by L. L. Akers
“What do you make of it?” Elmer grumbled in a low voice. “If it’s supposed to help people, what’s with the barbed wire and the guard tower? That guard don’t look none too friendly.”
The kids’ camp had definitely been converted…to something. It didn’t look like any kid’s camp Grayson had ever seen. The log cabins made sense, but the fence, wire and guards roving around said it was something more than what it had been. Seemed like Nick was right.
Grayson harrumphed. “FEMA, my ass…” he mumbled.
A guard dressed in camo walked by the inside of the fence, and was met with a skinny, haggard man approaching him. The man’s clothes were filthy, and his cheeks were hollowed.
Grayson held a hand up. “Shhh… let’s see if we can hear them,” he whispered.
They tucked their heads down and listened.
The haggard man carried a knapsack. Just a shirt, tied up around a bundle, it appeared. He was motioning toward the gate, and soon his motions became frantic. They couldn’t hear their exact words, but they could hear a pleading tone, met with an abrasive, forceful one. The guard shoved the man away with the butt of his rifle, and yelled forcefully, “You’re not going anywhere!”
“That answers that,” Grayson whispered. He motioned for them to back up, when a group of four sturdy men walked by the gate, wearing jeans with leather vests, no shirts underneath. All four carried rifles in meaty, muscular arms, painted heavily in ink, including the word, ‘TWO’ prominently displayed and framed in tribal markings.
“Wait,” Grayson whispered, pointing at the men. “Is that—?”
Jake cringed.
Three of the men were unfamiliar, but the fourth rang his bell.
It was Smalls—the man he’d let walk away from the farm after they’d buried his buddies.
Grayson quietly waved them back and they belly-crawled the way they’d come, standing up when they were a safe distance away.
He swallowed hard and fixed Jake with a hard stare.
Elmer looked back and forth at the two of them, then realization dawning, he snatched his hat off, and slapped his leg with it. “You mean to tell me that’s one of the men that killed my Edith? The men that branded my bride like a damn animal?”
Jake rubbed his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Elmer. Yeah, that’s him. I should’ve listened to Grayson…we shouldn’t have let him go.”
Grayson took a deep breath and exhaled. He cuffed Jake on the arm, while Elmer marched off to get his thoughts together, and calm down. “No, you did what you thought was right. I’m as surprised as you, really. Can’t believe that fucker survived the gunshot wound and got this far on foot. If there’s four of them, and one in the tower, there’s probably more armed men, too.”
He scratched his beard. “Looks like we’re going to need some help. You think Gabby can call in the Calvary again?”
Puck woke up in a daze, rubbing his noggin with his hurt hand. The air was stifling and he had a searing pain in his head. His temples pounded with a rhythm that matched his hand. He gasped and pulled it away to look. It hurt. Worse than ever. The bandage was bloody and very dirty. His sling was gone, too, so he hadn’t been keeping his arm up like he was supposed to.
Olivia was gonna fuss at him.
He looked around, his eyes still blurry, further confusing him as to where he was, and nearly jumped in surprise to find a dog on either side of him, napping in the sweltering heat.
“Hoss! Daisy!” he exclaimed happily. “I found you!” The dogs lifted their heads, with little to no energy. Their fur was matted with blood and they looked thinner than they had just a few days ago. Puck took turns petting and smoothing their hair with his good hand, while he held his injured hand tightly against his chest.
His jail was a ten by ten dog kennel, the top covered with reinforced barbed wire. It was concreted into the ground. With no shade, the sun beat down on top of the him and the dogs. There was no water to be seen. He was sitting up, leaned against the far side of the gate, which was locked with a heavy chain and padlock.
A heap of dirty blankets on the far side of the kennel caught his eye.
Is that moving?
Soon, a low growl filled the air and Hoss and Daisy struggled to their feet, stepping in front of Puck in a territorial stance, and returning the growl in unison.
