by Jack Kilborn
Josh clasped the plumber on the shoulder. “We need to get to a hospital, Olen.”
Streng righted himself and shook his head. “First I need to get to my office outside of town.”
“You need a doctor.”
“I need a gun, a telephone, and a new pair of pants. The doctor can wait.”
“Someone want to tell me what’s going … Jesus H. Christmas, what the hell is that?”
Fifty yards ahead of them Ajax stepped onto the road.
“We have to go,” Streng said. “Now.”
He pulled Olen and Josh back to the Honey Wagon, which was every bit as filthy as Olen. It smelled like the sewage Olen spent his days pumping.
“Who is that guy? What’s going on, Sheriff?”
Streng jerked open the cab door and climbed up.
“Olen, where do you stash that twenty-two Long Rifle you use to hunt white-tail out of season?”
“Sheriff, deer season don’t start until November seventeenth, and—”
“Give me the damn gun, Olen, or we’re all going to die.”
Olen reached behind the driver’s seat and handed Streng a lever-action Marlin.
“Get in,” Streng told Josh and Olen. Then he cranked open the passenger-side window, chambered a round, and aimed at Ajax, who sprinted at them with astonishing speed.
Streng fired five times, fast as he could work the action. Then he checked the rearview. As expected, Santiago was coming up fast.
“Drive! There’s another one behind us!”
Olen didn’t need any more prodding. He stomped on the gas and the Honey Wagon lurched forward. Ajax hadn’t been stopped by Streng’s shots and continued to come at them, a charging rhino. Streng switched his grip on the rifle.
“Pull up to him, on my side!”
Olen complied. Streng leaned out the window, feeling Josh’s hand on his belt. As the truck passed Ajax, he swung the rifle like a baseball bat. The impact sent a shock of pain through Streng’s palms, vibrations traveling up both arms and shaking his shoulders. The walnut stock split in half on Ajax’s head, cracking along the pistol grip. But Streng managed to keep hold of the gun, and Josh yanked him back inside. Olen cruised into second gear and Streng dared to hope that they might actually live for a bit longer.
“Olen, you just saved our bacon.”
“Happy to oblige, Sheriff. Now one of you wanna tell me what just happened?”
“A helicopter crashed near the big lake,” Josh said. “I think it was hauling some kind of military prisoners. They escaped, killed Sal and Maggie Porter, and almost killed us.”
“I’ll be damned. Never saw a man that big before. Your shots hit him in the chest—I was watching. He didn’t even flinch. Think they know about the lottery?”
“Lottery?”
“Mayor called a town meeting, half hour ago. Safe Haven won the Powerball. Everyone is meeting at the junior high, because we all get a share. The phone lines have been burning up with folks sharing the news. I called ten people myself. Didn’t anyone call you?”
Streng remembered the mayor’s phone call earlier. He wondered if this was connected to the soldiers somehow.
“Turn on Harris, Olen.”
“But the junior high is—”
“It can wait. I need to get to my office first.”
Then the horizon lit up, accompanied by the BOOM of a massive explosion.
Santiago watched the truck speed off, then turned to see the mushroom cloud rising in the distance. It blended into the black sky as the fire died down.
The Special Forces have arrived, he thought and reached for a Charge capsule on his utility belt. His pack wasn’t there.
Santiago’s upper lip twitched, and a small jolt of panic worked its way through his central nervous system. He jogged over to Ajax, who seemed unaffected by the long gash spilling blood down the side of his head.
“They took my Charge.”
Ajax felt around his own belt, then wailed like a sick cow. He was out, too.
“Putas,” Santiago said. He touched his wounded ear and snapped his fingers. He didn’t hear it. Ruptured eardrum. Then he pulled the communicator out of his front pocket, slid back the cover, and held it to his mouth. “This is Santiago. The bird has flown. What’s your position?”
The reply came on the text screen, backlit by a faint green glow.
Gymnasium at the junior high. Running the winner’s circle.
“We’ll meet you there.”
Negative. Remain on target.
