After Darkness Fell

by David Berardelli

  “I really can’t, Walter. Your son ... it was his. I’d feel like...”

  “Just get in, fire her up, and go find your lady. Then bring it back if ya can.”

  “When was the last time it was driven?”

  “I’ve been keeping it going for the last several years. George asked me to make sure it was ready to go when he came back to get it. It was no problem for me, since I’d always loved old cars, and it quickly became a hobby, then an obsession. It was ... the only way I had of keeping close to my son while he was away. I’ve kept her here in the garage, and every week or so I’d take her out, drive her a mile or so down the road, turn around and bring her back. Last year, before all this happened, I took her out on Route 8 once a week and on I-79 once or twice a month, to open her up. Then folks started dropping, and the others turned crazy, so taking her out turned out to be too dangerous. Then I lost Madge and, well...” He sighed.

  “I don’t know about this, Walter.”

  “She’s going to waste, son. She needs to be driven.”

  I didn’t think he understood what was likely to happen. “Walter, I’m going after a bunch of armed crazies. I might get shot, and even if I don’t, I can’t guarantee...”

  “There’s a lot of ’em out there. I’d feel much better if this helped you even the odds a little.”

  “This can’t possibly turn out well.”

  “Son, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do something to help you. You were a military man, too. George would have liked you. You’re a lot like him, ya know. Sincere, honest, and not afraid to stand up for what ya believe in. Now get going. You don’t have much time. Take the car, get your lady away from them and bring her back in it. I’d like to meet her.”

  “But I can’t...”

  He held out the keys.

  “Walter, this is...”

  “Like I said, you don’t have much time.”

  In spite of the cold fear weighing me down, I watched my hand reach out, and stood there in awkward silence as Walter dropped the keys in my palm. I wanted to shake his hand, thank him and tell him I’d try my best to be careful with the car, but he’d already shuffled down the narrow aisle to the door, bent over and pulled it open. The darkness of the evening rushed right in, bringing with it the coolness of the night and mixed scents of mildew and distant lingering death. Without a word, Walter moved over to the side of the garage and waited.

  My legs weighed a ton, but I managed to approach the car. I yanked open the heavy passenger door, got in, pulled it shut, slid over and situated myself behind the wheel. The inside smelled a little musty. The pine tree freshener hanging from the radio knob had stopped radiating its scent long ago. I adjusted the bench seat and strapped myself in. Then, with shaky fingers, I slipped the key into the ignition and started it up. It roared to life, like a lion being disturbed from a long nap, and I could feel the walls of the garage vibrate.

  My body trembled as I put it into reverse and backed out slowly, testing the brakes as I did so. They were a little sticky, but they worked. As I eased past Walter, I could see the smile on his face, and also the tears in his eyes glistening in the dark.

  “I’ll be here when you get back, son.”

  My heart filled my mouth when I said, “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Does your lady drink?”

  I smiled, remembering the times we’d sat on the front porch at night with a glass of bourbon, watching the stars. “She likes to keep up with me.”

  “I’ll have the glasses ready, then.”

  Snapping back to the present, I backed down the short drive that ended on the other side of the picket fence, among the weeds in the vacant lot next door. Walter had already gone back inside and, closing the garage door, let the house be swallowed up by the darkness of the night. Using only my parking lights, I slipped it into low gear, got onto the main road and cruised down the straightaway.

  I’d gone only two or three miles when I saw the flickering headlights in the rearview mirror. They drew closer, and suddenly they turned into high beams, nearly blinding me. I pushed the front of the mirror toward the floor to kill the glare and mashed my foot down on the gas. The Nova roared, nearly leaping in the air, and the speedometer registered ninety in just seconds.

  I flicked on my low beams just in time to see more lights dancing around the next bend. There were four of them, and they were standing about two feet from one another, forming a flimsy roadblock. The two young men in the center shined their flashlights directly in my eyes while the two on either end crouched down on one knee, aiming their rifles at the car.

