by James Hunt
The husband tried to keep his family behind him, shielding them from harm. They were all shaking. The husband was the first to stand and speak.
“P-please. We don’t w-want any trouble,” he said.
The smoke from Frankie’s gun barrel rose in the air next to him. He holstered his pistol, smiling. His left hand went for the blade on his side. He ran his fingers across the flat end of the steel right up to the tip.
The husband stepped forward, his hands trying to form fists. Frankie toyed with him, jerking forward to scare the man, keeping him on his toes. Each time Frankie moved, the wife and daughters behind him let out a yelp and with each yelp Frankie let out a throaty laugh.
When the husband finally made a move for the blade Frankie knocked his hand out of the way and thrust the five inches of steel into the husband’s stomach.
Frankie twisted and turned the knife in the husband’s gut. The husband’s hands groped Frankie, grasping onto him and trying to hold on to the last moments of life he had left.
Blood dribbled down the husband’s chin and then he collapsed on the carpet, coughing up blood, clutching the knife wound and trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands.
The wife crawled to him with tears running down her face. She held his face in her hands. His eyes stared blankly up at her. His lungs gasped for breath until finally the gasps stopped, his body lying motionless before her.
Drops of blood from Frankie’s knife dripped on the carpet next to him. He wiped the blood from the blade onto the bed sheets, smearing red stains at the foot of the bed.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty bunch,” Frankie said.
Frankie’s ragged black hair hung in mangled strands across his face. The sweat from a week’s worth without showering had let the grime on his skin build up and a strong odor surrounded his body. He pointed at the oldest daughter, Mary, who was no older than sixteen.
“You. Come here,” he said.
“No!” the mother cried, rushing back to her daughters.
Frankie moved slowly toward them. The daughters retreated further into the corner of the room by the sink and bathroom. All three daughters were crying, their mother spreading her arms wide, offering her body as the only protection she had to give.
“Come here,” Frankie repeated.
Frankie tossed the mother aside and seized Mary’s arm. The girl flailed as he threw her onto the bed covered with the bloodstains of her father.
“Wait!” the mother screamed.
Frankie pointed the pistol at the youngest daughter, Erin, and the mother stopped.
“Wait,” she said calmly. “Take me.”
She slowly unbuttoned her blouse, her fingers trembling and fumbling with each button. She walked slowly to him, taking her shirt off.
“Take me,” she repeated.
Frankie looked her up and down. The gun still pointed at Erin, while Mary lay on her back, frozen in fear on the bed.
“Just let them go,” the mother said.
She was standing directly in front of him now. Frankie ran the tip of his blade gently across the mother’s exposed flesh.
“Take off your pants,” Frankie ordered.
She undid the clip on her skirt and let it slide down her legs onto the ground. She kicked the skirt off of her bare feet. Small spasms shook her body as she stood there awkwardly in front of him.
Frankie grabbed her by the hair and threw her on the bed next to her daughter. The mother tried to push Mary off the bed, but Frankie pointed the pistol at her.
“No. She watches,” Frankie said smiling.
Frankie’s jeans dropped to the floor and he climbed on top of the mother. She turned her head to her daughters, their faces red and wet with tears. Her face was calm. She slowly mouthed, “Close your eyes.”
The mattress rocked back and forth. Frankie’s grunts were loud and sharp. He kept his head down, his face buried into the mother’s neck, forcing his body onto hers.
The door to the motel room still hung open. Outside the sounds of gunfire and screams echoed in the distance.
The mom saw the open door and used her free hand to grab Mary’s arm. Mary opened her eyes, focusing only on her mother’s face. The mother made a quick nod toward the door and pointed to her other daughters crouching on the floor.
Mary nodded and gently crawled off the bed. She rushed over to Erin, and her middle sister Nancy, and grabbed the two of them.
The mother wrapped her arms around Frankie’s back, her lower lip quivering as she coaxed him on.
“Yes,” she whispered
“You like that, bitch?”
Frankie thrust his body harder into her and the mother cried in pain as she watched her daughters slip out the door.
The three girls ran down the concrete sidewalk outside the rooms, ducking below the windows when they saw the doors open and the sounds of other bikers inside.
Mary led the pack, checking each open door they passed, making sure it was safe. The only one that kept glancing back to where they’d left their mother was Erin.
All of them were barefoot and once they made it to the parking lot Mary picked up Erin and they sprinted across the cracked pavement, avoiding the line of bikes parked near the front.
