A Cruel and Violent Storm

by Don M. Esquibel

  With such a large area to cover, we keep things simple. We staple signs along the fence posts and trees trunks near the perimeter, warning intruders of deadly force if they enter the property. Once inside the property, things get kicked up a notch. We set traps. Some as simple as potholes meant to twist ankles and trip them up; others are more elaborate, designed to severely maim or kill. Most of the latter are laid out behind the barn and beyond the apple orchard—the areas thickest with trees and brush, and therefore, the most likely paths people would take if trying to conceal their approach to the house. As for the pastures, we’re relying heavily on our lookout’s ability to spot an approaching threat and raise an alarm. It’s not without flaws, but it’s a start.

  I feel my hand begin to cramp as I staple another sign into the fence post. It’s mind-numbing work. I know it must be done, but I can’t help but feel I could be of better use than writing and stapling. I’d sooner help set up the Home Alone traps Vince spoke of, or disappear into the hills beyond the farm to hunt. But I know neither is likely with Richard in charge of the farm’s defense. Not that there was a vote or anything. He just took up the role and nobody thought to question him. I could challenge the issue, but I don’t see the point. Let him believe he’s in charge. I can put up with these tasks if it keeps the peace and things continue to run smoothly.

  Nearer the house, I watch Grace help tend to our greenhouses. She’s shown a real knack for it. With everything planted, the day to day management has been taken over by Virginia. She’s no farmer, but her care of our crops seems to be working. Stalks and shoots sprout from the various garden beds we’ve installed. Now, believing we could see a harvest before winter doesn’t seem as far-fetched as it once did.

  Virginia says something, and Grace tips her head back in laughter. I smile at the sight of them. They’ve grown close these past few weeks. Virginia has all but claimed Grace as her assistant, and she’s taken it in stride. I’m thankful for Virginia: both for taking my sister under her wing, and for finding ways to keep a smile on her face. I’ve tried telling her as much, but she was quick to brush it aside, insisting it was her pleasure while smoothly reverting the attention to Grace, whom she sang praises of in kind. I swear, it’s as if humility is ingrained in their family. Except for Richard of course. But then again, he’s not a direct relation either.

  “Your hand cramping?” Emily asks as she staples yet another sign.

  I laugh. “Yeah. You too?”

  “It’s starting to,” she says, flexing her hand to work it out.

  “You’re lucky,” I say. “I’ve felt mine off and on since this morning. Almost felt like detention, writing all those lines over and over: Private Property. Do Not Enter. Deadly Force.”

  Emily laughs. “Is that a real thing?” she asks. “I thought that was only in the movies.”

  I’m not sure myself. I never went to the detentions I was issued and dropped out shortly after. I was never meant to be a scholar. That was supposed to be Grace.

  “Trust me, it’s real,” Jerry chimes in. He works inside the fence line, digging potholes to trip up unsuspecting intruders. “At least it was for Mrs. Alger. Took her for German 1, freshman year. The problem was the class took place right after lunch, so I was tardy half the time. It was either write lines in detention or take a zero for participation credit. I took the lines, and applied for Spanish the next semester.”

  “Yeah, I can see how that would make you hate the subject,” I say, amused.

  “Nah, that wasn’t it,” Jerry says. “Nadia Hirsch and her family moved to Michigan over winter break. She’s the reason I signed up for the class in the first place.” He grins, eyes glazed over as if lost in memory. “She was definitely worth the lines.”

  “Should have known,” Emily says, shaking her head. “I’m just glad I’m older than you. I mean, watching you hit on my friends definitely had its moments, but I’d have never lived it down if you had actually hooked up with them.”

  Jerry’s doesn’t say anything. His grin gives him away.

  “Shut up!” She says. “Are you serious? With who?”

  Jerry’s laugh is a deep, fully bellied thing. I haven’t heard it much since we’ve been here. Ever since the night they rescued his sister and cousin, he’s been quiet. Withdrawn. I thought it was just his personality. Had I grown up with him, I would have known how unlike himself he’s been. It’s nice seeing a bit of his old self shine through.

  “A gentleman never tells,” he winks. “Besides, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I mean, they were my sister’s friends too, you know.”

