by Ryan Schow
“Jesus Christ,” Stanton muttered as he jostled the kids inside.
Rider broke out an old Maglite flashlight, turned it on Stanton and said, “What?”
“You got bionic legs?”
To the kids, Rider fast whispered, “Go five steps and stop.” They did exactly as they were told. With the kids were safely inside, Rider looked at Stanton and said, “Kicked down a few doors in my day.”
Rider stepped inside, shut the door behind him. Stanton heard him sniffing the air. “There are dead people inside,” he whispered in the darkness, “so that’s neat.”
“How do you know?”
Rider ignored him, sniffing the air once more. “Three I think, maybe more. At least a week dead.”
“Is that what smells so bad?” Atlanta asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone out.”
The five of them scurried outside and skipped down the steps with Stanton and Rider on their heels. Stanton ducked them behind a car, then waited on Rider’s lead. The older man moved like a wraith, completely contrary to the otherwise casual look of him. It made Stanton wonder what he really did in his former life.
Finally Rider waved them to a house without an iron gate. He stood on the porch stoop, locked eyes with Stanton.
“Give it a go,” he told Stanton, looking right and left. “Just wait for the cover of gunfire. And be sure to kick close to the door knob.” He pointed to the specific spot he kicked in the last door, then: “You’re going to have to kick the deadbolt through the casing.”
Stanton waited for the distant sounds of gunfire, then gave it a mighty kick. He didn’t shake the door loose; the door shook him. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath.
“Watch,” Rider said. “It’s not just the force of the kick, it’s the body mechanics.”
When the gunfire started up again, Rider stepped back and threw a kick with such force the door splintered and swung open wide.
“You loosened it for me,” he said. “You’d have gotten it the second time.”
Rider clicked on the flashlight, then put the house to the smell test. When it was clear, he went inside and motioned everyone else in. The five of them piled in, then Stanton shut the door behind them, even though it was broken open.
They were out of the line of fire, but close enough to hear the distant sounds of gunfire the next neighborhood up.
Everyone waited for Rider to clear the house, and when he came down the stairs, he said, “We’re good. It’s got beds for the boys and a bed for Atlanta. Stanton, I need you to stand watch at the door while I head into the neighborhood to see what’s what.”
“If you need backup,” Stanton said, “I’m good to go.”
Rider patted Stanton on the shoulder before he slipped out the front door. He returned two hours later to a house full of sleeping people. Well, everyone was asleep but Stanton who diligently stood guard.
“How is it?” Stanton asked.
“Bad.”
“Can we do something?”
Rider thought it over, weighed this and that, then said, “Yeah, I think we can, but it’s going to get messy.”
“How so?”
“Never mind,” he said, changing his mind. “I can take care of it, you just stay with the kids.”
“With all due respect, Rider, I’m not some worthless stiff. And I’m certainly no babysitter.”
“You can call yourself a chaperone if it makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t,” he hissed.
“When I say it’s going to get messy,” Rider warned, “I’m talking about wet work.”
“I didn’t think we were baking a cake.”
The determination in Stanton’s voice was raw and visceral. He wanted at these idiots. He wanted to be part of the party, not sidelined in the fourth quarter. Rider seemed to be calculating the odds. Stanton was doing the same.
Strength in numbers versus stealth.
When Stanton cleared his throat, Rider came to and said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be the guy who gets you killed. I don’t have a family. You do.”
“I can do this,” Stanton said.
“No,” Rider said, stern.
“They’re shooting at my wife and kid in there. So I’m going. Messy or not, I know what we’re walking in to and I told you, I’m ready.”
“You don’t have the first clue about what we’re walking in to.”
“Then give me the lay of the land,” he said, desperation sitting low in his voice. “I can do this, Rider. I want to do this.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“So let’s go,” he said.
“Follow my lead, pay attention and do exactly what I say,” Rider warned as they slipped out of the house. “I don’t want to tell Cincinnati and Macy you died because you were an overzealous moron.”
“I get it,” he said. “I’m not you.”
“You’re right. I have decades of experience in this. You traded stocks in a building while wearing a suit and tie.”
Not even giving him a chance to reply, Rider jogged up the street in a light-footed run. Stanton followed on his heels, running up Ashbury as the volley of bullets continued.
Rider sprinted left on the corner of Hayes. Stanton kept up. The ex-spook made a beeline for a white and teal trimmed liquor store that sat next door to a barbershop. A set of painted white doors leading behind the liquor store with the words No Parking on them stood cracked open. Rider slipped through. As Stanton followed, he noticed a heavy lock sitting on the ground, broken and kicked aside.
The man was swift and resourceful.
Stanton followed Rider through the back of the liquor store, which was now just looted space with overturned shelves. They popped out a back door and under a canopy of trees where a pair of chairs, a table and an ashtray sat.
Rider hopped one of the fences about the time Stanton was trying to catch his breath. It was embarrassing being this winded. He grabbed the top of the fence, hoisted himself up, scampered over. His landing was less than graceful and not the least bit quiet. Rider turned and gave him the shush sign, but with a frown.
