Outside the Fire

by Boyd Craven

  “Oh snap. This is…a…uhmm…my dad was talking about this.”

  “An emergency fall-back location with supplies,” Steve said, and pointed off to the side, a few feet away.

  Pallets cut in half lined the rest of the twenty-foot wall. The amount of food inside of here wasn’t as much as at the church, but it looked to be quite a bit in Joseph’s eyes. It wasn’t all food though. There were water-cooler jugs full of water in those funny plastic crates and what looked like camping supplies. The sound of a compressor kicking on had him turn and look. A dehumidifier kicked on in a far corner. It had a small diameter hose running from it to a small floor drain.

  Joseph turned, looking in amazement and then walked over, pushing shut the door they had come in. When he did, he saw the heavy hinges on the side of the door they were on and then saw the heavy bolts to lock the door from the inside. He tested one out and then unlocked it in awe. Turning he took another look and then walked to the far side and started looking in the camp gear.

  “You even have a chemical toilet,” he said.

  “Yeah well, it’s a work in progress. If anything were to ever truly get scary, we’re hoping to pull a car in here, close the door and disappear. Even if they follow us here, they would have to get the unit opened and then find this false wall,” Steve told the kid, feeling vindicated that he had done something clever.

  “If you’re not in there though and they saw you come in, wouldn’t they start looking for hidden doors and stuff?”

  “Come on short stuff, let me show you,” Amber said, patting him on the shoulder.

  Joseph followed her back to where the truck was and she lowered the tailgate. Then she climbed up and reached up over her head and pulled on a rope hanging about eighteen inches from the ceiling. An attic ladder pulled down and she unfolded half of it, letting the rest of the stairs sit on the tailgate.

  “Come on,” she said and started jimmying up the ladder.

  Steve almost told her to stop, the wood was going to scratch the paint, but they were already up before he could start to protest. He saw both sets of legs sitting on the edge and heard Amber explaining to Joseph about the paths they had walked in the dust up there across the flimsy plywood so it looked like they went out at the far end of the building.

  “Man, with an attic access like that, you could get into any of these units,” he said as he climbed down the ladder.

  “Yeah, and we want to give them the best excuse to go to the far end. There’s an open unit down there that’s unlocked with another attic access door.”

  “Oh man, but what if somebody else rents it out?”

  “Amber’s the one who planned this escape route, why don’t you ask her?” Steve said grinning as she finished her decent and was already folding the ladder back up.

  “Well, daddy already had two units. The big one to hide the truck and store some stuff, which we probably will…then the hidden room. I figured if he had two, why not more? So I asked if we could rent one near the end. We left it unlocked and open.”

  “What if somebody comes in cuz that one’s unlocked and goes up through the attic and comes in here?” he asked.

  She pointed and then he understood. The same heavy bolts that held the secret room safe were installed on the inside of this unit.

  “You’re pretty smart. You sure you and Matt are pretty tight?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” Steve asked, jokingly bristling.

  “No Dad, he doesn’t…I mean…we’re just friends….”

  “Uh huh, nice save,” Steve said with a growl, but he was actually grinning inside.

  “Want to help me unload the truck?” Amber asked hopping off and all but running for the hidden room.

  “She’s a little too old for you,” Steve told him in a softer tone.

  “Oh, I know. She did something nice for me once. I know I’m in the friend zone, but I figure she’d appreciate feeling…wanted? Even if both of us know it’d never go anywhere.”

  “Damn. You’re smarter than I was when I was younger.”

  “How long ago was that?” Joseph asked.

  “I didn’t think I figured that one out till last year.”

  Steve was sitting on the back patio, but had no plans on doing it for long. Late summer was hot and muggy and the bugs were horrible. Instead, he was sipping on a beer and listening for the low growl that indicated Amber was coming back. It gave him a little time to think and his back to rest.

  “Hey Dad, Uncle Dewey’s pig had babies. Can we go over and see them?” Amy asked, sipping on a lemonade like the world’s most sophisticated almost-ten-year old that she was.

