Dawn crept in, pinks and oranges mixing softly with whites and creams. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t hear my mom the rest of the night.
I shifted my head from the side of the gun I had ended up using as a makeshift pillow.
Where had Mom gone? Why wasn’t she by me and why hadn’t the men gotten me too?
Another sound, like the scuffing of a heavy boot on rocks drew my attention to the right of my hiding place. I crept backward a few more inches. The bush might not be large enough to cover me. What if my feet hung out the other side?
My fingers hurt from holding the firearm so long. I switched to the other hand, my fingers tight and crooked, almost numb.
A cough and more dragging and footfalls held my stare like a crash site. I couldn’t look away from the approximate spot the noise came from.
Something crawled along the back of my hand. I swallowed my shriek and brushed it off without passing out. Bugs. I hated bugs. Oh, man, how I hated them. A shiver skimmed down my neck. Yes, a shiver, a shiver, a shiver. Please not another bug. Please. Oh, please.
Braden used to throw fake ones over the curtains while I stood in the shower. Wow, that was just two years ago. A wave of sadness engulfed me as I struggled to stay calm.
Then, as if magically conjured, two men appeared on the edge of the clearing. Between them they dragged what I could only assume was Mom. My mom. And she wasn’t conscious. Her head bobbed with each step and they dragged her over the uneven ground. Each had a hold of an arm.
I bit my lip, intent on them not seeing me, like my own will determined what people saw or didn’t see. Was she still alive?
The man closest to me stopped short and kicked at the ground. “Are you sure she came from this way?” His deep low tones could’ve been on a radio.
“Look, man, I know what I saw. She can’t be alone. If she is? She won’t be without supplies. She’s gotta be worth something, either way.” The second man tugged on Mom’s arm like a tow-strap. “Come on. She’s not light.”
I held my breath as they passed five feet from me. From my angle, Mom’s discolored face tore through me. His last line – she’s not light – filled me with rage. Like my mom was a bag or animal or something. She could be annoying, but she wasn’t heavy for crying out loud. She was my mom!
Clenching the butt of the gun until my knuckles cracked, I closed my eyes when they left my view. What was I going to do? I couldn’t leave her with them. She needed me. Was I going to sit there and wait for more bugs to crawl on me?
One, two, three… I found the pace of my pulse and counted… eight, nine, ten. A trick I learned running. Find my pulse or my footsteps and keep time. Let the numbers do their thing. Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one.
When I reached one-hundred, I Army-crawled from beneath the bushes and leaves. Standing, I brushed at every inch of my head, back, chest, legs, and arms I could reach. Everything got a shake down. Nothing was going to harbor any bugs. I’d read about ticks and other things. I shuddered, pulling my shoulders back and thrusting my chin forward.
The balaclava had helped me keep the majority of them out of my hair. For a while anyway, that thing wasn’t coming off.
With a jostle to position the packs higher on my back, I headed off in the direction the men had disappeared. Gripping the gun, I couldn’t help the small tic of my pointer finger tapping the trigger guard. Muzzle down, I wouldn’t hit anything important, but the movement made me confident since I had a gun so handy.
Oh, but even if I was really great – like the greatest shot ever – I would still only hit like twenty-five percent of my targets. Even at the gun range, I only ever hit five percent. Five percent! I didn’t stand a chance. Especially if the men moved.
Uncertainty faltered my footsteps and I stumbled like an actual object had jumped out and tripped me.
Grabbing the nearest tree trunk, I leaned against the rough bark for a brief moment. What was I doing? Come on, Kelly. Come on. Mom knew this could happen. We prepared for everything. Even how to survive alone, if we had to.
Mom hadn’t covered how to track on our campouts, though, and that particular skill wasn’t exactly something the school district had included in their curriculum.
I fiddled with the paracord bracelet my mom made me wear all the time. Fitted with a magnifying glass and compass, the intricate braiding wended over a half-razor blade and a needle. My survival jewelry. Wasn’t I cool? Fat lot of good it did me.
Hopefully I wouldn’t get close enough to the men I would be able to use a dang razor.
A fine sweat beaded my forehead. Not enough to make me remove the balaclava. No way.
Somehow their voices had faded. What if I had lost them while holding that dang tree up?
I stepped forward, hands reaching for the straps at my shoulders. I had to make up some ground. Ten feet, fifteen feet passed, I stared at the grass and dark, wet leaves as I placed my boots one in front of the other. If I kept the fear at bay, I would be able to find her and help. If I gave in, I would sit down and cry like a dang baby and lose her for good.
Why couldn’t I hear them?
Right then, one of the men laughed, like a braying donkey and I jerked backwards beside a new tree. Ducking behind the branches, I peered toward the direction of the noise and breathed deep with relief? Or fear, but I wouldn’t admit that to anyone.
