by Ray Wench
Fire erupted in his right side; he’d been hit again. Still, he continued. The nonstop shooting kept the man’s head down. Mark jumped on the hood and emptied both guns through the windshield. If the man wasn’t dead, Mark was now an easy target and out of bullets. But after a moment, no shot came.
Mark slumped on the hood and stared at the sky. His body was so drained it would have been easy to close his eyes right there. He was tired ‒ tired of fighting, tired of being shot at, tired of killing and damned tired of running. This senseless killing had to end. But the only way he could see that happening would involve more fighting and killing, and if he didn’t succeed, definitely more running.
Mark dragged up enough energy to slide off the car and stand on rubbery legs. Sliding the 9mm in his belt, he dropped the other one and grabbed both of the dead men’s guns. After examining them, he found they were of different calibers and both only had two bullets left. He retrieved his rifle and found only one round left there. It was time to run again because, with only five shots, he wouldn’t be doing much fighting.
With the sun beginning to set, Mark started a slow easy jog. He cupped one hand over the wound in his side and made for his house and a long night.
Thirty
By the time Mark made it back to his street, darkness was complete. He hid in the overgrown bushes of the corner house and scanned the area, wishing he had thought to carry the binoculars with him. No unfamiliar cars had parked on the street or in any driveways. Mark made his way to the house the watchers had used, across from his. Once there, he ran around the back and checked the doors. The one behind the garage was open. Mark glanced in, then entered. He was in a small utility room that led into the main house.
He stood listening for anything that disturbed the quiet. When nothing did, he moved into the house. It was empty. Mark rummaged through his neighbor’s drawers until he found a clean white T-shirt. Using the knife, he cut a long strip, then two wider ones. Folding the wider ones, he placed them over the two bullet holes, front and back, in his side. The longer strip he tied around his body to hold the bandages in place. It would have to do for now.
From the front windows, Mark checked the street. Seeing it was clear, he bolted out the front door. He sprinted across the street toward the open garage doors of his house. It was then that he heard the tires squealing from around the corner of the next block. Someone was coming in a hurry.
Time was once again running out. Mark had a decision to make: either go inside and hide in the safe room, or keep going into the woods behind the house and try to make it to the farmhouse. With his energy depleted and bleeding from multiple wounds he wouldn't make the five-mile trek to the new house. Opting for his old house, he hoped the safe room was still safe. If he was going to continue, he needed rest.
Mark pulled the garage door shut. Once inside the house, he went to the curtained living room windows just as three cars came to a stop outside the house. “Oh, shit!” He turned and ran for the basement steps. Mark had just made it inside the hidden room when, once again, the main floor was full of activity. It sounded as though an army had just invaded.
He decided not to take the chance that whoever was up there didn’t know about the room. He went into the cave and looked around before closing the door. It was dark with the door closed.
Feeling his way to the far side of the cave, he found the two stacks of food and water cases. Pulling a water bottle loose, he sat on top of the cases. He tried to force himself to drink slowly. Even so, he chugged it too fast, pulled a second one free, and started on it.
Through the walls came the sound of things being moved. Something crashed. The intruders were searching for him. He froze and listened. As far as he could tell, no one had discovered the safe room yet. He was in for a long wait.
An hour later, Mark could still hear the invaders moving around. The sounds of the night came through the vent. It was peaceful. In spite of the danger that surrounded him, he was overcome by his exhaustion and nodded off. He awoke, startled, not knowing how long he’d been asleep. Finishing the second water, he relieved himself inside the two empty bottles and sealed them closed with the caps. Even though he knew he would probably never come back to this house, he couldn’t bring himself to urinate in the corner.
His stomach growled. Mark hadn’t eaten anything since early morning. He pulled out a can of something and jammed the blade of his survival knife straight down into the lid, working it like a small hand saw. He was half way around when he felt the pull tab on top. He tipped the can to his mouth and poured out cold mini ravioli. The filling was meat and cheese. It was something he’d never had in his house, but now, it tasted like gourmet Italian.
When Mark finished, he stood and stretched. A sharp pain tore through his body. The bullet wounds had become a dull ache forgotten until he tried to move. Touching the makeshift bandage his fingers came away wet.
Pressing his ear to the cement wall, Mark could not tell from the lack of sound if it was safe to leave the cave. He nudged the door open enough to poke his head out. The hidden room had not been discovered. Leaving the cave, he debated leaving the door open or closed. One way kept the room secret, the other saved a few seconds if he was on the run. He left it open.
Again Mark listened, his ear against the much thinner paneling. The basement seemed empty. He waited another twenty minutes before venturing from the safe room, into the basement. Nothing set off an alarm so he continued on to the stairs, climbing with caution. With each step, he moved farther away from safety. The basement door stood open like an ominously beckoning portal to a different dimension. Sharp pain stabbed his side with each step he climbed. He fought to keep his breathing even. Mark stopped two steps from the top. Placing his hands on the floor he leaned his body forward and peered into the darkness of the kitchen. He couldn’t see much other than the large shapes of the island in front of him and the cabinets and refrigerator to his right. He would have to rely on his hearing, something Sandra had always said was not very good.
