The windows were broken out and the displays tipped over. Most of the glass antiques were shattered on the floor. The old farm tools hadn’t been touched, but most of the antique mantle clocks that he picked up at the local estate auctions were in pieces. But none of that had any affect. As if it were an everyday occurrence, he slowly stepped through the mess and grabbed the broom from behind the counter.
It was time to work. First he set the large display cabinets upright and filled their shelves with the smaller stuff. Next up was sweeping. As he pushed the growing pile of dust and debris from the rear of the store forward, he began to work faster. People would be coming any minute—he had to hurry. He had to be ready to open when they got there. His breathing continued to increase until he was sweeping the mess out the front door with such ferocity that he looked like a frantic golfer trying to swing his way out of a sand trap. For a reason he didn’t understand it seemed that no matter how fast he swept the floor—it wasn’t fast enough. Out of nowhere, he felt his jaw start to quiver and his throat start to swell up. In a fit, he swung the broom and let go. A cloud of dust rose up around him as the broom sailed out to the middle of the street. For the next minute, he stood there at the threshold of his store, panting and staring out the door with a wild look in his eyes.
His consciousness was fighting so desperately to cling to what no longer existed. He spun around and looked at what remained of the store he inherited from his father. A heartbeat later he shot out the door to the middle of Main. He stopped, and with a frightened gasp, looked up and down both sides of the street. Every store was in shambles just like his store. He peered at the sidewalks. They were covered in glass and debris. As the crack in his denial opened up a little more, he started seeing the bodies. There was a black man stretched out on the cement a few shops down from his. There was another body farther down crumpled over on the sidewalk.
His breathing picked up as his stomach started to lift out of place. Not everything littering the street was trash. Several small mounds were covered in fur. Small, fist size clumps of feathers tumbled in the wind along with the other debris. He swallowed hard as the whites of his eyes opened up. Then without any warning and before he could stop it—he screamed. He bent over at the waist and wailed the way a mother would over the dead body of her only child.
As his pent up emotions started erupting, he did the only thing he could do. He ran. He sprinted down one of the side streets and ran up the sidewalk to the front door of the first house he came to—a little brick bungalow. He didn’t bother ringing the bell. He just started pounding on the door. “Help! Help me! Somebody. Please help me!” He sobbed openly and loudly as he beat the door until the meat of his fist was numb. There wasn’t any time to waste. He stepped back, reared up his right foot and rammed the heel of his boot against the door. The wood jamb inside the house gave way as the door burst open and swung into the wall. Before his heart sounded the next beat, Chuck was in the living room. He stopped dead center in the shadows, cupped his hands to his mouth and screamed for help. But when he turned, he discovered that no help would be coming. There, sitting side-by-side on the sofa were the bodies of the elderly owners. A revolver rested on the blood soaked floor at their feet. They had died on their own terms.
He clutched the front of his shirt with both hands and started shaking his head back and forth. “No! No! No goddamn it…this can’t be happening!” He sprinted out the door and ran to the house across the street. This time he didn’t bother knocking. As soon as he found it locked, he kicked the front door open. He quickly searched all the rooms as if he were looking for an escaped prisoner. When he found that house empty he ran out and broke into the next house. As soon as he kicked the door open, he tripped over the bloated body of a Basset hound and fell face first against the fat belly of a dead middle-aged man wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a T-shirt. The sour smell of dead, rotting flesh hit him like a slap to the face. It was the heat in the house that made it so bad. The air conditioner—if it had one—wasn’t on, and all the windows were closed up and taped over.
The repulsive shock of landing on rotten flesh was enough to stop his crying. He jumped up and staggered backwards until he bumped against a recliner. Even then, his wide-eyed stare lingered for a few seconds before he cupped his hand over his nose and mouth and continued to look around. But the half-hearted search ended just seconds later when the smell became too much for him. He quickly yelled once to make sure there wasn't anyone alive in the house. After what felt like an excruciatingly long pause he ran for the door. He stopped on the porch and filled his lungs with clean air as he wiped the half-dried tears from his face.
