by Angela White
She forced herself to give him a small smile. Melvin was the one she might have to kill to get away. It would be best if he thought she was accepting her fate, so she would have the element of surprise.
As Samantha stepped nervously down into the half-inch of gray and black flakes, her shoe landed on a slick piece of wrapping paper with a bloody Santa smiling happily at her. She slipped awkwardly, crying out as the van’s sharp door caught her leg. The rusty corner tore through her skirt and she hit the wet ground, landing hard on her ass as blood welled.
The two painters were laughing, Melvin doubled over, and Samantha’s anger grew as cold as the wind.
“Get shoes too. Dumb-ass woman.”
Samantha picked herself up, rubbing at her throbbing thigh. She wanted to scream that she had been grabbed and thrown onto a government chopper, she hadn’t been planning to travel in the snow or anywhere else, but turned away before she could. Fighting back now was not part of the plan–a weapon was.
Sam’s feet were ice within the first minute and she stomped to the farthest car she could reach–a long, brown, dented station wagon. The frozen vehicle was, thankfully, empty of remains, and she discovered small, useful treasures as soon as she ducked inside the front and began searching. She stayed at it steadily, anger flaring hotter when her nail caught on the ankle chain and ripped off in a hot flash of pain. She was almost at her limit.
Five minutes later, Samantha was still searching the wagon. First darting a quick glance at the two men struggling with the tow chain, Samantha was relieved they weren’t paying attention to her, and took a moment to evaluate what she’d found. A fanny pack, a lighter, and two Bic pens, one of which she slid behind her ear and covered with her dirty hair. Half a pack of smokes and one unopened can of Diet Coke completed the stash, and she shoved it all into the small pack before moving to the rear. This vehicle was so crammed with bags, suitcases, and boxes, it was a wonder there had been room for the driver.
The suitcase at the very bottom of the far floorboard was newer, barely in reach…and full of women’s clothes and belongings, she realized, staring at the lacy bra she’d fished out. Her numb fingers resumed exploring the many pouches and slots.
In the last pocket, when she could almost feel Melvin coming her way, Samantha found the Taser.
The cold edge of power filled her as she sought and found the symbols for a fully charged battery. She grinned harshly at the footsteps crunching behind her, at the man who didn’t know the coming battle had shifted in her favor. She now had surprise and the power of electricity on her side. Samantha deemed it enough to try with as Melvin stomped over to her.
“What are yo…?”
Sam hit the button as her arm was jerked around, and the vicious blast of electricity slammed into Melvin’s chest.
“Uuhhh!”
He jerked, letting go of her, and she stared coolly as she held the button in and watched him stumble, teetering.
The instant she let go, he thumped heavily to the wet, snowy ground, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His yellow, nicotine-stained knuckles landed on her foot and she smiled coldly, kicking his hand away. “Shoulda been nicer, Mel.”
Sam’s taunt was low, tight smile seething hatred. That felt good!
She tossed the weapon and its jumble of wire darts into the wagon’s rear seat, while Melvin’s body continued to twitch as if he were touching a live line. The Taser probably wasn’t reusable, but Sam had the other weapon she’d found–one Henry wouldn’t even consider to be a threat.
“Hey!” she shouted toward Henry. “Something’s wrong with Mel!”
Henry came on the run and dropped to his knees in the snow beside his brother, who was now drooling, trying to talk–to warn him.
Sam snatched the Bic pen out of her hiding place, keeping it behind her as she let the cap fall to the frozen ground.
“What is it? What happened?” Henry demanded.
Melvin’s eyes had shut, body stilling, and the younger painter was gaping at her in helpless fear. He’d forgotten that they weren’t in this together.
Sam shrugged, trying to match his tone and keep her body blocking his view of the wagon and the Taser. “A seizure?”
Henry looked down, and Sam immediately lashed out–swinging from the hip and leaning her weight into the unexpected blow.
