by D. J. Molles
Exhausted, he leaned against the seat and looked out the driver-side window. Still, no one had noticed that he was there. The dome lights of the truck were turned off, so opening the door had not lit them up. He was sitting there in shadows.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them he had a moment of fear, thinking that he’d fallen asleep. But when he looked back out, all the men in the staging area were in the same spots they’d been. He didn’t think much time had passed, if any at all.
He craned his neck, looking through the back glass into the wooden cage on the flatbed.
A single face was staring back at him. Pale skin and wide, green eyes, sharp and bright even in the darkness. She watched him intensely, but didn’t move.
LaRouche shoved himself out of the cab and stumbled to the back. She watched him as he rested an elbow against the wooden side of the cage, the pistol dangling from his hand, the other hand still holding his side.
“Where are the keys?” he rasped.
“What are you doing?” she whispered at him.
LaRouche raised the pistol in a warning fashion. “Just tell me where the fucking keys are.”
Her gaze narrowed for a brief moment. But then she turned and looked over her shoulder. “Dolf, or whatever the fuck his name is. They call him that. The big blond guy over there.”
LaRouche peered through the gap between the cage and the cab of the truck. He could see the man that she was talking about. He was maybe six foot six. Pale with almost white-blond hair. Very Nordic features.
LaRouche grunted in acknowledgment then thrust himself off the cage. “Just shut up. Don’t say anything else.”
He was aware of his loss of motor skills. His feet felt clumsy. His legs were rubbery. His arms like a straw man’s—sleeves just stuffed with nothingness. But like a drunken man, he didn’t really register how bad it was. Didn’t want to admit the truth to himself, though the thought was circling his head in the background. The cawing of a bird frightened from its nest: You’re dying. You’re dying. You’re dying…
He walked around the front of the flatbed truck and straight for the man she called Dolf. He was standing with another man, away from all the others. Dolf seemed fidgety, like he was nervous about what was going on inside the camper—Chalmers’s wrath, no doubt—and fearing that he would be next.
LaRouche made it to within a few yards of him before his scuffing feet drew Dolf’s attention. Dolf jerked back, but then seemed to recognize who was standing there. He frowned. “Crazy LaRouche? I thought you were dead.”
“Not yet,” LaRouche said. “You got the keys to the truck?”
Dolf was confused, his eyes tracking down to LaRouche’s lower body and the caking of blood that coated it. But even as his mouth worked for an answer, he held up a pair of keys. “Yeah,” he said. “I got them right here.”
The fear that everyone had of him, of the incredible violence that Crazy LaRouche had displayed, was obviously still potent, no matter how wounded and near to death he appeared. Because he just reached out and grabbed the keys from Dolf, and the big man said nothing.
LaRouche gripped the keys in bloody fingers and turned away, thinking, Just let me go, motherfucker. Just let me go.
He made it about five paces back toward the truck before he heard Dolf call out, “Hey, what the hell are you doin’, man?”
LaRouche ignored him. Kept walking.
Rapid footsteps behind him. “Hey, you’re in no shape…”
LaRouche spun around. Extended the pistol right into Dolf’s face. The body stopped aggressing; the eyes went wide. But LaRouche was not here to take prisoners. So he pulled the trigger and Dolf’s face disappeared and his body crumpled to the ground.
LaRouche turned away from Dolf and tried to quicken his pace to the flatbed truck. But instead of running, he was just hobbling along. Someone behind him shouted, but he wasn’t sure who they were shouting at. Maybe they were just shouting. He tried to figure his chances, but that type of math was beyond him now.
I gotta do this. I have to. This is the reason I’m here. This is why I stuck around.
Do something good, LaRouche. Do something right for once in your goddamn life!
He hauled himself up into the driver’s seat of the flatbed truck. He forced himself to focus on manipulating the keys, aware of how numb his fingers were, aware of how the adrenaline in his bloodstream might make him fumble. He very deliberately took the ignition key and slammed it in. Then he cranked the engine to life.
