by James Hunt
Knowing her escape would soon be known, Wren pressed on. She crawled quickly, her heart racing, the adrenaline coursing through her body numbing the pain in her fingers and hands. After two more turns, the glow from the fire through the vent had disappeared, eclipsing her in darkness once more. She knew there was an exit point, but each grate she peered into revealed nothing more than a dark room, and she couldn’t risk dropping herself into a locked room like the one that acted as her cell. Suddenly, angered shouts echoed through the long shaft behind her. She was running out of time.
Wren double-timed it, her knees and elbows smacking against the sides of the shaft. She abandoned her attempts at a quiet escape as she raced against her captors now in full chase. The air grew hotter, and she noticed a faint glow down the shaft. It wasn’t the orange-and-red flames of a fire, but something softer. Moonlight.
Wren gripped the sides of the vent, which led to her freedom outside. The ground was at least twelve feet below her, and she smacked the vent violently, savagely, desperately as the men’s voices grew louder. The top right corner of the vent broke loose, the small screw falling to the dirt below. Wren palmed the corner, leveraging the vent down, the weak and rusted metal crumbling from the pressure until the other screws snapped off and the vent crashed to the ground.
Wren squeezed through the tight opening, a wave of vertigo washing over her as half her body dangled twelve feet in the air, trying to grip the sides of the vent running along the building with her fingertips. The rusted corners of the side tore the fabric of her pants as she pulled her legs out, her entire body dangling from the side of the vent. She looked down, making sure the ground was clear of debris before she dropped, but as she did, the air vent buckled under the strain of her weight, shaking her loose, and she tumbled to the dirt, her limbs flailing awkwardly.
Her back smacked against the packed earth, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped for air and for a moment received nothing but the smother of suffocation. She rolled to her side, the muscles along her lower back spasming in defiance from the fall, and finally she sucked in air, filling her lungs greedily as she clawed the dirt. Angry shouts exploded into the night air, and Wren made a beeline for the woods, sprinting as fast and far away from the town as her legs would take her.
While the moon was out, the lighting it provided was poor as she shuffled through the trees and brush, her clothes snagging and tearing in the thick branches. Dogs howled behind her, and their eerie din sent a chill up her spine and added a spring to her step.
Wren searched desperately in the darkness for anywhere she could run, anyplace where she could hide. The barking grew louder, and the flames of torches flickered between the thick tree trunks as she glanced behind her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bloodied screws she’d removed from the vent. She palmed one of them, the end sharp enough to puncture skin.
An ache roared in her stomach, and her breath grew shorter the farther she ran, the howl of the dogs still fresh on her tail. She removed her shirt, fumbling with the buttons awkwardly on the sprint. She tore the blouse from her body and balled it up and flung it away from the trail, hoping to divert the dogs from her scent long enough for her to put some distance between her and the madmen in pursuit.
With her shirt gone, the night air felt cool against her sweat-stained body, and the chill coupled with the adrenaline that pushed her forward into the night air. Her feet and ankles bent awkwardly on the rocky, uneven ground, and more than once she stumbled to her hands and knees, the earth scraping her skin with every fall.
But the farther she ran into the woods, the slower her pace grew, and with her lethargic crawl, the men and hounds grew louder. She ducked behind the largest tree she could find, knowing that she couldn’t outrun them any longer, and with the dogs tracking her, she couldn’t hide. All that was left now was to fight.
Wren pinched the screw head between her fingers. The coarse bark of the tree scraped against her bare skin as she crouched low. She slowed her breathing, quieting herself as much as possible. Branches and leaves rustled nearby, and she raised her fist high, ready to strike. Luckily, the first man around the tree didn’t have one of the dogs, only a spiked baseball bat. Taking him by the arm, Wren jammed the tip of the screw into the side of his neck repeatedly, each blow covering her in a fresh coat of warm blood on her face, shoulders, arms, and chest. The man gargled, choking on his own fluid. The dogs barked wildly at the scent. He clawed at her arms as the life drained from him and he slowly collapsed to the dirt. She ripped the homemade mace from his grip just as another man rounded the corner.
