The Whisper Box

by Olivieri, Roger

  She smiled, revealing her white beautiful teeth and whispered, “I'll keep my mouth shut. Good luck to you. I'll be watching for you on CNN.” She began to drive off.

  Aaron walked into the airport and went straight to the gift shop. He had to clean himself up before drawing more attention, but first he had to buy basic personal hygiene products. He walked into the nearest gift shop, hoping that he would blend into the small crowd. The other customers floated around him, in a daze, looking at the magazine shelf, and the Gamecock hats, as they passed the time waiting for their flights. He picked out some hair gel, a cheap toothbrush and toothpaste, a disposable razor and some aspirin.

  When he got to the bathroom he thoroughly washed his body. There was not much activity at the airport, so he had some degree of privacy. He gave himself a much closer shave, as the one in the parking lot was very sloppy because they were rushing. He put a glob of gel in his freshly bleached and washed hair. He, then, glared into the mirror and actually liked what he saw. He was a handsome, younger looking blonde man. He decided he might even keep this look after this whole mess was over.

  13

  McFarland Hart and his new friend, John Harris, had both fallen asleep. John was the first to wake up. He shook McFarland, who was lying next to the fireplace. It had been the most comfortable sleep that he'd had in days. It was only two in the morning. Mac wanted to wake up periodically though, to watch the news and check the computer for e-mail.

  Mac's eyes opened slowly. He rolled over onto his broken shoulder before he was awake enough to realize what he was doing. Shooting pains through his back and neck brought him out of his sleep. He groaned loudly as he squinted at the fire.

  John continued to shake his foot, “C'mon buddy I know you want to get up and watch some television and check your e mail. I also found some new boots that'll probably fit you better. Get up.”

  Mac looked over at the kind man who had taken him in. Thinking how lucky he was to have met this man in the middle of the woods, he responded, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Why is this happening to me?”

  Mac checked the television first, but heard nothing new. The First Lady had died in bizarre fashion. The President was grieving, and no one had heard from Laura Greene. He watched for a few minutes until John reminded him about the e-mail he had sent to the man at CNN. Mac sprung up, almost immediately revitalized. Within seconds, he was at the computer, eyes fixed, and obviously alert. Mac clicked on the Internet icon. The forty-five seconds it took for the computer to connect to the Internet seemed like forty-five minutes. He clicked on his Outlook Express button. The computer went to work for Mac. The words across the top of the e-mail window were the same as always, Scanning, Searching, Authorizing, Checking, and then it paused. If there were no mail it would tell Mac “No New Messages,” however, if there were messages coming through it would notify him with “Receiving 1 of 1,” or whatever. The pause, like the connection process, dragged on. Finally, the words Mac yearned for appeared on the screen: “Receiving 1 of 1.”

  Mac called out to John. “Here we go, buddy!”

  The message downloaded before old man Harris could get to his friend's side. Mac read it quickly and intently. Grant Winchester was indeed interested in hearing from Mac. Furthermore, another man also had some serious information implicating the President. Mac scribbled down Grant's beeper number. He was going to page this Savior and, hopefully, put an end to all of this now.

  Four gunshots rang out and sent Mac blasting back into reality. Mac looked up at John, who was now lying on the floor beside him, and asked where the guns were.

  “They are behind the front desk. There are also some in my office in the case on the wall. They should all be loaded.”

  Mac sprang up and ran towards John's office.

  John was shaking feverishly. “Mac, I don't want to die. These guys are probably professionals. I can't handle this!”

  Mac was deliberate. “Johnny, if you don't get off your ass and grab some guns, you don't have a chance! Don't worry about me, just protect yourself and shoot to kill!”

  Mac continued towards John's office. He noticed that John already had drawn his pistol. While Mac was in the back office he heard glass exploding everywhere in the next room. He grabbed two guns and hit the floor with a thud. He was concerned about his elderly friend. “Johnny, you still with me?”

