Predator Jones explained, “I don’t think my bird would last two minutes airborne. Those bastards have some real firepower.”
“I expect to hear from Fritz within the next two hours.” Cricket spoke to the men while continuing to watch the pasture and woods. The soft cumulus clouds, near the treetops, hung like smoke from a battle. Her heart sank remembering the drive back to her hometown only days after her father’s death, seeing the smoke above the trees as they approached Woodburn.
Cricket and company were parachuting in on a very new kind of war—an alternate history complete with pagan queens, jihadists, white-power soldiers, a killer burning a woman alive, and even make-believe demons from horror and science fiction movies taking on flesh and mutilating not only others but themselves. A flood of evil set loose, many characters in costume, swarming over the living.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a man emerged from the nearest rise of the western pasture, all in black, waving a sword.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” Predator Jones said, shooting to his feet.
Diesel barked from inside the house.
“Keep the dog inside!” Cricket yelled to Hank, and reached for her trusty Remington leaning against the fireplace. From the house burst one of the Breyer boys in a full gallop, aiming for the intruder.
“Stop,” Cricket screamed to the boy, zeroing the rifle sight in on the lunatic playing samurai. The charging crazy wore a vest. “Bomber,” was all she could say when the teenager blocked her shot. Predator had Fritz’s AR-15 and ran toward the barn to get a clear shot. From behind Cricket came screams from the house, the parents and brothers arguing and shouting and Diesel barking. Lawrence stood still and aimed his gun, waiting for an opportunity.
The boy was closing in on the bomber when Cricket shot twice. Predator Jones followed with several shots, the last seemingly timed with the exploding vest that sent the intruder’s body in multiple directions and the Breyer teen to the ground.
Everyone ran to the youngest boy, who was bleeding from the mouth and eyes. Worse was the damage to his chest and gut. He was dying, and the family knelt around him. The father cradled his head. The mother, mouth open in silent agony, looked back and forth several times between her two intact sons and then back to the destroyed one on the ground, trying to place him again with his brothers, among the living.
Sister Marie and Hank kept the children at the house, and Lawrence, gun in hand, twisted in every direction, ready for another assault. Cricket and Predator moved away from the mourning family and eyed the woods for more trouble. Claubauf came running from the bunkhouse.
No parent or brother uttered “he could’ve,” “should’ve,” or “would’ve.” Instead they prayed and cried. The boy’s heart was strong, and it continued to pump for another five minutes. But he was circulating his blood to the dead grass, and the grass lacked the mechanism for returning his precious blood.
56
Brave and Rash
The boy’s name was Tom, and he was carried back to the house by his two brothers. Inside, Sister Marie helped the father wash the fatal wounds in the downstairs bathroom while the boys looked after their mom. At the main barn, Cricket and the men made their plans.
“We take the Barracuda to the bottom of the Hilltop, recon for the Air Force,” she said, standing outside the barn, next to the convertible. “The Breyers and other families will storm the woods.”
Hand on his holstered gun, Lawrence said, “I’ll stay at the house with Hank and Sister. The mechanics and Claubauf will roam the property. Ethan will be armed as well. With the woods being combed and your mission with Fritz, I think we’re covered.”
“I’m worried about my pards.” Predator paced alongside the Barracuda, looking down. “I expected them here by now.”
“If they land while you’re gone, I’ll make sure they stay on the ground until we hear something.” Lawrence checked the back seat, where two backpacks and more guns and a pistol-grip shotgun lay on the seat. The C-4 explosives were on the floor. “God, please be careful with the C-4.”
Predator said, “Used the guts of a garage remote. The C-4’s detonator receives the signal from this.” He held up the remote. “Actually, used a remote like this with my boys when they were growing up. Launched a lot of model rockets with a garage opener. A real B-flat device. Knew it would come in handy someday.” He gave it to Cricket to examine and made “jazz hands”—palms forward, fingers splayed, shaking both hands. “Just press the button and the fellas on the other end get a long-distance call from hell, all charges paid. Need to be within a thousand feet, whether on the ground or in the air.”
Cricket said, “Can another device set it off?”
“What other device is working nowadays?”
“Somebody else with an old garage door opener?” Lawrence said, not amused with the lack of safety. “A lot of old stuff floating around.”
“It’s gotta match the receiver frequency. Only insert the battery when you have your target and the C-4 is planted.”
“When can I expect you two back?” Lawrence handed Cricket a paper bag with some homemade jerky and two apples.
“If it’s quiet, we’ll get back here well before nightfall.”
“Good, the Breyers won’t be staying here tonight.”
“A shame to lose that boy and their support,” Predator said sadly.
“You did the right thing,” Cricket replied, climbing into the Barracuda.
“Yeah, shot a crazy man who blew up and killed a fine young man.”
Predator tilted his head, as if listening to a distant tune from an ancient radio. Cricket wasn’t sure if Predator could read the parents, but she could, and they painfully understood the boy’s bravery and rashness.
Cricket kissed Lawrence on the cheek. “We’re going to make it.” She took the driver seat and wisecracked about the missing rear window. “Easier to toss out our McDonald’s bag.”
