by Mark Tufo
Looking toward Darlene’s house, I saw a brilliant sheet of orange flames through the intervening trees. The back wall of her house was engulfed.
Stopping for a breather, Jim pointed at Darlene’s house. “That’s a shame. Those degenerates aren’t going to have any trouble lighting up that old wooden clapboard on all of these old houses.”
I looked at the flames and shook my head. “I don’t understand.” I glanced at both Jim and Addy. “My dad, he—” I pointed at my head, “he got the virus nearly two years ago. He’s degenerated. He couldn’t start a fire if I showed him how.”
“Speculation in the news is that the rioters aren’t that far gone,” said Jim. “They think it’s the ones who are still halfway smart that stir up the rest of them and get ‘em going. They’re the ones who start the fires. Troublemakers.”
“I smell lighter fluid,” said Addy.
“No telling how far this will go.” Jim grimaced. “We need to get away from here.”
Looking at the trees growing up between this house and the next one in line, I saw yet another ladder crossing the gap. “How far can we go before we have to go down to street level?”
“Down to the end of the block,” said Jim. “Six more houses.”
“Is that far enough?” It was a stupid question. None of us knew how far the rioters were spread out, but they sounded like they were down there, too.
Jim said, “We can’t know how many houses they’re going to burn.”
“Do you have a getaway plan?” I asked.
Jim nodded once and then shook his head. He cast a long, worried look down the street in the direction we were heading. His face showed the depth of his worry. He had a daughter to protect and apparently no good way to do it.
Chapter 177
Sirens were wailing—dozens, maybe more—some close, many far away. Blue and red lights splashed color through the trees from way down the street.
We weren’t in immediate danger, meaning we had a few minutes to breathe. No degenerate had his angry eyes on us. Darlene’s house was engulfed in flames reaching ten and twenty feet over the roof. Her next-door neighbor’s house was burning too, together flickering firelight through the neighborhood. Degenerates were starting on the next house down. The rioters’ pyromania wasn’t focused anywhere near us. Still, we all believed it was coming.
Jim wrapped an arm around Addy and cast worried looks at the row of houses in both directions and at the sea of rioters out in the nighttime street. He looked across the road and I followed his gaze, silently guessing that maybe he was looking toward the locations of alternate paths in his bug-out plan. He was doing well with escape routes up to that point and had made the prescient choice to get us out of Darlene’s house.
Despite all that, we couldn’t stay put. Violence and uncertainty were swirling around us, and if the mob didn’t motivate itself to move on down the road, our choices would slowly disappear.
I looked down at the pistol in my hand. It was raw power, but it was limited. It was a useful tool as long as I didn’t forget that. As soon as I started thinking it was a guarantee of safety, I’d likely get myself killed. The tacky blood on the barrel, left there by the gun’s previous owner, was a reminder of that.
Safety was mostly about doing the smart thing, or at least the smartest thing available. Sometimes that might be shooting, sometimes it might be running, sometimes hiding. So far, we’d utilized all three.
I realized then, maybe Jim was stuck with similar thoughts. He wanted to do the smart thing, but all the smart choices were off the table. We needed to take the least bad path available. I shuffled around to get Jim’s attention and spoke. “You said something about a bug-out plan or something?”
Jim didn’t look at me. “The hope was that we could hide in the attic or on the roof of one of the houses.”
“And?” I asked, knowing that someone who’d planned and prepared so much wouldn’t stop there. Did Jim’s plan end at a safe bunker in the woods? I hoped so. Such a place would be ideal for riding out the chaos, if I could convince him to let me bring my family along. But that part was a discussion for later.
Jim got up on his knees and peered over the roof’s peak. “I’m afraid the only open route will involve a truck I stole.”
“You didn’t steal it,” interjected Addy. “Nobody’s seen Mr. Porter in six months.” She looked at me. “He went degenerate.” She put a hand on her dad’s shoulder. “And Mrs. Porter died before Mom. I know the truck still belongs to Mr. Porter, but he’ll never need it again. I don’t know what it’s called for us to take it, but it’s not stealing.”
Jim’s plan for Mr. Porter’s truck sounded a lot like my plan for appropriating my neighbors’ things when they passed or degenerated too far to need them anymore. “Life changed,” I said, going through my rationalization on the matter, “rules need to change, too. The old ones don’t work anymore.”
“None of that matters,” said Jim. “It ain’t the stealing that bothers me. I’d break any law to keep Addy safe.” He pointed at the degenerates carousing around the fire at Darlene’s house. “You can hear them up and down the streets. I don’t know that we’ll be able to drive out of here. I don’t know why, but they hate cars especially the ones on the move.” He looked at me. “They might all come after us the way they chased the car you drove up in.”
“What other options do we have at the moment?” I asked.
“Stay here and hope the riot squads get here in time.” Jim cast a hopeful look in the direction from which the sirens seemed to be coming. “Or hide in one of these houses and hope it doesn’t burn. We’ve got cars and trucks stocked and stashed around. The Bronco at the Porters’ house is the only one we can get to right now. Or we can go on foot and maybe they won’t bother us once we’re among them. How do they know who’s who anyway?”
