He ran low across the lanes of the 101 between stopped cars. As he got closer to the parking lot, he could see eight men standing around, drinking heavily. Many bodies covered the lot. Cars and debris seemed to be piled by the entrances to keep people out. They had the grocery store and other retail stores to themselves.
The poor family probably came asking for food,
he thought. The girl screamed, but one of the men cut her off with a slap. Cooper worked his way closer, more scared than he had ever been and more angry too.
The girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old. What man could hit a girl? He didn’t even want to think about what the men were about to do her. These men were scary and he was afraid to die, but a new fear was what scared him the most. He knew that in the next two minutes he would probably have to kill someone.
The man holding the girl dragged her across the parking lot and behind a fast-food restaurant, away from the others. Cooper paralleled him on his side of the building by the highway.
Both of Cooper’s gun barrels were inches from the man’s head and he was oblivious. The sweaty redneck still fumbled with his belt, trying vigorously to pull his pants down with one hand while holding the girl down with the other. She was wide-eyed and afraid, not moving a muscle. The redneck was chuckling under his breath, his white ass exposed. He started pulling on the girl’s jeans, trying to rip them off. She was about to be brutally raped but was so terrified she didn’t move an inch.
Cooper couldn’t move either. Icy sweat drenched his body, and his hands shook as enormous forces battled in his head. The large silencers were inches from greasy hair, a girl was moments from having a horrible experience made infinitely more so, and he was seconds from discovery and death. There was only one thing to do. Only one action made sense. There was only one way this was going to end with he and the girl still in one piece. Yet he was frozen. This piece of worthless shit deserved to die, but Cooper couldn’t pull the trigger. It had never occurred to him that this might happen—so much for video games desensitizing him to violence.
And he couldn’t think. His mind was blank. A deep part of him registered that this was a new sensation, and he hated it. He couldn’t formulate another option and couldn’t continue down his current path. He just looked at the tip of both barrels shaking and felt the sweat running down his back and legs. He realized he wasn’t breathing and his vision was beginning to fade. He forced himself to draw a breath.
The redneck heard this and quickly turned his head. He saw a black shrouded figure holding two guns inches from his face. With his pants around his ankles, he couldn’t make any sudden moves. He held up one hand while supporting himself with the other. He began to speak.
The turning of the head, the cold eyes, the smile filled with broken teeth snapped the world back into focus for Cooper. But he still hadn’t acted.
14.
Jeeter was half asleep and mumbling. Fats was snoring like a drunk fat chick. Banjo was on his feet and enjoying the fire, but he was tired and wanted to move indoors. At this point, he was on guard duty needlessly when all three of them could be sleeping. He’d suggested they move indoors once already, but Jeeter said he wasn’t finished partying and he was the prez, so they partied until he said stop, even if partying meant watching people sleep.
A handful of the fucking zonked bastards had wandered into his domain in the last hour, but a tap from Old Crow dropped them quick. Old Crow was a very large crowbar, technically a wrecking bar, that he had lifted from the store. He carried it over his right shoulder when he wasn’t using it, but when he started swinging the ten-pound, thirty-six-inch steel weapon, skulls cracked like eggshells.
He walked a circle around their little encampment, grabbed two boxes of firewood off the large display by the front doors, and threw them on the fire. He plopped down into his chair and grabbed a beer. He drained it, threw the can on the fire, and stood again to walk around so he could stay awake. Banjo was a loyal henchman to Jeeter and wouldn’t complain. He could have technically ordered Fats to take over the guard duty—technically. But Fats on guard duty wasn’t even a remote consideration.
Fats was retarded, or damn close to it, and would fuck it up somehow. Then Banjo would be in the shit for ordering Fats to do something he was most certainly incapable of doing. Fats was great to have at your back in a fight, even better for a good laugh, but he was useless otherwise. He could barely keep his bike upright, and it took a lot of babysitting to have Fats around, but he was a brother Angel, so Banjo didn’t mind. He had his flaws and times of need too, and these two were always there for him. No matter, in a few minutes Jeeter would pass out, and Banjo could kick Fats in the dick and get him to help carry Jeeter and roll the bikes inside.
