by Lee Hayton
“We're going back upstairs,” Frankie whispered into his ear. “And you're coming with us.”
Swift as cheetahs, the women bound the man's wrists with the rope from their own. Frankie's instruction to bind his thighs, curtailing the length of his step, was followed to the letter. Work finished, Frankie pulled at his hair until the man got to his feet. The gun lay in a deadly caress against his neck, its barrel pressed to his carotid artery.
“Should have checked me more thoroughly,” Frankie said in a low growl. “Now we're going to walk upstairs, and you won’t give me any trouble. Got that?”
She winced at the old quotes from a hundred late-night movies. But the words worked. Despite Frankie being four inches shorter, the man climbed the stairs in front of her, docile as a guide dog.
Single file, the women followed.
As the entry into the commune’s large kitchen came into view, Frankie ducked her head behind the man’s shoulders, his brutish size working to her advantage. If the men above were armed and aware of the ruckus downstairs, one shot would leave her dead.
Five men sat around a table, the remains of a savaged meal in front of them. Two of them flicked casual glances in Frankie's direction then did a double take.
“Who's in charge?” Frankie called. The beat of her heart in her throat had given her worry that her voice would come out in a squeak. It didn't. Her stomach might be close to shooting out her bowels, but she sounded confident and in charge.
A chair scraped back slowly from the table, legs squeaking against the floor. A man, six foot six at least, placed his hand casually on a rifle to his side. “That’d be me,” he drawled.
“We’re prepared to offer a deal.”
A grin split the lower half of the tall man’s face wide open. Yellow teeth, still almost white in comparison to his swarthy skin, poked from behind thin lips.
“A deal?” He looked over her shoulder, and the men behind him took the signal and laughed.
Frankie gritted her teeth and forced herself to step forward. She pressed the gun harder into the side of her hostage’s neck, earning a whimper. The gang leader's eyes narrowed into a squint as his frown deepened.
“You can take a deal, or you can take a corpse.” There was a slight tremor in Frankie's voice, but not, she hoped, enough to broadcast her fear.
“Graham’s useless,” the leader replied.
At that dismissal, the man in Frankie's grasp lurched forward and to the side. Frankie dug in her fingers and pulled him back, aware that if she tilted her hands the wrong way, the bluff would be over.
“I'm sure Graham would be happy to prove his worth,” Frankie said. “But only if you lead us out of here.”
“So you can get your friends and come back?” The gang leader snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
“We don't care about you. You let us go, that's the last you'll hear from us.”
He appeared to be considering it. The rifle was still grasped in his hand, but he didn't lift it any higher. Frankie was so focused on him that she forgot to keep track of the remaining men. Although she saw the nod, she didn't realize that another gang member had already taken aim with his gun.
“Julie!” a woman screamed. Frankie shot a look to the side, seeing Julie slump to the ground, a neat hole in the center of her forehead. Her legs banged against the floor as her dying body spasmed.
“Guess we’re not accepting your terms,” the leader said, lifting his rifle, Frankie dead in his sights. “In fact, I don't think we have any room for negotiation at all.”
As he drew his aim, Graham tore himself from Frankie's grasp. His weight gave him the leverage to break free, pulling her a step forward in his wake.
Frankie clapped her left palm to the gun, shielding the grip, and pointed it at the gang leader’s head. “Go on then. I dare you.”
He chuckled, turned his rifle to a different target, and fired. Another woman crumpled to the floor. Frankie stood still, desperately trying to maintain her bluff.
“I think if you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it already.”
Frankie heard the shatter of glass and saw a shadow of movement in the corner of her eye. She was too intent on keeping the man in her line of sight to turn and see what was happening.
An explosion rent the air, bursting Frankie’s eardrums with the pressure change until all she heard was a high, whistling scream, and her vision filled with smoke.
Annie
None of them spoke on the drive back to the farm. Annie swerved the car into the front driveway then looped it around the back of the house, pulling up outside the barn. “It'll be easier if you come inside with me, but I’ll warn you now. It's not pretty.”
