by Jack Kilborn
“I’m going to enjoy making you scream,” Santiago whispered.
Somewhere, within the old body, the young man’s training kicked in, and Streng moved. He feinted left with the knife, then tried to get around Santiago, driving his shoulder into him, hoping momentum would take him to the stairs.
Santiago took the hit and grasped Streng by the shoulder, yanking the sheriff off of his feet. Streng got shoved to the floor, Santiago pouring onto him like liquid. The knife was pried from his grip and tossed aside. Streng reared back the flashlight and lashed out, catching the soldier in the chin. There was a delicious, revolting cracking sound, and Santiago’s head snapped back. But he stayed on Streng, his hands pinning down the sheriff’s arms, squeezing, forcing him to drop the flashlight.
“I think you broke my cheekbone.” Santiago’s words were slow, slurred.
Streng hoped he broke every bone in his goddamn head. He wanted to say that aloud, to show some defiance. But he knew he was trapped, knew the pain was coming, and he was afraid if he opened his mouth he’d vomit from fear. Blood—his cousin’s blood—soaked through the back of his shirt and pants, cold and wet. He smelled death, and staring up into Santiago’s dark eyes, he saw it, as well.
“Give me the Charge.”
That was the same thing Bernie said. Was it something Streng took from them?
“Give it to me.”
Santiago’s hand moved down over Streng’s body, seeking out his tortured kidney. Jesus, no. Streng tried to find his voice, to tell him there was some Charge in the Jeep, when he remembered the metal case he’d taken off Santiago earlier.
“My pocket,” he managed to say. “I’ve got some in my pocket.”
He felt the killer’s hand pause on his midsection, and Streng braced for the agony, if bracing for it was even possible. But Santiago’s fingers passed, probing lower, patting down Streng’s pants, finding the case. The killer tugged it out and cradled it in his palms like a junkie with a fix.
Streng’s fist shot out, knocking the case across the room, onto the bed. Incredibly, Santiago leapt off of him, going after the Charge. Streng didn’t bother hunting down the Ka-Bar. Instead he rolled onto all fours and crawled like hell out of the bedroom, heading for the hallway. If he could make it down the stairs, make it to the car—
Ajax filled the staircase.
Streng went right, into the second bedroom. His shins pleaded with him to stop, but he picked up speed instead, crawling toward the broken window, the cool breeze promising freedom, his .45 waiting for him on the roof.
He bumped something in the darkness.
Streng couldn’t see, but he knew. His hands rested on a body, cool and still, and even though he didn’t want to do it he reached up the chest … up the shoulders … until he found the empty space and the slick, sharp knot of vertebrae where Sal’s head used to be.
Revulsion swirled within Streng, rooting him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he could faintly hear someone coming into the room behind him, someone who wanted to kill him or worse. Streng crawled around his cousin, his leg brushing something that rolled, something that could only have been Sal’s severed head, and then his hands were on the shattered windowpane and he was pulling himself up and Ajax grabbed him by the shoulder.
Streng tried to duck under the gigantic hand, but it locked under his armpit and tugged violently, hurling him across the room. His back hit something—a dresser or desk—bringing a rainbow banner of pain before Streng’s eyes. Then he fell, face-first, to the floor.
“Bring him,” Santiago said, or perhaps Streng imagined it. Ajax grabbed his ankle, pulled him across the carpeting, and Streng cast about frantically anything to grab. He touched something—something cold and sticky that felt like jelly.
But it wasn’t jelly.
It was Maggie.
The jelly feeling came from exposed fat and muscle, most of her skin having been peeled off.
Streng wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and for a moment his body stretched between Ajax and his cousin’s wife. Then the giant jerked hard, breaking Streng’s grip, making his face skip across the rug and causing a friction burn on his cheek. He was hauled into the hallway, past the staircase—so close yet so out of reach—and into Sal’s bedroom, where Ajax lifted him by his leg and held him upside down like a little girl’s doll.
Santiago had the flashlight tucked under his arm. Between his thumb and index finger, held at mouth level, was one of those capsules. But rather than eat it, Santiago broke it open and sniffed the contents. Streng watched as the killer vibrated like he’d been plugged into an electric socket, and then a mirthless smile creased his face.