  Another long pause, like the computer connection, until finally he heard, “Yes, I'm fine, but you better get your ass out here!”

  Mac crawled across the floor to a spot from which he could scope the big, open room. The latest goons sent from the White House were blowing out all the windows with a fusillade. John was crouched down on the floor, behind the television stand. Bullets, glass, couch stuffing, wood and hair from the deer heads mounted on the wall flew everywhere.

  It took an endless two minutes for the firing to stop. Mac whispered to John just loud enough for John to hear him. “Do not fire back! Let them think they killed us.”

  Obviously, the shooters outside were not sure and began shooting again for another thirty seconds, at least. Thirty seconds of open firearms seemed like a day and a half. Mac noticed John praying now. Then Mac saw John clutch his chest and feared the worst.

  He questioned John's action. “Johnny, you OK over there? I see you grabbing your chest.”

  John answered him in a sheepish voice. “Yes sir, I'm good, just shitting in my pants, that's all.”

  Mac wanted to laugh, but he could not. The bullets stopped again.

  Mac could now hear two men talking outside. “You throw one in your window, I'll throw one in mine.”

  Mac's heart almost cracked through his rib cage. He began to pray that he would not see a grenade come through the windows, but nothing would surprise him now. Before he had time to notice one, he was crawling across the floor to John, where he told him, “They are about to blow this place to hell. Is there some sort of back exit, or bomb shelter in the basement? Anything?”

  John stuttered as he spoke. “The basement steps are over there.” John pointed even closer to the front door. Then he added, “If we go down there we can leave through the back door.”

  Mac assumed it would be a basement with a double door that is on the ground in the backyard. When the doors opened steps leading into the basement appeared. Mac did not miss a beat, “Let's go then. Run quick on three.”

  He made eye contact with John. His look told a story, one that let the old man know that he already loved him and knew that they could make it.

  “One, Two, Three!” John flew up from behind the television stand.

  Just then Mac saw what was coming through the window out of the corner of his eye. He turned to get a better look. It looked like a grenade at first, but it was not. It was a tear gas device. Then he heard more gunshots and turned around just in time to see his friend John Harris go down.

  John was just ahead of Mac. Mac almost tripped over him. He knew he had to stop and help him. He fell to the floor next to John. He was completely flat against the floor now, cheek and all.

  “Johnny, did you just get hit? Can you get to the basement?” Mac was panicking.

  John, whose cheek was also pressed to the floor with his arms extended in front of him, answered slowly, “Yeah, partner, I'll be OK, just kinda' took the wind out of my sails for a second. The bastard got me in the rear-end.”

  The steps were only five feet away now, so the men decided to crawl the rest of the way.

  The tear gas was already filling the room and both felt the burning sensation begin to affect their eyes. John began to cough, as did Mac. Both men were rushing for the exit, reaching it at the same time. As they got to the steps, they just let the weight of their bodies take them down. They rolled over and then across each other. Mac's forearm caught John's inner elbow causing John to stumble and take Mac with him. This was not done on purpose.

  John bled all over Mac on the way down the steps. Based on the amount of blood he saw, Mac knew his frie
nd was going to die. The gunshot wound was on his buttocks and they really needed to run. He knew he could not tie a bandage around the rear end. Running would only increase the blood flow, or blood loss as the case may be. Sooner or later his friend would have to sit and take a breather. It would be then that he would either be too tired to continue, choosing to lie there until he bled to death, or be found by the gunmen who would kill him. Mac had to mentally prepare himself to leave his comrade in the woods to die.

  Mac asked John if he could continue. John returned a hesitant grunt that could have meant anything.

  “Are there any flashlights down here? I'm assuming it's gonna get pretty dark out there in them woods?”

  John stared at Mac with his glassy eyes. It was extremely dark in the basement, but his watery eyes almost gleamed through the darkness. “I don't think there are any flashlights down here buddy. Listen, I'm gonna' die tonight. I'd rather die down here where I'm warm than out there in the woods. Go on, get out of here McFarland Hart.”

