by D. Gideon
“We ain’t plannin’ on shooting them, are we?” Morgan asked, sliding the mag back in and pushing it home quietly.
“Nah man, we ain’t gonna need to go that far. Just wave that Glock around and they’ll do whatever you tell ‘em. You knock out old lady Faye, I’ll handle Chelsea. We get some blindfolds on ‘em both, and then we have ourselves a little party.”
“I still ain’t seen no power trucks,” Morgan said, considering. “That means I ain’t gotta work tomorrow…we could make it an all-nighter.”
“Hell bro, them old farts got all kinds of sweet pills…we could drug her up, hang out for a few days. Take our time. Get to know Chelsea real well, you hear me?”
“I’m hearin’ ya,” Morgan said, pulling up his bandana. “I’m likin’ the sound of it, too.”
“Look, there’s the old bat now,” Trevor said, pulling up his own bandana.
On the porch, a small, bent figure had come out. A moment later, both of the women went back into the house.
“Let’s do this,” Trevor said, and darted across the street, Morgan close on his heels.
Chapter 21
Tuesday, September 4th
Cambridge, Maryland
I followed Faye and the promise of apple jelly on warm rolls back into the house. The kitchen had that heavenly smell of fresh-baked bread. Gone from the table was her mixing bowl, and in its place stood about half a dozen little cans of chicken noodle soup, a few cans of ginger ale, what was left of the twelve-pack of water her neighbors had left her, and Chester’s bag of dog food that she had used earlier. Chester hopped around my feet, excited enough to see me that you’d think I’d been outside for a week.
“What’s this stuff on the table?” I said, picking up the little guy and flipping him over in my arms for a belly rub.
Faye started cutting the warm rolls apart with an Old Hickory knife and setting them on a sheet of aluminum foil.
“That’s what I’m sending with you,” she said. “I’m sorry it’s not much, but without being able to get groceries today…” she shrugged.
“No. We can’t take this. You need-” I started, and she made a shushing noise.
“I kept enough to last me until my pills wear off, and after that it’ll all just go to waste. So you kids are taking it. And I want you to go through the house and get anything else you might need, too.”
“Stop talking like you’re already gone. We’re not taking your things, Miss Faye.” I said.
“There’s some of Chelsea’s things upstairs that might fit you,” she said. “And I’ve already had this talk with Marco. It’s decided. You’re taking what you need, you’re taking my little Chester, and that’s all there is to it.”
I looked down at the little dog in my arms and his goofy expression of utter bliss from the belly rubs. I hadn’t thought of that. Once she passed away, there’d be no one to care for him. He’d starve to death, unless one of the neighbors found him and took him in. Taking Chester was a good idea just in case, but taking Faye’s food wasn’t. Even though the doctor had told her she wouldn’t last longer than three days, we couldn’t know that for sure. Everyone knew stories of people who went on to live for years after a doctor said they’d pass.
“Where is Marco? I’d like to have a talk with him,” I said.
“I sent him out to the shed to see if Chelsea’s bike trailer is out there,” Faye said, waving her knife at the back door. “King went with him. I know she took her bike, but I’m not sure about the trailer. I just wish I had a car to get you home faster, but we had to sell Franklin’s old truck to help pay for the nursing home.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I put Chester down and started for the back door, but Faye turned and fixed me with a look over her glasses.
“You let that boy be,” she said. “We had a long talk while you were outside, and he’s as upset about killing that young man as you are. He’s worried what you think of him now. He needs some time alone.”
“He told you?” That shocked me.
“He did,” she waved her knife at the table, “and he argued against this, too. But I’ve made a decision and that’s that. Now go in the bathroom and wash Chester off of your hands so you can eat. When you’re done it’ll be about time to go get your friends and bring them back here.”
I blinked at her, frowning, but I knew better than to keep arguing when a little old lady had that tone in her voice.