“We’re …”—the words seemed to stick in Santiago’s throat—“… out of Charge.”
You’re on your own. We’re not sharing. Out.
Santiago clicked off, teeth grinding teeth. The mission remained a top priority, but without Charge how long could they keep on track?
Ajax poked stupidly at the wound in his forehead, making it worse.
“I’ll fix it,” Santiago said, unclipping a propane torch from his belt.
He flicked the flame on. Ajax didn’t flinch, didn’t moan, as Santiago cauterized the gash. The sizzling sounded a lot like bacon frying.
Santiago kept the flame on for several seconds longer than needed, then touched it to the giant’s ripped nostril. He watch, fascinated, as the hairs glowed orange and burned away, and then turned his attention to the new set of headlights coming up the road.
“Hide,” he ordered Ajax.
The giant lumbered into the woods, and Santiago stood in the center of the street, waving his hands above his head. The car, a boxy SUV, slowed down and stopped a few yards in front of him. Santiago fixed a placid smile on his face and approached.
“Help you?” the driver asked.
Santiago reached in through the open window, seizing the driver by the throat.
“Yes, you can. But before I take your vehicle, I have a question. Do you know anyone named Warren Streng?”
• • •
Duncan’s dog glowed green. So did Mrs. Teller. She and Duncan had opened a box of bend-and-shake light sticks and placed them around the room like candles. They weren’t very bright but lit up enough of the basement for Duncan to see around him.
Mrs. Teller had called this room a shelter and said Mr. Teller built it during one of his paranoid delusions. Shelves lined all four walls, each stocked with canned food, bottles of water, and other supplies like batteries, toilet paper, and boxes of foil-wrapped glow sticks. Duncan loved glow sticks on Halloween and at the state fair. But in this little room the lights were creepy. Mrs. Teller had given him a white undershirt that was too big on him, hanging past his knees. It also glowed green.
Pounding, on the door at the top of the stairs. Bernie had gotten in the house. Though the basement door looked very strong and had a big lock on it, Duncan worried that he’d be able to get in.
“We’re safe,” Mrs. Teller said. “That’s a steel door. Mr. Teller bought only the best. It will hold.”
The pounding continued. It sounded like Bernie was hitting the door with something big. Duncan could feel his bones shake with every impact. Woof barked, and Duncan wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, burying his face in his fur.
BAAAAAAAAAM!
BAAAAAAAAAM!
“Oh, dear. It sounds like he’s found Mr. Teller’s tools.”
BAAAAAAAAAM!
“Don’t be scared, Woof,” Duncan whispered. The dog trembled.
BAAAAAAAAAM!
“We’re going to be okay.”
BAAAAAAAAAM!
The last sound was followed by a creaking noise, like wood splitting.
“It will hold,” Mrs. Teller said again. But this time she didn’t sound so sure.
The pain in her arms faded as her circulation returned, and Fran concentrated on the road ahead—left foot right foot left foot right foot. She used to love running, and years ago her tracks graced every trail, road, and highway in Ashburn County. Since the accident Fran had restricted her jogging to the treadmill in the basement. She told
herself it was because she didn’t want to leave Duncan alone any longer than necessary, but deep down she knew the real truth: running alone scared her. Fran remembered what it was like when something happened and there was no one around to help. She wouldn’t put herself in that situation again.
And yet, she’d put Duncan in that situation.
Their therapist, Dr. Walker, had told Fran that it would be good for Duncan to be left alone at night. It would help build his self-esteem. Fran had resisted, and Walker had broken her down her with jargon like enabling and transference. The next time she saw Dr. Walker he was going to learn some of her jargon, like broken nose.
Sound, behind her, and Fran glanced back and saw a figure pounding the pavement in her wake. Erwin. He seemed to have located his spine. Not that she could blame him. Less than an hour ago, Fran had been paralyzed with fear, unable to move. People handled crisis situations in different ways. Hopefully Erwin wouldn’t panic; she needed him.
The Pine Village sign at the entrance to her subdivision—framed in pine logs and set into a grass knoll surrounded by decorative stones and violets—was strangely dark. Ground lights normally illuminated it, but along with the streetlamps, they were out.