They coasted away and pulled onto the road leading toward Marietta. She accelerated slowly, scanned right and left, and took a breath. She turned on the radio and scanned the channels.
Predator’s weathered face powered a smile. “You searching for Rush?”
She smiled back, tickled to have a coconspirator. “Now that’s insightful.”
“Hell, it’s early afternoon.” Predator looked up at the sky and rubbed his chin. “Everyone with a brain and a soul knows it’s Rush time. Me and the boys have an old tube radio we fire up with a generator a few times a week, looking for the Maha Rushie. Never did find him. But once we actually found someone playing old standards at lunchtime. I’ll say this, we listened for over an hour before we lost that station. And there wasn’t a dry eye in camp.”
57
Haunted Forest
Cricket began slowing down when she spotted Doctor Claubauf walking alongside the road. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder and had changed into a dark runner’s outfit and donned his brown safari hat. The sun scooted behind broken clouds, and a sad day of loss was cousin to the muted browns and purples of an unplowed field.
“See anything?” Cricket asked, keeping her foot on the brake.
“The world’s quiet today.”
“An evil clown blew up a young kid. That’s not a quiet day in my book.”
“The kid never should have been going after him.”
“Good instincts, love of family.” Predator Jones stared at the tall man. “Where are Oakley and Forrest?”
“They decided to comb the woods some more.”
Predator adjusted his cap, tilting it back and then down, shading his eyes.
“That’s Oak’s rifle,” Cricket said.
“He said I might have more need of it along the road and pastures. The open spaces. Great scope.”
“We’ll be back by dinner, maybe sooner.” Cricket glided away, the old muscle car clearing its throat somewhere in the bass range. She watched Claw in the rearview mirror, waving, shouting out:
“Hank
and I plan on making dinner. Give Sister a break.”
Cricket had both hands on the wheel and accelerated to fifty, still glancing at Claw. “I didn’t like him when I first met him. Like him even less now.”
“An odd duck for sure. Oh well, we’re all different I guess.” Predator looked at the passing farms, smiling like he was enjoying a Sunday-afternoon drive. “Mighty scenic, Cricket.”
“Yeah, and it includes the haunted forest.”
Recently, Hank had told Cricket and the children that the oaks lining the narrow road of the haunted forest that led to the river had been planted over two hundred years ago by a general from the Revolutionary War, who had encouraged his soldiers to go west to the new frontier at the intersection of the Ohio and Muskingum Rivers.
Cricket slowed. As they started their descent, the woods darkened even though most of the leaves of the trees had fallen. When Predator caught sight of the first pair of ancient oaks guarding the entrance of the haunted forest, he let out a long sigh.
“My favorite tree. Grew up with big oaks in the backyard. The largest fell one night in a heavy thunderstorm. I was a teen and my dad brooded for days. I thought he was frustrated with the mess of a huge cleanup, but Mom told me he really loved that tree. They’d sit on the porch after us crumb-munchers went to bed and talk about all the scenes of human folly this great tree must have witnessed.”
Gravity aided the Barracuda, its throaty idle belonging to a big cat moving through the forest.
Not all the grand oaks stood tall. On Cricket’s side there was one that had been struck by lightning, snapped twenty feet above the ground, its heavy limbs reaching into the forest. Others, like Predator’s great oak of childhood, had fallen due to the natural problems of aging, rotting from the inside out over many years, or simply toppling from erosion. Cricket pointed and Predator whistled: one brute wasn’t reaching deeper inside the forest but toward the road, its agonized limbs about to snatch up some passerby.
Cricket slammed on the brakes when a young man ran past, chased by three shrieking women waving knives over their heads. The man briefly eyed the car and continued without a call for help, dashing straight into the woods.
Predator Jones had his gun drawn and watched the direction taken by the party of four. He got out and Cricket followed, locking the car, drawing her Colt.
The screams continued unabated. The hounds were taking their prey. Cricket imagined coyotes eating a fawn alive. Predator led, aiming toward hell.
“Never liked an uneven fight,” was all he said, flying through the woods with the grace of an athletic forty-year-old.
They climbed a hill, and the screams pressed against their ears. The brush was thick, leading to a ravine. They could see the water flowing off to their left, but the man and his tormentors were straight ahead, obscured by bushes still full of leaves.
The first shot was taken by Predator—a no-brainer. The tallest woman, arched like a cobra, was straddling the man lying in the creek and flung backward still holding the knife, crashing alongside the other two Furies pinning him down.
Like zombies unaware that their pal has just been blown away, the living dead kept going to work on the man’s stomach, stabbing and clawing with bare hands. Cricket couldn’t take the shot. She’d possibly hit the man, so she ran, and so did Predator, who pointed left, selecting his target, leaving Cricket the witch on the man’s right.
At point-blank range, she fired into the woman’s skull. And it was a skull. Most of her hair was gone, and everything visible was bony: her jutting shoulder blades, long nose, angular face. Predator yelled something and fired, an avenging angel who despises the mob tearing apart its victim. His woman instantly dropped her murderous look for a domestic one, possibly a shopping decision, after the demolition of the left side of her head.
