Windburn

by Kenny Soward

  The two women stood there for some time, keeping their eyes focused on the lodge. After five minutes, Sara glanced at Barbara and then started walking toward the front door. The entrance was partially blocked by some big wooden columns holding up the porch roof, and decorative bushes hid the walkway from view.

  “See, there are the cameras,” Sara said, pointing to several small bubbles of black glass placed strategically along the roof and at the corners of the house. She waved at them and pulled back the hood of her rain poncho and grinned.

  “Let’s hope they think we’re friendly.”

  Rex suddenly barked and leapt forward, nearly jerking the leash out of Sara’s hand.

  “What is it, boy?” Sara’s tone was hushed as she pulled back on the leash, only this time Rex was not to be silenced. He pulled and jerked, raising up on his hind legs as Sara leaned backwards to keep him from pulling her forward. “What the heck has gotten into you, Rex?”

  “I’m not liking this,” Barbara said, cautiously.

  Sara let Rex drag her a few more yards, trying to figure out where the dog wanted to go. He wasn’t angling directly for the house but for the end of the walkway that was hidden by bushes. The dog continued to whine and strain against his harness as Sara struggled to hold him back. She’d forgotten how strong the eighty-eight-pound Shepherd could be when he wanted to assert himself.

  Rex yipped louder and then let out a long string of barks.

  “Okay, okay,” Sara said, finally allowing the dog to pull her forward, her feet flapping on the ground to provide a counterbalance to his pull.

  “Not a good idea, Sara.” Barbara’s tone held a warning note, only Sara was already committed.

  They came around a row of low bushes that bookmarked the end of the walkway, and Sara got an unobstructed view all the way up to the lodge’s front porch.

  When Sara saw what was crawling up the walkway toward them, leaving a trail of blood behind, her heart caught in her throat and her free hand slammed against her chest as her eyes shot open in horror.

  It was a young woman about Barbara’s age, wearing a pair of mangled orange pajamas with a University of Tennessee logo printed on them. Her arms and legs were covered with more wounds than Sara could count, and blood ran down the girl’s arms and dripped from her scalp. Sara blinked at the contrast between the muted orange material of her pajamas and dark blood that soaked them.

  In her shock, Sara let go of Rex’s leash, and the dog tore off toward the girl. When he reached her, Rex circled, sniffing at her hands and feet and whining with worry. He finally stopped in front of her, wagging his tail as he gently licked at her bloody scalp.

  The girl had been crawling along slowly, not seeming to notice Rex until his warm tongue began cleaning the blood from her. She raised her face in confusion, and Rex hopped back, giving the girl a surprised yip. She stared at Rex for a moment before sluggishly raising her blood-shot eyes to Sara. The girl’s eye sockets were swollen, her cheeks bruised, and her lips caked with blood.

  Sara broke out of her shock, sprinting to the girl and falling on her knees next to her. “Hey, hey,” Sara said, touching the girl’s shoulder and offering to lift her up. “Can you walk? Can I help you up?”

  The girl hesitated a moment, more out of confusion than anything, then she clutched Sara’s arm, leaning all her weight on it as she tried to get up.

  “That’s it, come on.” Sara’s voice rose on a wave of panic although she did everything she could to sound calm and in control. “We’ve got a car. We can get you out of here.”

  Sara could see why the girl was so confused and weak. She’d been beaten nearly senseless, her entire face swollen and bruised, lips cracked and bleeding as if someone had struck her repeatedly and mercilessly.

  A distant sort of rage brewed up in Sara’s gut and crawled up her spine to invigorate her arms and legs with adrenaline. The girl tried to raise up and then quickly fell against Sara with a cry. By that time, Barbara was there, putting herself beneath the girl’s arm.

  “Her left leg might be broken,” Barbara said, bearing much of the girl’s weight. “It’s sitting funny. She won’t be able to walk.”

  “Between the two of us, we can get her to the car.”

  “N-no.” The girl’s grip on Sara’s arm tightened, and the first words out of her mouth sounded like her vocal cords had been scraped over sandpaper. “M-my mom and d-dad…” Her words trailed off, and she tried to crane her neck around to look back at the house. Sara didn’t need her to say any more.