I had almost walked in on them.
Their clearing opened up abruptly from the thick forest. Tarps hung from ropes strung between trees. Attempts at a fire cluttered under an over-stacked fire pyramid even I could see wouldn’t start a smoke-out let alone a fire.
Red coolers stacked beside a five gallon water dispenser set up on a larger gray cooler.
The guys dropped Mom beside a tree, thankfully one closer to me and not on the other side of the larger clearing. They attacked the top cooler like a pack of ravenous wolves. Both emerged with a six-pack of canned beer.
Whooping and hollering, they skipped to two trunk-sized logs set on their ends around the makeshift fire pit.
I allowed myself to take inventory of as much of Mom as I could from my vantage point. She didn’t stir. Dirt smudged her forehead and nose. Her features had never seemed so delicate. She couldn’t help me or tell me what to do. She wasn’t moving. What if I couldn’t wake her up? I couldn’t drag her out of there on my own. Not with our bags.
What was I going to do? Hopelessness created a hole inside me. What was I supposed to do?
Focus. Just focus. What did I need to do? First of all, I wouldn’t be able to do anything with both packs weighing me down. My lower back ached in protest at the thought.
Keeping my eye on the two men as they repeatedly raised cans to their mouths, I slowly slid the bags from my shoulders. I softly settled them under the branches of the tree I hid behind and straightened my back to stretch the tightness out.
Mom’s absolute stillness worried me. Even if I did get in there, how would I get her out while holding a gun on the men? This wasn’t the movies and I wasn’t a cop or anything spectacular. I was just me. What could I do?
Not much standing by the bags doing nothing.
I stood straighter with less weight and stretched my neck side to side. I could channel one of my favorite action stars and be like all tough or something. My inner cheek succumbed to my nervous nibbles and I inhaled shakily.
Okay, I could pretend to be something other than me. With my heart racing, I would try anything.
Both men tossed empty cans over their shoulders. I jumped as the aluminum hitting the ground tinged in the still air. Another beer in each man’s hands and they chugged those down, too.
While I’m standing there, nervous as all get out, they’re drinking. Drinking!
Come on, really? As soon as the second cans join the first round, the third can was opened and draining. Like a race. Maybe the alcohol would hit them soon and they would fall asleep or something.
But one stands up, third beer in hand, and heads toward
my mom. “Hey, Shane, let’s have some fun with this one.”
Fun? I wasn’t naïve. Men didn’t have any other concept of fun besides sex. I’d just never done it myself. Watching two men rape my mother wasn’t on my list of things to do before I died. Or she died.
Crap, no one was dying!
Before I could talk myself out of anything stupid or rash, I stepped out from behind the tree and aimed the gun at the men. I forced confidence into my voice and yelled. “Stop. Don’t touch her.”
They turned. Shane was slower to react. He couldn’t focus on me or anything, and his partner narrowed his eyes. “Well, well, well, a little one. Come on, little one. We’ll take you first. See what’s behind that mask.” He revealed teeth lined in gray. He stepped toward me, his lips drawn back in something I think he meant to pass off as a smile, but came off looking feral.
He tilted his head back and finished his drink, tossing the can to the side. He fumbled with his belt, eyes never straying from a direct line on me. His fingers moved to his zipper and button.
Disgusted, I glanced toward Shane.
The man with the undone pants took another step but I refused to back up.
Shane lurched toward my mom. He tottered above her but found his balance enough to draw back his foot and kick her in the ribs. For his sake, he better be drunk enough to not have much power in his efforts.
At the same time, the first jerk stepped again toward me.
I reached my final straw. My finger slid into place and I pulled, hard, more than ready for the kickback from the strong gun.
The shot firing resonated around the clearing, rebounding into the forest off a tree and another tree and another like a pinball machine.
Oh wow, had I just shot someone?
Chapter 5
Oh my word, oh my word, oh my word.
Blood dripped from the fallen man’s upper thigh. The copper scent warred with suddenly overwhelming pine. My senses heightened and I swear a fly buzzed somewhere off to my right.
I didn’t lower the gun because Shane didn’t move to help his friend. He stared with his mouth hanging open at the wound. His eyes flicked my direction then back to the guy crying on the ground.
Making men cry wasn’t on my daily to-do list, but it felt good in that instance. Jerks.
Gritting my teeth, I willed everything I had into stopping my hands from shaking. Seriously, stop, already. If I showed any weakness, he could tackle me. At least, I could picture him doing it. He hadn’t actually moved much since the beers and with the lack of focus in his expression, I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t partially harmless.
While the civilized part of me longed to say I’m sorry, I’m sorry, to the guy I shot, I couldn’t bring myself to move my mouth. Because I wasn’t. Not even enough that my civilized side could still be referred to as civilized. I wanted to be sorry. Wanted to be a good person who didn’t want to shoot people and who wanted to pray and have faith like my mom. I guarantee she would have forgiven them and not had to shoot anyone.