Fran veered onto Montrose Street, and every house on the block, every house in the development, lacked electricity. Except for the moon, the only light in the area came from over the hill, a disturbing orange flicker that made Fran push herself even harder.
When she reached the crest, her fears were confirmed. Her house, and Mrs. Teller’s, burned big and bright.
“Oh, no, oh, God, no …”
Fran sprinted down the hill, pain, exhaustion, and fear all pushed aside by the overwhelming need to find Duncan. She ran up to her house, but she couldn’t get close. The heat that came off it was like opening a five-hundred-degree oven, and a wave of hot air wicked away the water from her clothes and hair and sucked the moisture from her panting mouth. She tried to take another step closer, the temperature making her skin hurt, and Erwin held her back.
“It’s gone!” he yelled, Fran barely able hear him over the crackling, spitting blaze. She watched, horrified, as the roof collapsed, the flames reaching into the sky and doubling the height of her home. A plume of smoke billowed out through the front door, covering them with hot soot.
The front door. It was open. Duncan and Woof must have gotten out.
Fran spun, looking at Mrs. Teller’s house. Hers was in much better shape, fire on the porch and climbing up the west wall, but the house still intact. Duncan knew to go there if something happened. That’s where he had to be.
Fran rushed across the expanse of lawn, saw Mrs. Teller’s front door yawning open through the wreath of flame. She faintly heard Erwin yelling in protest as she dashed through the doorway and into the smoke-filled foyer, running directly into the man dressed in black who pounded on the basement door with a sledgehammer.
Erwin Luggs watched Fran dash into the burning building and knew he should go in after her, but his feet didn’t want to move.
Do it! You’re a firefighter, for chrissakes.
But Josh wasn’t here, he didn’t have any of his equipment, and he had a strong feeling that there was someone in that house, someone bad.
He felt something vibrate in his pocket and almost slapped at it in surprise before he remembered his cell phone.
His cell phone. He was getting a signal. Erwin dug it out and put it to his face.
“Erwin? It’s Jessie Lee. Where the heck have you been?”
“Jessie Lee! Baby, it’s great to hear your voice!”
“Erwin, I’m at the junior high and I put your name down on the lottery list. They’re going to call us any minute. You have to get over here.”
Erwin wasn’t sure what his fiancée was talking about, and normally when Jessie Lee told him to do something he was on it immediately, but while he had a cell phone signal he needed to call someone about this fire.
“Look, honey, I’ll call you right back.” He hit disconnect and then speed dial for Josh. Though the fire made it hard to hear, his effort was rewarded with a ringing sound. When Josh answered he almost whooped for joy.
“Josh! It’s Erwin! I’m at Fran Stauffer’s house in Pine Village! Her house is burning down and I need your help!”
“Erwin? I’m with Sheriff Streng. We’ll be there soon.”
This time, Erwin did whoop. Streng was still alive. Erwin’s chest swelled. His cowardice hadn’t killed anyone, and this information, along with the reassurance that Josh would be here soon, spurred him to action.
Erwin ran to the side of Mrs. Teller’s house and turned on the faucet for the garden hose. He dragged the hose to the front porch and aimed at the foot of the fire. The water vaporized on contact, hissing and steaming, but the flames began to slowly recede. Erwin waved away some smoke and called to Fran.
She screamed in reply.
Josh will be here soon, he thought. Josh always knew what to do.
Fran screamed again. Through the haze, Erwin saw her fighting with a man dressed in black.
Erwin’s bowels churned, and he felt like his legs wouldn’t support him. This was just like what happened with Sheriff Streng. He wanted to make this all go away, to turn back time and not pick up the phone when Josh called and told him about the helicopter crash. Everything would work out better if he wasn’t a part of it.
The man in black hit Fran across the face, and she fell to the floor. Erwin watched him lift something—it looked like a sledgehammer—and hold it over Fran’s head.
I shouldn’t be here, Erwin thought.
Then he surprised himself by running into the burning house.