  “Friends?” Emily asks. “As in more than one?” She shakes her head as he begins to laugh again. “Never mind. It’s probably better I don’t know.”

  She tries to sound disapproving, but it’s not long before she too is laughing. Ray and TJ smile as they listen in. I can’t help but smile myself at this moment of normalcy: of cousins ribbing one another over the past, their younger kin listening intently, wondering if the stories they hear are a foreshadow of their own to come. Only for Ray and TJ, that won’t be the case. The world of high school parties and chasing after girls and acting without inhibitions will never be known to them. I feel bad for them all of a sudden. I don’t know of that world either, but I also had never expected to. It’s hard to miss what you never believed you’d have. Still, it’s nice to share this moment. To pretend.

  Then the moment passes, and the real world reasserts itself in all its brutality.

  Jerry’s laugh is silenced, its abrupt stop like a song suddenly losing its percussion. His eyes go wide with fear, with panic. The world slows. Someone is cursing, screaming. I reach for my Glock on instinct, swiveling my hips to meet the approaching threat. Too late. An arm wraps around my throat, cold metal digs against my head. A gruff voice yells into my ear, daring me to pull out my gun. Instead, I release my grip and it’s unholstered by another’s hand. A second voice commands Jerry and the boys to disarm and drop to their knees with their hands laced behind their heads. They comply. I feel a rope bind my hands behind my back. I chance a look at Emily, her face livid with angry tears falling down her cheek.

  “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” my assailant asks me. I feel my skin crawl as he slowly tucks my hair behind my ear. I can smell his breath, sour and coated with alcohol. It’s a familiar smell, one that sends a shiver down my spine. He leans close. “You be a good girl and do what you’re told,” he warns. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

  They order us to move. My assailant keeps close, using me as a human shield as we enter the pasture. Our sentry has finally noticed and raises the alarm. Our people hear it and frantically abandon their tasks to get into a defensive position, guns flying into hands as they run toward the cover of our greenhouses. It’s all a blur, my eyes focused on my sister’s scared face as she peeks over the hood of an SUV.

  “Get down, you idiot!” I think to myself.

  As if hearing my silent scream, Virginia pulls her back and takes her place. I watch her lean her rifle across the hood, the action so strange to see from her. Even stranger is the cold hatred etched into her features, the warm, matronly woman I’ve gotten to know nowhere to be seen. I shouldn’t be surprised. She knows the brutality of this world the same as any of us. It was her son who was taken by the Animals, after all. It’s not something she would soon forget.

  Our captors aren’t deterred, continuing to march in tight formation behind us so as not to provide a clear shot to the family. Only at the gate do we stop.

  “I’m not one for speeches, so I’ll keep this short,” my assailant yells. “Here’s what’s about to happen: Y’all are gonna lay down your weapons, and two of my men are gonna enter the house and take some provisions. Bitch and moan all you like, I don’t care. It’s happening either way. The alternative is blood and bullets. People dying. Some us, some of you.” He pauses for effect, shaking his head gravely. “I don’t want that. So lay down your
guns, and let's get on with it.”

  There’s hesitation among the family. Indecision ripples between them as eyes are drawn one of two ways: to Richard, an ugly sneer on his face as he stares our captors down, grip on his rifle unwavering; and to Marie, her face angry and eyes fearful, never leaving her daughter. Of course, it’s Richard who speaks first.

  “Don’t piss on my shoes and tell me it’s raining,” Richard yells back. “We lay down our guns, what’s to stop you from killing us? And for that matter, how do we know your guns are even loaded?”

  My assailant raises his gun in the air and shoots. My ears immediately start ringing, the shot loud and unexpected. “Is that answer enough for you?” he asks. The man pauses, allowing Richard the chance to answer. He doesn’t. “Now for your first question, it’s like I said: we try and kill you, and some of us get killed in the process. I’d like to avoid that. What you need to ask yourselves is if whatever’s in that house is worth your lives or not. That’s what this all boils down to.” He pauses again, letting his message sink in. “So what’s it going to be?”

