The Hidden Survivor

by Connor Mccoy

  Then because his head was pounding, and he felt dizzy and queasy again, he sat back down. He was hungry, thirsty and needed to pee. He wasn’t sure if the unruly state of his stomach was due to the need to eat or the blow to his head. He leaned his head against the wall and hoped they weren’t going to starve him to death. That was a horrible way to die.

  A memory of Clarence came to him. They’d vacationed on the central coast of California the year Clarence was two, the summer before he’d lost them both. Clarence stood at the edge of the ocean, his arms spread as if to take it all in, wonder reflected in his face. He’d run to the water, squealing when the waves washed in and licked his toes.

  They’d spread their blanket on the sand, although they might as well have just sat in the sand. Clarence shoveled sand and it went everywhere, including Glen’s mouth. The wind whipped Sarah’s hair across her face and she laughed when Clarence tried burying Glen in the sand.

  Glen felt himself smiling at the memory of Sarah giving Clarence crackers to feed the seagulls. The birds swooped down and snatched the food from his fingers in full flight. Clarence clapped and laughed, then asked for another cracker. They fed more to the seagulls than they ate that day.

  They’d walked the shore, Clarence running in and out of the waves, picking up shells and seaweed, pebbles, and handfuls of wet sand. Sara told him that crabs lived under the bubbles in the beach. Clarence had fallen sound asleep on his towel and Glen had carried him back to the car as evening fell, the wind beginning to carry a chill.

  It occurred to Glen that he was thinking of water because of the need to relieve himself. He may have to choose a corner and use it as a toilet. But he’d wait for now, in fact, until he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d rather not resort to animal behavior if he didn’t have to do so.

  He pictured Sarah, smiling on the beach, strands of her hair coming loose from her ponytail and flying around her head. She’d held his hand and kissed him as Clarence slept, promising more when they returned to the hotel. He physically ached for her, his throat constricting and his heart contracting. Sarah, take me with you, he thought.

  The door opened, and he was blinded by sunlight streaming through the doorway. There was a figure backlit in the door. An empty bucket was dropped inside the threshold, a water bottle tossed at his feet, and a paper bag tossed in his lap. Then the door closed and he was in the dark again. He hadn’t even thought to look around his prison while the door had been open.

  If they’d been able to travel by the paths and road it would have taken no time at all to walk the few miles from town that they’d wanted to be. But they couldn’t risk being seen, so they picked their way through the undergrowth. Mia had scrapes on her arms and ankles from the thistles and briers. She had scratches on her face and leaves in her hair from low hanging branches. All in all, she wasn’t in the best of moods.

  “Come on, Mia,” Christian barked at her. “We need to cover more ground.”

  At that moment Sally brushed past a branch that snapped back and hit Mia square in the face, knocking her flat on her back. She lay on the ground swearing, not even bothering to try getting up.

  Sally appeared above her, looking concerned. “Oh my God, Mia, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Mia grumbled, struggling out of her backpack so she could stand up. She felt her cheek and her hand came back bloody.

  “Great.” It was quite a lot of blood, which meant she’d probably have a scar on her face. Not that it mattered anymore, but still. She struggled not to cry.

  Christian came to stand next to Sally. Mia noticed his face was white and pinched. “You need to rest,” Mia said. “You’re in pain.”

  “What I need to do is clean up that cut on your face,” Christian said. “You don’t want it to scar. Sit on that log.”

  He got out the first aid kit and set about cleaning and dressing the wound. Mia saw the worry in his eyes and wondered how bad it must be. It stung when he sprayed disinfectant on it and she bit her lip. If he could handle her squeezing pus from his belly, then she could handle this. But she was relieved when the bandage went on.

  Christian sat next to her on the fallen log. Sally dropped her backpack on the ground and perched on it. Christian let out a sigh. “I wish there was an easier way to travel,” he said. “Hacking our way through the undergrowth like this is exhausting.”

  “Your face is gray,” Mia said. “We’d better stop for a few minutes. And I should look at your stomach again.”

  “My stomach is fine,” Christian said through clenched teeth. “We need to keep moving.”

  “Humor me,” Mia said. “Let me look, and then we can get moving again.”

  Christian grunted and lifted his shirt. Blood soaked his dressing, but there was no sign of infection.

  “You are bleeding again,” Mia said as she pulled some butterfly strips from the first aid kit. “You need to be more careful or you’ll pass out from losing too much blood. It’s not like we can stop by the local corner store and buy you some plasma.” She cleaned the wound and closed the area that was leaking with the butterflies. She covered the area with a thicker dressing and taped it down. She looked up at his face, which was drawn and cold-looking.

  “Do you understand?” she asked. “You need to take it easy. We can’t rescue Glen if we’re spending all our time keeping you alive.”

  Christian nodded. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Thirty-minute rest before moving on again.”

  “Good,” Mia said, and dropped to the ground. “Wake me up in thirty minutes.”

  “Shouldn’t one of us keep watch?” Sally asked.