In fact, if honesty were my claim to greatness, I would say a bigger, meaner part of me wanted to shoot Shane twice as much as the other guy out of revenge for hurting Mom.
If that made me a bad person, I didn’t want to be a good one.
Mom moaned, drawing my attention and Shane’s. She turned her head back and forth on the ground, pieces of leaves and blades of grass clung to the waves of her still-mostly dark hair. Lashes fluttering, she stilled. Had she woken up? Was she aware or had she slipped away again?
Shane ignored me. He stepped toward her, outstretching his hands like he’d forgotten all about me. His swaying stopped but he had an unclear haze to his expression, like he couldn’t focus. When he bent over, arms still out, it didn’t matter if he was inebriated or not. I didn’t care about him and he became less human the closer he got to Mom.
Before he could touch her, I commanded in a low firm voice. “Don’t get any closer. I’ll shoot you.” And by all that was holy I would. My hands steadied and I aimed easily at his chest.
Heck, I already shot one guy – okay, it was an accident – but the act hadn’t been as bad as I expected. I might need to try again to see if it was a one-time thing or actually got easier with each one.
He froze, glancing over his shoulder to his friend still moaning and compressing his leg with tight fingers. Shane glared at me, narrowing his eyes. A weasely nose and narrowed jaw-line didn’t give me any reassurances he would stay put once we left. I had to tie him up.
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. I wouldn’t cry in front of them. I could control that much, but I just shot someone and my mom was in danger and I had no idea what I was doing.
Mom opened her eyes and stared at the man above her for one, two, thre—
She scrambled to her feet and backed up, taking in as much of the scene as she could in only a matter of heart beats. Once she perused everything around her, she side-stepped toward me, hand outstretched.
I tried ignoring the blood leaking from her nose and the horrific purple and blue bruising already coloring around her temple and upper cheekbone. In disarray, her hair only made her look more wild. My all-powerful mom had vulnerabilities and right then wasn’t the time to spot them.
When she got within reach, I gratefully handed the gun to her, keeping my eyes on the men in case they chose to try something. Nausea wrangled with my stomach and if I didn’t get out of there soon, I had a sinking sensation it was going to win.
“Back up, beside the other one.” One-handed, Mom motioned toward the downed would-be-abductor with the muzzle of the gun. With her other arm, she corralled me behind her and backed us out.
Shane moved slowly as if he couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. He stopped beside the guy who hadn’t stopped crying. The sound of a man crying in pain was more annoying than anything.
I’d never heard my dad cry, never thought of him as a crier and it hadn’t occurred to me that he might have lost some tears at the end.
“Shane, I think she hit my crotch, man.” The guy rocked back and forth with his hand pushed tight against his upper leg.
For the record, the outside of his leg is nowhere near his crotch.
I sighed, suddenly not so nauseated.
Shane didn’t take his eyes off us. Even glassy, his gaze didn’t flicker. So he couldn’t be too drunk. Seniors used to come like that to class. Idiots.
“If we see you again, we’ll shoot you where it counts.” Mom tilted her head, steady. “I don’t miss, either.” Under her breath, she muttered. “Go get their guns over by the tree. The two rifles. We might be able to use them. Hurry, we need to get going.”
First, I back up and grabbed the doubled-up backpacks and drew them onto my shoulders.
The tree supporting the weapons was past the men but I skirted the rounded edge of the clearing and reached it without going within arm’s reach of them.
With both backpacks on, grabbing the heavy guns wasn’t easy. But I lifted them and carried one leaning over each shoulder without complaint. Mom couldn’t carry them. At least not yet and I wasn’t going to take her for granted again – at least not in the immediate future.
In that moment, I’d gladly do whatever it took to get somewhere safe. With my mom.
The coppery scent of blood rode the morning breeze and I wrinkled my nose. A biology fact rose to the surface of my memory about sharks in the ocean. Something about smelling a drop of blood from a mile away. I couldn’t remember if they had a predator with those capabilities in the northwestern forests. If we did, well, Shane and his buddy weren’t going to do very well.
I reached my mom. Resolving to keep my mouth shut and not argue, I backed up until I was behind Mom again and followed her lead as we backed out of the clearing.
If the men survived, I had a sinking sensation, we would see them again. They would no longer be the prey lying like bait for any predator to come along. Instead, they would be like sharks and their revenge wouldn’t b
e glorious or natural.
That didn’t make tomorrow look any brighter.
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The End
Copyright © 2018 Bonnie R. Paulson/Captiva Publishing, LLC/B.R. Paulson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Find Them: an apocalyptic survival thriller (180 Days and Counting... series Book 6) Page 13