Fracked

by Campbell, Mark

  “Oh no…” John muttered as his heart broke and his face sunk. He slowly grabbed his gun…

  Lucy didn’t move.

  He took a nervous swallow and pointed the gun towards her as his eyes started to tear and a lump formed in the back of his throat.

  “Lucy…? Are you alright girl?” he called out hoarsely, weakly.

  Lucy growled and lowered her head as she bared her sharp teeth.

  “I’m sorry girl… I’m so sorry,” he said as salty tears rolled down his ashy cheeks. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and put her in his iron sights.

  Lucy bolted towards him, head twitching.

  Rebecca sat anxiously in the truck with her rifle, staring at the house with nervous anticipation.

  She heard two gunshots.

  “John!” she shouted. She opened the door and ran outside.

  John slowly emerged out from behind the house with his head lowered and the rifle slung at his side. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were wet.

  Rebecca slowed as soon as she saw him.

  “What happened…?” she asked as she stepped towards him.

  He looked at her and simply shook his head.

  “It’s Lucy…” he said.

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. She tried to go around him and get to the back yard just to see.

  John held up his hand and stopped her.

  “Don’t,” he said weakly. “You don’t want to see that… Just trust me. Let’s just go inside, get what we need, and go.”

  Rebecca looked down and nodded, sniffling.

  The couple sluggishly made their way up the steps to the front porch.

  John stopped on the steps and looked at the cobblestone well with a frown.

  The well had a strange, oily black film around its base.

  Rebecca opened the front door, stopped, and turned towards him.

  “When we get in there, don’t turn on the water,” John warned without looking away from the well.

  Rebecca turned away from him and entered the house.

  John followed.

  Everything inside was just like he remembered it; the lights were on, the television was playing quietly in the living room, and the refrigerator was humming softly from the kitchen. It was hard to believe that the world outside had changed so suddenly.

  Yet there he stood in the foyer with his wife, both covered in blood.

  “I’ll go upstairs and get us some clothes,” Rebecca said listlessly as she started trudging up the old wooden stairs.

  “I’ll get the food,” John said as he slung the rifle over his shoulder and made his way into the kitchen.

  Inside the dim kitchen, John grabbed the plastic garbage bin and carelessly dumped the contents on the floor. He opened the pantry and started tossing every canned good he came across into the bin. He wasn’t sure what to take, but he knew that canned goods were essential. He grabbed a case of bottled water off of the pantry floor, broke the pack, and dumped the plastic water bottles into the bin. He even added a few boxes of crackers and some snacks for good measure.

  The bin was almost full to the brim.

  He started to walk out of the kitchen but stopped when he realized what he was forgetting.

  John opened one of the cutlery drawers and tossed in a can opener.

  Just as he was about to turn and leave, he glanced at the fridge and frowned, thinking.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath.

  He walked to the fridge, opened the door, and tossed a six-pack of beer into the bin.

  John closed the refrigerator door and looked across the bar into the living room.

  The San Antonio news broadcast was playing.

  Curious, John sat the bin down in the foyer and walked into the living room. He turned the volume up and listened.

  “–eagerly looking forward to the heated rivalry as the Spurs take on the Heat later this week,” the anchorman said with a smile. “That’s all from the locker room, back to you in the studio, Gina.”

  The image on the screen switched to an attractive Latino woman in her early thirties. She smiled at the camera.

  “Thank you, Richard,” Gina said. “We now go live to the field where Lisa Reynolds has new information about the chemical spill in the south of our viewing area. Lisa, what have you been hearing on the ground?”

  The image switched to a young white woman wearing an orange safety vest. Behind her, traffic was gridlocked and the drivers looked frustrated.

  “Yes, Gina, TXDOT has informed us that the interstate may not reopen for quite some time, definitely hampering weekend plans for beachgoers and making life difficult for the residents of the small ranching communities trapped within the spill’s quarantine zone. Due to the volatile nature of the toxin, hazmat teams and first responds have been forced to temporally pull back for their own safety. The spill quarantine zone radius has been extended for ten miles in all directions out of an abundance of caution. Meanwhile, federal officials have not commented at this time on the–”

  John heard a helicopter outside and immediately muted the television. He walked towards the window and looked outside…

  A black helicopter was hovering over the pick-up truck with its searchlight centered on it.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” John muttered as he peered through the blinds.

  The helicopter suddenly centered it’s searchlight on the living room window.

  John covered his eyes and stumbled away from the window.

  “John!” Rebecca called from upstairs.

  “Becky?!” he shouted back.

  He turned around and ran upstairs as fast as he could, knocking down his trash bin of supplies in the process.

  The upstairs hallway was narrow and led towards the master bedroom, two guest bedrooms, and a small bathroom. Photographs and paintings covered the walls.

  John made his way into the master bedroom and stopped as he looked at his wife, breathing frantically.

  Rebecca was staring at the bay window with her hands cupped over her mouth. She was backed all the way against the bed. On top of the bed lay two suitcases stuffed with clothes, jewelry, and some old family photographs.

