Threat Ascendant

by Brian M. Switzer

  She resumed walking and turned left, unaware of how many times she would think of that pebble in the days to come.

  76

  * * *

  As she walked, she relived the argument she had with Danny earlier that morning when he saw her preparing for her hike. The two of them had been in a thousand little spats since Tara and Tess had joined the group. Most of them originated with Tara making fun of Danny for something he did or said and Danny trying to defend himself.

  This morning had been an entirely new thing. When Danny saw she intended to go for a walk alone, he’d turned possessive and controlling- two traits he'd never exhibited before. In short, he was being a sexist jerk.

  "You have no business walking around out there by yourself," he told her.

  At first, she thought he was kidding. She fought to control her anger when she realized he was serious.

  She tried to assuage his concerns. “I have two guns and a knife. I’ll be fine.”

  "Not if you run into a herd or a crew of bad guys."

  "There's no chance I'll run into a herd. You guys have drawn every creeper within five miles out to the farm, as you well know." Danny had spent four long days with Will and Clark, running discs and drills over 1200 acres a few miles north of the quarry. The noise and commotion drew the dead in from every direction. A crew of twenty kept plenty busy putting them down as they shuffled out of the nearby pastures and woods and up the local roads. The crew put down eighty-two creatures over the four-day span.

  "And as for bad guys," she said nothing else, just patted her M4 and smiled.

  He was not mollified. "You shouldn’t go past the guard towers without someone to watch your back."

  "Why? Because I'm a woman?" Usually, accusing him of believing her to be inferior because of her sex was all it took to win the debate. He turned into a stammering fool and never recovered. That wasn't the case this time.

  "No, and I'm tired of you accusing me of being sexist. We've been back-to-back in the shit too many times for you to pretend like I don't consider you as competent and capable as most men."

  "Then what? Coy goes out by himself every freaking day, and you’ve never said boo to him. Will goes out alone, Jiri does, too. How is that different for me, except I'm a woman?"

  "It just is, you are acting like you don't understand. You know damn well how it’s different."

  And so it went, back and forth and louder and louder until Will stepped in between them. "Maybe you two want to finish his later… in private?" He tilted his head at a scrum of people who had stopped to watch them argue.

  She cursed under her breath, unaware they’d drawn a crowd.

  Will turned his attention to Danny. "Come on, boy." he snaked an arm around the younger man’s neck and led him away. "Work's waiting."

  Tara turned and glared at the little knot of folks until they dispersed and continued on with their business.

  She plodded along, enjoying the sunshine, listening to the gurgle of the river, and reliving the morning's argument. That's why she didn't hear the man approach from her rear and was unaware of him until he spoke.

  “Well, hello, Blondie. Is there any chance the carpet matches the drapes?"

  77

  * * *

  Her hand flew to the butt of her pistol out of reflex.

  "Nope!" The man snapped, freezing her with his voice. "That would be a mistake. I've got a Desert King pointed the back of your head. You wouldn't even get halfway turned around before I blew your face all over the street. And I'd hate to do that before I got a chance to see it."

  She lifted both arms and held her hands out away from her.

  "That’s a smart bitch. Let's start with the rifle. Use your right hand to take it off your shoulder. Hold it by the sling and toss it off to the side."

  She did as he said and resumed her pose with her hands away from her body.

  "Okay, now the pistol. This is important, Blondie. Use two fingers and pull it slow. If I don't like what I see, you won't be around for what happens next."

  Again, she complied with his directions.

  "You are doing real good. Now just stand there a minute. But don't move, Blondie."

  The man behind her whistled a singsong sound that rang out in the quiet of the day. She stood stock-still, willing her arms to stay put. She heard the clip-clop of an approaching horse and the footfalls of at least two more people.

  Another man spoke, this one in the nasal twang she heard often growing up in Kansas- that of an uneducated redneck. "Woo-wee, Clint! You was right- she is a looker."

  "Thanks, Mikey- tie that mule and watch her. I’m gonna frisk her and I don't want her trying anything smart."

  Tara spoke in as natural a voice as possible. "You don't need to frisk me. I've got a knife in the sheath on my waist, and no other weapons. You're welcome to them- take them and go."

  A rough hand grabbed a handful of her hair and gave it a vicious yank, jerking her neck back until she looked up at the sky. The stink of sweat, cigarettes, and filth surrounded her and hot breath filled her ear. "You don't give the instructions around here, bitch. You understand?" When she didn't answer he pulled it harder, making her gasp. "I said, do you understand?"

  She tried but couldn't keep the pain and rising panic out a voice. "Yes! Yes, I understand!"

  Clint let go of her hair but gave the back of her head a shove, making her stumble forward. "Spread your legs and put your hands out at your sides. I'm gonna check you for weapons." He put one hand on each shoulder and his stink almost overpowered her. "You stand there and don’t move. You got two guns on you and if you try anything, the boys will blow you to hell." He ran his hands around her neck and through her hair, out along each arm and down her sides. His hands moved around front and up her stomach to her breasts. He took one in each hand and squeezed hard enough to make her wince. "Got-damn boys, she's got some big titties." He cackled and pulled her back against him, grinding his erection against her butt cheeks.

