Authors: Daniel Powell
The
shed stood a fair distance from the house. Arthur carried the lantern, all but
one panel shuttered in the darkness as ash swirled on the wind.
He cracked another panel after they
entered the shed. There was a workbench and a wall stocked with hand tools. “Like
I said, we’ve tried our hand at gardening, Ben. Callouses and an aching back is
all it’s ever amounted to. Over here. This is what we’ll need.”
He went to the corner of the room and
began moving tools aside. There were plastic bags filled with fertilizer, and
when they’d cleared everything away, Arthur knelt. With the blade of a trowel,
he pried up a floorboard, and then another. Six boards later, Ben saw a large
metal box there in the ground.
“Go ahead,” Arthur said.
Ben knelt and brought it up, grunting. Thing
was heavy. He swiped the dirt away.
“Go ahead. Open her up, son.”
He did, and the air left him in a
startled gasp. Good lord, but there was an arsenal inside! The first thing he noticed
was the string of grenades.
“How did you…”
“I guess we lucked into it, is all. I’ll
just leave it at that. Can’t say it all works the way it should, but I doubt
those grenades take regular maintenance. I clean the guns twice a year.”
There were automatic weapons, ammunition,
some handguns. Ben didn’t know where to start.
“The post office is down at the far end
of Main Street. The girls are in the back, I think, but the walls of that place
are solid concrete. It’ll take a mighty blast to knock them out, and it’ll
probably get messy. You need to draw the men away and just get in and out, if you
want my opinion. It’s too risky just hitting the building full force with all
those prisoners inside.”
Ben nodded. “Any suggestions?”
Arthur wore a grim expression. He knelt
and rummaged in the chest until he found the package. “Use this.”
Ben turned it over in his hand. It was a
pliable gel pack with a stainless steel nozzle. “Liquid flame?”
“A little goes a long ways. Eddie’s probably
at the tavern, celebrating a little before heading north to deal with Roan. The
man has a weakness for strong drink. Take this and put it at the corners of the
old floral shop. That place is just an old wooden frame, and it’ll burn like a
Roman candle. That building is two spots down from the tavern, so Eddie’ll have
a vested interest in seeing those flames put down. It just might buy you the
time you need.”
Ben slipped it into his duster. “May I?”
he nodded at the chest.
“By all means.”
He took three grenades, a handgun and
one of the automatic weapons—an ugly thing with a little snubnose pocked with
ventilation holes. It had a funny clip, and Arthur took some time checking both
guns before declaring them sound.
“Sweep your hand by this switch when you
mean to get serious, Ben, but be ready. This little hornet will spray bullets
in a line and you’ll be out of ammo before you know it. Actually, here…” he packed
a couple of extra clips into the duster and showed him how to reload.
“Does Eddie know about this?” Ben said.
Arthur shook his head. “Nope. In fact, I
think it might be best that you be on your way. He sends folks out from time to
time—just to check on the families up here on the bluff, make sure things are
okay. I doubt he’ll send somebody tonight, but you can’t be sure and I feel a
little exposed just standing here talking with you like this right now.”
Ben drew a deep breath. “Thank you,
Arthur. You take care of Gwen and Lucy. If we make it out of this alive, I won’t
forget my promise. I’ll come back for you when the time is right.”
Arthur nodded. “God be with you, son.
You’ll surely need him to get your companion back.”
Ben nodded. He slipped back into the
night, casting a single glance over his shoulder at the old man who had risked
the lives of those he loved to help a stranger.
The
gel reacted to water, and he had maybe ten ounces remaining.
He twisted the plastic cap off the
nozzle (WARNING: EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE! HANDLE WITH CARE!) and spread the gel
along the baseboards behind the flower shop. He used the entire package—there
was just enough to trace around the side of the building as well—before heading
to the rear of the property.
Main Street was deserted, though he could
just hear the muted warble of country music coming from the tavern.
He checked the safety on the automatic
and touched the grenades in the interior of his duster, his heart racing. His
pack, including the seeds they’d risked everything for, he had left in the
palmetto grove near Arthur’s house.
That would be their route out of Bickley.
There was no other choice.
“Here goes,” he muttered, sprinkling a few
drops of water on the gel. It ignited with a thunderous whoosh. Flames licked up
the brittle boards; they flashed down the length of the building, the fire
crackling hungrily as it engulfed the shop.
Ben sprinted in the opposite direction,
darting behind the crumbling storefronts, angling toward the post office. From
his vantage point, he could keep one eye on the burning building and the front
of the tavern, and the other on the post office.
There was a long, uncanny string of
minutes when the building was being consumed by flame, and yet there was no
reaction from either the tavern or the post office. Ben watched as the inferno wrapped
the old floral shop in billowing tongues of orange and yellow, the flames
cycloning high into the night sky. A few minutes passed before the thin glass
in the front windows exploded.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. There
was another maddening minute, and then they finally came outside.
