The truck began climbing the narrow, winding hill leading to Cherry Hill Road a couple of miles north. This area had always been sparsely populated, the houses few and far between and set far back from the winding country road. From the darkness of the tarp-covered bed, I couldn’t see much of anything, but the slight reek of decay lingered along the stretch.
About fifteen minutes later, the truck began slowing down. The driver turned left, onto another bumpy road, which would take us even deeper into the woods. This road went on forever, giving the impression it had been cut into the side of a mountain and neglected ever since. The truck stumbled across potholes, dips, tossed debris and crumbling macadam. All I could see was the darkness we left behind, where the homes and other buildings had become block-like shapes of blackness interrupting the soft gray darkness of approaching night.
As we went down the deserted road, I saw no lights or other signs of life. Several dark masses lay in the road as we went past. Carcasses of small animals, as well as dead leaves, tossed bottles, and other pieces of garbage littered our path.
We went around a bend and passed several groups of trees. The truck slowed down. I shoved the Ruger into its shoulder holster, crawled out onto the tailgate and risked a peek just beyond the flapping edge of the tarp.
Distant flickering lights blinked beyond the pine trees. Situated at the end of a long, winding drive, a huge two-story building sat about half a mile from the main road, concealed partially by the trees and other heavy growth.
The truck slowed again and began turning.
I had to make a quick decision. I didn’t know if this turnoff actually brought us to our destination. For all I knew, this road could go past the property for another long stretch before becoming a different road. If I jumped off too soon, I’d be stuck in the middle of nowhere and wouldn’t have a clue how or where to follow them.
If the house was actually their destination, I’d face a much more dangerous dilemma. I couldn’t be in the truck when they stopped and parked. I’d have no chance of getting out without being seen, and would be sitting right there if they decided right then to pull off the tarp. I’d be able to kill several of them, but since I didn’t know the setup, I’d probably get Fields killed and would also die shortly afterward.
The flickering lights I’d seen through the pines could suggest that they’d reached the end of their journey. If Simon was in charge of all this, he’d prefer living in luxury. In this dark new world of base survival, enjoying life in a mansion would be the perfect choice.
The truck continued slowing down.
This is it!
I didn’t know if that was my own voice convincing me or my gut instinct directing me. I only knew that I was reasonably certain this brood lived here. If I was right, Fields was being held here.
The truck turned onto the road that approached the hill leading to the mansion. As we neared the big metal mailbox at the corner, someone said, “Wanna stop and check for mail?”
A chuckle.
“Dumbass ... ya say that every fuckin’ time we come back here.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if there was mail?”
“Yeah, dude. Hilarious.”
As soon as the truck’s front tires tapped the brim of the private road, I slipped off the tailgate and landed in a crouch on the gravel. The truck continued down the road. I rolled across the gravel until I’d reached the ditch, and disappeared in a thicket of underbrush.
I waited a full minute, the Ruger aimed straight ahead. I visualized the truck stopping, the doors flying open, the boys jumping out and coming my way, their flashlights splashing the road as they searched for signs of whatever the driver had seen roll across the driveway.
My worries quickly evaporated. The truck continued down the road.
When the big vehicle was a safe distance away, I crawled out of the underbrush and lay on my belly in the ditch, watching the taillights intensify as the truck stopped in front of the huge detached garage beside the mansion.
My nerves quivered as I waited for the taillights to dim. About fifteen seconds later, they turned dark, and the distant sounds of doors slamming shut echoed down the drive. Flashlights hopped and skipped jerkily against the darkness as the boys made their way for the mansion.
***
With my penlight marking my path, I was careful to keep the tiny beam close in front of me. Mindful of the thick, uneven underbrush, I used the light to avoid deadfalls and relied on my night vision to veer around low branches and dangling vines.
The woods grew thick with towering pines. I focused on the small white halo leading me, and after trudging through several acres of thick, overgrown woods, I reached the tree line that ended approximately forty yards from the front yard of the property.
Exhausted from my efforts, I switched off the penlight, crouched behind a stump and surveyed the scene.
The place looked like it belonged to a car dealer. At least two dozen cars, pickups, vans, RVs and ATVs sat on the other side of the drive, in front of and beside the four-car garage. The beat-up pickup remained behind the compact that had been following Fields and me earlier that morning. The sight of it caused the muscles in my back to bunch up. My head and neck grew warm, and my finger unconsciously tapped the trigger of the Ruger.
I took a couple of deep breaths to clear my head. The tension gradually eased up, and I resumed my study of the premises.
Two home generator units sat at the corner of the house, humming softly. Three refrigerators, two washing machines, a dryer, an upright freezer, and a freezer chest huddled closely to one another on a slab. I couldn’t see the backyard from my vantage point, but there was evidence of a swimming pool, chain-link fence, and more than a dozen bicycles perched on stands behind the side gate.
I crept over to the next tree and saw the dark outline of a smaller two-story building situated directly behind the mansion. It sat in a grove of trees down a short hill, about two hundred feet from the main house. Bushes and shrubbery surrounded the building. A couple of lights flickered in the windows on the ground floor.
