by Ray Gorham
Once Kyle was ten steps from the back of the pickup, the man’s expression changed. A grin spread across his face, freezing Kyle in mid-step as he tried to interpret the look. Time stood still, each man assessing the other. In the next instant, the man extended his right hand forward and fired. Kyle spun to his right and dove back for the cover of the truck as multiple gunshots rang out. Twisting in the air, Kyle felt a bullet strike his left arm, knocking his gun from his hand and tossing it in the air. He screamed as he dropped to the ground behind the truck, the sound of his rifle clattering on the highway ringing loudly in his ears.
Panic stricken and wounded, Kyle lay behind the back wheel of the pickup. He could see the blood flowing down his left arm as it pumped from a wound three inches above his elbow. He squeezed his fist and saw that, despite the pain, his fingers worked.
Kyle heard the shooter laughing at him across the highway and could see, as he peered underneath the truck, that the man was coming across the median towards him, walking with a bounce in his step, almost a sense of excitement. Kyle knew the man had heard him scream and had seen his rifle knocked away. As he lay on the ground bleeding, the faces of Jennifer and his kids flashed across his mind.
His rifle lay fifteen feet away from him, its stock splintered where a bullet had struck it. Blocking out the pain, Kyle scrambled for his gun, staying as low as he could. He expected to hear a shot and feel a bullet tear through him at any moment, but he reached his rifle unscathed, grabbed it, and scrambled back to the cover of the truck. Glancing under the truck again, he saw the feet of his assailant in the other lane, approaching the front of the pickup. Kyle, still crouching, scurried to the front of the truck.
CHAPTER 21
Central Colorado
Stan walked victoriously across the median towards the red Ford half-ton that shielded his newest victim from view. For him, taking a life was sport, not anything that affected his conscience. The truth was his conscience had died a long time ago, probably back when he was spending time in jail instead of finishing high school. A fight at a party one weekend had ended with a kid dead. Stan, no stranger to violence, had used the leg of a chair to beat to death a football player from a rival school who was flirting with his hoped-to-be girlfriend. His memory of the event was vague, clouded by a haze of drugs and alcohol, but the weeks after the killing were clear, with judges and lawyers hustling around him. On the weekends, friends from school had visited him in jail and regaled him with tales of his growing reputation, and he, a trouble-making, fifteen year old, freshman punk that no one had ever noticed before, had been the talk of the school. He liked it.
His appointed lawyer, an ambitious climber who was more focused on padding his resume than seeking justice, had convinced Stan to avoid trial by pleading guilty, and Stan’s youth, combined with the judge’s sympathy for his having been raised in a broken home by an alcoholic mother, had resulted in a sentence of thirty-four months in a juvenile detention facility. On his eighteenth birthday, six months before his friends graduated from high school, Stan had been released from jail with a clean record.
By twenty-one, Stan was in jail again, this time for trafficking drugs, although it could have been worse had the grand jury indicted him for murder two, the crime he’d been arrested for in the first place. With no weapon, and unreliable junkies as the only witnesses, the DA had decided to prosecute Stan for the lesser charge, the one that would guarantee a conviction. That was the first in a series of offenses that had kept Stan behind bars for fifteen of his next twenty years.
He had been two years into a twenty-year sentence for rape and torture in a facility near St. Louis when fate had smiled on him in a big way. The prison had lost power, and for four days the prisoners were locked in their cells like animals, with little food, smelly toilet water to drink, and a rapidly dwindling number of guards to monitor the inmates. A hundred hours into the ordeal, with only a handful of staff left at the prison, Stan’s cell had been unlocked by a conscience-racked corrections officer, and Stan had wasted no time in evacuating the facility. The last thing Stan remembered before leaving the prison was the screams of that softhearted guard as ungrateful prisoners repaid him for their years of incarceration. Whether the entire prison population had been released or some had been left to die in their cells, Stan didn’t know and didn’t care. He was free and in an environment in which he excelled, a place where strength had become the law of the land.
During his most recent years in prison, Stan had missed the company of women, his girlfriend never even paying him a visit, and once free he’d wasted no time in leaving a trail of devastated lives as he made up for this lost time. Stan was on his way back to Vegas, the last place he had heard his girlfriend and son were living, and after acquiring weapons from acquaintances in St. Louis, the trip had been relatively easy. So far he had found the people he met along the way to be most cooperative, the lack of any effective law enforcement a huge factor in their compliance. Stan prided himself in so completely overwhelming his victims that the only things they could offer in their defense were screams and unheeded pleas for mercy.
There was one woman he’d let live though. After killing her husband, he hadn’t felt right about killing the two small kids, babies really. Children were Stan’s soft spot, his one real weakness he’d decided, so after spending a few hours with the mother, he’d left without taking her life, knowing the kids wouldn’t be able to fend for themselves. She would have been quite easy to kill, especially since she’d cried too much and hadn’t given him the satisfaction he desired, but he’d just given her a good beating and moved on.
This newest victim would mean nothing to him beyond the fact that this guy was the first one who had made it somewhat interesting and managed to get some shots off at him, a fact that had irked Stan as this silly game played out.