  “Can you get her to the Subaru on your own?” she asked Barbara.

  “I think so,” Barbara said, shifting so she could pick up more of the girl’s weight.

  “Do it. I’m going inside.”

  “Sara—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Sara’s voice was flat, her tone tense with anger and fear. “Just get her to the car and then come back as soon as you can. There may be more people injured inside.”

  Barbara nodded, wordlessly bearing the girl’s full weight. Sara snatched up Rex’s leash, watching the beaten girl hobble on one leg while keeping her other foot off the ground.

  “Come on, Rex,” Sara said, the words hissing between her teeth as she followed the washed-out trail of blood to the porch. Looking up, she saw that the front door was wide open, and the trail led inside.

  Sara got out her Beretta and stepped in without knocking. She entered a grand foyer with a massive oak stairway on her left and a wide-open living room on her right. The two areas were divided by a wall with two doors on the living room side. The first door was probably a bathroom, and the second door was a double set with glass panels that might have led to an office of some sort. It was a warm, inviting space except for the gusting wind and trail of blood on the hardwood floor that led to the office.

  The entire back wall was more heavy-framed glass that looked out upon a patio and forested hill, and Sara stared at it as she listened for any threatening sounds. When no one jumped out at her, Sara started to follow the trail of blood and stopped when Rex crouched down and made a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

  “Quiet, boy,” Sara whispered, giving the dog’s leash a yank. However, he continued to growl and glare at the bathroom door, which was about fifteen feet away. Sara would have to walk past it if she wanted to continue to follow the blood trail.

  As she was deciding what to do, the bathroom door swung open, and a tall, wiry blonde woman stepped out followed by the sounds of a toilet running. She wore a form-fitting black combat uniform that was unbuttoned to her waist and had a pair of white earbuds stuck in her ears.

  The woman didn’t see Sara and Rex at first and then jerked to attention when she realized she wasn’t alone. Her eyes locked with Sara’s before falling to the gun in Sara’s hand and Rex growling on his leash.

  The woman drew her weapon so fast that Sara barely caught the movement.

  Sara’s instincts kicked in, causing her to pull the trigger in reflex, and both guns went off at the same time.

  Something zipped past Sara’s left ear, and hot fire stung the skin on the side of her head. At the same time, the other woman’s shoulder jerked back, and blood sprayed across the wall behind her.

  The women cried out simultaneously as the bullets hit home. Sara stumbled back two steps, letting go of Rex’s leash to clutch the side of her head. A warm rush of wetness flowed over her hand and spilled onto her rain poncho, and her brain went foggy with shock.

  Ears ringing and blood rushing through her head, Sara was vaguely aware of Rex’s claws clattering across the hardwood, his growls, and the woman’s cries as they struggled fifteen feet away. She forced herself to look up, lifting her Beretta in a shaking hand.

  Rex had the woman’s right wrist in his maw, and he jerked her gun hand back and forth as the woman screamed and punched at him with her left fist. Being almost ninety pounds himself, Rex nearly matched her weight and made it almost impossible for her to throw him off.

/>   Glasses skewed on her nose and a grimace of pain and rage on her face, the woman reached down and whipped a seven-inch knife free from its belt sheath. Then she raised it up and aimed the point at the growling dog.

  Sara clenched her teeth, raised her gun, and tried to sight the woman. She didn’t want to hit Rex, but he’d be dead if she didn’t do something. With a growl that matched Rex’s, Sara quickly pulled the trigger twice. The woman took the bullets in her chest and neck, flying backward into a table and crashing to the floor, dragging Rex with her.

  Sara stumbled forward with her gun still pointed at the woman even as Rex continued to jerk her arm around with deep-throated growls. The woman wasn’t moving, at least not of her own accord, and Sara knelt and started to grab the back of Rex’s harness, although she didn’t want to lower her weapon or let go of the side of her head.

