Mason watched from his bedroom window, which overlooked the street. He knew what to expect and knew that it was not going to go well. Mason gathered that maybe Mr. Barnette objected to the armed intrusion. For that Mr. Barnette was eventually beaten severely by a couple of large characters using bats to do their business. There was some screaming that followed and then quiet.
The quiet lasted a disturbingly long time during which Mason’s imagination ran into wild and terrible country filled with depravity. Unfortunately, his worst imaginings weren’t too far from reality.
Frightened for his own safety and unsure what to do, Mason became as small as he could make himself. He wanted to be invisible. He didn’t want to be a part of this world and so tried to will himself out of it. He drank the last of his Mountain Dew while he watched, unable to take his eyes from the unfolding drama, afraid that if he did the men would then come for him.
When the men reappeared in the front yard, most hauling more looted goods, they loaded themselves onto their waiting motorcycles and into their trucks. And like a plague of locusts, the men were gone.
Mason decided then and there that he needed to leave before they returned. He knew it was just a matter of time before they would be back. They might even return with larger vehicles in order to haul away more. If he was still in his house when they did come back, he didn’t know how they would treat him whether he resisted their intrusion or not. He resented his parents even more for having left him alone during all of this, ignoring the fact that he had pleaded for such autonomy for years.
In the process of filling his backpack with clean socks, underwear, warm clothes, and various toiletry items, Mason wandered into his parents’ room. He was looking for more clothes and knew that he had some shirts in the clothes hamper in their room. One of the numerous pictures on his mother’s dresser caught and held his attention. It was a picture of his mother and father standing in their backyard beneath the big tree that they lost in a terrible storm a few autumns later. It was a picture that he had always liked. The sun was shining, the world was green and vibrant, and his parents were alive. It probably didn’t hurt that he had snapped the picture with his brand new digital camera on that day, which happened to be his birthday as well. The little framed photograph was small enough that he could comfortably pack it as well.
He went over to his father’s closet in the corner of their room. Both of his parents had walk-in closets with ample room. His mother’s was filled with organizing racks and shelves displaying shoes, dresses, sweaters, formal coats and jackets, and all manner of pants and tops. There was no denying her love of textiles.
His father’s was organized as well, but behind a rack full of dress shirts and pants was a locked gun safe. Mason knew the combination on the lock and even where to find the hidden key in case the combination in his head didn’t work. He twisted the dial, feeling the clicks in his fingers. He pulled the lever and...nothing happened.
Just like every time before when he tried to open the safe, the combination didn’t work. He shook his head and breathed deeply, allowing the air to escape slowly. He once again dialed the combination into the safe and this time when he pulled the lever the door released.
The oily, musky scent in the safe escaped as the door opened, filling Mason’s nose. His dad was not a gun nut or even an avid hunter, but he did have a nice collection of firearms. There was an old twenty-two caliber Remington which was his dad’s first gun; a gift from his father. There were a pair of old, breech loaded shotguns that had once been used to hunt quail. Those two looked like cannons standing on their ends.
Beside the antique behemoths was a very nice bolt action hunting rifle with an equally nice scope mounted atop it. Mason was pretty sure that was the gun his father had purchased for his one hunting excursion into the interior. Mason remembered his father’s comments about the trip, including the fact that he had spent all that money on the rifle and never had an opportunity to use it.
On some shelves next to the larger guns were a variety of pistols that were Mason’s real objective. There were little dark beauties that had always caught his eye whenever his father let him browse. He was more familiar with the pistols, having played a lifetime of video games in which antique shotguns and practical hunting rifles rarely surfaced.
The pistol selection was not overly exotic or specialized, aside from an old Colt Peacekeeper forty-five caliber revolver. It looked like the type of pistol the Outlaw Josey Wales would have drawn to fight his way out of a pinch.
His father also had tactical holsters and a shoulder holster. A pair of drawers had a healthy supply of bullets as well. It was all a matter of Mason deciding which firearms had the most ammunition for them. He settled on the Peacekeeper and a pair of nine millimeter pistols, a Glock and a vintage Beretta. The automatics could hold a lot more bullets than the Colt, but he couldn’t deny his fixation on the large revolver.
Into his backpack, he piled as many boxes of ammunition as he could fit, filling two side pockets until he could barely close the zippers. He would have liked to take more, but he knew he would need more than just guns and ammunition if he was forced to fend for himself for any length of time.
When he hefted his backpack onto his shoulder, he was surprised by the weight, or lack thereof, from the items he had already packed. He thought that maybe he could pack more...more guns, more bullets, more clothes, more of whatever else.
In a moment of clarity, he did make a decision which he would later appreciate. Knowing that the gun safe would ultimately be found, Mason thought it wise to move his father’s guns. The looters might not know the combination to the safe or have the key, but there were other ways around those hurdles and a resourceful enough group would find a way through the safe’s doors. He needed to hide the guns for safekeeping for his father’s return.
