Serenity Engulfed

by Craig A. Hart

  The fire was closing in. With every passing second, the escape lanes grew narrower, the ring of fire pressing them from all sides. Shelby checked the chain that secured Leslie to the support pole. Trying to shoot it apart would be much too dangerous, as the chance of hitting Leslie was too great. He remembered his own escape from the basement, how he had used a long piece of metal to twist the chain to the breaking point. But now he had no metal piece—or did he?

  Shelby looked at the shotgun barrel, wondering if it would fit through the small gap where the chain wrapped around the pole. It would be close, but it would have to work—they were out of time. He pumped the shotgun several times, sending unspent shells onto the floor. It made him nervous leaving live shells lying around this near an open flame, but he wasn’t about to use a loaded weapon as a lever and there was no time to gather them into his pocket. Not to mention if his clothes caught fire, having ammunition on his person could result in highly unfortunate damage to his person.

  Once the shotgun was empty, he stuck the barrel through the chain. It was a snug fit but went in with a little encouragement. Then, using the shotgun barrel as a tourniquet windlass, he twisted the chain tight until the links creaked from the pressure.

  The fire was nearer than ever, close enough to begin licking at the legs of Angel’s jeans.

  Please be dead, Shelby thought. I’m not going to be able to save you both. Please already be dead.

  He battled with the chain, putting every fiber into twisting the shotgun. In his own escape, he’d been able to use the floor and his legs to assist in breaking a link, but the shotgun was too long and cumbersome to allow for such luxuries. He’d have to do it with sheer power. Muscles and tendons screamed from both the strain and lack of oxygen. Shelby’s vision dimmed and clouded, his teeth ground together. His clothes were soaked with sweat and steamed in the heat. Droplets of salty water dripped into eyes already tortured by smoke. Shelby’s lungs drew in the heated air, searching for the required oxygen, and his large chest expanded. An animalistic scream ripped from his scorched throat as he gave one final twist of the chain.

  The chain gave with a pop! that sounded pitifully anticlimactic after the Herculean struggle that had precipitated it, but Shelby wasn’t about to quibble over sound effects. He picked Leslie up in both arms and looked around for an opening in the wall of fire. The basement stairs were completely engulfed, making that course impossible. Running through that firestorm would land them both in the hospital with massive third-degree burns and facing months of recovery, plastic surgery, and skin grafts—if they survived at all. The only possible escape route was the basement window he and Mack had seen on their initial approach to the house.

  The fire was roaring so loudly Shelby could scarcely hear himself think, as the remainder of the basement ceiling creaked and sagged. Flaming detritus and rubble showered over them.

  It’s now or never, Shelby thought. There has to be a way.

  22

  Mack slammed his final magazine into the pistol and waited for any sign of movement from behind the Hummer. Whoever the men were with the automatic weapons were rookies at best. They looked tough, but they were shit with guns. The imbalance in firepower should have been a nearly insurmountable obstacle, but those goons had no idea how to handle what they were using.

  Mack looked toward the house. The flames were leaping high in the night sky, and there was no sign of Shelby. At least the fire was providing plenty of light to shoot by, Mack thought, as a head popped out from behind the rear tire of the Hummer.

  Blam!

  To Mack’s mild surprise and immense satisfaction, the top of the man’s head erupted in a spray of blood and brains.

  “One more down,” he said.

  He took a moment to glance over his body. Blackened and singed almost head to toe from the explosion, he could only imagine what he’d look like in a mirror. He’d run his hand over his hair and was pretty sure he was missing hair in places not normally affected by male pattern baldness. Men didn’t usually lose their hair in patches along the sides of the head. Also, his eyebrows felt, well, gone, and his ears were still ringing. But other than that and a few minor bruises and cuts, he seemed in one piece. All his limbs were intact, and considering what he’d experienced, he figured that was about as good as it was going to get.

  There was another movement by the Hummer and this time Mack and Hammer shot at the same time. Both were misses, but there was a yelp that made it clear the shots hadn’t been too far off the target.

  He looked again toward the house.

  “Come on, you bastard, come on. Get outta there!”

  As he watched, one side of the roof, badly damaged from the blast and now gutted by fire, began sagging precariously. The blackened skeleton of the framing crawled with flames—terrifying against the dark woods.

  A high-pitched shrieking soared over the increasing roar of the flames and popping of Hammer’s 9mm. Then the figure, clothed in fire, bolted from the rear of the house and charged blindly toward the woods. The figure’s arms were held out straight as it ran, turning it into a blazing, moving crucifix. Halfway to the treeline, the figure staggered and dropped. It lay writhing, still screaming, as the fire ate its way into the body. At last, it lay still.

  Mack’s mouth was dry as cotton. Had that been—?

  The automatic weapons fire had slowed and was now silent, but Mack knew better than to think it was over. The gunmen were no doubt saving the rest of their ammunition for a final assault.

  The remainder of the roof was about to collapse. The entire house would closely follow suit, and once that happened, no one was walking out.