He crawled up the remaining steps and across the kitchen floor to the row of cabinets that divided the cooking area from the eating space. The patio door was ten feet to his left. Mark waited there, unmoving for several minutes. Although he hadn’t heard anything to make him think otherwise, his internal alarms were going off. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Thinking he was being too paranoid, he finally moved from his cramped position, making a small sound. Then, beyond the dining space, someone said, “It’s him!” and then, “Shoot!”
The house erupted into a war-zone as bullets whined all around him, slamming into cabinets, appliances, and walls. No one could see where they were shooting; they just shot. In a lull, Mark scampered backward to the head of the stairs. Someone from the family room made a move toward him. Mark fired at the sound and a body skidded to a stop a few feet from him.
He slid down the stairs, waiting at the bottom. From different areas of the house, footsteps pounded the floorboards as the ambush closed on his position. The first man in the doorway made the mistake of thinking Mark was on the run. He thumped down the steps then fell the rest of the way as Mark drilled two shots into him. He dove to the side and a barrage of bullets began chipping away at the concrete wall behind where he had been. They had too many guns to stand and fight. He ran to the safe room and closed himself in. The shooting continued, the entire basement sprayed with a wild barrage of bullets. Some of the rounds found their way through the wood paneling of the safe room, making Mark duck back. Finally, the shooting ceased.
“Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know, but he’s down here somewhere.”
“We searched. There isn’t any place for him to hide.”
“Each of you take a corner.”
The search was over fast with everyone reporting back that no one was there.
“We all heard him come down here. Hell, he shot Eddie from down here. He has to be here. We need lots of flashlights. He’s
hiding here someplace.”
“Fuck this, let’s burn his ass out.”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Start piling up stuff that’ll burn.”
Mark ran for the cave as soon as they mentioned fire. With the door closed and the cave outside the actual house, he might stand a chance of surviving a fire. His only concern was that the smoke might get in and drive him out, right into their waiting guns. He went to the vent and worked it free. Hoisting himself out of the hole, Mark belly crawled out from under the deck. He started to run for the woods then thought of something else. He crept back inside the house through the patio door, being careful not to kick any of the broken glass. Mark tiptoed to the basement door and listened.
“That’s got it,” one man said.
The dancing glow of the fire played across the basement wall. He inched the basement door shut then dragged the body of the man he had shot earlier out of the way. Grabbing the refrigerator, he wiggled it forward. He wouldn’t have much time before they reacted because the refrigerator made noise as he rolled it away from the wall. The men below responded instantly. Mark moved the refrigerator in front of the basement door as footsteps thundered up the stairs. He tipped it so that it wedged between the basement door and the island cabinet.
The men pushed against the door but the barrier held. Then, apparently thinking that he was holding it shut, they fired into the door. Someone else threw his weight against wood. The door bounced in its frame. Mark fired several times into the door to back them up. Someone yelled about putting out the fire. A lot of noise, confusion and chaos came from behind the door. It was time for him to leave. Mark ran into the family room, grabbed an armful of family pictures, and sprinted outside. They were still attempting to break down the door when he left the house. He had no idea if his barricade would hold up for long.
He ran into the woods and buried his mementos under some loose dirt and leaves. Looking back, one long wisp of smoke escaped out the vent under the deck. He sighed.
Years of memories about to go up in flames.
Looking down at the two graves, he said, “I’m sorry, Sandra.”
Then he left. He had a long way to go.
Thirty-One
In the darkness, it was safer and easier staying on the streets. Mark would see any headlights before they could see him. He stayed toward the side of the road, so if he had to seek cover, he wouldn’t have far to run. Once, he tried to look back at the sky to see if there was a glow from the fire, but too many trees stood in the way.
Besides, if the house was burning, he really didn’t want to know. The memories there were all he had left of his previous, normal life.
He kept jogging and exhaustion once more took hold of his body. He forced himself to focus on something happy. His mind took him to thoughts of Sandra and his children. It made the distance pass easier.
He thought about Lynn and the guilt he felt about his growing feelings for her. He again apologized to his wife and asked for forgiveness. Before he realized, he was past the farmhouse. He changed course and went toward the house from a different direction than he had intended.
Staying in the shadows, Mark observed the peacefulness that surrounded their new home. Nothing appeared to be wrong, yet still he waited. He wanted to make sure all was as it appeared to be and he wasn’t inadvertently leading the wolves to the chicken coop. He also wanted a moment to calm down. When he went inside, Mark wanted to appear strong and not look like the wounded, emotional wreck that he was.
From a side glance of the tree-lined street to the right of the house, Mark thought he saw a shadow move within the others. He watched more intently and saw the darker shape move again. Only starlight lit the night, but it was enough to show someone was outside, perhaps getting ready to attack the house. He advanced with caution. Where there was one, there might be others.
He perked up from another boost of adrenaline and again slid into the role of killer; or perhaps it was protector. It was more difficult to differentiate between them now. Not sure if he could survive another prolonged fight, Mark would have to put whoever it was down fast and silently to have a chance.
