I let loose a long breath. "I'm alright, I guess. As alright as I can be anyway. I just really hope everything goes well tonight: that we find my mom and dad, and that Leon's parents are with them. We need some good news, especially after what happened earlier. I thought finding this place abandoned last night hurt, but it's nothing compared to this morning. I've known Felix over half my life, and his family just as long. You would have liked them. Everyone did. I swear I've never known another family even half as friendly." I pause, their faces drifting up out of my memories. "I'm afraid to go out there, to see the place so destroyed. But I know I have to. I promised Felix...even if I didn't I wouldn't let him face that alone again."
Maya doesn't respond for a long time after I've talked myself silent. "I swear, sometimes I think I'm the lucky one being so far away from home," she finally says. Her eyes are focused past the tall fence, to the hillside beyond, but I don't think she see's anything but her family and home. "I'll never know what happened to them...not in this life anyway. But at least I'll never have to walk in and see the kind of horror Felix saw either." I think she's almost convinced herself that's true. But I know if given the choice, she'd choose to know their fate. It's only natural. It's the drive that's kept me moving forward. Or at least one of them.
"I don't know that I ever thanked you," she says. She moves her gaze from the hillside to me. "I would never have made it out of Denver if you hadn't been there. Now I'm here, with all of you, and we might finally have a chance to start over." Her eyes don't tear, her voice doesn't waver. Gone is the girl who nearly let grief consume her back in Denver. The trail has hardened her, transforming her into this fierce woman before me. I smile, reaching out and placing my hand over hers. "We're family, remember? It's what we do."
She returns my smile and squeezes my hand. We remain there a while, neither of us making a move to leave. The talk is light and easy, the simple banter between two friends. I've missed that these past weeks. She asks questions about the town, and what it was like growing up here. I keep her laughing, telling tales of my youth and exploits as an adult. I ask of her own memories back east, which she tells in kind: the ongoing war of pranks she held with her younger brother, neither side ever gaining a decisive edge over the other; smoking marijuana as a high school freshman, and getting so paranoid she locked herself in her best friend's closet with a flashlight and bag of Doritos, and refused to touch the stuff again till just last year.
It's a nice reprieve from all the shit we're dealing with. But slowly the sun dips lower and lower, and then Lauren comes outside to let me know Felix is awake, and I know it has run its course. We enter the house, finding the group sitting in the living room. There's an awkwardness in the air, everyone quiet and fidgety, concern over our friend paramount. Felix sits in the leather recliner, head hung and hair covering his face. I take a seat beside Lauren, directly across from him.
"I'm sorry about this morning," Felix says. His voice sounds like scraped gravel. "It wasn't my finest hour."
"There's nothing to apologize for," I tell him.
He lifts his head, the curtain of hair parting, revealing a face still etched in pain. "If only that were true, Morgan. I shouldn't have left last night like I did. It put you all at risk, and I had no right to do that."
"It's alright, Chavo,” Leon says. "We're not worried about that, we're worried about you."
"I know," he nods, swiveling his head to all of us in turn. "And I love you all for that." He clears his throat removing some of the thickness from his voice. "But I'm gonna be alright." We must not look convinced. "Really. Last night was more shock than anything, finding the house the way it was. But I searched the place and I didn't find any...you know...bodies. So they might be alive somewhere. I have to believe they are anyway. I'll find them. One way or another, I will."
"You mean, we," I correct. "We will find them."
He smiles—a tired, grateful thing. "Of course, Moe. That's what I meant to say."
Chapter 27
We leave the house as we found it, locked up to the outside world, spare key hidden inside the faux rock halfway down the flower bed. I don't know why I bother, it's not as if locked doors and windows alone could keep intruders out. Out of respect, I guess. This is the home I grew up in, where I lived most of my life. Memories stretch wall to wall, floor to ceiling, throughout every square foot: family movie marathons on lazy Sunday afternoons, blankets and pillows spread out on the living room floor, junk food and soda on hand, a constant flow of movies like The Terminator and Pretty Woman and Finding Nemo rotated through, each of us selecting what to watch in turn; summer cookouts, the backyard and house full of friends and family, sneaking beers from coolers with my cousins and drinking them in secret before returning to a feast of grilled meat and salads.