The guns he couldn’t carry he needed to hide. The extra pistols and boxes of ammunition were all stacked into an Adidas duffel bag and the rifles and shotguns were bundled together with some binding strips he found at the bottom of the safe. The extra firearms were moved into the attic, whose overhead hatch was in the corner of his mother’s closet. He set the guns and the bag on a steady piece of plywood and closed the hatch carefully above his head. Satisfied that only the most detailed search would result in the guns being found, Mason set about the rest of his packing which would happen primarily in the kitchen and garage.
He descended the stairs and went into the kitchen to first grab a bite to eat, and then to load more nonperishable provisions into his backpack. He stormed into the kitchen and found the bread on the counter. They still had power, so he dropped a pair of slices into the toaster and pressed down the lever.
All at once, he didn’t feel right. He didn’t feel like he was alone. It almost felt as if he was being...watched. He froze in his tracks. He was wearing the two semi-automatic pistols in the tactical holsters on his hips, but both were strapped tightly and safely into place. In front of him and well within reach was the cutting block with several very long, very sharp knives. That seemed like his best bet.
Trying to control his fear and not let on that he was aware he had company, Mason tapped the counter in a nervous series of drumbeats. Finally, he reached out, grabbed the knife from the block, and spun around with his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring aggressively.
Staring back at him were two scared kids, a boy and a girl, who didn’t look to be older than twelve or thirteen. He looked right and then left, not sure what to do next. There was no one else there. Neither of the children did anything. Their faces were vacant and emotionless, like the survivors of a natural disaster having just emerged from their storm shelters.
After several tense seconds, he asked, “You the Barnette kids?”
The two nodded in unison, as if rehearsed. Their terrified, confused eyes spoke volumes. Not thinking before he spoke, Mason asked, “Where are your folks?”
The boy looked over Mason’s shoulder toward his own
house while the girl started to cry. He regretted his question almost immediately. He knew the answer and should have known better than to ask.
Not knowing what else to do, Mason asked, “You guys hungry?”
His question was answered with silent shrugs. That was good enough for him. He may not have been capable of fixing the world’s problems, bringing his parents home, or theirs back to life, but he could cook them something to eat. He thought they had time for that.
In a matter of minutes they were eating egg sandwiches and drinking juice. Over the meal, the three of them were silent. Mason wasn’t quite sure what to say and was afraid to ask for any more details or information. He still thought they should get away from the houses before the brigands returned but he didn’t know where to go and now with kids in tow, that became a bigger problem.
Staring at his empty plate, Mason said, “Those men who came to your house...they’re gonna come back.”
The little girl’s eyes became wide and a scared fit started building in her. She stood and backed away from the table until she was in a corner and lowering herself onto her haunches. The boy, meanwhile, had not taken his eyes from the front door, expecting at any moment for the door to burst open like it had at his house only hours earlier.
Retracting and correcting his comment, Mason assured them, “I didn’t mean right now. But they will be back. I think we should get away from here before they do. Do you want to come with me? I don’t know where to go, but I was thinking about trying to go to some of my friends’ houses. I don’t know for sure. I don’t know what’s going on.”
The boy said, “My mom made us hide and told us not to come out until everything was quiet. She made us promise. Then she said that if anything happened we should come over here. She said that someone was home here and that you would help. I think she thought maybe your mom or dad was here. Are you alone?”
Mason nodded.
“I don’t know what happened for sure to my mom and dad. I don’t think...I don’t...we couldn’t look. We were too afraid.”
“It’s okay,” Mason said. “Maybe I could go over and check things out for you. Would you like me to do that?” That was what an adult would say, he figured. He was satisfied with himself and felt like he was actually in charge.
The girl leapt forward from the corner and wrapped herself around Mason’s waist, pleading for him not to leave them alone. He tried to soothe her fears and reassured her that he would be returning, but she refused to release him.
Her brother came to the rescue, prying her little arms off Mason and encouraging him to hurry back.
As soon as Mason had gotten over to the Barnettes’ house, he regretted not having been talked out of going by the girl and any emerging confidence deserted him. In the front yard, Mason happened upon Mr. Barnette lying in a puddle of his own slick fluids. The man’s skull was crushed, with oozing vertical fissures on his forehead from the multiple baseball bat impacts. One of his eyes had been forced from its socket and hung disgustingly from its exposed optic nerve. His right arm was broken and twisted horribly behind his back as if it contained no bones at all. One of his legs was similarly shattered. His body was shapeless and broken to the point of barely being recognized as a human body.
Mason stood over the man staring down at him, unable to take his eyes away from the horrid display. Never in all his worst imaginings could Mason have envisioned something so disgusting. When the man moved ever so slightly and then a whisper of a voice, not much louder than a breath, escaped, Mason jumped. He couldn’t believe the man could possibly still be harboring life.
