“God help me,” he whispered, before raising his voice. “You could…you could see her doing this, can’t you?”
Tara hesitated before saying, “I don’t want to. But, if she ran back in here, and we lifted the tarp, we could get her under it before Jason’s thugs get here. If…if she can keep them from grabbing her.”
Carl then looked at Preston. “What are you going to say? ‘Carl, you’ve gone too far this time?’ Well, I hope you do say it.”
Preston looked down. “I could, but I’m not sure I believe it.” He slowly raised his chin. “Carl, I met those people. I know some of them. They’re just ordinary people. Mall shoppers, people driving to or from their homes. They don’t deserve to be the slaves of a psycho madman. I can understand why Shyanne would want to do this. I’d do it myself.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I would do it if Shyanne didn’t have to.”
“But I can.” She looked at all of them individually. “And you know it.”
Carl sucked in an anguished breath. “I do.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jason Maltesta surveyed his new domain. A large group of people crowded the space. Nothing extraordinary about any of them. It was as though they were plucked randomly from the city outside to be placed within this sanctuary.
A few of the people did sport bandages or dressings. The melee following the EMP blackout must have unleashed its share of injuries upon some of these people. However, as Jason paced past the wounded, the wounds seemed minor, a wrap around an arm here, a bandage on a cheek there.
However, one man caught his attention. He was slumped in a corner, his arm draped over his right leg. He wore sweat pants and a dingy gray T-shirt with battered white sneakers. The man seemed completely oblivious to what was happening around him. Every refugee Jason had passed followed the man with their eyes. However, this individual merely stared ahead into space. It was clear something had happened to him, for a white cloth was tied around his head, with the smell of dry blood faintly evident on it. His right arm also was tied up with white bandages that reached down to his lower arm. Smaller bandages dotted the tops of his hands. His lips hung partially open. The man appeared young, perhaps in his twenties.
“You,” Jason spoke, “what happened to you?” The man did not answer. “You are obviously hurt,” Jason continued calmly, “How did it happen?”
“He says little to anyone,” said the man next to him.
Jason turned to him. “And what do you know about this man?”
“I don’t know.” The man gulped. “I-I worked as a nurse at the hospital, so they told me to treat him for burns. He doesn’t say much when he talks at all. I don’t even know his name.”
“Burns. That means he was in a fire.” Jason leaned a little closer over the victim. “How interesting. And yet you cannot tell me your story. I find that a little irritating.”
“I’m sure it’s just shock,” the nurse said, “post traumatic—”
“I know about traumatic injuries,” Jason snapped. “I know what they are, but that doesn’t mean I have to approve of them. Especially when my curiosity is aroused.” He held his knife’s blade across his own chest.
“So, what will you react to? Perhaps if your life is in danger? Will the survival instincts spring to life if you see my blade?” He gave the knife a quick cut through the air. “The urge to fight back? Because it would displease me if I simply gutted a catatonic man.” Then he glanced at the nurse. “Or perhaps you’ll react if I threaten his life instead?”
“No!” the nurse yelped.
“Quiet! One more word out of you and you will die on the spot. Your fate’s now up to him. You had better hope your nursing skills were adequate in this man’s case, or you won’t live one more minute.”
Jason then turned to the wounded man. “So, what will it be?” He took one big step closer to the nurse, bringing the knife closer to his throat.
The injured man’s eyes then moved, slightly. His right forefinger twitched. Jason hesitated. Would this man burst from his seat to defend the nurse? Jason was eager for his answer.
“Excuse me.”
Jason felt a tug on his pant leg. Baffled at the sound of the little girl’s voice, he looked down. A small African American girl in a denim dress with blue leggings looked up at him with a big smile.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m looking for my daddy. Have you seen him?”
Jason could not believe what he was seeing. Where did this girl come from, and how did he not notice her approach? He had been scanning this crowd for the past forty or so minutes and never had spotted her once.
“I wouldn’t know, nor do I care,” Jason said, annoyed. “Sit down with the others this instant and never pester me again.”
“But I want to play a game,” she said with a smile that showed off her teeth.