  Barbara rushed into the lodge, took one look around, and flew to Sara, setting her gun on the floor while she pulled Sara’s hand away from the side of her head to inspect it.

  “It’s your ear,” Barbara said. Her voice was calm, yet there was a hint of edgy panic to her tone. She looked around for a moment before she dashed into the bathroom the woman had come out of and returned with a small towel. Barbara folded the towel, moved Sara’s hand again, and put the towel over the wound before pressing Sara’s hand back in place. Then she picked up her gun, saying, “That should keep the bleeding under control until—”

  Rex’s growl changed tone. Rather than the enraged, throaty growl he’d had when attacking the woman, this came from lower and deeper in his chest. It was his warning growl.

  Sara looked down and saw that the dog still held the woman’s wrist in his maw, but his eyes were pinned on something behind them. She spun, nearly falling over from her skewed balance.

  A woman stood at the bottom of the stairs in a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt. She was barefoot, and her dark hair was slightly tousled as if she’d just gotten out of bed. Her right arm hung limp at her side, shoulder bandaged in a thick lump beneath her shirt. She looked weak and pale, her face bloodless as she stood there on her two shaking legs.

  In her left arm was what could only be a submachine gun pointed in their direction, and her dark eyes glared at them with malice. Sara shoved Barbara away and then jerked back just as a burst of bullets scarred the floor between them. She crashed against a table and then fell to the floor before she brought her Beretta up and fired, a wild cry escaping her throat.

  Two red blossoms appeared on the woman’s chest, and she stumbled backwards. The machine gun remained pointed generally upward as the woman tried to aim it in a miraculous feat of willpower. She squeezed the trigger again, and bullets sprinkled the back wall, shattering glass and sending wood chips flying.

  Sara fired again, Barbara joining her as they unleashed a hail of bullets into the woman until she dropped in a smoking, bloody mess.

  Silence filled the room, and the stench of gun smoke and blood stung Sara’s nose. She stared at the dead woman a moment and then looked over at Barbara, whose eyes were wide above her heaving chest. Rex trotted over to the smoking body and sniffed at the woman’s toes.

  “We need to check for the girl’s family,” Sara said, climbing to her feet. “But there could be more of these jerks. Be careful.”

  Barbara nodded and went straight for the game room doors. Sara spotted the towel she’d been holding against her ear and bent down to retrieve it, pressing it to the side of her head to stem the blood flow. Then she turned in a circle, eyes scanning the rustic decor and shattered glass.

  “Found them,” Barbara said, flatly.

  Sara turned to see Barbara standing at the opened glass-paneled doors with a disgusted look on her face. Walking over slowly, Sara watched as Barbara disappeared inside the room. When Sara got there, she had to quell a rise of nausea at what she saw. There were three bloody people tied to chairs in the office, each with wounds similar to the girl’s. The fourth chair, the girl’s, stood empty with cut ropes laying nearby.

  “Her family,” Sara croaked.

  Barbara was checking their pulses to see if any of them were still alive, and after she’d reached the last one, she stood up and gave Sara a sad shake of her head.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Barbara moved past her as Rex trotted up. Sara bent and grabbed the dog’s leash, then she walked out into the center of the living room and had a long look around. It was something she’d done whenever their family went on vacation or took a short weekend trip for one of Todd’s sports tournaments.

  Double check.

  Look around before you leave the house. Look around before you leave a hotel. Make sure you have everything. Always check, even if it’s just a glance.

  “What’s that?” Sara’s eyes fell on a strange piece of equipment sitting on the kitchen table. It looked like a big black computer with a keyboard. “Looks a little out of place here, wouldn’t you say?”

  Barbara walked over to the kitchen table and touched it, moving her head around it as she checked it out. “It’s definitely a computer, but not like I’ve ever seen.”

  “Grab it,” Sara said, “and let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter 22

  Jake, Hartford, Connecticut | 3:30 p.m., Friday

  Time crawled along as the convoy trudged down the rain-slick expressway. Wind tore across the road, making the semi-trailer trucks hitch and sway like ships at sea in the middle of a storm. Water gathered and sprayed off the tops of the trailers every time a gust ripped through, and Jake learned to keep the Explorer two car-lengths behind the last Humvee or be constantly drenched with more water than his windshield wipers could handle.