  ***

  My heart raced as the cold reality sliced through me. They’d obviously been hunting for me all the time I was with Walter. They’d been watching the roads and were waiting, and in this night of absolute silence and stillness, any sound would draw them out.

  In such a heavily-wooded area, the task of watching the roads was simple, but would require a number of people. There were four of them facing me and a vehicle following me. If there were two of them in the vehicle, that meant six of them were about to capture me.

  Even with those odds, I wasn’t about to give up.

  I pushed down the visor to soften the glare of their flashlights and rammed my foot down on the gas. The only way to break up the roadblock was to plow through it. The speedometer needle scooted over to 100, as the Nova hurled its sleek body with full force into the foursome. The boys at each end pulled in their rifles and scattered. The two in the middle weren’t able to get out of the way. A high-pitched scream stopped abruptly as the right front panel of the Nova slammed one of them squarely in the chest, tossing him like a rag doll. The force of impact sent him flying over the car.

  At that same moment, the Nova caught the second boy just as he’d twisted to his right. Another blood-chilling scream penetrated the night air as the car crushed his legs at the knees. The force of impact rolled his broken body off the road and into the brush.

  I glanced in the rearview as a shadow dropped onto the road nearly a hundred feet behind me. It was probably the limp form of the first boy. The vehicle following me—the truck that had taken me to Simon’s compound several hours earlier—swerved to miss the obstacle.

  My sense of triumph didn’t last long. Apparently one of the riflemen had recovered quickly enough to reposition himself in the brush and sight me in. A shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed angrily past my open window. I heard another shot, and the mirror on the passenger side disintegrated. Splinters of glass and metal penetrated the darkness; a jagged piece of metal and more glass chunks skittered across the windshield. I thought of Walter, hoping I’d survive long enough to apologize to him for damaging his son’s car.

  I mashed my foot down to the floor; the needle jerked to 120. I figured I was already out of range of their rifles. All I had to worry about now was losing the truck. The next bend loomed about a hundred yards straight ahead. To negotiate it safely, I’d have to slam on the brakes or risk skidding into the woods and wrapping the classic ride around a tree. The truck could move fast but wouldn’t be able to handle the turns as well as the Nova. And after I’d rounded the bend, I could accelerate and lose them on the next straightaway.

  But just as I pulled my foot off the gas, several more shots rang out in the night. A loud thud! followed by a ping! hit the rear of the car. Something slapped the back of the bench seat. My heart skipped a couple of beats when I realized one of the bullets had punched its way into the car body and exited through the trunk and then the back seat, hitting my seat and, catching a spring, stopping short of my flesh by inches.

  A burst of warm relief swept through me. The truck remained a safe distance behind me, and I easily made the curve. With luck, the Nova would enable me to gain distance once I’d negotiated the turn.

  I rounded the bend, glanced at the dash and instantly felt my blood turn to ice. The rapidly sinking gas gauge told me the absolute worst. A slug had punctured the tank.
<
br />   All was lost; I was sunk. I was fortunate the shot hadn’t sparked the gas, but the fact that it had hit the tank ended any attempt to outrun them. I kept my foot stuck to the floor, hoping to squeeze out one last burst of speed that would afford me enough distance to bail, but just as I reached the straightaway, the car died. I veered off into the brush and let it coast, until it stopped in a cluster of high weeds.

  I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Just as I pushed open the door, the bright headlights behind me grew, shining directly on me. I heard the screeching of brakes and realized at once that the truck had stopped in the middle of the road less than a hundred yards away. Then I heard the creaking of doors opening.

  Even without turning around, I could tell they were getting me in their sights. Instinct told me to stay in the car. Getting out would be bad. It meant exposing myself. But I couldn’t just sit here and let them kill me.

  Just as I ducked back inside, a rain of bullets pounded the inside panel of the door. The rear window shattered, and glass sprayed the seats.

  Keeping low, I crawled across the bench seat, pushed open the passenger door, and leaped into the thick underbrush as another burst of gunfire slammed into the door.

