Authors: David Berardelli
A couple of hours later, the front door flew open, slamming into the wall behind
it. I forced myself to remain still. My first instinct was to pull off the afghan and
empty my gun at the entrance, but my head quickly cleared away the grogginess
of sleep and ordered me not to move.
A flashlight beam hopped across the entryway before turning abruptly and
hitting me full in the face.
Play dead
.
Without flinching, I closed my eyes. A few tense moments later, the beam left
me, sliding over the couch, then moving toward Reed and settling on his sleeping
form.
Three figures crept into the room.
The flashlight beam returned to my face. I wondered why Reed hadn’t
awakened during all this. Was he playing dead, as well? Probably not. Reed had
no military training, and wouldn’t know what to do in this situation. He’d
obviously been more exhausted than he’d let on and remained in heavy slumber.
His earlier trauma, no doubt, had done him in.
I was greatly relieved he hadn’t stirred. If he opened his eyes, he’d get us both
killed.
“Fucker’s dead.” The one with the flashlight sounded young, probably in his
late teens. He lowered the beam to the afghan in my lap. “Both of ’em.”
“I’ll check upstairs.” The second one sounded about the same age. He dashed
up the stairs, his flashlight beam guiding the way.
The third looter went into the dining room.
The one near me said, “Where d’ya think
you’re
goin’?”
“Gotta find the kitchen.”
“You hungry
again
?”
“This is hard work, Frankie.”
“Well, hurry up. We gotta frisk these two and see what goodies we can find.
This is one big fuckin’ house. We’ll prob’ly be here a while. That old stiff out on
the porch didn’t have a fuckin’ thing in his pockets.”
“Won’t be long,” his friend said and disappeared.
“All right, slick.” He aimed his flashlight at my afghan. “Let’s see what you
got for ol’ Frankie.” A strong stench of whiskey rubbed my face as he moved
closer. He grabbed a corner of the afghan and pulled.
With my left hand, I seized the hand holding the flashlight and slammed his
forehead with the butt of my handgun. He went down with a soft grunt, whacking
his chin on my knee.
I grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him over to the far corner of the
room. I pulled out the rocker, pushed him into the corner, and wedged the rocker
in front of him. He stirred, moaning softly. I smacked him again on the back of
the head, cracking his skull.
I hurried back to my chair. Before covering myself with the afghan, I pulled
back the hammer of my gun, cocking it, and rested my index finger behind the
trigger as a precaution.
The second looter came out of the dining room, smacking his lips. “They got
chicken wings in here, Frankie. Would ya believe it? Chicken wings.” He forced
out a belch. “They even got beer!”
He stopped in the archway. I could feel him looking around.
“Frankie?” He stopped munching. A click. The flashlight beam settled on my
face. “Frankie?” The beam moved away, drifting over to Reed. Without moving
my head, I glanced at Reed’s face at the end of the beam. He still hadn’t moved.
Good thing. A panic would quickly turn this into a ghastly nightmare.
The beam floated back to me.
“Frankie? Where the fuck are ya?”
The beam shot back to Reed.
“Ya doin’ a number on us?”
I knew he’d find Frankie in just a few seconds, so I made sure my gun was
aimed and my index finger in its proper position. I just hoped he wouldn’t put
two and two together and try the light switch. I wasn’t sure I could toss the
afghan, aim, and shoot him before he could get me.
Just moments later, the third punk rushed down the stairs. The room blazed.
“Motherfuck! Their lights work!”
“Frankie’s missing,” the second one whispered.
“Missing?”
“Yeah. Missing. Gone. Disappeared.”
“Maybe he went outside.”
“Why the fuck would he go outside? All the good shit’s in here.”
My heart sputtered as they scanned the room.
“What the fuck’s that?” They dashed past me, stopping abruptly. I could tell
they were gawking at the motionless form in the corner behind the rocker.
“Fr … Frankie?”
“Motherfuck!”
The two spun around. The one closest to me dropped what was left of his
chicken leg and groped for the pistol in his waistband. I yanked off the afghan
and shot him in the chest. He grunted and fell, whacking the back of his head on
the oval table. Several magazines slipped over the side and dropped to the floor.
The third punk drew his gun and brought it up. “Fucker,” he growled, and
pulled back the hammer of the revolver.