The young man’s screams died quickly once his attackers had been stilled forever, and shock took hold as he assessed the horror of his insides exposed to the world.
“Son, why did they do this to you?” Predator leaned close, not worried of a weapon’s making its appearance. The young man pressed his stomach and intestines toward what he imagined were their proper places, but they stubbornly pooched out.
Cricket watched his tears fall freely. Even with the blood spray across his face and scratches and cuts, she realized he was unusually handsome, a fashion model finding his way into horror movies to extend his career. But this career was ending badly.
“Meth, heroin…” was all the young man said.
Cricket nodded sadly. He had maintained the discipline of not doing the product himself. Gym muscles, tall, well-proportioned, blonde… Greek god and all that. But now the god was dying.
“Where did you get the drugs?” Cricket asked, and Predator looked surprised at her question.
He cried. He was very awake, surveying the horror of his once proud body, very aware that hospitals and ambulances wouldn’t be coming to his rescue. He sniffled, “The world’s ending, but not for Ajax.”
The creature of her imagination that evolved from beast to man came in a fast series of frames and had now chased down a young man and gutted him.
He pleaded, “Can you help me?” Attempting to sit up, he screamed from the movement. He bled freely and had a few minutes before unconsciousness would save him from more suffering.
Predator Jones stepped up. “We’re expecting others here shortly. They have medicine, the tools, and the expertise to take care of you.”
A look of disbelief was exchanged for a tearful thanks. His blood colored the creek for as far as Cricket could see it flow.
“Do you ever pray?” Cricket asked.
He shook his head no, followed by a pained smile.
“It’s not too late,” Predator said.
“Do I look like someone who ever needed—” He coughed violently and spit up more blood. He had been stabbed in the chest as well.
Cricket laid her hand on his shoulder and made a quick examination of the three dead women, scarecrows, a name she and Fritz had given meth users—emaciated creatures, missing teeth and souls. Everything good in life murdered for sensation.
The young man stiffened, like the executioner had nicked the back of his neck to get the right bodily tension, the head lifted and ready for its swift removal. He stared into the woods.
“I’m having trouble…” He released a long moan and slumped into the creek, eyes open.
“Cricket,” Predator said, “let’s take a few steps upstream and wash our hands. Quickly. We need to get out of here.”
The water was clear and cold, and she dipped her hands in and lightly rubbed them. She was quiet walking back to the car. They both scanned the empty woods and saw nothing. She retrieved extra magazines from the backseat. Once in the car she rolled her window down, and Predator did the same. She started the Barracuda and kept glancing into the side and rearview mirrors. The killing had left her empty and scared. It was as if the ground itself had delivered the killers, busting up through the soil for payback. She thought of the horror movie she and her friends had watched years ago on Halloween—Pumpkinhead. A creature feeding on vengeance.
“Are you back with me?” Predator asked.
“Sure. I’ve seen terrible things for months—”
“But this takes the cake?”
“Yeah, it does.”
“Cricket, those kids, all of them, made terrible mistakes, for a long time. That boy rode them girls hard with drugs and sex—probably promised them things, too, like a big, beautiful house with a swimming pool. They fell for the glamour, the promise. You see, even a crazy woman needs a footing, something good in life, stable, like a home, even if it’s cluttered with brats and several hubbies all called Dad. It may look crazy to us, but it’s home sweet home. All the while he’s promising a woman everything, he’s taking everything from her, leaving only a swarm of nightmares.”
“They forgot about everything good.”
“I disagree.” Predator Jones kept tur
ning in his seat, leaning close to the windshield as though the glass itself were imprinted with information of a heads-up display in an aircraft, showing ghostly images of speed, ETA to the bottom of the Hilltop, headings for safe passage, along with icons of meth users and common gangsters crowding the data. “All of ’em—the boy, the three young girls—were after the good things in life, like any one of us. But there’s a right path and wrong path to achieve fine things, like health, wealth, and happiness.”
Listening to Predator Jones, she saw the dead young people as once beautiful, even innocent. Her own innocence had ended with her abortion. She had married Fritz barely two months ago and never told him her biggest secret, her biggest sorrow, her wrong path.
Watching the woods with a lot less intensity than Predator, she thought of her best friend, Claire, who had driven Cricket that day for the procedure. Claire had tried to talk her out of it, but Cricket said she felt nothing for the boy, had stopped seeing him, and wouldn’t bring this complication into the lives of Uncle Tommy and her dad. “A baby isn’t a complication. It’s the best moment ever,” Claire had said only days before disappearing from Woodburn. Cricket wondered if her friend had become pregnant herself and had run off to have the baby, not wanting to burden and shame her parents.
Predator said, “You’re upset taking out these kids.”
“I am. Sister Marie was right about killing. You don’t get used to it. Even someone who needs killing.” He looked at her intensely, didn’t ask to hear more, but she continued, “What got me was the young guy. About my age. Really gorgeous, all that beauty.”
American Blackout (Book 2): Slaves Beneath The Stars Page 23