by Linden Storm
“Check the gun for yourself, always,” he’d say. “don’t trust anyone else to tell you it’s empty, even me.”
Then the shooting. Lining up the sights. Dad’s warning about how the rifle pulled a little to the right and the sights were a little off. The way he figured out how to correct for the gun’s idiosyncrasies all by himself, even at the age of 8.
The look on his dad’s face when he said, “You’re a deadeye.”
At 8, Paul had never heard the term “deadeye.” To a boy always looking for a word of approval from his dad—and rarely getting it—the word sounded like an accusation.
His lip quivered. He couldn’t, wouldn’t cry. His father hated tears.
But his dad had noticed his devastation and laughed and then patted him gently on the back. Paul can still feel the big hand there, squeezing his shoulder.
“Deadeye means you’re a great shot. You did good.”
Dad gave him the .22-caliber rifle to hold, showed him how to point it at the dirt as he walked forward.
They examined the targets. His target, his father’s.
“Look at that spread,” his father said.
And that’s another thing Paul remembers, the holes in the target, the bull’s eye shredded on his target. His dad’s target not nearly so well destroyed.
He remembers wondering if his father let him win and deciding he hadn’t. His father didn’t believe in any form of deception.
His infrequent punishments, his rare scoldings, those were reserved for those infractions that involved lying.
And Paul had never lied, not straight-ahead, anyway. He’d relied on leaving stuff out. Avoiding telling the whole truth. Now he knows that’s a coward’s strategy, and he vows to do better if he lives through this battle.
He sights down the rifle barrel again. The fuckers are crawling behind the house where he won’t be able to affect their movement.
They are running out of time, because while he’s willing to shoot at them, he’s not happy about killing them, not just yet.
He wonders if he can hit that one guy’s hat without shooting him in the head. No. Too risky. He pulls the shot at the last second, hitting a window, shattering it.
Then he goes to work in earnest, aiming carefully and shooting close on the heads of the targets. They’re still crawling, and one of them is making progress toward Marina, who is still lingering near the window.
“Marina, you have got to get out of there now!” Paul says. “I have to go after Gemma.”
In the meantime, Belle has managed to start the old bulldozer.
What the hell is she up to? Paul thinks. And then he figures it out.
“Belle, damn it, woman, you are something,” he says, even though she can’t hear him.
∆∆∆
How the world has changed, Belle thinks, in the ten years since I lived with the Cokers. Sueann and Dean Coker, who had the giant factory chicken farm and took in foster kids for the extra money and for the free labor they provided.
Dean and Sueann had convinced themselves they were poor. Despite all their land, all those millions of chickens raised and slaughtered and sold every six weeks, the money rolling in like the tides, those two people believed they were about to starve.
Despite those seas of doomed chickens filling the enormous barns.
There was always too much work: land to clear, ditches to dig, roads to grade. And somehow, at 16, Belle discovered she was a natural at operating heavy equipment. She could drive anything. She was especially good on the D-9 Caterpillar, an old bulldozer. She could make that thing do anything, remembers hanging on at an acute angle as she took the tracked beast across a steep hillside. If she hadn’t been cold and wet and filled with anger and adolescent angst, it might have been fun.
Now, examining the old bulldozer, she knows she can do it. The machine is old, but it’s been used recently. Someone has probably been demolishing houses and moving trash to haulage points.
If she can get the thing started, she can make it go. If she can make it go, she can make the difference.
She climbs on the scooped seat. There’s a scummy puddle in it, and it soaks her jeans, but she ignores that.
She prays. She hasn’t prayed in years.
She pulls the decompression lever, touches the starter button.
It starts.
Gunshots continue to pop at rhythmic intervals.
She surveys the levers, buttons, and gauges.
The Cat sputters, stops, sputters, stops.
She pulls the choke out all the way, then shoves it back in half way.
She doesn’t want to flood the engine.
