“That’s just the problem,” Groush shook his head. “You’ve been loyal, but you’ve been loyal to the wrong damn people. While you should have been loyal to me, you were loyal to the council members…the same council members who tried to kill me.”
“But that’s what we thought we were supposed to do. They were our leaders…the leaders under you. We reported to them first, then you. It was the chain of command we were told to follow,” one man argued.
Groush ended his argument with two bullets to the chest. He fell dead among the others.
“Anyone else want to give me excuses?!” Groush roared.
The two remaining men stood silent, their hands still raised in the air.
One man, a tall, slender fellow in his late-20s with shaggy hair and a patchy beard and mustache named Luke was sweating profusely. He kept trying to wipe a combination of hair and sweat from his eyes while still keeping his hands up.
“Stop fucking fidgeting around,” Groush snarled. “Making me fucking nervous.”
The other man, Jeremiah, a short, stocky guy who was in his late-30s, stood blinking furiously and he kept sniffling. His eyes were watering from the gun smoke still lingering in the stagnant basement air, but he was afraid to make a move to clear them for fear of drawing Groush’s ire.
“You know what?” Groush said after a moment. “This is getting boring. I’ll let one of you live, just because I’m a nice guy. I don’t give a shit who it is, that’s for you to figure out. We’re going to play a little game and go back in history to a simpler time. Let’s pretend we’re in the Old West. Back then, it was kind of like it is now. You took the law into your own hands.”
The two men stared at Groush, not understanding where he was going with this convoluted line of reasoning, and not daring to ask.
“Each of you pick up a weapon…preferably a handgun.” Groush waited as the men each took a minute to find a gun among their dead cohorts. “Make sure it’s loaded, and don’t even think about trying to use it on me, ‘cause then you’ll both be dead,” he aimed his semi-automatic at them with a sneer.
Dave and Locks looked on with macabre interest, wondering like the other two men, where exactly Groush was taking this morbid scenario.
With the two men now armed, Groush continued with his instructions.
“All right, now both of you holster your weapons.”
Luke and Jeremiah looked at Groush. “We don’t have holsters,” Luke said.
Groush sighed heavily, as if he was rapidly tiring with his game. “Then jam them in your waistbands,” he shook his head in exasperation. “Or fuck, find somewhere to stick them so you can get to them fast. I don’t give a shit.”
The two men stuck the weapons in their front waistbands.
“You’re going to like this,” Groush nodded with a smirk to the two men watching the scene unfold on either side of him.
He gave his captives another few seconds to get their weapons adjusted and then continued with his instructions.
“Now, just like in the old days, we’re going to have a good ol’ fashioned quick draw contest. Winner is the last man standing.”
The two men looked back and forth between Groush and one another incredulously. They couldn’t believe what they were hearing, but then they remembered who was talking, and they knew that they should believe it.
“All right, on the count of three, you’re going to draw and fire,” Groush explained.
“Wait!” Jeremiah interjected in a panic-stricken tone. “What if one of us is wounded?”
“I’d recommend that you shoot to kill,” Groush said bluntly. “Now, let’s stop fucking around and get on with this. I got shit to do. I’ll count to three. On the count of three, you draw and fire. It ain’t fuckin’ rocket science. If nobody draws, I do. So you’d better fucking draw.”
The two men stood frozen, staring at one another, waiting for Groush to start counting.
Dave and Locks stood transfixed. Neither of them really wanted to watch, but at the same time, they found the whole scenario intriguing. They had to give Groush credit for creativity if nothing else.
“One…” Groush counted, waiting several seconds before he said, “…two.” He waited several more seconds.
The two men facing each other, not more than ten feet apart, tensed, ready to draw, knowing that their lives literally depended on the next few seconds.
Then Groush said, “Oh, wait, before we do this…”
Luke and Jeremiah both exhaled heavily. Their bodies slumped at the strain of the situation suddenly being relieved by Groush’s interruption.
“Three!” Groush yelled suddenly and stood with a shit-eating grin on his face.