  Mack gripped his pistol, ready to empty his final magazine to cover Shelby—if he ever appeared. “Come on, Shel, you’ve only got a few seconds.” The basement window was now blocked by flames, but as Mack watched, a strange bundle, rolled like a floor rug, appeared through the flames. It moved in a fitful, hesitant motion, as if being progressively shoved from behind. And then it was fully in view and being followed by the strangest creature Mack had ever seen.

  At first it appeared to be some sort of hooded, winged creature, but as it wriggled through the window, Mack saw it was a man—Shelby, in fact, wearing a sort of cape or cloak. As soon as he was free of the window, Shelby bent, picked up the bundle on the ground, and staggered toward the trees.

  True to his plan, Mack began firing toward the Hummer. The sheriff followed suit and together they kept the enemy in cover long enough for Shelby to lurch his way out of the clearing and into the brush, where he immediately collapsed, gasping and retching for air.

  Once Shelby managed to fill his racking lungs with fresh oxygen, he called out to Mack, who was a few yards ahead, firing at the Hummer. His friend glanced back.

  “Glad to see you made it,” Mack said. “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “A tarp. Flame resistant.”

  “What’s the bundle?”

  Shelby unrolled the object in question to reveal an unresponsive Leslie. His heart was pounding and he’d never felt so scared in his entire life. “She’s in a bad way, Mack.”

  “We’ll get her help, don’t worry. You took an awful chance in there.”

  “I couldn’t leave her.”

  Mack’s slide locked back after his last round and he shoved the pistol into his holster.

  “We should get moving,” Shelby said. “Those guys are going to figure out we’re out of firepower and come at us.”

  Mack stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Hammer looked and Mack gave her the sign that they were moving out. She nodded, waved them on, and held up a single magazine.

  “She has one more magazine,” Mack said. “She’s telling us to move out and she’ll cover us.”

  Shelby shook his head. “Damn, what a woman. Okay, let’s go.”

  Mack nodded and together the two men set off deeper into the woods, with Shelby carrying Leslie over his shoulder.

 
Moving with any stealth was impossible, given the circumstances, but the rushing noise of the fire and Hammer’s cover fire more than covered their retreat.

  As they moved, Shelby dialed a number and, after someone picked up, asked to speak with the captain in charge. Once that party was on the line, Shelby explained the situation and gave the location of the Ellis house. Once more, the weak signal made it difficult to communicate, as the voice on the other end was constantly dropping out.

  “Who—this again?” the captain asked.

  “Never mind,” Shelby said. “Just send backup to the address I gave you. An officer’s life depends on it.”

  “And—is the county—sheriff, you’re—about?”

  “That’s right. Hammer. Angela Hammer, interim sheriff.”

  “We have—a couple reports having to do—explosion in Serenity, but we assumed—”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” Shelby said. “Just send the cavalry, okay? If you don’t, you’re going to have an officer down and fast.”

  “Look—I’m not—on your say. Like—said, we’ve had reports—explosion—haven’t received any information or requests—the county office. Besides, the closest post—Cadillac, which is an hour away.”

  “The explosion is where the sheriff is.”

  “Oh, you’re—bomb threat?”

  Shelby somehow resisted the urge to throw his phone on the ground and grind it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

  “No, I’m not calling in a bomb threat, I—”

  There was a sudden fast beeping sound and Shelby looked at his phone to see the words “Call Failure” appear on the screen. He tried to call back, but the signal was too weak.

  “Damn it! Mack, what cell carrier do you have? Maybe a different provider will have a better signal.”

  “Same as you, pal, remember?”

  Shelby unleashed a string of creative cursing. “Well, let’s hope they got enough of that to send Hammer some assistance. For now, I just want to get Leslie medical attention and fast.”

  “Then what’s the plan? Where the hell are we going?”

  “There’s a house about a mile away off a gravel road. They’ll be able to get an ambulance there without having to worry about getting shot to pieces.”

  Shelby’s lungs felt like red hot coals in his chest. He coughed and thought for a moment he was going to pass out but managed to keep moving.

  Mack slowed his pace and looked over. “Is she too heavy, Shel? I can take her for a while. You’ve really been through it.”

  Shelby shook his head, his breath coming in great gasps. “No,” he said, “she’s not too heavy. She’s my kid, Mack—she’s my kid.”

  And then they were there.

  The house was a ramshackle old place, with white paint peeling off weathered wooden siding. The yard was nothing but a field of knee-high grass and weeds, and vines had launched a serious campaign to take over the front porch.

  “You sure anyone lives here?” Mack said.

  Shelby shook his head. “Nope. But I haven’t heard anything about the owner dying, so I’m hoping she’s still around.”

  They carefully picked their way up to the porch and up the creaky, wobbly steps. Shelby stepped onto the porch. The house loomed up before him like a specter from the past—which indeed it was—and he felt in danger of being swallowed up. He raised his fist to knock but hesitated.

  “Shel? What’s the matter?” Mack said.

  “Nothing.”

