by Anna Oney
"Wait! Wait!" they shouted after her. Stella ran ahead of Emma, seeming to encourage her master to keep up, but they weren't able to get far. Tom latched onto the back of Emma's shirt, forcing her to lose her footing and fall hard to the ground. Before she could rise, Tom threw himself on top of her, preventing her from getting away.
Emma struggled against Tom's strength, and growled, "Get off me."
"Calm down," he said. "You don't need to be going in there by yourself."
"All right, get off her," Doolie commanded, finally having reached them. After Emma stood up, Tom blocked her path so she wouldn't be able to outrun them again, and waited for Doolie to continue.
"We're going together," Doolie said. "Jane and Ian may be off somewhere safe. It's not good to assume the worst, Emma. Try to stay calm."
"I'm just about as calm as I'm gonna be in this situation."
Seeming to give in to her father's cold stare, Emma kept her mouth shut as they followed Doolie toward the murderer's house.
When they arrived, they remained silent as each of them cleared the porch steps. Hearing movement coming from inside, they each placed their fingers on the triggers of their weapons, and prepared themselves for whoever opened the door. Doolie ordered Lyle and Maddox to take Stella and cover the back of the house, leaving himself, Winston, Tom, and Emma to cover the front. Commanding his daughter to stay behind, Doolie shoved open the door and stormed inside. On alert, every man raised their weapon, and began searching through the rooms.
Tom noticed that as Emma stood to the side, she paid close attention to him. The aim of his rifle and his movements were precise and swift, and he reached the last room on the right before anyone else had entered the hallway. Lowering his weapon, Tom wiped the sweat from his brow, and promptly waved Emma over.
Reaching the door, Emma seemed infuriated by the sight of Jane asleep in Ian's arms.
"Jane!" she exclaimed. "Get up right now!"
Dragging the teenager from the room, Emma left Ian behind with a bewildered look on his face.
"Wha-what happened?" Jane stuttered, struggling to pull herself together.
In an instant, Tom's amusement with Emma's parenting skills was replaced by panic, as he noticed something they'd overlooked: A distinctive set of toes poked out from beneath the curtains of a window to the right of the front door.
"Stop, Emma," Tom said as she nearly passed by the window. "Walk back this way, and get behind me."
Doing as she was told, Emma grasped the young girl's hand, and rejoined him. When the pair was by his side, Tom raised the rifle and aimed it at the curtains in the corner.
"Get out from there!" he commanded, alerting the rest of his comrades to join.
"Did you find him?" Doolie asked, emerging from the kitchen.
"Found somebody."
"Come on out, Ethan!" Doolie shouted, turning his attention toward the curtains.
Tom's sharp instructions weren't enough to coax the person into revealing themselves. It only took one order from Doolie to make whoever was behind the curtain cave in—but it wasn't Ethan. It was his idiot brother, Matt. Before any of them had the chance to speak, Matt rushed through the front door, but he took a rough tumble down the steps before he was able to make a clean escape. Already on it, Maddox and Lyle snatched Matt up by the arms, and forced him up the steps.
"I think I hurt my ankle, Doolie," Matt whimpered. "I didn't do anything," he protested as they shoved him onto the couch, causing filth to rise into the air. "I . . . I don't know where he is, either."
"You know where your brother is. Now, c'mon. Just get it out. Somebody's got to pay for killing that girl," Doolie said, sitting beside him.
"Wait," Jane interjected, stepping closer to Emma. "Someone's dead? Who?"
"Olivia. You know, one of your 'getting high' buddies," Emma replied. "You didn't see anything?"
"They were fighting." Jane said, as the severity of the situation washed over her clear complexion. "I didn't want to watch, so Ian and I went to his room. I guess we just fell asleep."
"What happened?" Doolie asked Matt. "Did you have anything to do with that girl's death?"
"I didn't," he said. "I swear. He just took off. He woke me up, and begged me to go with him. He had blood all over his clothes. But . . . I . . . I told him no. I was stoned out of my mind, man. I didn't know what I'd seen until I heard y'all banging on the door. I panicked."
"So you're saying he just ran off. Ethan could be anywhere, right?" Doolie asked.