The two men fumbled frantically, each going for their weapons.
Luke got a hold of his weapon first, pulling it and squeezing the trigger. But in the heat of the moment, and not being familiar with the firearm, he’d forgotten to release the gun’s safety. As he glanced down to find the safety button, Jeremiah got the jump on him, aiming his own weapon and firing. The shot struck Luke a glancing blow, grazing his shoulder. Jeremiah squeezed the trigger of his weapon again, but it jammed.
As he worked to clear the jam, Luke found the safety on his own weapon, switched it off, raised the gun, and fired. It was a hurried shot, and in his haste simply to get it off, Luke fired before the weapon was fully aimed at Jeremiah. The round hit Jeremiah mid-thigh, taking him down on one knee as he cried out in agony. Yet he continued to work to clear his jammed weapon.
Dave and Locks stood, mouths agape, watching the scene unfold in sheer amazement. Groush, meanwhile, chortled away at the antics of the two men doing their best to kill one another almost as though he was watching a Tom and Jerry episode.
Jeremiah managed to get the round that was jammed in his weapon’s jacket ejector cleared as Luke fired another round that hit Jeremiah in the arm. Jeremiah screamed, raised his cleared weapon, and fired two more rounds, rapid fire. One round hit Luke in the stomach, the other in the chest, dropping him to the floor where he lay motionless.
Jeremiah toppled over onto the floor as well, writhing in pain.
“Good, good,” Groush applauded making his way over to the injured man. “Nice work there. I thought he had you for a minute there. But I guess you got the best of him,” he nodded approvingly.
Jeremiah wasn’t paying any attention. He was bleeding all over himself and trying to cover his leg wound. The wound was bleeding profusely as Jeremiah used his hand to apply pressure to try to stem the flow.
“Whew,” Groush shook his head. “Looks like you took a bad one there,” he stared down at the man’s injured leg. “Let me help you out.
He brought his semi-automatic rifle to bear and fired three rounds into the man’s chest, killing him instantly.
“There,” Groush said, and then looked over and nodded approvingly at Dave and Locks. “Better.”
“Thought you said you were going to let the winner live,” Dave said somewhat sullenly.
“First off, in that sort of condition, what good is he going to be to us? He probably didn’t have but another minute or two anyway the way he was bleeding. Second, not that I need to be explaining these things to the likes of you two, but I can’t let someone like that live, not after something like that,” Groush snorted as though he couldn’t imagine Dave had actually believed his promise. “That guy would have tried to take his revenge on me at some point. And I got enough troubles. I don’t need to be watching out for him every goddamn minute of the day.”
Dave just nodded as if Groush’s reasoning made some sort of sense to him as Groush turned and began to make his way back upstairs. Then Dave looked at Locks. Locks was looking at him with a sort of blank stare.
“Guess it’s time to go,” Dave gave a shrug as he looked back at the carnage around the room.
“Guess so,” Locks agreed, turning and following Groush out into the hallway.
“Where you think you two are going?” Gr
oush stopped ahead of them and turned around.
“What?” Locks shook his head wonderingly.
“You gotta bring these supplies up. Can’t let other people be seeing all this mess,” he gestured to the storeroom.
Dave and Locks sighed, turning back to the storeroom.
“Guess we’d better get started then,” Dave said.
“Guess so,” Locks agreed sullenly.
Chapter 11
Michael recoiled in pain at Caroline’s touch, sucking in through his teeth.
“Hmm,” Caroline frowned. “I don’t like the looks of that. The skin around the cut looks really irritated and swollen. I definitely don’t think you should be going with Patrick and Marta to that boat rental place.”
“It’s my hand that hurts, not my legs,” Michael scowled at his wife.
“Yes, but it’s your dominate hand that’s hurt. I don’t think you realize how much you use your hands. And in an emergency, favoring your hand when trying to fire your weapon or fight off biters could cost you your life…or cost someone else theirs.”