Ajax made an awful sound, an inarticulate vowel jumble that sounded like the cries of the deaf.
“You’ll get some in a moment.” Santiago pointed at Streng. “Bring him here.”
Ajax didn’t move. He moaned again, deep and cowlike. The blood pooling up in Streng’s head made it feel ready to burst.
“Now, Ajax. Then you’ll get some Charge.”
Ajax moved forward, and Streng’s knuckles dragged the floor and bumped something hard and sharp. The Ka-Bar. He latched on to it and almost laughed at his luck.
“No playing around this time, Sheriff,” Santiago said. “You’re going to tell me where your brother is. Ajax, break his knees. He won’t be needing them anymore.”
The Ka-Bar Warthog had a thick, heavy blade, and Streng swung it at Ajax’s knuckles like he was chopping down a sapling—hack hack hack—and the huge fingers released him.
Streng landed on his shoulder, rolled to all fours, and then leapt for the doorway. He took the stairs three at a time, moving faster than he had in more than twenty years. Miraculously, he made it outside without anyone grabbing or killing him.
His Jeep was parked less than fifty yards away. Streng sprinted, pushing past the pain in his legs, his side, his whole body. He dared a quick glance behind him and saw Ajax emerge from the doorway at full speed, fast enough to break through a brick wall.
Streng focused on his vehicle. Fifteen steps away.
Ten.
Eight.
Jesus, they’re almost on me.
Six.
Two.
He hit the driver’s side and reached for the handle, getting out of the door’s way as he yanked it open.
“Charge,” Bernie said from the back seat.
Streng tossed the Ka-Bar on the passenger seat, dug the car keys from his pocket, wasted two seconds trying to find the ignition, and started the vehicle just as Ajax slammed into it.
The impact jolted Streng, cracking his head against the window, bringing out the stars. With one hand he fumbled for the gear shift, and the other sought out and found the electric door lock. Streng manhandled the car into first and hit the gas.
A massive palm struck the front windshield, making a spiderweb mosaic out of the glass. The car lurched forward as Ajax’s hand broke through, reaching for the steering wheel. The giant caught it, holding on and allowing himself to be dragged up the dirt road alongside the Jeep.
Streng sought out, and found, the Ka-Bar. As the Jeep bounced around and Ajax banged on the door, Streng stabbed at the giant’s hand, over and over, the knife tip gouging bone. Little fountains of blood erupted, bathing the sheriff’s lap. Streng stabbed hard, then twisted the blade. The fingers opened and Ajax released the wheel, his arm flailing out and pulling the shattered windshield from its mounting. Streng checked the rearview and watched the monster roll into the underbrush, and then his image disappeared because Bernie stood up from his seat, mouth open, his broken and bleeding teeth biting at Streng’s shoulder.
Streng smashed down the brake pedal. Bernie bounced forward and flopped next to him in the front seat, legs in the air, combat boots kicking like mad. One of them connected with the Ka-Bar, knocking it from Streng’s grasp.
Streng tugged the door handle and fell out of the car before he got his head stoved in. A ways down Gold Star Road,
Ajax was getting to his feet, and farther, coming up fast, was Santiago running full tilt.
Streng ran around the front of the Jeep, opened the passenger door, and pulled out Bernie. Then he grabbed the soldier’s hair and drove his forehead once, twice, three times into the oversize steel-belted radial. That took the fight right out of him.
Streng risked another glance behind. Ajax had broken into a jog, and Santiago had taken the lead and would be on him in seconds.
Streng wrestled Bernie into the back, climbed across the passenger seat without bothering to close the door, and hit the accelerator. The Jeep’s tires bit into the road, kicking up sand and gravel, and then they finally found purchase and the vehicle lurched forward—but not before Santiago made it to the passenger door and tried to climb in.
The steering wheel dripped slick blood, but Streng clenched it tight and swerved hard, away from Santiago, ripping the open door from his grip. Then he popped the Jeep into second gear, punched the gas, and left Ajax and Santiago in the dust.