Stan realized now that he should have killed this latest pain-in-the-ass yesterday. He’d found the guy’s cart parked under a truck with trash blown up against the wheels and would have left it, but at the last second had decided that the cart would be useful in some of the more deserted areas he’d be traveling through. He’d even looked through the window of the cab, seen this guy on death’s doorstep, and figured he didn’t need to waste the ammunition. Now, as this pathetic game of cat and mouse was about to wrap up, he was ready to invest some extra bullets.
Stan appreciated the man’s guts, the way he stood out in the open and begged for mercy. Handguns were far too unreliable from a distance, especially against a rifle, so exposing himself like that had been a great help. He thought it was his second shot that had hit the guy, but it didn’t matter. The fool no longer had his gun and was injured, possibly already dead if his squeal was any indication. Now it would just be a matter of finishing him off, if he was still breathing, probably in a slow and painful manner, and then continuing on to Denver.
Looking forward to having some fun, Stan walked towards the front of the truck, his guns hanging loosely at his side.
Kyle sprang up from behind the pickup, acting on instinct, fear, and rage. He didn’t know how many shots he had left, but he planned on using all of them. As soon as his rifle cleared the hood of the pickup, he began to squeeze the trigger. The hollow grin on Stan’s face morphed from businesslike indifference to shocked surprise with the first crack of the rifle.
The first shot hit Stan in the chest, spun him slightly to his left, and knocked him back a step. Kyle was pulling the trigger as fast as the semi-automatic would allow, and with his target standing less than ten feet away, he knew he wasn’t missing. On the third shot, Stan dropped his guns, and the fourth shot finally brought him down, sending him toppling backwards onto the freeway where he struck his head on the ground with a sick, hollow thud. Kyle pulled the trigger once more as Stan fell and heard the metallic click of an empty chamber.
With no shots left, Kyle ducked behind the pickup again, scared that somehow the man had survived the barrage and would be coming after him. As Kyl
e leaned back against the front wheel of the truck, his hands started shaking, and his rifle slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground once again. Kyle gasped for air, unsure how long it had been since he last took a breath. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air and a thin, blue haze from the gunfire slowly drifted away to the east.
Kyle waited for what seemed like a lifetime, listening for movement, but heard only the sounds of birds and insects coming back to life now that the shooting had ceased. He circled around the back of the pickup on his hands and knees and slowly approached the man, every sense on alert for any signs of danger, but the man lay motionless in a pool of blood that was spreading towards the median. Kyle, still frightened, rose to his feet and braced himself, prepared to flee, until at last he got to a spot where he could look down at the man’s face. Although the rise and fall of the man’s chest was barely perceptible, to Kyle’s surprise, the man’s eyes were open and followed Kyle as he moved. The dying man’s guns lay by his feet, and Kyle kicked them away.
Turning back to face the body, Kyle felt himself growing numb. If not for the pain in his arm, he wouldn’t have felt anything at all. Stan’s eyes still followed Kyle’s movements, and Kyle returned the gaze, wanting to say something, but not knowing what he could say that would mean anything. Emotions tumbled around inside his head: pity, anger, fear, isolation, but none of them moved him to speak. At his feet lay a man -- a man who minutes ago had tried to take Kyle’s life, but was now himself dying. There was no ambulance to call or aid to administer, no police to wait for, and no family to contact. There was just Kyle and this stranger whose life was draining away, together on an empty stretch of interstate in the middle of Colorado.
Stan’s breathing became more shallow, and an occasional wet cough sprayed blood on his face. Kyle walked over and recovered his own rifle, then gathered up Stan’s guns. He thought he should end the man’s suffering, but to take such overt action against a human life, without active fear and rage to motivate him, was beyond Kyle’s capabilities. Kyle watched the man whose life was slowly ebbing away with questions flooding his own mind that he knew would never be answered. Who was he? Who did he leave behind? Why did it have to end this way? The man coughed loudly again, then his chest quit moving and his eyes lost their focus and stared into space.
Kyle turned and walked away. He crossed over the median, forcing himself not to look back at the body that lay on the ground behind him. He walked to his cart, then sank to his knees and held onto it, shocked by the sense of security the touch of the cart brought him as the price paid to reclaim it ran through his mind. Kyle stood up, his shaking legs and aching stomach reminding him of his weakened condition, the adrenaline from the morning’s events no longer carrying him along.
Searching his cart for food, he found that what had been there yesterday was now mostly gone. Kyle rifled through the duffle bag that had belonged to the dead man and found a change of clothes, a box and a half of ammunition, a bloodstained hunting knife, and a few pieces of gold jewelry, but no food. He wanted to discard everything associated with the man, but instinct told him to hold on to them.
Kyle walked back along the highway and retrieved the sling of food he had left on the side of the road. He carried it back to the cart, sat down and ate, then did what he could to bandage his arm with the supplies from his first aid kit. His arm ached, but the wound was less severe than he feared. Upon inspecting his rifle, Kyle found that it had been the stock of his rifle that had deflected the bullet so that the slug had only passed through his flesh while thankfully missing the bone, avoiding more serious damage to his arm.