The pen plunged easily into Henry’s neck, making an awful ripping sound, and she jumped as his body went rigid, blood squirting.
Eyes bulging, Henry’s arms jerked wildly as he started suffocating. The end of the pen protruded from above his Adam’s apple, and blood rained down his shirt in furious streams. He collapsed across Melvin’s chest, glaring up at her with a purple face as he died.
Sam sucked in a ragged breath, glorious in her victory…then cold, hard reason took over. She couldn’t stand here and wait for Melvin to recover! He was definitely the more dangerous of the two.
As if to prove her thought, the surviving brother moaned.
She got moving.
Samantha clenched her teeth against a surging stomach and used her foot to push Henry’s bloody body over. She quickly used the dead man’s bootlaces and bound Melvin’s hands and feet, shivering violently as he stirred again. With this setup, he wouldn’t even be able to stand, let alone run after her, which was good because he wouldn’t take her body for this. It would be her life.
Satisfied with his bonds, she took a minute to clear the blood from her hands, using the icy slush to scrub with as she finished choosing where to go. That icy feeling inside had little to do with the wind or ice. She was a killer now, and she would act like one again if needed.
Sam already knew she would avoid the burning city and the Badlands to the northwest–she wasn’t going anywhere she had already been or anywhere Melvin might think she would go. There was also no possibility of traveling the Rocky Mountains that littered her hazy view to the southeast, not alone and on foot. Taking the van was out of the question. Melvin would track her down too easily and there was no way she could squeeze it through the traffic by herself.
To the west, more smoke was rising, backdropped by distant purple mountains, and she shivered harder. Yellowstone. Bad things were happening there. That only left due east or south. Samantha pushed off the wave of fear that wanted to overwhelm her. NORAD was south. She could make it that far.
“Ooohh…”
Melvin was regaining consciousness, and Sam made sure she was out of his range as she stepped to the snow-covered wagon.
The black flakes fell thickly, the wind gusting harder as she pulled the suitcase of clothes out and set it on the hood. Behind her, the trussed man came fully alert, twisting and groaning.
“What the...? Henry! What’d ya do t’ Henry?”
Samantha ignored him, stepping casually by the feet that tried to trip her, hated ankle chain rattling.
“You killed him!” He glared at her, struggling against his bonds. “I got the keys, bitch! Come get ‘em!”
Sam did look at him then, coldly choosing his fate. Did he need to die, too? That was the only kind of death she was okay with handing out–the needed kind.
“Come on, whore!”
Samantha grinned, going to the wagon. “It won’t take long to get the Taser ready again. I’ll ‘come on’ after your heart attack,” she stated ruthlessly, sitting down on the icy seat. Her teeth were chattering loudly as her fingers began to feed the wires into the small black box.
Melvin started scooting backwards when she paused to give him a furious smile of anticipation. “Wait! Okay! We’ll trade. Let me go, and we’ll split up–never see each other again!”
Samantha wasn’t sure the weapon could be reused this way, was sure it needed a new cartridge or something, but the asshole at her feet wouldn’t know that and hopefully she could bluff him. Sam smiled eagerly. Then again, she didn’t know for sure that it wouldn’t work either. If not, if he pushed her, she had another pen.
The snow was falling in s
heets now, the wind spinning small drifts in circles, and she worked faster, able to feel it getting colder as she watched the trapped man push himself awkwardly through the slush.
“Okay! Okay! The keys are in my front pocket. You can have ‘em. I won’t hurt ya!”
Sam nodded again, still smiling that tight, malicious grin, and Melvin began to beg, finally sounding sincere.
“I’m sorry, lady, really.”
His voice got louder when she stood up, anger burning hotly in her heart.
“Please don’t, please, lady.”
“You don’t even know my name!”
“No, come on! You’ll kill me. No! I’m sorry for what we...”
The man froze as Sam dropped to a knee beside him in the icy slush, shoving the box hard against his crotch. “It might not kill you, but you’ll wish it had,” she sneered. “Be a good dog now, Mel, and don’t even breathe.”
