(Wrath-06)-Smoke & Dust (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  “Fifteen thousand,” the loadmaster heard the pilot announce.

  “What’s the airspeed?” he queried the pilot.

  “Slowing through two hundred knots.”

  The loadmaster turned to Sam, who was finishing a final check of his equipment. “You want one sixty?” he called above the noise of the aircraft.

  “Slow as you can get her.” Sam pulled his leg straps tight.

  The loadmaster turned back to the door and spoke into his mask. “He’s looking for one hundred sixty knots. I don’t know, we’re kind of heavy to be going that slow, don’t you think?” The aircraft kept on slowing and descending as they talked.

  “OK,” the pilot said after two more minutes had passed. “One seventy now, and ten thousand. We’re on oxygen up here. How about you in the back?”

  The loadmaster checked himself and the boom operator, getting a thumbs-up from the young airman who was going to help him with the door. “Two good masks in the rear,” he said.

  “Ready to depressurize.”

  There was a sudden thump and rush of air as the cabin pressure was released, forming an instant cloud of mist inside the cabin. Bitter cold. Lots of noise. Building pressure in Sam’s ears and gut.

  “How’s everything in the back?” the aircraft commander asked after the aircraft had depressurized.

  “Good back here. Clear to open the aft emergency hatch?”

  “Sergeant, you are cleared.”

  The loadmaster gave Sam a quick thumbs-up. Sam moved forward and stood before the door, hands on his chest straps, bracing himself against the bone-chilling cold and blast of wind that would suck the oxygen right out of his lungs. He bent his knees and waited, just two feet from the door, his muscles tense, ready to pull his legs up tight against his body so they didn’t flail around him when he stepped into the night.

  He knew that, twenty feet behind him, the enormous tail of the aircraft angled outward from the rear of the fuselage. It was possible the wind would blow him back into the tail before he cleared it, in which case he would be cut in half. Would it happen? It wasn’t supposed to. But he’d never heard of anyone bailing out of a flying KC-135 before, so he really didn’t know.

  Seconds passed. The parachute straps cut into his legs. The loadmaster released the latch holding the access door release lever, then turned to Sam. “You ready?” he shouted. Sam nodded and stepped six inches forward. “Keep balled up. It’s going to blow you.” Sam nodded again, wishing he had some goggles.

  “Twenty seconds,” the pilot said through the loadmaster’s headset.

  He moved toward Sam, slapped his shoulder, and yelled against his ear, “I hope you find your family.” Sam nodded and shouted, “Thank you.” The loadmaster slapped again.

  “Doors coming open,” he said into his mask, then pulled the door back six inches and slid it to the side.

  Piercing cold. Bone-crushing wind. An unbelievable howling from the four jet engines and the blast of air. The sound filled the entire aircraft and vibrated against the fuselage walls with the force of a tornado.

  The sergeant lifted a hand and showed the count with his fingers. Five. Four. Three. Two. He slapped Sam on the shoulder.

  Sam tucked his head and stepped into the howling night.

  He tumbled head-over-head, the freezing cold around him, feeling as if he couldn’t breathe. Spinning, his arms pulled into his chest, he fell through the darkness toward the even darker earth below.

  Interstate 65, Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago

  The two men stood together at the lip of the bridge. The sun had set and the other thugs had scattered, heading off to their trailers and homes, leaving the two men standing in the misty air alone. The shorter of them pointed, lifting his arm halfway up his side. “He was there again,” he said. “The one you saw this morning.”

  The taller man hesitated, gently touching the scab that was forming at the back of his head. His ribs still burned and he walked carefully, every misstep sending bolts of pain through his chest. Worse, he’d been nauseous and weak-kneed all morning, his eyes bleary, his tongue thick. It seemed he could actually feel his skull plates grind together every time he moved his head. He’d suffered concussions a couple of times before, the worst one back in high school after a particularly bitter fight, so he knew the symptoms pretty well. And he knew that, as with the fight in high school, the only thing that would make him feel better was either revenge or the passage of time.