“Each option is a risk.” I stood in a crouch and looked around. “Staying up here is a mistake, I think. Things will only get worse for us.”
Jim nodded, so did Addy.
“Inside we might get caught in a fire,” I continued. “Is that what you think, Jim?”
“I don’t like the idea of being out in the street on foot with them.” Jim glanced at Addy again. If things went bad for us out in the mob, he’d not be able to protect his daughter.
“Mr. Porter’s house, then,” said Addy. “Let’s get to the truck. We can wait and see from there.”
Jim gave us a nod, and led us toward the next ladder bridge.
Following in the rear, I looked in the direction from which I thought most of the sirens were coming. Though I was crossways with the law at the moment, I was hoping they’d arrive in time to help.
With a concrete destination, we hurried quickly across the remaining houses and ladder bridges. Jim took pause when we arrived on Mr. Porter’s roof. The escape hatch was already open.
“Is someone inside?” asked Addy.
Jim stuck his head through the hole in the roof and listened.
I knelt on the rough asphalt shingles and leaned over the hole as well.
“I don’t hear anything,” Jim whispered.
With all the noise from the riot, it was hard to tell if the sounds I was hearing were coming from inside or outside of the house. “There might be someone down there.”
“Maybe,” Jim agreed. “If so, not many.”
I nodded before straightening up to scan across the other rooftops. “Other options?”
“This is the best one we can get to,” Jim told me.
Addy pointed. “Look. Mrs. Blumenthal’s is on fire now.”
Trees close to the house were burning, too. And it looked like the flames had jumped to the house on the other side of Darlene’s.
“We can’t stay,” Jim deduced. He pointed into Mr. Porter’s attic. “I’ll go down first. I’ll take care of whatever’s down there. You two follow in a minute, but give me some room.”
Jim waited for an acknowledgment from each of us. He laid
his rifle down and then lowered himself through the roof. Once his feet were planted on the joists inside, Addy handed him his rifle. Jim crawled through the rafters, disappearing into the darkness.
Chapter 178
I moved to follow.
Addy grabbed my arm. “Give him a minute.”
I was at an age where having a girl put a hand on me in any way was enough to get my full attention, so I stopped and didn’t argue. “You say when.”
A cheer rose up from the degenerates watching the fires. They were dancing as though trying to conjure a demon from the flames. Addy and I both looked.
More sirens were wailing through the pandemonium.
Addy said, “They’re going to burn down the whole neighborhood.”
Nodding as I watched, I said, “You don’t seem frightened.”
“Neither do you.”
“My shrink says I’m unusually calm.”
Addy looked at me in a strange way.
“You know,” I added, “when most people get panicky, I don’t. What about you?”
“You have a shrink?”
I nodded. “I got in trouble at school.”
“You still go to school?” She didn’t believe me.
“The shrink was court-ordered, before they shut the schools down.”
“You must have done something pretty bad.”
A man shouted from inside the house below. Addy tensed.
A woman and other men added their voices to the ruckus.
I looked at Addy to see if she understood the same thing I did. Trouble.
She shook her head to tell me not to go in.
That was bad advice. I positioned myself over the hole in the roof and started to lower my feet. Addy grabbed my arm again with worry straining her face. “He can handle them. He’d want us to wait.”
A gun fired and I paused. The voices ceased.
Two more shots followed as my feet came down on a beam.
I listened, stuck in place with waning bravery, not knowing how to proceed.
“Come back out,” Addy whispered.
I looked at her. I wanted to do what she was asking, but only because she was asking it. Jim had been kind to me. I felt an obligation to help him if he needed it, but guns were at play again. The world had escalated to a level of violence I’d not fully understood from the relative safety of my backwater neighborhood.
With my feet planted, I squatted and looked around the gloomy attic.
Addy gave in and shined her flashlight into the darkness.
A trail through the layer of dingy insulation between the joists led to the far end of the house. Cockroaches ran over stacks of dusty, misshapen boxes that surrounded an open access panel.
With the sound of the riot outside somewhat muffled, I heard people moving around in the house. A door opened. Clomping footsteps ran. Bodies bumped walls and furniture.
Having come to a decision on what I was doing, all hesitation disappeared. I crouched and all but ran from joist to joist to get to the other end of the attic.
A car’s starter screeched as it cranked a cold engine.
The Bronco!
I squeezed between boxes, brushing them and sending up plumes of attic dust. It got into my throat, and I clenched my teeth to suppress a cough.
The starter cranked again.
Inside the house, a man gasped, trying to catch his breath.
I braced myself at the edge of the attic access hole and looked. A kitchen chair sat on the floor below.
I leaned through the hole and swiveled my head but saw nothing but an empty hall and part of a living room. No Jim. No degenerates.
The starter cranked again, and the engine fired. It revved loudly through a rusty old muffler.
I turned quickly, dropped my legs through the hole, and let myself down. The wooden chair creaked as it took my weight.
