by Warren Ray
The back door opened and Johnny-boy yelled out.
Winters shuffled to the back of the room and waited for the door to open. He stood still. A light in the hallway came on, spilling under the door. He could hear the man going into the other bedroom.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” huffed Johnny-boy.
Winters tightened the grip on the pistol as the door started to creak open. Faint light spilled into the room. He didn't know how many rounds he had and didn't want to waste them. He needed to see the target before firing.
The door flew open and Johnny-boy started firing wildly into the room.
The quick move surprised Winters but he dropped to the floor as the room erupted in muzzle flashes and loud thunder.
A bullet ripped across Winters’ left arm. His increased adrenaline level blocked the pain as he raised his gun and fired three times in rapid succession.
Johnny-boy collapsed to the floor and crawled down the hallway.
Winters cautiously crept to the door. He kneeled at the entrance and listened. Johnny-boy was breathing heavily, almost gasping for air.
Winters peered around the corner.
A shot rang out and hit the wall.
Before taking cover, he saw Johnny-boy's shirt was bloody. Winters took a moment to gather his thoughts. The man was wounded but he didn't know how bad it was, which meant he might survive until morning. He had to finish the job. He was trapped in the room and couldn't afford to wait.
Winters checked the magazine of the 9mm. Two rounds left. With one in the chamber, he had three.
He couldn’t think of any other way but to rush out into the hall while firing. He inhaled a couple of times to calm his nerves. Gripping the gun tighter, he jumped into the fight.
Johnny-boy was waiting.
They both fired.
Chapter 3
Winters' first two shots were dead-on and hit Johnny-boy in the chest. They knocked him over before he fired a third shot. The dead man's only shot was hurried and had hit nothing but the ceiling.
Winters fell back against the wall out of breath. A flood of emotions overwhelmed him knowing he had killed five men. He got up, stumbled down the hallway and into the kitchen. His stomach began to rumble and within seconds, he vomited into the sink. His face flushed with sweat.
The pain in his arm was now throbbing. He took his jacket off to tend to the wound and grabbed a towel hanging from the stove to begin wiping the blood from his arm. The bullet had grazed him and had taken out a small chunk of meat. It wouldn’t be too serious if he could stop the bleeding. Using his knife, he cut the towel in two, fixed the ends together, and wrapped it around the wound. He pulled it as tight as he could before cutting off the circulation and tied it off.
He turned on the faucet to wash the remaining blood off his arm and splash cold water on his face, which helped clear his head. The tap still ran as he grabbed another towel and dried himself off. He stood in a daze watching the water rinse his vomit and blood down the sink. He shut the faucet off, moved over to the kitchen table, and sat down to think about what he’d done. Killing people was not in his nature and he wondered how it would change him.
After putting the towel down, he noticed a piece of paper with a list of names. Picking it up, his heart sank as he read the names of his friends. He studied the whole list, remembering moments with each one of them. Tom, his friend and best man at his wedding was on the list. He had been the closest to Winters—their families had even shared camping trips. His eyes welled up trying to make sense of what was happening. He looked down the hall at the dead Johnny-boy. “Bastard! You got what you deserved,” he yelled out.
Winters got up and paced back and forth, then sat down on a couch to try and figure his next move. He reread the list and realized his name was on it. The hairs on his arms suddenly rose straight up, as if charged with electricity. Winters realized his knowledge of these murders would make him a liability and seeing his name on a list, told him they could easily figure out who had killed these men. If they knew who he was then it would only be a matter of time before they found him.
Chapter 4
The sound of engines rumbling woke Winters. He was in a state of confusion and had to look around for a few moments to remember what he had done. After last night's rush of adrenaline had worn off, exhaustion overtook him and he had fallen asleep on the couch.
Feeling the vibration of the ground, Winters ran to the window. Three transports came roaring into the parking lot. Were they already searching for him? There was nowhere to run and hide, so he hustled back down the hallway. Reaching for the 9mm from last night, he remembered it was out of ammo. He bent down, picked up Johnny-boy's gun, and checked the magazine. Empty.
He didn’t have time to hunt for where they stashed their weapons. So, he grabbed a camouflage jacket off its wall hook and carefully put it on trying not to disturb his wounded arm, which had become stiff and painful. After discarding his hat, and opting for another he found sitting on a table, he went to the bathroom mirror to check his appearance and pulled the hat down to hide his face.
Winters hurried down the hall to the door window and looked out. “Damn, more recruits,” he said to no one.
He cursed himself because he had no choice but to kill these three drivers. He couldn’t let them kill all those men out there. He tried to formulate a plan. Although being outnumbered three to one, he had the element of surprise on his side, but he’d still have to find a gun.
The three drivers stood together obviously waiting for someone to come outside and take over.
Winters' legs started to shake when one of the drivers moved across the parking lot toward the building. He backed away remembering Johnny-boy was still lying in the hallway and ran over to move him. The man was heavy and now stiff. Winters grabbed the legs and using as much strength as he could muster, dragged the body into the first bedroom and shut the door. He hurried to the kitchen as the front door opened.
