by McBain, Tim
He laid the bundle on the front step, careful to leave room for the door to open without bludgeoning it, careful, too, to keep it off the main walkway. Better to not have someone trod upon it. But the blankets gave it some bulk, gave it some height. Clean blankets. Bright white fleece forming the outside layer as he thought that’d be easiest to see.
And he lifted his hands away with care. Arms drifting slowly up as though he might need to reach down and grab it again, like he was balancing a spinning plate or something rather than wadded up fabric.
He stood. And he stared. And he knew that he should leave. As fast as possible, he should leave. Turn and walk down the steps and race across the street and through the field of sopping grass to the car. He should go now. Right now.
Rayne cooed up at him from the bundle. Eyes shiny in the dark.
He wanted to scoop her up. Take her with him, for now and for always. Feed her and change her and care for her.
But he turned on legs gone totally numb, toed his way down the stairs, and stepped away from the building.
Erin
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 40 days after
Erin clapped a hand over her own mouth. She’d completely forgotten Ruth.
Jesus Christ, almighty. How had the kid gotten up here? She’d been in the basement playing. Had she heard the first gunshot and come running up here? Or had she been upstairs all along?
But none of that really mattered, did it?
What really mattered was that Ruth not move. Not make a sound.
The man still approached the closet where Erin huddled, his back to the girl. Erin realized now she’d really only have one shot now. She couldn’t risk a prolonged battle with the kid in the room.
If the .22 malfunctioned, it would very likely mean death for the both of them.
Erin readied herself. Fingering the safety again to check that it was off. Adjusting her grip on the blocky little weapon.
The man was barely a yard from the closet now. He released his grip on the hand guard of his rifle to reach for the handle of the door.
Erin tried to beam a thought over to the girl.
Don’t move, Ruth. Just don’t move.
Instead the door concealing Ruth slowly swung out. The girl took a single step forward into the room.
Moving toward the man.
She was silent. A stalking cat.
Erin couldn’t breathe.
Something long extended from Ruth’s hand.
Something long and gleaming. A wickedly sharp point at one end.
The bayonet.
Erin blinked.
And then the girl was in the air. Teeth bared.
She launched herself at the bearded man. Latched onto his back. Her free hand grasping a handful of the man’s collar and using it to cling to him.
The bayonet flashed as Ruth plunged the blade into the man’s flesh.
It moved in fast speed. Short violent strokes. The metal entered his throat over and over and over.
He staggered backward. Bellowing a wet sound.
As he reached for Ruth with his free hand, his other hand squeezed the trigger on his rifle.
A line of bullets strafed the mattress and the wall across the room.
But Ruth held tight. Screaming now. Spit flying.
And still stabbing. Arm working. Piercing him ferociously with the bayonet.
He dropped the rifle. Trying now to get the girl off him with both hands.
Erin shook herself out of a shocked daze. Burst out of the closet and leapt for the gun.
But she was too late.
Ruth’s blade ripped at the side of the man’s neck. When she pulled it free, blood spurted out like a geyser, showering the room with arterial spray.
Both of his hands now clutched at his neck. Cupped uselessly at the torn flesh there.
He opened his mouth. But only a wet gurgle came out.
One leg crossed over the other as he stumbled. He teetered.
Ruth managed to scamper away from him just before he slammed sideways into the dresser and then slid to the floor in a bloody heap.
Erin stared at the man. Eyes wide. As his blood poured out to cover the floor.
She watched the life flee his body over a matter of seconds. He lay still now. The pool of red around him no longer spreading.
Erin slowly turned to face the girl.
Erin
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 40 days after
“Are you hurt?” Erin asked.
Ruth was spattered and smeared with a shocking amount of blood, and Erin wasn’t sure if all of it was from the man or not.
Ruth shook her head.
Erin went back to gawking at the body on the floor.
“Is he dead?” Ruth asked.
“Yes.”
Ruth chewed her lip.
“He was going to hurt us.”
“He was,” Erin said.
“So I killed him.”
Erin nodded. That she had.
“I didn’t mean…” Ruth said. “I only wanted to play with it.”
It was a moment before Erin realized the girl was talking about the bayonet, which she couldn’t even figure out how she’d gotten. Then she remembered leaving Ruth in the armory closet to organize the ammo.
“You shouldn’t take things without asking, especially not anything from that closet,” Erin said. “But it’s OK. You did… good.”
She put out her hand.
“Can I have it, please?”
She wondered if Ruth would refuse to give the bayonet back, but the girl handed it over without a word.
“Thank you.”
Erin took Ruth by the wrist and led her out to the top of the stairway.
“Wait here,” she said.
In the kitchen Erin found Marissa’s body exactly where it had fallen. She’d intended to try to find a pulse, but she could see now based on the wounds that it would be pointless. Marissa had been dead before she’d even hit the floor.
The man Erin had doused with lye was another story. He’d managed to crawl halfway across the back yard, and now he lay shivering and gasping near the picnic table. He must have been in some kind of shock, because he didn’t acknowledge Erin’s presence at all.