“Believe me, lately, I realize just how much I use my hands,” he wrapped the bandage gingerly back over the cut. “I’m bumping this thing all damn day long and it hurts like holy hell when I do.”
“Mmm,” Caroline frowned at her husband’s revelation.
Michael’s hand had grown worse over the past few days. And while it looked like it was healing, the pain Michael was describing and the irritated nature of the skin was disconcerting.
Patrick and Marta came inside from where they’d been getting Justin and Louise situated playing a card game on the deck under Christine Franko’s watchful eye. The interior of the roadhouse had been converted into a large bunkhouse. Most of the tables and chairs had been pushed along one wall to serve as the group’s communal eating area. This left the remainder of the roadhouse’s main floor open. An array of blankets, and pillows formed mostly from rolled up clothing, were splayed across the area. Marta and Louise still kept their sleeping area in the kitchen where it had been since their arrival.
The addition of the Blenders made Marta feel both safer as well as more nervous. She liked having other people around to help with potential biter attacks. And there was no denying that the additional supplies the Blenders had brought with them had proved valuable in breaking up their monotonous menu. But Marta knew that even with the increased numbers inside the roadhouse, they wouldn’t stand a chance against the group who had forced her from Riverport. And should roaming scouts from that group come to re-search the roadhouse, there was no way she would be able to conceal their presence. The number of people and amount of supplies would make that impossible.
“You about ready to roll, Dad?” Patrick asked.
“Your father’s not going,” Caroline answered for her husband. “His hand hurts, and I don’t want him injuring it more doing something foolish on the trip. Maybe you can get Wendell or Charla to go with you.”
“They’re busy fishing,” Patrick shook his head. “It’s okay. Marta and I can make the trip. It’s probably better having fewer people go anyway. The more people we have, the harder it is to stay stealthy. Marta and I can get in and get out quickly and quietly. We’ll just take a look around, see what the situation is, determine whether there are any boats left there or not, and come back. Shouldn’t take us more than an hour or two tops.”
“You have guns? Spare ammo? Backup weapons?” Michael questioned.
“Do you even need to ask?” Patrick gave his father a look. “It’s habitual these days.”
“Can’t help it,” Michael gave him a sad smile. “Fatherly instinct. Can’t help but always be worried about you. You’ll understand one day.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I think we’ve got it covered,” Patrick turned sideways and lifted his sweatshirt to reveal the butt of a handgun protruding from the waistband of his pants.
Marta lifted the front of her long-sleeve shirt to reveal her own weapon.
The two then moved to the bar where they retrieved the hatchet and knife they’d used against the biters at dinner the other night.
Suddenly there came the sounds of commotion outside on the roadhouse deck overlooking the river. The shattered doors that Marta had covered with plastic had been left open in an effort to air out the roadhouse’s interior. The space tended to get a bit smelly with everyone sleeping inside, and the warm spring air worked well to freshen it up inside during the day. Seconds later, Justin and Louise burst in through the open doors.
“Come see the river!” Louise cried. “Hurry! Come see!”
“It’s crazy looking!” Justin added, waving the adults toward the outdoor area.
Justin and Louise led Michael, Caroline, and the others who were currently inside the roadhouse, out onto the deck.
The river had fallen significantly since the Blenders had arrived. It was almost back to normal – at least in level. But the river’s appearance had changed dramatically.
“Ho-ly cow,” Michael breathed as the majority of the Blenders formed up along the deck rail.
The river had gone from a milk-chocolate brown to a rusty orange. Out farther, where the current was stronger, there floated orange suds. And there were fish, lots of fish – all of them dead and floating on top of the water.
“When did this happen?” Michael asked.
“Just now,” Charla reeled in her fishing line. “You could see the change in the water’s appearance coming from upriver. Then BAM! It was here.”
“Something must have spilled or be leaking upriver,” Caroline shook her head.
“Wonder what it is that’s making the river look like that,” Wendell pondered aloud.
“Can’t be anything good, whatever it is,” Patrick sighed.
“Some sort of chemical,” Michael breathed. “No idea what, though.”