Jessie Lee Sloan tried to dial Erwin again and got that annoying message about the cell phone customer not being available. She threw the phone in her purse, annoyed. Why did anyone in Safe Haven even bother with cell phones? They were a cruel joke.
“Is Erwin coming?”
Mrs. Melody Montague, whom Jessie Lee had as a second-grade teacher and who still taught second grade all these years later, leaned into Jessie Lee’s personal space. Her breath smelled like mentholated cough drops, and Jessie Lee didn’t like her any more now than she did at age seven when Mrs. Montague taught them how to draw Thanksgiving turkeys by tracing their hands. The drawings didn’t look like birds—they looked like palm prints—and when Jessie Lee said so she was given a time-out in the corner.
“He’s coming,” Jessie Lee answered without facing the elderly woman.
“Isn’t this exciting? I suppose we should all be mad at Mayor Durlock for using the Safe Haven coffers to buy Powerball tickets, but what a treat that he’s sharing it with the whole town. What are you going to do with your forty-thousand dollars?”
“Eighty thousand,” Jessie Lee corrected. “After the wedding.”
“Of course. I’m sure it will make the wedding even more spectacular.”
Indeed it would. Sometimes it seemed to Jessie Lee that she’d been dreaming of her wedding day since her birth. Though Erwin wasn’t rich, he’d been working tirelessly to give her all that she wanted, which was one of the reasons she loved him. She had diamond earrings, and a thick gold Omega necklace with matching anklet, and was the only woman in Safe Haven with a Gucci handbag. Erwin treated her like a princess.
Even so, budgetary constraints had forced her to cut back on some of the more extravagant expenditures. But with this money the whole storybook fairy tale could come true. There would be ice sculptures, and a full orchestra, and a gourmet seven-course banquet, and a designer dress rather than one she found at the outlet mall. Her ceremony would be the talk of Safe Haven for years to come.
“Will the next person please come up for their check,” the lottery commissioner announced into the gymnasium’s PA system. He was a tall, roguishly handsome man who wore a strange black uniform. Mayor Durlock sat next to him, looking oddly depressed considering all of the excitement. Jessie Lee could guess that he was annoyed, havin
g to share the money with the whole town. She certainly would be.
“Melody Montague.”
Mrs. Montague squealed and clapped her hands together. As with everyone else, the late hour and long line hadn’t depressed her in the least. She scurried up to the podium, shook the lottery commissioner’s hand, and he escorted her out of the gym, into the boys’ locker room.
A few seconds passed, and another, louder, squeal came from Mrs. Montague. The crowd on the bleachers chuckled, then resumed their conversations.
Jessie Lee looked at her watch, then surveyed the gym. Most of Safe Haven had shown up for this impromptu town meeting. In small towns, bad news traveled fast, but good news spread like lightning. The mayor’s initial phone call to his staff had ballooned into everyone calling everyone within fifteen minutes. And people still kept coming. As they entered the gym, the town treasurer, a wisp of a man named Rick Hortach, explained that they’d be cut a check and then added their name to the list. No one seemed bothered by the fact that it was almost one in the morning. Everywhere she looked, Jessie Lee saw big smiles and laughter.
So where the heck is Erwin?
Jessie Lee located her boss, Merv Johnson, in the crowd, spotting the glare of his bald head in the overhead lights. The entire town—Jessie’s apartment included—had been without electricity for the past hour, but the junior high boasted two huge gas-powered generators. Jessie Lee stood up and bleacher-walked down two flights, putting her hand on his large shoulder.
“Merv, you came in just before me, right?”
Merv shrugged, all three of his chins jiggling. “I dunno. Wasn’t paying attention. You think Corvettes are sexy?”
“Very sexy. Look, I saw the list, and you were one ahead of me. I need to run outside, have a smoke. If you get called next, tell them I’ll be right back.”
“Sure. What’s sexier, black or red?”
“Red, Merv. You’ll tell the commissioner?”
“No problem, Jessie Lee. Automatic or manual?”
“Automatic. That leaves your hand free for other things.”