Elle and Raewyn followed her lead and walked inside. Even though the temperature barely topped sixty degrees, the bodies stacked like cordwood against the wall smelled of bloat and decay. Having seen them once already in close-up, Annie averted her eyes. She walked straight to the locked gun cabinet on the far wall of the barn.
The keys could be inside the house, or they could be anywhere. Annie took an ax down from the tool hanger on the side wall, where it was mounted above a pockmarked old bench. Three smashes and the door fell open.
Inside, there were four rifles. The first two Annie recognized as classic Lee Enfields, while the other makes were unfamiliar. Enough for her, Elle, Raewyn, and Becca. Boxes of ammunition were crammed into a sliding shelf underneath.
“I take it you know how to use one of these,” Annie said. The two women nodded, and Raewyn stepped forward to pull two of the rifles down. Annie took one for herself then tucked the last under her arm for Becca.
Becca met her near the front door, her face creasing with worry as she saw the other two women still with her. Annie wondered how these past days would shape the girl’s life. The most Annie had contended with at the same age was whether her dad would object if Tom Rusk asked her to the local dance.
“Frankie's been kidnapped.” No point beating around the bush. “Elle and Raewyn know where she’s being kept, so we’re going to get her back.”
Becca stared into her eyes. “Where’s Robert?”
Annie’s eyes grew a sheen of tears. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Robert didn’t make it,” she said, pushing a stray lock of hair behind Becca’s ear. “We’ll need your help to rescue Frankie.”
Where Annie expected an objection, for Blain if not for herself, instead she received a firm nod.
“Do you know how to use a rifle?”
Becca shook her head. Annie cursed. She should have patted Robert down for the Remington, a weapon far easier to teach on short notice. Then the floorboards creaked behind Becca—Blain standing up from the sofa.
“Dad always kept a loaded pistol in his bedroom,” he said. “He’s got a gun safe in the wardrobe upstairs.”
Becca ran up the stairs, leaving Annie below to wonder if she even knew what a gun safe would look like.
“How’re you doing?” she asked Blain. He looked much better than he had the day before.
“I can come,” he said. “Even if I can’t run, I can fire from the back seat.”
For a moment, Annie considered it. Then she shook her head. “We need Becca fully with us if we’re coordinating an assault on the commune. If you’re in the car, she’ll be distracted.”
Blain nodded and sat back on the sofa. His leg might look better, but his face was pale. His hand kept sneaking up to rub at his forehead.
The heavy tread signaled Becca’s sprint downstairs. With a large metal box clasped in her arms, she ran to join them in the living room.
“Careful,” Annie warned as Becca tumbled headlong into her. There was a flush of color high on the girl's cheeks. Excitement? She turned to Blain. “Where did your dad keep the key?”
“Here,” Blain said. He grabbed at a chain around his neck and handed it over. “It's the same model as mine.”
When she lifted the lid, Annie blinked twice, hardly darin
g to believe what she saw.
“They belonged to Granddad,” Blain explained. “They're old, but I think they'll still work.”
Nestled at the top of the box, above a Glock with a full magazine inserted and a loaded spare to the side, were two hand grenades. Annie held her breath as she pushed them aside to pull out the pistol.
When Annie started to demonstrate the Glock to Becca, Raewyn stepped in, worry seeding her voice. “We'll show her on the way. She can sit in the back with me.”
Everything was happening at such speed that Annie felt breathless as if she was running to catch up. Her hands shook and a fast pulse kept time high in her throat.
“I'll sit in the back with Becca. You or Elle need to drive. You're the ones who know where we’re going.”
Blain raised a hand to them as they exited the back door. Annie returned the gesture, her mind questioning whether they were really doing this. Then Becca tugged her arm, and Annie followed along.
Yes. They were doing this.
