by Joel Shaw
She calmly got dressed, cleaning her knife on his shaking torso. Hanson was still alive. Time to put an end to that. She put the barrel of her pistol in his mouth and sent two 9MM through his demented brain. The end.
She searched the office, finding Wes’s satellite phone in the desk drawer. Shania instantly came to her mind. She had a satellite phone...what was the number? Did she write it down? She couldn’t remember. She grabbed the phone and departed, closing the door softly behind her. It was done. That swan will swim no more. Now for the rest of the son’s of bitches. More fuel, please.
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There was no mistaking the sound of the muffled shots when Sheila twice pulled the trigger. Three Swans working inside the warehouse made a careless assumption.
“You hear that?”
They exchanged knowing glances, having determined that the shots had come from one of the second floor offices. They conferred momentarily, agreeing that Zeek must have put Hanson out of his misery. A mercy killing. Best to leave him alone to grieve. The poor bastard was the only one who still believed in and supported the once formidable commander. They continued loading the contaminated water, thinking only about the money.
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Faye heard the gunshots, too. There was no mistaking the sound, even at this distance. She chambered a round and was about to turn her attention to the warehouse when she noticed a black dot behind her perched like a vulture on the silo of the old concrete plant. Stationary. Watching. Waiting for the kill? Did he see her? How long had he been there? She quickly scanned the warehouse for movements. Nothing. She swung the rifle around to look at the black dot through the scope. Too late, the dot was gone. Then she saw the dot, running waist high in weeds, coming straight for her. Was this the same dot? A different dot? She wasn’t sure. She leveled the scope on the intruder and followed him, giving him a slight lead, she caressed the trigger with the tip of her index finger. She couldn’t make out any features, but the dot moved like a man. A skinny man. A Ranger? This character didn’t meet her expectations of the infamous Texas Rangers. She watched him advance, three hundred yards, two hundred yards, one hundred yards, she clicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger. The butt of the rifle slammed into her shoulder as the round sped down-range missing the looming stranger. She realized she had not adjusted the elevation and the stranger had not sought cover, he was zig-zagging, still on the run, now thirty yards distant. His mouth was moving like he was yelling at her. She couldn’t hear a thing. The muzzle blast had deafened her. She glanced at the warehouse hoping for some support.
One of the Black Swans was looking in her direction. As their eyes connected, he came charging across the field toward her. She quickly made peace with her god and made herself small on the grassy knoll, waiting for the death blow.
Oddly enough, the stranger approaching behind her leapt over her like a hurdler and continued running, greeting the oncoming Swan with a vicious head-butt followed by some quick knife work.
Faye peeked at the clashing warriors. Within seconds the Swan was on the ground bleeding from a gash in his throat. The stranger was returning to her, wiping his blade with a tuft of grass. She fumbled with the rifle, pulling back the bolt she could see that the chamber and clip were empty. She had no extra ammunition. She scrambled to her feet, holding the heavy rifle like a bat, she prepared to pound the approaching figure into the dust. Her first strike whistled over the head of the stranger who easily dodged her clumsy swing and disarmed her.
“Easy now, lady. I’m not going to hurt you. He removed the bolt from the rifle and slipped it in his pocket for safe keeping, before focusing on Faye.
“My name is Jordan Whittaker. I’m here to help.”
“WHAT?” Faye’s ears were still ringing. She wondered if the hearing loss was a permanent condition. She stared blankly at the stranger. He was tall and thin with huge, intense blue eyes. He wasn’t any Elvis, that was for sure, but he just saved her life. At least it appeared that way. What was he going to do, now?
Jordan attempted to convey his assurances with exaggerated movements of his mouth hoping the woman could read his lips.
Faye yelled in order to hear her own voice.
“GORDON? IS THAT WHAT YOU SAID?”
“My name is...” He turned up the volume. “...My Name Is JORDAN. I’M HERE TO HELP YOU.” He could see he wasn’t getting through to her.
Faye nodded emphatically, signaling that she understood. She didn’t.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” she yelled, “MY EARS ARE RINGING.”