Kyle loaded his cart with the contents of the duffel bag and his cans of food, then turned to take one final glance at the body in the road. Magpies had already found the corpse and were picking at its face, their black feathers shining in the sun as they scavenged and tore away pieces of flesh. Kyle fired a shot in the direction of the birds and scattered them, but he knew they would soon return as soon as he was gone.
Monday, October 3rd
Northern Colorado
Day 31
It’s good to be alive. Today the sky seems bluer and the air fresher than it ever has before. Denver is in my rear view mirror, but Colorado is a state I will never forget. I’m over my illness, having experienced an unbelievably quick recovery, and am fairly well stocked with food. I’ve even acquired a couple of new guns that might come in handy. The area ahead of me is a little more populated, which always worries me. Not a lot of farmland around, so I hope people are not too desperately hungry.
Kids, I just want to say again, I love you. I know I wasn’t a perfect dad, but I hope you know that I tried to do what I thought was best for you. Jennifer, you are probably tired of me writing this all the time, but I love you. If nothing else, please know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me.
There are a lot of things that make a person think about mortality, and some of the people you meet really make you think about it. If something happens to me before I make it home, please know I’m glad I’ve lived the life I have. Sure there are regrets, but I know that I had it good, and I hope it doesn’t have to end yet. I’ve seen a lot of fresh graves, and people tell me that hospitals are shut down. It’s been over a month since everything stopped, and I guess without power, drugs, and people willing to work, even simple things like infections and sickness are proving fatal, let alone the hunger and lawlessness
Being this close to the mountains reminds me of home. I sure wish I was there.
I love you all.
CHAPTER 22
Wednesday, September 28th
Deer Creek, Montana
Jennifer sat quietly at a large wooden table in Connie Bolan’s dining room. With Gabe sick, the location of their weekly council meeting had been moved, and Connie, as the council’s new vice president, had agreed to host the meeting. Connie’s large house was decorated in an old-fashioned, country style, with lots of mauve and country blue, a soft contrast to Connie’s hard, aggressive personality, evident after just one week on the council.
As she waited for the meeting to begin, Jennifer watched the door for arrivals. It had been a rough few days since her encounter with Doug, spent under a self-imposed house arrest with Kyle’s handgun as a constant companion. Sleep had been fitful and hard to come by, and she had found herself losing her temper with her children far too easily.
Jennifer wanted to bring up her run-in with Doug at the meeting, but wasn’t sure what, exactly, to complain about. “Doug kissed me, pays me too much attention, thinks I’m nice, and copped a feel of my boobs,” she imagined herself saying. It wasn’t something she could call the police about under normal circumstances, and besides that, he was the police. She continued toying with the idea of bringing it up, but decided against it after an extended, internal debate. She was an adult and would handle it herself. Besides, maybe Doug had gotten the message this time. She hadn’t seen him since Friday’s encounter.
Five minutes after the hour, Connie brought the meeting to order. Doug was still absent, and Jennifer was pleased that she wouldn’t have to face him. As Jennifer pulled out her notes from the last week’s meeting, Connie veered from the regular agenda. “I have some unfortunate news to relate,” she began, her tone somber. “Some of you have likely already heard this, but the Klein family was found dead two days ago.”
Jennifer’s jaw dropped, and the room went silent.
Connie continued. “Their neighbors hadn’t seen any activity at the home for a couple days, so they checked on the Kleins and found the bodies. Doug is pretty sure it was a murder-suicide, probably two or three days before they were found.” It was evident from the shocked looks that most in the room hadn’t heard the news. Jennifer didn’t know the Kleins, or even where they lived, but the news hit her hard.
“Do we know why it happened, or anything about the family?” asked Craig Reider, the community sanitarian.
Carol Jeffries spoke up in a shaky
voice. “Mrs. Klein had been sick for awhile and seemed to be getting worse; she was in a lot of pain without her medications. I went over a couple of times, at her husband’s request. I couldn’t do much for her, but I sure didn’t expect something like this to happen.” Carol leaned back in her chair and wiped at her eyes.
“How many kids?” asked Jennifer.
“Two,” answered Connie. “Both boys. Ten and six. Doug said they had been smothered in their beds, same as their mother, most likely in their sleep. Mr. Klein was found hanging in the basement.”
Nobody spoke for a long time. Jennifer guessed that Emma probably knew one of the sons from school or the bus and wasn’t sure if she would tell her daughter about the deaths.
Craig Reider broke the silence. “What about burial?”
“That’s already happened,” said Connie. “Doug helped Mr. Tanaka, the neighbor, bury the family yesterday in their backyard.” She paused, and then added, almost as an apology, “We don’t have a morgue or a cemetery and needed to take care of things quickly.”
The meeting was interrupted by a noise at the door as Doug let himself in. Jennifer’s loathing for Doug softened somewhat, knowing what he had dealt with over the past few days, but her stomach still knotted at the sight of him.
“It looks like you’re discussing the Kleins,” Doug said as he approached the table. “It was a sad thing. Sorry I’m late. It took me longer to get here than I expected.” Doug sat down in an empty chair across the table from Jennifer and smiled at her as she turned away. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him watching her, but she avoided any further eye contact.