  He stared toward the darkness. “You sure it was him?” he demanded of his drinking pal.

  “Yeah. It was him. The one who attacked you. The other one was with him, too.”

  The taller man snorted. “You really think they’re soldiers?” His voice was cynical. No way was he going to mess with a pair of Army Rangers. His old man had always told him he was stupid, but even he wasn’t that dull.

  Baby-fat man shook his head. “No, they ain’t soldiers. They’re just a couple punks who jumped our backs in a chicken of a fight. A couple cowards who had to use rocks and sticks to beat us ’cause they couldn’t take us straight up.”

  The leader moved his head and grimaced. “You don’t think that was his mama?”

  “I don’t really care.”

  The other man considered. “She was a pretty good-looking woman . . . .”

  More silence as he thought.

  “They’re back there somewhere,” he hissed. “Sitting in their cars, waiting for rescue. But no one’s going to save them. Not tonight anyway.”

  His buddy swore. “We could ‘rescue’ them,” he sneered.

  “I think we should,” the tall one answered with contempt. “I think it’s time for payback. Only this time, we’ll be the ones who come sneaking up from the dark.”

  TWELVE

  Interstate 65, Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago

  They built a fire, more for the light than the heat, because Sara simply couldn’t stand the thought of another dark, empty night. The wood around them was soaking wet and it took a while to get the fire going. When they did, they kept it low, sitting close to the flames, not wanting to broadcast their position in the trees. As they sat, the clouds began to thin and then break up overhead, the moon and starlight shining through the cracks.

  “I wonder what time it is,” Sara said, staring quietly at the flames.

  None of their battery-operated watches worked anymore, and no one responded for a moment. The dancing fire had cast its spell, pulling them deep into silent thought. “I’m guessing somewhere between ten and twelve,” Luke finally answered.

  Mary, a dozen feet away, said, “It’s just after eleven-thirty.”

  Sara watched the fire cast yellow shadows across Mary’s face. She looked tired. They were all tired, but Mary was especially so. “How do you know that, Mary?” she asked.

  Mary kept her eyes on the flame. “I don’t know, I’ve just always had a sixth sense when it comes to time. I’ve never worn a watch in my life, but I can always tell you within a few minutes of what time it is.”

  “That may come in handy,” Ammon laughed.

  “Happy to be able to contribute something,” Mary smiled.

  “Does your internal clock work while you’re sleeping?” Ammon asked.

  “Pretty good,” Mary answered. “Sometimes, if I’m sick or something, I seem to be off, but mostly I can count on it.”

  “So you could set your brain alarm for, say, five in the morning? That’d give us time to pack our things and be ready to head out by sunrise.”

  Mary seemed to concentrate, rolling back her eyes. “Got it,” she said.

  Ammon watched her, then laughed. “Five o’clock, right?”

  “Got it,” she repeated.

  Ammon nodded, satisfied.

  “Of course, you’ll never be able to prove it if I’m wrong,” Mary giggled.

  Ammon smiled back at her. “True that,” he said.

  Sara held her hand up. “What was that?” she whispered suddenly.


  The others fell silent. Ammon stood slowly, moving away from the light of the fire. He listened, his ears straining. Sara also stood up. Luke remained where he was, cocking his head.

  A tiny flit of movement behind him. A brush of leaves. The stir of wet grass. Everyone heard it. Ammon tensed. Sara’s eyes grew wide, the whites shining fearfully in the flame.

  Ammon shot a deadly look toward their car, thinking of the gun that was hidden in the trunk. He motioned to Luke, then walked slowly toward it. Sara watched him go, then turned back around. “So, Luke,” she said nonchalantly, “do you think it’s going to rain any more tonight?”

  “What did you say, Mom?” Luke asked a little too obviously as he stood.

  The two men emerged from the darkness, their faces yellow in the firelight, the sockets of their eyes cast in shadows from the flame. “Well, well, well,” the first man drawled, “look what we have here! Our U.S. soldiers and their mamas. What a lovely, lovely sight.”