Rebekah
After jumping into the back seat of the car, Rebekah turned to see Blain standing at the doorway. He leaned his weight against the doorjamb, gripping with his left hand to leave his right free to wave her goodbye.
The improvement in Blain's condition was incredible. From the removal of the bullet to him being able to stand and walk had taken only a few hours.
I did that. Blain’s getting better because of me.
When he’d hugged her before she left, Rebekah had felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat through his chest, his warm breath ruffling the silky hairs that curled around the back of her ear.
On the ride, Annie showed her the basics of firing a handgun. Holding the smooth weight in her hands, Rebekah closed one eye to focus better. She mimed one shot, then another. Shoulders back, spine straight.
The clack as the magazine locked into place echoed the sound effects from a thousand action movies.
The road to the commune was rough. The car wheels picked up dirt from the track and threw it into a cloud behind them, a sight visible from miles away if anyone was looking.
Once they had traveled a few minutes, the back roads led onto a two-lane blacktop. No dust clouds, but the main road was more likely to be monitored.
Leaning forward, Rebekah looked through the windshield. No sign of premises yet. They drove past a sign—Redchester Fresh Farm Produce—with an arrow pointing in the same direction they were headed.
Raewyn’s neck tensed, and Rebekah felt the knot of nervous excitement twist in her abdomen. Colors around her sharpened, and blood thumped in her inner ear.
Eventually, Elle turned to them and whispered, “We'll go down the rear supply road. There’s a chance they won't be looking there.”
“Will that get us close enough?” Annie asked. “There's no point being safe if we’re too far away.”
“It leads directly to the silos. We’ll be close enough.” Elle turned back to the road ahead. Her jaw was an iron bar of clenched teeth.
Once again, the road jostled Rebekah in the back seat, but at least there was no dust cloud. Traffic to and from the commune had been frequent enough to wear the road clean of debris.
As Raewyn brought the car to a slow stop, the muscles in Rebekah’s arms jumped. The weight of the gun in her hand transformed from dangerous to uncertain. The sweat on her palms made her grip tenuous. She wiped her palms, one at a time, against her pants leg, then raised the gun again to test her aim.
In this new world, she couldn’t hand off her duties just because she felt scared. Frankie was in danger. Her friend was an integral part of Rebekah’s new territory, hers to defend.
She’d leave you to die.
The internal voice offered no assistance, so Rebekah quashed it for later.
When Annie slammed her passenger-side door closed, a flock of startled birds rose into the sky. Rebekah turned her head toward them, frowning. Birds hadn’t flocked back at the farm—it was every crow for himself. She walked closer to their takeoff point.
On the edge of the road, next to a wide, flat space for cars to perform U-turns, Rebekah saw a crumpled mass. As she moved closer, she recognized limbs, an arm, a leg, and stained clothing.
“Becca,” Annie called out in a quiet tone that carried. “Come here. We need to discuss our plan of attack.”
Rebekah flapped her hand—neither go away nor come here—her eyes too intent on the pile in front of her to turn in acknowledgment.
When she was almost on top of them, Rebekah could make out at least four bodies. They were young women, one even younger than herself. There were burns. There were cuts. On one woman’s face, her upper lip had been sliced away into the meat of her cheek in a grotesque Joker smile. Another glance and Rebekah realized her eyelids were also missing.
She didn't hear Elle’s approach. When Elle’s hand came down to gently rest on Rebekah's shoulder, she jumped and gave a small shriek.
Elle hitched her breath in and turned away. Rebekah tried to step back, tried to move. Her legs wouldn’t obey instructions.
Raewyn swayed toward them, one reluctant foot in front of the other. Elle tried to ward her off, push her away.
“Don’t look,” she gasped. Raewyn brushed her aside.
A cry of recognition exploded from Raewyn’s throat. She dropped to her knees, reaching her arm out toward one of the bodies.
“Because of me,” she whispered. She pulled the body forward and cradled the woman—no, a girl—in her arms, rocking her back and forth. Elle shook her head, her mouth slack and open.
