by Darrell Bain
There, in what remained of the backyard, he spotted something almost as precious as a weapon, if not more so. Growing from the center of a little covered gazebo was a well, or what looked like a well. He had to hope that it was. What water they could salvage from the house wouldn't last long. Beyond the gazebo, and almost to the line of displacement where mown lawn gave way to tall grass, brush and occasional trees stood a small outbuilding, almost large enough to be called a barn. Satisfied, he hefted the old shotgun, and descended the stairs. Exploration of that building could wait awhile; he still wanted to find out where the shots had come from. That action was a mistake, but perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference in the long run.
* * * *
Roscoe Billing, one of Burley's men, had just entered the circle of clearing around the two-story house when he heard the screams of the girls as the cat attacked. If it had only been female screams, he might have intervened, but interspersed with them, he heard Bucks’ gravelly commands. He sprinted from the opposite direction to the small, barn-like building and used his rifle butt to batter in the back door. From there, he ran to one of the small front windows and took up a stance, peeking cautiously past the aluminum frame. Eventually, he spotted someone peering down from an upstairs window, but he didn't think he was seen.
Through most of the rest of the morning, Roscoe waited patiently for something to happen. He listened and watched, excited at the prospect of reporting to Burley that here in this suddenly changed world were women, a goodly number of them. He wasn't particularly interested himself. He had been incarcerated so long that even the sight of nubile young females spotted occasionally through the windows didn't excite him that much. Burley would be interested though. And if he could no longer have Burley, well, there were always the niggers, helpless now. That prospect appealed to him.
Later that day, he heard a second male voice, an elderly sounding one, but with a tinge of command in it. Burley and Jason had told him to get back the same day, but he didn't think they would mind if he were late, not if he could bring a captive back, and especially if he brought back news of women in quantity, almost unprotected. He waited.
* * * *
Cecil McMasters was the best sight Bucks had seen since the last chicken fried steak sitting alongside a pile of French fries and cool crispy coleslaw salad that Jenny had fixed for him the day before he took his horse out to check fence lines and got into this godawful fix. McMasters appeared at the door with a scope-sighted rifle under his arm, and Bucks knew immediately that he had been the one he had heard firing.
Bucks was careful at first, keeping the old double-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms, not quite pointing it at him, but ready to use it if necessary. He listened as McMasters told him quickly that he had killed the cat, but the girl was as dead as ever a person could be.
“Sorry I couldn't get here sooner, but I was way off when it happened,” McMasters said.
“I'm sorry too,” Bucks agreed. “What the shit is going on? I was late coming in from the range when all of a sudden there was some thunder and lightning and I was out in the middle of nowhere. The same sort of animal that got the girl killed my partner too."
“I don't know what happened,” McMasters said. “I was out hunting coyotes when it happened to me. Where did the girls come from?” He nodded his head at Doris and the teenage girls crowding forward, hopeful that rescue had come.
Doris had just finished explaining to Bucks and he repeated the information. “They were a girl's baseball team, heading back to Huntsville. Their bus overturned. Christ almighty, this is crazy!"
McMasters lowered his rifle. He propped the stock on the carpet and held the barrel in his left hand. He had no more idea than the cowboy of what was going on, but he was beginning to get an idea. He glanced at the covey of girls and decided not to voice his suspicions yet.
“Is every thing ok here, now?"
“For the time being,” Bucks said. “We haven't been outside yet, but I think there is a well out back, and there's a barn or something too. There's food in the kitchen, but the plumbing is starting to stop up."
“Food, you say? Let's eat and then compare notes. I'm hungry enough to eat a bear. And I've seen one, by the way. A big sucker too."
“Just what we need,” Bucks said. He led the way to the kitchen. Doris and the girls trailed behind.
McMasters turned to face them. “Ladies, why don't you let me get a little food in my belly, and speak to the gentleman here, then we can decide what we're going to do."