“What’s all the commotion?” Reed sat bolt upright, knocking his pillow to the
floor. “Can’t a guy get any sleep around here?”
Gasping, the third punk spun around.
I shot him in the back of the head.
Doubling up, Reed turned away from the blood spatter and coughed wetly. He
straightened, swaying a little, and took several deep breaths.
“You okay?” I asked.
He didn’t reply. His eyes were enormous as he gazed at me. Then he noticed
the blood spatter and bits of gray matter on his left forearm. Covering his mouth,
he held his left arm straight out and carefully stepped over the two young corpses.
As soon as he crossed the room, he rushed through the archway and ran upstairs.
A door slammed shut. Muffled coughing followed. A minute later, the toilet
flushed.
Ten minutes later, he came back into the living room, wiping his face with a
damp washrag. His cheeks were bone-white, his eyes red and wet. His gaping
expression told me he’d never witnessed anything like that.
“They were going to kill us,” I said.
A nod.
“Then … why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“You’re not … afraid of me, are you?”
“It … isn’t that.”
“What is it?”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “You … handled this so … well.”
“Whaddya mean?”
He swallowed audibly. “As if … as if you’d had … practice.”
If only he knew.
My reflexes had kicked in, causing me to act instinctively. It was like
grabbing an egg before it rolls off the counter, or catching a bottle of beer I’d just
tapped with my elbow. I hadn’t thought much about it when it happened. My
survival instinct had come to my aid just as it had nearly twenty years ago, when
I was in the Army.
I hadn’t even realized my training had stayed with me. In this case, I was
greatly relieved. It had saved our lives.
While Reed continued to apply the washrag to his face, I searched the dead
looters. I wasn’t surprised to discover they’d all been armed. I found a shortbarreled Beretta .22 and a Llama 9-millimeter in Frankie’s pockets and an
American Arms .22 long-barrel, cowboy-type revolver and snub-nosed American
Arms .38 in the pockets of the second punk. The third carried a short-barreled
Smith & Wesson .45 in a pancake holster in the small of his back. All the guns
were loaded. I found only three empty casings among the revolvers.
I also collected more than five hundred dollars in cash from their pockets. I
dropped everything on the coffee table, went into the kitchen, and turned on the
rear outside light.
The back door opened up to a small wooden porch with five steps descending
to a large concrete slab. A large wooden picnic table, stainless-steel barbecue
grill, and several lounge chairs covered the slab. The well-used grill told me the
family enjoyed their get-togethers.
A five-foot, chain-link fence enclosed the back yard. The grass had been
mowed recently. Three galvanized garbage cans formed a neat row at the opposite
end of the property inside the gate.
Reed reluctantly helped me drag the three bodies down the hall, through the
kitchen, down the stairs, and across the back yard. I opened the gate and we
dragged them out onto the sidewalk and left them next to the curb. The faint
orange haze of the porch light ended a foot or so beyond the fence. They lay at
my feet, everything from the waist up shrouded in darkness. Only minutes ago I’d
murdered all three of them, yet I felt no remorse.
Reed stood beside me, panting from his excursions. Even in the semidarkness I could make out his pale features. After catching his breath, he said,
“Why’d we bring them out here?”
“I don’t want their corpses contaminating this family’s house or back yard.”
Reed nodded but said nothing.
“By the way, thanks for waking up when you did. I’m glad you didn’t do it
earlier. It would have been … well, really bad.”
“I was up long before they broke in.”
“How long?”
“My friend woke me as soon as he heard them coming down the walk.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“He told me to play possum until the right time.”
“Did he tell you when the right time was?”
“I sort of used my own judgment.”
“You cut it a little close, but it turned out well.”
He stared at the corpses for a moment then turned away. “I guess it did—for
us, anyway.”
“We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Alive.” Then he hurried back to the house.
Inside, I turned off all the lights. I also applied the dead-bolt to the front and
back doors. I found towels in the kitchen that I used to cover the blood spatter
and brain fragments on the living room floor. For Reed’s benefit, I wiped down
the spatter on the couch.
This time, I chose the small couch. I was much too tired to spend the rest of
the night in a chair.
I’d just killed three people, but I’d sleep peacefully.
