by Ethan Cross
“Good. Well, what’d one shepherd say to the other shepherd?” They stared at him a moment. He grinned. “Let’s get the flock out of here.”
*
I hold their lives in my hands.
It was a duty Marcus didn’t relish, but one from which he could not escape. He had put this family in danger, and Allen had already become a casualty of his mistake. Now, he was their sole chance for survival. The thought made him feel like some kind of mythological figure charged with holding the strands of life together, only to find that no mere mortal could ever hope to do so.
“What exactly are we going to do with all this crap?” Loren said.
“We’re going on the offensive. Basically, the plan is that we distract the group out front long enough for us to get to the car in the back. They’ll probably have someone back there watching the car, but maybe not. We’ll just have to deal with that when the time comes.”
She stared at him a moment. “Okay. So what exactly are we going to do with all this crap?”
He was glad to see that her fire had not been completely blown out. “It’s all part of the distraction. Trust me.”
She didn’t look convinced. “But what are we going to do, even if we make it out of here in the car? They’ll be right on our tails. They can radio ahead and set up roadblocks, APBs, air surveillance. Plus, you said the cop that found you along the road was a state officer, so this obviously goes beyond the Sheriff. And we don’t know how high. Which means, we don’t know who to trust or where we’ll be safe. What good does it do us to get to the car?”
He could see her anxiety growing as she rattled off the mountain of odds stacked against them. He felt her fear, not only for herself but also for the lives of her children. She looked like a different woman from the one he had met such a short time ago. She looked like a woman at her wits’ end, and he didn’t know what to say in order to make the situation seem any less bleak.
“Listen, Loren, I don’t have all the answers. I’m just taking this one step at a time. Right now, the only thing that I know for sure is that if we stay here any longer, then we all die. So we’re going to make it to that car, and we’re going to get the hell out of here. Once we’re out on the road, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
Loren was silent for a moment, and then she nodded her assent. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
She prepared the kids, and he surveyed the items he had requested while keeping a watchful eye on the men outside. When he was content that everything he needed was present, he went to work. Improvise, Adapt, Overcome.
He loaded the double-barreled Remington that Loren had produced from the upstairs closet and handed the shotgun and a few of the shells to Charlie. “You know how to use one of these?”
The boy nodded. “I used to shoot trap with my dad.”
“Believe me, kid, it’s a lot different when it’s a living, breathing person you’re pointing it at. If it comes to it, don’t think, just point and squeeze. It’s only a last resort, but if things go bad, it might save your life. A last resort. You understand?”
Charlie nodded.
He turned his attention back to the assembled items. He placed all the remaining bullets into the coffee can. He picked up the can of hairspray and sprayed some of its contents onto the bullets in the can. Then, he tore off a piece of the old shirt and wrapped it around the metal hairspray bottle, leaving a piece of the shirt hanging down like a tail.
A sound from out front drew his attention. They had started one of the cruisers. He looked out the window, and his heart sank.
Two of the men held their position while the Sheriff and the remaining deputies hid behind the other cruiser. They had started the vehicle, and one of them lay flat in the driver’s seat. The car rolled forward, serving as mobile cover.
A flanking maneuver.
He snatched up the lighter and matches and stepped into position next to the door. He placed the coffee can in front of the opening. “Get to the back door,” he called over his shoulder.
He held up the lighter, struck the flint, and lit the tail of the t-shirt tied to the hairspray. As soon as the fire began to consume the shirt, he flung open the front door and stepped onto the porch.
The world slowed.
He tossed the flaming can into the air over the officers. He raised the gun and sighted in on the fireball in its descent. He squeezed the trigger.
The bullet struck the can of hairspray dead on, and as the projectile penetrated its surface, the can’s flammable contents spewed out onto the flames of the shirt. It burst into a brilliant explosion, and flaming liquid rained down upon the police cruisers and the men hiding behind them. The Sheriff and his deputies dove away from the falling debris of the make-shift Molotov.
He knew that the small explosion wouldn’t kill or immobilize any of the officers, but it served as a great distraction. Now, it was time for phase two. He pushed the coffee can full of bullets onto the porch, and as he retreated into the house, he lit a match and threw it into the can.
He threw the front door shut behind him and ran toward the back.
The bullets in the can ignited like a pack of firecrackers. He could hear the uproar of gunfire and hoped it would force the officers to stay behind cover. His goal was to buy them enough time to get in the car and have a head start down the road. If he were lucky, the flames on the squad cars would prevent access to the vehicles. If that happened, they’d be home free.
The Brubakers waited at the back door. “Let me check it out first,” he said as he reached them.
He stepped out onto the back steps and scanned the area. He could see no immediate threats, and they didn’t have time to hesitate now. He called for them to come out as he continued to search for a sentry.
Loren and Amy were at his side—but where’s Charlie?
He turned back to the house and saw Charlie standing in the doorway. His gut twisted as he saw the look in the young man’s eyes, and he hoped that Charlie wasn’t about to do something really stupid. “Come on, Charlie. Let’s go.”
“I’m staying. They’re going to pay … and I’m going to make my dad proud.”