They made it onto Main Street and ran inside the first store they came across. The windows were smashed to Murth’s Grocery and inside a body lay across the tile, a trail of blood following it from the street.
Hank Murth was on his back, gasping for breath when the three girls came in. The bell at the top of the glass door jingled when they entered. The girls gasped at the sight of the body.
“Mary, what are we going to do? What about Mom?” Nancy said.
Mary whipped around, her face angry, and grabbed Nancy by the shoulders and shook her violently.
“Will you shut up?” Mary screamed.
Nancy broke down. She collapsed to the floor, weeping.
“I’m sorry, Nancy. I just…” Mary said.
The crack in Mary’s voice brought on sobs of her own. She had no idea where she was going, what she needed to do to protect her sisters, or how to help her mother. She closed her eyes, trying to get the picture of her mother lying on the bed out of her mind.
“In the back,” Hank said.
Hank was lifting a bloody, shaking hand, pointing behind him. His breaths were short, and sporadic. His lungs wheezed with effort, trying to stay alive.
“There’s a… room… in the back… stay there,” Hank said.
The back of the store was dimly lit.
“It’s… Safe,” Hank said.
Mary was out of options. She grabbed her sisters and headed to the back of the store. A small sliver of light came from under the crack of a door. Mary turned the doorknob and pushed it open.
It must have been a room where the old man was living. There was a small cot on the far side of the room when they entered. A desk with a kerosene lamp on it, mirror, sink, and closet door filled the rest of the tiny space.
Mary locked the door behind her. Nancy picked Erin up and put her on the bed, while Mary paced back and forth.
“What do we do now?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t know,” Mary said.
“When do we get to see Mom and Dad again?” Erin asked.
Mary froze in the middle of the room. Nancy looked back at Erin, whose legs swung on the edge of the bed.
Erin’s eyes had the uncertainty and naivetés only a four year old could have.
“Erin, did you see what happened?” Mary asked.
“I saw Daddy fall down and hold his stomach like he had a tummy ache, and then I saw Mom change her clothes when that man was talking to you,” Erin said.
“Daddy did fall down, but it wasn’t because he had a tummy ache. Erin, you won’t see Daddy again.”
“Why?”
“Dad’s… dead. Do you know what that means?”
“ Yes. Kimmy Sears in my class said her dad died of cancer and that she only gets to go and vi
sit his grave. Is that what we have to do now?”
Nancy started crying. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently from her sobs.
Mary pulled Nancy to her. She wrapped her arms around her sister, holding her and stroking her hair.
“Yes, that’s what we have to do now,” Mary said.
The crash of glass hitting the floor spun all of them around to the door of the room. Mary dimmed the lamp.
“Shh,” Mary said.
Mary unlocked the door and cracked it open, trying to see what happened.
Two bikers entered, crunching pieces of glass under their boots.
“Well, look here, Pete. This old bastard’s still alive,” Don said.
“Resilient bag of bones isn’t he?” Pete asked.
“Please…” Hank said.
One of the bikers pulled his pistol out. The hammer cocked back and he pointed it right at the old man’s face. Mary covered her mouth, her eyes watering. The biker squeezed the trigger and the gunshot blasted through Hank’s head. His body went limp. Mary gasped.
“Hey, did you hear that?” Pete asked.
“Hear what?”
“It came from the back.”
Mary’s heart beat faster. She retreated back into the room and told Erin and Nancy to hide under the cot. Mary ran to the closet and crammed herself inside. The closet was too small for her to close all of the way, so she had to leave a sliver of it open.
“It was in here,” Pete said.
The door creaked open. Through the crack she could see the barrel of their guns poking around the room.
“I didn’t hear anything, Pete,” Don said.
Pete let out a whistle.
“The old man didn’t have much, did he? Look at this shit hole,” Pete said.
Each step of their boots around the tiny room caused Mary to shudder. She breathed as softly as she could, scared to even move. She clutched the clothes hanging around her with both hands, making sure they stayed motionless.
She could only make out parts of their faces. One of the bikers turned and she noticed a flaming devil on the back of his jacket. The devil had his head thrown back, laughing.
“C’mon, Pete, let’s get out of here. The way this place looks it was probably rats,” Don said.
“All right.”
Mary watched both of them leave through the cracked door of the closet. Once she couldn’t hear the sound of their boots anymore she exhaled. Nancy and Erin crawled out from under the bed.
“C’mon, we need to get out of here,” Mary said.