Rebekah leaned away. The slight movement unfroze her limbs. She moved, a stumbling, shambling walk to where Annie stood beside the car.
Annie’s breath wheezed in and out, but the hands gripping the rifle held it steady. Her gaze didn’t leave the barrel of the gun. “How bad is it?”
Rebekah considered lying. The fact that Annie hadn’t just gone to see for herself was enough of a tipoff that she didn’t want the truth.
“Bad enough.”
Raewyn gathered the girl into her arms and staggered to her feet. Elle put a hand on her arm, but Raewyn turned with primitive instinct, her face a snarling mask tipping over the edge into insanity.
“Please, Raewyn. We need your help to do this.”
Raewyn shuffled away. Even though her weak frame strained under the burden, she continued to advance up the road. Elle staggered back to join Annie and Rebekah.
Elle’s hand tangled in her hair, pulling it back from her face. “It's her foster sister.” Her eyes were wide, disbelieving.
A lump appeared in Rebekah’s throat that she struggled to swallow past. How could she leave when her sister remained in there? Rebekah stared after her. Had the primal instinct to protect the young and the helpless simply been a myth spread by the media?
“They did this as a punishment,” Elle said. “And a warning. These women were still alive when we escaped.”
“How . . .?” Annie began but couldn't finish.
“It doesn't matter.” Elle rubbed her face quickly, then moved back to the car to retrieve the hand grenades from the front seat. “It just means we have more reason to do this.”
She handed one of the grenades to Rebekah, who looked at it in astonishment. The metal was cold to the touch, heavier than its size indicated. “Don't you think you'd be better—”
“I'll go in the front,” Elle said. “I’ll be firing, but I’ll be a target. If you and Annie toss these in the back and the side, it gives me a chance.” She twisted her lips. “I’ll get some of them, at least.”
She pointed to positions around the nearby house and barn. The slope of the land hid them from sight, but they could still see the roof layout of the main buildings.
“Does everyone have a watch?” Elle asked.
Rebekah shook her head. The mobile phone that her mother once called her implant had been the only clock she needed. But now it sat in a tunnel with a madman. Probably smashed to pieces.
“I can do a mean wolf whistle,” Annie offered.
Elle looked Annie up and down with an expression Rebekah would have reserved for boys at school who didn’t shower. But then Elle nodded. “Okay. We'll take three minutes to get into position, then Rebekah, you wait for the whistle.”
Rebekah scrambled in a sloping loop around the back of the house to her assigned location. Unfamiliar with the territory, she crouched low to try to remain unseen. Annie ran past her, around the corner, and Rebekah felt a pang of loss. She was out of her depth—and Annie was the one touchstone in her new landscape.
The Glock was shoved deep in her jeans pocket, the hand grenade held tight in her left hand. Her palms were still sweating, so Rebekah wiped them, one at a time, against her trouser leg. She ended with the grenade in her right hand, her throwing arm. When the whistle came, the right equipment needed to be ready.
The smooth khaki body looked so harmless with its lever, safety pin, and a tiny ring of metal. Nothing like the pineapple-shaped grenades she was used to from movies about World War II.
Even with the pin still intact, Rebekah kept the lever pressed flush against her body. An accident would be deadly, for her and for the others.
The minutes stretched out, the same way as when she'd waited for an alarm to distract a gunman into a trap. Time elongated, stretched elastic.
Maybe she’d missed the whistle?
A gunshot sounded inside, and every muscle screamed at Rebekah to react. She shook her head. The nerves jangling up her arms were overtaking her common sense.
She wasn't the only one with an explosive in her hand. If she genuinely missed the signal, Annie’s grenade would tell her she was late to the parade.
A crow circled above her, cawing. Rebekah closed her eyes, saw the tangled mess of bodies the bird above might have feasted on, and opened them again.
Despite the cool breeze, a trickle of sweat ran down from her hairline, soaking into the neck of her T-shirt. The hairs on her scalp tingled.