That was when a dreadful sense of knowing began to overwhelm him. “It can’t be,” he said out loud, as he cautiously walked down the sidewalk to the street. As he looked at one house after another, an undeniable panic began to grow. He was alone.
He sprinted back out to the middle of Main and started yelling at the top of his lungs. “Is anybody there? Hey! I’m on Main Street!” After waiting for a few seconds and hearing nothing but the blowing wind, he started walking down the middle of Main. “This can’t be happening…Jesus fucking Christ…this can’t be real.” He glanced from side to side in disbelief as he passed the looted stores.
He saw the black man on the sidewalk. He walked over and kneeled down to check for a pulse. It was while holding the stiff arm of the dead man that he started to have the strangest sense that he was forgetting something. He remembered feeling something just like the man’s wrist earlier. He remembered pressing his hands down on something unnaturally cool to the touch that had the texture of hard wax. He had used it to push up off a floor somewhere. But what was it and where was it? By the time he was walking down the middle of the street again, the question was nagging him to the point where he couldn’t let it go.
He started rubbing his hands together in thought. He pictured the elderly couple that died together at the first house and his pace picked up to a fast walk. That’s when he remembered walking down to Main Street. His pace picked up to a slow trot. He had come down here from his house. The trot became a jog as he searched the empty space in front of him for answers. Where was Becky? A shiver ran up his back foretelling of a memory better left in the dark. With each pound of his foot against the pavement, more light was shed on what he refused to see. His mouth dropped open and he began to mumble, ‘No…’ over and over as he started to realize that he hadn’t been alone up at the house. His eyes took on the distant look of a scared child as he broke into an all-out run and screamed, “Becky!” Heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, he sprinted around the corner onto Michigan.
Chapter 16
Chuck’s feverish sprint up Michigan Road broke when the lack of nutrition finally caught up to him. He was running as fast as he could when his legs suddenly locked up and sent him crashing face first against the sun drenched asphalt.
He flopped over onto his back and sucked in several deep breaths as beads of sweat trickled down his face and burned his eyes. The muscles in his legs were quivering and on the verge of cramping up, yet he couldn’t stop. Not with every ounce of his being praying that he was wrong—that he didn’t remember her lying on the floor of their house. He had to find out. If she wasn’t there—he had to see it. If she was, even though it would rip his heart out, he had to see that too.
He rolled back onto his hands and knees and grunted as he pushed off the hot, tacky road. After teetering on his heels for a second, he leaned into the grade of the street and started walking as fast as he could.
Sweat was still beading on his flushed face when he rounded the corner and saw his Chevy in the ditch. A brief spark gave him the energy to run. He hit the side panel of the truck, opened the driver’s door, and saw the keys still in the ignition. A few seconds later the Chevy flew over the last rise on Michigan as he barreled down the middle of the street. The truck fishtailed out of the turn onto his street and flew up his driveway. He locked up the b
rakes and skidded into the garage door.
His heart was pounding as he threw the front door open and looked in. For a second he lost his ability to breathe as his face trembled and his lips contorted like they had a life of their own. Just as his knees were about to give, he dropped to the floor and scooped his wife up in his arms. He closed his eyes and held her to his chest as he rocked back and forth and cried. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for that moment.
He remembered staring into her eyes the night of their first date. How he saw nothing but her beautiful face. How warm and comfortable he felt as they shared a private moment in the crowded restaurant. He remembered the feel of her breath against his ear the night she whispered that she loved him in the back seat of his Barracuda. And perhaps even more meaningful, he remembered how good it felt to hold her hand the other night as they watched the news coverage. She didn’t say it, but he knew it was a comfort to her, just like it was for him. Holding hands told them that they weren’t going it alone. But best of all was when he woke up next to her on the sofa the following morning.