It looked like a guest house. I wondered if they were keeping Fields in that building.
I crept back to the stump, crouched behind it and listened. Aside from the humming of the generators, I heard nothing. I saw no evidence of dogs. In the darkness, I couldn’t see cameras or any other signs of surveillance in the front yard or bolted to the roof, windows or gables. There was no one walking around. I had no clue how many people were living in the main house or the guest house, where everyone was, or if anyone was keeping watch. Since I saw no guards or security equipment, I had to assume that the people living here didn’t care if anyone was sneaking around their place. There weren’t many people sneaking around anymore, but that was no reason to let your guard down. The incident outside my grandparents’ house this morning reminded me how important it was to be on constant alert.
Using the trees as cover, I crept along the tree line that ran closer to the front yard. A huge pine tree towered over the others and stood directly in line with the eastern wall of the main building. The front door faced me less than a hundred feet away, behind a sloped, weed-ridden yard and remnants of a flower garden. A large bay window hid behind the weeds, about ten feet to the right of the front entrance. Light flickered weakly in the window. However, all the other windows facing the front were dark.
Where were the five young men who’d brought me here? Where was Simon? Was there a basement? An attic? A playroom?
Was Simon using the guest house as a playroom? Was he keeping Fields there?
It had been about an hour since the truck had brought me here. Had the fivesome gone to bed?
Why didn’t I hear or see anyone?
There was only one way to find out.
The weeds would conceal me in my crawl over to the house, but from there I’d be on my own. The flickering light behind the bay window suggested someone could be in that room. I’d be a fool to try a break-in that way. If
I fiddled with a dark window somewhere else, someone might be sleeping in that room.
If I made any noise forcing open the window, all would be lost.
My only option was the most direct and also the most dangerous. The front door. I had to force it open, and quickly. But doing it this way would be very difficult, if not impossible, without certain tools. A crowbar would certainly help. So would a screwdriver. Hell, a battering ram would make life much easier.
I had to face reality. To force open that door, I had to rely solely on the strength of my shoulder and any momentum I could muster up. I’d forced doors open before, but under very different circumstances. I was twenty at the time, and usually had a battering ram in my hands, an assault weapon slung over my shoulder and armed backup going in with me.
Yes, this was very different. However, one aspect of the situation would balance the scales: Fields was being held inside, and because of that, I was prepared to risk everything, including my own life.
But what if she wasn’t? What if she was being held in the guest house? What if I couldn’t break through the front door? What if I broke through and found a dozen young psychos sleeping in the front room, all armed with assault weapons?
It didn’t matter. Fields was here and I was going to find her.
Nonetheless, I found myself gazing at the door, considering the odds. Should I do it? Or should I try the back? Forget the main house entirely and go for the guest house? Did it matter which building I tried first?
Yes, because no matter which building I broke into, once I’d invaded their world, there was no turning back.
I’d already decided there would be no turning back until I’d found her and brought her back home. If this meant killing everyone who got in my way, that was how it had to be. I didn’t even know for certain if she was still alive, but that didn’t matter, either. I sensed that she was, could feel it in my bones. I refused to believe we’d come this far just to see it all end this way.
My head swam relentlessly as I stepped closer to the pine and prepared to crawl through the weeds.
Don’t, a voice told me.
I stiffened. My gut talking to me again? Or was this something entirely different?
I didn’t care; I was going in.
I slipped past the pine tree. At that same moment, as I raised my tennis shoe a few inches, I felt something catch my instep, and I nearly lost my balance. My heart skipped a beat; I fumbled for the penlight. Déjà vu slapped me in the back of the head. I knew what happened even before I shined the tiny beam of silver light on the ground at my feet.
A tripwire.
There was a security system after all.
Further thinking instantly dissolved. My reflexes kicked in, bringing me back flashes of the old days. I hit the ground and lay perfectly still in the tall grass.
PART TWO: LIGHT
ELEVEN
I lay on the cold ground, listening, but heard nothing.
I began wondering if the tripwire was merely a battery-powered motion sensor, alerting those inside the house. As far as I knew, no booby trap had been activated.
However, that wasn’t the issue. Touching it set off the silent alarm. Now it was too late to retrace my steps, and the only option I faced at the moment was...
Someone’s behind you, a strange voice inside me said.
Once again I was startled by this bizarre phenomenon. I realized this might be my gut communicating with me again, but the manner in which it had interrupted my thoughts alarmed me. It somehow felt like it did not belong to me, but someone else. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought some unknown presence was trying to get my attention. I knew the concept was crazy, but that’s how it felt.
Crazy. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but now this reasoning somehow made sense. This whole day had been so stressful, it was a wonder I could still function. In fact...
They’re now about twenty yards away, the voice said, interrupting my thoughts again.
I continued lying motionless on the cold ground. If that strange voice was right, any sort of movement would get me shot. I was unfamiliar with my surroundings, had no escape plan in the works, and didn’t know where my stalker was. So I waited, my pulse racing wildly.