Jordan clapped his hand over her mouth in frustration, shaking his head from side to side. He quickly scribbled a note in the dirt: ‘Be quiet.’
Faye nodded in the affirmative. Relieved after realization that she was not going to be hurt.
Jordan signaled for her to stay put, then ran toward the warehouse. Hoping against hope that he still had an element of surprise.
Faye swung the rifle barrel
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CHAPTER 31
The distinctive crack of the hunting rifle was alarm enough to wake Harold and Milton from their mid-day slumber.
Harold was immediately concerned. “That was Leland’s rifle.” He gave Milton a nudge. “Come on Milt, he might be in trouble.”
In spite of the alarm, they moved slowly, their stiff joints and aching muscles objected to the strenuous activities of the past 24 hours, and rising to the occasion was proving difficult.
Harold placed his hand on the ground to brace himself as he got to his feet. He noticed that the weeds were damp. His obsession took over.
For years he had read and reread every book in the library having anything to do with meteorology. He spent hours every day studying the sky for tell-tale signs of an oncoming low pressure system or a change in the jet-stream which seemed to have been locked in position for years, allowing one high-pressure system after another to bake the country, relentlessly. Finally there had been a shift in the jet-stream. He thought this might be the beginning. Dew meant there was moisture present in the atmosphere. He flashed back to the report about rain in Northern Saskatchewan. His excitement prompted an outburst.
“Come on baby...bring it on...come on.”
“Huh?” Milton stared at Harold suspiciously. “You dreaming about Faye, HC, or something else?”
Harold ignored the insinuation. “Rain, Milt. I think it’s going to rain.”
“Good God Almighty, HC, I can’t tell you how many times I have herard you say that. I’ll believe it when I feel it, HC...I’ll believe it when I see it.” Milton said flatly.
Harold squatted, digging his fingertips into the earth, squeezing soil between his fingers to see if it would bond.
“It’s not in my imagination, Milt; this is real.” He tossed the tiny mud ball at Milton.
Milton swatted it away. “There’s no time for playing in the dirt. What about the mess we’re in right now? We need to find Leland.”
Harold rose reluctantly. “I’m right behind you.”
“No you ain’t.” Milton grabbed Harold’s sleeve.
“You’re gonna be right beside me.” He towed him to the corner of the warehouse closest to the locomotive and stopped before peeking around the corner. He couldn’t observe the field beyond the train, nor could he see any Swans. Milton looked at Harold. He was staring at the sky, again, clearly distracted. Maybe too distracted.
“Stay right here, Harold, I’m going to take a look around. You have my back?”
“I’ve got your back, Milt.” Harold said it without conviction or sense of urgency.
“OK, buddy, here I go.” Milton sprinted to the front of the locomotive and hoisted himself aboard, quickly making his way to the engineer’s compartment. He peeked out the cab in the direction of their rally point. He could see a body laying motionless in the field. It looked like Faye. He continued scanning, hoping he was wrong. No, there she was, he spotted her on the grassy knoll. He scanned the length of the train, a black figure moved st
ealthily from one blue container to another. Looking for something? Could be a Swan. Had to be, who else would be messing around on the train. He moved to the opposite side of the cab and scanned the space between the warehouse and the train. The tangle of wrecked vans hadn’t been moved. Two Swans emerged from the warehouse pulling a cart loaded with bottled water. Why would they be loading that nasty shit? Milton wondered...unless...unless they didn’t know it was contaminated? Maybe Wes didn’t tell them about the Cholera...hot diggity dogshit, wouldn’t that be a kick in their asses? It occurred to him, then, that they might be able to get rid of the Swans without firing a shot...well...at least no more shooting. He retraced his steps as fast as he could, eager to share his observations and scheme with Harold. Harold was gone.
#
Harold watched Milton until he reached the protection of the locomotive before he circled back to the rally point, hoping to find someone to talk about the weather. He walked upright as though he were on a field trip in a park, not watching where he was going, instead, fixated on the horizon, he stumbling every now and then plodded forward, engrossed in the subtle cloud formations barely visible to the North-West.