“Bathroom’s over there, under the stairs,” she said, pointing. “Already got a candle lit on the sink. There’s water to wash your hands in, and a bucket with a trash bag in it if you need to do more. Just spray some perfume when you’re done.” She turned back to her rolls, clearly signaling there’d be no more discussion on the subject.
I huffed and grumbled something about little gray-haired tyrants giving orders, and I heard her chuckle as I went into the small bathroom. Chester came in with me, intent on supervising.
As promised, there was a small one gallon ice cream bucket with a trash bag in it sitting down inside the dry toilet. The seat lid wasn’t much help in keeping the smell down, and between it and the heavy scent of perfume, I didn’t know how Chester could stand being in here. Maybe the old fellow’s sense of smell was already gone. I tried to breathe as shallowly as I could as I took care of my bladder.
I heard murmured voices in the kitchen, and Chester went on alert, whining and scratching at the door. Marco and King must have come back in.
“Just a second, Chester. Let me rinse my hands off.” The sink had been stoppered and was nearly full with cloudy, soapy water. I was toweling my hands dry when I heard a big thump.
“He didn’t have to bring the trailer inside,” I grumbled, and opened the door. Chester shot out the instant there was room for him to fit, and I stepped out after him.
A hand slapped over my mouth and the cold metal of a gun pressed into the bruised side of my head.
“Well hello there, Chelsea baby,” a man said in my ear. He pressed himself against my back, and I could tell he was already excited. “We saw you out on the porch and thought we’d come and have ourselves a little party. Make one sound and your grandmomma gets hurt. Got me?”
Chester exploded in a fit of barking, nipping at a man holding a gun on Faye. She sat on the kitchen floor looking dazed, one hand holding her head. Chester dove in, bit the man’s jeans, hopped away, and jumped in for another attack. The man yelped as Chester’s little teeth got skin this time, and tried to shake him off. Chester let go and jumped forward again. A booted foot connected with him and sent his little body flying. Chester slammed into the far kitchen wall with a yelp and fell to the floor, still.
“Chester!” Faye screamed, and behind the hand clamped over my face, I screamed too. The man holding me wrapped a leg around mine and pushed. I fell to the floor, him on top of me. He slammed the gun into the back of my head and I heard cartilage crunch as my face met the floor. The man grabbed my shoulder and rolled me over, and a fist smashed into the side of my face. Stars bloomed in my vision.
“What the? You ain’t Chelsea,” the man said, pausing with his fist raised. “Don’t matter. You’ll be just as much fun to fu-”
His eyes went wide when my bushcrafting knife plunged in under his ribs. He screamed when I twisted and yanked it out, and plunged it in again.
Chapter 22
Tuesday, September 4th
Cambridge, Maryland
My attacker scrabbled to catch my hand with his free one, but it was covered in slick, hot blood. I gritted my teeth and twisted and wrenched the knife, plunging it into him over and over again. Where was his heart? I had to hit his heart.
I could hear Faye screaming. There was the loud crack of a gunshot, then another. The other man was screaming curses. The one on top of me howled in rage and shoved his pistol into my cheek.
King slammed into him so hard and fast that they both tumbled off of me, my knife still hilt-deep in his ribs. His gun went flying and I scrabbled for i
t. My slick hands slid right off of the barrel. I couldn’t get purchase.
I have to get the gun before the man in the kitchen-
A shotgun blast roared and instantly everything sounded like I was under water. I got the textured grip of the pistol in my palm and rolled over, locking my hands around it. King had my attacker by the throat, and he was shaking the limp body like a rag doll.
I quickly swung the pistol towards the kitchen, looking for the man holding a gun on Faye. My sights landed on a blurry form standing at my feet and I hesitated for a heartbeat, blinking hard to clear my vision.
A foot smacked the gun aside and the man pounced on me, straddling my stomach. I screamed again, trying to bring the gun back up, but a hand pinned my arm to the ground.
“Ripley! Ripley! It’s over! They’re dead!”
Marco’s shouts made it through the muffled, whining sound in my ears and I grabbed at his shirt with my free hand.
“Faye!” I said. “Where’s Faye?”