And the old beast starts. The volume of the popping and banging rivals the gunshots.
She wrenches the clutch lever back.
She raises the scoop, lowers it. She’ll start near the ground, lift up.
She swings the Cat on its tracks.
“It can turn on a dime,” Dean had said. “If you know what you’re doing.”
She knows. Putting her feet on the dual brake pedals, she swings the Cat around, moves in closer to the shed. She digs the scoop into the metal siding, nudges it forward, and pulls the lever back, lifting the scoop.
It’s full dark, but the moon shines on the sides of the shed as it splinters apart. It’s so easy. The scoop bites into the frame, breaking it into pieces, ripping it apart. One pass is all it’ll take.
And then there’s a giant hole in the building, and she begins to fear it’ll collapse on everyone inside, but it doesn’t. She backs up, leaving the scoop up, and through the jagged hole she can see her friends. Rupert runs out and cuts uphill toward the tress. Then Nick and William, holding Harold between them, stumble out and away.
Belle hopes Paul is still providing cover from his position on the hill.
∆∆∆
Marina isn’t running. Paul sees why.
One of the thugs has jumped on her, and she’s struggling with him.
Another bad guy—Paul thinks it’s the sheriff—has broken loose and run behind the dozer where Paul can’t get an angle on him. He’s sneaking up on Belle.
Fortunately, the third guy seems to have disappeared. Whether he’s too scared to continue or he’s flanking them somehow, Paul doesn’t know. He scans the area through the scope but doesn’t see anyone.
The sheriff begins crawling over the back of the bulldozer, closing in on Belle.
Paul doesn’t want to kill him, but he has to stop him. He can’t let Belle get grabbed again. He just can’t. He squeezes off a shot at the guy’s right arm. The hit wheels him around, knocks him off the bulldozer. He hits the ground and disappears behind brush.
That gets Belle’s attention. She crawls down and runs at the guy holding Marina around the waist as he’s lifting her up off the ground. Belle comes at him from behind with a flying tackle, hitting the backs of his knees, and they all go down onto the ground, and then it’s a tumbling, rolling mess of arms and legs.
But then the two women are loose and on their feet.
“Run now, Marina,” Paul says. “Gemma can’t get to the van. You’ve got to get them to the van and meet me at the rendezvous point.”
“Got it,” Marina says.
He can’t take the time to look. He has to trust Marina and Belle to catch up with the others, circle around to the van, and drive them all to the rendezvous.
The third guy reappears—this time in one of the SUVs.
The wounded sheriff and the thug who was holding Marina jump in, and the driver guns it up the hill, toward Paul’s position.
Paul grabs his stuff and moves out to find Gemma.
Chapter Fourteen
It’s Do or Die Right Here
Every other guy in school had liked Megan Ellis, but Paul had liked Ellen Day. Megan Ellis was beautiful, with shiny blonde hair, beautiful skin, perfect teeth, and blue eyes, while Ellen Day was dark, scrawny, and weird. At least that’s what the other kids thought. Paul thought she was funny
, clever, and interesting.
As he makes his way through the night woods, he thinks about Ellen Day, who died of a head injury at the age of thirteen after she fell off a railroad bridge. He wonders if Gemma was like Ellen when she was young—a little reckless, prone to live in her head.
It’s dark under the trees, sparse silvery moonlight trickling down. His pin light illuminates a patch of ground in front of his feet. He pounds the side of his head where his headache is coming back, the headache that always comes back, even if he manages to forget about it for a little while.
He decides it’s time to take more risk. He can’t see anything, and Gemma might be unconscious in her hiding place and unable to call out. She’s been unresponsive over the comm link. It could mean only that she’s lost the earbud, Paul thinks, but that would be the best-case scenario.
“Gemma?” he says quietly.
“Still no answer?” Marina says, breathing heavily.
“You let me worry about Gemma. You worry about yourself,” Paul whispers. “Where are you?”