  Shelby knocked on the door.

  It took another knock before a light appeared through the window and sounds could be heard from inside the house. Shelby heard several locks click and then the door a crack. A chain lock remained, keeping the door from swinging wide, and an old woman peered out. Her face was covered in green goo that Shelby assumed was her nightly skin regimen.

  “Hello,” he said, his own voice sounding stupid to his ears. “We’ve run into a bit of trouble. Would you mind if we used your phone? That is, if you have one.”

  The woman stared at Shelby, her watery, flickering eyes staring at him with an intense curiosity.

  “David?” she said. “Is that you?”

  “No, ma’am. My name isn’t David. We just need to use the—”

  “You look just like him,” the woman said. “But, no, he’d be much older now, I suppose. Like me.” She smiled and unhooked the chain. “I see you have a sick woman with you. Looks like she needs a hospital.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Now, please, do you have a phone?”

  “Yes, I have one.” She stepped aside to let them enter.

  Shelby saw a nearby couch and he lay Leslie gently down on it.

  “The phone is in the kitchen,” the woman said. She began pointing, as if to show the way, but Shelby was already moving in that direction.

  23

  Shelby stumbled up the front steps of his porch, almost blind with fatigue. It had been a long day and a long night, the second half spent at the hospital waiting for any word regarding Leslie’s prognosis. At last, around eight o’clock that morning, the doctors had pronounced her critical but stable, and Shelby had allowed himself to head home for a shower and—maybe—a quick nap. Mack and Quinn had both volunteered to take shifts, promising upon the pain of death to alert Shelby immediately if anything changed. Helen was on her way up from Grand Rapids and would be there shortly to take charge, which made Shelby feel a lot better about being away from the hospital.

  Sheriff Hammer had sustained a gunshot wound to the arm but was expected to make a full recovery and be back on the job within a month. Darkmore was as dead as he would ever be, and Scott Ellis had fled into the woods bearing a wound courtesy of Mack, only to be spotted by a State Police helicopter and picked up not five miles from the scene. Jim Ellis was presumed lost in the explosion, while Ma had gone out in a blaze of glory running for the woods. There had, indeed, been a bomb at the school, but the timer hadn’t been set for as short a time as Darkmore had suggested, giving a K-9 team plenty of time to find and dispose of it safely. Shelby had the dark thought that, had the bomb not been found and disarmed, it would be going off on its own just about right now.

  He fumbled with his keys, struggling to see the correct one through blurry eyes, and then he heard the now-familiar scratching sounds coming from the cabin’s wooden base.

  “Not now, cat,” he moaned. “Cut me some slack, would you? I’ve had a bad day.”

  The cat let out a long yowl that wound upward like a siren and then dropped suddenly into a guttural purring. Shelby glanced down at the animal. There was a sound he’d never heard, especially from this cat, who had not before demonstrated much vocal range. As soon as the cat noticed Shelby was watching, it began scratching at the wood again.

  “I know, I know,” Shelby said. “I have mice. Well, guess what. Now that’s your job. Deal with it.” He turned back toward the door.

  Again the yowl, but longer this time, and louder.

  Shelby looked back at the cat.

  Scratch scratch scratch.

  “Are you trying to tell me something, cat?”

  The animal emitted a short, sharp sound that sounded like, “Yawp!” and then sat back, looking pleased with itself.

  Shelby sighed but knew he wouldn’t get any rest if he didn’t satisfy whatever the little bastard thought he needed. He went down the steps and around to the side of the porch, where the cat waited, swishing its tail back and forth. Shelby bent down and ran his hand over the baseboard of the cabin. There was a crawlspace there, affording access to pipes and other inner workings. Shelby had never been under there, and had no desire to do so, but the cat was now rubbing its face all over one corner of a section of baseboard that appeared to be loose.

  “Oh, I see. That’s where the mouse got in, is that it?” Shelby took out his pocketknife and stuck the blade into the crack between the boards. “You want in there so you can get the mouse, don’t you? Very well, then. Go ahead and—”

  Th
e section of board came away and Shelby froze. There, nestled in the crawl space under his cabin, was a glowing digital readout counting down the seconds: eight…seven…six…

  Shelby reached into the space and pulled out the bomb. He pulled back his arm and, channeling his inner Major League pitcher, heaved the bundled explosive as far as he could. With almost the same motion, he grabbed the cat and tumbled around to the side of the cabin.

  Ka-Boom!

  The bomb exploded inches off the ground, shattering windows on that side of the cabin. The cat went into hysterics and begun clawing frantically, trying to escape Shelby’s grip. He dropped the demon animal and it raced around, unsure where to go in order to escape the threat.

  The threat, as it happened, was now past and Shelby watched his savior charge around the yard in panic. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and he shook his head to rid himself of the crazy thoughts that were creeping into his mind.

  “I don’t know how you knew, cat,” he said, “but I don’t think I can get rid of you after this. Let’s make a deal. I’ll keep you in turkey if you’ll tell me who the hell you are.”