  Mac's eyes began to swell with tears. He had expected as much, just not so soon. “You can't go on?”

  John Harris shook his head. “No sir, but the pleasure has been all mine, get outta' here.”

  Mac patted his friend on the head. John pointed to the far end of the basement. “The door is straight ahead. Just keep walking straight. You'll bump into the stairs. You walk up about five steps and reach up. You'll feel the latch. Turn it to your right and push up. Go now!” With those words, McFarland said a small prayer, asking God to forgive John for all of his sins and then disappeared in the darkness.

  They appeared about twenty feet from where John lay, both wearing gas masks. One moved towards the exit door that Mac just ran through. The other turned around and claimed his prize.

  “Right here, man. He's right here!” The other killer stopped and turned towards his partner. They were both facing John Harris now.

  John looked up at them both and said, “Hiya' fellas, I'm assuming this is where I get shot, huh?”

  Mac appeared from the shadows at the other end of the basement. The door he just opened shed enough light in the basement for John to see his friend fire a single shot towards the men standing over him. One man dropped to the floor. The other man jumped behind the staircase.

  John yelled out, “Thank you! Now get outta here!”

  As Mac headed up the staircase he heard a single gunshot. This gunshot, unfortunately, was not meant for him. He heard no ricochet below him. Obviously, it was the bullet that just killed his friend Mr. Harris, the fine old forest ranger who had saved his life.

  This was like a game of checkers. What had been two on two was now one on one. Mac sucked up the tears and headed into the woods. He could see nothing. The man who had been paid to kill him would be emerging from those same steps within seconds. Mac ran to the closest, biggest tree he could find and lunged behind it. The last thing on his mind was another battle with a snake. He leaned out from around the tree and saw a man rise from the basement steps. Mac warned him of his gun expertise.

  “I won four state titles at University of Hartford in rifling. I can take you out from two hundred yards, man. Do NOT press your Goddamn luck!”

  There was silence. Mac had no idea where that tall tale came from, but it must have worked. He looked off to his far left and saw John Harris's Patriot Blue Jeep Cherokee glistening under the moon. The four gunshots they had heard originally, had pierced each tire. He was definitely going to be traveling on foot tonight.

  His plan was to wait in the woods for at least an hour or two to make sure the survivor with the bad attitude left. After that, he planned to run back into the basement, retrieve the dead man's gas mask, place it over his head, and go back upstairs to pack a bag with the supplies he would need for a few days in the woods. Even if he could not find many supplies he could at least grab more guns and ammunition. Unfortunately, he had to abandon this strategy when the bullet zipped through the air and hit the tree he was hiding behind. Mac stood straight up as his chest and heart began pounding again. He could not determine what direction the bullet came from. A flashlight was now lighting up the woods he was standing in. The circular light floated back and forth across the woods.

  His first thought was to run straight ahead deeper into the woods. It was so dark, however, and he really wanted to try to avoid the darkness at all costs. He needed to kill the man who was shooting at him and get out of this part of the woods before any associates showed up to help finish the job. Mac looked around for as far as he could see. Not knowing where the bullet came from really derailed his thought process.

  Mac decided that the only way to learn the general location of his attacker was to stick his head out from behind the tree. He would keep it there until the man using the flashlight spotted him. If he did not locate him with the light, Mac would stick his head out on the other side of the tree to see what would happen. This would enable Mac to figure out which side of the cabin the man was firing from. The angle of the bullet and the sound of where it was coming from would help him decide. The problem would be beating the bullet. The instant the flashlight found Mac he would have to anticipate the bullet before pulling his head back so that the bullet would miss its target. He took a deep breath.

  First, he whipped his head around the right side of the tree. Almost immediately there was a gunshot. The shotgun blast startled Mac so much that he almost jumped out from behind the tree. The gunshots, which Mac was getting used to by now, mimicked the sound of thunder. They crackled out of the gun barrel, zipped through air, and then destroyed their targets. Mac was unnerved, but still relieved that his experiment had worked. The gunman had to be on the same side of the cabin. His plan now required him to swing out from behind the tree on the left side and start firing in the vicinity of the right side of the house. He took another deep breath.