He let go of my arm and ran his hands over my chest, my stomach. I swung at him and he smacked my hand away.
“I’m looking for your wound, Ripley! Where is it?” he said, and yanked my shirt out of my cargo pants. I let go of the gun and smacked at his hands.
“It’s not my blood,” I protested, but he pulled my shirt up over my bra, hands urgently pressing against my stomach.
“Marco, it’s not mine! I’m not hurt!” I yelled it this time, and he stopped, blinking at me.
“What?" he yelled, and pointed at his ear.
“I’m-o-kay,” I shouted, stressing the syllables.
He looked down at my stomach again, shaking his head. “But…blood…”
“Not mine,” I said, and tried to push him aside. “Faye? Faye! Are you alright?”
Marco’s face went blank, and he moved off of me. I sat up and tugged my shirt down. A few feet away, King was standing over my attacker’s still form, staring down at him, waiting for a hint of movement. My vision was still blurry in my left eye. I rubbed at it with my fist, and covered my eye and cheek in blood. I tried to wipe that away with my other hand, and felt more wetness smear across my skin. Eyes squeezed shut, I was pulling the bottom of my shirt up when I felt a warm cloth wiping at my face. After a few strokes, Marco put the cloth in my hands.
I opened my eyes, blinked, and looked down at my hands. It was Marco’s shirt. I tried to wipe my hands off and pushed myself to my feet.
“Faye?” I called again, and stepped around the wall to the kitchen.
A black man’s body lay across the floor. His pistol lay next to him. His face was…gone. I swallowed hard and scanned down. His leg was twisted at an inhuman angle. His foot was pinned to the ground, stuck through with Faye’s Old Hickory knife.
Her hands were still reaching for the blade. She lay face down, and she wasn’t moving.
“Faye!” I screamed, and ran to her, landing hard on my knees. I pushed at her shoulder and rolled her onto her back.
Lifeless eyes stared up at me. There were two blossoms of blood on the chest of her housecoat.
“No,” I whispered. My hands scrambled to push aside the thick collar of her housecoat and feel for a pulse. Nothing.
“No. No no no no no,” I said, frantically pushing aside the housecoat to expose the thin nightgown she’d been wearing underneath. I rose onto my knees, locked my bloody fingers together, and started chest compressions.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
I pressed my ear to her mouth and listened, realized I still couldn’t hear anything but a muffled whine, and pressed my lips to hers.
Blow. Blow. Blow.
No response. I released her nose, locked my fingers together, and started compressions again.
Five, six, seven…
Hands came around me and covered mine, pulling at them. I pushed at Marco with my shoulders and kept going.
Eight, nine, ten…
Marco locked his hands around my wrists and pulled my arms to my chest, wrapping me tight. I twisted and fought against him, trying to get back to her.
“She’s gone, Ripley,” he said, squeezing me tighter. “She’s gone. Let her go.”
“No,” I growled, pushing, but he was stronger than I was. His arms were like a vise. “I can save her. Let me go.”
I pushed and squirmed, looking at her laying there in front of me. I struggled to get back to her, but he held me.
“Let me go, let me go, let me go,” I cried, but he kept holding me. He held me until I stopped struggling, until I went limp, sobbing. He picked me up and carried me to the bottom of the stairs, where I couldn’t see her. He moved away, and King came to sit against me, pressing his big head against mine.
Marco was back a few moments later, wearing a clean shirt and tucking one of the pistols into his waistband.
“I’ve got to go find Corey and Mel,” he said, squatting down in front of me. “It’s almost time. You stay here, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
I nodded, arms wrapped around my knees. He watched me for a moment, then nodded back.
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he said. He stood and placed a quick kiss on the top of my head, then slipped out the front door.
From where I was sitting, I could still see the legs of the man I’d killed. King may have broken his neck, but as many times as I’d torn that knife into him, he’d only had seconds left to live when King got to him.
We saw you out on the porch and thought we’d come and have ourselves a little party, he’d said.