Mason wanted to ignore his revulsion and kneel next to the man to hear him better and provide some human solace but he just couldn’t. The sickly, salty smell of blood and death was very nearly overpowering to the young man; he withstood the urge to turn away but he couldn’t approach him. He’d never seen anything so sickening in his entire life. It was hard to imagine the violated, misshapen lumps of flesh had ever been the skull of a human being. Nausea rippled up and down his spine, tickling his gag reflex like a feather down his throat. The man, whose gray hair was matted with clumps of blood, bone, and what appeared to be brain matter, asked louder, “My family?” His efforts produced a shallow, wheezing, blood-choked cough.
Mason forced his words past his rising disgust. “I have your kids. They’re safe.”
Despite his disfigurement and agony, Mr. Barnette’s face twitched and a pained smile found its way across his bloody, swollen lips. Mason watched the man’s one good eye shudder, a tear forming, and then the man’s iris dilated and he was gone.
Mason wandered into the house, expecting to find the worst. He found Mrs. Barnette in the living room. She had been ravaged over the period of several hours until, no longer of any amusement to her attackers, she had been stabbed to death, the knife still protruding from her chest.
That was enough for Mason. He retreated from the house and ran back to his, tears filling his eyes the entire short trip back. The kids were standing in the kitchen where Mason had left them, the girl still clutching tightly to her younger brother. The boy watched Mason when he entered the house and looked away when he realized the news Mason had to deliver was nothing but bad.
The boy, Ethan, could see the resigned sadness in Mason’s red eyes. There was no need to ask. The same could not be said for little Frances, asking repeatedly where her Mommy and Daddy were. Her questions, along with her voice, steadily rose in tempo and pitch until she was screaming unintelligibly at the top of her shrill voice.
Spent, Frances fell to the floor and wept, her despair beyond consolation.
The clock was ticking; time was in shorter supply than Mason knew but still they hadn’t departed. He didn’t want to admit it, but Mason had no idea what he was doing. Several times, he tried his phones, both his cell and the home phone, but nothing was working. He was nearly frantic, trying to decide what they should take with them, when the crack and pop of two-stroke motorcycle engines cut into the quiet.
They had come back and Mason didn’t think they would be spared this time. There was no way that the three of them would be able to get away now. The decision had been made for them. They were forced to flee on foot, like refugees from a surging disaster.
Mason grabbed what he had packed and what he and the kids could grab on their way out the back door, and then they were gone, leaving behind his childhood home and the life that he had lived up to that point.
Chapter 46
Mason, Ethan, and Frances ran into the woods behind his house. They ran until none of them could breathe. They found a stream with a footbridge spanning it. Mason decided they could pause there. He didn’t think they had been followed. He honestly didn’t think the thugs knew that they were even there.
It was late August, so the air was starting to become cooler though the sun could still be quite warm, especially at its late season zenith. Unfortunately, the sun had a hard time penetrating the thick tree canopy, allowing the cool, moist air of early morning to loiter longer in the shadows of the forest.
Mason could see his breath, especially now that they were so near to the stream’s cool water. With that realization, Mason determined he did not want to spend the night outside in the cold. They would just wait out there in the forest until it was safe to go back. The raiders would get what they wanted and then return from whence they came...he hoped.
Ethan threw twigs and rocks into the slow moving water while Frances nervously twisted her hair into tighter and tighter knots. Mason waited. When they spotted the smoke rising over the trees, Mason’s heart sunk. He knew that couldn’t possibly be good.
When more time had passed than they could track and the smoke hadn’t dissipated at all, Mason could no longer wait. He led the two kids back the direction from which they had come.
They could see the flames before they had neared the edge of the trees. Flames were devouring every house on their little housing court. Not a one had been spared. They w
ere all burning uncontrollably.
The awful people responsible had long since left, so Mason wandered into the middle of the road and looked around at the conflagration. Dark smoke mixed with rising tongues of fire as both filled the sky. Mason looked in disgust at his car still sitting in the garage and utterly consumed by fire.
The fire at his house looked to be localized to the garage; perhaps it had been his car they had used as the fuel to start the flame. He never liked that car, but planned on using it to get away from the neighborhood. He would simply have to figure out another alternative. Mason ran to the still open front door and up the stairs. The air was filled with smoke, but it wasn’t unbearable. If he hurried, he thought he could make it easily.
He bolted into his parents’ room and to their closets. Sure enough, his father’s gun safe had been forced open by a variety of tools and its missing contents had obviously frustrated those responsible. They had upended the hefty gun safe and smashed it through the closet wall.
They had also smashed out the bedroom’s large window, which worked to Mason’s benefit, allowing much of the smoke in the house to billow out away from him. It bought him the time he needed.
The angry invaders had thrown lamps, chests, boxes, and laundry into his mother’s closet. There was nothing of any worth to them in the closet, and they had decided to use it as a dumping ground for everything they deemed unnecessary and worthless.
Mason picked his way through the debris and found the undisturbed ceiling entrance to the attic. He opened the hatch and pulled down the filled duffel bag and bundle of guns in a matter of seconds. He was thankful for the ineptitude and inefficiency of the thieves.
Alaskan Undead Apocalypse (Book 4): Resolution Page 26