Breathless - Swarm Book 2: (An Epic Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller), page 43
Emmett gave Émile a sidelong look. “You need to relax. This part of town is safe.” Emmett’s assurances weren’t comforting. Émile felt the tension rise in his shoulders.
It wasn’t until the track bobbed into view that Émile’s shoulders relaxed. The throb in his injured shoulder pulsed like a disco beat and his springs were wound so tight that he was going to need David’s fists to beat the knots out of his muscles. Emmett slowed down at the trackside gravel and came to a stop when Mary ran in front of the truck, waving her arms in frantic motions. She tripped over a rail and skidded on her knees.
Émile grabbed the shotgun. “I told you something wasn’t right.” He checked the chamber for a live round and scrambled out of the truck, keeping low and making his way over to Mary. Her cheeks were flushed and her limbs trembled. She’d torn her overalls, her skinned knees spreading blood over rock and soaking her clothing. Though his cracked ribs protested, sending short bursts of electricity jolting through his body, he raised her up and swung her around and onto the passenger seat.
Mary bit her lip and dabbed a shirt sleeve to her knees. “Men have taken the group hostage. They want the gas. They’re threatening to kill everyone.” Her eyes reddened, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, sobbing once. She blinked to clear her tears, then set her jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “They know David’s the leader. He’ll be the first to die if I don’t help deliver the diesel.”
Émile knelt behind the open passenger door. “Where’s Kevin?”
She pointed at the train engine. “He’s being guarded. Émile, without everyone fighting, none of us will get out alive. They have automatic weapons. They shot up the café.”
Emmett slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Mary jumped in her seat. “Those hoodlums ruined my store? Just wait till I get my hands on them. Gimme that shotgun.”
Mary stood up as someone came around the corner then pushed Émile toward the back bumper, but the stranger had already passed them by.
Émile slid the safety to the shotgun open, keeping the barrel pointed at the building ahead of him. If anyone came around the corner they were going to get buckshot between the eyes. He tapped Mary’s arm and she turned around to face him. “David’s not going to trust me, even if I manage to not get myself killed. After everything that’s happened on this trip, I’ll get past the guns only to find his fist in my face.”
“Saving the day won’t hurt. Neither will saying sorry. Now if you’re going to go, then go. I’ll do my best to keep the goons preoccupied.”
Emmett handed Émile a set of keys. “For the café.” Then Emmett slowly drove toward the train.
Exposed and bewildered, Émile scurried in a half crouch toward the café, hiding behind a rail car in front of the platform. He darted ten feet and ducked behind a trash can at the corner of the building. This was ridiculous. He wasn’t some John McClane Die Hard hero taking out terrorist. He was a dock manager, for crying out loud. This was for younger men. And braver men. Besides, only those with a death wish charged people with automatic weapons. Get it together Émile. Old or not, you’re going to save your family. He checked the chamber for what felt like the fifth time.
Glass doors swooshed. The sound of clomping feet echoed in the empty marshaling area. Émile pressed his nose to the brick wall and pivoted so one eye could peek around the corner. Seven men disappeared into the loading bay. This is it, do or die. He sprang from his hiding space and lunged for the café door. His thigh and calf burned from cramping muscles. He bounced off the door and fell onto the café’s cool tile floor.
Flat on his back, with a crippled leg and busted ribs, he aimed the gun at…nothing. There were no hostages. No terrorists. Nothing inside the café at all. He rolled onto his stomach and jammed the shotgun against the floor to help him stand. His leg twitched and his chest tightened. Hobbling to the back, he leaned against the coolers. The supply closet was right next to them. He checked the handle. Unlocked. In one quick move, he opened the door and pointed the gun inside. It was empty, too. Mary was wrong, the crew was being held hostage somewhere else.
A voice boomed out. “Nobody move. The next person who tries to be a hero gets a bullet in them!”
Émile spun around, aiming the shotgun at nothing. Wait, that voice hadn’t come from the café. He pressed his ear to the wall. Muffled voices. They had to be in the Amtrak ticket office. There went the element of surprise. He couldn’t get in through the back, they’d see him from the tracks. And if he went in through the front, he was going to get himself and others shot. Émile slumped against the closet door. Catch-22. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t.
