Pixie doesn’t make any sense. She’s not more than a couple of months old, way too young to be out here like this. But who knows, nothing is surprising anymore. For all I know she’s a goddamned genetic experiment every bit as scary as the Cart People and the Zombie Gas.
Jem is holding my hand from inside a few layers of shirts I confiscated from Tammy and Tristan and a spare slicker. Jackie is dressed the same, except the clothes are even bigger on her. We’re all probably going to die of pneumonia. It’s cold and miserable out here.
And Jess is…I don’t know what Jess is — besides dangerous. But at least she’s keeping an eye on Jackie.
We’re following one another single file through the trees, a Christmas string of bobbing flashlights marking the person in front, but the others further ahead are lost in the rain. Me and Jem are in the back.
Jess is refusing to even acknowledge her sister anymore, even though Jem’s face is red and bruised where Jess worked her over. I think Jem is in shock or whatever it is when the lights are on but nobody’s home. She’s not acting like she should be.
The again, what’s the right way to act after killing your niece…after Ronny…the Cart People…the dogs…being abandoned, Jesus.
I squeeze her shoulder and she glances at me and tries to smile, her lips quivering in the cold. Her eyes don’t match everything else, they’re haunted.
Maybe she is aware; maybe she’s pretending, maybe — maybe a lot of shit.
The flashlights come to a stop and cluster as the rain begins to let up.
A gravel and dirt road curves along our path, angling down into the valley. The drainage ditches on both sides are overflowing and moving with a strong current, slowly washing out the road.
“We need to stay higher up,” I say, pointing to the ridge.
“Look,” Tristan says and aims his flashlight across the stream toward a rise in the middle of the road.
I can’t believe anyone saw it.
In the mud, glittering silver and gold and pink in the beams of our flashlights is a shoe — one, small, kid-sized sneaker.
I jump over the widening current of the drainage ditch and splash through the deepening water on the road. The shoe is so small. I glance around, what doesn’t belong out here? I kneel down and pick it up, shine my own light on it and wipe the mud away. The white sides of the sole declare, repeatedly, that the shoe is the property of someone named Casey.
“Jess, do you know a kid named Casey?” I shout.
She reaches out, like we’re close enough for me to hand it to her, and then she shakes her head vigorously, and drops her hand back to Jackie, pulling her closer.
I’m not sure we can we trust Jess anymore.
I feel a tug on my jacket sleeve.
It’s Jem.
Jesus, wasn’t anyone watching her?
“Taylor,” Jem interrupts.
“Jem, we have to…what?”
“Her name is Casey Taylor, she’s in my grade,” Jem says with confidence and then smiles, a real smile that cuts through the horror of the afternoon.
I tousle her hair as I study the road. The ruts of a trailer and horses are still obvious, to spite the storm, and so is the skinny tread of a motorcycle tire.
“They went this way,” I shout across the road.
Pixie pokes her head out of my coat and looks up at me.
“It’s the kids,” I finish.
Paco shakes his head. “The goose chase is done. We’re going back. You said stick to higher ground, remember?”
“Fool’s trip,” Dante says and folds his arms across his chest, cradling his rifle.
Tammy and Tristan look unsure, glancing back and forth from Paco to me and Jem.
“Jess?” I ask.
“I have to get Jackie back,” she says, her arms still wrapped around her little sister.
I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. None of them wanted to be here in the first place. They’ve been looking for an excuse and everything that went down with Jess’ baby back up in the woods is more than enough. Finding Casey’s shoe is nothing more than a coincidence, I’m not sure any of us really believed we were meant to find those kids.
But a coincidence is all Casey needs. It’s all I need.
“Take Jem with you,” I say.
“What?” Tammy asks in surprise. “You’re going?”
“Yeah, I’ll go, see what’s going on,” I say.
“You’re a goddamned fool. It’s suicide. What can you do by yourself?” Dante asks.
But before I can even talk to Jem about it, Jess screams back, “She’s not coming with us.”
“It’s not like you have a say, but what about your mom? How is she going to take to you leaving her daughter out here, your sister?” I shout back.
“Please, I don’t want to go,” Jem says, tugging at my coat sleeve, fear creeping into her voice.
Paco steps in front. “No, I think she stays with you.”
“Are you shitting me?” I ask.
“She’s bad mojo, cursed,” he says and crosses himself.
“Bad mojo? She’s a little kid.”
“No, no, no — please don’t make me,” Jem pleads.
“Maybe you’re bad mojo too, pendejo. I think you hit the road, take the demon child with you,” Paco says and Dante raises his rifle, aiming first at me and then pointing it down the road.
Tristan seems to be caught in the middle, I can’t tell which way he’s leaning.
“What’s Cam going to say?” I ask.
“About you looking for the kids?” he asks.
Paco takes Dante’s rifle, checks the chamber and shoves the bolt home. “I like you, I hope you make it,” Paco says as he points the rifle at me.
Tammy screams as I shove Jem across the road.
The shot is deafening.
The other shots are like thunder, muzzle flashes like lightening.