  “Everyone put down your guns,” Mrs. Taylor shouts a moment later, laying her own rifle at her feet. “The bastard’s right. Whatever they take isn’t worth dying for.” A few heed her warning, laying down their guns to avoid bloodshed. Others waver, taking their lead from Richard.

  “Don’t listen to her!” Richard yells back. “Drop your weapons and they’ll just kill us anyway.”

  “You don’t know that!” Mr. Taylor yells, backing up his wife. “They can’t shoot us all before we retaliate. We fight, people are going to get killed. We comply, there’s a chance we all make it out alive. It’s the only choice we can make.”

  Someone else speaks out, and then another, and another, until there’s a dozen raised voices yelling back and forth at each other. I can’t keep track of what’s being said or who said it. Hatred for these men flares through me as I watch the family turn on each other. I feel the inside of my boot glow hot with a cruel desire. I let it pass. I must wait. Waiting, however, is not on our captor’s agenda.

  A second gunshot sounds, effectively silencing the family’s argument. “Let me simplify things for you,” he says. “Either lay down your weapons or someone dies.” He scans the hostages he’s captured: Emily, Jerry, TJ, Ray, and myself. “We’ll start with the little one.” To my left, one of the men levels a pistol to the back of TJ’s skull. “You’ve got ten seconds!”

  He begins his countdown at ten, and most of the family have dropped their weapons by the time he reaches nine. He continues even as arguments commence, those who’ve dropped their weapons pleading for the others to see sense. One by one, weapons are lowered till only Richard remains stubborn in his opposition.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he yells.

  Five!

  “For God’s sake, lower the damn gun!” Ted yells, desperate now that his son faces death.

  Four!

  “They’ll kill us if I do!” Richard insists.

  Three!

  Ted picks up his gun and levels it at Richard. “You don’t, and I’ll kill you myself!” he says. There’s no bluff in his voice.

  Two!

  Richard looks to Ted, his surprise only matched by his anger. His glare is harsh as he stares down Ted and the family, still reluctant to let go of his gun.

  One!

  With a roar of frustration, Richard finally lays down his gun. A hard-edged moment passes as we wait for our captors to make a move.

  “Wise decision,” my assailant says. I can hear the smile in his voice, the contentment at having won. It’s nauseating. “Now, just sit tight and this will all be over soon. I’m a man of my word. So long as none of you do anything stupid, nobody has to die today.”

  Two of his men slip forward and hop the gate, a duffle bag hanging over each of their shoulders. If looks could kill, they’d be dead a dozen times over as the family stares them down. Yet nobody reaches for their gun. Nobody makes a move against them as they enter the house. Minutes pass, the tension filling the air making time move slowly. It’s quiet as we wait, either side opting to remain silent while the men loot the house. I’m thankful for that at least. With emotions as charged as they are, it wouldn’t take much to set things off.

  Finally, they re-emerge from the house, both of their packs bulging with looted supplies. I feel the anger rolling off the family. I feel it in myself. We’ve scraped and clawed and struggled for everything we have. Seeing the smug looks on their faces as they steal what we fought so hard for is a bitter pill to swallow. But I force it down. This loss will set us back, but we’ll survive. This won’t be the end of us. I repeat the facts over and over, reminding myself to keep calm.

  They join us once again with a nod to my assailant. They must be satisfied with their haul. The bastards.

  “Almost over,” my assailant says assuredly. “Time we make our exit. We’ll be keeping these five to ensure safe passage off the property. Don’t reach for your guns. Don’t move from where you are. We’ll let your people go as soon as we are certain we’re safe from retaliation.”

  I can sense the family bristle at this. That they’ve kept their anger in check so far is no easy feat. Even now they let it simmer, allowing their hateful glares to say what they won’t allow their voices to.

  “Alright then, you five turn around nice and slow,” he orders. I turn as instructed, getting my first look at my assailant. His face is like an old strip of leather. Tough. Weatherbeaten. His eyes are dark, both in intent and color. They lock on mine and I fight with all I have not to show him the fear he searches for. He smirks as if amused by my defiance. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly, our captors make their way back across the pasture. Their guns stay trained on us the entire way. It keeps the family in line. It also keeps us from trying any desperate bids for freedom.