“Getting in the van,” Marina says.
“We’re not leaving without Gemma,” Belle yells.
Paul hears the van doors slamming. Harold is swearing incoherently. Nick is breathing hard, and Rupert is yelling, “Go go go!”
“Any sign of the bad guys?” Paul says.
“I can hear their vehicle. It sounds like it’s up in the hills where you are. Did you shoot that sheriff?”
Paul ignores the question. “I can hear them too. They’re getting closer.”
“Be careful.”
He switches the flashlight to a wide beam, calls to Gemma again.
He stops, holds still, says nothing. Listens.
There’s rustling, but it’s the wind or an animal. He can hear the distant, orderly swoosh of vehicles on the freeway a couple of miles away.
His head is pounding. When his headache fades away, it always comes back harder, like a starved animal released from a cage.
But over the throbbing, he hears something. It might be a siren on the distant freeway.
He listens closer.
No, it’s a thin wail.
“Here, I’m here.”
“Keep talking,” he says, pulling out his earbud to he can hear better.
“Here, I’m here,” she says. The voice is coming from his right, down the hill.
He moves toward it.
“Here, I’m here.”
Is the voice getting louder?
Ellen Day, dead at thirteen, he thinks, from seizures brought on by the head injury. And what was that song she liked? Something from an old movie. He’d visited her in Children’s Hospital when she was in a coma. She’d never woken up, but her parents made sure that movie was always playing the screen in her room.
People dancing and singing. A haunting, sad melody.
“Here, I’m here.”
Then he sees Gemma’s blue costume, the sequins glinting in the moonlight.
She is curled up against a tree, a dark stain spread under her like a cloth.
Oh, no, Paul thinks. Too much blood. He wishes, not for the first time, that there were healing bubbles and potions in real life.
∆∆∆
It’s like the beginning of a new match, Belle thinks. Dropping onto a clean map, safe for a minute or two, using the time to study the terrain, locate caches, get a fix on enemy strongholds, inventory supplies and equipment.
Everything is new.
No mistakes have closed down any options, not just yet.
Belle feels exhilarated. Like she can beat anyone.
They’ve done it. They’ve gotten out of that fucking shed, despite the armed enemies, and they’ve done it together.
In the van, the atmosphere is close, sweaty, smelly, and apprehensive. Rupert has snagged the driver’s seat. Marina’s in the front passenger seat. Belle, Nick, Rupert, and Harold are belted into the two rows of seats in the back.
“We did it, people!” Belle says.
“We’re not out of the woods yet, Missy,” Harold says. “And we are missing a couple of people. Don’t forget that.”
“Grandpa—” Nick says. “We know.”
“Never mind, Nick,” Belle says. She turns to look at Harold. “I’m glad you’re here, Old Man.”
“It wasn’t easy squeezing through that gaping hole you cut, you know,” he says, grinning.
“And yet, here you are,” she says. “You did it.”
“Where are the keys?” Rupert says, pounding on the steering wheel. “I hate keys. Keys don’t belong in modern times.”
“Hold on,” Marina says.
She reaches under the passenger seat. “The key is supposed to be in a pocket under here, but it’s not there.”
“It probably fell out,” Belle says. “Feel around.”
Marina gets down in the wheel well, bends over as far as she can, and shines a light under the seat. She reaches underneath.
“How could this be happening?” Nick says. “Oh, God.”
“It’s okay,” Rupert says. “I once watched a video about hot-wiring.” He reaches under the dash and starts feeling around.
“Don’t do that, Rupert, she’ll find the key,” William says.
“How do you know?” Belle says.
“Sometimes I have a feeling that always turns out to be right,” William says.
“You do, don’t you?” Belle says, believing him completely for the first time.
Marina climbs back onto the passenger seat and holds the key up, looking questioningly at Belle, then cutting her eyes toward Rupert. Rupert looks disheveled and unstable, as if he’d be as likely to drive them off a cliff as drive them to safety.