The tavern door flew open first. A burly
man with a huge scar on his face stepped into the street.
“Aw, Christ!” he shouted. “Fire! We got
a fire out here, Mr. Talmidge!” He ran back inside and Ben took advantage of
the opportunity. He sprinted across the street and ducked behind the post
office. He couldn’t see the blaze from his position—couldn’t see the folks
making a commotion out in the street—but he heard them all the same.
“Wet it down! Wet down that rubble! Get
inside with ye and get some fucking water, you idiots!” Quade shouted. “Christ,
don’t just stand there!”
There were shouts and shrieks as the
people of Bickley scrambled to protect what remained of their town.
Ben touched an ear to the concrete. It
was dense, and he could hear nothing from inside. He crept around to the far
side of the structure, risking a glance back into the street.
They had formed a line. Buckets of water
now moved up and down the column as they soaked the crumbled remains of the
building between the floral shop and the tavern. They spared not a drop on the
fire itself; it had been a lost cause from the start.
A man in black—Ben quickly pegged him as
their leader—shouted orders and comically stamped on errant embers.
Suddenly, as if tipped by the gods, he
wheeled and fixed his glare on the post office. Ben shrank into the shadows. He
counted to twenty and readied himself for another look and found the man in
black now marching across the street, toward the post office, a pistol in his
hand.
He was an inch away from a full-blown
run, this man in black, and his face was set in a nasty scowl.
Ben took a shooter’s pose, the automatic
at the ready.
Waiting.
He waited for the man to turn the
corner.
He waited to cut him in two.
Instead, he heard the front door blow
open and the man’s muffled shouting. It slammed shut behind him and he could
only make out every few words.
“A fire at the…get them up and…mystery
man running around out there in the…”
They knew.
The door clattered open again and Ben
peered around the edge. A skinny mutie and a fat redhead scampered across the
street to join the effort to save the tavern.
How many more were there inside?
Arthur didn’t have much to offer on the
subject, although he had said that a fellow named Chad Mullens was the town’s
jailer. Arthur said he was big and strong and mean as a snake, and that Ben
would do well just to avoid him altogether.
Ben watched the street, unsure of his
next move. After a short time, the door opened again and the man in black stepped
out. He motioned and an older woman tentatively followed him. Her gaunt face
was streaked with grime. She cowered, her eyes darting about in the dancing
flames.
“Come on, come on! Shake a leg, you
stupid cows!” the man shouted. He yanked the chain he was holding and, with a
little cry, the woman stumbled forward. Another followed, then another and
another. Alice brought up the rear, her hands chained in front of her.
She scanned the street before turning
her attention to the inferno.
“You shouldn’t have done it,
hero
,”
the voice hissed from the darkness. Ben heard the words an instant before the
knife punched a hole in his gut. The air left him in a gust and he felt the
blade grinding against his ribs.
The man
was
huge—a thickly
muscled shadow that pulled the knife back and began to stab furiously at him,
even as he pushed Ben to the ground.
Ben dropped the automatic. He struggled
to breathe as the man searched for him with the blade. The first blow had found
its mark, but the duster was thick and, while he was cut repeatedly, none had
the same intensity as that first shot.
His torso was on fire, the pain worse
than when the old man had put a slug in his shoulder.
“I’m going to fuck yer old lady,” the
man snarled. He fell on top of him and Ben could see him. His dark eyes were
filled with rage, his lips drawn back from straight white teeth. “I’m going to
fuck her and then I’m going to cut her up, just like I’m about to do to you. I’ll
make a meal of you both before the end of the night, hero.”
A crimson fury, a rage so total he felt
like he was outside of himself, surged through Ben. He thrust the butt of his
hand hard into the man’s throat and felt something crumple and fold in on
itself. It was like crushing a flimsy wax cup.
The man’s eyes bugged and he lost his
grip on the knife, his hands flying to his throat as he struggled for a breath.
He made a sound that reminded Ben of a fish he’d once caught on the banks of
the Deschutes River, back on the ranch. It had been a big old squawfish, and
Mr. Brown told him just to toss it down on the banks.
“They eat the salmon and the trout,
Ben,” Mr. Brown had said. “They aren’t supposed to even be in the river. We’re
helping the native fish populations when we get rid of these species. I won’t
call them trash fish, but the truth is, they don’t belong in this river.”
Ben had felt terrible, but he’d followed
orders. The fish flopped around there, gasping and struggling and taking a long
time to die, making that little choking noise as it stubbornly clung to life.
This man was now making that sound.
Ben scampered out from beneath him. He clamped
a hand to his side, felt it come away wet, and struggled to his feet. He
stumbled forward and drove his knee as hard as he could into the man’s face.
Chad Mullens—that was his name. Ben hated
Chad Mullens and all he wanted to do in that moment was destroy him.