Chuck nodded in confirmation as he squeezed her body. We were going to make it work. When he opened his eyes and looked upon the face of the woman he loved more than anything else in life, those wonderful memories dissolved away. As the tears ran down his face, all he could think about were all the times he wanted to tell her that he loved her and didn’t. Like just a few days ago when they got home from her father’s birthday. He saw the pain in her face as she stared at the ground and walked past the truck into the house. Did he stop her and tell her that he was sorry? No! Did he run in after her, take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her? No! Instead he sat in the truck like an idiot.
He closed his eyes and slammed his fist against the floor. “What was I doing?” A gritty moment of intense anguish was followed by another punch to the floor. He tried to fight it, tried to push them away, but the awful memories of how bad he had been to her kept coming. The worst of them happened just the other week when he came home drunk. There was no forgetting the terrible things he said to her that night.
The memories and regret continued to rip away at his heart. Until finally the emotional scars of pain and remorse etched their way across his face and he cried out, “Oh God!” He jerked up straight, and with her stiff body still clutched to his chest, he closed his eyes and wailed, “Why Lord?”
Chapter 17
Jason stumbled down the steps of his house with the pistol still in hand. The other guns were waiting for him in the car parked along the street. There was enough there to make everyone pay—and that was exactly what he intended to do. As he started to fumble with the keys a woman sprinted around the sidewalk on the other side of Mrs. Conner’s house and screamed for help.
He turned and teetered on his heels as the crazed woman ran up to him.
“You’ve got to help me!” she cried out as she clutched his arm. “Some black guys are going to kill my husband and his brother!”
Jason stared at the halo around her head but never once mistook it for anything heavenly. And even though he knew it was another woman, he couldn’t see past the mother who was protecting her children back at the supermarket. The same mother who didn’t lift a finger to stop him before it was too late.
His expression turned to a scowl as he squeezed the rubber grip of the pistol. “What did you say?”
“You have to help me! Hurry! They’re going to kill him!” she screamed, as she tried to yank him across the street.
Jason felt the trigger of the pistol with his finger. “Where are they?”
The woman was so frantic that her words couldn’t keep pace with her actions. She threw an arm out and pointed as she tugged on him. “Parking lot…next block…Hurry!”
“I’ll take care of it.” He reached up and pulled her hand off his arm. “You wait here. I’ll get them.”
“Oh dear God…thank you…thank you!”
Jason took a couple of steps before he turned back toward her. There, without the slightest hesitation or any sign of feeling, he raised the pistol and calmly said, “Here’s your help.” The woman glanced up in time to see the flash. Vengeance would be his.
A second later he heard a gunshot come from where the woman pointed. He picked up his pace to a fast jog and ran around the corner. The parking lot was empty except for an old four-door Impala. A few feet from the car, three black guys were working up a real sweat as they tried to beat a big redheaded white guy to death. One of them was going to town with a baseball bat while the other two were putting their weight behind four to five foot lengths of heavy chain.
The big redhead was doing his best to fight them off. His face was all bloodied and he was swinging blindly, but he sure wasn’t giving up. He grabbed one of the chains as it broke the skin across his back and gave it a hard yank. The black guy that was anchored at the other end flew over next to him like he was being reeled on to a boat. The redhead wrapped his meaty paw around the guy’s throat and got in one round-house right before one of the other black guys brought a bat down across his forearm. Truth of the matter was that it was actually a pretty fair fight. If it had been hand-to-hand the big redhead would have easily overpowered the three black guys.
While the three danced that fight, another black guy was standing with a gas can over the body of the redhead’s brother. He was so busy demeaning and spitting on the remains that he never saw Jason walking up behind him as he doused the corpse in gasoline and set it on fire.
Fifty feet away Jason yelled, “Hey!” and raised the pistol.
The guy turned around. “What you want…you white motherfu—” A 45 caliber shell blew the lower half of his face off before he could finish the sentence.