Meanwhile, Rambler and Stella continued to inch their way closer to Matt, forcing him to sink deeper into the couch.
"Maddox, you stay and keep an eye on this sack of shit here while we search," Doolie said. "Emma, take Jane with you and get your butt back to the girls. Try and get all the women and children to the bunker. Once you're settled, don't let anybody in until I come a-knocking. Understand?"
"Understood." Emma nodded, grabbing Jane by the arm. "Let's go!" she shouted as she led the girl through the back door. "C'mon, Stella!"
"You want me to go with her?" Tom asked, fearing for Emma's safety.
"No, I need every man with me. She's got Stella with her. She'll be fine. Winston, Lyle"—Doolie rose from the couch—"you two check out the houses on the right. We'll take the ones on the left. Inform everyone of the situation, and tell them to rustle up any weapons they can carry. When you're finished, meet back at the bunker. If we don't find him, we need to regroup." Turning to face Tom, he asked, "You ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
Chapter 9:
Emma
"Jane, I cannot believe we're having this problem again. How much do y'all have anyway? A whole mountain of the stuff?"
"No, not a whole mountain," Jane groaned as she tripped over every brick of their driveway. "Matt just had a little leftover. That's it, honest."
"Besides the reefer, Ian's freaking eighteen. Eighteen!" Emma continued to rant. "There's only one thing boys think about at that age."
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"Sex!" Emma exclaimed, feeling completely out of her depth. "Sex, Jane. That's what."
"Oh?" Jane gasped sarcastically. "I am a woman now. Maybe it's time—"
"You're not a woman."
"But Mom said when I got my first period, I'd be a woman," Jane argued.
"You become a woman when you share the same responsibilities as me, or Momma Shirley, or even Mrs. Maples. And frankly, you're still sporting the attitude of a spoiled little brat, so don't be calling yourself a woman just yet."
"You never call Claire or Lizzie brats," she argued, hurt.
"That's because they ain't." Climbing the steps, Emma stopped the teenager before Jane could open the door, and whispered, "Don't tell your sisters. It'll only scare them."
Stepping over the threshold, Emma found Claire and Lizzie sitting quietly on the couch. Both of their cheeks were flushed from crying. Before Emma could ask what had upset them, she felt the sensation of a cold barrel pressing against her temple. Hurriedly, Ethan forced Jane out from behind Emma, and slammed the door on Stella's paw before the dog could enter. From inside they could hear the pit bull yelping in pain on the other side of the door.
Ethan locked the deadbolt, moved the barrel to Emma's cheek, and shoved Jane into the living room. All three girls erupted into uncontrollable sobs as they witnessed him violently push their caregiver to the floor.
"You can have anything you want," Emma said as she attempted to keep the tears at bay. "Just let the girls go."
"I always hated your fucking family. But I have the power now, don't I?" he boasted, waving the pistol.
"Daddy and the boys are looking for you. It won't be long before Stella reaches them. And when they see I'm not with her, they'll know something's wrong. You can bet your ass on that."
Frantically, Ethan began pacing the room, but his aim on Emma never wavered. He and his brothers were nothing but misfits in the Clerys' eyes. They'd had to fend for themselves w
hen they'd refused to work. It wasn't Ian who had declined, so he was given an equal share. It was his two older brothers who weren't willing to put forth the effort. As Ethan continued to stare her down, Emma realized that when Doolie had refused to feed the brothers, it had lit a spark of hatred in Ethan's mind.
"Shut up!" he screamed at the girls, who were still sobbing on the couch. "I swear to God I'll do it!" he threatened, continuing to aim his pistol in their direction.
"They're scared," she interjected, rising up and planting herself between them. "Just put down the gun. They'll stop crying if you stop waving it in their faces."
At that point, Emma's primary goal was to get him to lower the weapon. All she needed was one moment to remove the girls from the situation before Ethan really began losing control.
"You don't get to tell me what to do!" he furiously exclaimed, tightening his grip on the pistol. "I, I'm the one with the gun!"
"Yes, you are," Emma calmly replied. "You're the boss. Just tell me what you want so I can help you get it."
"He's not gonna let me stay," Ethan cried, beside himself. "Not now. He'll kill me."
"If you let us go, he'll show you mercy. I swear it."