  Mia grunted her assent. Her intention had been to drift off to sleep to escape the pain in her face, but she didn’t drift. The ground was hard and there was a rock jabbing her butt. Her face still stung. She felt like she could cry, but didn’t want to because then she’d have to deal with sympathy from Sally and Christian. She tried breathing through the pain, but her cheek stung and burned.

  Mia opened her eyes and reached for the first aid kit that still was on the ground beside her. She rolled onto her side and opened it, searching for some kind of pain relief. There wasn’t any over the counter medication anywhere that she could see, but there was morphine and codeine and a handy dosage guide.

  She remembered taking codeine when she had her wisdom teeth out and didn’t remember it having the kind of kick she needed now. So, she pulled out a syringe and an ampoule of morphine. She read the dosage instructions carefully and drew the appropriate amount in through the needle and injected it into her thigh.

  It seemed like her vision began to blur almost immediately, which didn’t alarm her until she realized her chest was tightening and her heart was beating wildly. She clutched at her throat, trying to get air in her lungs but failing. The world was blurry and unstable, so she closed her eyes. She heard Sally yelling her name, and then Christian, so far away. She was going, sinking into the ground, she thought. Maybe even dying.

  Mia opened her eyes to find Christian and Sally bending over her, calling her name. “I’m alive,” she croaked. “How’d that happen?”

  “Did you inject morphine?” Christian asked angrily. He was shaking with rage.

  “My face was burning,” Mia said. “I had to do something.”

  “You had a reaction,” Sally said. “Didn’t you know you were allergic?”

  “I’ve never had morphine before,” Mia said. “I didn’t even know you could be allergic to it.” She rubbed her thigh. “Why does my leg hurt?” she asked.

  “We had to inject you with epinephrine so you wouldn’t die,” Christian said. “It packs a punch. You’ll probably have a hell of a bruise.”

  “Yeah,” Mia said, laying her head down on the ground. Can I have a few minutes to rest before we start going again?” She was feeling very fuzzy.

  “We’ll need to stay the night here.” Christian’s voice was muffled. “She won’t be worth anything for at least twenty-four
hours.”

  Mia was pretty sure he was talking to Sally, which was good. She couldn’t have answered if she’d wanted to do so.

  Chapter Twenty

  Terror was pacing the library. His pulse was pounding in his temples and he was having trouble containing his rage. How dare they question his motives, his decisions? Wasn’t he the leader here? Wasn’t he the one who had brought them security and peace? He should kill them now. All of them. There were plenty of people in this world dying to live in security.

  He remembered the scene at the fire. It had been an old pickup, not used anymore and in a place that posed no danger to the buildings. They’d wanted to track the vandals, but Terror would not let them. He’d explained that he had the doctor, and the others were not important, but they would not listen. Now he would kill them all.

  No, not all of them, just one. But who?

  He quickened his pace, slamming his fist on a table as he passed. He loved the feel of the library, the wood and books. The antique light fixtures that hung from the high ceiling reminded him of libraries the world round. Places of solitude and learning. Hushed places where he could think, consider what needed to be done, and where he could plan in peace. But now it felt too tame. He needed a war room. A place he could order his men to bring him one of the ring leaders. Or better still, one of their wives.

  He stopped short, wavering a little, his head refusing to stop its spinning and pounding.

  He would kill one of the women. A cold calmness finally spread over him. Yes. That would teach them. He’d tried to be fair, but he couldn’t have them questioning his decisions. He wouldn’t let them undermine him. But why lose one of the men? He needed his warriors, and very few of them were women.

  The face of a tall brunette came to mind. She had spurned him. Refused to cheat on her man. How dare she? He’d played it cool at the time. He’d let her walk away. But he hadn’t forgotten the look of contempt she’d given him. Her words had been like a slap in the face. She’d questioned his loyalty to his men. Said he was no more than a boy slut.

  She would pay for that now.

  Calm now, he sat in his favorite armchair at the head of a long table. He leaned back and crossed his feet on the table and thought about how this would go down. He’d gather the townspeople at the town square. He’d praise the fire brigade for their quick work on the burning truck. He’d tell the town how fortunate they were to have a surgeon. He’d have the doctor cleaned up and present him to the town. Offer him the pick of the empty houses.

  Then he’d call for the families of the men who had questioned him. He’d reprimand the men, then tell them he had decided to spare them. Then he would explain that he couldn’t have them second-guessing his decisions, and to make sure it never happened again, he was going to take one of their women. He’d call for that bitch, he couldn’t remember her name, and when her man challenged him he’d shoot her in the face.

  He could imagine this man, Charro was his name, saying, “I won’t let you touch my woman.” And he, Terror, would say, “I wouldn’t be caught dead touching that whore.” And then when they were looking at him in confusion he would kill her. And in the chaos of crying women and children, the men gathering them into safety, he, Terror, would walk away calmly. That should keep them from questioning him again.

  He would bring them to their knees.