“Rupert can really drive,” Belle says. “I’ve seen it.”
Marina nods and shoves the key at Rupert.
Rupert snatches it out of her hand. “Are they coming?” he says, looking in the side mirror.
“Not yet,” Nick says. “But let’s go.”
Rupert peers at the foot well.
“What are you doing?” Belle says.
“Too many pedals,” Rupert says. “What’s this?”
“It’s clutch. For heaven’s sake, son,” Harold says. “You’ve never driven a stick?”
“A stick? How do you drive a stick?”
“Exactly,” Harold says.
“What?” Rupert says. “You’ve lost it, Old Man. It’s understandable, but you’ve finally lost your mind completely.”
Harold shakes Rupert's shoulder. “It’s a stick shift. A manual transmission. You know about that, right?”
“Yes, I know about it, Harold. But I’ve never driven one of these ancient fucking pieces of shit,” Rupert says.
“Something you cannot do?” Harold says. “What do you know about that? Don’t worry. I’ll drive.”
Rupert holds both hands in the air in the manner of an old-timey preacher questioning his God. “Can anyone else drive this thing?” Rupert says.
“I can,” Belle says.
“How well?” Harold says.
“Um, I’m okay, I guess,” Belle says. “I haven’t driven one for a while.”
“My personal vehicle has a manual transmission,” Harold says. “And I feel good. I’ve been taking meds and my heart is just fine. I can do this, I promise.”
It occurs to Belle that it’s her turn to trust someone.
“Okay, Harold, if you say so,” Belle says.
Rupert runs both hands through his hair. He turns around and looks at Belle.
“You drove that bulldozer,” he says. “You can drive this.”
Belle shrugs. “A bulldozer is a completely different animal. We might be looking at a high-speed chase, here. I really do think Harold’s the best choice.”
Swearing under his breath, Rupert scrambles out of the driver’s seat.
Harold leans forward and, moving faster than Belle expected, he tumbles out of the back. He hurries along behind the van and climbs slowly into
the driver’s seat while Rupert takes his place in the back.
Nick says, “Grandpa, I don’t think this is—”
“I’m fine,” Harold says. “Really. I feel great!” He begins adjusting the seat, the mirrors.
“For Christ’s sake, Harold,” Rupert says. “Just go.”
“Do you not want the driver—that’s me, by the way—to be able to spot criminals in the mirrors, son?” Harold says. “Where’s my hat?”
Rupert and Nick groan. The others laugh.
Harold presses the clutch, grunting, and starts the engine. The engine ticks and whirs to life.
“I wish we had an American vehicle,” he says, clutching the steering wheel with both gnarled hands. “I prefer American-made vehicles.”
He puts the van in gear, eases out the clutch. The van lurches backward.
“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, shit-o-la.”
“Language,” Belle says.
“Maybe I can drive this thing after all,” Rupert says.
Harold depresses the clutch again and shoves the van into gear.
This time he finds first and the van leaps forward.
“The lights are off,” Marina says. She reaches over and turns them on.
“Where are we going?” Harold says.
“It’s like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride,” Rupert says.
“Drive, Mr. Harold. I’ll tell you where to turn,” Marina says. She touches her earbud. “Paul, are you there?”
“Still not responding?” Harold says.
“No answer,” Marina says.
They head up the road away from the house, then turn right to get out of the private road and onto the main road, an old highway.
“How far is it?” he says. “We’re almost out of gas.”
“It’s okay, the gas gauge doesn’t work,” Marina says.
Belle starts laughing. What else can go wrong?
“She’s hysterical,” Nick says.
“Not our Belle,” William says.
“Slow down,” Marina says. “Turn here.”
They turn into the old ski resort, drive along the fence, catch a dirt road. The rendezvous point.
“They should be here by now,” Marina says. “But Gemma was hit, and now Paul is not responding. Maybe they got captured.”