About thirty seconds later, leaves stirred among the trees twenty feet or so behind me.
I hoped the weeds would conceal me. The weeds and the darkness—as well as the element of surprise—were my only allies. If the stranger sneaking up on me knew where I was, the most dangerous thing I could do was let them know I was a threat. Even so, I knew I couldn’t stay hidden in the weeds forever.
The tactic of playing dead had worked in many instances, and since I had no idea who was sneaking up on me, I had to stay right where I was. As I lay, the Ruger in my right hand on the ground beside me, I carefully eased the tiny .22 Bobcat from my pocket, took it off safety with my thumb, pulled back the hammer, and held the gun firmly in my left hand. I kept my hand palm-down in the weeds, close to my head. Then I waited.
More rustling. I suspected my stalker was only a few feet away.
He’s on your right side, the voice in my head told me.
How far away? I found myself asking.
Ten feet.
Ten feet was a good practical range for the Bobcat. If I had the chance, I was going to try to shorten the distance for an even more effective shot.
The rustling stopped. The clicking of a gun hammer thundered in my ears, yet I remained still. Then I heard the voice.
“I see you.”
It sounded like a young girl. I nearly choked when I heard it. But I knew better than move.
“You heard me. Get up, or I’ll shoot.”
This was not happening. A young girl? My God. Would the horrors of this new existence ever stop?
“I’m countin’ to three. One...”
“All right.” I raised my head. “I’m getting up.”
“Leave the gun. Hands up.”
I let go of the Ruger and pushed myself up into a kneeling position. Regaining my balance, I slowly raised both hands out to the sides and turned slightly to my right, keeping my left hand directly behind my torso. If she was going to shoot me, she would have already done it. She was probably supposed to bring me back to the house. This gave me the advantage.
As I turned to look at her, I noticed that the darkness of the woods behind her concealed her almost completely, but I could see that she was quite small and slender, probably not much taller than five feet. She held a pistol or revolver in her left hand, and it was aimed at me. In her right, she held a flashlight. The flashlight was pointed at the ground but wasn’t turned on. I suspected she was waiting to shine it on my face once I’d straightened.
She’d apparently moved another foot or so closer, which shortened the range of the Bobcat. I wasn’t wild about shooting a young girl but had no choice. If she was a member of Simon’s brood, she was probably just as much of a psycho as the two this morning, or the group looking for me in the woods. Society’s credo had become short and dangerously simple in the last few months: kill or be killed.
Just as I reached my full height, she said, “Whaddya doin’ out here? This is private property.”
Her cold, flat tone brought back the searing heat billowing within me, and suddenly I didn’t care how small or young she was. I turned another couple of inches toward her and made sure the Bobcat was hidden from her view. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
She didn’t say anything at first. Then she shook her head. “Huh?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be pointing guns at people?”
“Fuck you. You ain’t s’posed to be here, dude. Besides, I’m good with this fucker.”
“Really? It’s bigger than you are.”
“Fuck you, asshole. Maybe Simon’ll let me use you for target practice.” She clicked the flashlight on and started to bring it up.
They’ve got Fields ... these psychos have got Fields!
The rage slammed through me. They’d taken Fields, and this arrogant little bitch was a member of the group responsible. I couldn’t let her blind me with that flashlight.
Just as the glaring beam reached my waist, I brought my left arm across my chest and emptied all eight rounds into the small, skinny body. She managed to get one off, but it was low and slapped the ground a foot or so to my left. The flashlight leaped out of her hand and splashed the woods and the dark, starry night in a wide, wavy arc before thumping to the ground and forming a lopsided halo in the weeds. She fell quietly to the ground and lay still.
I retrieved the Ruger and went over to where she lay. I grabbed my own pocket flashlight and shined it at her face. Nausea made me gag. I’d killed a young boy, and he looked no older than eleven or twelve.
“Jesus ...” My heart raced; I grew nauseous. “I just killed a damned...”
Later, the voice in my head said. There are more of them.
My temples pounded deafeningly as I scrambled into the brush.
***
I stuck to the other side of the tree line, keeping low, while the growing beams of silver light waved in my direction. I counted eight beams, and guessed they were no more than a hundred yards away. They were spread out in a long, choppy line spanning the center of the woods, each several yards from one another, aiming their light at everything in their path as they moved toward me. I estimated I had no more than a couple of minutes before they reached me.
Another beam appeared, this one quite far on my left, and began closing in on the others. Moments later another one coming over from the right, on the far side of the tree line, jumped toward me. Directly behind me, two more beams of light coming from the front yard of the house hopped around in the tall grass.
A knot of cold fear grew heavy in the pit of my stomach. I was surrounded. I had the Ruger ready, its mag filled to capacity. The Bobcat, however, was empty, and I didn’t have time to reload. And the .38 held only six. Way too many odds against me. It was dark, my aggressors had lights, and there were entirely too many of them. Unless they were poor shots, they’d get me before I could pick off more than one or two of them. I hadn’t a prayer.
After Darkness Fell Page 11