It is where my mother sang me to sleep as a child, and where my father taught me what it meant to be a man. It is where I first discovered how powerful a family’s love could be. It's hard letting go. But the sad truth is this place no longer holds anything for me, for us. I don't know where our future lies, but I know it isn't here. I pause at the end of the drive, taking it all in one last time. Then I turn, continuing on the path before me. I don't look back. Just keep swimming, I tell myself. Just keep swimming.
We keep a tight perimeter, eyes peeled back in search of threats, ears straining to pick up anything but our own breathing and feet hitting the sidewalk. Long crimson fingers stretch out of the west, the last vestiges of the sun all but disappeared. We turn left onto N. College and then right at the roundabout onto Ft. Lewis Dr. To the right lies Hillcrest Golf Club, its once trim fairways overgrown and wild. The road intersects with 8th Ave, and with it comes the campus of Fort Lewis College on our left. My gaze continually flickers to the former halls of learning—halls I once walked through, eager to learn the lessons that would make me successful in the world. Too bad that world doesn't exist anymore. And even when it did, I couldn't shake the feeling after graduation that the lessons learned were meant for another's ear. Either way, it doesn't matter now. If I can keep us alive long enough to start over, I'll consider myself a success.
We pass two more intersections before reaching the athletic fields, at which point we leave the road. Stepping over the guardrail it's a moment before we reach Chapman Hill, a grassy slope for novice skiers and snowboarders. We make our way down slowly, mindful of our footing. At the bottom, we bypass the parking lot and ice rink before coming to another large roundabout on Florida Rd. A smile breaks across my face as I spot the large metal statue of racing cyclists that dominate the roundabout's center. Oh how I use to hate the cadre of cyclists who frequented the town's roadways; rolling through stop signs, riding two abreast, veering into driving lanes. How good life was to complain about such trivial things.
A block up Riverview Dr. a dirt trail opens to our left, allowing us to escape the street and any prying eyes which might be watching. The trail weaves behind the houses the entire length of the neighborhood, eventually leading us to a footbridge spanning the river. The High School Bridge (commonly referred to because of its proximity to Durango High) in better times served as a launching point to the water below for generations of locals, myself among them. As we cross I have to repress a laugh, remembering once in high school when my friend Cole escaped the cops by flinging himself over the bridge in the dead of night, fleeing the school where he and others were busted attempting a senior prank. I'll never forget stepping out my front door that morning and seeing him walk up the driveway, clothes still wet, goofy smile plastered on his face, asking for some dry clothes and a lift to school.
We cross the river and quickly scale the fence separating the trail from the fairgrounds, adjacent to the school. The parking lot is full of vehicles long abandoned by their owners, already relics of a past era. I wonder what was happening here as the pulse hit. Something must have been for the lot to be so full. Youth baseball games probably. I can picture it too: a field of kids sweating under the
summer sun; pitching, swinging, running; parents in the bleachers yelling out their children's names; younger siblings only there through force, eyes glued to the four inch screen in their hands, cursing when the screen went blank, and then confusion—wailing car horns, screeching tires, violent crashes of metal on metal—heads turning in unison like a curious hydra in search of the source, and then yelling and screaming and panic; a day of fun and play ended as abruptly as a snuffed out match.
Wreckage lines Main Ave. To the left and right, the pileup stretches as far as I can see in the moonlight, broken metal and shattered glass twinkling like spirits over corpses. Past the intersection, it's not so bad. Vehicles still line the road, but there are far fewer crashes and much has been pushed off to the side, leaving the lane clear. There must still be operable vehicles in the area. Why else would anyone bother? The sidewalk turns uphill, and around a slight bend comes Miller Middle School, my heart speeding up as we draw level with it. My aunt and uncle's place is close.