  “I don’t see why not—”

  A loud horn went off, and stayed honking. Steve put his beer down and listened, trying to get a fix on it. One long, loud note. He turned in a circle and then realized that it was coming from behind his house, towards Dwight’s farm.

  “Tell your mom to call Uncle Dewey; tell her I’m heading over.”

  “I want to come with you,” Amy said standing up.

  “No, there’s trouble. Stay here, I don’t want you to get hurt,” Steve said.

  “Dad—”

  “Do it,” Steve yelled as he flipped his chair over backwards in his attempt to get away from the table.

  He heard the back door open and for Angela to call out his name and then Amy talking to his mom just as he opened the back gate. He didn’t pause to latch it, instead took off on a run down the path he took towards his friend’s house. He patted his side, feeling the comforting weight of the compact .45 he’d taken to carrying over the Colt to see if it was still there. It was, and for the first time in years, Steve Taylor broke into a dead run.

  It had been a while, and he’d forgotten about the alarm system he’d helped to ad hoc for Dwight. Bugs seemed to bounce off his face like they would splatter on your windshield when driving down the road, but he kept going. He made a left turn around a section of uncut corn and saw a figure in the most unseasonable looking white hoody running full out with two fuel cans, one for each hand. The figure was looking behind him, back towards Dwight’s when Steve lowered his shoulder. The two hit just as Steve had planned, but what he’d forgotten in all his years, was how much it hurt to tackle somebody without pads.

  The breath was almost knocked out of him as both men’s feet left the ground. He heard a scream of pain as the man in the white hoody took the hit to his breadbasket. Both of them hit the ground with Steve more or less on top, his shoulder, chest, and neck sore from the full body impact. Shouts in the distance alerted him that somebody somewhere was coming, but all he could concentrate on was the sounds of heavy breathing, the snarled curses and arms that were swinging metal fuel cans at his head. One hit Steve in the temple, and he saw stars, but it didn’t stop him from swinging a right fist into the hooded figures face once, twice, a third time, and the figure went limp, his arms dropping the fuel cans.

  Steve stood up slowly, feeling his temple where he was a hit. His hand came back with a smear of crimson, and he sat down hard as the dizziness made his eyes cross.

  “Daddy!” Amy screamed.

  He looked up and saw Amy about a hundred yards in front of Angela, both of them running full out. A moan below him turned his attention back as the figure moved and pulled the hood back to vomit on the grass. He recognized the figure now. Billy Wilson, the neighbor’s nineteen-year-old layabout. Two older metal fuel cans had been discarded, one of them dented pretty good. Steve flopped back onto his butt and drew the pistol, but didn’t point it.

  His bell was rung pretty hard, and he was seeing double.

  “Don’t shoot, Yankee!” Dwight’s voice called out.

  Steve looked up and tried to talk.

  “That’s all right—”

  “Jesus, what’d he do to you?” Dwight asked, walking up close, almost out of breath.

  “Hit me with the can,” Steve said, holding his left hand up to his temple and holstered his pistol.

&
nbsp; He could see two of the old farmer, and he had his broomstick with him.

  “Daddy!” Amy yelled and slid to a stop a foot away.

  “You ok?” Angela asked a moment later, a little out of breath as she slid to a stop next to Billy.

  “Yeah, hit me with the can. Had to thump him to make him stop swinging,” Steve told them, pulling at his shirt.

  “No, Hoss, lay down,” Dwight said, pushing Steve back and pulling what looked like a clean handkerchief from his center bib pocket.

  It was still folded crisply, like it was new out of the package. Dwight folded it again and handed it to Steve. With sticky fingers, he took it and pressed it against the red-hot feeling wound on his temple.

  Air whooshed out of Angela’s mouth when he removed his hand. “You’re going to need stitches,” she told him. “I’m calling 911.”

  “Tell them to send two. I’m concussed, and I’m pretty sure I busted up Billy Wilson,” Steve said, seeing double again.