Chapter 43
SAM LEARY. BRECKENRIDGE, COLORADO
No matter where he looked, there was something Sam didn’t want to see, and that he wanted to make sure Jesse didn’t see either. So many deaths, so much blood—and most of it avoidable. Sam wanted to get as far away as he could from the van’s sliding passenger door and the whimpering and the grisly mess that was the bully who’d stolen his respirator and shot at him, but if there were supplies in the van, he couldn’t walk away just yet.
The driver of the truck lay three feet away, his body bent, twisted and torn. The blood that had run into the storm gutter next to him had already congealed. There could be no doubt that Jesse had witnessed part of the accident, but the little superhero was still hidden in the trees behind Sam, with Henry guarding him. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his calf, Sam sat back on his heels and tried to catch his breath. He’d been trying to get the van’s sliding door open for what felt like forever.
“I’m going to try one more time, okay Jesse?” The boy didn’t answer, but a glance flung over his shoulder told him the boy and dog were still there. “Stay there a little longer.” He hefted himself to his feet.
Careful to avoid the puddles of blood, he squinted through the tinted windows of the van. The interior was almost impossible to make out, but lying at the bottom was a limp form. Stacey. She’d stopped crying for help. He didn’t know if she was even still alive. She lay prone, sprawled at an ungainly angle, unmoving. He went back to the sliding door and tried it one more time, putting all of his weight into it. There was a terrible rending screech as the door finally moved. Inch by inch he wrenched it open, until he could squeeze himself into the back of the van.
“I’m going in, Jesse. I’ll be right back out.” The boy was sitting on the ground under the trees, his arms wrapped around Henry.
He crawled over a moving box, two paper bags and a stack of blankets. On the other side of Stacey’s still form was a medium sized black and yellow gym bag.
His injured leg stung as he stretched the calf muscles and blood dripped from the wound again. He gritted his teeth and continued, pushing his way to where Stacey lay. She’d robbed them and tried to kill them, but that was the effect of the drugs. If she was alive, he should do what he could to help. He reached Stacey’s body and stopped. Her curly hair was matted down to her head and her shirt was stained in the rusty brown red of drying blood. It was almost impossible to tell what part of her was injured.
Sam leaned over. “Where are you hurt?”
Stacey was unresponsive. He tried again, this time shaking her in the most gentle way he knew how. She was either ignoring him or dead. She’d been quiet for a long time. He pressed two fingers to her neck, but he couldn’t find a pulse. He’d taken too long. He slipped his respirator from her face. She wouldn’t be needing it and if he could get it clean, it would be useful.
He squirmed his way out of the van, shifting the paper bags, box, and respirator onto the pavement. Setting the bags upright against the box near the back of the van, he ventured back inside for the gym bag. Creeping forward, he rested against the bench seat and reached over the arm rest to grip the bag handles.
In a flurry of motion, Stacey rolled, catching his forearm and dug her sharp nails into him. Pain lanced up his arm and he flung his limb upwards. Her iron grip clamped harder, her fingers scraping his forearm, and his hand went numb. He shook her hard to free himself as he jerked backward but Stacey clung on hard, even as he dragged her along the broken glass littering the floorboards. He wanted out of the van and away from Stacey. The scrapes in his skin bled, dripping crimson droplets onto his clown outfit in smears. He’d heard of people doing crazy things when high on drugs, like being able to withstand several gunshots and still fight, but she was legit insane. The woman weighed less than him and acted like she was possessed of the devil himself, intent on murdering him.
“Give me back my stuff!”
Rolling on the pavement, Sam wrestled with the leech, shaking hard to loosen her grip. The witch’s entire body flipped but she wouldn’t let go.
“No! Henry!” Jesse’s voice rang out as Henry charged from the trees, growling and in attack mode.
Henry bit down on the woman's calf, making her scream. “Damn you, and your stupid mutt.”