Jason spun around toward the others but lost his balance and went down on one knee. Everything was beginning to spin. He saw the other three black guys break from the big redhead and run back to the Impala. At first he thought they were going to drive off. But as he pushed off the asphalt and stood, he realized that they were actually going for some guns in the trunk.
He raised his pistol and started walking towards them. He was within thirty feet when one of the guys stepped out from behind the trunk and opened up with an automatic assault rifle. Jason heard the roar and saw the flame as thirty rounds perforated the asphalt next to him.
A second later the other two jumped in. One had a double-barrel shotgun and the other a pistol. The guy with the pistol yelled, “Kill that mother-fucker, Avon!”
Jason steadily closed to within two car lengths and took out the man with the pistol with one shot. Avon slapped in another clip as the other man fired the shotgun. Pellets sprayed across the front passenger fender as Avon squeezed off another clip. Jason fired once and struck the assault rifle. The next shot struck Avon in the shoulder and spun him around. Avon managed to keep his feet under him and tried to make a run for it, but the next shot struck him in the leg and put him down.
The last man was fumbling with a box of twelve gauge shells in the trunk as he tried to reload. He slipped two in and started to snap the shotgun shut when Jason walked around the fender and pressed the barrel of the pistol to his head.
The man shrunk back at first, but then pushed out his chest. “What you waiting on motherfucker.”
Jason motioned toward the big redhead who had managed to crawl over to the dead body and put out the fire. “Why them?”
“Been the white man’s nigger long enough. Don’t get no whiter than them two.” Then he pumped his chin at Jason and said with a sneer, “Payback’s a bitch ain’t it.”
“Shoot that son-of-a-bitch!”
Jason looked over at the redhead, before glancing at the black guy that he shot in the shoulder and leg. “That man kin of yours?”
The black man spit out defiantly, “I ain’t telling you shit!”
“Kill him!” the redhead cried out as he slumped over the burnt body of his brother.
Jason swung around to the redhead
. “Shut up!” He turned back to the black man and grabbed his jacket with his free hand. As he rubbed the canvas collar of the man’s duster between his thumb and finger he said, “Nice dusters. I’m guessing you and your buddies stole them.”
“Fuck you!”
“No matter.” Jason shrugged his shoulders once and pulled the trigger. The hammer of the pistol clicked once, twice and then a third time as Jason kept squeezing the trigger.
“Out of bullets mother-fucker!” The black guy grinned as he stepped back and snapped the shotgun shut. “Guess you won’t be killing me or my brother now will ya.”
Jason shifted his weight back to his heels and spread his arms wide as the redhead yelled. The flash made him blink and jump. But even before the shotgun backfired and exploded, he knew that he wasn’t going to die. He was on the righteous path. That was the only explanation. It had to be. There was no way a guy could squeeze off two full clips from an assault rifle and not hit a man standing out in the open less than twenty feet away.
It was almost comical. Before the barrel and stock exploded, Avon’s brother was standing behind the open trunk with the shotgun braced against his hip. Afterwards he was stretched out over the bumper, halfway in the trunk with most of his stomach and hip blown out.
Jason dropped his head and huffed out a giggle as he grabbed the rear fender for support. The clean lines of the world around him were starting to blur and fade. But that wasn’t going to stop him. He staggered over and scooped up the pistol the one man dropped a few feet from the car. He checked the clip. A weary moment later he rolled Avon over on to his back and was about to shoot him in the face.
“Wait!” the big redhead yelled. Jason glanced over as the redhead climbed to his feet and grabbed the can of gasoline. “I want to burn that son-of-a-bitch.”
Avon wasn’t conscious, but he was alive. Every few seconds he would twist at the waist and moan in pain. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. It told the world that he could still feel pain. As Jason stood back and swayed, the redhead poured gasoline all over Avon. A second later the blaze sucked in the surrounding air as the man’s shrill scream echoed through the streets. It was the only one he got out.
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