Wind whipped at the sheriff’s face through the empty space where his windshield used to be, irritating the rug burn on his cheek and burning his eyes, and Streng hurt in so many places he couldn’t even take inventory, but for the first time since this hellish ordeal began he managed a small grin.
“Not bad, old man,” he said to himself.
He headed toward Safe Haven.
Jessie Lee opened her eyes and looked around. She was still in the boys’ locker room, surrounded by blood and bodies. The chair she sat in was the same chair that she saw Merv, her boss, die in.
She filled her lungs and let out the loudest scream she could.
But all that came out was a gurgling wheeze, accompanied by the worst sore throat she’d ever had.
“I used this,” said a voice from behind her. A voice that wasn’t Taylor’s. Dangling in front of Jessie Lee’s eyes was a pair of surgical scissors, long and thin, bits of tissue clinging to their blades.
“Yelling brings unwanted attention. And who wants to bother and fuss with gags? Messy, disgusting things. So I snipped your vocal cords.”
Jessie Lee sobbed—a quiet, pitiful sound. She tried to stand up, but firm hands held her down.
“Taylor and I have a question to ask, and we’d like a quick answer. You’ve already taken up a lot of our time, and other people are anxious for their turn. And don’t worry about us hearing you—I can lip-read.”
Taylor stood before her, brushing dust and bits of insulation from his uniform. He cupped her chin, making Jessie Lee look at him.
“Where is Warren Streng?”
Jessie Lee shook her head. Warren was Sheriff Streng’s brother, old and eccentric. He had a shack in the woods somewhere. No one ever saw him.
“I don’t know,” she tried to say. It came out as a wet whisper.
Taylor crouched. His eyes revealed the depths of hell.
“Think hard. Think very hard.”
Jessie Lee wondered if she should make something up, wondered if that would buy her more time. But more time for what? A few extra hours with these psychopaths? Dying here, now, was almost certainly preferable to the worst that could happen. She closed her eyes, paging through her memories to come up with a last thought. Her mind settled on Erwin, the night he proposed. Awkward, stuttering, getting down on one knee during the halftime show at the Packers game, the JumboTron asking, “Jessie Lee, will you marry me?” He put a ring on her finger—a much bigger ring than he could afford—and when she hugged and kissed him, twenty thousand fans cheered.
They would have had a wonderful wedding. And a wonderful marriage. Jessie Lee pursed her lips. She could almost hear Erwin’s voice.
“I don’t care if I’m not allowed. I’m looking anyway.”
It was Erwin’s voice. Outside the locker room.
“You can’t go in there, Erwin.” Rick Hortach, the town treasurer. “You’ll ruin it for the rest of us.”
“I need to know if she’s in there, Rick. Get out of my way.”
Taylor stood up, but his partner said, “I’ll handle it—I’m dressed for it,” and walked around the corner to the locker room entrance.
Jessie Lee flushed with hope. She had to warn Erwin somehow, had to let him know what was happening.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Taylor’s partner talking. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
“I’m looking for my fiancée, Jessie Lee Sloan. Is she in here?”
“ERWIN!” Jessie Lee screamed. She screamed with everything she had, until her shoulders quaked and her throat felt like it caught fire. But all that came out was a high-pitched hiss.
“Miss Sloan was here. She left about five minutes ago, with her lottery check.”
“HELP ME!” Jessie Lee tried to stand up, but Taylor swung his leg over her and straddled her lap. She twisted and shoved, and he wrapped a hand in her hair and forced her head back. Jessie Lee felt his lips, and then his warm teeth, on her neck.
“Why isn’t her name crossed off the list, then?”
“We’re getting around to it.”
“I’d like to take a look anyway.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not allowed.”
“ERWIN!” she cried out, one last time. The tears came fast but silent, and her chest heaved with sobs.
“You think you have a chance at getting away?” Taylor said, his breath hot on her ear. “No one gets away.”
Taylor nipped at her throat, and she shook her head NO NO NO NO NO …
“I know she’s in there,” Erwin said. “Get out of my way.”