Left onto Clovis, and from here it's only a half mile shot to Rockridge and possibly my family. The street is clear, no wrecks lining this less traveled road and any stalled vehicles pushed to the curb. Walking along the sidewalk, it strikes me how normal this all seems: like a sleepy street in a quiet town where all is well and good. If the walls were made of glass, I wonder how drastically the scene would change. We pass through an intersection. Then two. As we approach the third, I look to my left and my stomach bottoms out. I scuttle backward, colliding with someone behind me. It's a chain reaction of bumping, jostling bodies. There's confusion and protests as our procession suddenly halts and reverses course.
"What the—"
"Shit—"
"Morgan—"
I cut off the sputtering with a single, fiercely whispered word, edged like a sharpened blade.
“Truck!”
We back away into the nearest driveway, taking cover behind a large SUV. I drop my pack and unsafety my AR, praying I won't have to use it. Behind me, the sounds of shifting packs and priming weapons lets me know my friends do the same. I hear it now: the low rumble of an old pickup, quiet as it crawls along the street. I peer over the hood of the SUV. The truck sits idling in the middle of the intersection, its lights turned off. Keep going you bastard. Keep going. But it remains parked. Seconds pass that feel like minutes. My pulse quickens. My breathing comes in short bursts. The rumbling of the truck’s engine, and nervous shifting of my friends the only sounds I hear.
And then the truck lights up. The headlights flood the street, a powerful spotlight angles our way from up top, someone controlling its motion. Figures hop out the bed and pour out the open doors. I duck as the light sweeps across front lawns, toward the driveway we occupy. The spotlight lands on the SUV and freezes. Shit.
"There's no need to hide," an oily voice calls out. "I assure you, we mean you no harm."
Think, Morgan. There's got to be a way out of this. The front door of the house is to our right, but it's completely exposed and could very well be locked. No windows are available to climb through. A tall wooden fence leading to the backyard lies to our left, but there is no gate, and if we try to scale it we'll be easy pickings. Shit, shit, shit.
"C'mon now, you're really starting to hurt my feelings," calls the voice after a minute of silence. "I'm trying to be friendly here. The way I see it is: you have your friends, and you have your enemies. And if you keep hiding the way you are, I'm gonna think you’re not interested in being friends."
"Ten men by my count," Felix whispers beside me. "All armed, all behind cover." Whispered curses follow the announcement. "Ideas?" I ask. None come. We're cornered, pinned in by a superior force.
"Tell you what, I'm gonna give y’all five more seconds to decide what you wanna be: friends or enemies," the voice warns. "After that, I'll decide for you."
I can't let us be captured.
"Five!"
But there's no way for us to escape.
"Four!"
Memories of Salida return to me. How certain I was of my fate—resigned to the fact that I would die, but my friends would live.
"Three!"
If I surrender now, I put our lives in the hands of these men. That's something I can't allow.
"Two!"
I look behind me, soaking in my friend’s scared faces in turn. I have to give them the chance to survive this.
"One!"
I've faced death so many times since this all began, and despite everything, I've managed to survive. I don't know how many times I can do this—how many times I can dance among the flames before they consume me. All I know is that if I let my feet stop moving, I can be certain they will swallow me whole. So dance I will.
"Alright!" I yell. "I'm coming out!" I turn to my friends. "Take out the spotlight when the time is right," I whisper to Felix, cutting off the protests before they can begin. "The rest of you be ready." I lock eyes with Lauren, needing one last glimpse should this be the end. I hand my AR to Felix, and tuck my Glock into the waistband behind my back before stepping out from behind the SUV. The light is blinding, like emerging from a dark movie theater into a sunny afternoon. I lower a hand to shield my eyes, searching for information—men, escape routes, cover—anything.
"Stop,” the voice rings out. I stop just as my feet hit the street. Shadowy figures lay before me, obscured by the light still pointed at my face. I don't need more than that to know I have nearly a dozen guns trained on me. "Why the rest of your friends so shy?" the voice asks.
"Just cautious," I reply. "We haven't met many people lately who were interested in being friends."
Snickers cackle from the shadows. "Is that so?"