He pleaded with her as she sent a rough hand down into his pocket and came up with her freedom. Enjoying the fear on his dirty face, she jumped out of range of his kicking feet and immediately unlocked the hated chain. It fell into the dirty snow.
“I should lock you to the bumper and leave you here!” She landed a vicious kick to his knee as she stepped over him, going to the hood of the station wagon. She stripped while he watched, revealing the dozens of purple and yellow bruises and the dark blood crusted to her thighs. There was loathing in her glower as she used the grimy skirt to clean up, and her face mocked him as she threw it in his direction.
She pulled on a pair of warm sweats with a taunting smile. “Who wears the pants now, you piece of shit?”
Melvin said nothing, only kept track of her and the Taser that stayed by her hand. She kept track of his slow backward progress as she got what she needed from the weathered wagon.
“What’re you gonna do?” His voice was even, though he was starting to shiver.
Sam snapped on the pack and shut the suitcase before turning to sneer, “Henry always carried that knife, the one he used to cut my hair. Find it and stay away! Don’t make me kill you.”
“Just ‘cause you had a pass don’t mean you’re worth a shit out here in this world!” the captive man spat, hatred lining every inch of his face. “I hope it haunts you that we went right by that compound!”
Samantha left without responding to any of his taunts, threats, lies, or pleas, thinking she would have to watch out for him. Melvin deserved to die. That was the only way she would honestly feel safe, but she couldn’t, not unless it was needed. One premeditated murder was enough. The feel of it was…heavy, as if a chain had been clamped upon her soul–binding it to this world.
Samantha traveled fast, glad when the snow became thicker and the wind blew fiercely–it muted Melvin’s screams and would cover her tracks better. It also might kill her if she waited too long to take shelter, but Sam didn’t stop right away, going past house after warm, empty-looking house to keep her enemy from detecting where she was.
Sam longed to drive one of the vehicles she was now climbing over and around, but they had spent the first few days after the war hunting for something quieter, easier on gas, and she’d been forced to tell them about EMPs and that they’d been lucky Melvin’s van–parked under a sewer overpass–had started. Anything with electrical components in a damage zone was junk now.
Samantha blinked away tears as the frigid wind stung her, lungs aching from the cold in the thick air, and she sniffed before running a damp sweater sleeve across her dripping nose. Her feet felt leaden, sliding on black ice, and she curled her numb fingers tighter into the wet material as she caught her balance and pushed on.
Sam sucked in a surprised breath as another icy blast of wind hit her in the face, but she didn’t stop. The more space between her and Melvin, the better.
“By and by, Sammi,” she told herself, lowering her head against the wind. “One foot in front of the other.”
She would stay away from highways and frontage roads. Maybe, with any luck, the storm would get worse, and Melvin would have other things to worry about.
4
Fifteen minutes later, the snow had become blinding, and travel through it was no longer possible on foot. Sam broke into a house set behind a thick row of trees, her hands, feet, and face burning.
She filled up a bag of treasures from the home: blankets, a man’s heavy trench coat, a pair of shoes, peanut butter, and a loaf of bread with only a little mold on it. Tempted to stay and enjoy some of the old comforts, she made her feet take her instead to the small tool shed behind the house. Being a girl scout had saved her life more than once in the days since the war had come and blown away everything she knew.
The shed held a small, green riding mower and three bales of inviting hay, and after putting her things inside, she opened the window and went out into the cold. It was a struggle to shut the door and lock it, the gusting wind pulling it from her numb fingers, and she tried to hurry, looking over her shoulder before climbing in through the window. Enough time had gone by for Melvin to have gotten free and started after her, and he would have his rage to drive him through the storm.
Sam closed the window, hanging her wet shirt over it. She wasn’t afraid of the pitch-blackness or the unfamiliar room. Her terror walked on two legs, and she was very glad to be out of sight. She planned to lie low for a few days and then continue her solitary journey south, the Cheyenne Mountain complex that housed NORAD now her goal. There was no way the compound had been breached. That bunker housed the president, the joint chiefs, and of course, the records of those with a pass. All she had to do was get there.