Somewhere outside a voice called his name: “LaRouche, you sonofabitch, what the hell are you doing?”
He looked up. Bleary-eyed. Swaying, even in his seat. Feeling hot and cold on his head and the sensation that he might pass out at any moment. The only reason he was still conscious was pure force of will. I have to do this. I have to do one good thing.
Outside, Deacon Chalmers was standing there. His fists were balled at his sides, his face a mask of rage and partial confusion. But the men standing with him were confused, too. And their rifles were readied, but not aimed at LaRouche. They didn’t know what was happening.
“You’ll figure it out,” LaRouche mumbled to himself and yanked the shifter into drive.
The man that had been standing with Dolf seemed to be the only one that knew what LaRouche was doing. He’d been the only one to see LaRouche kill Dolf, and he jumped in front of the flatbed truck and raised his rifle, shouting words that LaRouche couldn’t understand.
LaRouche ducked down so his body was behind the engine block and slammed on the gas.
The engine roared. He heard the sound of gunshots, felt the bullets striking the truck. The windshield spidered around three holes, but he just kept lying down behind the engine block and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor. He felt something big striking the front of the truck, then the whole thing lurched as the tires rolled over it. They clipped the side of one of the other vehicles, but they kept moving.
LaRouche used the steering wheel to jerk himself back upright, despite the incredible pain in his side. He made it up just in time to steer left before the truck flew across the road and into the trees on the opposite side. He barely missed the dark gas station sign, though it took one of the sideview mirrors off. The truck skidded nastily and leaned heavily to the right as it cut the sharp left turn, and he thought it was going to roll. But then it was pointed down the road and LaRouche righted the steering wheel.
He felt the truck fishtail in the backend. The women were screaming in terror and surprise, but when he looked into the rearview mirror, he could see Claire was there, determinedly holding on to the wooden bars of her cage. Her mouth was set, eyes squinted almost closed.
LaRouche spared a glance behind them to see if he had pursuit. He could see the dark shapes of men running out into the roadway, but they weren’t shooting, and he didn’t see any vehicles. Then the road turned and he could no longer see them.
He drove on for another five minutes and came out to Highway 701. He stopped at the intersection and felt the light-headedness washing over him. He tried to focus on the task at hand. He could not continue to drive the vehicle. He was almost done. He felt it coming over him like a warm blanket. That was the shock, he knew, and it flooded his veins with chemicals that told him everything was going to be okay. But he knew it wasn’t. And that was the icy undertone to everything.
You’re dying. You’re dying and you know it.
Still stopped, he threw the truck in park. Shoved open the door and slid out of his seat. His legs were barely capable of carrying his weight. He almost collapsed when his feet hit the ground but he managed to hold himself up long enough to lock his knees.
You have to do this. Get it done.
You gotta do it quickly. No time for a pity party.
Claire was yelling something at him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He hobbled along the wooden cage to the back where that little gate was positioned. Padlocked. He stared at the lock for a second or two, trying t
o think of what to do. Shooting the padlock was a bad idea; he knew that much. It wasn’t as effective as your average movie watcher was led to believe.
“The keys!” Claire was yelling at him. “The keys are on the keychain! Are you listening to me?”
“What?” He looked up at her, squinting like he was looking into a spotlight.
She pointed to the cab of the truck. “The keys to the padlock are on the same ring as the truck keys!”
“Oh. Fuck.” LaRouche growled and hitched himself back to the cab of the truck. He had to stop when he got there to take a breath. Try to get some blood circulating into his head.
Blood pressure’s dropping.
He turned the truck off and snatched the keys out of the ignition. Then he went back to the padlocked gate. Claire was there, hand extended through the wooden bars.
“Here,” she said, grasping at the air. “Let me do it. Just let me do it.”
