he was able to save you, but it was too late for Miles,” Ripper guessed.

  Holy hell. I did not want to have this conversation. I stared at the g
round, rallying my courage. How do you tell a man that you killed one of his closest friends?

  “What is it?” Ripper asked slowly.

  “Damn it,” I whispered. “I’d hoped that Kenzie would have told you what went down.”

  “I asked her, but she said that it hurt too much to talk about Miles’s death, that she’d tell me later,” Ripper said. “What am I missing?”

  I wrapped both arms around my waist and faced Ripper. “What you’re missing is that Miles was dead by the time Kenzie and Sahdev got back to the compound. He was dead because… because… I shot him.” I choked out the last words.

  Ripper doubled over, as if he’d been punched in the gut. When he lifted his head, instead of rage, I saw compassion in his expression.

  “End-stage flu mania,” he guessed. “Miles got violent.”

  “He came after me with a knife.” My shoulders hunched, and I rocked back and forth, remembering the worst night of my life. “There was no reasoning with him. The Miles I knew was gone. I was sick and losing the fight to hold on to consciousness. I couldn’t let Kenzie come home to face him. He would’ve killed her, or forced her to kill him. I couldn’t let that happen…couldn’t risk her dying…couldn’t make her live with shooting her cousin…so…I shot him. He was my friend, and I shot him.”

  Ripper nodded. “Would’ve done the same thing under the circumstances. To protect Mac, I would’ve shot Miles. Not your fault, man.”

  “Not my fault,” I repeated, remorse twisting my guts into knots. “I’m going to live with it for the rest of my life. With what I did. What I saw.”

  “Guilt and regret are old friends of mine.” Ripper clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, sometimes the only option is a bad one. You did what you had to do. Yeah, you’re gonna live with it, but it’ll get easier over time.”

  “It wasn’t fair. Miles didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

  Ripper squeezed my shoulder, then released it and sat back. “Life ain’t fair. Not many get what they deserve. It’s past time for you to learn that.”