With a backhanded blow, Wren brought the mace’s spikes into the man’s cheek as both he and the hound howled at the sight of their prey. When she yanked the bat free, he dropped the dog’s leash, and the beast lunged at her, jaws snapping viciously as she fell backward. The hound sank its teeth deep into her left forearm, and her mind blurred with pain. In a panicked flurry, Wren brought the side of the mace to the dog’s ribcage, and the beast whimpered, letting loose her arm and limping away with its tail between its legs.
When the dog fled, the mace was yanked from her grip, and Wren was left defenseless as a swarm of arms snatched her up. She fought, clawing, kicking, screaming, and cursing as they dragged her backward. Their hands slipped on her sweaty and bloodied skin. She thrashed wildly and broke free of their hold, smacking hard against the ground. She clawed forward with her good right hand, the other arm too mangled and hurt to perform any function.
The men laughed at her on her hands and knees, her body so drained of energy it was all she could do to crawl. “Look, Jim, the bitch already started taking her clothes off.”
Wren listened to his friend snigger back. “What’s the matter, honey? Weren’t getting enough loving at home?” They both thundered with laughter, the dog continuing its barking until she heard the smack of a boot against the hound, and the snarl transformed into a helpless yap. “I say we take her now before the others ruin her.”
The man’s partner agreed, and Wren felt her legs tugged backward, her belly scraping against the dirt, roots, and rocks as she kicked in defiance with what was left of her strength. She tried to hold back the hot burst of tears in her eyes, but the more she struggled, the more they fought to pin her down. She felt their foreign hands tuck under her bra and slide her pants down to her ankles.
“Hold her still, Jim.” Wren looked up to see one of them with his pants down, his manhood tucked firmly in his hand. “Flip her over. I like to ride ’em like a cowboy.”
Wren slammed her fist into the man’s groin, and the man let go of her shoulders, but her outburst was retaliated against quickly as the man grabbed the back of her neck and punched her nose. The warm, metallic taste of blood rolled onto her lips and tongue, and her thoughts clustered together like a traffic jam. “You stupid bitch!”
“C’mon, Randy, quit screwin’ around.”
Once again, they grabbed her by the legs and flipped her over to her stomach as she choked on the taste of her own blood. The ground shifted unevenly, and she felt fingers pull the waistline of her underwear down. She offered another feeble kick, and then her face was slammed into the ground, dirt running up her nostrils and mouth, adding a gritty texture to the liquid swarming around her tongue.
A gunshot rang out, and she felt a body collapse on top of her, followed by the manic howls of the hound. She was too weak to push the body off of her, but with her cheek pressed into the earth, she saw a pair of boots shuffle through the grass and heard the pleas of the second man who’d punched her. “No, please, listen. I don’t want any trouble. Look, you want her? Go ahead, take a turn. I don’t care. I don—”
A second gunshot rang out, the dog barking wildly now, then a third silenced the forest, leaving nothing but a ringing in her ears. She felt her heart pound against her chest and then back into the dirt underneath. A brief surge of adrenaline pumped through her as she pushed up from the ground, and the man on top of her fell clu
msily to the side. He landed faceup, a hole through the front of his skull, his eyes cross-eyed and lifeless.
Wren looked up to a man towering above her, and she was suddenly aware of the nakedness of her own body. She trembled despite her protest, and crawled backward, shaking her head. “No.” She wanted to say more, but it was the only word that escaped her lips. “No. No. No.”
The man followed, his steps methodical. Ragged and soiled clothing hung loosely from his body. His face was thick with beard, and his eyes were hidden under the shadow of his cap. He gripped a rifle in his right hand. “I told you there was wolves.”
Shouts from the fallen men’s comrades echoed through the woods, and Wren saw at least a dozen more torches. She flipped to all fours, trying to push forward, but her limbs refused to cooperate, and she fell face-first back into the dirt. When she turned around, she put a hand up as the man raised the butt of his rifle and smacked it against her forehead, turning the world around her black.