"It is," I say. "And with all of you so heavily armed and shouting orders at us? Let's just say it doesn't exactly put us at ease.” I hear an exchange among the shadows, and then one steps forward. He is lanky and oily, a sneer his most prominent feature as if it's worn often. He holds a shotgun in his hands and a pistol on his belt. He points to his face. "To put you at ease," he says. "And just so you don't get any ideas: you try anything, and you'll have a dozen shots in you before you hit the floor."
"Nothing to put a man at ease like a death threat," I mock.
His sneer twists, amused. "Exactly." With the spotlight still trained on me, all I can make of his eyes are two dark pits, but I know they are staring straight at mine. I don't look away. I don't make a sound. I don't know what game this man is playing, but I won't be the first to make a move. I stand my ground. His head tilts slightly. "Strange," he says. It's obvious he wants me to question his proclamation, and for that reason I remain silent. When it becomes apparent I won't ask, he finishes as if I had. "Strange to find a man with some balls left in this town. Most are either crewed up or dead."
"I'm honored you think so highly of me," I respond dryly.
"Oh, you should be. It's the only reason you're still breathing," he says. His voice remains unfailingly amused. "You see, I'm a recruiter of sorts. It's my job to seek out people who might help serve our crew. Normally all I find are skanks and punks. Good for some labor and a little...entertainment, but they're a dime a dozen. But you on the other hand...you're a different story. Walking out tall and proud, hands steady, no tremor in your voice or tears in your eyes? I think you might make a fine addition to our crew."
"Crew?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
He smiles at the question. “Animas Animals, the only crew that matters in this town. I don’t need to tell you that it’s a new world we’re living in. There is no good. No evil. There’s only power—only the strong, and those too weak to seize the opportunity before us. Because make no mistake, that is exactly what this whole fucked up place is, my friend: an opportunity. We’ve got a chance to make this town ours. And that’s exactly what we, the Animas Animals, are going to do. Our crew is strong but we’re going to need more soldiers in the coming months. Join us. And together we can rule this place as we see fit."
How did my town fall so far? Where self-proclaimed “Animals” can prowl the streets, unchecked, unafraid, doing as they please? Where are all the decent men and women who called this place home? I know I can't have imagined them all. Are they all gone? Or have they been scared off, seeing what can happen to decency amid so much brutality?
"So, what do you think?" he presses. "I'll even allow your friends back there to join up. Although, they'll have to prove they can carry their own weight of course."
There's a small part of me—that basest instinct in all of us that screams at me to accept, persevere, live—but I don't give in to it. Something Eli once said comes back to me: about there reaching a point when living by any means is worse than death. Staring at this man, I know now what Eli must have felt the day Clint offered him a spot in his camp. But I saw how much it tortured him to do the deeds he did, and I know the deeds this man would have us do would strip us of everything that still makes life worth living. There's not a chance in hell I'd accept his offer.
My eyes flick around, mapping everything in the immediate vicinity. The tension is a physical thing, pressing down on me. My pulse is rapid. My muscles coiled like a spring. Beads of sweat break past my hairline and race down my face. I can feel it coming. The lightning has flashed, now comes the thunder.
"Sorry," I say. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not interested in ruling over anything. All I want is to find some peace for me and my family. I won't find that with you and your crew."
The twisted sneer never leaves his face. He shows no sign of emotion except the slight amusement he's worn from the beginning. "I really wish you'd have just said yes," he says, shaking his head. "But if you don't want to be friends, I guess that makes you an enemy. Don't say I didn't war—"
And then several things happen all at once. A gunshot sounds from somewhere beyond the truck, its blast echoing loud and clear across the street. The sneering man before me swivels, searching for the shooter. The shadows unfurl. Someone yells my name. The shotgun rises to the sneering man’s shoulder as he turns my way again. A gunshot from behind me and the spotlight goes black. White spots. Cloudy darkness. No time to think. Throw myself blindly to the left as a shotgun blast flies past, so close I feel the slipstream.
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 1) Page 30