  “It really is too bad we must say goodbye so soon,” my assailant tells me. His eyes probe my body, his twisted leer leaving no doubt of his thoughts.

  “You could come with us, you know,” he says. “I’d take care of you...so long as you took care of me.” On either side of him, his men snigger and grin their amusement. I block it out, their cheerful smiles making my blood boil.

  We finally reach the edge of the pasture, returning to where this whole ordeal was put into motion. The wind has scattered our stacks of flyers. They litter the ground around us, their warnings like a bad joke after this afternoon. How effective they were in keeping the wolves at bay. They stop at the fence line and order us to turn around as they pick themselves over. My assailant is last to move.

  “Last chance,” he says. He leans close, pressing his body against mine and speaking quietly into my ear. “You’ll never be safe here. You realize that yes? I can give you a better life than this.” He traces a greasy finger down my cheek and it’s all I can do but remain still.

  “What happened here today? It will happen again, mark my words. Deep down, you know I’m right.” He pauses, continuing to brush his finger against my cheek. “So what do you think? Will you come with me?”

  How deluded is this man? How could he possibly think that after everything he’s done, I could possibly want to go with him? Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s merely his last bit of fun, goading his victim before he takes his leave. I don’t know. But the anger I’ve barely held in check comes spilling out my mouth before I can check myself.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I say. “Take what you’ve stolen, and leave. Don’t come back. You do, and I’ll kill you myself.”

  His laugh is a short, brutish thing. “Feisty,” he says, tracing his hand through my hair. “But stupid.” He grabs a fist full and forces my head back. There’s a cruel amusement in his eyes. His smirk twisted. He pulls out a blade and traces it along my throat, drawing shouts of protest from my friends. With guns trained on them, it’s all they can do. “Piece of advice: don’t make threats unless you can carry through...for instance, if I threatened to sli
t your pretty throat if you disrespected me again, you would have to take me seriously. Right?”

  He breathes deep, his breath creating a suffocating bog between us. I fight to remain here. To remain in control. But my legs begin to shake, tears build behind my eyes. My body betrays me. I feel paralyzed. Can’t move. Trapped between now and then. The world swims in and out of focus. My heart beats hard. Fast. Too fast. Can’t breathe.

  There’s a sound like muffled thunder. A spray of warmth splashes across my face, my captor falling to the ground with his head blown open. People scream. Scatter. One by one the rest of the captors fall. I watch it all from my knees. When did I leave my feet? I try to stand but am overcome with a sense of vertigo. Can’t focus, my mind hazy. I hear my name as if hollered from far away. I turn and only then does the world make sense again.

  Morgan is on his knees beside me. His face is flushed. Eyes worried. Panicked. It’s sobering.

  “Are you alright?” he asks. I don’t think it’s the first time he’s asked.

  “I’m alright,” I say, voice shaky. I clear my throat. “I’m alright.”

  He hugs me close, and in his arms, I feel the tension leave me. But then I register yells, the sound of alarm around me. I turn to see Felix on his knees beside TJ, his body still, face covered in blood. Beyond him, the family sprints across the open pasture, Ted outpacing all but Richard.

  “Is he?” The words barely make it past my lips, but Felix makes it a point to answer, more for Morgan’s sake than my own.

  “He’s alive,” he says. “He’s alive.”

  Chapter 11: (Morgan)

  Her head rests in the crook of my shoulder, my rough, calloused hand entwined with hers. She may think it’s me who lends her strength, but without her touch, it’s I who would unravel. We sit on the back porch, away from the others, the air in the house too tense and stuffy for me to handle. I breathe deep, the sweat and oils of her hair filling my nostrils. I should find comfort in the scent, in feeling the warmth of her body beside my own. But all I’m reminded of is a dirty hand yanking her head back, and a steel blade held against her throat. Worse, I’m reminded of the terror in her eyes—of the trembling of her body as she struggled for words. I’ve never seen her like that. Not my strong, fearless girl. It scared me. So much so that when I saw a clear shot, I took it. I put a bullet through that bastard's head without warning, without a plan, without any consideration of what was to follow. Now I think of TJ and have to repress a chill all over again.