  He took a deep breath and relaxed. His head had stopped pounding, the rage had melted away. He was feeling good. Powerful. Hadn’t he caught them a healer of the first rank? Yes, he had. What he needed now was a woman. He thought about his Angelica, one of his best officers. But she was too feisty for his current mood. It was like trying to make love to a wild cat. He would come away looking like he’d wrestled a bear. No, what he wanted was someone submissive. Someone who could take some punishment without giving it back.

  He thought of the women in town, married and single alike, and as he thought he found himself getting hard. He got up and shrugged on his leather jacket, blew out the candles, and strode out of the building. He’d go down to the pub and see who was feeling the need to be dominated.

  Terror awoke the next morning next to a woman with fresh bruises on her face and upper arms and was struck with self-loathing. He did not remember the night before, but he had no doubt that he had been the one to inflict the damage. She whimpered as he slipped out of bed. Waking in pain, he quickly moved, not wanting to face her.

  He dressed quickly and slipped out of the room. Then he went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He had scratches down his face. What had he done? This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt someone with no memory of it happening. Apparently, this time she had fought back. Good for her. He cleaned himself up and went downstairs to where his men were waiting.

  “Go find the doctor,” he said to Mike.

  “He’s drunk,” Mike said. “But I’ll bring him if you want.”

  “No,” Terror said. “Get the surgeon we have locked in the closet over in Angelica’s place. He’s not drunk.”

  Mike got up and left the room, leaving Ed and Jackal playing cards at the table. He considered Ed was probably the least objectionable to a woman.

  “Ed,” he said, “go upstairs and wake the girl. Make sure she cleans herself up. Help her if she needs it.”

  “Is she going to smack me like the last one?” Ed asked.

  “Possibly,” Terror said, “but how much damage do you think she can do? You might have a red mark on your face.”

  “Great,” Ed said, but he stood up and went upstairs.

  Glen was refusing to use the bucket as a toilet. Not that he’d really have a choice if they left him here alone much longer. He’d eaten the bread his visitor had tossed in his lap, and drank most of the bottle of water. But use the bucket as a toilet he would not.

  He was wondering how much longer he could hold out when the door opened and a man’s voice said, “Let’s go.”

  Glen thought he recognized the voice from the pharmacy, but he wasn’t sure which of the men it was. He stood up, steadied himself, and moved into the light, blinking.

  They let him use the facilities, handed him an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, and led him out of the building.

  It turned out he’d been locked in a walk-in closet on the second floor of a home on Main Street. As he passed through the front hallway he got glimpses of whitewashed wood, and bright-colored throw pillows and blankets, and the smell of wood smoke, fresh bread and apples scented the air. Then he was outside and being hurried down the brick walkway to the sidewalk.

  The spots of lawn that hadn’t been turned into vegetable patches all were trim and neat, and that surprised Glen, until he saw a teenaged boy pushing a reel mower. He wondered where they had found that. Michigan wasn’t exactly known for non-motorized garden implements.

  He was marched up Main Street and then right up a side street to a modest home in a less affluent neighborhood. The lawns still were tidy, and the homes painted and in good repair, but Glen would have placed money on there being no whitewashed rooms inside. White paint on sheet rock, maybe, but no real wood-paneled rooms with brightly colored throw pillows and blankets. These were working people’s houses.

  He was led up the walkway to one of the larger homes. They didn’t knock but just walked right in the door, through the entry, and into the room on the right. It was a comfortable living room, with neutral walls and matching furniture. Terror was standing, looking out the front window. The man named Mike from the pharmacy was sitting in a chair across from a young woman who was perched on the couch, hugging herself. The woman had her eyes on the floor, but Glen could see she wore some pretty nasty bruises on her face and arms.

  “You’re here,” Terror said flatly. “We are in need of your professional services.”

  “You lock me in a dark closet and then pull me out to demand my services?” Glen was having trouble keeping his rising anger in check. “Why exactly should I help you?”

  “This woman is injur
ed,” Terror said. He was looking out the window again, talking with his back to Glen and the others. “Our family doctor is stinking drunk. I could wait until he sobers up, but meanwhile she is in pain. You can stand on your principles, I suppose. But she will suffer for it.”

  Glen blanched. Putting it that way, he’d be a prick not to help her. He stood up. “We’ll need a private room,” he said. “Soap and hot water.

  He followed Third Eye and the girl to a room down the hall, waited until Mike delivered the supplies he needed, and then closed the door on the men.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the girl, but she just shook her head.

  “Can you tell me how this happened?”

  Again, a shake of the head but nothing more. He yanked the top sheet off the twin bed in the corner of the room. “Get undressed,” he said, “and wrap yourself in this. I’ll be outside the door, so just knock when you are ready, and I’ll come in.”

  By the time he’d finished his exam, he was livid. The woman, hell, she wasn’t much more than a girl really, needed x-rays. He suspected that under the bruising she had a broken cheekbone, ribs, and wrist. That she had been sexually assaulted was all too clear, even if the girl wouldn’t let him do a proper exam. He told her to stay put and marched into the living room.

  “That girl needs a woman to help her get cleaned up and dressed,” he announced to the men in the room. Terror waved his hand and Mike got up and left the room.