“Please, kid, we’re almost out of here.”
“Protect my mom and my sister. I’ll make sure that you’re not followed.”
He broke for the house, but Charlie slammed the door and locked it behind him.
He reached the door and wrenched on the handle. “Charlie! Open the door.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Loren and Amy. They had wasted too much time already, but this was their one shot. They had to get moving fast, but he couldn’t leave Charlie behind. Stupid kid. What’s he thinking? There was only one thing he could do.
He turned back to the women. “Loren, take your daughter and go. I’ll get Charlie, and we’ll catch up.”
Loren’s eyes widened with shock and disbelief. “No, we go together or not at all.”
“We don’t have time for this. Go, now. We’ll get out another way.”
Tears cascaded down her face. “You save my boy, Marcus,” she said. Then, she grabbed her daughter’s arm and headed for the car.
He turned back to the door, and his heart wrenched when he heard a shotgun blast from inside the house. Oh God, please don’t let me be too late.
He kicked the door. It flew inward on its hinges, splinters of wood shooting out like shrapnel from the doorframe. Throwing all caution to the wind, he sprinted into the house. The only thing he cared about was finding Charlie.
He ran through the kitchen and back toward the front door. He entered the living room, gun at the ready.
Charlie had a strong arm around his neck and a gun pressed to his temple. The Sheriff held the teenager as a human shield.
The Sheriff’s mannerisms were a thousand times more frightening than if he had worn a face of rage. The collectedness that he displayed showed that he was in complete control and knew it. “Drop the gun, Marcus. It’s over.”
33
<
br /> The dusty, green El Camino pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Ackerman saw the lights of the interstate to his right and a sign next to the road on the left that read, Asherton: 13 Miles.
He had some decisions to make. Several possible paths stretched out before him, but he was uncertain of which road to take. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions—rage, hope, pain, redemption. He needed to seek guidance, and only one person in the world could give it to him. He lifted the payphone’s receiver, inserted his money, and dialed.
“Hello,” Father Joseph said.
“I let them go.”
The man on the other end of the line was silent.
“Did you hear me, Father? I let them go. The family … the mother and the two kids. I spared them.”
“That’s … that’s wonderful. It’s incredible. You have no idea how proud I am of you. This could be the first step.”
“Let’s not get too carried away, but I have been thinking a lot about our last conversation.”
“What about it?”
A trucker moved up behind him, apparently wanting to use the phone. The man hung back at a respectful distance and leaned against the hood of one of the cars. He gave the man a hateful look and then continued in a much lower voice. “About good and evil. About everything having an opposite and things happening for a reason. You see, I’ve come to realize that maybe I was born to be the villain.”
“Francis, that’s not—”
“Just let me finish. If things happen for a reason, then that would mean that everything I’ve endured was meant to serve a specific purpose. So I tried to think of what that purpose could be. I reasoned that if I’m the villain, then my purpose must involve a hero. That’s when I realized that, on some level, I’ve been searching for my opposite for quite a while now. I thought that I was just looking for someone to make the game interesting, but now I believe that it was my soul searching out my other half. It was the natural order of the universe, trying to balance the equation.”
“Can we hurry this up a bit, buddy?” the truck driver said.
Ackerman’s hand shook, and his knuckles turned white around the phone’s receiver. But he fought down the rage. “Wait your turn … buddy,” he said through clenched teeth.
He turned his back on the man and continued. “Earlier this evening, I met a man named Marcus. There was something about him that I can’t describe. A strange familiarity. Like being home. It was as if … I had known this man my whole life. But when I looked into his eyes, I felt overwhelmed with fear. It was like looking into the future and seeing my own death. His eyes reminded me of my father’s eyes. I’m afraid, Padre. I think that if I continue down this path, he’ll kill me. It’s his destiny, and the truly strange part is that, for the first time in my life, I don’t want to die. I’ve started to wonder what if. What if there is a hell? I hope for darkness in death, but maybe I’ll find a punishment like nothing I can imagine.”
“Hell isn’t punishment, Francis. It’s simply the alternative. God doesn’t send people to hell to punish them for their sins. They go to hell because they’ve chosen to live their lives here on Earth apart from Him. By making that choice, they also choose to be apart from Him in the afterlife. That’s why it’s never too late. No matter what you’ve done, if you ask Him into your heart and home in this world, then He will bring you into His home in the next.”
“I don’t know what to believe. All I know is that my father’s voice in my head has grown quieter lately. The hunger is still so strong, but for the first time, I wonder if maybe I can overcome it …”
“The first step toward redemption is seeing the need. The second is asking for it. You’ll need help, Francis.”
“I know.” He stared in the direction of the interstate. “I’ve also considered what you said about me being even more of a legend if I was able to turn things around. I think you might be right. I’m thinking about turning myself in, but I would need you to be there with—”
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!”
Ackerman’s brow furrowed, and he turned back to the truck driver. “What exactly is your problem … buddy?” He over-accentuated the last word.
The truck driver shook his head and snorted. “This is really good. Really something. You’re the one with the problem, freak.”
