by James Hunt
The terrorist blocked the entrance, shaking the rifle threateningly. “Naelyeowa!”
Charlie eyed his rifle on the ground between himself and the terrorist and cursed beneath his breath for dropping it.
“Please,” Charlie said. “We don’t want any trouble. We—”
“Naneun ne muleup-e malhaessda!” The terrorist screamed and again, threateningly waved the rifle in his hands.
“Get behind me, boy,” Harold said.
But despite Charlie’s father tugging at his shoulders, he didn’t budge.
The terrorist closed the gap and then kicked Charlie’s rifle behind him, erasing the slim chance of Charlie reaching for it. And as the terrorist shouted again, stepping closer, Charlie clutched his parents’ hands tight.
The gunshot that rang out sent a shudder through Charlie’s body, and a coldness spread from the base of his skull and down his spine all the way to the soles of his feet.
His parents’ fingertips dug into Charlie’s shoulders, and he waited for the pain to follow, but it never came. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and he saw the terrorist face down in the dirt.
Dixon stood at the barn’s entrance, rifle still aimed at the dead man on the floor. He approached, patted him down, then snagged Charlie’s rifle out of the dirt.
“I told you to wait,” Dixon said, then tossed Charlie his rifle. “Might want to hang on to that next time.”
Charlie’s mother flung herself into Dixon’s arms and hugged him tight. “Thank you.” She peeled her face off his chest and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much.”
Harold slapped his big palm on Dixon’s shoulder. “Good shooting, Lieutenant.”
Screams pulled their attention toward the barn entrance.
“They’ve got more coming,” Dixon said, heading toward the barn’s back exit. “Let’s go!”
But Charlie shook his head. “We’ll never make it in time on foot.” Charlie turned to the backside of the barn, his eyes lingering on a lumpy blue tarp, then he turned back toward Dixon. “Take my parents to the north side of the orchard.”
“Charlie, no!” His mother lunged for him, but he was already out of reach.
Charlie flung the blue tarp off a pair of dusty dirt bikes and slung the rifle strap over his shoulder. He straddled the seat, pumped the primer, and squeezed the clutch. He took a breath. “Please work.” He dropped his heel down hard on the starter.
The engine sputtered, but it didn’t start.
The voices outside the barn grew louder.
Charlie jumped and then slammed down on the starter again, and this time revved the throttle. The engine roared to life.
His mother screamed once more, and Charlie looked back one last time to see Dixon holding his parents back.
“Get them to safety, I’ll draw them away!” Charlie released the clutch and the tires spun out, kicking up dirt as Charlie rocketed forward and burst out of the double barn doors.
The sudden exposure to sunlight blinded him, but his vision adjusted quickly as he sped down the slope toward the house.
The old bike rattled violently in his hands, and when he reached the back side of the house, a cluster of masked terrorists burst from the far corner.
Charlie turned a hard left, evading the gunfire that chased him to the front of the house.
Wind whipped violently against his cheeks, and in the blink of an eye he was out in the front yard, then the road, the soldiers that had been at the back of the house just now stepping into the front yard.
The stolen Humvee was a quarter of a mile up the road. Keeping hunched low on the bike, Charlie twisted the throttle, turning left and heading toward the east field, which held their nursery.
Smoke from the bike’s two-stroke engine pilfered through the air and the scent of burnt rubber blasted Charlie’s senses.
More gunfire broke out to his left, and again he made himself as small a target as he could muster, speeding through the trees, catching the harsh slap of a few branches along the way.
Charlie quickly checked behind him and saw the soldiers taking the bait.
A smile broke up the left side of his face, and he cut a hard left, digging up a rivet of black soil, before rocketing up to the next level of orchards.
The harsh incline nearly flung him off the back of the bike, but Charlie leaned forward to regain his balance. Gunfire and screams chased him, roaring above the whine of the sputtering two-stroke engine growing hot between his legs.