Henry released her leg and moved higher up, sinking his teeth into her thigh. He released his jaws once again and bit into the woman’s haunches, shaking and pulling her off Sam. She bellowed and released Sam’s arm.
Free of Stacey’s grip he crab-walked until he was two car lengths away and sank to the ground, holding his hand around the nail gashes to staunch the blood. “All right Henry, that’s enough.”
The dog trotted to his side and sat, tongue lolling, as if he knew the fight had been won and he was taunting Stacey. The little superhero poked his head around the trees.
“Jesse, get back. You don’t want to see this.”
Stacey gripped her gnawed leg and sobbed as she inched her way to her partner’s side. Her gasps for air turned into little gurgles. She spit a bubble of blood.
The last thing Sam wanted was to let Jesse watch someone else dying, it was bad enough for an adult to witness. He shuddered and got to his feet, keeping Stacey in sight as he backed toward Jesse’s hiding place. “I want you to cover your ears and close your eyes. You’ll be safe here, okay?” Jesse nodded. “Henry and I are just going to gather up some stuff.”
By the time Sam had grabbed two of the blankets, the paper bag and the duffle, Stacey had dragged herself from her partner’s side to rest in an upright position against the van, blood dripping from her mouth. Sam almost dropped the bag when he saw what was in her hand—the pistol used to rob him of his mask.
She smiled an evil ‘go to hell’ grin and aimed the gun at Sam's chest. “You’ll pay for what you did to Gus.” Even in her death’s throes she was bent on destroying him. She struggled to cock the hammer, her fingers slick with blood. “And your dog too.”
Sam couldn’t believe it. She was crushed, stabbed with glass, breathing toxic smoke, and still found the strength to wield a firearm. An improbable thought flitted into his head: He had to test a round of narcotics on his flannel moths and other insects to see if they had the same effect. The hammer clicked into position and instinct kicked in. He needed to move, fast.
“Henry!” He bellowed for his dog as Stacey fumbled with the trigger and he dashed toward the back of the van. The instant he’d ducked low behind the bumper he found Jesse, still crouched with ears covered—safe and out of Stacey’s line of sight. But Henry wasn’t with him.
The gun went off like a cannon and a high keening yelp split the air. “Henry!”
His loyal dog must’ve attacked Stacey again, giving him time to escape. Sam dropped the supplies he’d gathered and edged to the bumper, as Henry limped forward and collapsed near the box and bags at the back of the van. Sam scrambled the few feet to his side, tripping and sliding across the rough pavement, using the box as cover. Another shot ricocheted and he pulled Henry away from the devil woman and out of sight.
His sweet, brave mutt lay there, panting heavily, whining with each exhale as blood pumped from a hole in his chest. “Oh no. Oh no.” It was the only thought in Sam’s head. The injury wasn’t something Sam knew how to fix, and even if he could, it was too late. The blood was seeping out of Henry too fast. He had to get him to a vet, but already in less than a minute the ground was awash with Henry’s blood. There was no way there’d be a vet still in town, and even if there was, he didn't know where to find them in time. Henry whined and slapped his tail against the asphalt as Sam stroked his best friend’s head.
“You’re the best dog in the world, Henry.” Sam cradled as much of the animal as he could in his lap, he hugged the dog tight, tears dripping down unbidden as Henry stared up at him, his brown eyes still warm with love. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” Sam’s insides felt like they were peeling apart, like his outsides were a shell and his insides were shredding. He couldn’t look away, but he didn’t want to see the light fading from Henry’s eyes. “Don’t leave, Henry. Stay with me.” He wanted Henry to be alive forever, but there was no denying the moment the dog’s body went limp. Sam’s best friend, confidant, and companion departed life, leaving him alone. He bent over double, the pain too much to bear, grief coming out of him in a guttural moan. He was on his own in a world that didn’t understand him, and life continued to ask more of him than he could give. His heart beat hard against his chest and his head throbbed.