Ethan began sobbing, the gun still firmly set in his hands. It was his unpredictability and the hostility in his rattled tone of voice that kept Emma obedient. As she mentally went over what survival tactics to use, she realized she lacked the strength and the know-how to accomplish any of them.
Ethan grabbed Emma by the arm, catching her off guard, and forced her to her feet.
"This is how it's gonna go," he said. "You're gonna take me to the shed, and then fetch me as much food as I can carry. I know you have the key. Doolie wouldn't give it to anyone else."
Ethan wasn't mistaken, and his request was troublesome. If she opened the storage shed, he would be stealing nourishment they would possibly need in the future. The stashed-away food was their backup plan. If it were just her life in jeopardy, Emma would have taken her chances and fought it out, but she knew the girls depended on her every move.
"All right, all right," she said. "I'll do it. But you have to let them go. I'll let you take all the food you want, but you have to let them go." Looking their way, Emma mouthed to the girls, "It's okay." She felt the pressure of the pistol digging into the middle of her back.
"You see?" Ethan said, peeking over Emma's shoulder. "If you warn anybody, I'm gonna put a bullet through Miss Emma's back. Understand?"
"Answer him, girls."
"Yes. Yes, sir," Jane said, grasping her sisters' hands.
As he shoved Emma toward the door, the two of them exited the house, leaving the girls behind. The wind began to pick up as they cleared the steps. It was so fierce, the clothes clung to their bodies as they trudged down the hill. Wind like this was a sign of strong hail, rain, and—inevitably—one of the electrical storms they were so used to.
As they cut through the harshness of the wind, the feeling reminded Emma of trying to sprint through thigh-deep water. It was impossible to move forward without having their strength begin to dwindle. Repeatedly, Emma felt the wind blow the barrel of the pistol away from her back, and then back on it again, which confirmed that Ethan was being thrown off balance every so often.
Just as the shed came into view, Emma heard the sharp ringing of the bell from Mrs. Maples's house, signaling for everyone to take cover. Out of her peripheral vision, Emma spotted the girls sprinting from the house toward the bunker.
"C'mon! Hurry up!" Ethan commanded, which told Emma that the sisters' escape had gone unnoticed.
Emma fumbled with the lock on the door, stalling. She then heard Stella's distinctive barks howling over the wind. Aware of her dog's wounds, Emma prayed that Stella wouldn't attempt to attack a man with a loaded gun. Once Emma finally opened the door, she no longer felt the gun's presence. Curious, she turned to witness Stella sinking her teeth into Ethan's forearm, forcing the gun to drop from his hand, and Emma watched as it landed upon the ground.
Hurriedly, she snatched the pistol lying at his feet. Ethan, aggravated at what Emma had done, kicked Stella hard in the stomach, which caused the dog to collapse, shrieking in pain. Made distraught by her dog's continuous wailing, Emma aimed the pistol in Ethan's direction, and stepped backward to brace herself. Just as she began to pull the trigger, he rushed forward, and thrust her arm into the air. Instead of the bullet hitting Ethan, it punctured the back wall of the dance hall instead. Grabbing Emma by the arms, he slammed her against the shed. Not only was the wind knocked from her, but the pistol was as well.
Hitting the ground, Emma struggled to catch her breath. Ethan kicked her in the stomach, forcing her to lose that morning's breakfast. Coward, she thought. She curled into a ball, but just as she prepared herself for another blow, a shot was fired—but not from Ethan.
Raising her chin, Emma witnessed Tom standing at the hall's exit. She was relieved to see that he was armed with one of Doolie's rifles, but the wind blew so fiercely that it was impossible for him to make a clear shot. Ethan lunged for the pistol on the ground, but he proved too slow to react as Tom promptly kicked the gun out of reach.
They were in a brawl before Emma could muster the strength to sit up. Ethan was no match for Tom's brute strength and skill. Despite her pain, Emma was so enthralled by Tom's confidence that she felt as though Tom had choreographed the fight.
Eventually Ethan tired, and it ended with Tom tackling him to the ground. Tom held Ethan down to keep him still, and kept Ethan's arms folded behind his back. Emma and Stella were strewn across the overgrown grass, and as they lay there, beaten, Tom's eyes were solemnly glued to Emma. He couldn't rise without fear of Ethan escaping, so Tom pinned him until Doolie and Emma's cousins arrived.