Mullens fell forward, his nose busted
and his hands still fumbling at his collapsed throat. Mullens tried frantically
to fix the crumpled cartilage in his throat—hoping to pry open his airway. Ben
scooped up the dying man’s knife. His fingers were slick with blood, the handle
covered in it. “You want to cut me up!” he hissed. “You want to cut me up and…and
take away my Alice!”
He thrust the knife into the man’s neck
and air, whatever had been trapped there, rushed through the gaping wound. Arterial
blood covered Ben’s face in a hot mist. He yanked the man’s head up by a swatch
of hair. “I’ll do you the courtesy you never would have done me.”
He slit the man’s throat and let him fall
to the ground. Panting, Ben watched the life seep out of him. It happened
quickly. The man’s fingers clenched and spread, clenched and spread, and then
he was gone.
Ben stood, a hand pressed hard against
his gut. The alley had become a butcher’s floor, a crimson carpet that was partly
his and mostly the dead jailer’s.
He picked up the automatic and peered
around the side of the post office, taking air in tiny swallows. It was the
only way to manage the pain in his side. How many times had he been stabbed?
The fire still roared, but it had not
spread. The townspeople, and now Ben noticed that most were disfigured, scrambled
to protect their precious tavern.
The women were gone.
He slipped back around the rear of the post
office. Sliding through shadow, he made for the tavern. The front door was
propped open, but he couldn’t quite see inside.
“Christ,” he cursed. “Alice, where are
you?”
The roar of a distressed engine suddenly
split the night. A van, one of those old sprinter models, trundled down the
street. It came to a skidding halt outside of the tavern and Quade hopped out.
He vanished inside the tavern.
“Shit,” Ben muttered. This couldn’t be
happening.
He tried to run, but it was no use. His
torso throbbed, and he shuffled as best he could for the edge of town.
There stood the houses on the
hill—Arthur and Gwen’s place in the distance. He had to hurry.
He snatched a quick glance over his
shoulder. Sure enough, there they were. Two men flanked the shackled women as
they were herded into the van.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He tried to pick up the pace and fell.
This far down Main Street, the buildings were more widely spaced, and he was out
there in the open. If they looked in his direction, he was dead. He pushed himself
back up and out of the pool of blood he’d made.
Damn, he was in a bad way. Now he could
taste blood in his mouth, could feel it trickling down his chin. He knew what
that meant, and the realization sent a surge of adrenaline through him.
If he was going to die, he’d better make
use of whatever he had left in the tank.
He regained his footing. The road curved
around a swooping bend. He stumbled down it and found himself suddenly engulfed
by darkness, Bickley’s tiny city center obscured by the road’s contours.
It didn’t matter if he could see them or
not, because they were coming. The engine shrieked, tires squealing on asphalt.
“Over here!” a man’s voice carried
through the darkness. It was a deep, familiar voice. “Hey! Hey, Ben! I’m right
over here—follow my voice!”
Ben squinted. A thin blade of light, the
hooded beam of a flashlight, momentarily illuminated Buck’s position. The
woodsman had a shotgun, and he stood just inside the empty doorway of a burned-out
gas station. “Move it, Ben! This is where we’ll have to take them!”
Ben covered that last sixty meters as
quickly as he could, trusting the man instantly. “Thanks,” he gasped, sidling
up to the large man.
“Nice piece,” Buck said, nodding at the
automatic. “Cut out the tires with that little fucker. I’ll try to spring the
women as safely as I can manage. Can you run?”
Ben shook his head. “Stabbed,” he
panted. “I’ll try my best.”
“Stay out of the woods, then. Talmidge is
probably going to figure it’s me that helped you, so don’t you dare go back the
way you came. Those thugs of his will scour the forest. Not sure just where you
came from, but the Trout River heads due north just after passing through
Talmo. Might be a way to collect your bearings. If you get your friend back, then
you two need to
vanish
, Ben. Just melt away, and put as much distance
between yourselves and Bickley as you can.”
Ben nodded. “What are you going to do?”
Buck smiled. “I’ll move on, I guess. Rebuild.
It’s a big ol’ world out there, Ben. It’s high time I left this place.”
The van was coming, the driver putting
it through its paces.
“Thanks,” Ben said. He swallowed blood.
“Thanks for helping us.”
Buck wore no smile, but his eyes shined
in the dim night. “Don’t mention it. I owe this son of a bitch. Come on, buddy.
Let’s go get some us some payback.”
The van rounded the bend. One hundred
yards. Sixty.
Twenty.
Ben flipped the safety, stepped out of
the doorway and lightly pressed the trigger. Flames licked out of the barrel and
the front tires of the van disintegrated in an explosion of shredded rubber.
The driver lost control and the van skidded over the far curb; it crashed into what
was left of an old drive-in diner.
Buck was into the street in a flash. He
sprinted up on the passenger side even as the spindly man with twigs for arms
was climbing down, trying to level a hunting rifle. Buck let the shotgun bark
and the kid’s head disappeared in a mist of blood and bone.