  As Mac swung around the opposite side of the tree to fire, another shot rang out. A thunderbolt came slicing through the air, but it did not hit the tree. Instead, it opened up a painful gash in Mac's right arm. The bullet had only grazed him, but had, nonetheless, done some serious damage. Now furious, he swung back behind the tree, ripped his sleeve off his shirt and tied it as tight as he could around the wound. He could not tie the sleeve too tight because of the broken shoulder. He also had cuts from Laura's drop down staircase outside her apartment. Now, he had to contend with a bleeding right biceps.

  Mac was perplexed by the new riddle he was faced with. This tree he was hiding behind was one of the biggest trees he had ever seen. How could anyone see him from both sides? Either there were two gunmen or the man was standing straight ahead. Without even thinking Mac swung back around and fired four shots straight ahead at the cabin door. This time there was no answer; there were no return shots. As Mac looked back around the tree, he saw a man in a gas mask stumble backward into the lit up cabin clutching his chest. There was a big bloodstain on the wall behind him. Mac knew he had just killed him as he watched him drop below the level of the door.

  Mac had to get inside the house to find more ammunition, more food, and any other items he could find to help him. This was starting to seem like it was going to be another long night of defending himself against gunmen and nature. He stood there for a second, making sure he did not hear any more noise from the house. Noise would indicate a second gunman helping his wounded partner or the man on the ground struggling to get up. He had to be absolutely certain that there was no movement in the cabin. Just when he was about to turn and walk towards the house, he was overcome with tremendous fear. He would be out in the open for fifty yards. If there were someone up there waiting for him to show himself, he would be a slow moving target that would surely be hit. He felt weak from fear in spite of the adrenaline pumping through his body. Mac could not just run off into the woods. There was too much to gain by going back to the cabin.

  Mac stood there for fifteen minutes or so, reflecting on his life. He gave a great deal of consideration to t
he last few days. Rattling and slithering about fifteen feet away interrupted his thoughts. He decided then, and only then, that it was time to head back for the cabin.

  He took off in a sprint. His heart was pounding throughout his entire body. His nerves actually hurt because his body was filled with terror. He never took his eyes off the cabin-door. Every ten steps or so he would look at the windows, hoping not to see someone standing there with a rifle aimed at his head. Seeing nothing of the sort, he kept running as fast as he could.

  McFarland Hart was a decent athlete as a young man, his strongest attribute was his speed. One day, when he was ten years old, a neighbor's German shepherd chased him. Mac raced down the street and blew away this young, healthy German shepherd. The dog actually gave up. Mac never forgot how he had felt that day. He always remembered the feeling he got that day. Still, as hard as he had tried, throughout the rest of his teen years, he could not match that speed. He tried so many different ways, like pretending he was scared when he played baseball, but that feeling never returned. Tonight he found that speed again. He realized it was an extra gear that the body reserved only for true, intense, self-preserving fear. As his body kicked into overdrive, he felt as if he were flying through the sky. He could have still outrun that German shepherd.

  He approached the entrance to the house and stopped to the left of the door. He looked inside and saw no one; except the body lying on the floor. Mac decided against going into the basement for the gas mask on the first dead man. It was too dark down there and opened up too many options for the unexpected. If he got to the cabin and took the second dead gunman's mask before the gas really affected him, he would be fine. Also, he was not sure if he could handle the sight of John Harris's dead body in the basement. It would weaken him emotionally and he needed every form of strength right now. Besides, the man he had just shot still had his gas mask hanging around his neck.

  He went right in the door that he had shot the second man through. The gas was still lingering in the air, though not as potent as before. He worked on the dead man's gas mask. He noticed that the shot had struck him right below the throat. Mac was extremely lucky to have even hit this man, let alone right below the throat.