“Guys, is anyone up?” asked the driver.
Winters took a deep breath to calm his nerves.
“Yeah, down here. We tied one on last night,” said Winters in a low scruffy voice.
“You got any coffee ready?” the driver asked as he came down the hallway.
Winters bent down behind the open refrigerator door and pretended to reach for something. His pulse was at the breaking point. The door shielded his body as well as the knife in his hand.
“Just made a pot.”
The driver, who was tall and skinny, entered the kitchen.
“Is that you Bill?” he asked.
Winters backed out of the refrigerator keeping his face from the driver.
“Thought you said there was coffee?”
In one continuous motion, Winters turned toward the driver and drove the knife into his gut. The man bent over as he clutched his stomach screaming in agony. Winters pulled the bloody knife out, grabbed him around his neck and sank the blade into his throat. The driver stepped back and crumpled to the floor.
Winters stood staring at the man and realized he had blood all over himself. He tore the jacket off, threw it on the floor while rinsing his hands at the kitchen faucet. He looked down at the dead man and reached for the Colt .45 in his holster. He pulled the magazine out—full.
He scrambled back down the hall and grabbed another jacket from a coat rack by the door. While donning the jacket, he glanced out the window and saw the two remaining drivers walking toward the building.
The rumbling sound of the diesel engines idling got louder when Winters stepped outside. The two drivers stopped dead in their tracks as he came marching out holding a gun.
Simultaneously, they reached for their side arms.
Winters reacted first. He fired at the driver on the left hitting him in the chest and killing him instantly.
The second driver was stilling fumbling with his holster when Winters fired. The bullet hit the man in the upper right chest, knocking him to the ground. Winters second shot pe
netrated the man’s upper right leg. The driver writhed in pain and yelled at the top of his lungs begging for his life.
“Ahhhggg, please don’t kill me,” screamed the driver.
“Why not, you murdering son-of-a-bitch?” yelled Winters.
The driver cried. “I’m not the one killing them. I’m just a driver.”
“So that makes you completely innocent of this?” asked Winters
Winters rifled through the driver’s clothes to check for any weapons.
“I’m just doing what they tell me to do.”
The volunteers had taken cover and were now all staring at Winters. He realized he probably looked like a raving lunatic and would, somehow, have to explain all of this.
A few of the passengers had gotten the courage to move out from behind the truck and come toward him.
Winters waved to them. They must have been from another part of the state because he didn’t recognize any of them. They were all about the same age as him, and more than half as physically out of shape.
Winters needed to convince them not to fear him. After subduing the driver, he tucked the weapon into the small of his back and walked toward the volunteers.
Winters took a deep breath and began. “My name is Cole Winters, and I’m not gonna hurt ya. Yesterday, I was on one of these trucks but jumped off and had to walk the last half-mile. I saw my friends lined up on the platform there and murdered in cold blood, the same as you would have been this morning.”
The men stood silent. They looked at one another, not knowing how to take this news or to even believe it.
“There is a mass grave across this field,” Winters continued, pointing across the parking lot. “It’s filled with hundreds of bodies.”
One of the volunteers shouted out. “How do we know you’re not one of them?”
Winters didn’t respond.
“What are we supposed to do now?” yelled one.
“Where are those men now?” asked another.
“I killed them last night,” said Winters.
Winters filled them in on last night’s events. After he finished, a couple them walked across the field to inspect the open pit while a few more ventured inside the building. The rest went over to the wounded driver and peppered him with questions.
“What the hell are you doing this for, why kill us?”
“I don’t know why,” he replied.
“Who are you and who’s in charge of this?”
“Is the military involved with this?”
“I don’t know anything, I’m just a driver.”
One of the men kicked the driver in the leg. He screamed out in pain. “I told you I don’t know anything.”
“Kick him again, Nate,” yelled his friend.
Nate kicked the driver again in the same wounded leg. “Listen you son-of-a-bitch, we’re going to get some answers out of you, even if it takes us all day. Do you understand?”
Winters stood off to the side as the volunteers interrogate the injured driver. He was relieved to see someone else doing some of the dirty work. Even though those men had deserved to die, his actions sickened him. Now that he had killed two more, it made Winters wonder what kind of a man he really was. He didn’t have a bad temper and considered himself pretty laid back. It gave him chills to think maybe he was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde only he had never before experienced being Mr. Hyde. Winters snickered to himself remembering that Mr. Hyde wasn’t scared of anything and didn’t recall him vomiting afterward. Whoever he was last night, he hoped that would be the last of him.
Across the field at the burial pit two men had fallen to their hands and knees and were throwing up.
The door to the building opened and two of today's recruits walked out.
“Elliott, it’s like he said. There’s a bunch of dead people in there,” said one of them.
Elliott was a tall, burly man in his mid-fifties and wore a ball cap over his thinning gray hair. His skin was dark and leathery from spending many days outside. He was a good ole boy and everyone seemed to like him. He spoke with a friendly tone in his voice.