The heap of blankets moved again and a big dog emerged. It wasn’t blankets after all; it was a stout Pit Bull-mix dog, with one torn ear. His oversized-face was covered with scratches, old and new, and with scabs, and his boxy body crisscrossed in scars. The dog shakily rose to his feet and lowered his head. Saliva ran out of both sides of his mouth as he pulled his lips back in a snarl.
The smell of bad meat filled Puck’s nose and as the dog limped forward a few steps, he saw the cause of it. The dog’s leg was severely infected.
Tucker’s two American Bulldogs met the Pit’s approach with two slow steps of their own, lowering their heads, their hackles rising. Three growls filled the air in disharmony, raising Puck’s own hair on the back of his neck. He held his breath, afraid to make a single move.
The Pit turned and heavily lay down, seemingly not interested in a fight at the moment. He growled once more for good measure as he melted back onto the concrete slab, and Puck exhaled in relief.
Slowly, he remembered what had happened, and how he’d got to this place.
He trembled at the flood of memories.
Following Jake’s map had been easy. Like he’d said, it was a straight shot. He just wanted to check to see if Tucker’s dogs were here, and help get them back. He didn’t know the soldier would promise to let him in to take a look, but then lie and take his gun, and want him to stay.
The man in camo didn’t let him look for Tucker’s dogs after all.
Mama Dee said never to argue with adults, but GrayMan said when a man doesn’t keep his word, he should be called out on it. When Puck did that, the man got mean, so he tried to leave. But he may have back-talked just a little bit too much.
The man still wouldn’t open the gate, and Puck wanted to go home, so he’d tried to climb the fence. The mean man pulled him down, and they fought.
Puck was winning, but soon there were more soldiers, and they didn’t fight fair. They knocked him down to the ground with their big guns.
He wished he’d not let them have his gun.
And then Jenny had shown up…with Graysie right behind her.
In seconds, they had guns trained on Graysie and told her to drop her pistol she was aiming at them. They promised they’d shoot him, and then her in the time it took her to shoot one of them.
Graysie had dropped her gun, but they were still going to shoot Jenny right through the gate! Just for fun.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He’d jumped up and shoved the gun, just before it’d went off, and a round had slammed into one of the men, instead.
Puck’s heart beat faster, thinking of the way the man had crumpled to the ground, hugging his gut, with blood seeping out around his fingers. It hadn’t looked real. It was like one of his video games.
He was going to be in so much trouble.
And then the last thing he remembered was a blinding flash.
Puck slapped at a swarm of mosquitos. He adjusted his weight on the hard concrete, and craned his stiff neck, looking around, wondering where Jenny and Graysie were now, and if Graysie would make the mean men let him go.
An hour Earlier:
Graysie fought like a wildcat, trying to get onto the other side of the fence, her gun in the dirt at her feet. She hadn’t had a choice. They were going to put a bullet in him, if she didn’t surrender it.
Her red curls bounced as she shook the wire with both hands. “Get off of him! Leave him alone,” she screamed at the men who’d beat Puck down to the ground. “Let me in!”
Puck lay unconscious on the ground, not far from another man who lay bleeding with his finger stuck in the hole that had punctured through h
is gut. The man’s eyes were wide and panicked and his brow wrinkled in concentration. He lay very still, blinking rapidly. He didn’t look more than twenty years old, just a few years older than Graysie herself.
The other three men Puck had fought with gave Graysie a wide smile, ignoring their friend in a bloody heap laying at their feet, waiting for help or death. One of them worked quick to open the lock. “Sure. Everybody welcome here. You know this boy?” he asked through the fence, and then opened the gate wide, waving his arm in the air, welcoming her in. “After you…”
Graysie, confused by his welcome after such a vicious attack on Puck, stuttered, “Yyy-es. He’s my…er…brother,” she lied. “And that’s our donkey. Don’t hurt her. Just let me take my brother home—and his donkey.”
Another guard approached Jenny with a gleam in his eye and his arms spread wide. The donkey blew at him.
Graysie tried to shoo her away. “Run, Jenny!”