The house vibrated, accompanied by a chorus of squeaks. The garage was opening. The sound of the mob and the sound of what must have been a hundred sirens poured into the house.
I hopped to the floor and raised the pistol.
A car door slammed shut.
I ran out of the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen, where I saw an open door. Through it lay the garage, where a big brown Bronco was just starting to roll.
Face down on the floor in the kitchen lay Jim, bleeding from three holes in his back.
Chapter 179
With the Bronco racing out of the driveway and into the shouts of the rioters, I knelt beside Jim.
He turned his head to look at me but didn’t lift it off the linoleum. “Addy?”
“I’m here.”
I looked over my shoulder, surprised to see her coming silently into the kitchen.
Outside, tires squealed and the mob went nuts, screaming at the Bronco, I guessed.
“Addy,” Jim feebly reached out as he gasped. Blood sputtered out of his nostrils and dribbled from his mouth.
Tires continued to screech, but the sound was constant. The Bronco was stuck.
Addy came over and knelt beside her father.
I stood up, but Jim caught my ankle. “Stay.”
I squatted back down.
“Take care of her,” he told me.
“I can take care of myself, Daddy.”
“I will,” I told him, promising because he was dying. I had no idea what I could do that Addy couldn’t do herself.
“Who shot you?” asked Addy, her voice shifting from concern to anger.
“Randy.” Jim could barely muster enough breath to make the word audible.
Addy reached for Jim’s rifle lying on the floor beside him.
“Just,” Jim’s eyes settled on me, “go someplace safe.”
“We can go to my house,” I offered. “We don’t have riots in our part of town.”
“You will,” said Jim. “Don’t stay in Houston. Addy, go to your—” Jim stopped talking. All the air in his lungs flowed slowly out. The grip on my ankle relaxed. Jim was dead.
I jumped to my feet, revenge on my mind, and hurried into the garage through the open door.
Looking back, I saw Addy softly sobbing as she took the magazine out of Jim’s rifle, checking to see how many rounds she had in her father’s gun. Her sobs stopped with only a few tears left on her determined face.
She was my kind of girl.
Through the open garage door, I saw the mob flowing down the street, anxious and angry.
The Bronco’s tires were spinning on asphalt as the engine roared. It sounded like it was trying to pull a stump and going nowhere.
I ran a few steps toward the open door and looked down the street. The Bronco was engulfed in a solid mass of degenerates, all trying to get their hands on it while many of those closest rocked the Bronco from side to side. They were trying to roll it. Others were beating the vehicle with whatever they’d picked up. One of the occupants was being dragged out through a broken window and being beaten as if he was part of the truck.
Hothead, murdering Randy and his buddies were getting exactly what they deserved.
From behind me, Addy said, “I hope the degenerates kill them.”
A rhythmic pounding mixed in with the sound of the riot.
I nodded toward the Bronco. “They’re all pissed off at the truck.” I pointed down the street. “If we stay close to the houses, maybe they won’t notice us or maybe they won’t care.”
“Okay.” She said it with no emotion at all.
Teargas canisters spun through the air, landing among the rioters.
I looked up the street. The sound of the rhythmic pounding had to be nightsticks on riot shields. It was the police, down the street, close by.
The police were our chance.
I said, “Let’s go.”
Addy ran along beside me.
Chapter 180
Through the pounding of the nightsticks, the smoke, and the red and blue lights flashing everywhere, Addy and I made it to the corner and across the
street before a degenerate took an interest in us. He was a squat man with a chest pumped so large on steroids it made his arms look stubby. It was Addy who caught his eye, and with no inhibitions left in his Swiss cheese brain, he stepped out from behind a tall bush where he’d been doing who-knew-what with some other degenerates. He grabbed her arm, dragged a hand across her chest on its way down to her pants and opened his mouth wide for what he thought was a kiss.
I was three steps ahead of Addy by then, and trying to get myself turned around to raise my pistol while thoughts of failing in my promise to Jim raced through my head.
Addy was well ahead of me.
I heard a muffled shot.
The squat man let go of her and staggered, with blood gushing from his nose, mouth, and throat.
Addy had jammed her small-caliber pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger. Before the squat man fell, Addy was already on the move, urging me to follow.
Degenerate people were yelling everywhere. The mob was surging at the police line. Rocks, bottles, small flowerpots, whatever a rioter could pick up was being thrown at the police. Sirens wailed. Brilliant beams of yellow light speared down from a helicopter in the night sky above.
Through the mob I finally saw the police riot line down near the end of the next block. I suggested to Addy that we duck into an empty house and wait for the police to drive the rioters out of the neighborhood. Addy agreed, but insisted that we get to a particular house about halfway down the block.
We dodged and sprinted, running from bush to bush, porch to porch, keeping ourselves out of the mêlée. Injured degenerates started running past us, away from the police, bleeding from head wounds where nightsticks had found their mark.
The noise ahead of us grew overwhelming. The fire in the burning houses behind us spread and flamed tall into the black sky. Addy and I were swimming against a chaotic, violent sea, and if we didn’t get inside pretty soon, I knew we’d be in trouble.