  ***

  Although the thick foliage of the woods provided sufficient cover, heavy gunfire sprayed the bushes just beyond the passenger door of the Nova and the trees directly above me. I crawled awkwardly through the wooded terrain, remembering my old riot-control days, when I’d dodged heavy gunfire almost daily. Those were dark, dismal days, but this was much worse. I now faced death by a bunch of kids who should be getting ready for school, who should be living with their parents—not some cold-blooded psycho.

  “C’mon out, motherfucker!” The high-pitched voice snapped me out of it.

  “Spread out—he can’t get away!”

  “We got ’im now!”

  “Fucker’s worm-food!”

  Four different voices. At least four of them had been in the pickup. The riflemen back at the roadblock were probably already on their way, and would be hunting me along with the others in no time. That made it six against one. I had years of experience over them, but their sheer number—plus the fact that they were about to surround me—gave them the advantage. I had to somehow get them to circle me. If I could find a good spot to draw them out, they ran the risk of shooting one another. Right now, my only prayer was to find a safe place to set up. I had to get my guns out and ready.

  Just as I began to crawl, I glanced upward and cringed. The first signs of daylight peeked through the branches of the pines like shards of smudged glass. My luck had finally turned on me. Morning would be here much too soon. I had no choice but keep as close to the ground as possible, using the thick brush as camouflage to gain distance.

  Two shots ricocheted deafeningly among the trees. One round slammed into a pine tree fifty feet ahead of me, the other into a bush about ten yards to my left. Once the silence returned, I heard nothing. This told me they were listening, hoping I’d make some noise.

  I didn’t move.

  More silence, then: “Hey, asshole! We know you’re in there!”

  Their ages didn’t matter. They all had guns and knew how to use them. Right now they were firing blindly. I had to assume at least one of them would hit me if they had any idea where I was. I could tell by the sounds the slugs made slamming into the trees that most of them were heavy calibers. The round hitting the pine tree had sounded like a .45, or .357. Either caliber would kill or severely wound me, no matter where it hit me.

  “C’mon out!” This boy’s somewhat mature voice sounded like he could be in his early twenties. “You gotta pay for Jackie and Sam!”

  “What about Niles and Booger? Ran ’em right over, like road kill!”

  “You’re surrounded, asswipe!”

  A chuckle.

  “I get dibs on his guns,” one of them said, and a shot slapped a pine tree twenty feet on my left.

  “I get dibs, too.”

  “Dream on, dorks,” replied one of the others. “Simon wants ’em for his collection, said we can have one of the bitches. Irene, maybe.”

  “She’s a doper. Nobody wants her. Smells, too.”

  “I want the one Simon’s takin’ to the well. Skinny brunette. Nice...”

  “Like I said, dream on, dickweed. Bitch won’t be around no more.”

  While they were talking, I crawled over to the giant pine tree and sat with my back against the thick trunk. I pulled the Ruger from my shoulder holster, placed it on my thigh and took out the .38. I left the Bobcat in my pants pocket. I wouldn’t need it right now. There were ten rounds in the Ruger, six in the .38, and eight in the Bobcat. If I could get at least two of the boys in my sights, it would demoralize the others and enable me to gain some distance while they figured out their next move.

  “C’mon out, asshole! We’re wastin’ time!”

  “Fucker can’t get away.

  I peered around the tree. I only saw two of them, but they were spaced much too widely apart for me to get clear shots. They’d already crossed the road and entered the woods. One boy veered off to the left and disappeared behind some brush while the other came in my direction. He moved slowly, careful of his footing as he stepped over deadfalls and fallen branches. He wore loose jeans and a baggy sweat shirt, and his light-brown hair hung over his shoulders beneath the black baseball cap he wore low on his forehead. He was fairly tall and slender, and not much older than eighteen. But the huge automatic pistol he gripped in his right hand, possibly a Desert Eagle, made his tender age irrelevant.

