by McBain, Tim
Erin screamed as chunks of flesh and bone and brain matter erupted in a bloody spray. Marissa’s lifeless body folded in on itself and thudded to the floor.
The door opened wider, and Erin saw the two men. The one in front was younger. Shaved head and wild eyes. The man behind him was older, with a scraggly black beard flecked with gray.
Erin didn’t think. She simply acted. She had the tub of lye powder clutched in one hand and the pitcher of lye solution she’d been mixing in the other.
She threw both at once. Aimed for his eyes.
The man in front took a direct hit from the liquid solution. Caustic lye solution drenched his head, face, and neck. He grunted and reached for his eyes, but it was too late for that.
A fraction of a second later the lye powder came down. Made contact with all of the wet places. Caused an instant exothermic chemical reaction.
The man shrieked and stumbled backward into his partner. Writhing and screaming. His voice so high-pitched it sounded more animal than human.
Erin turned. Ran deeper into the house.
“Fucking bitch!” one of the men yelled.
Footfalls clattered into the kitchen behind her.
The bald man who’d taken the brunt of the lye attack was down. Dying. Chemicals melting his face even now.
This must be the one with the beard giving chase.
He’d probably only taken a few splashes of the lye. Painful. Not enough to take him out.
Erin careened around the corner at the far end of the kitchen and into the dining room.
A percussive burst of automatic rifle fire shattered the window just in front of her. The glass ringing and toppling.
Too close.
She needed to hide now.
Erin reached the hallway and veered right. Slipped inside the first doorway she came to. She nudged the door mostly closed and took a few panicked breaths as she tried to reorient herself.
She was in the infirmary. No guns hidden in here.
Shit.
She glanced around for something to use as a weapon. Seized on the tray of glittering metal instruments.
Forceps. Scalpel. Shears.
Erin snatched up the shears with one hand, then the scalpel with the other. She stared down at the blade in each fist. Remembered too late that there was a rifle hidden on top of one of the kitchen cabinets.
But there hadn’t been time. Everything had happened too fast. Pure instinct taking over from the moment Marissa opened the door. Something primordial seizing control. Thrusting her into acting without thought. No planning.
The makeshift armory with their cache of guns and ammo was at the opposite end of the hall. If she was quick, if the bearded man was taking his time to clear the kitchen and dining room before proceeding, she might have time to slip down there.
Erin stepped to the door. Peeked through the crack.
The hallway beyond was empty. Quiet.
He had to be close. Didn’t he?
She held her breath. Tried to listen.
But the ringing in her ears drowned out everything but the drumming of her own pulse.
She licked her lips. Was about to risk dashing down the hallway when she saw it.
The carbon black tip of the end of the rifle. Slowly, more of it slid into view as the man entered the hall.
Erin backtracked silently. Pressing herself flat against the wall of the infirmary.
The armory was out. His position cut her off from that option completely.
She needed a new strategy.
He’d have to choose a direction now. Right or left.
If he went left, Erin could wait until he slipped into one of the rooms down there to make a run for the stairs. The first bedroom up there was Izzy’s, and she kept a pistol in her top dresser drawer.
But if the man went right… he’d almost undoubtedly clear the infirmary before moving to a choke point like a stairway.
Her only choice in that case would be to take him on face-to-face. Her scissors and scalpel versus his automatic rifle.
She closed her eyes. Sure, that sounds like a fair fight.
But if she got the jump on him when he first entered the room… she might be able to gain the upper hand and wrestle the gun away from him. And if not…
Over the incessant buzzing in her eardrums, Erin thought she heard the faint creak of a floorboard. She strained to hear more.
The man spoke.
“Just tell me where he is, and we’ll let you go.”
And it struck Erin for the first time exactly who these men were. She’d assumed raiders, but no. That wouldn’t make sense, given what he’d said.
Just tell me where he is.
They were assassins sent after Baghead and Delfino.
For some reason, that made her more angry. If they’d been raiders, at least they were after something useful. Weapons and food and supplies.
But these men were only after one thing: death. The death of a man who’d upset their master.
And they’d killed Marissa over that. Would kill Erin, too, and anyone else they came in contact with, because they were in the way. Erin wasn’t stupid enough to believe they’d let her go even if she did know where Baghead was. That wasn’t how the Hand operated.
Erin pushed the anger aside. There’d be time for that later. Because more important than telling her who he was, the man had also revealed where he was.
He’d gone left. Toward the armory. But that was OK.
Because as soon as he entered the far bedroom, Erin would make a run for the stairs.
Louis
Ripplemead, Virginia
1 year, 279 days after
He’d been watching the house off and on for weeks now. Parked in a low spot, tucked behind some pines and a chain link fence. Binoculars pressed to the holes in his canvas bag.
He watched them, this little family. Took in all they were up to. Watched them stomp up and down the three steps leading to the front porch. Watched them tend their garden. Watched them climb on bikes and head off, probably to scavenge or trade in Ripplemead. Watched their lanterns flicker on at night to light their windows, glowing beacons in the dark.