He wondered if the black dude was still in the store or if he had escaped out the back way. He and Fats had watched the front and back as Jeeter searched the store for close to an hour. The spook must have gotten away. Suddenly Banjo froze, all thoughts flying from his mind.
Was that an engine he heard start? It was somewhere in the darkness, but he couldn’t tell where. He heard what sounded like a vehicle accelerating, the noise getting louder as it drew closer. Suddenly the engine noise exploded to a roar as a big van came from the rear of the store. It turned and came right for the bikers, passing within a few feet of them. By then, Banjo was yelling and straddling his bike and trying to start it. It roared to life.
Sal heard the engine, saw the bikers scrambling, and almost took off. “I thought you said you did something to the bikes?”
Ron smiled. “I did. Slow down, we’re OK.”
Jeeter stumbled to his feet, but Fats was still snoring so he gave him a kick to his head to wake him. Fats started rolling around on the ground in an attempt to stand, and Jeeter stopped to help him up. They both ran to their bikes. Actually, Jeeter ran; Fats kind of jogged, which didn’t make him go any faster—it just made his fat jump up and down under his giant vest and stained undershirt. The van passed them but slowed a bit. The black guy was in the passenger seat, yelling out the window.
“Massah! I iz sho’ nuf sorry I dun ’scaped yo’ lynchin’!” Ron held his middle finger up high and proud.
Ron had anger to fuel his courage, but Sal was just scared shitless and driving away as quickly as possible in the overloaded van, hoping that whatever Ron had done worked.
Ron was still looking back, head far out of the window. “Sal, stop. Stop! We have to see if it worked.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Well, we’re screwed if it doesn’t work, whether we wait or not. Besides, it will work and you don’t want to miss this.”
Sal didn’t stop the van—he was far too terrified—but let it slowly roll forward in gear. The bikers were only a few storefronts away and they could overtake the van in seconds.
The three bikes roared to life. Banjo’s bike was already running, but he waited for Jeeter to take the lead. Fats would wait and go last. Jeeter revved his engine, released the clutch, and took off like a rocket. Banjo was right behind him. Jeeter’s bike stopped suddenly, as if it hit an invisible wall, and he was launched over the handlebars and into the air. Banjo reacted instantly by braking hard and sliding his bike sideways. It was then that he saw the thin metal cable looped through the frame of his bike, leading back into the darkness, no doubt attached to one of the many concrete posts along the front of the store. His quick action saved him from the same fate, but the slow-witted Fats was right behind him and didn’t brake, take evasive action, or even understand what was happening until it was way too late. He was accelerating when he broadsided Banjo’s bike.
A split second before the two machines collided, Banjo managed to jump clear. As Fats’ bike slammed into his, it continued right over it, suddenly stopping as Jeeter’s had. Fats went over his handlebars and hit the street like a sack of wet crap. Jeeter was several feet in front of his bike, face down on the pavement and not moving.
Banjo jumped to his feet. The van was already far down the street, the red taillights getting smaller in the darkness. He thought he saw it turn, but it could have just driven behind a building. He watched for a few moments to see if he could ascertain any more information as to where it was going. Jeeter lay silent, and Fats was wailing and screaming in pain. Banjo ran over to Jeeter and slapped him awake. Jeeter had some bad bruises and abrasions but dragged himself to his feet. He was very drunk and not feeling much pain. Banjo slapped Fats to get him quiet. Fats had a possible broken leg, and his wrist was sprained, swollen, and hurting.
Their bikes had suffered the greatest injuries. Each bike was bent, broken, or somehow rendered inoperable by the force of the cable yanking the frame or the resulting crashes. The final straw, after all damage and insult was accounted for, was Banjo’s helmet. Knocked from his head, it had a sizable dent in it. He picked it up, brushed it off, and examined the dent.
