by K. M. Fawkes
Not that he really believed for one second that Grayson had ever really planned on letting him go in the first place. Maybe that was what he’d told Will, but Brad knew how men like Grayson thought. He hadn’t ever planned to let Brad walk away.
The gun clicked in his face. Everyone in the room froze. Then, Grayson swore and hit the gun with his free hand. It had jammed.
“You didn’t even take care of your gun!” Brad said indignantly.
Grayson tried again, but he hadn’t cleared the jam so the gun still didn’t go off.
For some reason, that was the final straw. It was one thing to be murdered for his food and shelter but he’d be damned if he was going to teach his killer how to use the gun!
Rage filled Brad, coating his vision in red. The guy was too incompetent to even murder him correctly. There was no way he was going to let Grayson walk away with a single bite of Lee’s food, now.
He knocked the gun out of Grayson’s hand and followed up with a solid right cross to his jaw. His bruised ribs screamed in protest, but he didn’t have time to worry about that. When the man staggered, Brad kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back onto the stairs.
Then, he leaned down and scooped up the gun, slid the clip out, and knocked out the dirt. “Life isn’t an action movie,” he said, repeating what his father had said to him countless times. He pushed the clip back in and looked down at the man. “You have to keep these things clean. It’ll work now.”
“You won’t—”
Brad had never thought that he would either, but squeezing the trigger turned out to be much easier than he’d imagined. The shot reverberated around the small cellar and blood and brain matter splattered the steps and walls. Brad turned to Will, who was in the corner, shaking.
“I’m sorry,” Will sobbed. “I’ll give everything back. I…I was just hungry.”
Brad shrugged. “Keep what you’ve got. Consider it a parting gift. Just understand what I’ll do to you if you ever come back.”
“I will,” the man stuttered. “I mean, I do! And I won’t.”
Brad gestured to the stairs and Will edged past, slipping a little in Grayson’s blood. There was a lot of it. Brad walked up behind him, watching to make sure that he really left the property. He waited a few minutes and followed the man’s trail, staying just out of sight. About half an hour later, Will stopped at what was clearly his base camp.
The two men hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d said they had nothing. Will sat down inside the doorway of the tent he’d obviously shared with Grayson, dropped his face into his hands, and began to cry quietly, the bag of food he’d put down beside him clearly forgotten.
They hadn’t had any other weaponry. Just the gun that Brad had taken. He walked back to his cabin once he could be reasonably sure that Will wasn’t going to be any further threat.
Once he was back on his own property, Brad went back to the cellar to clean up as best he could. He stepped over Grayson’s body to get to the shelves that Will had made a huge mess of. In his rush to examine things, he’d turned jars, cans, and plastic boxes over and scattered packages around.
Although that hadn’t been the reason he’d come down into the cellar, Brad began to straighten things up automatically. Something had been pushed to the back of one of the shelves and he picked it up, planning to put it back where it belonged. Then, he saw what it was and simply stared for a second.
It was a bag of store-bought beef jerky. He pulled the sticky note off of the front and looked at it more closely, just to be sure that he wasn’t seeing things. No, he’d been right. His father’s spiky handwriting met his gaze. “For Bradley.”
“Dad, can I get this, please?”
“No, Bradley, put it back.”
“But you like beef jerky!”
“And we can make our own,” Lee said, using his too-patient, parenting-in-public voice.
Brad glanced at the cart, which was filled with the most boring ingredients ever. He hated going along on the yearly stock-up trips. He tossed the beef jerky back onto the shelf in annoyance.
“You say that about everything.”
He must have been around nine or ten when that interaction had happened. His dad hadn’t bought the jerky that day. He hadn’t bought it in the following years, either. Brad pushed the bag into his back pocket and turned around.
He looked at the body splayed on the steps. He’d have to do something with that. Brad leaned down and grabbed the body in a fireman's carry, grunting as he lifted it.
Grayson might have been starving, but he’d been a pretty solid guy to start out with, and he wasn’t exactly light now. Brad’s arm was hurting more and more with every movement and his ribs weren’t too pleased with him, either. Something else he’d have to take care of.
Brad walked down to the edge of the water and dropped the body beside the lake. Then, he set it on fire.
As the blaze consumed the man, Brad looked out over the calm water and pulled the beef jerky from his back pocket. He ate it slowly, savoring it as he planned his next steps.
He should get some of the calendula from the garden so he could make a compress for his shoulder. He could also add some chamomile and witch-hazel to a bath and that would probably help with the soreness in his ribs. He could fill up a few buckets and start getting the water heating while the body burned. Then, he could clean out his bullet wound and get straight in the tub a lot sooner.
As he ate his fourth piece of beef jerky and wiped his hands on his jeans, preparing to start gathering his supplies, he realized exactly what he was thinking. He’d shot a man in the head. He was now burning that man’s body. And his biggest worry was how long it was going to take because he had other things to do today.
It should have bothered him, but it didn’t. In fact, the only parts of him that didn’t feel numb were his shoulder and rib cage. The rest of him seemed to be on vacation. He had taken a man’s life and he should care, but he simply…didn’t.