A gurgling laugh barked out from the other side of the van and Sam shot his head up. An inferno burned deep in his stomach, replacing the hurt with rage. That witch would kill him if she saw him trying to get back to Jesse, and they couldn’t afford to leave without gathering whatever supplies might be in the van. There was only one thing he could do to keep them all safe. Stacey had to be removed, before she caught sight of either him or Jesse.
He shifted Henry’s body behind the truck’s wheel. Jesse definitely didn’t need to see the lovely Henry like that; better by far to remember his jangling collar and wagging tail. With his best friend stashed from sight he dumped the paper bags out onto the road. The thieves had scored a carton of cigarettes, five wallets, a couple of purses, face masks, and a few necklaces and rings. Sam snatched up the clean masks and shoved them in his pocket—he and Jesse would need them.
He dumped out the purses next—some of them must’ve belonged to moms because there were granola bars and applesauce packets and gum and Band Aids. He set all the snacks aside. Last he upended the duffle, frantically rummaging through its contents. He tossed aside several gallon sized baggies from the interior and dug through the side pockets until a box of matches fell out. They must have been used for the cigarettes, but they sparked a different idea in Sam’s mind.
Working as quickly as he could, he shoved everything that looked useful—the blankets, the snacks, and anything he could barter—into the gym bag. He set it where it was out of sight, but easy to reach.
He wasn’t a mechanic, but he was a scientist, and machines had logic to them. Ducking down under the van’s frame, he found where the fuel door led to the fuel line and followed the metal tube until it reached a clear plastic filter. On the other end of it was a rubber hose attached with a metal clamp. He grabbed a piece of glass from a broken window. With the slow, methodical slices of an entomologist, he dissected the rubber hose from the fuel filter and stepped back when clear liquid spilled onto the ground. It pooled underneath the frame and ran toward the front of the van, where he could make out Stacey’s legs. When enough gas had made its way under the maroon vehicle he crept to the edge and peeked around.
Stacey leaned against the van, barely upright, the life she clung to ebbing fast. But his movement caught her eye because she lolled her head toward him and the gun went off. He pulled himself back behind the van, the bullet pinging off its roof. There was still enough malevolence in her to keep her alert.
He looped the duffle’s handles over his arm, then took out the box of matches from his pocket. “This is for you, my lovely, lovely Henry.”
He struck a match and backed up so he had enough room to get away. He tossed the match into the puddle of gas and only waited the heartbeat it took to see it catch with small orange waves of flame that raced down the length of the spill. The puddle of fire spread and he bolted from the vehicles with what strength he had left. His lungs burned and his legs dropped from underneath him as he reached the trees where Jesse waited. He flung himself atop the boy as a hot blast of rending metal and vaporized fuel concussed the air.
When the worst was over, Sam sat up. The van had exploded upwards, shooting the mangled truck off it. It crashed back to earth and both vehicles burned black.
The boy joined him and sat at his side, playing with the zipper of the gym bag. “That was so cool. Can I do it next time?”
Sam rolled until he was on his knees and propped himself on his haunches. The boy wasn’t aware that Sam had just extinguished another life. Even if the woman was going to die anyway, Sam was still the one to finish her off. That made two people he’d buried in a month. But there was no time to stew over what he’d done. He pulled the masks out of his pocket and fitted one over Jesse’s Spiderman face and then his own. “We’ve got to get going.”
The boy pointed at his pants. “What’s that?”
Sam’s throat closed as he glanced down at the large splotches of red that had soaked into his clown pants. He needed an explanation quick, or else Jesse might lose it. “It’s… paint… from inside the van.” He couldn’t tell if the boy believed his lie or not, but it wasn’t worth worrying about.
“Where’s Henry? I found him a good stick while I was waiting.” Jesse bent to pick up a stick from the grass, tossed it into the air and caught it. “Here Henry! Come play!” He waited a moment, then called again. “Henry! Here boy!”
Sam couldn’t take it. And they couldn’t stay put any longer. The acrid smoke from the burning vehicles was as toxic or worse than the rest of the smoke they’d been breathing, full of whatever drugs had been in the ziplock baggies and whatever chemicals where in the vehicles themselves. There was nothing left for them near the vehicles anyway.