The rage boiled inside him. He tried to beat down the hunger, but his thoughts kept moving to the gun in the back of his jeans and the knife resting on the passenger seat of the El Camino. He considered all the things he could do to this man.
No. Not now.
“Excuse me in my ignorance,” he said, “but what the hell are you talking about?”
The truck driver reached past him and grabbed something on the side of the payphone. “I’m talking about this.” The man shook a bundle of wires at him. “I’m talking about me standing out here twiddlin’ my thumbs, waiting to talk on a phone that’s not connected. Not hooked to anything. You’re out here talking to yourself, moron. Thanks for wasting my time.” The truck driver shook his head and stormed off, mumbling something more under his breath.
Ackerman was dumbfounded. He grabbed the bundle of wires and examined them closely. He felt around the backside of the payphone. He checked for additional cables but found none. There has to be some explanation …
His breathing was short and erratic. His heart thundered.
He examined every inch of the payphone, and then he noticed a small slip of paper taped on top of the casing that must have been flipped up by the wind. With one finger, he flipped the little slip of paper down. It read, Out of Order.
What the hell is going on here?
He picked up the dangling receiver and placed it to his ear. “Hello,” he said in a whisper.
“I’m here, Francis,” the voice replied.
He dropped the receiver as if it was venomous and staggered backward away from the device. He almost fell as he tripped off the curb. Still walking backward and eyeing the receiver as if it would attack, he stumbled in front of a car pulling away from one of the pumps. The vehicle’s horn blared at him, and he fell forward. He crawled back to the curb and sat up. He pressed his palms against his temples.
This can’t be happening.
Father Joseph is a real person. He was certain of it. He searched his memories. The priest had been his only friend since he was a boy. The only friend he’d ever known. He has to be real. He has to be.
As his heart pounded against the walls of his chest and his breathing verged on hyperventilation, he rocked back and forth. No. No. No. This can’t be happening. The realization flooded over him. I’m not getting better. There’s no hope for me. No redemption.
He wept uncontrollably. His cries drew a few stares, but most people that noticed him steered clear. After a few moments, a voice echoed through his mind. His father’s voice, words spoken long ago.
It’s time to play a game, Francis … If you do as you’re told, the pain will stop … Kill...It’s what you are … You’re a monster …
He looked toward the road in front of the truck stop. A car’s headlights illuminated the road sign. Asherton: 13 Miles.
He dried the tears on his sleeve. “Okay, Father. Let’s play.”
34
Hands on his head, Marcus marched out of the house and past the body of Allen Brubaker, the man whom he had failed. It had cost Allen and his family so much by helping him. His mind ached and throbbed with an overwhelming sense of guilt and despair. He had done more than fail to protect them. He had been the source of their hardship. They needed someone to protect them from me, not the other way around.
A deputy told him to stop in front of one of the cruisers. He could still smell the burnt odor of his distraction, but the fire hadn’t continued to burn in the way that he had hoped. The vehicle pointed toward the Brubakers’ old barn, and its headlights bathed him in an eerie, artificial glow.
The Sheriff held Charlie close and kept a cautious distance between
Marcus and himself. “Get down on your knees, put your hands behind your back, and put these on.” The Sheriff tossed him a pair of handcuffs.
He felt helpless. He wanted to storm the Sheriff and his men and end the conflict one way or the other. If he hadn’t had more lives to think of than his own, he might have done just that. The situation being what it was, however, he could see no alternative other than to comply with whatever he was told. With his arms behind his back, he placed the cuffs around his wrists and got down on his knees.
After he complied, the Sheriff moved in front of the cruiser. With a hard kick to the legs, he brought Charlie to his knees as well. Charlie stared at the ground, diverting his eyes away from Marcus.
He didn’t blame the boy for any of this, but he knew that Charlie blamed himself. He hoped that they lived long enough for him to tell Charlie that it wasn’t his fault. The only comfort he could find was that they had distracted the officers long enough for the women to escape.
But his heart sank when he saw a deputy lead two people around the corner of the house. The women hadn’t gotten away. They had been captured. It was the final crushing blow to any feelings of hope that he still harbored.
His failure was complete.
He knew that he shouldn’t blame himself. The Sheriff was the bad guy. He was the one who had killed Allen. It was the truth, but it didn’t make Marcus feel any less guilty.
Loren and her daughter walked in front of an officer that he didn’t recognize. He wondered how he could have missed a sentry in the backyard, and why the man hadn’t opened fire and driven them back to the house the moment they stepped out. The officer brought the women to their knees beside Charlie.
Loren looked over at him. She looked haggard and beaten. “He was lying in the back seat of the car. We didn’t have a chance. The Sheriff’s thought of everything.”
The Sheriff broke into their conversation and said, “Finally, someone with some sense. You’re right, Loren. I have thought of nearly everything, but I didn’t plan on our friend Marcus here. I never intended for any of you to get involved, but sometimes you just have to play the hand you’re dealt. Unfortunately, Marcus, your little stunt in the shed allowed Ackerman to escape, and he was very important to our plans. Not to worry, though. I did a little checking on you, and I think that you may serve our purposes even better than Ackerman.”