  He squatted down and ran a hand down the front side of each leg and back up the rear, stopping at her butt and squeezing it like he did her breasts.

  Tara fought back tears.

  His hands followed her hips and felt around her pubic area on the outside of her jeans. He cackled again and unbuttoned her knife sheath from her belt, tossing it over with her guns. His hand plunged inside each of her pockets and dug around, pinching and caressing her thighs.

  A man behind them spoke in a flat, unfeeling voice. "Get her bag."

  He tore her backpack off her shoulder and turned it upside down, spilling the contents out on the road between their feet. He used the toe of his boot to inspect her belongings. "Couple of mags, bottled water, tampons." He yanked her hair again. "You ain’t on the rag, are you?"

  Her shoulders slumped and her eyes cast on the ground, she shook her head no.

  The flat voice behind her spoke again. "Turn her around."

  Clint grabbed her shoulder and spun her around violently even though she didn't resist. She stumbled but caught herself with her free hand. Tear blurred her vision and made it hard to focus on the men. Clint hovered nearby and glared at her with rheumy eyes. His front teeth were missing. He and Mikey were dirty, with stringy hair and scraggy goatees. They were shirtless, with sinewy muscles in their arms and flat, undefined chests.

  The third man was different. He was clean-shaven and wore his hair cut short. An enormous Fu Manchu hung down past his chin. He looked at her with hard eyes devoid of emotion. "Kind of reckless to be out here all by yourself, isn't it?"

  Tara fought to control her rising panic. "I'm not. Out here alone- I'm here with my friends. They’re well armed and could come around that corner at any time. I won’t fight you, but you guys better hurry. Grab my guns and whatever-." All her attention was on the man with the Fu-Manchu and she didn't see Clint's fist until it was too late. He punched her in the side, right over
her kidney, and the pain was exquisite. She fell in a heap, holding her side with one hand and gasping for air.

  He kicked her in the thigh. "You lyin' bitch. We been watching you since you turned the corner a mile back. All bitches are liars, ain‘t they Mikey?"

  Mikey whooped. "You called it, Clint. Kick that lying bitch again!"

  Fu Manchu spoke in an imperious voice. "No, stop. Get her up. Mike, bring me those guns."

  Clint jerked her to her feet and drove his knee into her tailbone, forcing her to stand up straight. Mike hustled over, gathered up the rifle and the Beretta, and delivered them to Fu Manchu. He examined them top to bottom in an unhurried way.

  Tara watched, in pain and feeling helpless. Her kidney throbbed with a white-hot ache and her scalp burned where Clint had pulled her hair. She had a long, bloody scrape on her right shin that she didn't remember getting and a dull ache where he kicked her thigh.

  Fu Manchu finished inspecting her guns. He peered at her, his eyes dark, pitiless pools. "These are good guns, in good shape. Did you steal them?"

  She shook her head. "No, sir." Her eyes crawled over the landscape, hoping to see Danny or Will leading an army charging to free her. She'd be happy if a couple of creepers came crashing out of the tree line along the river. Anything to take these guy's attention off her, if even for a few seconds.

  Fu Manchu wanted to know about the guns. "Where did you get them?"

  She pointed off into the distance in the opposite direction of the quarry. "Listen, guys, my group has hundreds of guns just like those, and we’re camped about a mile away. I'm sure they’d give you all the firearms and ammo you need in exchange for getting me back."

  Clint's punch was unexpected, and she took the full brunt of an overhand right. Light flared, then her cheekbone exploded in pain.

  He raged at her. "Do we look like we need your guns, bitch? We don't need anything from you. He didn't ask where you live, he asked where you got the guns. Now answer the man!"

  Mikey laughed like a loon. "Ka-POW! Nice shot, Clint. Booyah, bitch!"

  Tara's cheek went numb. She brushed her fingers over it and they came back bloody. Her face reddened and she shook with anger. She'd had enough.

  She had never hit a person in anger before the outbreak. That was not the kind of thing you did at the country club in Manhattan Kansas, or at Stanford Law School, or in the LA courthouses. Then the creepers came, and she had the good fortune to meet the guys. They taught her to fight, to throw a punch, what body parts to attack. And they taught her that most of the time, the winner of the fight was the aggressor.

  She screamed with pent-up rage and attacked. Clint’s eyes opened comically wide as she roared in and punched him in the mouth with the flat of her palm, mashing his bottom lip against his teeth. He returned the blow, but he was scrambling backward and surprised, so there was no force behind it. Her foot lashed out at his crotch; it wasn't a perfect strike, but it caused him to grimace and cover his jewels with one hand. With his arm down she saw her chance and leaped at his unprotected face. The force of her charge knocked him over and she went with him, digging furrows in his cheeks with her nails and screaming like a banshee.

  When she looked back later, she wondered if she missed her chance right then. Should she have tried to escape as he fell, instead of continuing her attack? Clint couldn't have reacted, and Mikey was out of it- struck dumb with surprise, his bottom jaw hanging down around his throat. The tree line was right there, forty feet away; after it, the river. Could she have made the trees before Fu Manchu shot her down and made it to the guard tower before they caught her? She'd never know, because rather than try to escape she tried to kill Clint.