She raised the assault rifle she’d taken off the bearded man and leveled it at the man’s head. His face was one angry red wound, raw meat, and the flesh was so swollen she couldn’t even see his eyes.
She squeezed the trigger. Ended his suffering. It was more than he deserved, but she didn’t want any of the kids seeing him in this state.
Erin slung the rifle over her shoulder and pulled a sheet down from the clothesline to cover him with. She grabbed a second sheet and did the same with Marissa.
Back upstairs, she set the rifle down and had Ruth help her roll up the bearded man in the blood-smeared rug on Izzy’s bedroom floor, and then they dragged the awkwardly oblong form down the stairs and outside.
The blood had started to seep through the sheet Erin had draped over Marissa, so she went back inside, collecting the quilt from Marissa’s bed.
And then she and Ruth sat down on the back steps and waited for everyone else to come back from the quarry.
The two assassins were buried in unmarked graves off the property. But Marissa was laid to rest near the orchard, next to the place where they’d buried Marcus’s squirrel, Rocky, six years ago.
Ned had carved a grave marker from a piece of wood and etched Marissa’s name on it, and Katie played a few folk songs on the guitar, and then everyone took turns putting flowers on the grave.
Erin stayed even after Marcus had taken the kids back to the house and everyone else had left.
She stared at the piece of maple with Marissa’s name on it and felt the anger rise.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was. Marissa had been a pain in the ass, but she’d never done anyone any harm. She hadn’t deserved this. She’d had nothing to do with Father or the Han
d of Death, but the bastards had killed her anyway. It was bullshit.
Erin didn’t know what she was going to do now. Marissa had promised to get her through the pregnancy. But now she was gone, and Erin didn’t know if she could do it without her.
Erin wasn’t sure how long she’d been kneeling there in front of the wooden cross when Marcus returned. He crouched down beside her and squeezed her shoulder.
“You OK?”
“I don’t know.”
Marcus ran his fingers through her hair the way he knew she liked and gazed around.
“We picked a good spot for her, though,” he said. “She’d be happy here.”
Erin listened to the cicadas buzzing in the trees and watched a grasshopper spring out of the tall grass.
“No.” Erin shook her head. “She’d hate it. It’s gonna be blazing hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. Plus there are bugs. Marissa would have been happy in a hermetically sealed cabin with climate control and some kind of never-ending supply of booze, coffee, and chocolate.”
“Well… hopefully where ever she is, she’s got that now.”
Erin knew Marcus believed in heaven. She liked that he did, even if she didn’t share the belief herself. In Erin’s opinion, Marissa was right where they’d put her: six feet down in a hole. Surround by dirt and slowly being consumed by worms. But maybe Erin was wrong. And maybe all it took to make a place like heaven real was for someone like Marcus to believe in it.
“That thing about bugs made me think of the time you and Izzy found that old box of Halloween decorations in the attic.”
Erin smiled.
“I forgot about that.”
“You kept leaving those rubber spiders everywhere for Marissa to find. In her bed. In her dresser.”
“In her coffee.” Erin bit her lip. “I think that was probably the one that crossed the line.”
“I tried to warn you. But you wouldn’t listen,” Marcus said.
“I still think she overreacted.”
Marcus nudged her with an elbow.
“Come on. You were asking for it.”
“She put a dead fish under my pillow,” Erin scoffed. “My prank was funny. Hers was just gross.”
“Believe me, she paid for it,” Marcus said. “She told me she was gagging the whole time she had to touch that fish.”
Erin snorted.
“God, she was such a priss about that stuff. But she didn’t bat an eye when it came to stitching up wounds or setting bones.”
Marcus let out a breath, and when he spoke next his voice was husky with grief.
“She was one-of-a-kind.”
Erin reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.
“Marissa and I didn’t always get along so well, but these last few days… it felt different somehow.”
“I noticed that,” Marcus said, nodding. “That day Rayne and I found you two down by the river, cracking each other up… I don’t know if I’d ever seen you like that.”
Erin recalled Marissa’s comment about detachable penises and felt a grin spread over her face.
“What were you guys talking about anyway?” Marcus asked.
The smile on Erin’s face faded as she remembered what had prefaced Marissa’s joke. Some of the last words Marissa had spoken echoed in her head now.
What are you waiting for?
You need to tell him.
Erin glared at the piece of wood with the dead woman’s name carved into it.
“Beeswax, Marissa,” she whispered.
“What?” Marcus asked.
Erin sighed and picked at a strand of grass. She twirled the green blade between her fingers for a few seconds before answering.
“Well, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually. Something big.”
Erin
Ripplemead, Virginia
9 years, 309 days after
Erin walked the property with Marcus, something they did most nights to make sure everything was in order — the chickens safely in their coop, the dogs fed, everyone accounted for.
Izzy had organized a water fight after dinner, and all the kids were running around like demons, ducking behind houses to lob water balloons and shoot each other with water guns.
Cameron somersaulted out from behind a shed and pointed a double-barreled blaster at Erin.
She held up a finger.