But Jenny didn’t shy away. She twitched her long ears and blew another loud and arrogant breath at the man, as though in contempt, and proudly hurried in straight to Puck, nudging his leg, while the men stood around smiling at their windfall of good luck, even in spite of one of their own lying near death in the dirt.
The guard shut the gate and locked it quickly behind them.
Graysie fell to the ground next to Puck, breathing hard and feeling for a pulse. Her ears were ringing. “Puck, you okay?”
Puck didn’t answer.
“Your big brother just shot the boss’ nephew.”
“No, he didn’t. You did! I saw what happened.” She found a strong pulse and breathed a sigh of relief. “And he’s my little brother. I’m older,” she jabbed back at the man. “Puck, wake up…”
“Little brother is a big ‘un,” the guard said and laughed. “Bigger they are, harder they fall.” He bumped her leg with his boot, and looked outside the gate, giving the gravel road a long look. He smiled wolfishly. “Where’s the rest of your family, Little Red Riding Hood?”
The other two men laughed.
Graysie kept her eyes on Puck, waving a fly away from his face, and bristled at the remark. She looked around, stalling for time. The camp was dusty and quiet, with a few people shuffling around in the distance. Far off to one side, she could see a garden, with a few dozen people peppered throughout it, bent over under the scorching sun working it; some were hoeing, and some were squatting…either weeding or picking, she couldn’t be sure.
At a larger log-cabin style building, located in the middle of the camp, was a very long line of people, mostly women, looking forlorn and haggard, or frazzled and panicked. In unkempt clothes, mostly shorts and tank-tops, their backs were knobby and hunched over, and their shoulders protruded out like pointy blades, as they stood with their heads down under the watchful glare of another angry-looking man standing on the porch, a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Many of the women—a huge majority who looked no older than early to mid-twenties, if that—had bedraggled, grubby children beside them, clinging tightly to their hands. Their faces were dirty, their hair greasy and they were nearly in rags.
There was no running, or playing.
No smiles or happy faces, as they clung desperately to their mother’s hands.
Graysie squinted at the line of women, noticing several of them bore the number “2” on their arms in an angry, red welt.
She swallowed hard, choked by fear, and numbed by her terror.
Elmer had told them what happened to Edith…who was also branded with the 2.
She looked down at Puck, and swatted another fly away from his innocent, sleeping face. The realization that they were now locked into this sad, desolate, and terrible place hit her like a bucket of water in the face. Puck was in terrible trouble, and she and Jenny with him.
She wanted to leave this place—immediately.
Graysie had refused to answer any questions on her family’s whereabouts, not willing to risk anyone going after her kin or their supplies. In tears, she was half-dragged away from Puck, the guards assuring her they’d ‘take care of him.’ They took her down a path to a row of four very small cabins, where the tattooed men argued over her as though she were a side of beef, until one who obviously pulled rank arrived, quieting the other men with only his presence.
He was a giant of a man, but the patch on his vest read, ‘Smalls.’
Graysie swallowed down her fear. This was the same animal that had been to the farm. He was the lone survivor that Olivia had patched up. Puck had killed his buddies. When he saw Puck, it was really going to be over. She ducked her head, hoping he didn’t recognize her.
Smalls stepped up to her, putting a finger on her chin, lifting her face.
She tossed her head, throwing her red curls over her shoulder and removing his finger. She stared at him defiantly, her green eyes narrowing. She wouldn’t show fear to him; she knew better than that. These types of men thrived on it.
Neither of the two blinked. Finally, he pointed to her new home with a firm nod. “Get in there,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
The other three men grumbled, and one stepped up. “Why is it you always get the youngest, prettiest ones, Smalls?”
Smalls turned, finding the smaller man in his space. He closed the gap with one step, bumping up against his chest, and stared down at the man, fire in his eyes. “You want to challenge me for her? Say the word…” he snarled.
The man quickly shook his head and backed off. “No,” he was quick to answer.