Jessie Lee looked toward the entrance and saw Erwin—big, strong, wonderful Erwin—stride around the corner, his hands clenched into fists. He focused on the stack of bodies in the shower room and his mouth hung open.
“HERE!” Jessie Lee yelled. “I’M HERE!”
And Erwin’s eyes met hers and pierced her with hope, and then he was rushing at Taylor, bellowing in rage, arms open to grab him.
The knife appeared in Taylor’s hand so fast it was almost magic, and he leapt up and smoothly punched the blade into Erwin’s chest.
Erwin gasped. He fell to his knees, looked longingly at Jessie Lee, and then pitched forward onto his face.
Jessie Lee ran to the man she loved, burying her face into his back, trying to get her hands under him to put pressure on the wound even though his heart had already stopped beating.
She was so preoccupied with her efforts that Jessie Lee didn’t even feel it when Taylor came up behind her and slit her throat.
Fran hugged Duncan to her and stared at the man they’d almost run over. He stood in the middle of the road, only a few feet in front of their car. Tall, in camouflage military fatigues and a matching helmet, some sort of weapon strapped to his shoulder. He had his hands over his head and was waving, trying to flag them down.
“Drive!” Fran told Josh.
Mathison had other ideas. He hopped onto the dashboard and pointed at the man, hooting and chirping.
The man smiled and yelled, “Mathison?”
Josh glanced at Fran. “Your call. We can talk to him, or leave.”
“Hello?” The man took a step forward. “Do you have a monkey in there?”
Duncan looked up at her. “It’s his monkey, Mom. We should give him back.”
Fran used her fingertips to brush the bangs from her son’s eyes. He hadn’t lost his ability to trust people, to look on the good side of things, even after the night he’d endured. Fran didn’t think she could ever trust anyone in a uniform again.
“I’m a scientist,” the man said. “I’m here to help. Look, I’m putting down this weapon. I’m not even sure what it is.”
Fran had a tense moment when he unslung the big shotgun, but he quickly set it down on the road and raised his hands over his head.
“What do you think?” Josh asked.
Her gut told her they should leave. Even if Mathison did belong to this man, it could be sorted out later. Fran’s prima
ry concern was Duncan’s safety.
“No one helped us, Mom. After the crash.”
Fran couldn’t believe that came from his lips. Duncan never talked about the accident. Not even in therapy. But she often wondered if he thought about it as often as she did.
It had been late, almost midnight. They were driving home from the annual rodeo in Spooner, a neighboring town. Just ten minutes away from home, her husband, Charles, had slowed down to take a sharp turn on the winding country road. Some nameless driver—either drunk or careless—had taken no such precaution, taking up both lanes and forcing Charles to swerve into the woods to avoid a collision.
Their car went down an embankment and hit a tree, rolling them over and trapping them inside. Charles had been horribly injured. But Fran remained hopeful. They had crashed only a few yards off the road. Someone would see them. Someone would stop.
Twenty-three cars passed them up that night. Fran knew, because she counted. As each one approached, she prayed they would see the wreck and help. Each time, her prayers had gone unanswered.
It took two hours for Charles to bleed to death. And another hour before they were finally discovered. She remembered talking to Duncan during that time, soothing him, even as her husband’s life spilled out of his wounds and onto her face. Fran assumed Duncan had blocked the memory. Apparently he hadn’t. She looked at her son now, so earnest, so strong, so full of hope, and felt such overwhelming pride it made her chest hurt.
“Okay,” she told Josh. “Let’s talk to him.”
Josh opened the car door and craned his head out the opening. But just as he began to speak, Mathison jumped off the dash and galloped to the man, leaping into his arms. Fran let out a long breath as she watched the happy reunion, her apprehension dropping a notch. The monkey hugged the man, the man hugged the monkey, and both parties engaged in some back patting. Then Mathison jumped down to the street and hopped back into the car, sitting on Duncan’s lap and prompting a delighted squeal from her son.
“I take it you two know each other,” Josh said to the man.
“We go back a long ways. May I approach? I’m guessing some bad things have happened tonight and you’re spooked.”