Bucks and McMasters retired to the kitchen. McMasters opened a can of pork and beans, the first thing he found in the pantry, and wolfed them down while he told Bucks of his own adventures. He made the same mistake as Bucks, giving no immediate thought to the outbuilding, but there was no way he could have known. He was still learning to cope with the New World, and the next lesson would come hard.
Doris left the two men talking in the kitchen, while she tried to assure the girls that with two armed men on hand they would be safe; she then wandered toward the back door. The water from the ice trays had only partially slackened her thirst, and like Bucks, she had spotted the gazebo with what she thought was a well in the center of it. It was still daylight, and she checked carefully through the partially opened back door and saw nothing threatening. And McMasters had said he had killed the long fanged tiger. Surely there could be only one of the beasts, and it was dead now. Leaving the door open, she walked quickly to the gazebo and peered down into the raised brick circle in the center. Sure enough, it was a well, and her spirits lifted. She had been so crazed with thirst the last couple of days that the well appeared to her like a gift from heaven. She was still staring down into the opening, where ten feet down water glistened darkly. It was an ornamental well, of course, and as she was thinking of just how they should rig a bucket and rope to draw the water out, she felt the cold muzzle of a rifle dig into her backbone. “Freeze,” she heard a voice whisper. “Don't make a sound."
* * *
Chapter Six
Darla and Brent peeked cautiously through the undergrowth at the apparently deserted rest stop where their own vehicles still stood among the big rigs as if simply waiting for road repairs to be completed before resuming their journey. Jezak, followed by Alice, eased up beside them.
“See anything?” Jezak asked, speaking in a low voice.
“No, and I don't hear anything, either,” Brent said. He glanced back at the other three members of the band, where evening shadows picked out beads of sweat and dried blood on hands and faces, trophies from briar scratches and insect bites.
Brent was having second thoughts about trying for the gulf. If the rest of the journey was anything like the few miles they had attempted today before turning back, he doubted they would ever make it. The growth was simply too thick. He had unconsciously assumed that despite the wilderness surrounding the rest stop, the rest of the countryside would be much the same as he remembered it; a mix of ranches and farms and little one-horse towns, with only stretches of thick woods. He hadn't appreciated that they had begun their journey in the flood plain of the Trinity River and in an era where no drainage or levees existed. He brushed at a haze of mosquitoes and gnats hovering around his head, thinking that if this was what the pioneers had had to put up with, it was a wonder that the country had ever been settled.
“It'll be getting dark pretty soon,” Jezak reminded him
“I know. Wait here and I'll go on in.” Brent didn't really want to assume the point. He was basically a shy, retiring man, but his was the kind of courage seen in warfare, where often the most improbable of heroic deeds are performed by the most unlikely of candidates. If I just knew why those shots were fired, he thought. Well, only one way to find out. He felt sick and shaky and had to force his feet to move.
“Be careful,” Jezak whispered from behind him as he left the concealment of the brush and began creeping forward.
Brent advanced cautiously, trying t
o keep the tail of the rigs to his front as the best cover available. He passed his own van; display racks of western wear still hung forlornly on the bar across the back compartment, then past Darla's little compact car.
The first rig was empty and silent, but that told him nothing; it might have belonged to Jezak for all he knew. He crept along the side of the second, gripping his pistol with fingers that were slick with sweat. He was just getting ready to risk a peek in the cab, when from behind him came the sound of three shots in rapid succession, a short scream, then the rapid flat slapping of shoes hitting tarmac. He whirled, weapon ready.
Alice and Darla came running as if the devil himself was after them and bounced against the side of the rig before they could halt their terrified flight. Jezak came slower, halting every few steps to glance fearfully over his shoulder.
“Wolves!” Darla gasped. “Oh Goddamn, the biggest wolves in the world.” She held her own little pistol in a death grip, pointing back toward the woods. It shook in her grasp like a hand vibrator going at top speed.