Crossing the street in front of the house Mark slid the knife from its sheath. Mark put the rifle down, hiding it under the bushes by the porch. From there, he peered around the corner and focused on the area where he had seen the shadow. Now that he was closer, he could make out the outline of a man crouching between two pine trees. The man was watching the road in the opposite direction, as if looking for reinforcements to arrive.
Mark crept from his cover and made his way to the pine trees. One tree at a time, he moved until he was only one tree away from the man. His heart pounded and he fought to control his breathing. Taking a man down from a distance with a rifle was one thing, but up close, hand-to-hand, was an entirely different matter. If the man were waiting for others to come, Mark hoped that meant he was alone.
Time stopped. The night stilled; no breeze, no insect noises, nothing, as if the two men were isolated. Mark moved around the branches of the last tree, trying to use it for cover without touching it and giving himself away. He crept to within four feet when the man stiffened and began to rise. Mark chose that moment to lunge at the man before he could turn around. He snaked his left hand around the man’s mouth, bringing the blade up to his throat. The man let out a startled high-pitched cry, muffled by Mark’s determined hand. A fraction of a second from slicing the watcher's throat to the bone, Mark realized that that this was no fully grown man, more like a teenager.
Caleb?
Mark gasped and released the boy, who slumped to the ground.
“Oh God, Caleb, I didn’t know it was you. Oh Lord, if You truly exist, please let him be all right!” He bent to the boy who squirmed away in panic. The sounds escaping his throat were unintelligible, like an animal.
“Caleb, it’s me, Mark. Let me see how badly you’re cut.”
Just then, the rear door slammed open and Lynn ran out on the back porch, carrying a gun. “Caleb!”
“Lynn, it’s me, Mark. Caleb’s here. He needs help.”
“Mark? Oh God, Mark, is it really you?” She ran down the stairs. The rest of the family followed carrying guns.
Lynn ran toward Mark. As she drew near he pointed toward a tree. “I think Caleb needs you. I-I thought he was one of them. I almost killed him.”
She went to Caleb, who had crawled under the wide, low hanging branches of the pine tree. His eyes were wide with fear, his hands pressed to his neck. When she coaxed him out, his hands were wet with blood. Mark was relieved to see Caleb standing and the blood wasn’t squirting. He hadn’t hit an artery.
Lynn tensed when she saw the blood. She hurried her son into the house where they used a flashlight to examine the wound. A shallow two-inch cut showed on the left side of his neck. The boy was more frightened than hurt.
Mark collapsed into a chair and wrapped his hands around his face. He'd almost killed the boy. What kind of a blood-thirsty animal have I become? He had become so numb to taking life he never considered the watcher might be a friend instead of a foe. He saw a target and decided to take it out. Where had the old Mark gone?
Mark watched Lynn work. Her face went through several emotional changes. Tension tightened around her like a clamp. How much more could she take? How much more could any of them endure?
“It shouldn’t need stitches because the cut is fortunately not that deep,” she reported, her voice even, yet strained. She struggled to get the words out. Her body shook, her lips trembled. Lynn blotted, cleaned and applied an ointment along its length, placing butterfly bandages across the width, and a gauze pad over the top. She led Caleb to the living room and had him lie down on a couch.
“I’m so sorry, Lynn. I never even thought it might be one of you. I just reacted like some psycho killer.”
“Don’t think that way, Mark.” James tried to console him. “How could you have known?”
Caleb still shivered.
He closed his eyes. Lynn snapped off the flashlight. “Let’s leave to him rest.” She left the living room and the others followed.
The rage inside her had reached bursting point. When they were in the kitchen, the fury released. Rounding on Mark she shoved him hard with both hands. “What the hell were you thinking?” She shoved him again. “How could you have mistaken my son for one of those animals?”
Lynn pushed him again then punched him in the chest. She slapped his face hard, the contact held in the air like a gunshot. A vision of the large, brutal man who had assaulted her transforming Mark's face. He became the target for all her pain, anguish and hatred. Unleashing a flurry of punches, Lynn battered her foe, a steady onslaught of curses accompanying the attack.
After one vicious punch to the stomach. Mark winced and doubled over.
“Stop!” Darren shouted. He ran between Mark and Lynn crying. “Don’t you hit him. He’s hurt.”
Seeing the blood soaking his shirt Lynn’s hands flew to her face.
“Oh, Mark, I’m—”
He held up his hands to stop her.
“I’m sorry. I’m glad Caleb’s not hurt seriously.” His voice was distant. He backed away from the group and walked to the back door.
“Mark …” Lynn tried to grab his arm and stop him, but he shook her off.
How fast the emotions had changed between them. She reached a tentative hand toward him.
“But you’re hurt. Please let me help you. I’m sorry.
Mark turned to leave, but Darren wrapped his arms around him and held tight. “No, I won’t let you go.
“Darren, bring him here,” James said.
Darren pulled on Mark, who resisted at first. But when he looked into the boy’s tear streaked face gave in.