A game? Was this child insane? The few children within this group knew enough to stay huddled with their parents or other adults. Then again, kids could be foolish. This one may be the most foolish one that Jason had encountered.
“I don’t want to play any games. This is your last chance to sit down—”
Suddenly, the girl reached out and splashed the side of Jason’s right pant leg with paint from a brush she had concealed behind her back. “Tag! You’re it!” she cried, to the gasps and squeals of the people around them. Then, tossing away the brush, she fled toward the back of the store.
Jason’s eyes widened with rage. That little urchin had forfeited her life. He must make an example of her. “Cyrus! Mayfield! Kronish! Hurry and fetch her!”
The girl sped past all the huddled masses toward the back wall of the store. Then she ran toward a section that, to Jason’s surprise, lay open, perhaps enough for a person to speed through. How did he not notice that before?
He turned from the wounded man and the nurse. As Cyrus, Kronish and Mayfield sped past him, Jason’s blood boiled with the promise of new prey to hunt. And hunt he would.
Shyanne sped past the gap in the drywall. Then she made the sharp turn Carl was hoping for. The girl was fast, but every second felt like an eternity. Then she dropped, tucked, and rolled under the gap in the tarp held up by Whitney and Preston. At about the same time, Kronish and Mayfield emerged from the gap, batons in hand.
Not yet, Carl thought, as much as he wished to start taking these guys out. Wait, wait…
Cyrus then followed. Carl itched to bring the tarp down, but not until he had nabbed Jason.
“Hey! What’s going on?” Mayfield barked as Whitney and Preston closed the tarp behind Shyanne.
At that moment, Jason showed up.
Carl almost shook at the sight of the man. Close up, his eyes seemed inhuman, almost demonic. His moment of hesitation lasted for just a second. Once Jason made it clear, Carl kicked down the pile of debris. As the clutter closed off the gap, Carl slammed Jason to the ground. Meanwhile, Tara and Preston jumped Mayfield and Kronish with the tarp while Cyrus slowed his pace. Then Whitney ran off with Shyanne beside her.
With Jason pinned under his legs, Carl raised his knife. He had been torn as to whether he should offer this man a chance to surrender. As much a monster as he may be, he was not a terrorist insurgent. Yet, Carl understood this man wanted to enslave the poor people on the other side of the drywall. He would not let him get away. But he would give him a chance.
“Give it up!” Carl screamed. “We got you and your goons pinned down.”
Jason quaked under Carl’s legs, nearly knocking Carl off. The former Marine got the message. This guy wasn’t going to give up. Carl raised his knife, ready to put him down.
But then Jason reared his back like a bear, and this time Carl could not stay on. Jason successfully sprang free, his boots slamming down onto the floor as he stood up. Knowing that he was fast losing his advantage, Carl raised his knife for a quick strike. Jason spun around. Carl tried plunging it into Jason’s torso, but he was a second too late. Jason grabbed and pushed Carl’s knife arm away in the nick
of time.
Damn! Carl tried turning and striking again, but all he got for his trouble was two powerful hands grabbing his arms. Jason, having locked Carl in place, then tried to wrestle him against the wall. Fortunately, Carl matched his strength, at least standing up, but Jason’s hands still burned Carl as they pinched further into Carl’s flesh.
“Thought you had the drop on me, did you?” Jason asked in a low, almost quiet voice. “It’s a shame you won’t get a second chance.”
He slammed Carl in the chest with a sharp kick, sending the knife off into the tarp. Then Jason punched Carl in the right cheek. Carl turned on his heel, only barely dodging Jason’s third blow.
Forget taking this guy out quickly. Carl was in for the fight of his life. This guy actually wasn’t stronger than Cyrus, but he moved more swiftly. Fighting in these close quarters wasn’t even providing Carl with an advantage. He’d have to fall back to Plan B—get this guy out of this store so he couldn’t take any of these people as a hostage. He had an idea where to lure Jason. He could finish him there.