After seeing the shape his daughter was in, Doolie was beside himself. Tom, Winston, Maddox, and Lyle couldn't stop him from pummeling Ethan to a pulp. As the beating continued, Stella crawled toward her owner. It wasn't until the dog reached Emma's side that Emma's annoyance with her relatives' testosterone peaked. They remained unaware of the severity of the storm unfolding around them.
"Hey! Hey!" Emma yelled, as best she could. "Need a little help here." She whimpered, clutching at a stitch in her side. "We need to get inside."
The looks plastered across their faces were priceless. Their expressions translated into a mixture of shame and anger that was targeted both toward themselves and Ethan.
Tom insisted Emma be carried, so he was the one who took on the job. Being a girl of height, Emma was impressed by how swiftly he scooped her up and was able to get over the hill. Maddox followed closely behind, toting Stella.
When the group arrived at Emma's cabin, which was the closest shelter, Doolie held the door open for Tom, who entered and went straight to the bedroom. Tom gently placed Emma on the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, and the rest of the group began filing in. The first thought to cross Emma's mind was, Never in my life have I been surrounded by such hunks. Paranoid, they gathered around her, seeming like they thought she was going to lose consciousness at any moment.
Lyle stood guard over Ethan, who sat in the corner with his hands bound behind his back. By that time, Ethan's eye was swollen shut, and dried blood stained his nostrils. By the pitiful and broken look Ethan had on his face, Emma was certain he already knew his fate. Quietly he wept, but his tears seemed to have no effect on the other men in the room. She almost felt sorry for him—until she remembered the girls' frightened faces, Stella being beaten, and lastly, that he'd killed Olivia.
"Daddy, what are you gonna do?" Emma grimaced as she struggled to sit up.
"Honestly," he said, "I don't know. This is something I never thought we'd have to deal with."
"Wait till the storm clears. And gather everyone for a vote. That way"—she winced at a sting in her side—"it's not only on you."
"Cousin, you all right?" Maddox asked, noticing the pain registering on her face.
"We went through a lit
tle tussle before y'all showed up."
"Leave us," Doolie commanded. "Lyle, take dumbass with you. I'm gonna see if anything needs tending to."
Everyone but Tom did as they were told. The concern in his eyes, the arch of his brow, and the frown forming at the edge of his mouth made Emma assume he cared for her in some way that she hadn't realized until then—but she couldn't prevent herself from thinking, How could he?
Doolie noticed Tom at the door as he glanced over his shoulder.
"Go on. She'll be fine."
Locking eyes with Emma first, Tom slowly but reluctantly left the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Boy likes to linger," Doolie said. Lifting his daughter's shirt, he leaned forward. "How's your breathing?"
"Feeling a bit of pressure. It hurts."
"Yeah, baby doll, your ribs are probably bruised. Georgia'll be here when the storm dies down. You think you can wait till then?"
Nodding in response, Emma whispered, "Hey, Daddy, I've thought of a way the new guy can help me."
"Help you with what?"
"Y'all didn't see him in action," she replied, clutching at a stitch in her side. "He could teach me some stuff, that way I won't be so defenseless next time."
"I can teach you."
Emma knew her father didn't want another man teaching his child how to do anything. That was his job. But it didn't matter if Doolie disagreed. Emma was going to do what she wanted.
Seeming defeated, Doolie squeezed her hand, and replied, "All right then, baby doll."
***
The storm lasted for only an hour longer. Leaving Emma, Doolie rang the meeting bell for everyone to join them at the dance hall. When they arrived, he instructed Mrs. Maples and Shirley to tend to Emma's wounds during the commencement of Ethan's trial.
After she'd assessed Emma's injuries, Mrs. Maples said the swelling that plagued Emma's shoulder blades after she'd been slammed against the shed was nothing to worry about. Emma's ribs weren't broken—they were bruised, just as Doolie thought—but there was nothing Mrs. Maples could do about them. For them to heal, Emma would have to take it easy for at least a couple of weeks. Oddly enough, Stella and Emma suffered the same injuries, except for—of course—the pit bull's wounded paw.