Chapter 12
It was the pungent smell that woke her, but it was the throbbing in her head that kept her awake. She gently cradled her forehead and felt the rough stitching of cloth around her head. Her vision was blurred, but when it came into focus, she noticed that her raw fingertips were wrapped as well, bits of dried blood staining the fabric a ruddy tinge, along with her right forearm.
Wren forced herself up, the room spinning as she noticed the bed underneath her and the foreign clothes draped over her body, far too large for her frame. She squinted from the sunlight piercing through an open window, and judging from the color, they were the first rays of a new day. But which day? She tried retracing the events, but pain roared so loudly in her mind that she lay back down against the lumpy mattress.
Again the smell grazed her nostrils and forced her awake, but when she opened her eyes this time, a bearded, crazy-haired man stared back at her. She screamed and crawled backward until she slammed against the wall. The face brought back flashes of the men in the small town, the air ducts, and running through the woods. “What do you want?”
“To live.” He drawled the words lazily but gruffly. He eased back into a wooden chair next to the bed and brought a pipe to his mouth, which he puffed from greedily then blew rings of smoke from his lips. But while he maintained the leisurely aura of a retired grandfather, his eyes betrayed him with the look of wild intelligence.
His voice. I’ve heard it before. Wren leaned forward, her curiosity slowly overtaking the fear of the unfamiliar and the throbbing pain in her head. “It was you that spoke to me my first day by the wall at the community. You said there were…” She furrowed her brow, trying to remember his words. “Wolves,” she remembered suddenly. “You said it last night.” Last night. Wren shuddered and curled her legs to her chest.
“I didn’t touch you,” he said, knocking loose the old tobacco in his pipe that spilled onto the floor. “Can’t say as to what happened before I got there, though.” He pushed himself out of his chair, and his heavy feet thudded against the straining floorboards. “But from what I could tell, I shot the pecker head who was about to stick you before it happened.” He opened a wax casing and pulled out some more tobacco, stuffing it into his pipe.
The small cabin was roughly furnished. What chairs and tables Wren saw looked homemade, fashioned from the very trees of the forest that surrounded them. On the far wall, a cluster of rifles lay stacked neatly on a rack, and a table full of pistols and knives lay underneath. She eyed the rifles and then found the grizzly-bearded man staring her down as smoke puffed from the pipe. “You could try and get your hands on one of them guns. But I doubt you’d be able to shoot me before I’d gun you down. I may have saved you, but I don’t mean to die by your hand.”
Wren brought her feet from under the blanket and placed them on the floor, every muscle in her body sore and irritated from the movement. “And am I your guest, or your prisoner?”
“Depends on how long you expect to stay, and what your plans are after you leave.” He narrowed his eyes, taking another long drag from the pipe.
“The community where you first saw me. Do you know those people?”
The man grunted. “I know ’em. They think they’re out here surviving. The bastards don’t know shit about livin’ and even less about the land they sat their plump asses on.” He gave her a look up and down. “Still can’t figure out what you were doing there.”
“They have my family.” Wren stood, her legs wobbled, and she leaned back against the mattress for support. “My children. They’re going to hurt them. I have to get them back.” She wasn’t sure what the man would say, but he stayed quiet for a long time, taking puffs from his pipe, the sunlight from the window illuminating the worn fabric of his long-sleeved shirt with different-colored patches over the holes, with the same patchwork over his knees on his pant legs. From what she’d seen so far, the man could handle himself, and whatever honor he possessed stayed intact, as he could have done whatever he wanted to her after he’d taken her. “All I need is for you to point me in the right direction.”
The man set the pipe down and strode across the floor to where his rifles lay. He plucked one from the rack and opened a drawer, pulling out a magazine of ammunition that he clicked into place. His hands moved effortlessly with the weapon, and before she could blink, the barrel was aimed right at her. He took a few slow, methodical steps, his left eye shut as he stared down the sight of the rifle with his right, and he didn’t stop until the barrel was less than an inch from her face.