  “What’s wrong?!” he asked.

  She looked at him with a pale expression and pointed at the window.

  “Do you see what’s out there?!” she asked.

  “Yeah… I saw it,” he said gloomily. “They know we’re inside.”

  “But why are they doing this? With everything going on, why are they chasing us?!” she asked.

  “I wish I knew…” he said.

  Rebecca stared sobbing.

  John frowned and went to her side, embracing her.

  She held onto him tightly, squeezing him.

  Something loud approached from outside, diesel engine rumbling.

  “What’s that?” Rebecca asked as she stifled her tears and looked up at John.

  John shook his head.

  “Trouble, I reckon,” he said. “Stay here.”

  He kissed the top of her head and walked towards the bay window to take a look.

  Rebecca followed.

  John looked outside and felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach.

  An armored vehicle was parked in front of the house. It had a gun turret on the roof and no identifying marks, flags, or emblems. It had a row of high-powered lights along the front and every light was pointed towards the house.

  The helicopter circled the house overhead.

  The armored vehicle’s speaker crackled.

  “Attention,” the voice over the speaker boomed. “This is the United States National Guard. You’ve been exposed to a toxic agent. We’re here to take you to safe place and give you medical treatment. Step outside with your hands in the air. We are here to help you.”

  Rebecca and John exchanged an uneasy glance.

  “Do you believe them?” John asked.

  “No,” she replied coldly.

  “Me neither,”
John said with a scowl.

  “Do you think they’ll go away if we just stay inside?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied in a low voice.

  “What do we do…?” she asked.

  John turned and looked at her rifle on the bed. He turned his attention back out the window.

  “Grab your gun.”

  He cut his sentence short as soon as he saw a solider crawl up into the gun turret’s seat.

  The gunner pointed the weapon up towards the bay window.

  “GET DOWN!” John shouted as he grabbed her.

  They dropped to the floor seconds before the gunner fired.

  Every window along the top floor shattered as the heavy artillery punched through the wall.

  Glass shards and chunks of wood rained down all around John and Rebecca as they stayed on the floor and kept their heads covered. The ceiling fan fell onto the bed and pictures tumbled off of the wall.

  The gunner lowered his weapon and ran a line of fire along the first floor of the house, destroying the porch, shattering the windows, and reducing the front door to splinters.

  After passing a line of fire along both floors of the house one more time, the gunner stopped and turned the weapon towards the pick-up truck and fired.

  The pick-up truck erupted into a fireball and was reduced to burning scrap.

  The back of the armored vehicle opened and six soldiers wearing black tactical uniforms hopped out with their rifles ready.

  “Search the house! They’re in there somewhere!” the soldier manning the gun turret ordered.

  The soldiers split into two groups; three entered the front door while three ran towards the backdoor.

  The helicopter turned off its searchlight and veered away from the scene.

  Rebecca looked at John, terrified.

  “Hide!” John said.

  “But they’ll find me, John!”

  “Just trust me! Go hide! Don’t shoot him!” he insisted, pointing towards the closet. “I want him alive.”

  Rebecca nodded and crawled towards the closet. She got inside and tucked her knees against her chest.

  “It’s about time I got some damn answers…” John muttered to himself.

  Downstairs, the three soldiers who entered the front door were already in position; one soldier stayed outside and covered the porch, one stood in the foyer, and the other started walking towards the stairs.

  “I’m going to check the second floor,” the soldier said as he brought the rifle to his shoulder and started climbing the stairs.

  “Copy,” the soldier standing in the foyer replied.

  The soldier carefully scanned the upstairs hallway and heard something rustle from the direction of the master bedroom. He narrowed his eyes and pushed the door open.

  As soon as he stepped inside the bedroom, he noticed that the closet was cracked open…

  “Gotcha,” he said with a smug smirk. He walked towards the closet with his weapon ready.

  Behind him, John crawled out from underneath the bed and picked up a large piece of glass from the shattered window.

  Just as the soldier reached for the closet door, John grabbed him from behind and pushed the shard of glass against the front of the man’s throat.

  “If you move or try to call for help, this piece of glass goes in your goddamn windpipe,” John whispered in the man’s ear.

  The solider paled and immediately froze.

  “Toss your weapon on the bed,” John ordered.

  The soldier hesitated, but complied. He tossed the rifle over onto the bed.

  “Who are you working for?” John asked.

  “The United States National Guard!”

  John pushed the shard into the man’s neck just enough to draw a bead of blood.

  The soldier hissed in pain and squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Next time you lie, you die,” John whispered. “Save your fucking bullshit. Who are you working for?”

  The soldier hesitated…

  John pushed the glass in a little deeper.

  “Who do you think?” the soldier replied in pain as blood started to trickle down his throat.

  “What about the people wearing the white hazmat suits?” John asked. “They claim they work for the CDC. Are they telling the truth?”

  The solider chuckled.

  “Something funny?” John asked as he held the glass against the man’s throat.