Without noticing, Brent put his arm around her, then suddenly became aware of how small and slight she was. It was the first time he had touched her, other than a casual meeting of hands.
“Where are they? Is anyone hurt?"
“We're ok,” Jezak said, backing up to join them. “I heard a noise and looked behind us in time. I got one of them and the rest ran when they heard the shot. Biggest damn wolf I ever saw. Or heard of,” he added. Brent noticed that Jezac didn't seem to be overly excited, but more curious than anything. He hoped his own countenance appeared the same but doubted that it did.
“We'd better get inside somewhere...” Brent began. He was interrupted by a faint moan coming from the cab of the rig. He climbed onto the steps until he could see inside.
The woman might have had a pretty face once, but it was hard to tell. Both eyes were blacked, streaks of coagulated blood ran from both nostrils down to puffed and split lips, and there were several gouges like a heavy ring might have made behind a balled fist. The door of the cab was locked from the inside.
“Bob, there's a woman in here,” Brent called down to Jezak. “Looks like she's been beat-up. Give me that tire iron from my bag. I'm going to have to break the window."
Jezak handed it up. “I'll check the other rigs. You girls stay close.” Brent nodded. He had forgotten his original caution at the sight of the battered woman.
It took several strokes from the tire iron to break the window and poke a hole large enough for him to reach inside and unlock the door. He handed the tool back down to Darla, then quickly checked the woman for broken bones. There didn't seem to be any. He tugged at her lower limbs, surprised at how heavy an inert body could be.
“Alice, I'll need a hand here. Catch her legs when I bring her out. Darla, go see where Bob is. Be careful."
Darla averted her face from the injured woman. A friend of hers had once been beaten by her boyfriend, but nothing like this. She moved away, trying to remember in which direction Jezak had gone. She had taken only two steps when he called out to them.
“It's ok. Bring her over here.” Jezak waved from the entrance to the pavilion and then apparently decided he could better serve by helping. He ran forward, but by that time, Brent had already gotten the woman over his shoulder. She moaned again, but didn't resist. Staggering under the weight, Brent followed Jezak into the alcove where the other man helped to ease her to the floor.
“We can relax,” Jezak said. “She caught the bastard who beat her up on the other side with his pants down around his shoes and put a bullet in his brain. Good riddance. Anyone who would do that don't deserve to live.” He looked again at the woman's battered face and shook his head.
“Did you see any of the others?” Brent asked. He peered out into the dusk. It was steadily growing darker. The towering trees admitted little of what light remained of the day. It was going to be gone soon. Wolves and darkness and blood from one dead body and still oozing blood from the facial cuts of the unconscious woman worried him as much as the missing truckers they had left earlier.
“No. I think they've gone on,” Jezak said.
“Good riddance,” Brent said. “Ok, let's get organized. Darla, you and Alice see what you can do for her. Bob, we need to get that body away from here before your wolves come back. They're probably smelling the blood and that's what brought them."
“You're right about that. But where have the others gone? Any ideas?"
“I don't know, but they must have left the area, otherwise we would have seen them by now. Like I said, good riddance” He returned his attention to the dead body in the restroom, thinking rapidly. Burial would be best, but there just wasn't time before dark. “Let's put him in one of the rigs for tonight. We can bury him tomorrow, deep enough to conceal the smell. Come on, let's hurry."
The next morning, Brent discovered that burial was a rather hard task to perform without shovels. He finally decided on taking the dead man into the woods and letting scavengers have it. That brought a little consolation, but where they intended to leave the body, they found a small, clear stream, only inches wide, but free flowing and sparkling clear. That meant drinking and bathing water in case they decided to stay while the injured woman recovered, and it was almost certain they would have to. Even though it meant lugging the dead man two hundred yards in the opposite direction to get the body away from the spring, Brent insisted on it. The woman was conscious, but weak and dizzy. There was no way she could travel for at least several days, and a source of water was priceless. Even if he had still intended on making for the gulf, it would have to wait.