  He wobbled, his eyes unfocused, both hands hidden behind his back. A mean drunk on the best of nights, he’d gotten his initial momentum from the Jack Daniels®, but it was the pain in his head and ribs that drove him now. The more pain he felt—and he felt a lot of pain—the angrier he became. He sneered at Ammon. “Don’t move there, soldier boy!”

  Ammon turned toward him. “Listen, pal, we don’t want any problems, OK?” He kept his voice from choking. “We didn’t come looking for trouble. We were just defending ourselves.”

  “Defend your . . . shelves,” the drunk man slurred. “That’s a good idea, tough guy.”

  Luke’s mind raced. “Come on, boys. Come and stand with us by the fire.”

  The first man belched and spit. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Ammon slowly backed toward the car.

  The drunk dropped his right arm. The steel tire iron he was holding angled sharply to the right. Ammon’s eyes grew wide, darting back and forth. The adrenaline shot through him, the rage starting to build.

  Luke took an angry step toward the man. “I’m not afraid of you!” he snapped. “I took you last night, no problem. Believe me, fat boys, we can take you down again.”

  “I don’t think so.” The drunk dropped his other hand. An old Colt .45 shone in the dim light, its barrel glistening like liquid metal. “Not tonight, baby,” he sneered at them again.

  Ammon froze. Sara screamed. Mary’s eyes rolled back and she went limp, slumping to the ground, her arms tucked underneath her like a rag doll. The second man looked at her and wobbled. “Look at that,” he laughed, “she’s as drunk as we are!” Mary twitched, then lay motionless, completely unconscious. Ammon moved toward her.

  “Get back,” the first man screamed.

  “Look at her. She’s—”

  “I don’t care about her!” he screamed again.

  Baby-Fat Man giggled and pointed. “Good place for her,” he laughed. “Good place for the black mama, down there in the mud.”

  Ammon stopped, silent and sweating, even in the cold. There was something about these men, something unstable, unpredictable—something dangerous. He could see nothing but unhinged fire in their eyes.

  “Look at her,” the second man continued mocking, his voice thick with bigotry and hate. “This is where all these African mamas belong!” He took two steps and kicked Mary in the ribs, lifting her tiny body off the ground. She didn’t move, absorbing the entire force of the blow, her eyes still closed.

  “LEAVE HER ALONE!” Sara screamed.

  “Shut up!” the first man hissed.

  “She’s done nothing to you! It’s us you’ve got a problem with.”

  “Got that right, you wench!” The man took a raging step toward her.

  “Stay back!” Luke cried, racing to stand between the stranger and his mom.

  The man stopped, then took a step back. He wobbled, smiled, and lifted the barrel of his gun.

  Ammon lurched suddenly toward the men.

  “Don’t move!” the first man cried, turning the Colt .45 on him. Dropping the tire iron, he shifted the gun into his other hand. “Showtime!” he hissed.

  A deadly silence settled over them, full and heavy and not of this world. Evil. Raging evil. The spirit of Satan filled the night.

  * * *

  They were standing right beside him. They were speaking in his ear. Murder was their greatest pleasure and they shivered with glee.

  To the man, it seemed as if time stood still. His heart crashed inside his broken rib cage, his eardrums pounding. Slowly, he lifted the heavy gun, squinted one eye, and aimed at Ammon.

  “Do it!” Satan hissed.

  He held the gun out, his arm extended, pointing it at Ammon’s heart.

  “Kill him!” Satan shouted. “Kill him! Do it now!”

  The drunken man took a breath and held it. Time crawled, so warped and slow it seemed a full minute passed with each beat of his raging heart.

  “Kill them both! Then kill the women!”

  * * *

  Ammon stepped back, moving in slow motion. His eyes were focused like a laser, never leaving the barrel of the gun.

  Sara screamed, but the man couldn’t hear anything but the hissing voices in his head. His eyesight narrowed, then his vision tunneled as he focused on a two-inch spot on Ammon’s chest. Luke cried and ran toward him, flying through the air. The man jerked the gun around and fired, sending a geyser of mud and dirty water into the air. Luke cried again and fell backward, landing spread-eagled in the mud, his face contorted in pain. Sara screamed and ran toward him, falling on her knees beside her son. The man turned in fury and aimed at Ammon’s head.