Smalls turned back, just as Graysie was about to make a run for it. He snatched her by the back of the shirt and lifted her onto the top step in one quick movement, and smacked her ass. She could feel his hot breath on her neck.
She grimaced and hurried forward two steps, eager to put space between them. It was a basic building, no more than something people put in their back yards for lawn equipment storage, with a rough plywood floor and two windows. It had a small shaded porch outside, and the door was painted in red spray paint with a huge number two, and hung wide open, showing an even more dismal inside.
She hesitated, receiving a not too gentle shove, and stumbled in. Six bunks displayed a ratty collection of bedding, and a few pillows. There was one single-bed inside, made up neat and tidy with sheets and a somewhat nice blanket, which she assumed were his. There were several foot-lockers, but only one end table, cluttered with a scattering of miscellaneous belongings.
The bunks were empty, with the exception of one. An older Hispanic woman, pretty for her years, lay stretched out on a bottom bed. She hurried to her feet in a panic at their entrance.
She pushed her long, straight black and silver hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, Smalls. I only laid down for a minute,” she explained. “I was just about to get up and check on the girls.”
Smalls cut her a glance, and waved her back to her bunk. “Teach her the ropes,” he said, gesturing at Graysie with his thumb, and walked out the door.
The woman exhaled in relief.
33
Camp
Upon Small’s quick exit, Graysie ran to one of the windows, looking out over the camp. All she could see were more cabins and trees. No fence though. Maybe she could find Puck and escape.
“Give it up. You can’t get out of here,” the woman told her. She held out her hand. “I’m Silva. I’m sort of the Cabin Mom here.”
Graysie turned and studied the woman. She was only a few years older than her stepmom, Olivia. Silva had tired eyes, crinkled at the corners, and a very kind face. She shook her hand. “What are you doing here?”
Silva shrugged. “Came with my two daughters. Thought this was a Fema camp; here to help us. It’s not exactly that…not anymore.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a camp, but Fema left weeks ago. Run off by the guy in charge, Cutter, the head of a rogue militia. He partnered up with this biker gang and they ran off what little bit of government was here. This is not a good place. W
hat’s your name?”
“Graysie.”
“You have family?”
“Yeah, but they’re not here. I mean, other than my brother,” she lied again. “He’s not right in the head. Our dad doesn’t know we came. He got in trouble yesterday and took off, so I followed him to make sure he was okay. Didn’t know he was walking right into this place.”
“Well, you’re both stuck here now, so count your blessings you ended up in this cabin. The rest are worse. Much worse. I’ll show you. But first, are you hungry?”
Graysie nodded. She hadn’t eaten since the day before.
Silva stuck her arm under her pillow, coming out with a bright red tomato and a cucumber. She held them both out to Graysie. “Your choice.”
Graysie looked at her in confusion.
“Trust me, girl. This is a treat compared to what you’ll be eating here. May as well get used to it.”
Graysie took the tomato, biting into it with a grimace, as the juice leaked out and down her chin. She swiped at it. “Thank you. Can you take me to find my brother? And his donkey…”
Silva looked at her in surprise.
“Don’t ask…it’s a long story.”
“I have no idea where your brother’s at, but if there’s a donkey, I think I might know where you’ll find it.”
Silva rolled a hand in the air, and her head whipped around, looking out the door and both windows. “Hurry and eat that. You can’t take it with us. We’ll get in trouble for having it.”
They began her tour at the next cabin, where they stood just outside the open window watching in horror—at least Graysie did… it seemed Silva wasn’t at all surprised by what they saw.
One of the bikers—his patch printed with his name: Nat—was sitting on his bed with a young woman who was beautiful, in spite of her ragged clothes and dirty face. He slid his hand down her arm and she cringed in revulsion.
Angry, he reached into a coffee can and came up with a tiny, pink, hairless mouse by the tail. It wiggled and squirmed furiously and the woman cringed away from it, leaning into two terrified children who huddled behind her in fright, fresh tearstains on their faces.