  The odds were painfully obvious. Since I couldn’t see the others, shooting just one of them would alert the others of my position. But I didn’t have much of a choice. He was less than thirty feet away, coming straight toward me. He’d be walking past my tree any time now. I was just going to have to get it over with. I couldn’t very well shoot him and keep myself in plain sight while I sighted in the others. I’d have to disappear as quickly as possible, which meant ducking into the brush and crawling away as soon as I shot the boy.

  Using my knee for balance, I kept the slab barrel of the Ruger pressed against the side of the tree to help steady my shot. The boy stopped for a moment and turned to his right. He’d obviously heard something and was tilting his head, listening. About ten seconds later he resumed his quiet journey toward me. I was tempted to glance to my left to see what had caught his attention but knew that would make me miss my chance. I pressed the trigger and got him in the forehead, directly beneath the brim of his cap. He gasped and fell backward, his pistol leaping from his hand.

  Five seconds of silence, then:

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Asshole just shot Anderson!”

  “Andy? Andy! Fuck, he got Andy, dammit...”

  An explosion of gunfire punched into the pine tree, the brush, and the area around me. I flattened myself into the heavy growth and began crawling away. I didn’t get ten feet before something hot slammed into my right arm. I collapsed in a pile of dead leaves. Still gripping the Ruger and the .38, I lay there, breathing heavily, my arm quickly turning numb, my heart pounding like an amplified tom-tom. I carefully holstered the .38, brought my hand over and gingerly felt my right bicep. I knew what had happened before I even felt the blood and the warm, swollen flesh of my arm. You never forget what happens when you’re shot. One of them had hit me, and the slug had gone deep into the bicep muscle.

  The gunfire stopped.

  “Got ’im!” yelled a high-pitched voice several yards to my right. “Got the fucker! Whoopee!”

  “Get ’im, Marlon?”

  “Got ’im! Got the fucker!”

  “Lucky shot! Lucky shot!”

  I began breathing again and waited for more gunshots, but all I heard was the crunching of dead leaves and branches somewhere off to my right, growing louder quickly. I wanted to shoot but didn’t have the strength to raise my arm. I couldn’t switch hands without making n
oise in the brush and giving away my position. I also couldn’t move as quickly as I’d have to, so I lay perfectly still. Besides, I suspected he was still aiming his gun at me.

  The crunching abruptly stopped. Deafening silence followed. I could feel the boy standing over me, staring at his prize. He was probably wondering what to do. Should he finish me off? Wait for his friends to join him? What were their instructions? Take me alive? Dead? Judging by his voice, he sounded very young. I wondered if I was his first victim. In normal conditions, that would seem likely. But these conditions were hardly normal. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all to find this boy had killed before.

  But none of this mattered. The only thing I cared about was that they had Fields. And right now they were probably taking her to an abandoned well.

  The rage, the determination, and the will to live came thundering back. Simon had taken Fields from me, and I was going to get her back. I couldn’t do it right now because this little bastard had just shot me and was about to finish me off.

  No. He wouldn’t finish me off. I wouldn’t let him. I had the Ruger in my hand, and both the gun and my hand were concealed beneath the brush. And I still had the Bobcat and the .38. Granted, I’d just shoved the Bobcat into my pants pocket, and the .38 sat snugly in its pancake holster under my jacket ... but they were still there. I’d have to distract the boy somehow if I wanted to get at either of them, and since I’d just been shot, my movements would be as quick or as precise as they needed to be.

  But I had to do it. And I would. I’d done it before. As long as I was still alive and had breath left in me, I was going to survive this and find Fields.

  Just then, I heard the voice. I could tell the boy was standing just a few feet to my right. It was the same voice I’d heard a minute ago, right after the bullet had penetrated my arm. It was the voice of a child.

  “I gotcha, motherfucker. Gotcha good!”

  I slowly raised my head.

  A boy in his early teens stood less than five feet away, holding a small black long-barreled revolver in his right hand. The tiny black hole aimed at my face told me it was a .22. Small calibers weren’t nearly as devastating as larger, heavier guns, but could do more damage due to the pinball effect of the tiny round. But it didn’t matter. When a gun was pointed at your face, you realized at once that its caliber was the least of your problems.