He turned to acknowledge his friend and then walked over to Winters.
“I’m Rich Elliott, most folks just call me Elliott,” he said as he extended his hand.
Winters shook Elliott’s big hand and received a firm grip around his smaller one. “I’m Cole Winters.”
“Nice to meet you, Cole. Kind of weird what’s happened here, I’m not sure I’m even able to believe it.”
Winters tilted his head. “Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I don’t know if I would have either.”
Elliott said with a slight smile, “You sure you’re not a crazy man?”
“Starting to wish I were, be a helluva lot easier I think.”
After a few more well-placed kicks, the driver had enough and told the men volunteers had been killed since the beginning of the program and thought it might be going on at a few other places in the Midwest. He had been told these volunteers were troublemakers and by getting rid of them, he’d be doing his country a great service. He also acknowledged the pay was excellent.
The volunteers were in shock. They had signed up to help fight the Chinese. Instead, a different enemy was leading them to slaughter. An enemy they never would have dreamed existed.
“We need to figure out what we’re going to do,” said Elliott turning to Winters. “What do you think, Cole?”
Winters looked at him in surprise. “Why are you asking me? I don’t know what to do. I just wanted to get these guys for what they did to my friends, and make sure they would never kill anyone else.”
“Gosh darn Cole, you heard the man say they’re doing this in other places. We need to stop them,” said Elliott.
“He said it might be going on in other places. I don’t know why you think I could be of any help. I don’t have any military experience. I’m just a bookkeeper.”
Elliott raised an eyebrow. “Bookkeeper? You don't look like no bookkeeper to me.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you're not nerdy looking.”
“Thanks, I guess. I'm just good with numbers, is all.”
“Well, if you're good with numbers, then you, as in one person, in the last five hours, have killed seven men by yourself. Adding those numbers together tells me you have more experience than any of us.
Winters stood considering this while the men gawked at him like he was some sort of leader. This was not what he envisioned when he decided to come back and take revenge for his friends.
He realized his options were few. Even if the authorities weren’t involved with this, and he wasn’t sure about that, he would have to explain why he killed those men. It had not been an act of self-defense, but more like that of a vigilante. So, either way, they’d arrest him. At the same time, he still needed to find the list of names. Then an idea struck him. These guys can help him get the file and then he could bolt out of there.
He looked at the men. “If you’ll remember when we signed up, they recorded all of our names, which means they can find out who did this. So, we don’t have much choice but to go back and search through those records.”
“What should we do with our prisoner?” asked Elliott.
Winters winced at the question. A prisoner?
He wondered what that even meant. It’s not like they were an army or band of kidnappers, but yet they had a prisoner, a wounded one at that. He didn’t want to have to deal with this.
“Let’s bring him inside and tend to his wounds,” said Winters feeling a bit awkward giving out orders.
They helped the wounded driver up and took him into the building. Some of the volunteers went inside while others walked over to the trucks to grab their belongings.
A stern looking man approached Winters. “I’m Nate Foster.”
Winters shook the hand of a man who appeared to be his own age and height. The man carried his beer gut quite well. His black hair had streaks o
f gray running through it. Dark, thick eyebrows framed his eyes.
“I’m Cole Winters.”
“Cole like Cold Winters?” asked an amused Nate.
“I was born at home, during a blizzard. My parents had a sense of humor. I’m just glad they decided on the letter E instead of a D, on Cole.”
“Well, I think the name fits, we might have to call you Ice Cold after what you’ve done here,” said Nate.
“It’s not like it was a fair fight. They were all passed out from drinking,” said Winters not wanting to tell him about his wound for fear of needless pity.
“Yeah, but still, it was a bad-ass move.”
Winters shrugged. “If you say so.”
The two men stepped inside the building, walked up the hall, and into the kitchen. Some of the men had moved the body of the first driver into one of the bedrooms and laid their prisoner on the couch. They also applied bandages to his wounds. Speculation filled the room as to who was behind this operation. They made coffee and ate the food found in the refrigerator.
Winters sat at the table. “Here’s that list of names I was telling you about. All they need to do is go through the pit and figure out who’s buried and who’s not.”
Elliott grabbed it. “Then they’ll come looking for us.”
“Yes, they will. These people will keep looking till they find us,” said Winters. “We’ve stumbled onto something devious here. I’d imagine whoever is behind this wouldn't want the knowledge of it to spread around.”
“So, we’re just supposed to waltz right back there and storm the place?” asked one of them.
Nate spoke up. “Why the hell not?”
“How are we going to do that?” asked another.
Nate raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “For crying out loud guys. We just walk in and shoot up the damn place.”
“We can’t just stroll in there, those guys were carrying guns,” said another.
“These idiots here left us their guns,” argued Nate.
“We’ve got their three trucks,” said Elliott. “They’re gonna be expecting them back, plus there weren’t that many men running the darn place.”