“Well, we won’t be eating anything we catch out of this stuff,” Charla said.
“If there’s anything left alive to catch,” Wendell observed the number of dead fish now floating downriver.
“Makes our finding an extra boat or two even more important now,” Patrick nodded.
“We need to move on to a place where we aren’t so river dependant and there’s a steadier supply of other types of food,” Ms. Mary agreed.
“We’d better be going,” Marta said to Patrick.
“Guess so,” he nodded.
* * *
The boat rental was about a mile and a half from the roadhouse. The paved road that passed the roadhouse led to the rental building, but Patrick and Marta kept largely to the woods just in case any of the Riverport renegades group happened to be traveling by vehicle.
They walked mostly in silence to avoid the possibility of attracting any unseen biters that might be wandering the area. They each mulled private thoughts, many of those thoughts centered on the little ones they’d left behind. But there were other thoughts as well, thoughts about the person they were currently walking beside.
Patrick was intrigued by Marta. Sometimes she seemed kind of stern, almost bitchy, but not necessarily in a bad way. He wondered if this perception of her came more from a cultural clash. She was quiet, almost brooding at times, and Patrick wondered if this was how all women from Poland were. It was definitely something different, and Patrick had to admit, he kind of liked it. It made her unique. It made her seem more interesting, like a puzzle to be put together, a puzzle that seemed fun for him to figure out. Marta was a very strong woman, a very beautiful woman, a very commanding woman. And Patrick liked all of those qualities in her.
At the same time, Marta found herself intrigued by Patrick. Sometimes, he seemed kind of childlike, so innocent, almost like a dopey dog, but not necessarily in a bad way. She wondered if this perception of him came more from a cultural clash. Sometimes she just didn’t feel like she understood American men. Patrick was very sweet, very kind, very loyal. And Marta had to admit, she liked all of those qualities in him. He wasn’t so commandin
g in personality, but that was okay with her. She wasn’t looking for strength. She was strong enough for two. But she liked what she saw in Patrick. And something had changed in her over the past few weeks while taking care of Louise. She wanted something more in a man than just muscles and boisterous bluster. She wanted strength of a different sort. She wanted security, loyalty, a father figure. She saw those characteristics in Patrick, especially when watching him with Justin.
And after last night, feeling what she had felt below Patrick’s belt, she thought she might understand why he acted the way he did. Some men had to project their confidence to make up for lacking in other areas. Other men carried their confidence below the belt. Patrick was one of those other men. She knew that Patrick was all man even if he might choose to exhibit it in a more private setting, which had been the case the previous day.
After dinner the prior evening, the Blenders had been out on the roadhouse deck enjoying the warm evening air, talking, and telling stories. As night settled, after Louise and Justin had been put to bed and the rest of the group had retired for the night, Patrick and Marta had stayed outside talking. Eventually, their hormones got the better of them, which led to a lengthy make-out session and some heavy petting, thus, Marta’s pleasant revelation regarding just what Patrick was packing downstairs. Their physical exploration of one another had been interrupted when Louise, missing her bedmate, had come outside requesting Marta’s presence in the roadhouse kitchen turned bedroom.
But now, as they made their way to the boat rental, there seemed to be a sort of awkwardness between them. She wasn’t sure what it was, but Patrick seemed somewhat uncomfortable. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he regretted kissing her, touching her. She didn’t think so. He seemed to enjoy it at the time. But men could be confusing. Sometimes their urges and impulses outweighed their senses, and later, they regretted the things they did under the drug of heightened sexuality.
Marta wanted to broach the subject with him, find out what was bothering him, but now wasn’t the time or the place. Nor was it her style. Marta wasn’t the best communicator, and she knew it. But she wasn’t sure how to get better at talking with people and expressing her feelings. She didn’t wear her emotions on her sleeve. And she didn’t like talking just to hear the sound of her own voice. It felt like a weakness to her, opening up to someone else. It left her feeling exposed, vulnerable, fragile.
The Last Bastion [Book 5] Page 8