  “Kill him,” Balaam cried, his voice filled with ice and rage. “You’ve killed one. Your fate is sealed. Might as well kill them all now.”

  The drunk moved his finger to the trigger, the flesh pressing against the cold metal.

  “WE COMMAND YOU TO KILL THEM!” Balaam and Satan shouted together in his ear.

  The man swallowed and looked at Ammon, time flowing back to normal now. Looking down the barrel of the gun, he saw Ammon staring at him in shock. Sara cried again in anguish as she pulled Luke’s body close.

  “This is for last night,” the drunk man whispered, pressing the trigger of the gun.

  The tire iron came down with sickening force on the back of his head, sending him slumping to the ground.

  Mary stood over him, her eyes wild, the tire rod in her hand. The man dropped, completely unconscious, his face pressed into the mud, his eyes open but lifeless, his open mouth gasping in the sludge.

  Mary dropped to her knees, pulled the gun from his clenched fingers, held it up in terror, then threw it toward Ammon. He caught it and, with one motion, turned it, pulled the slide, and aimed it at the other man.

  The fat one stood there speechless, his eyes wide in shock and fear. Where had she come from? How had she risen like that? One moment he had been the hunter—now the gun was aimed at him!

  She had been faking! She had tricked them! Stupid, deceiving liar!

  Mary glared at him, her eyes flaming. “I’m not an African,” she sneered.

  The man slumped, then turned and ran into the dark.

  THIRTEEN

  Two Miles North of Demotte, Indiana, Twenty Miles South of Chicago

  “Run!” the Spirit whispered to him. “Run, Samuel, run!”

  The young soldier stood motionless in the moonlight, unsure of what to do. He looked around him. Where had the voice come from?

  “RUN!” the voice seemed to whisper once again, more urgently this time.

  He had hit the ground only seconds earlier. The parachute was strung around him, streamer lines tangled underfoot. He pulled the parachute release buckles at his chest and wriggled out of the harness, then bent and grabbed the thin parachute material and wadded it up. Rolling it into a loose ball, he tossed it aside.

  “RUN!” the Spirit whispered.

  So he ran.

  Through the brush, toward the
road. Up the embankment, onto the pavement. A small country road. He stopped, jerking his head left and right.

  “RUN!”

  He looked north. The night was quiet. Several dead cars sat around him. No one was in sight. He bent over, looking inside. The cars were empty.

  He turned and ran again.

  A mile later, the country road grew narrow. The blacktop ended. The road turned to loose gravel. He stumbled in the dark, rolling onto his shoulders as he fell. His backpack was heavy, loaded with all his gear. He didn’t even come to a stop but kept on rolling until he came to his knees from the inertia, then pushed himself to his feet again and ran.

  A line of trees. He kept on running. His lungs began to burn. His legs were loose and in rhythm, his backpack bouncing as he ran.

  The road turned east, but he kept north. Through a ditch, half-filled with muddy water, his boots and pants getting wet, up the other side, across a narrow field now, always running toward Polaris, the North Star. Was it the right direction? He didn’t know, but the dread inside him kept him moving as beads of sweat rolled down his face and burned his eyes. His breathing was deep and heavy, but still he didn’t slow down.

  The moon broke through the scattered clouds, casting the emptiness around him in dim light. Shadows up ahead of him. A row of houses, dark and empty. He passed a winding driveway and heard a barking dog. He turned right to move around the empty homes and almost crashed into a barbed-wire fence. Bending, he forced his way through. The barking dog was getting closer. He pushed his backpack against the barbed wire, got caught for a second, then squeezed it through and turned and ran.

  A freeway up ahead of him. He scrambled up the embankment. Hundreds of abandoned cars. Voices to his right. Movement there. A group of people on the road, to the south. He moved toward them, gasping for breath.