“One more fence,” Rider said. “Try not to wake the dead when you land.”
Stanton was still breathing heavy, so he said nothing. Rider crossed the yard they were in, then scaled the fence and dropped over the other side. Stanton followed, not as quiet as Rider, but not as loud as his last landing.
“When we get inside,” Rider whispered into Stanton’s ear, “we have a chance to end this, but you need to be ready to go.”
“I’m ready,” he said, his stomach in knots.
“You sure? Because you’re breathing like you just swam a mile in cold water.”
“I just need a second.”
“Seconds cost people lives, Stanton.”
“I’ll still need one, regardless of what you say,” he snapped.
“Fine, I get it,” he said. Then: “There are hostiles inside both these houses, this one and the next one over. They are numbers unknown. No less than five. Probably more. The darkness and their forward focus is on our side, but it won’t be for long if we mess this up. The lock’s busted on the back door and it may squeal on opening, we’ll see. Inside though? It’s best to assume it’s deep space in there. You won’t be able to see a thing. There could be five guys in there, or there could be twenty.”
“You said that already,” Stanton said.
“If you’re not shitting your pants right now,” Rider growled, “then you’re not ready. And if you’re not ready, then you’re a liability.”
“I said I’m ready.”
“Good. Judging by the gunfire from earlier, I think they’re split between the floors.”
He handed Stanton a hunting knife and said, “If we take them out quietly, we can get more. If we botch this, you’d best get right with God because we’re dead. Now you’ve got ten rounds in your Sig but don’t start shooting unless things get loud. If that h
appens, then kill everything you can as quickly as you can. Got it?”
“So you want me to just go stab whoever I see, and when we can’t do that, we shoot? Is that the plan?”
“Yes. When we get inside, don’t rush it unless you have to. See what you can see against the backdrop of the windows then divide the line of shooters in half. You go right, I’ll go left. Kill as quickly and as quietly as you can. Knives first, then guns if necessary.”
“So if there’s four, I take the two to the right and you take the two to the left?”
“Exactly.”
“And I should just stab them?”
“You can’t just stab them,” he said, gunfire erupting from inside. “You have to first slice their throat open. Do this,” he said sliding around the back of Stanton.
He made a sideways slicing motion over Stanton’s carotid artery with his finger, then he pulled him close and mocked the act of driving the blade deep into his throat.
“When you cut across the side of the neck, you need to go deep. At least an inch. They’re going to geyser out at that point, so it’s going to get messy. Don’t worry about it though. And don’t hesitate. You have less than a fraction of a second to bury that knife into their throats. That’s how this thing stays silent.”
“Okay,” he said, a sort of sick revulsion winding through him.
“Once your knife is in their throat, churn it around twice for maximum damage then drag it out and move on to the next person.”
“Basically I’m cutting their vocal chords.”
“They won’t be able to scream and they’ll bleed out inside of two minutes, maybe less. Like I said, it’s gonna be bloody, so don’t freak out, just move.”
“Yep,” he said.
“Just do what I told you to do as fast as possible. Oh, and don’t cut yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you cut them, once you hit that carotid artery, you’re going to have to hold them down while they squirm. It might be hard to get to the throat, and more than a few guys have cut themselves trying.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?” Rider asked. Stanton gave a nod. Then: “Good. Let’s go.”
He and Rider crept up to the back door. Rider slipped off his shoes and socks, motioned for Stanton to do the same. He did. With that, Rider opened the back door and stepped into a black hole filled with enemies unknown.
The two of them crept into a house and heard whispered voices. When they came to the mouth of the hallway, they saw into the living room. Five heads were silhouetted against the backdrop of three shattered windows.
Rider held up his hand, made a fist. Stanton stopped. Three fingers came up, then he pointed to himself. Then two fingers came up and he pointed right.
He would take three; Stanton needed to take two.
And with that, Stanton reached down into his own darkness, found that animal that could kill strangers without judge or jury, without any facts at all.
Both men went at once.
Rider hit his man first, catching him in the back of the spine with his blade. He jerked it out and arched it sideways into the next man. Then, without a second to spare, he stepped once and drove his knife into the opening mouth of the third man.
Three hit, but not three down.
The slicing began, as did the wet end of the wet works. When it was done, he looked over at Stanton who had done exactly what he was supposed to do. Stanton pushed off the second dead man and spit a couple of times. His mouth was full of blood. He wiped at his eyes and spit again. The man had taken a gusher in the face.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, still spitting. “Upstairs, right?”
“Right.”
Just then movement on the floor above stilled them both. They waited in perfect silence. Then a worried voice from the stairway above said, “¿Esteban? ¿Qué está pasando ahí abajo?” What’s going on down there?
When no one answered, the voice said, “¿Esteban?” A second later, they heard the booted feet of one of the shooters coming down the stairway toward them.