  His defrost was set to high, and the nice, warm air kissed his cheeks and blew his greasy hair around.

  The convoy took I-95 down to Providence and then swung around to I-395, going west to Hartford. Jake had no clue about the highways and expressways in these parts of the United States, so he had no idea if this was the fastest route south.

  All he knew was that each mile brought him closer to home.

  Still, the speed at which they were moving, a not-so-brisk fifty miles per hour, seemed maddening at times, and Jake had been tempted to drive around them and set his own pace for home despite not knowing the precise way.

  He had a map, after all.

  Then it occurred to Jake that the military likely had to use various routes, ever changing, patrolling constantly to make sure the roadways were safe for the convoys. They would know far better than he which route to take, so it made more sense to stick with them for now. At least he was under the protection of the Humvee’s .50 caliber mounted machine gun driving ahead of him.

  A blink of light caught Jake’s attention, and he peered ahead through the rain to see two brief flashes and then two more from the back of the Humvee. He wrinkled his brow in confusion, and repeated, “two, two.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “Two, two? Do they mean twenty-two?”

  Reaching over to the passenger seat, Jake felt around until he found the two-way radio they’d left for him. He brought it up in front of his face so he could watch the road while he turned it on. It snapped to life in a burst of static, then he quickly tuned the channel to twenty-two where the line was clear.

  Immediately, the banter of the soldiers in the caravan blasted through the tiny speaker, and Jake turned the volume down and set the radio in the center console between the seats.

  “…re-routed through Hartford since the crawlers blew up the Baldwin Bridge in Old Lyme.”

  “That’s an hour delay, for certain.”

  “Damn crawlers,” a soldier’s light, young voice cut in. “Wish we could wipe them out.”

  “I hope they try us again,” came the gruff voice of a second soldier. “We’ll hit them so hard, by the time they’re done rolling, they’ll be dead. If any of you crawlers are listening, we’re coming after you!”

  Jake chuckled at the soldiers’ ent
husiasm, though it certainly wasn’t the highly disciplined attitude he’d seen back in the FEMA camp. The news about some bridge being blown up was alarming, though the soldiers seemed to take it in stride.

  “Hey, you think the new guy has caught on yet?” the first soldier asked.

  “No idea,” came the gruff reply. “Hey, new guy? You on here?”

  Jake picked up the radio and pressed the talk button. “I’m here.”

  “Oh, baby!”

  “Hey, new guy!

  “Hi guys,” Jake said, then added nervously, “Are we having fun yet?”

  “You bet we are.” The first soldier’s voice seemed firm, but Jake noted a hint of shakiness to it.

  “We always have fun on the Highway 81 Run,” the second, gruffer voice replied. “Toughest run on the map.”

  “Do you get attacked much on these runs?” Jake asked.

  “At least once a run,” the first soldier confirmed. “It’s all fun and games on the 81 Run.”

  “Good old 81 Run. Rains lead every day and night.”

  “Sure to cause a fright,” the first soldier quickly followed, his voice more piping and nervous with each response. “But we always do it right.”

  “What do they hit you with?” Jake pressed them. “Small arms fire?”

  “Oh, no, man,” the first soldier said. “We get it all. Rockets, grenades, IEDs, and everything in between.”

  “Great,” Jake said to himself as a dry smile spread across his lips. The speed and desperation at which the soldiers conversed made his head spin. “How many trips does this convoy make?”

  “We’re on the road at least once a week, friend.”

  Jake shook his head. The soldiers were bold and brash, entirely overconfident, and Jake couldn’t blame them. They put their lives on the line a lot, making trips up and down the dangerous highway. He was sure the stress wore on them. He muttered to himself, “No wonder they talk like borderline psychopaths.”

  And the knowledge that they could get hit at any moment with a variety of weapons didn’t help Jake’s already jittery nerves. He found himself glancing out the side windows for signs of activity, and their progress seemed to drag even more.