“Tara!” Preston shouted as Mayfield and Kronish chased him out of the Kelly’s Boutique storefront. The whole past minute had been a blur—he and Tara had tackled those two onto the floor but missed Cyrus, who quickly backed off before the pair could try trapping him too. Carl warned that this might be a delaying tactic at best, so the two didn’t stick around once Shyanne and Whitney had made it clear of the fight. Tara had crossed the store threshold first, rifle in hand, with Preston huffing to make it past ahead of Mayfield and Kronish. Cyrus was lagging behind, perhaps deliberately. Tara figured Cyrus might remember the last time she and Carl had sprung a trap on some of his men.
“Preston, go right!” Tara shouted as she spun around to take aim at Mayfield and Kronish. With the tarps and drywall separating her from the survivors, plus now being several yards out into the mall, she felt confident one of her shots wouldn’t accidently hurt an innocent.
“Look out!” Mayfield cried.
But Tara’s finger pulled the trigger just as Mayfield gave his warning. Tara unloaded three shots into the two brutes. Mayfield fell back onto the store threshold. Kronish turned, but then lurched back as if hit. Both men collapsed onto the floor. Kronish groaned and slid a hand across the floor, but Mayfield lay silent.
Satisfied that she had nailed those two, Tara turned to try taking out Cyrus, but he had ducked back into the store. “Damn!” She charged back to the threshold. No way could she let Cyrus flee back into the survivors’ hiding spot if she could help it, even if Carl had managed to block the way back. “Preston!” she cried, “Hurry! Let’s get Cyrus!”
She ran back into the store, swinging the rifle from one direction to another with Preston just behind her. Her first instinct was to check the area where Carl had dumped the debris. It still was intact, not appearing at all as if it had been moved. Good. She scanned the area from the left to the right. With the drywall right in front of her, there was nowhere else he could hide, unless—”
A sudden gust of wind blew onto them. Tara swung around. “Preston, watch it!”
Cyrus was rushing at them from the right side, springing from a pile of waded up tarp on the floor. Tara managed to swing the rifle in his face, but Cyrus grabbed the barrel before she could pull the trigger. Her finger still made the shot, wasting a bullet. Cyrus wrestled her back.
“Damn you! Damn you and that little bastard!” Cyrus said through gritted teeth. He had been gunning for Preston and swung at Tara instead when she was about to shoot him.
But that still left Preston open. He drew his knife and stabbed Cyrus right in the arm with it. The brute screamed and let go. Tara quickly gathered her wits and re-aimed the rifle at him. Seeing he was now open again, Cyrus bolted from the store.
Tara fired off three more shots, each pelting the floor around Cyrus as he ran. “Shit!” she shouted as Cyrus outpaced her shots. “Great work, Preston, but I wouldn’t have minded if you shot the bastard.”
Preston looked down at his gun. “Hey, Carl wants us to save our ammo for when we really need it.”
“Get a clue, Preston. We need it now!” She was good at counting her shots even in high pressure situations, and taking into account every pull of her trigger, she had precisely one shot remaining. She dashed out of the store, rifle raised in her arms. She’d have only one chance left to bring down Cyrus.
However she didn’t see Mayfield suddenly spring up from the floor and lunge at her. Although he bled from his arms, Tara’s shots had not been enough to slow him down. Tara’s attacker actually managed to pry the rifle out of her hands and toss it out of the store. Yet Preston, who still had the knife in his hand, ran up from behind and stabbed him in the back. Mayfield let out a scream and turned to try nailing Preston, but now he wobbled from the pain and blood loss. Then Tara smashed him hard in the face. Mayfield collapsed to the floor and did not move again.
“The gun!” Tara didn’t bother to stick around to confirm if Mayfield truly was out for the count. “Hurry!”
Fortunately, the gun had been tossed clear, in the opposite direction from Cyrus, who oddly had stopped his flight and now was staring at a small corner that held a fire extinguisher.
“What the hell is this?” he asked in a slow burn.
Ilario’s body laid face down on the floor. Carl and his companions had had no time to dispose of it, so he was left there to rest. Cyrus stomped up to Ilario’s lifeless form. “Ilario,” he whispered. He leaned over Ilario. Then he shook him. “C’mon! C’mon you idiot, wake up!” But he did not stir. Ilario just flopped against the floor like a rag doll. Between his lack of breathing and his paling skin, it was clear Ilario was dead and had been so for the past hour.