He got the wheelbarrow to cart the water buckets from the lake to the house. He wanted a generous amount of water in the tub—he was sick of dabbing at himself with a washcloth or simply pouring a bucket of tepid water over his head when he was too covered in animal blood for that to be effective. He wanted a real bath.
Once the man was reduced to bones, Brad dug a hole, shoved the smoking remains into it, and headed back up to the cabin, taking time to close the cellar door this time. He walked into the cabin and directly upstairs.
He stank, he was covered in blood, ash, and sand, and all he wanted to do was make damn good use of the water he’d been stockpiling. But first, he needed to clean out that gunshot wound.
Brad pulled his shirt off, wincing as he peeled the thin cotton away from his injury. As he washed the blood away with the hottest water he could stand, he was relieved to see that the bullet had only skimmed him, plowing a trench through the top of his shoulder instead of penetrating his skin. He wouldn’t have to try to fish a bullet out, and that was a huge relief. He did need a few stitches, though.
The first-aid kit was still under the sink; he was half relieved that Anna had left that for him, and half annoyed that she hadn’t thought about basic first aid for herself and her son. He looked at the needle with a sigh. He hated stitches, so he decided to be momentarily cowardly.
He walked back down to the kitchen and began carrying the boiling water up to the bathroom as carefully as possible. He dumped bucket after bucket of it into the tub and added some of the dried herbs he’d gathered from the pantry and left the water to cool slightly.
Then, he threaded his needle, gritted his teeth, poured some disinfectant over his shoulder, and began to stitch his skin back together. It didn’t take long, but he was a little lightheaded when he was done, anyway. He looked at himself in the mirror, slightly alarmed at how pale his face was. Now wouldn’t be the best time to pass out.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Light at the end of the tunnel here. You can handle this.
”
He brought up the last of the hot water and poured it into the tub. He added a bucket of room temperature water after that to cool it down just slightly. Then—and holy God it felt good—he slid down into the steaming hot bath.
The water was up to his shoulders when he laid back in the tub, and Brad let out his breath slowly as the heat sank into his muscles. It hurt like hell when it touched his newly stitched-up shoulder, but he gritted his teeth through the stinging pain. He had a calendula compress ready to go for the bullet wound, but he didn’t feel much like moving at the moment. His muscles finally began to relax as the heat did its job, and his eyes slid closed as he let the chamomile and witch-hazel do theirs.
He didn’t grab the soap until the water was lukewarm again. His skin was pruney from the length of the bath, but he was still a little resentful that he would have to leave the warm comfort of the tub. He scrubbed up and rinsed off leisurely before he got out and dried off.
In a way, he very much wanted to get into bed, pull the blackout curtains together, and get some sleep. But instead, he pulled his jeans back on, bandaged his shoulder, and headed downstairs.
He had more traps to set. And this time, he didn’t give a damn who he caught. Or how long they screamed.
Chapter 18
Brad looked at the contents of the first-aid kit he’d spread out over the kitchen table. He hadn’t really paid close attention yesterday when he was trying to stitch himself back together and stay upright, but it was clear to him now that the supply of medical equipment was incredibly low.
It made him wonder whether his father had been here and then had had to leave. But surely he would have taken more than just some bandages and cold packs. Right?
With a sigh, Brad gave up pretending to understand how his father thought. The fact was, he had no clue what Lee would have deemed worthy of taking with him.
Either way, he needed to beef the kit up, especially since there were now people willing to shoot him for some plum jam. He pushed his chair back and grabbed his gun. Then, he filled up a water bottle, dropped it into his backpack, and headed out. It was past time that he went on a looting trip.
There were other houses around the lake. They were pretty far away, but he wasn’t too worried about that. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight today and the heat was starting to mellow as September approached.
The first house that he came to had clearly already been ransacked. The front door hung drunkenly off of its hinges and when he walked up onto the porch, he could see right into the hallway. Furniture had been overturned, just like his pantry shelves had been. Maybe it had even been done by the same people.
It was worth a look, though, so he walked in and glanced around, listening carefully for even the slightest indication that he wasn’t the only one there.
The homeowners had had a large dark mahogany dresser in the hallway. Its drawers had been yanked out and thrown around the hallway. It could have been done by an impatient looter, or it could have been someone who’d lived here, frantically trying to grab something before they left.
There was a framed marriage certificate sitting on top of the dresser. A wedding photo stood next to it. They were both remarkably untouched. The woman was looking up at her new husband and smiling happily. He was looking down at her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen.
Brad checked the date on the marriage certificate. They’d been married for a little over a year, now. Hell of a time to start a new life with someone. Right when the old life ended for everyone.
He stepped over the splintered dresser drawers and headed for the kitchen. He didn’t find much there, so he made it quick. He left the house with some bars of soap and two overlooked cans of chicken noodle soup that he’d found under the table.
About three hours up the road, he came upon a house that hadn’t yet been built the last time he’d been there. It was gorgeous, with a huge deck that swept out toward the lake and leaded glass in the pretty window of the front door. It also looked untouched. That was much more promising.