  He writhed underneath her as she fought to control him, raining forearms down upon his face and neck. She was so focused on killing him she never saw the rifle butt that smashed against the base of her skull and knocked her into dreamless black for the next twelve hours.

  78

  * * *

  She woke up a little at a time.

  The first thing to cut through the haze was a stupendous headache. The slightest movement of her neck set off an explosion of pain and made bright lights flash before her eyes. She was so thirsty. Her throat felt dry as sandpaper and her tongue was a wooden block in her mouth. She felt a piercing pain in her side and a duller ache on her left cheekbone.

  Most worrisome, though, was her inability to touch her injuries. When her brain told her hands to move they didn't respond. She wiggled her toes but couldn’t move her fingers. An overwhelming desire to see her hands struck her. She raised her eyelids bit by bit at a time, making her head pound anew each time. With her eyes opened all the way, she looked down and found her hands clasped as if in prayer at her waist. A yellow piece of twine had been wrapped around them several times and pulled painfully tight. It dug deep into her wrists; both hands were red and the tips of her fingers had turned white. She tried to moan but it came out a croak.

  She rolled her eyes, taking in her surroundings; she was afraid of the stampede of pain she'd receive if she moved her neck to look around. Laying on her side in the dirt, she was bound at the wrist and ankles, her back against a tree trunk. A cage or fence made of a thick-gauge wire hemmed her in and a rope around her waist tied her to the tree.

  A beat up pair of work boots appeared outside her pen and Clint growled at her in a voice filled with fury. "So the bitch is waking up. That's good. That's top-fucking-notch, you little bitch. I've been waiting for you."

  His words and the hate in his voice filled her with terror. He made a throwing motion and a full bottle of water struck her in the head. The pain was monumental and she gagged, certain she'd throw up. She rolled away from him and landed face first in the dirt. Lifting her neck caused another burst of pain and more nausea, and she retched. She collapsed back into the dirt, rolling again so her back was to him. Except he was no longer on the other side of the fence, now he was right next to her, his stink filling her nostrils. She tried to roll away again, but the rope grew taut and stopped her. He bent close until their noses almost touched, then produced her knife with an evil laughed.

  He squatted like a catcher and glared at her. "I'm gonna free your hands because the boss says we have to let you have something to drink Besides, I want your hands free later." He gibbered and leaned over to cut her bindings, giving her a good view of his face. Clint was a mess. His bottom lip had swollen to twice its normal size, and he had fresh scabs the width of a fingernail that ran from his cheekbone to his chin on each side of his face. Puncture marks marred his forehead like multiple snake bites. His eyes boiled with rage and hate.

  He finished with her hands and a few moments after the rope fell away, they began to tingle. He stabbed at her with the knife, stopping less than an inch from her right eye. "I wanted to take your eyes for what you did. Look at my face." His hand trembled as if he were fighting the urge to follow through with his threat.

  Tara had nowhere to go- she had pulled back away from the tree as far as her rope would allow. If she moved her head forward, she would impale her eye on her own blade.

  Clint drew a ragged breath and pulled the knife back. "But the boss says no permanent damage." He put it away in her sheath he wore on his belt, then kicked dirt at her. "But you'd be surprised at how much you can hurt a person without leaving permanent damage." He gave her a terrifying smile that bore no humor, just hate and danger. "I'm gonna put my brand on you tonight, bitch. I'm gonna make you my girlfriend. And Mikey can't wait to get a mouthful of those big old titties." He cackled and booted another pile of dirt at her. "See you tonight, girlfriend."

  79

  * * *

  The next afternoon found Tara laying in the dirt, curled in a ball next to the tree. Her captors had set up a rudimentary

  campsite closer to the river and she had her back to it. She ran the faces of people she'd known at different times in her life through her mind, trying to occupy it with something plea
sant. Her arms and breasts ached like rotting teeth. Clint avoided causing permanent damage to her face, but he made up for it with the punches and kicks he landed in other places.

  She heard the metallic clank made when someone entered her cage sounded. She whimpered and scampered as far as she could into a sitting position with her back against the tree trunk. Her fear subsided a little when she saw Fu Manchu approaching with a bottle of water in one hand and a steaming bowl in the other.

  He set them on the ground in front of her without speaking. The bowl looked to hold soup. She grabbed it frantically and ignored the spoon, drinking straight from the bowl. It was mostly broth with some egg and a few vegetables floating on top but she guzzled it with greed. It was the first food she'd had since breakfast the day before. Her jailers cooked three meals a day. The odors wafted into her cage, at first causing her to stare out wistfully at the cook pot and later making her stomach rumble.

  Fu Manchu gazed at her with speaking or moving to leave. She swallowed the last of the broth and licked the bowl clean, then looked up at him with hopeful eyes.

  He shook his head. "That's all we have. If there is any supper left after we're through tonight I'll get some to you."

  She handed him the bowl and spoon, pulled her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them.

  He stood there with her dirty dishes in hand and observed her with those flat, emotionless eyes.