  He started slumping backward when Amy got behind him on her knees and pressed herself against her dad’s back.

  “You’re going to get messy, Little Bit,” Steve told her.

  “Daddy, I got you. Just don’t go to sleep. Remember in Ohio when I hit my head learning to ride my bike?”

  “Yeah, baby,” Steve admitted.

  “Now, you need our help. Now, don’t go to sleep, or I’ll have Uncle Dewey and Mom turn the hose on you.”

  Dwight rolled Billy over, out of the growing pile of puke. He could see the entire side of his face swelling, his right eye a slit. Already the area around the eye and nose were turning purple.

  “Sheriff and ambulance are on the way,” Angela said smiling at the sight of her little princess doctoring her dad.

  Steve wanted to be strong for the girls, but he was so dizzy. He knew he was scaring them, but trying to stay awake, trying to focus on Amy’s murmurs, was taking every bit of concentration he had.

  “Don’t sleep,” Amy said.

  “Trying not to puke. Dizzy,” Steve admitted.

  “Then keep talking to me, Dad,” she said.

  “I’ll open them in a minute,” Steve said, his eyes closing.

  The Sheriff and two deputies responded. The Sheriff took a general statement from Dwight and Angela, then left to go let the Wilson’s know their son was heading to the hospital.

  “We need to take your statement, Mr. Taylor,” Deputy Lucy Javier said, a woman who looked to be of Italian or Greek descent.

  Her partner was Deputy Ron Lewis, who had performed first aid on Steve while they waited for the ambulance.

  “Sure,” Steve said.

  “Doesn’t he need a lawyer?” Dwight asked.

  “That depends. I just want a general overview, like the Sheriff got, but from your words.”

  “Can it wait?” Steve asked.

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t. That kid might be nineteen, but it looks like you broke his eye socket. I’d rather have something on record now, instead of letting the prosecuting attorney pick and choose who the aggressor was.”

  “It started with people stealing my fuel,” Dwight started to tell her, but she waved him off.

  “Ok, so it started with Mr. Abbott’s fuel farm. People were stealing gasoline and diesel?”

  “Yes,” Steve said. “He got some locks, but they got cut once and I told him I knew a cheap way to make an alarm, so we did. I heard the alarm go off and ran over to see what’s going on. That’s when I ran into Billy, literally. He hit me with that metal gas can, and I punched him.”

  “How many times would you say?” Lucy asked.

  “Twice as he was hitting me with the gas cans, then the third time to knock him out. I’m getting too old to take a beating like that.”

  Steve had twisted in pain and his shirt rode up. Deputy Lewis made a Pssst sound and nodded towards Steve’s waist.

  “Mister Taylor, you’re armed.” It was a statement rather than a question.

  “Yes ma’am. I have a license for it. If you’d like to take possession for my safety or yours—”

  “If you don’t mind,” she said looking at Amy who was still propping her dad up, though he didn’t need it anymore, then looked to Angela.

  “Go ahead,” Angela said, “My husband is a gentle soul. He wouldn’t have offered, if he didn’t mean it.”

  Deputy Javier slowly reached over and undid the small strap over the top of the .45 and then pulled it out with two fingers and handed it back to her partner.

  “So, while you were getting beaten with two gas cans, you didn’t use a weapon? You didn’t pistol whip him?”

  “No, ma’am,” Steve said. “But when I had him down I did draw it for a moment when I realized how bad a shape I was in. I know I’ve at least got a little bit of a concussion.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, squatting in front of him.

  “Because there’s two of you,” Steve admitted.

  She held a finger up in front of his face, like she would a sobriety test and then stood up and walked back to her partner. They spoke quietly and then nodded. He removed the magazine, worked the slide and caught the ejected shell. He put it in the top of the mag and then walked over to Steve and offered the gun to Angela.

  “Hospitals won’t allow this inside, ma’am. He should be checked out. So far, looks like a case of self-defense on your husband’s end, in my opinion. If for whatever reason we need more information. We’ll be in touch.”