Chapter Seventy-Five
After Rider and Stanton returned for Hagan, Ballard and Atlanta, Indigo’s place felt empty. Rex glanced out the second-story window, stared down on Dirt Alley and felt so alone. He had Indigo, but they were still a brand new thing. His sister, his niece and his brother-in-law were more permanent fixtures in his life, and now that permanence felt miles away. A hand slid around his waist, and a body pressed up against him.
“You can feel the void they left behind, can’t you?” Indigo asked.
“Sadly, yes.”
“When I said you’ll come and go, like tourists, it was because I knew tourists would give this place life and purpose, and then you’d all leave and I’d have to suffer this gigantic void.”
He wanted to suggest that they follow, that they could chase that life, but he knew Indigo well enough to know she wouldn’t forsake her father. She missed him. Loved him. Rex suddenly felt that stab of longing, how she clung for dear life to the possibility that her father would return.
What if he never comes back? What if he’s dead? Would she wait here until the end of time? He turned and pulled her body into his, kissing the top of her forehead.
With her face pressed sideways into his chest, and her arms locked around his waist, she almost seemed to read his mind.
“I really miss him,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Sometimes I think…I don’t know what I think. I just wish I knew, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to your parents?” she asked.
He was still for awhile. Lately he’d been thinking a lot about them, but mostly his father. He missed the old man, but he was thankful that he hadn’t lived long enough to see what the world had become.
“We had older parents,” Rex said, a hitch in his throat. “My mother died about ten years ago, my father last year.”
Tilting her chin up, she hit him with a pair of bottomless eyes, dark eyes full of sorrow and wonder. “How, like…I mean, did you…does it get any easier? I mean, I know they say it does, but…does it really?”
“When they die of old age, I think so, yes. But when they’re taken like this? Honestly? I don’t know.” She started to say something, but she sensed he wasn’t done so she held her tongue. “When I thought we were going to lose Macy…I think in my mind I felt myself going a little crazy. Not crazy with worry. More like insane.”
“I feel that all the time,” she admitted when he said nothing more.
“Even with your mother here?”
“My father is a far better person than she ever was,” Indigo said. “She won’t admit it, but she knows it’s true.”
Behind them a throat cleared and Rex’s heart skipped. He turned and found himself looking at the beautiful and elusive Margot Platt.
Indigo lowered her eyes, turned them on the woman. She saw the look on her face. Rex’s eyes dropped down to Indigo’s and what he saw was nothing.
“Do you really believe that?” Margot asked, the hurt bare in her voice.
She really was a striking woman, Rex thought. Even in the apocalypse.
“Yes, Margot,” Indigo said, detaching herself from Rex long enough to cross her arms and face her mother. “I love you, but you left us and that’s a fact.”
Nodding in silent agreement, unable to take the weight of this truth while burdened with so many other truths (like the fact that Tad was dead), she stood silent, yet managed to look uncertain, caught off guard. Then: “I’m going to head back to the college in the morning.”
“Of course you are,” Indigo said.
“And why wouldn’t I? Clearly I’m not wanted here.”
“You’d be leaving me for strangers, Mother. Isn’t that exactly what you did a couple of years ago? Just deserted those you once loved in favor of the shiny penny?”
Rex said, “I think that’s my cue to c
heck the air quality outside.”
He left the house for a bit, grabbing a beer out of the patio planter outside. It was still cold from the night before. He popped the top, took a long swig. A second later he burped, then relaxed. Scanning the neighborhood, studying the houses as far as he could see, he tried to wrap his head around the fact that each of those homes sat empty, that they once held life, families, a rich history…
How did all this happen?
He drained the rest of the beer, stood and hurled the empty bottle across the street. He was aiming for the second story window of a lemon-crème colored house, but the bottle shattered on the garage door instead.
Just then two men with rifles at their sides appeared at the top of the street. He startled, but didn’t rush inside. They’d seen him. What shocked him most wasn’t the rifles, but that he’d gotten used to the neighborhood being empty. Which is to say, he hadn’t expected company.
“Evening,” he said.
Both men walked by, smiling empty smiles, tilting their heads, their eyes roving over all the details of him and the house.
“Just passing through?” he asked.
“Aren’t we all?” one of them said, not breaking stride. He was a muscular man with inquisitive eyes and clothes that hadn’t seen a washer or an iron in months. The other guy was skinny, but somehow more intimidating. Both carried big game hunting rifles.
Were humans the big game nowadays?
He cleared his throat, chastised himself. Only comfortable fools walked around unarmed, and tonight he was that fool. There was no law but the law of the gun. That law was simple: if you got caught flat-footed and ate a bullet, you were dead.
Inside the house, a pair of angry voices rose to yelling. Both women were going at it in rising tones. His face failed to betray him. Despite the squabble occurring inside, to the men, Rex bore a simple, almost empty expression.
The smaller of the two strangers took a longer glance up toward the house, but his poker face told no tales. Did he hear the shouting or was he just taking it all in?
Rex chastised himself once more for not having a weapon.