The gunfire lights up the road, silhouetting the trees against the rain — silhouetting Paco and Tammy and Dante and Jess and Jackie — and the Cart People lined up along the road behind me.
I drop my flashlights as I fall, Pixie whines and whimpers, and I’m careful as I fall, trying not to hurt her. Jem is near the side of the road and I grab her by the arm and shove her as hard as I can across the running water of the drainage ditch to the far side of the road as I try to stay between her and the gunfire.
I tumble into the knee-deep stream as another shot rings out.
I grab Jem by the back of her slicker and throw her one more time across the ground and into the underbrush before the woods. This time she gets to her feet and tumbles through the brush and disappears into the dark.
I scramble out of the ditch and chase after her, dodging between the trees.
More shots echo through the forest, slapping into trees and splintering them, but none come close, just echoes from deep in the forest.
I hear more screams too, cries of pain, fear, cursing and other sounds that I can’t explain — scary sounds.
I thought Paco was aiming at me, thought he’d flipped out, but he must have seen the Cart People while we were talking…it was an act, he was just buying time, trying to get his shot set without letting on that he knew they were behind me.
That was it, right?
“Jem, stop!” I shout. “Jem!”
I stop, leaning against a tree and try to catch my breath.
Pixie is still whimpering.
I open my jacket and she’s very still, lying against the inside of my arm and that’s when I see the hole in my jacket. I gently set her down, patting her and fumble for my zippo.
I see the blood as soon as the light sparks.
I close the lid just as fast.
The motherfuckers shot my dog.
Jem is probably still running and now…
Fuck.
It never ends.
It never fucking ends.
I realize I’m screaming when I see
Jem watching me from behind a nearby tree.
She steps closer when I stop.
My head is spinning.
She covers her lips with one finger. “They’ll hear.”
I grimace.
“Is Pixie hurt?” she asks
I nod, not sure if she sees or not.
She steps close and rests her hands on Pixie, and then leans over and kisses her head, “Were those the same people, the ones…” she tries to ask.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You won’t leave me?”
I pull her to me — trying to be reassuring, but the truth is I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. I don’t know who got away, who got shot, who the Cart People are tracking, I don’t know shit, but I hug her anyway.
She needs comfort.
That much, I do know.
I think back, trying to remember what I saw when I was falling. It was all flashes, but I remember the gas masks and the white of their shaved heads reflecting in the gunfire. I remember their weapons pointing at us. I remember one of them was right behind me and Jem. That’s the one Paco shot.
I remember him falling and his gun going off — is he the one that shot Pixie?
I only saw six or seven of them.
But Tristan and Paco must have killed a few of them.
Some would go after them, but a few must have seen me and Jem.
Some of them are coming for us.
Evil motherfuckers.
I don’t remember pulling my .45, but my finger’s on the trigger as I scan the woods back toward the road.
“The bad guys, do you know what they look like?” I ask her.
It’s her turn to nod.
“If you see them, run away. Do you understand?” I ask.
She nods again. “Can we run now?” she asks, her eyes wide with sudden fear.
I glance around the tree to see one of the fuckers waving a large flashlight in one hand, sweeping it back and forth. The trees lean and stagger drunkenly as the amber light swings back and forth.
In his other hand is an automatic rifle, but he’s holding it loose, almost casually.
He hasn’t seen us yet.
I look beyond him and see more lights scattered throughout the woods.
Three, no…four more, besides this asshole.
I pull Pixie out of my coat and hand her to Jem. “Hold her close. She’s hurt, she might bite, but she’s a puppy, she won’t hurt you, not too much. Be careful. She’s hurt really bad; she needs us to take care of her.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“Don’t watch. I’ll be right back.”
“You said you wouldn’t; don’t leave me, please, bad things happen when…”
“I’ll be back. I promise.”
I wiggle out of my backpack straps and drop the bag to the ground. “If they come, run before they see you — I’ll find you. Run as fast as you can, can you do that?”
She nods and bites her lip. She’s trying to be tough.
“And, Jem — everything’s going to be okay.”
Okay?
How can I just keep on lying, making promises I can’t keep?
I hate myself more every day.
I pull my beanie down further, trying to conceal my own pale skin from the lantern’s firelight, once again grateful to Sam, and then slide around the tree and hustle over to the next copse as quickly and quietly as I can.
The guy is closer. His lantern makes him easy to see. He’s crouching as he cautiously moves down the hill through the trees and underbrush. He still hasn’t seen us. I have a clear shot, but that will just draw the attention of the others.
The guy looks like he’s way over six-feet and fat, like a football lineman or something. I slip my .45 back into its holster and slip my hunting knife out of its sheath. I think about the kid I stabbed to death in the forest this morning…this morning seems like a lifetime ago.
I can’t tell if he’s wearing body armor or not, he’s wearing a lot of something — either way my knife might not get through. I study as much as I can see, analyzing the different attacks. Slicing a hamstring would bring him down, but again, if he starts screaming, Jem is as good as dead.