Still troubled from the previous night’s trauma, Reed had little appetite. He
settled for coffee, two strips of bacon, and a dry piece of whole-wheat toast.
I, on the other hand, had no trouble devouring three scrambled eggs, six strips
of bacon, coffee, and three slices of toast.
Afterward, we cleaned up the kitchen and put what unspoiled food that
remained into my cooler, along with all the ice cubes we could take from the
freezer. The power had dwindled during the night, rendering a lot of the food
suspect. I briefly considered taking it out to the garbage but realized how futile
that effort would be.
Reed followed me upstairs to help search for items we could use on our trip.
Luck was on our side. One of the family members had been a hunter. We found
an old Winchester .30-30 lever-action rifle; a Mossberg 12-gauge, single-barrel,
pump-action shotgun; a Ruger Target model .22 pistol, and several boxes of
ammunition for 12-gauge, .22, .38, .380, 9-millimeter, .30-30, and .45.
“What should we take?” Reed asked.
“Get a pillowcase. Fill it up.”
“Isn’t that a little ... excessive?”
“No reason to leave anything for future looters, is there?”
While Reed gathered up the ammo, I grabbed the rifles and handgun and went
back downstairs. I picked up the handguns from the coffee table then pocketed
the cash we’d collected from the looters and from the wallets we’d found in the
bedrooms.
Outside, we put everything in the back of the van, hiding the long guns as
best as we could and putting the ammo boxes beneath the passenger seat. I loaded
the Ruger with fresh ammo, adding it as well as the looters’ guns to our growing
collection beneath my seat and in the console and glove box.
Before leaving, Reed and I lifted the old man from the rocker and set him
down on a rug we’d brought from the dining room. Grabbing the rug by its
corners, we carried him inside, laying him gently on the large couch in front of
the bay window and covering him with the afghan I’d used the night before.
I wanted to say a few words but had no idea what would be appropriate. I
didn’t know if I believed in God anymore. After what had happened to the world,
I didn’t know if I believed in anything.
“He wants to know if you’re going to say something,” Reed said.
“Does he have any suggestions?”
“He says this was a good family, and we should thank them for their
hospitality.”
I turned to the lifeless form on the couch. His home had sheltered us for the
night. We’d been able to have breakfast and use the facilities, and we’d even
collected food and other items that would help us on our journey. I felt badly for
what had happened to them and for what we’d taken, but I thought they would
have approved under the circumstances.
“Thank you,” I told the old man’s body, “and many thanks to your family. If
we could give you a proper burial, we would. But we can’t, and for that I
apologize. Hopefully, you’re all in a much better place and you’re together again,
this time for eternity.”
I drove all morning and much of the afternoon, stopping only when we reached
the Jacksonville area that evening. After leaving the little girl and the old woman,
I drove two more hours before getting off the Interstate. It was nearly 10 o’clock,
and after so much driving I needed rest. Reed hadn’t offered to spell me, and I
didn’t force the issue. He’d been silent since we’d left Jacksonville. He was
obviously still trying to come to grips with what happened in Cocoa.
I had no idea why the incident hadn’t traumatized me. After all, I’d murdered
three people. I had done it in self-defense, but it was still murder. My past, that
colossal steed of death and vengeance, had galloped out of the darkness to rescue
me.
Reed had said I handled things so
well
. To the casual observer, my actions
could easily be interpreted as skillful. Reflexes happen automatically and rarely
have the luxury of even a moment’s rational thought or decision.
As a soldier, I was trained to kill. And kill efficiently. And react quickly
without thinking about it.
Viewed this way, Reed’s statement had been thoroughly accurate. It
had
been
easy for me—much easier than it would have been for someone without military
training. I’d spent three years in the Army. The fact that I hadn’t killed in nearly
twenty years meant nothing. When the situation presented itself, the killer lurking
in the darkness of my soul responded with deadly force. He’d done it quickly and
efficiently—as if he’d never left my side.
That thought made me shiver.
The darkness of the night pressed its mass against the windshield while flicking
its angry tentacles at my headlight beams. As we passed the Savannah area, I
continued flooring the gas pedal. The jagged line of tall pines whizzed by in a
dark blur as I kept the van at ninety, leaving the metropolitan area safely in our
wake.