He watched for so long that he lost himself in it. Started to forget his physical being hunched down in the car and drift away, only the images seeming real, the dream growing so big that it blocked out everything else.
Sometimes the fence would mess with his binoculars, mess with his eyes, the little chain links catching the focus. That shook him out of the dream, made him remember to check on the baby who mostly seemed to nap whenever he was here. That hitch as the binoculars went out of focus started to give him headaches after a while, but it was no worry. He had a hefty supply of ibuprofen on hand — it was another of those items he seemed to find in abundance as he scavenged.
At first, those first five or so times he’d watched them, his heart knocked the whole time. Palms sweaty. Mouth somehow producing too much saliva. He’d gotten a little comfortable with the routine over time, though. It was, in some ways, like watching television. He stared through glass, connected to other people through images, through the vaguest plotlines that he could discern from this distance. The people who lived here had become characters he checked in with, a sort of ritual that only seemed to strengthen the strange bond he felt with them, a bond that only went one way.
Of course, he couldn’t hear them talk. No dialogue. A silent movie, then. He didn’t even know their names.
But he did get a clear sense of them, their personalities. The older girl, with the darker hair, she was the leader of this little troop, despite the fact that there was an older woman with them, though that one seemed to keep to herself for the most part. But the girl had a fierceness about her. Not mean. Not cold. A hard-nosed quality, he thought. She wasn’t to be fucked with. She wore that on her mouth, a little scowl there. You could see it in her torso most of all, though, he thought. Something assertive about the way she carried herself, almost the suggestio
n of a threat in her posture at all times.
The male was softer than her. It could be read in his eyes, in his body language, the shoulders always a little stooped, the feet routinely spaced a little less than shoulder width apart. No confidence. Gentle. Sheepish. That wasn’t a bad thing as far as Louis was concerned, especially so long as the other was there to handle what needed handled. Gentleness in many ways was the great achievement of civilization, he thought, before society collapsed — kindness, gentleness — the gift we passed on to the wild beasts we tamed and made our pets. Maybe that was something valuable to hold onto, something the next generation would need to be taught by someone who still lived it every day, lived it completely.
The little one with the curly hair, she was the one with the most personality of the group, the keenest sense of humor. Even her way of handling herself had an entertaining quality. She had a little jaunt in her step, a perpetual amusement in her gestures and facial expressions, like she could bust out laughing at any second.
Louis pulled the binoculars down from his eyes. Turned his neck to look at the baby sleeping in the car seat.
Yeah. He thought this would work.
Erin
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 40 days after
Erin pressed her cheek to the door frame and squinted through the narrow gap. Eyes unblinking.
She waited. Listened. Knew the man was out there somewhere.
Not being able to see him filled her with dread. Like he’d spring for her out of nowhere.
Then she saw him slide into her field of vision. Caught a glimpse as he slipped into the far bedroom.
She didn’t wait.
She darted out into the hall. Bounded up the stairs.
She tried to find a balance between speed and silence. Quick but light on her feet.
She needed the gun. Needed it.
Once she had Izzy’s pistol in her hands, it’d be at least a little closer to a fair fight.
At the top of the stairs, Erin wheeled to her right. Pushed through the parted door into Izzy’s bedroom.
Two strides carried her across the floor. To the dresser where the gun lay.
She ripped open the top drawer. Rifled through Izzy’s jumble of unmatched socks. Found the heavy bulk nestled in the back corner.
Erin’s fingers encircled the grip. It felt cool and solid in her hand.
Her lips moved. She watched in the mirror over Izzy’s dresser as something halfway between a smile and a grimace spread over her mouth.
She flicked her wrist. Freed her hand from the mass of socks. Looked down at the pistol and frowned.
“No,” she said, though no sound actually came out.
The gun was a USFA ZiP .22, an awkwardly shaped thing somewhere between a rifle and a handgun. It was by far the worst gun Erin had ever shot.
Aside from the complete lack of a decent grip, the gun had a terrible malfunction rate. If it didn’t double feed, it would fail to eject the casing. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the thing was a pain in the ass to disassemble. Erin would have thrown it away, had Izzy not taken some kind of bizarre liking to it. Erin let her keep it around for target practice only, until recently, when they’d run so low on other calibers that Erin had let Izzy keep the .22 in her room as her emergency weapon.
It was too late for a new plan.
She heard the man now. Heavy footfalls climbing the stairs.
Louder. Closer.
Erin ducked into Izzy’s closet. Got low. Slid the louvered doors closed behind her.
Her fingers found the safety on the blocky little gun.
Between the small caliber and the malfunction rate, she didn’t love her odds here. If the gun actually fired, there was no guarantee it would incapacitate him.
She’d have to hide. Wait until he was close. Right on her. Get the jump on him at point blank range. Somehow.
Could she shoot through the closet door? No. Too risky.
When he opened it, then. Or better yet, maybe he’d clear the room without checking the closet, and she could sneak up behind him.