“If you’re going to kill me, then do it. But if not, get the fuck out of my way.” Wren stood her ground, not relinquishing an inch.
The man finally lowered the weapon and extended it to her. “I believe I will.”
Static: Blackout- An EMP Thriller Book 2
Chapter 1
Wren peeled back the bandage on her right index finger. Tiny fibers clung to the dried blood as she pulled the fabric to expose the wound. The flesh underneath was still pink and raw, and the fresh air only heightened the sting of her shredded fingertips. She frowned, then rewrapped the bandage. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, which rattled the chain that tethered her ankle to the wall.
Two sleepless nights had passed since she woke up in this place. And what little sleep she did manage to catch was tormented with nightmares. Every time she closed her eyes, Edric appeared alongside Chloe and Addison. Each instance was different. Sometimes there was a gun or knife, but no matter what he used or what he did, she awoke drenched in sweat and with her heart beating out of her chest.
The door burst open with a crack, and the hermit stomped inside. Rabbits and squirrels swayed from his belt. Dirt and time weathered his thick clothes. Noticeable patchwork lined his shirt, pants, and jacket, which he never removed. Wild brown hair protruded from beneath a wool cap, and his face fared no better, with a beard that covered his cheeks from ear to ear and rested in long tangled mats down to his chest.
“You have to let me go.” Wren crawled to the edge of the bed, and the chain pulled tight, stopping her right at the edge. “My family—”
“Enough.” The hermit dumped the dead game onto his workstation in the corner along with his rifle and the ammunition and rations he always carried with him. “You’re lucky to be alive. And you’re in no shape to go prancing through the woods. Or do you not remember your last trip?” Dirt caked the portions of his face that weren’t covered in beard, and at first glance he always looked as though he meant to kill you, but his eyes betrayed the effort of malice.
“I can give you food, water, whatever supplies you need. The camp has plenty.” Wren clasped her hands together. “You help me get my family back, and you can help yourself to as much as you like. Please, Reuben.” It’d been an uphill battle to earn his trust since she arrived. It’d taken her a day just to learn his name.
The hermit lifted one of the rabbits by its ears, his massive fist dwarfing the animal. “I have food. I have water. I don’t need your h
elp.” He spit on the floor, adding to the filth that smeared the wooden boards in a greasy film.
Wren rattled her arm as violently as she could, which shook the very bed she lay upon. “You have no right to keep me here!”
“Shut up!” Reuben’s voice cracked like thunder. He marched toward her, his steps shaking the walls and floors like an earthquake. “If your family is still back at that camp, then they’re dead. I know those people. Take it from me and let them go.”
Wren turned her head away from the hermit’s rank breath as he drew closer, her body shaking in anger. “Just let me go. They’re not dead. I know it.”
“No, you don’t!” He stomped his foot, sending another tremor through the floorboards. His expression softened. “I’m doing you a favor. Trust me. They’re dead. Move on. If someone would have—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. He plucked the game from his belt and headed outside, slamming the door behind him.
Wren deflated. She leaned against the wall the bed bordered, the wood grainy and coarse against her shirt. A part of her believed the hermit’s words. Edric had no reason to keep her children alive. But despite the reason and logic she relied on so much, she still felt them. They’re alive. She shifted her eyes to the rifles locked in the case on the far side of the cabin.
When she wasn’t thinking of the ways to kill Edric, she spent her energy trying to find a way to free herself and get one of the hermit’s guns. The rifle he handed her on their first encounter wasn’t loaded, and the moment she turned the weapon on him the chains came out. It was a test she failed, and she’d been trying to free herself ever since.
The splinters she peeled from the wall by the bed had yet to offer the strength needed to pick the lock on the shackle around her wrist, but it wasn’t for lack of effort. Wren picked at the wall, but the bandages around her fingers had diminished her dexterity. Still, the thousands of hours at the drawing board, sketching buildings, had made her hands strong, and it didn’t take long before she had a fresh piece of oak between her fingers. She found the lock and inserted the pointed edge inside. She guided the splinter like a blind man’s cane, fumbling in the dark recess inside the lock.