The place had been nice at one time, but now with the air of neglect hanging over it, it just looked like a shrine to money spent in the wrong places. The marble countertops and fancy chandeliers hadn’t kept these people alive. They weren’t going to do him any good, either, and he didn’t mind admitting that his own survival was what worried him more.
He walked through the big house slowly. The place was well-stocked with nonperishables, which told him that this had probably been a vacation home. He eyed the kitchen cabinets critically.
It would be dumb to pass up free food, but that wasn’t really what he’d come for and he’d only brought one backpack. That helped him make up his mind. He’d come back for the food if there weren’t any medical supplies, but otherwise, he would leave it alone for now.
After he’d glanced through the rooms on the lower level and come up empty of any type of medical supplies, Brad headed for the stairs. The master bathroom would have to be up there, because all he’d found on the lower level was a powder room. It hadn’t contained anything more interesting than monogrammed hand towels.
He made his way into the spacious master bedroom. It was too spacious, if anything—he’d opened three doors before he found the bathroom. There had been closets behind the first two doors. Who needed two closets in a vacation house?
Luckily for him, the bathroom was just as large and overstocked. The vanity ran along one whole wall. It was marble-topped with double sinks and multiple drawers.
Starting from the left-hand side, he checked them all. The first few were full of makeup and hair care products. The bride had favored pink lipstick and had apparently needed a lot of volume in her hair.
Once he’d worked his way to the middle of the vanity, though, he found the good stuff. A fully stocked first-aid kit, filled with Band-Aids, pain relievers, gauze, poison ivy wipes, allergy medicine, and more. He stuffed it into his backpack eagerly and then went through the rest of the drawers, just in case.
The other side had belonged to the man of house, but it was just as packed as the woman's side had been. He found special hair products, body spray, and several different colognes. He also discovered a whole drawer full of shaving stuff. There were a few different razors and shaving creams as well as different types of aftershave. Brad ran his hand over his chin as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He’d been clean-shaven before all of this and he’d never really planned to be anything else. Since he hadn’t touched a razor in weeks, however, he had a fairly decent beard. In addition to feeling like he looked pretty good, he could probably use the extra warmth in the coming winter.
Brad put the shaving cream back into the drawer and started to slide it shut. Then, his fingers touched a small vial of something and he pulled it out. Beard oil. There was a small note wrapped around it.
“Just in case you decide that you want to try that caveman look after all. Love, Jess.”
He wondered if it had been an argument, or just an inside joke. There was a heart and a smiley face on the note, so he decided on inside joke. He also slid the oil into his bag. Maybe it was a sign that keeping the beard was the right choice. Either way, someone should probably use it.
When he was finally done with the vanity, Brad tugged the medicine cabinet open and began reading labels. There wasn’t much here, most likely because this wasn’t their full-time home, but there were the usual things every well-stocked medicine cabinet had. Headache medicine, anti-nausea medicine, heartburn medicine. There was also a nearly full bottle of sleeping pills that had been pushed to the back, and a bottle containing a prescription for anxiety medication. With a shrug, he dropped it all into his bag. A person never knew what they might need.
As he was rearranging the contents of the backpack to make sure that nothing would be broken when he went back to the kitchen, he heard the front door open. Brad froze for a second, his heart slamming into his bruised rib cage. Did someone li
ve here?
The door slammed shut and he heard voices, but he was too far away to make out what they were saying. He edged over to the door, trying to be as quiet as possible as he walked out into the hallway and crouched down beside the stairs. He was hidden by the railing here. If they lived here, he’d need even more security. This place might be a four-hour walk away, but that was closer than he’d planned to have neighbors.
“Holy shit, this place is packed!” a man’s voice said from the kitchen. “Look at all of this!”
So, they didn’t live here. They were just scavengers. He glanced at the bag full of stolen things at his feet, realizing that this was a pot/kettle situation.
Another man laughed. “We’re getting lucky with all kinds of stuff lately, aren’t we?”
The first man chuckled. “Yeah. Canned corn won’t be as much fun as that woman’s gonna be, but it won’t be as shitty as her kid, either.”
Brad’s breath caught in his throat. There were probably other pairs of mothers and sons left in the world, but were they really roaming the woods of this particular corner of Maine?
“Yeah, I can’t wait till we can get rid of him,” the second man agreed.
“He talks too goddamn much,” the first went on. “If we didn’t have to bring them back to Sarge first, I’d have already splattered his fucking brains out.”
Brad’s stomach clenched and acid rushed up his esophagus. It didn’t matter if the men were talking about Anna and Sammy or not; he needed to get the woman and her son away from those men.
“Get those cans down and put ’em on the table,” the first man said. “I’m gonna go check upstairs, see what they’ve got lying around up there.”
“Hang on,” the second man protested. “At least get the stuff from half. This is a lot.”
Brad scrambled through the first doorway on his left while he had the chance and eased the door shut behind him. The house, for all of its modern bells and whistles, seemed to be laid out much like his cabin a few hours away. Any room on this side should have a window he could use.