LaRouche handed the keys to her, almost dropping them in the process.
Claire snatched the keys. Quicker than LaRouche ever could have done it himself, she had them in and the padlock disengaged. She plucked it off and dropped it. The lock clattered onto the concrete. She shoved the door open and jumped off the bed of the truck.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said, pointing for the truck bed.
“Wait…”
“They’re gonna come after us!” she said insistently. “Let’s go!”
“Listen to me!” It took a lot of energy to raise his voice. But at least she stopped talking and looked at him. He pointed to the highway in front of them. “Listen carefully. This is Highway 701. You need to make a right. Go north. Just keep going north until you hit Highway 301. Take it south. Or it might be west. Can’t remember. South or west. Take it to Highway 27. Go west on 27 toward Coats. You’re looking for Camp Ryder. Do you know Camp Ryder? They’ll be right there at Highway 27 and Highway 55. Right in that area. It might take some looking. But if you don’t find them, they might find you.”
Claire was shaking her head in confusion. “Just come with me! Show me how to get there!”
LaRouche shook his head. “I can’t go back there. It’s on you. I’ll keep ’em off of you guys.”
“Are you…?” Claire shook her head. “Fine! Fine! Okay. Highway 701 to Highway 301. Take that south or west. To what?”
“Highway 27, west toward Coats. You’re looking for Camp Ryder. Around 27 and 55.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“Then go,” he said, pointing to the cab with his pistol. “Get the fuck out of here.”
And she went. One moment she was standing there with LaRouche, light from the headlights and taillights illuminating the night, and then she was gone. LaRouche blinked and wondered if he’d hallucinated the whole thing, but he could still smell the diesel exhaust. He must’ve just blanked out for a moment. He wondered if she’d said good-bye to him, or thanked him.
He supposed it didn’t matter anyhow.
LaRouche was alone on the dark roadway. He stood on the concrete, forcing his mind to stay awake, his body to stay operational.
He heard the sound of an engine growling through the night. He turned himself to face the noise. A twinkling of light as a vehicle raced down the highway, the headlights shining off trees and old road signs. LaRouche took one big breath and held it. He could still feel his heart beating, so that was good. He spread his feet so he wouldn’t wobble so much. Took his left hand off of his side and used it to support his gun hand. He waited.
The pickup truck came around the corner. He registered the shape of men in the bed of the truck. It was traveling quickly. It straightened out, heading right for LaRouche. Whether or not they saw him was a moot point. If they did, they weren’t stopping. Maybe they intended to run him over.
As it bore down on him, he lifted his pistol, aiming just above the driver’s side headlight, and he fired three times. Windshields were notoriously bad for the trajectory of bullets, and he wasn’t sure whether he actually hit the driver or not, but the truck swerved and lost control, the back end coming around in a spin, the tires screaming.
LaRouche thrust himself to the side, the tailgate of the truck missing him by inches. He saw men in the bed of the truck, trying to hold on for their lives. The truck made a complete one-eighty and then slammed down into the ditch. The men in the back were flung out of the bed, and LaRouche could hear their bodies crashing violently through the trees.
He stood there for a moment. Shocked that he was still standing.
He raised the pistol again, pointing at the passenger side. He knew damn well who it was that was coming after him. And he wouldn’t be in the bed of the truck with the common soldiers. He’d be in the cab, pulling the strings, probably yelling and flying into one of his rages.
“Chalmers!” LaRouche tried to yell, but it just came out a wheeze.
Through the passenger-side window, LaRouche registered panicked movement. A gun went off from inside. LaRouche watched the rounds burst out of the door, one after the other. He felt the first zip by his head, but the next found its mark, low in his body, punching into his lower abdomen, and then another found him in the chest, just to the left of his heart, and dead on into his lung.
But LaRouche kept coming, and the rest of the rounds went wide.