Cyrus, red-faced, spun around, glaring eyes of hatred toward Preston and Tara. “You did this! You killed Ilario!”
He charged wildly at Preston and Tara. Preston quickly drew his gun, but his hand quaked on the handle.
Tara’s eyes widened. Preston, for God’s sakes, shoot!
Chapter Nineteen
Cyrus suddenly jolted backward as the air crackled with the sound of a bullet firing. A shot had indeed caught him, but it wasn’t from Preston’s gun. Whitney had retrieved Tara’s rifle and had nailed Cyrus in the chest.
“I did it,” Whitney said through gritted teeth. “I killed the little bitch. And you know what? Your bud had one tiny penis.”
Cyrus coughed. He landed on his posterior and managed to brace himself with his hand. Blood trickled down his shirt. “Damn you…bitch!”
“No.” Whitney charged up to Cyrus and smashed him in the face. “Damn you. Damn you, and damn your friend for raping me!” She assaulted him two more times, but suddenly Cyrus grabbed her by the upper torso, just below her neck, and thrust her to the ground. Cyrus may have been wounded but, he wasn’t out of the fight. He even stumbled up to his feet, though his legs wobbled.
“I hope Ilario made your pussy burn,” he said through clenched teeth.
Whitney, flat on her back, moaned. Cyrus’s hit had nailed her good. She rolled onto her side but was too stunned to get away.
Cyrus took one step toward her, leaving blood spots on the floor as he walked. He might be dying, but he would take Whitney with him if he could.
But before he could reach Whitney, a sudden rumbling on the floor turned his head. Tara was racing toward him with the cleaning cart. Cyrus turned and might have been able to block it if he had not been wounded. Instead, Tara rammed it hard against him. Tara then pushed with all her might, hauling Cyrus all the way against the banister that overlooked the first floor.
At the moment of impact, the banister cracked. Perhaps it had been weak, or the sudden impact of a two-hundred-plus-pound man had done it, or a combination of the two, but the banister suddenly broke apart. The momentum of the cart plus Cyrus carried both over the edge. Tara jumped away just in time to keep from going over herself. Instead, Cyrus and the cart plunged down freely, with nothing to
stop them.
Tara didn’t see the final impact, but she sure heard it. Once she gathered herself, she hurried to the gap in the banister. The cart lay on top of Cyrus’ still form on the mall floor below. The man and cart had impacted near a small water fountain.
Whitney hobbled up to her. Tara held her to steady her. “Careful,” she said gently, “you might end up following him.”
Whitney shook. “He…you got him…right?”
“He’s busted into a million pieces. Thanks for saving us,” Tara said.
At that moment, Preston joined them. He looked just as rattled as Whitney. “Yeah, thanks,” he said. Then he looked down at his gun. “Damn. I almost had to—”
“Carl!” Tara turned toward the storefront. He was nowhere in sight, and neither was Jason. “Where is he?”
The door to the HVAC room was slightly ajar. It left Carl the perfect opening to grab it, fling it open enough to scramble through, and then shut it mostly behind him. He wanted Jason to follow, but not to follow unimpeded.
Carl then grabbed the folding chair and shut it up. Jason would be in any moment, and Carl hoped to deliver a nasty surprise when he showed up.
A few seconds later, Jason kicked open the HVAC door fully, but did not storm in immediately. Instead, he turned his head from one side to another, but did not do so widely. It was as if small glances gave him all the information he needed.
So, when Carl assaulted Jason with the folding chair, Jason did not act surprised. He backed up just enough for the chair to miss and strike the door instead. Jason then tackled Carl and tried slamming him into the HVAC machinery. It was only Carl’s quick thinking and reactions that saved him from being impaled by the hard steel. The former Marine pushed back with all his might, slowing down Jason, and then veering off so Carl only hit the wall at reduced speed. To top it off, he pushed against the chair, using it as a shield.
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