He pauses and holds the light higher, shadows dancing across his gasmask, reflecting in his black eyes and over his shoulders. And there it is.
His neck is exposed.
I immediately begin moving uphill and around his position. I need to be behind him. And if I’m lucky, he’ll stumble right under my blade. I circle the pool of light thrown by his lantern, dodging behind trees and brush, our paths converging.
I come to a large boulder jutting up from the ground. It’s the base of a flat ledge that leans out over the ravine.
As the light disappears behind the far side of the ledge, I race up the stone and out across the top to the other side, but when I get there, there’s no light. And then the forest begins to turn blue, light slowly filling the forest beneath me.
I glance up. The clouds have opened up and a nearly full moon is lighting up the woods.
And right below me is lantern guy, but the fire of his lantern is dark.
I wonder if he saw me, sensed me?
I creep to the ledge, hold my knife out, focus on the attack, think through the series of moves, and…why is he standing so still, and then I leap — just as he looks up.
Shit.
As he reaches up to fend me off, I bury my knife to the hilt in the guy’s hand and then I hit his shoulders, landing clumsily, grasping, but manage to hang on.
He recoils in pain and jerks his arm away, ripping the blade out of my grip.
I scramble, trying to grab his neck but lose my grip and hit the ground hard, slipping on the wet leaves and end up on my ass, rolling down the hill.
He turns on me, wet sickening roars and screams escape his mask as I get back to my feet. I remember the biker guy and how fucked up his face was. What’s this guy’s story?
He stumbles after me, slow and awkward, arms spread like he’s about to pick up a beer keg.
I don’t have a choice anymore.
I pull my.45 and raise it as he suddenly leaps into the air, moving faster than I thought possible. My .45 is still pointed at the ground when he hits me.
He’s like a truck and drives me back into the ground, landing on me with all of his weight.
I hear something crack as I land on my back.
My breath is crushed out of me, leaving me wheezing for air.
I try to raise my pistol, but I must have lost it when the fucker hit me.
There’s just enough light to see myself reflected in the lenses of his gas mask.
I haven’t seen my own reflection in a long time.
I don’t recognize myself anymore.
He sits back on my stomach, his denim thighs straddle my chest, pinning my arms to my sides, and presses one huge fist into my shoulder, holding me down. I try to push against him, but it’s a waste of time. I’m no match for him.
Kill or die.
I should have shot him. I fucked up.
He messes with something at his hip and then unsnaps the clips on his gasmask.
Slowly, he pulls it back over his head, revealing...
I wish he had killed me first.
I can tell he’s grinning at me, leering, even though his lips are missing just like the biker back up on the highway.
I want to close my eyes against this new nightmare, shut it out, but I can’t. Just fucking kill me, please, God, just kill me.
I’m ready.
I’ve been ready.
“Slow,” it says, and glances over his shoulder at the others.
I feel a deep, primal dread crawl up my spine.
Not like this.
Please, not like this.
Then he motions for me to be quiet just like Jem did a few minutes ago.
Jem.
I told her I’d be right back.
I promised.
I think back to how the day began; murder and lies, ambush…and love, and redemption?
Forgiveness?
And even as the fear grips my heart, I wonder if Jem was to have been my final test?
The thing drools on me, the ravaged flesh that was once his face is so close I can smell the decay from his teeth.
He leans back, removing his fist from my shoulder, and slowly slides my knife out of his hand. It finally pulls free with a sucking sound as his blood drips onto my face.
His grin has become a Christmas morning smile.
He flips the blade over with the dexterity of a card shark and then rests the point against my coat, over the soft meaty hollow below my collar bone.
I feel the scream rising from my balls, a gut-wrenching, pleading and begging scream when he stuffs an oil and gasoline smelling rag into my mouth. The scream is stifled as my shoulder explodes in pain, my vision blurring as I feel the blade cut deeper and deeper, inch by inch as he puts his weight into it.
Fuck me.
He’s having fun, this is how he gets his kicks.
My shoulder is throbbing, pain radiating out in spasms.
And then he starts to pull it out.
Oh, fuck!
His eyes widen in anticipation, but the rag continues to drown my screams.
I hope Jem is halfway to Arkansas by now.
Run Jem.
Please.
Run.
He wipes the knife clean against my cheek. I feel the edge bite into my flesh, but it’s not enough to overcome the throb of my shoulder.
His other hand pulls the rag away and finds my jaw, fat fingers on both sides of my mouth and then he squeezes, and my mouth opens involuntarily.
He points the blade at his own wound of a mouth and then points the blade at me. “Like me,” he says. He says it almost like a child might.
My fingers dig into the wet loam of the forest floor as I brace myself for what’s coming.
My fear is rapidly being replaced by my rage.
I’ve never been helpless before and I don’t fucking like it.
But it doesn’t matter at all.
There’s nothing I can do.
I can’t stop him.
He’s going to cut my lips off of my face.
I get just enough air to scream, but it’s not very loud.
He tilts his head to one side, like a doctor trying to decide where to make the first incision. My knife isn’t sharp enough for this.