He wanted to stop. The pain was incredible. He could feel things wrong inside of him, wrong in ways that were frightening, panic-inducing, because he knew that they could not be fixed. They were broken. They were in shambles. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth, feel his stomach muscles spasm as his innards leaked and ruptured.
But there was a certain clarity to it as well. The pain solidified him, sharp and poignant. It brought his fading mind back. He forced himself on, because time was short, and his enemy was out of ammunition, and he would not die at the feet of Chalmers. He refused.
He ripped open the door.
The dome light came on.
Chalmers was crumpled, half in the passenger seat, and half on top of the center console. The driver was dead or unconscious, his head bashed against a broken window. Chalmers’s eyes were wide with the fear of a hunted animal. He was trying to reload a pistol but couldn’t quite seat the magazine. He screamed when LaRouche opened the door, a high-pitched, cowardly sound.
LaRouche pushed his pistol into Chalmers’s gut. “We’re gonna go together,” he said, then pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. As the third bullet ruptured through Chalmers’s midsection, the man cried out and flailed, striking the pistol out of LaRouche’s hand.
Then Chalmers had no breath left in him. He clawed at LaRouche and tried to suck in air, but only made gurgling noises. He dropped his own pistol from clumsy, unwieldy hands and clutched his guts as blood started pouring out of the holes in his stomach. He writhed and somehow managed to slide out of the cab of the pickup truck.
LaRouche turned unsteadily to follow, and then lost his legs. They buckled under him and he slid down into a sitting position, back against the side of the truck. He tried to breathe but his lungs rattled when he inhaled. When he exhaled, blood came out of his mouth.
Chalmers stood there, a few yards from the truck, his feet moving around, like he wanted to run but wasn’t able to pick them up enough. He was staring down at his wounds, his mouth gaping. “You… you…” Chalmers croaked.
LaRouche spat blood. Felt it dribble over his chin and onto his chest.
Chalmers tried to take a step backward away from LaRouche, but lost his balance and went down to his knees.
Now they were at eye level with each other.
LaRouche held his gaze. “I’m not goin’ without you,” he said.
“I dunno…” Chalmers winced and doubled over. “I dunno why you did this.”
“Just die,” LaRouche said. “So I know that I killed you.”
“I can’t…” Chalmers was shaking his head, and then his whole body was shaking. His eyes rolled up, showing the whites, and he top
pled to the ground, heaving for air that would do him no good. His body rolled and hitched. Fingers scratching in the dirt. Legs working like a dog in a fever dream. His voice came out in breathy grunts, no longer able to say words.
LaRouche held on, watching and waiting.
Just a little longer. The pain’s not so bad now. But that’s probably not a good thing.
Just a little longer…
TWENTY-FIVE
BEFORE THE DAWN
THEY RAN STRAIGHT DOWN a two-lane road. They ran to the sound of booming guns. Explosions in the distance, flickering just out of sight like a far-off lightning storm on the horizon. Lee could hear the rounds whistling overhead as they rocketed toward their points of impact. The darkness surrounded them, and the night was alive with sounds.
Not just from the sky, but from the woods. The hooting and screeching of their pursuers. Behind them as well. When Lee glanced behind him, he could sometimes see the dark shapes coming out of the woods, one or two at a time.
Lee could barely breathe. His lungs burned for oxygen. His ribs screamed in pain every time he had to inhale. But it was either run or die. And running required breathing. The pain was bad, but Lee just kept thinking about fingers ripping into him, teeth tearing him apart, feeding on him while he was still alive. He couldn’t stop. No matter how bad the pain was, he couldn’t stop.
You’re almost there, he kept telling himself. You’ve run the race. You’re almost done. Don’t stop now.
Tomlin had the radio handset up to his head again as they came up to an intersection. He was yelling, hoarse and out of breath. “It’s… it’s State Road One-Zero-Zero-Nine. I keep seeing that number on a sign. That’s got to be what it is. I think we’re going south. Where the fuck are you guys?”