Faye had noticed the unusual formations, too, but had not contemplated their significance. At the moment, she was more concerned about the risks Harold was taking. She was tempted to yell at him, but didn’t. She had been instructed to be quiet. She decided not to abandon the advice. She waited and worried as Harold covered the last hundred yards until he was close enough to be scolded.
“You fool. Get down.” She hissed. When she realized that he was oblivious to her and would soon pass by without acknowledgement. She clutched his belt with both hands and pulled him to sitting position.
Harold was startled out of his trance. “Faye. I’m was coming to see you. It’s going to rain, Faye. I really think it’s going to...”
“Harold? What is the matter with you? Your son is in danger. Don’t you understand that? She waited for Harold to acknowledge her concerns but he didn’t.
“That Ranger guy showed up, too. I thought he was going to kill me but he saved me instead. I want to know what is going on, Harold. I’m frightened and worried.”
Harold sat in the lotus position watching wisps of cirrostratus clouds far to the Northwest thicken like cotton candy. If he was right, eventually they would merge forming altocumulus clouds, then, if enough moisture was present, nimbostratus, then...maybe rain.
“Come on sweetheart, bring us some rain.” He whispered softly as if his charm would affect the weather.
Faye was concerned, “Harold?” She touched him tenderly, wondering if he had suffered a mental breakdown.
Suddenly Harold grabbed her, hugging her tightly until she began to gasp for air .
“I think it’s going to rain, Faye.” He eased his hold on her and smiled.
Faye pushed him away, confused and scared. Maybe he needed a SLAP, her hand stung from the well-placed blow to Harold’s cheek.
“Harold, listen to me. Snap out of it. Please. We have to help Leland.”
“He’s fine, Faye. Trust me. I’m going to my office.”
“How do you know he’s fine? Harold...can you hear me? Harold?”
Harold was not deterred from his mission. “I have a short wave radio in my office. I need it. I must hear the latest forecast.”
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CHAPTER 32
Meanwhile, Leland and Amber slipped into the warehouse and crouched between two enormous, empty cisterns. From their vantage point they could see several Black Swans moving pallets of bottled water toward the train. In a far corner of the warehouse Amber could see two men unpacking the portable bottling plant. She grinned, remembering that Sheila had stole the assembly instructions.
Leland broke the shotgun to make sure it was loaded. One of the primers was dimpled, that meant he had one shot. He hadn’t even asked Faye if she had more shotgun shells. Conscious incompetence was eroding his confidence. He was learning tactics the hard way. He wondered if he would survive his schooling.
A movement in the window of the office complex on the second floor caught his attention. Then he spotted Jerry and Sheila crawling along the elevated walkway toward the entry of the complex. He waved, trying to get their attention, no luck. He watched them creeping forward ever so slowly, directly above the busy Swans. Just a few yards to go. Progress stopped, it appeared as though Jerry got his boot lace tangled in the superstructure of the expanded metal walkway. He was wrestling to free it and in doing so caught the attention of the two Swans working below.
“Hey, who’s up there? Is that you Zeek?”
Sheila stuck the barrel of her 9MM through the expanded metal and let it breath fire. The crack of the gunshot sent everyone but the dead one in search of cover. His buddy ducked inside a large wooden crate. Sheila emptied her clip into the crate. Moments later a stream of blood spilled from it. The fire was started. Sheila reloaded and motioned a dumbfounded Jerry to follow. She sprinted to the end of the walkway and began her descent to the floor using a steel emergency ladder. She expected a hail of bullets to follow and was astounded to see full water bottles sailing thorough the air toward her.
Jerry couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Swans were throwing water bottles like hand grenades. What did they hope to accomplish? He laughed at them, catching one of the bottles mid-air, he unscrewed the top. He was thirsty.