They rushed out the back door of the grocery. They spilled out onto a small sidewalk next to a massive field of tall grass, five feet high. Mary led them behind the Main Street buildings, sprinting toward the end. Once they reached the edge of the buildings, Mary slowed down.
She peered her head around the brick wall and saw bikers smashing the storefront windows, carrying people to the middle of the street and executing them on their knees. Then two bikers spotted her.
“Hey!”
Mary grabbed Nancy and Erin’s hand. She pulled them along, searching for a place to hide behind the stores. She jiggled the handle of each door she passed. They were all locked.
The shouts from the bikers were getting closer. She didn’t know where to go. She didn’t know where to hide. She took her sisters and ran into the tall grass as far as she could and then dropped to the ground, pulling both of her sisters with her.
The grass was thick. Mary couldn’t see anything around her or between the tall brown and green blades. She kept her hand over Erin’s mouth to silence her sobs.
“Do you see them?”
“They’re not in the buildings.”
“Where’d they run off to?”
“Check the grass.”
Mary brought her finger to her lips. She hushed them both quietly. All three of their bodies were shaking. Mary covered her own mouth with her hand; afraid she might give away their spot. The voices of the bikers taunted them.
“Come out come out wherever you are.”
“We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Yeah, why don’t you come out to play?”
Mary could hear the movement of grass being swept aside and the steps of their boots on the blades, rocks, and dirt. All of a sudden she could see the grass move and then…
“Hey!” a distant voice shouted.
“What?”
The biker’s foot was only twelve inches away from Mary’s face. She looked up, but couldn’t see the man’s face through the blades of grass.
“Jake wants everybody back now. Quit jackin off over there and head to the motel.”
“All right.”
The grass shifted, but stopped as the sound of the biker’s steps faded away from her. Mary kept her hand over her and Erin’s mouth for a few more minutes until she was sure she they were gone.
Mary rolled onto her back. The grass scratched against her exposed arms and legs. Erin crawled up next to her and Nancy’s breathing was quick as she hyperventilated.
“Mary,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“What do we do now? Where do we go?”
Erin rested her head on Mary’s chest. Mary had her eyes closed and could feel the warm sun shining down on her. Her body felt tired, expended.
“Let’s just lie here a few more minutes,” Mary said.
Day 9 (Mike’s Journey)
The airport terminal was stuffy, and the springs in Mike’s cot squeaked when he rolled over. It smelled like a musty towel, but it beat lying on the ground. He pushed himself off the cot and rested his boots on the floor. He’d slept with his shoes on ever since the fire at his house.
Nelson and Sean were still sleeping on their cots and the To family, Fay, and Tom were sound asleep as well.
Mike lighted a candle and weaved around the cots toward the kitchen door. He pulled his pocket watch out, running his fingers along the smooth surface before he opened it, checking the time. 7a.m. The watch snapped shut and he quietly pushed the door open and headed toward the front to meet Clarence.
Clarence sat crouched behind one of the check-in counters. He leaned up against the wall with a rifle over his lap. Whoever was on watch could see the entire front of the airport and could stay well hidden from the vantage point he had chosen.
“How was your shift?” Mike asked.
“Quiet. One guy walked by, but never came in.”
“What would you have done if he had?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Mike could see the struggle on his face. It was something Mike had experienced himself, back in his neighborhood. He tried helping. He tried giving advice, but it fell against deaf ears. When the people around you begging for help resort to strangling you, it’s time to fight back. Mike hoped that it wouldn’t come to that for Clarence.
“The longer this goes on the more desperate people will become,” Mike said.
“I know.”
Mike watched Clarence fumble the rifle awkwardly in his hands.
“You know I’ve never even fired one of these things before,” Clarence said.
“You haven’t?”
“Firearm training isn’t a part of the TSA program.”
Mike grabbed the rifle. He flipped it on its side exposing the safety lever and making sure it was clicked on and pointed away from them.
“Rule number one when handling guns. Never point it at another person unless you’re ready to pull the trigger.”
Mike brought the rifle up to his shoulder and peered through the sights, scanning the front of the building.
“When you aim you always want to bring the gun to your eyes, not the other way around. When you’re handling a rifle or shotgun keep the butt of the gun firmly tucked against your shoulder. It’ll help with the recoil when you fire. When it’s time to shoot, you want to squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it,” Mike said.
Mike handed the gun back to Clarence. Mike watched
him keep the end of the barrel away from the two of them and he brought the rifle up to his shoulder.
“And know where the safety is. You don’t want to be in a situation where you forget it’s on and when you go to squeeze the trigger nothing happens,” Mike said.