  “You’re ballsy, but you’re fucking naïve,” the solider said.

  The soldier struggled weakly, but John kept the glass pressed against the man’s throat.

  “Look, just let me go,” the soldier said. “You’re never getting out of this alive. It doesn’t matter who you work for. After what you did, do you honestly think we’ll let you walk out of here? You’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “Shut up,” John said as he pressed the glass a little deeper. “Why are you even bothering to follow us? Don’t you have bigger problems?”

  “Why do you think? You’re the one who made this personal. You ran one of our vans off of the road and killed one of our men,” the solider said.

  Confused, John shook his head and furrowed his brows.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” John asked.

  The soldier scoffed.

  “Don’t play stupid. The helicopter saw you,” the soldier said with a resentful scowl.

  John thought about the traffic accident they came across.

  “He was infected you moron,” John said. “We didn’t run anything off of the road. All we did was cross paths. He attacked us!”

  “Bullshit. He was a good fucking man and the best squad leader we had, but you and that bitch killed him in cold blood!”

  “What’s the holdup? Is everything okay up there?” the soldier standing downstairs in the foyer asked.

  Before the soldier could respond, John slid the shard of glass into the man’s throat, broke it in half, and stepped back.

  The soldier gurgled on his own blood and collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath and grabbing his throat. Blood spurted out from in-between his fingers as his complexion grew ghostly pale. After a few moments, he collapsed on the floor.

  The soldier in the foyer heard the thud as his comrade hit the ground. He cautiously gripped his rifle as he made a slow ascent up the stairs.

  “Toliver?” the soldier called as he brought the rifle to his shoulder and scanned the upstairs hallway.

  The bathroom door was cracked open.

  “This shit isn’t funny. Say something!” the soldier said as sweat beaded across his forehead.

  The bathroom door slammed shut.

  The soldier aimed at the bathroom door.

  Rebecca emerged from the master bedroom and fired a three-round burst into the soldier’s head.

  The soldier’s head snapped to the side and his helmet flew off of his head as the wall beside him got spritzed with grey matter and chunks of hair. His limp corpse cartwheeled backwards down the stairs and collapsed into a heap in the middle of the hardwood foyer.

  The other three soldiers ran through the house towards the sound of the gunshots, knocking over furniture and knickknacks in their wake.

  The fourth soldier stepped inside and stood by the front door, gun ready.

  Moving as a group, the three soldiers hurried up the steps with their weapons pointed towards the master bedroom door.

  John kicked the bathroom door open and fired at the soldiers.

  The soldiers jolted with each shot and their fingers tightened around their triggers. They inadvertently fired wildly at the ceiling and into each other. They tumbled backwards down the stairs and collapsed in a bloody heap next to their fallen partner.

  The soldier standing at the front door panicked and pointed his rifle up the stairs towards John.

  Rebecca leaned over the banister and fired.

  The soldier was flung back and fell through the porch’s tattered mesh screen. He collapsed on the dirt and lay motionles
s.

  The whole house reeked of gunpowder and the coppery stench of warm blood.

  “Is that all of them?” Rebecca asked as she looked at John through the smoky air.

  “I think so,” John said as he stepped out of the bathroom and sent shells skittering down the steps. He looked at her with tired eyes and nodded. “You handled yourself well.”

  Rebecca wiped the sweat off of her forehead with her forearm and let out an exhausted sigh.

  “Yeah, well, we’re just lucky they weren’t really from the military otherwise we probably wouldn’t be breathing right now,” she said with a frown.

  “True,” John admitted as he walked down the stairs. He saw one of the soldiers in the foyer sluggishly crawling towards one of the rifles on the floor. “These clowns are just a bunch of hired thugs with a vendetta.”

  John stopped, pointed his weapon at the soldier’s head, and fired.

  Rebecca flinched and looked away.

  The soldier jolted and collapsed back on the floor in a pool of blood, motionless.

  John turned and looked at her as he slowly lowered his weapon.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded without any expression.

  “Go grab the suitcases. I’ll get the food back together,” John said. “We’ll take their vehicle and get the hell out of here.”

  Rebecca disappeared into the master bedroom without saying a single word.

  John stepped over the corpses and picked up the overturned garbage bin with the intention to pick up whatever canned goods were still salvageable off of the floor. Most of the cans were riddled with bullet holes.

  The soldier manning the armored vehicle’s turret started firing at the front door.

  John leapt backwards and tripped over the bodies of the deceased. He landed hard on the hardwood floor and crawled away from the heavy gunfire.

  The gunfire tore the plastic bin to pieces and reduced the doorway into nothing more than wooden slivers. Debris started to fall from the ceiling and the small light fixture that hung from the top of the foyer came crashing down at John’s feet.

  “Distract him!” Rebecca shouted from the top of the staircase with her rifle.

  “Becky, don’t!” John shouted as he cowered at the base of the stairs, dodging pieces of wood and coughing on plumes of dust as the gunner fired into the foyer.