  “That’s it?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah, I think once we see how well William Wilson is faring, we’ll be booking him for assault and battery, criminal trespass, and anything else I can throw at the little shithead.”

  “That’s not a nice word,” Amy said, though she was fighting off a giggle.

  “Sorry about that, little ma’am,” Deputy Lucas said tipping his hat in her direction. “I forget myself sometimes. That kid’s a trouble maker, so you don’t have nothing to do with him, you hear me?”

  Steve could feel his daughter’s chin on the back of his head as she nodded.

  “Anything to worry about? We’re neighbors with the Wilson’s.”

  “Nothing specific, but he’s been caught doing petty stuff: shoplifting, have a report that one of his high school teachers said he followed her and tried looking in her windows. Nothing horrible, just a boy who’s not had enough parental guidance if you get my meaning.”

  “His parents are a menace, just like he is,” Steve told him simply.

  “Well, we’ll sit here with you till the second ambulance comes.”

  “I’m riding with Dad, Mom, you should call Amber and bring her with you.”

  Steve tried not to laugh, it hurt too much. Gremlins were now working behind his eyeballs, forehead, temples, and the back of his brain, and they were all using supercharged jackhammers. Despite the nauseating dizziness and pain, it was still funny how bossy and protective the littlest of the family became when he got hurt.

  “You know, Deputies,” Angela said, as she could hear the approach of a new set of sirens, “we’ve had issues with Billy watching us out of his window upstairs, too. Could you talk to him about it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” both chorused.

  CHAPTER 14

  Two weeks passed in a flurry. Pastor Johnson himself finished the pickups from Sam’s the week that he was laid up while he recovered from his concussion, putting supplies at the church and the large storage unit. A nice set of stitches was put in and removed, and his temple went from bruised to now differing colors of yellow and brown in spots. Billy Wilson, upon discharge from the hospital, was arrested and taken to the county lockup. Twice, the Taylors had to call the police on Clark Wilson, who would go into screaming fits of rage whenever he saw Steve outside. The last incident, his wife Sarah had to pull him back from the Taylor’s property where Steve stood patiently.

  The Wilson’s didn’t understand the situation in any rational matter that Steve could get through to them. T
heir son had been trespassing on property he didn’t have permission to be on, he was caught in the act of a crime, and was hurt when he attacked Steve. His clothing choice in the hot Georgia heat had all but removed any doubt that he wasn’t a choirboy. He’d been clearly trying to hide his identity. That’s why the Taylors weren’t surprised to get another notice from the HOA.

  This time, the four of the Taylors, Dwight, and another two individuals they invited were to meet up an hour before the appointed time. They had confirmed it with Jeff, because they didn’t want any shenanigans of time changes, and he’d angrily confirmed the time of the meeting.

  “So, who’s your guest?” Dwight whispered to Steve as they sat in the mostly empty meeting room at the clubhouse.

  “My lawyer, Sam Parish. The other’s a surprise,” Steve whispered back.

  Sam had chosen to sit a few rows ahead of them. He was dressed in a business casual manner, with one leg crossed, a briefcase sitting beside his chair, and had a notebook and pen on his lap. He looked every bit of southern dignity personified. On top of his notebook was a copy of the HOA guidelines and bylaws. Steve and him had been talking nonstop for two days to see if they could head this off completely.

  People filed in, a couple here, a couple there. Soon, it was standing room only, and the Taylors were having a hard time seeing over some of them. Matthew Fitzpatrick walked in and ordered everyone standing in front of the chairs to find a spot in the back of the room or leave. Some muttered at how short tempered he seemed, but they moved. Then the rest of the HOA senior committee or council came in a few moments later. After glaring at Jeff, Matthew took his seat behind the white folding tables.

  A loud murmur rose from the crowd, and the buzzing wasn’t friendly sounding.

  “I’d like to thank the community for this turnout,” Jeff said, and went on to give his monthly update on projects within the community before he got to the heart of the meeting.