Jeeter was mumbling. Fats was whimpering and rocking back and forth. Banjo just looked into the darkness in the direction the van had gone and saw nothing but red. His rage was boiling. The next day, after Jeeter sobered up, his rage would boil too, catching up to and surpassing Banjo’s. Fats would become enraged simply because they were.
The occupants of the van were as good as dead.
15.
Cooper dropped the guns and let them swing on their tethers. In one quick motion he snapped the combat baton open and brought it down on the redneck’s skull. The big bastard hit the ground, out cold. The girl lay there wide-eyed, disheveled, but dressed. He hoped she wouldn’t start screaming as he collapsed the baton. He bent to help her up.
He grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet and was startled to see that the redneck was holding a gun. If Cooper had hesitated a second longer to act, he would’ve been shot. He took the gun and led the girl away. He heard the men on the other side of the building shouting and laughing. The redneck at his feet was beginning to moan. He had to get out of there.
He whispered to her, “Follow me,” but she just stood there staring at him, probably in shock. He took her hand and she followed along. He led them back the way he’d come, stooping low as he moved between cars. He was trying to move quickly but refraining from breaking into a full run. Every step away was a relief, but he couldn’t be far enough away fast enough. He glanced back as he tried to keep the building between him and the men, terrified he would see them coming around the corner and running at him.
He was still nauseated from the internal conflict he’d just experienced. Based on movies, TV, and thousands of video game kills, he’d always assumed if he had to he could shoot a man with no problem. And although he really wanted to shoot this man, a part of his brain just wouldn’t let him do it. He wondered how he would feel right now if he had managed to pull the trigger.
Reaching the other side of the highway was a goal that felt substantial. They were into a stand of pine trees soon after, and Cooper felt safe pausing to look and listen. So far, no sign of pursuers and no sounds of alarm. He let go of the girl’s hand as they stood, and when they started walking again she took his hand again. He led her farther away from the men who had just murdered her parents.
Just through the trees and he was back in the fields. After walking several hundred yards into the rows, he stopped and let go of her hand and used the scope. Things looked all clear. They sat between rows of spinach. He looked at the top of her head as she hugged her knees and looked at her feet. She appeared to be sixteen but could’ve been older. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her brown skin and Latina features made Cooper think she was probably Mexican. He wondered if she could even speak English? She was thin as a rail but looked healthy; her body looked muscular and not gaunt.
He didn’t know what to do with her. He had to step in and help her, but he needed to be moving north. It had taken him days to get this far on his own, and with her in tow things would go a lot slower. He looked at his feet for a few moments. He was still letting the adrenaline pass through his system, still catching his breath, and still reeling with the dilemma he had just faced. He couldn’t let it go, as he was sure he would face it again. What would he do next time? Die? The certainty of losing your life or knowing you had to take one was a heavy burden.
He decided he’d have to take the girl with him, at least for a while. They walked a bit longer, putting more distance between them and the strip mall. So far she didn’t speak, didn’t hesitate to follow him, and he wasn’t sure what was to become of her.
The rows of spinach were on an angle that took them back to the 101 across from the strip mall. The trees lining the fields were thinner, so he approached with caution and watched as a large number of the dead came from the surrounding areas and converged on the mall. They were no doubt attracted by the gunshots. Cooper could see six of the men—one the brute he had clubbed, rubbing his head—gathering in the center of the parking lot. The brute was looking around, past the immediate threat of the dead, probably looking for the dark figure that had bashed his skull in.
Cooper felt very vulnerable with the girl, although she was quiet and simply followed behind him. After twenty minutes of walking, when he was sure he wasn’t being followed and they were safe, they once again sat between the rows of spinach. He offered her food from an MRE, but she shook her head no. He offered her water, no response.
“I saw what happened. I am sorry about that.” That seemed so weak, so stupid a thing to say, but there was nothing else to say. All he could do now was get her to a safe place. “Is there any family around?” He winced at the mention of family to her. “Are there any friends you want me to take you to?” He knew that the chances anyone would be alive when they got there were slim to none.