I stopped breathing. I ran back over it in my mind.
We saw you out on the porch.
Marco had told me not to go outside. He’d told me the shooter could be out there waiting for someone to come out of hiding. He’d told me not to go, and I’d gone anyway.
We saw you out on the porch.
My chest spasmed and I dragged in a ragged breath, heart pounding.
My fault.
Faye was dead, and it was my fault. If I hadn’t gone outside…
You’re being naive, Corey had said to me in the animal shelter. It’s going to get you killed. It might get all of us killed.
And now it had. A sweet, little old woman who had taken us in and tried to keep us safe. She was dead, and it was my fault.
This wasn’t the same world anymore. I couldn’t keep acting like things were anywhere close to stable. I couldn’t trust that the strangers around me would act like strangers normally do.
Things had changed, and because I’d been too slow, too naive to admit it and deal with it, that sweet woman that reminded me so much of Grams was lying in her kitchen, dead. The people back on Kent Island were dead, because I’d just had to stop and get that fucking monocle; like it wasn’t dangerous to get off of the highway.
My fault.
Again.
I beat my fists into the carpeted stairs, slamming them over and over until they were numb and my rage was spent. I sat there, panting, and looked back at the legs of the man who’d come here because I’d gone outside.
My fault.
I stood, walked into the kitchen, and looked down at Faye’s body. Marco had used his shirt to cover her face, and had pulled her robe closed. He’d arranged her arms so they lay crossed over her stomach, as if she’d just decided to lie down there on the floor and take a nap. I looked over at the still form of Chester, little body crumpled by the wall. I looked back at the man Marco had shot in the face as he came through the back door. Blood and bits of brain covered Faye’s little refrigerator and the side door we’d come in through. I crossed back into the living room and stared down at the man who had attacked me. The carpet around his body was soaked in blood and bodily fluids. His head lay at an odd angle, and his neck was ragged and torn.
I was surrounded by death, and it was my fault.
I bent and picked up the pistol from where I’d dropped it, and flicked the safety on. Squatting, I felt around in the man’s pockets and came up with two more
magazines. One was empty, the other was still full. I couldn’t find a holster. I stood and dropped the empty mag into a thigh pocket, slipping the full one into my back pocket. The Beretta went into my waistband. Then I stripped my shirt off and turned for the bathroom. I was going to wash all of this blood off of me. I was going to go upstairs and find one of Chelsea’s shirts that I could wear. Marco would be back any minute with Corey and Mel, and we were going to finish this fucking trip and get home to my family.
If anyone got in my way, I wouldn’t give them the benefit of the doubt. I wouldn’t give them the chance to hurt me; to hurt any of us. I’d put a bullet in their chest, step over them, and keep going.
I was done trusting that things were going to work out. I was done being naive. Earlier, I had worried that I might be a monster. Now, I embraced it.
By god, I was not going to let this happen again.
Chapter 23
Wednesday, September 5th
Linkwood, Maryland
Corey and Mel hadn’t been at the hospital. Marco had waited an extra fifteen minutes and even walked all the way around the big building calling for them before giving up. By the time he came back, I’d washed up, found some tops that would fit me—the pants were too short—and stuffed those and some socks into his Jack Skellington pack.
I’d gone through all of Faye’s medicine cabinets in search of antibiotics, with no luck. Doctors only prescribed the exact amount you needed to take, so my chances had been slim to begin with. I did find some pain pills of Franklin’s though, and I’d swallowed one of those down with a warm ginger ale. It hadn’t kicked in by the time Marco returned, and my head felt like I’d been through a boxing match. Luckily my nose hadn’t broken, but it was swollen, along with my eye. I had a nice lump on the back of my head, too. Between the new aches and those I was already feeling from the shotgun blast, I’d been ecstatic to find those few pills, outdated as they were. There’d been a small, but nearly-full bottle of ibuprofen, too. I’d dumped the pain pills into the ibuprofen bottle and it was now in my pocket, bumping against the monocular and my flashlight.