Streaks of green and black blurred in his peripheral, and for a moment he was transported back to the summers of his youth when his father let him ride around the orchards after chores were finished in the afternoon. The sunlight shone down like gold in the evening here, and it made everything twice as beautiful as he could have ever pictured in his own mind.
But the moments were brief and passed quickly as the noise of gunshots and foreign screams drowned out what good memories he was able to harvest in the shitstorm that currently surrounded him, and Charlie just focused on going as fast and as far as he could.
3
Once the orchard ended and melded into the untamed wilderness to the north, Charlie killed the engine and stashed the bike in the trees, then doubled back toward the north field, keeping to the forest for cover.
Charlie didn’t like leaving the bike behind, and he didn’t think that anyone would find it, but he didn’t want to draw attention on his return home. And after his long trek from Seattle, Charlie understood the importance of transportation.
Covered in sweat and parched by the time he reached the halfway point at the barn, Charlie stopped for a moment to splash some water on his face from the hose that ran from their well.
Charlie splashed the cool water generously, coating his face and neck. Once revived, he headed toward the north field.
Water ran down his body beneath his shirt during the rest of the trip, helping to keep him cool. But by the time he reached the north field, the water had evaporated and a fresh coat of sweat covered his skin.
“Dixon?” Charlie raised the volume of his voice. “Mom? Dad?”
The longer Charlie walked along the northern fence without finding his parents, the more poisonous his thoughts became that entered his mind.
What if a stray soldier had stumbled upon them like the one who’d found them in the barn? What if Dixon took off and left his parents behind and his father was currently face down in the dirt alongside his mother? What if his dad had gotten into a fight with Dixon after Charlie took off and—
“Charlie!” His mother burst from the trees, tears streaming down her cheeks and her arms spread wide as Charlie hopped the fence to greet her.
Their bodies collided and his mother clawed at Charlie hungrily. She grabbed hold of his face and forced his gaze into her eyes. “Don’t you ever do something like that again, you understand me? Ever.”
Dixon and Charlie’s father appeared next. Dixon had given his dad one of the rifles, and the old timer looked like a modern-day version of Paul Bunion who’d traded the axe for a rifle.
Charlie hugged his father, the pair clapping each other on the back twice the way they’d always done. “Everyone all right?”
“Your father twisted his ankle trying to chase after you.” Martha cast an accusing glare at her husband, who dismissed the accusation with a wave of his hand.
“I’m fine.” And as if on cue, he wobbled slightly on the bad leg. “Just need to walk it off.”
“We did walk,” Martha said, then shook her head and tossed her hands in the air. “I really don’t know what to do with either of you sometimes. It’s almost like you enjoy getting hurt.” She crossed her arms, giving them another angry glare. “Foolishness.”
Charlie looked to Dixon. “Where do you think they’re headed?”
Dixon tucked his rifle’s stock beneath his arm. “The nearest strategic target for them to hit would be the air force base north of here, but they’re heading east.”
“The power plant
,” Harold said. “It’s east of here, over in Mayfield.”
“But the power’s already out,” Martha replied.
“I know one way we can find out,” Dixon said. “That soldier is still tied up in the house, and I have a few questions for him.”
“You can use the barn,” Harold said.
Dixon nodded his thanks and headed toward the house.
“I’ll be over in a second.” Charlie looked back toward Doc’s house, then to his parents. “I’m going to check on Doc, Ellen, and Liz.”
“Liz?” Martha asked. “Who’s that?”
“The nurse,” Harold answered, grinning.
Charlie rolled his eyes and then gestured toward his dad’s ankle. “Just don’t trip on the way down, old man.”
Harold laughed and took Martha under his arm. “Never happens when you’ve got the support of a good woman.”
Charlie didn’t let his dad see his smile, and as he headed toward Doc’s house his thoughts circled Liz.
After everything that had happened over the past thirty-six hours, he couldn’t be too sure that he wasn’t rushing into something troublesome. He barely knew the woman, though he couldn’t deny their connection.