* * * *
“He doesn't deserve to live!” Wanda argued savagely. Only the barest lack of pressure from her finger curled around the trigger of the pistol still kept Dawson Reeves among the living. She stared at Michael with a savage fury, wondering how far she could trust him.
“So he doesn't,” Michael agreed, meeting Wanda's piercing scrutiny with his own steady gaze. “However, we need information. I think I know who this bastard is, too, if you're interested.” He kicked the prone figure in the ribs, not being gentle. Often, he had seen white-clad trustees on grounds maintenance at the ancillary facility in Huntsville as he drove through, and he had finally recognized both the garb and the man he had recently kicked into unconsciousness.
“You do?” Wanda's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
+"Don't you? This—” he nudged the body with his boot tip, “—is Dawson Reeves, the serial killer. They scheduled him to be executed—I believe that was the night of the change. How did he escape? How did he get here? We need to know."
Wanda relaxed her grip on her weapon the merest fraction, and then tightened it again. “Who cares how he escaped? Or got here, for that matter? All you've done is convince me that, regardless of what he did to Sheila, he's still got it coming."
Michael waved a hand. “I'm not arguing that point, but I am beginning to get an idea of what has happened, at least partially. Some information from this scumbag might help,” He said it carefully, locking eyes with the angry woman. On the bed, Sheila suddenly moved, trying to sit up, then fell back again, crying pitifully.
Wanda lowered her weapon. “Take him into the other room, then, out of my sight. I'll see what I can do here."
“Good enough. I'm Michael Wronsen, by the way."
“I'm Wanda Smith, and this is Sheila. I just found her yesterday. We can talk later. Just go away for now, and get that scum out of here.” Wanda didn't know just where their savior had come from, nor exactly what he was getting at by wanting to question the killer, but she was willing to go along with him, for the moment anyway. Besides, Sheila needed comfort now more than she needed revenge. She would deal with the man later, and God help him if he wasn't telling the truth.
Michael dragged Reeves into another room. He propped him upright in a chair and tied him securely, then began slapping his face, not being gentle about it nor caring what da
mage it did. The savagery of his blows surprised him. He had never thought of himself as a violent man, but the memory of what he had read about Dawson's exploits, together with the recent sight of the man in action, left him with no pity at all.
Dawson gradually came to his senses under Michael's blows. He wished he hadn't. His skull pounded as if it had been splintered, and the young girl's struggles had aggravated the pain from his broken arm. It ached with a dull, fierce hurt that throbbed from his fingers to his shoulder, like a toothache that had decided to migrate to wider fields. He wanted to cradle the broken arm, but found that he was roped onto a straight-backed chair, so tightly that he could move only his head, and that hurt so badly that he soon gave up trying to move at all.
The man before him stepped back. His face was as grim looking as any cop, but Dawson didn't think he was the law. He looked more like a professor, or a gentleman farmer maybe. Hope rose suddenly in his breast. If this man wasn't the law, maybe he would be freed, eventually, or maybe manage another miraculous escape. Sooner or later he would have to be untied to eat, or relieve himself. All he had to do was wait, and not give away anything.
“How did you escape, and when?” Michael asked.
“Escape from where?” Dawson said. It hurt to talk.
Michael said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at the killer he had bound to the chair. There were ways of getting information out of the man. He could be as brutal as he wished. Certainly, Wanda Smith or the girl, Sheila, would not restrain him, but he didn't know if he could go that far, the momentary savagery of bringing Dawson to his senses notwithstanding. An idea popped into his mind, already full blown. He grinned mirthlessly to himself.
“Your name is Dawson Reeves. Three days ago, or maybe four, you were supposed to have been executed at Huntsville. You are a serial killer. I have no sympathy for you whatsoever. Now. I am going to ask you some questions, and you are going to answer them. Can you imagine what will happen if you don't?"