In either case, she might only get the one shot before the gun malfunctioned. But she had no other choice.
Erin peered through the gaps in the louvered door panel and saw the tip of the assault rifle appear again, announcing the presence of its owner.
The man himself glided into view. Wide shoulders filling the doorway. A scowl etched on his swarthy face.
Erin held absolutely still. Afraid to even blink.
She stared out. Felt her pulse thudding in her neck. Waited for her moment.
The man nosed over the threshold, aiming his rifle at each corner in turn, before progressing further into the room.
Moving for the closet.
And that was when saw it.
A sliver of a shoulder and skinny arm tucked behind the wide open door.
Ruth.
Ruth was in the room.
Louis
Ripplemead, Virginia
1 year, 289 days after
It was early. Dark. Just before dawn. He’d waited here in the car a long time, let his eyes fully adjust to the gloom.
He watched the black wall fill in with light around him, populated by detail in stages. First the contours formed in the void, the vague shapes of things emerging from the blackness — a row of pointed things, the vague grid with thick dividers he knew must be the chain link fence and posts, though he couldn’t quite see them right yet.
Then textures began to show through, etching strokes on the shapes little by little. Intricate features revealed as new shades of gray broke away from the solid black.
The row of pointed things grew needles, spindly bits visible beneath them. Pine trees.
The grid revealed itself as fully dense, fully solid. The metal fence finally cohering into a shape his eyes could discern.
And the house followed the same pattern above these others, up on its hill. The peaked roof formed against the sky, and before long the siding, the windows, the door, all took shape within the large dark mass. A big mess of perpendicular lines cordoning off pieces of the whole.
This was the place. Tonight was the night. Or technically this morning was the morning, he supposed.
He didn’t know if he could do it, but he had to. Had to. He’d certainly never done anything more important than this, he could guarantee himself that much.
Vaguely he could make out a mist in the air, a dimension of thickness added to the night around him, the dark almost a solid object just here. That kind of thing was common in this region, he’d learned. Foggy mornings. Gray and wet and so humid you could practically wring the moisture out of the air.
You could smell it, too. Smell the humidity mingling with the flora and fauna — a sharp odor, like the scent just after the rain when the sun shined on the wet earth and plants. Here the sun usually burned the clouds of fog away before noon, dried out the mugginess so it died back to uncomfortable instead of miserable. In the night, like now, the humidity returned, served as cool and dank, the air thickening like split pea soup. Neither miserable nor pleasant. Just its own thing, he thought.
He peeled open the car door, careful to keep quiet, the dome light flicking on at a certain point and startling him even though he’d been waiting for it. Impossibly bright. A little wedge of the road glowed through the open door — one little slice of the darkness defeated. He squinted to see it, to see anything at all.
He stepped out of the car. Shut it behind him, the little click sounding like a femur snapping in the quiet.
The dome light remained on, but its brightness had been blunted some when the door closed. He looked away from the car, a little pink glob the shape of the dome light dancing around wherever he looked.
He crouched with his back to the driver’s side door and waited for the light to click off again. How long? 30 seconds? 60 seconds? It seemed longer. He breathed and waited and tried not to count, tried not to focus on the waiting. Still, he became
increasingly certain that it was never going out, that it would burn bright the whole night long, and then it relented finally. The elongated rectangles of light on the ground near him vanished as if sucked back into the void. Gone in a blink.
He stood, leaned back through the open window to secure the bundle, hugging it close — a precious thing wadded in blankets. It was warm against his chest, smelled clean.
This was the right thing to do. Wasn’t it? Of course. Of course it was.
His mind flashed to the sores coating more and more of his face. Pocking the flesh with crags and craters and protuberances like the dark side of the moon. If it was something fatal… well, he couldn’t risk that was all. Had to plan as though death were certain — on a long enough timeline, he supposed it was.
He passed through a grass field, overgrown, dew wetting his feet and ankles with every step. He held the bundle tighter here, as though protecting it from the wet by way of a hug. And he pushed through a gap between the pines, careful to keep the boughs away from his wadded up blankets for fear that they, too, were wet.
Then he moved to the open of the road, crunched over three footsteps of gravel, stepped onto the asphalt. By moonlight he could see water flinging off the toes of his shoes, remnants of all that gathered dew thrown off when he moved.
It felt strange to walk in the open now, after so much time tucked away in a little hiding spot, watching and keeping his head down. Fresh anxiety whipped his heart up into a gallop, clenched the muscles along his jaw, shot icy cold adrenaline into the veins of his chest and arms. And his footsteps hitched, some little hesitation creeping into his gait, as he crossed the double yellow line. But he didn’t stop. He pressed on.
Time to be done with it.
He climbed the three steps to the wooden porch. And it occurred to him as he ascended this three feet or so incline that he hadn’t planned for what would come next, hadn’t thought once about what he’d do when this was done. Where would he go? What would he fill his life with, however much longer it might be? Maybe it didn’t matter so much. Maybe it didn’t matter at all compared to the task laid before him now.