Charlie shook his head, pushing the thoughts from his mind. He was going too far down the rabbit hole. First thing was making sure everyone was still alive, and the second priority was keeping it that way. And they were in a better position than most of the folks in the city.
Both the basement and cellar were stocked with food items, and the forests that surrounded them provided plenty of opportunities for hunting and fishing. Plus, Mario, their head worker, worked on the boats in Seattle’s port before trading his sea legs for land. He’d be able to help out on that front. And while Harold was aging, he was still a better shot with a rifle than Charlie.
Charlie knocked hard twice on Doc’s cellar doors, the harsh bangs echoing into the fields behind him.
Light footsteps preceded the sound of a lock, and the doors were pushed open, Doc squinting from the sunlight.
“Everything all right?” Doc asked.
Ellen popped her head up behind him. “We heard the shooting.” Ellen clutched her hands together tightly, keeping them close to her chest.
“Everyone is fine.” Charlie smiled and looked past the pair of them and into the darkness below.
“Liz is fine,” Doc said, noticing Charlie’s worried expression. “The little girl too.”
“Some of the workers are coming back with their families and staying at the orchard,” Charlie said. “You’re more than welcome to join.”
“No, we’re fine here,” Doc said, then looked back down to the darkened cellar. “Probably best if Liz stays here too, so I can keep an eye on her.”
Charlie nodded, but the fact that Liz would no longer be close cut him a little deeper than he expected. “Yeah. Probably for the best.”
“Adelyn can stay too,” Ellen said, and then frowned. “She keeps asking for her mother, but I haven’t answered.” She trailed off, hoping for Charlie to fill in the blanks.
“She died, just before we got our ride here,” Charlie said.
Ellen brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
“Does the girl know?” Doc asked, the old man’s face slack.
“No.” Charlie rubbed his eyes, unsure of how to navigate that conversation. “At least, I don’t know if she understands.”
“Best not to put it off for too long,” Doc replied. “Kids that age are perceptive.”
Charlie swallowed. “Right.”
Ellen and Doc stepped aside, letting Charlie down the steps. He pumped his hands, trying to get a grip on his heart rate, which had skyrocketed on his way down. His heart caught in his throat, and he stopped on the last step, spying Adelyn on the floor next to Liz, holding her hand as Liz slept.
It’d been only hours since Sarah was gunned down in the streets to the south. They were so close to escape. All they had to do was get in the Humvee. A minute sooner, or even a minute later, and things would have been different.
Adelyn saw Charlie on the staircase. “Where’s Mommy?” Her eyes watered, but no tears fell, and when Charlie offered no answer, she looked back at Liz.
Charlie looked back up to Ellen and Doc, hoping for some words of encouragement, or advice, but he only saw their silhouettes at the top of the stairs, sun and blue skies in the backdrop. It was too beautiful a day for such bad news.
Charlie stepped onto the concrete floor and walked over to Adelyn, the little girl’s attention still focused on Liz’s hand. He crouched in front of her, struggling to find the words.
“Adelyn,” Charlie said. “There’s something that we need to talk about.”
“What?” Adelyn asked, keeping her head down, exposing the light blonde curls at the top of her head made even messier by the previous day’s events.
Charlie opened his mouth, but then closed it. He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t built for something like this.
But then a warmth touched Charlie’s hand, and he looked to his left, finding Liz with her eyes cracked open. She slid her hand around his wrist and applied pressure.
Charlie looked back toward Adelyn, the little girl glancing up at him now. Her eyes were wide, the hazel coloring around her pupils so bright it looked like they glowed, and through Liz’s touch, Charlie gathered his courage.
“Adelyn, your mommy is gone,” Charlie said.
“Where did she go?” Adelyn asked.
“She died. Do you know what that means?”
Adelyn kept her face tilted up, but looked away, thinking it over, then nodded. “It means she’s gone forever.”