“Cameron, don’t you dare. We said from the beginning, anyone carrying the baby is off-limits.”
Marcus leapt in front of her.
“Don’t worry, miss.” He thrust out his chest like a super hero. “I’ll protect you.”
He pulled a small water pistol from his pocket and darted forward, drenching Cameron’s shirt with a few well-aimed squirts.
A voice called out from behind them, and Erin turned, spotting a silhouette approaching. The figure was backlit by the setting sun, and Erin had to shield her eyes to make out who it was.
Delfino.
Erin adjusted the straps of the baby carrier slung over her shoulders. Delfino had been back three times since the incident with the Hand of Death that had cost Marissa her life. The first time he’d returned, Ruth had to act as a human shield to keep Erin from clawing his eyes out. The grief then had still been so raw that it burned out quickly. She supposed it also worked in Delfino’s favor that he clearly felt genuinely terrible about it, not to mention the fact that he’d brought enough meds and supplies to replace everything they’d used saving Baghead and then some.
Delfino was carrying something in his hands. Something heavy, by the looks of it. But it was covered with a blanket, so she couldn’t tell what it was yet.
He brought something every time he came, saying each time that it was part of making amends for what happened to Marissa, but Erin thought the real reason he kept coming back was to see Ruth.
Delfino drew up on her, dropping his load on the closest porch.
“Looks like I interrupted some kind of rascal uprising,” Delfino said, hitching up his pants.
Marcus came over and the two men shook.
“What’s under the blanket?” Marcus asked.
“Something for the wee one coupled with a peace offering of sorts,” he said, eying Erin and the baby. “Hand me that little angel of yours and have a look-see.”
Erin lifted the infant from the carrier and passed her to Delfino, who sat down on the porch steps and bounced the girl on his knee.
“Sweet Mari. Just look at that face,” Delfino said. “Do you ever put her in the baby outfit I gave you?”
Erin raised an eyebrow.
“The one with a barcode that says, ‘MADE IN VA-CHINA’?”
“Yeah.” Delfino chuckled. “That’s the one.”
Erin crossed her arms.
“No.”
“Come on. I thought it was funny.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot.”
Delfino waggled an elbow at the large object still swaddled in a blanket.
“Well, go ahead and see what the idiot brought you.”
Erin unfolded it, revealing an intricately carved cradle. Nestled inside was a 50-pound bag of salt.
Nudging the cradle, Erin watched it rock gently back and forth. She turned to Delfino.
“Thank you.”
Delfino stood and handed Mari back to Erin.
“Something else,” he said, pulling a pint bottle of J&B scotch from his back pocket. Marissa’s favorite. “Thought we could give a little toast at her grave.”
Erin swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
“That’d be nice. I’ll have to stick to water since I’m breastfeeding.”
Delfino’s eyes took the shortest route to her chest, and he opened his mouth.
Erin held up her hand between them.
“Whatever disgusting thing you’re thinking about saying, don’t.”
Delfino pressed his lips together. He changed the subject.
“War is raging somet
hing fierce now,” he said. “Father’s army pressing into Sovereign Territory, avenging his death. Nailing disemboweled bodies up to the sides of barns and the like. I thought it’d be over fast, you know? But now… I don’t know. Could be one of them deals that goes on for years and years.”
His eyes followed the kids around the yard as he talked.
“I’m glad you have a safe place here, though. For you and your family. I surely hope it stays that way.”
Erin turned to watch the kids as well. She watched Ruth and Rayne ambush Izzy, pelting her with water balloon after water balloon.
“You think it’ll ever really end?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“What’s that?”
“People killing each other for no good reason.”
“Well… probably not. As long as some of us are still breathing, anyhow.”
Louis
Ripplemead, Virginia
1 year, 289 days after
Baghead dozed in the car. Head lolling, dipping, falling. Sleep coming to him involuntarily in fits and starts. He lifted his head. Shook himself awake again.
He peeked through the binoculars at the little gap between the pines. The bundle was still there, the wadded up white blanket stark against the gray morning light.
Simultaneously he was relieved and nervous. If he’d missed someone coming out and taking her, slept through it, he couldn’t be certain what had happened. Would have to watch longer to be sure she was with them, that she was OK.
On the other hand, part of him worried that no one would come and get her at all. That she’d just lie there. Alone.
He lay the binoculars on the passenger seat. Reached under the hood to rub some of the crust from his eyes with the heel of his hand, one eyelid and then the other getting mashed, scrubbed, kneaded.
He blinked a few times after, watched the pink splotches disappear. The contact seemed to clear some of the sleep from his eyes, the tired feeling receding.
Still, he’d never wished harder that he had a big cup of hot coffee to chug — one of those huge travel mugs filled to the brim. Maybe a little cream in there, just enough to lighten the black about three shades to something like dark khaki. Maybe even a lump of sugar, too. Why not? He could use the calories, the brief sugar rush to accompany the jolt of the caffeine. He could taste it in his mind, coffee with just enough cream and sugar to dial down the bitterness, the two additions applied like seasonings — not sweet, not watered down, just a delicious cup of coffee.