“Thanks,” he yelled, then tipped the bottle and took a satisfying drink. The instant he swallowed, he remembered; this was the bad water. Wes Water. This water killed. He spit over the handrail several times, hoping to expel the bacteria. Then his thinking did a one-eighty. What if all the swans were to take a drink of Wes Water? That would be convenient and clean. He spit again, then noticed Sheila, standing at the foot of the ladder motioning him to hurry.
Sheila hadn’t forgotten about the nasty water. She held up one of the bottles and gave him the thumbs down. He nodded. Knowing that he might have performed his final fuck up. The thought made him ill.
Sheila waited for Jerry to join her as the bombardment of water bottles slowed.
“They don’t have any ammunition,” Jerry whispered.
“Really?” Her sarcasm elevated her arched eyebrows to new heights. However, she was relieved at the development. Dodging water bottles was easier than dodging bullets.
“OK, what now?” Jerry nocked an arrow and waited for Sheila to make her next move. He had learned one thing about Sheila; she was predictably unpredictable.
Sheila wanted to know if the Swans understood that the water they were loading onto the train was contaminated. She stepped forward, into the open.
“HEY. Lets Talk.” Her harsh, but clearly feminine voice drew the attention of every male in the warehouse. A momentary cease-fire ensued followed shortly by another salvo of water bottles. That’s what she wanted.
It was time for a shooting exhibition. It was time to put the FOS, Fear of Sheila, in these Swan pussies. She aimed and fired at one of the airborne missiles; it exploded in mid-air. Then another and another but she wasn’t doing the all the shooting, the gunfire was coming from two other locations. A shotgun bellowed, followed by the rattle of an automatic weapon as bottle after bottle exploded in mid-air. Sheila squeezed off round after round, a maniacal grin frozen on her face, not caring what she hit anything. Shooting made her feel good. She reloaded and sent eight rounds through the metal roof creating a smiley face. The metal warehouse resounded.
A brief lull in the action brought the Swans scampering from their hiding spots.
One of them was screaming, “I SURRENDER. STOP SHOOTING.”
Silence. Trickery? No one moved. For several long minutes the warehouse was quiet, clouded with stench of gunpowder and awash with toxic water.
Who’s alive? Who isn’t?
Sheila thought it was time for roll call.
“Amber. You OK? No answer.
“Leland, You OK?”
“Yeah, I’m OK.�
��
“Mutton, You OK?” No answer.
“Harold?” No answer.
“Jerry? I know you’re OK.”
“Faye?” Silence.
“She’s OK.” The respondent was close. It was an unfamiliar voice. A trick?
“Who said that,” Sheila demand.
“I did,” the voice replied.
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Jordan.”
“Show yourself.” She demanded as she slammed a fresh clip into her pistol. The unintended consequence of that command resulted in the assembly of ten Swans, hands above their heads, standing single file in the pond of poison.
Was that all of them? She wasn’t sure. How many of the twenty had been killed? Unknown.
She best be careful. She motioned Jerry to follow her as she walked toward the prisoners. Jerry took a position twenty yards away, arrow nocked.
Sheila faced the assembly of Swans. “How many of you are still alive?”
Frightened glances were exchanged amongst the Swans. Where there others? Who had been killed? They could see that Samuels, Whithers, Davis, Zeek and Hanson were not among them...and Juan? He wasn’t there, either. That made six. Hopefully some of them were alive. They needed help. This bitch with the crazy, fire eyes was a killer. They looked to the tallest man in their group.
“Five, I guess...” It was Sargent Major Peters, “...including Major Hanson.”
“Five,” Sheila repeated loudly.
She held up five fingers and folded one over. “Hanson is dead. That makes four.”
She gestured toward the wooden crate with her thumb, “that dipshit in the crate is dead.” She folded over another finger. “That makes three.”
Leland stepped from the shadow of a nearby cistern. “Davis is dead.”
Sheila didn’t look at him, she simply folded another finger. “Two.”
“We have two guys tied up in the guard shack at camp.” Leland added.
“Two. Is that it?” She knew it wasn’t. Someone was missing.
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