“Yeah.” Charlie trembled, and Liz squeezed his wrist tighter. “That’s what it means.”
Adelyn lowered her head and then crawled over to Charlie. She climbed into his lap, resting her head on his arm.
Charlie looked to Liz, eyes watering, and then back to Adelyn, gently placing his hand on her back, the heat pulsating from the little girl akin to a furnace. Charlie stayed there until Adelyn fell asleep, Liz still holding his hand.
Charlie wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing, but seeing as how it made Liz smile, he figured he could have done worse. But with that news delivered, Charlie headed back to the barn, hoping that Dixon was able to get some answers out of their prisoner.
The terrorist was tied up in a chair, his chin pressed into his chest. Dixon had a bucket of water, and Charlie and Harold stood off to the side, letting the lieutenant do his work.
With a quick jerk of his arm, he flung the water into the terrorist’s face, and he woke with a gasp and cough. Dixon set the bucket down, and then hunched forward with his hands on his thighs. “Good afternoon.”
Water dripping from his face, and disoriented, the terrorist spit in Dixon’s face. Dixon retaliated with a harsh backhand, and the terrorist grunted in anger. He screamed and thrashed in his chair, and Dixon stuffed a dirty rag into the enemy’s mouth, muffling the panicked cries for help.
Dixon then brandished a knife and he pressed it against the terrorist’s throat. The thrashing stopped.
“That’s better,” Dixon said. “Now, I have a few questions for you. If you answer me, then I don’t hurt you. If you don’t answer me.” Dixon applied a little bit of pressure. “Then I cut you. Okay?”
The terrorist only stared at Dixon, motionless.
Dixon removed the gag, but not the knife. “What are you doing here?”
The terrorist’s breathing grew labored, and he looked left, staring at Charlie and Harold.
“Hey!” Dixon forced the man’s gaze back toward him. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”
The terrorist forced the top right of his mouth to twitch. “Uli modu jug-ilgeoya—”
Dixon dug the tip of the knife into the man’s leg, and he erupted into screams and spasms. Blood flowed from the point of penetration, and Charlie stifled a gag at the sight
of the squealing pig.
“In English, please,” Dixon said, removing the blade.
Exhausted and disoriented, the terrorist only laughed as he looked Dixon in the eye, his English broken but understandable. “You die.” He turned to Charlie. “All of you die. American scum.”
“Where were your men going?” Dixon answered.
When the terrorist only laughed and muttered another spout of Korean, Dixon stabbed him again, and the hostage flailed in pain.
“Where!” Dixon repeated, this time refusing to remove the knife. “Is it the power plant? Is that your play? Tell me!” Finally, the lieutenant removed his blade, more blood spilling from the terrorist’s leg and splashing into the dirt.
But the hostage only shook his head. “We will not stop.” His complexion became pale, his body covered with sweat and blood. “We will win.”
Dixon wiped the blade on the man’s shoulder then placed it in its sheath. He removed the firearm and then placed it to the man’s head. “No, you won’t.”
Charlie shuddered when Dixon pulled the trigger, and his eyes were still on the gruesome sight of bone and brains spread across the barn floor when Dixon walked over.
Dixon holstered the weapon and then gestured to the blue tarp at the back of barn. “Did I see two bikes under that tarp?”
Charlie finally peeled his eyes away from the dead terrorist. “You’re welcome to the bike, but I want something in return.”
“Name it.”
“Protection,” Charlie said. “If they come back, I want to make sure the families out here have more guns than the enemy.”
“If the enemy is using the power plant as a rallying point, then that shouldn’t be a problem.”
It was a phrase Charlie had grown accustomed to hearing over the past forty-eight hours. It was what a few of the bankers who hadn’t given him an outright no said when he’d asked for the loans, but he’d been around enough of the finance folks to know ‘I’ll do what I can’ was code for politely getting someone out of their office before they could cause a scene.
“Do I need to gas it up?” Dixon asked.