Sam made a bed in the warm, scratchy hay, and after two peanut butter sandwiches and the icy Diet Coke, she dozed. Covered in blankets and stiff garden bedding, she held a long kitchen knife tight in her grip and rested easier than she had in the last eleven days.
5
Melvin didn’t find a knife. He hadn’t thought to check his dead brother’s boots, and the wind-blown snow covered him in a short time. His body temperature dropped steadily.
Just before dawn, the painter was dreaming of falling into the icy pond behind their childhood home in southern Michigan. The frigid water was suffocating, no Henry there to pull him out this time. As his heart stopped beating in the dream, Melvin went into cardiac arrest under six inches of drifting snow. He never woke up, getting off easier than he deserved. Slipping away while sleeping was one of the kinder ways to die in this harsh new world.
Chapter Three
The Marine and the Boy
January 6th
Outside Williamsburg, New Mexico
1
“Who’s here?”
The call held equal amounts of control and command, and it would carry easily to anyone hiding in the abandoned barracks.
Moving cautiously, Kenn stepped into the oval, dorm-style room, scanning empty footlockers and scattered contents. Someone had been hunting for food. Had they found any?
Stopping near the middle of the thirty-bunk aisle, the Marine saw grit and sand, but no footprints or signs of recent life. The base was mostly empty, looted. Only a few men had been left behind. Kenn had seen some of those who had escaped the draft or been overlooked, and was hoping the boy had been as lucky. Half of the buildings behind the chopper crash had survived the fires and Kenn had been searching them since then.
“Come on out. That’s an order!”
LC Kenn Harrison winced as the sharp tones bounced at him from the thin walls, and his hand dropped to the 9mm on his hip. Instinct said he wasn’t alone.
“Charlie?” Kenn called the name as if they were at home, ignoring the gunshots still going on outside the base, and was rewarded with a small shuffling noise that made him tighten control over his emotions. He had been sure the boy would be gone–had been forced onto one of the evacuation choppers.
The Marine slowly advanced to the end of the aisle, preparing himself to react as he read the heavy waves coming off the person. Despera
tion.
“Come on out.” Kenn forced himself to be patient. He would not have been in the past, couldn’t, but the war had already begun to retrain him in things like compassion and understanding.
Two filthy hands emerged from under the bunk on his right and Kenn grinned, freeing his relief. The boy was here! He was alive! He was…hurt? Was that blood trickling from his ears and–Oh God! Where were his eyes?
“Sir?”
The boy’s bloody, gaping sockets stared around, oozing crimson streams.
The Marine automatically lunged forward to catch him when he stumbled, fell.
“Want…my…mommy, sir!” the dying child gasped, splattering them both with red droplets as he struggled to breathe. “…Mommy!”
Kenneth Harrison snapped awake with a startled gasp. He swept to the boy who was lying nearby and staring at him with alarm. It was okay. He’d found the child in time.
Kenn calmed his breathing. It had taken him two full days to search. The smart boy had moved to empty buildings to avoid being taken, and Kenn was still feeling the effects. The nightmare was a nasty reminder of the fear and hopelessness he’d felt when the chopper had crashed into the officer’s dorm in front of him.
The darkness around their well-blended tent was absolute in the wet, New Mexico landscape, and that unwelcome sense of danger flared.
When Charlie started to speak, Kenn shook his head, senses switching to full alert as he listened. Light rain drummed on the tarps over the truck, wind howling through the junipers around them…had that been a twig snapping?
Kenn quietly drew his M9, straining to see anything from the spyhole he had left when they made camp in the thick grove of piñon trees. They were too well hidden. No way was someone out there observing them, no way.
He slid his wrist under the blankets to block the light as he checked the alarm console on his wrist. It was armed and unbroken.