Nasty Little F___ers-Kindle (22 page)

White and Vanderwarf followed, hands empty. Garbarino was last. He closed and locked the door at the bottom of the stairs then joined them at the top. He looked honestly pleased to see Austin. “You made it.”

Austin stopped the rolling pool ball. “One almost got me. Snuck up behind me while I was distracted.”

“
Were they armed?” Garbarino asked.

Austin shook his head. “They were...insane. No weapons. Came at me with hands and teeth. Like animals. A few of them weren’t any trouble. But if I wasn’t armed...or if the rest of them showed up.” He shook his head again, this time looking at the floor. “Wouldn’t have turned out the same.”

After a moment of silence, he moved to the end of the pool table and reached under it. He motioned to Garbarino. “Help me on this end. Vanderwarf. White. Get the other side.”

Together, the four of them moved the heavy table in front of the fire escape door on the side of the house. With the downstairs sealed, the second floor door locked and the pool table blocking the only other exit, they were sealed in tight.

As night settled, the group ate boxes of Hostess comfort food, spoke little, and one by one dropped off to sleep. Vanderwarf and White lay down behind the bar. No one could see them, everyone knew the two were dealing with the destruction of the world in their own, primal way.

“
Going to have to start repopulating the planet sooner or later,” Paul had whispered to Mark, but the priest wasn’t laughing. Despite his normally humorous personality, he had fallen more serious as the sun descended and the sunset turned blood red. But if darkness filled his thoughts, he kept it to himself and eventually nodded off. Paul slept on one of the couches, snoring lightly. Chang had found a bean bag chair and fell asleep halfway on, lying on her back with her head cocked back and her mouth wide open. Collins fell asleep as he often did in the Oval Office, head down on the table. He’d started playing solitaire, but wasn’t having any luck.

Liz fell asleep on Mia’s lap while she sat in a comfortable chair to the side of the front window. Had it not been pitch black outside, it would have offered her a view of half the neighborhood for nearly a mile. Austin sat on a stool across from her, arms folded across his chest keeping watch in the other direction.

“
Strange, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

“
What is?” she replied.

“
That sound.”

She listened, but could only hear the breathing of several sleeping people and Paul’s snoring. “I can’t hear anything.”

Austin picked up a pillow from the arm of the couch and tossed it at Paul. The man snorted, rolled over and fell quiet. “Outside,” Austin said.

She reached forward slowly and opened the small window. She held her breath and listened. At first she heard nothing. But after a few moments she heard...something. High pitched. Reverberating. Very distant. “What is it?” she asked.

“
Screaming,” he said.

Goose bumps sprung up on her arms. He was right. Once he identified the sound, she could hear it for what it was—screaming, from hundreds, if not thousands of people. “What’s going on out there?” she asked.

As though in reply, a light outside clicked on.

Austin sprang up.

Mia gasped.

“
Motion sensitive light in the driveway,” he said. “Must have a battery backup.”

She heard nothing but “motion sensitive.” Someone lurked outside. She shifted for a view of the driveway and saw a man. He moved quickly, but not in a single direction. Like a squirrel in the road, unsure of which way to run from an approaching car, he leaped one way and then the other. She could hear his panicked breathing, squeaking with fear.

“
Should we help him?” she asked.

Austin shook his head, no. Instead, he whispered, “Close your window.”

She did so, quickly and quietly, careful not to jostle Liz and wake her up.

“
I don’t think he could have heard us.”

“
It’s not him I’m worried about.” He motioned to the others. “It’s them. I don’t want them to wake up. I don’t want them to see.”

“
See what?”

“
You didn’t hear the voices?”

She shook her head, wondering if her hearing sucked or if Austin just had really good ears.

“
The people who attacked me. Who attacked Reggie. They all shouted warnings first. Apologies. Like they didn’t want to be doing what they were about to do. Like it horrified them. I could hear them coming.” He motioned out the window. “And so can he.”

The man was still running in circles. Then, through the closed windows, Mia did hear another voice. A woman’s. Then a man’s. She couldn’t make out the words, but she could see them. Running shadows. Three of them.

The panicked man finally saw them coming. Or maybe heard them. And turned to run in the opposite direction. But he was so out of his head with fright that he turned and sprinted into a tree. The three descended on top of him before he could stand. The woman went for his neck with her teeth, cutting off his scream. The two men tore at his stomach. Blood pooled around him as they slaughtered the man.

From beginning to end, the attack lasted only fifteen seconds. The two men and the woman stood above the body, wailing. Crying like children. They disappeared into the night again, leaving the dead man behind, his entrails looping over the driveway, his blood glowing bright red under the halogen glow of the motion sensitive light.

Mia and Austin stared down at the body in silence.

When the light blinked out again, Austin whispered, “We’ll go out the back in the morning. Get some sleep.”

She thought sleep would be impossible, but she sat back, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the view of stars outside had been replaced by blue sky. For a moment, lost in the comfortable place between sleep and reality, she forgot everything that had happened.

That’s when Liz started screaming.

BONUS MATERIAL

Excerpt from 33 A.D., by David McAfee

Chapter One

Jerusalem, 33A.D.

Ephraim darted around his modest wood-and-mortar home in the Upper City, grabbing as many of his possessions as he could carry – mostly clothing and a few personal items – and shoving them into a large burlap pack. Every now and then his brown eyes shifted to the door, waiting for a knock. Or worse, no sound whatsoever. The latter worried him the most because it would mean the servants of the Council had found him. A Psalm of Silence only carried for about twenty paces, so if the world around him went suddenly quiet, he would know those who hunted him were very, very close.

As an Enforcer, or at least a former Enforcer, Ephraim knew the inevitable result of breaking the laws of his people, a race not known for mercy. Now, as he packed, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d felt the need to tell the Council about his indiscretions. Bad enough he’d defied them, but he also gave them all the information they needed to punish him. And for what? A strange feeling in his heart? A pang of conscience? Was he mad? In retrospect, it seemed possible, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. His elders wanted him dead, and unless he hurried they would get their way.

A worn, woolen tunic hung halfway off his bed.
I’ll need that
, he thought as he reached for it. He couldn’t afford to leave a single piece of clothing behind. He stuffed the tunic into his bag and turned to regard a large chest on the wall opposite the bed. He reached down and flung the lid open, breaking one of the hinges in the process, and started grabbing more clothes.
I’ll need that. And that.

Then his fingers closed on something small and hard. He didn’t have to look at it to know it was his ceramic wolf’s head figurine, a symbol of his former rank.
I won’t need that.
Ephraim tossed it over his shoulder, where it shattered on the hard floor. He didn't pay it any attention as he picked up a short, fat bladed knife.
I’ll need that, too.
It joined the many tunics in his bag. Just as he picked up a pair of worn breeches, a noise outside his door caught his attention.

What was that?
Ephraim froze, craning his ears and trying desperately to catch the elusive sound. He stood silent and still for sixty long seconds, muscles tense and booted feet nailed to the floor. The breeches hung from his fingers like a mouse in a raptor’s claw. He eyed the sickle-shaped sword on the opposite wall, ready to spring over and grab it if necessary. Although the sword was very old, he kept it sharp and in perfect balance, not easy to do with a
khopesh.

When the noise didn’t return, he shook his head.
The wind,
he told himself, and returned to the task at hand. He had to hurry. They were coming.

He couldn’t allow himself to be captured by the Council’s minions. They would make him talk, and that would be bad. Not just for himself, but for his newfound friends, as well. The elders of the
Bachiyr
race had many methods by which to extract information, even from one of their own. All of them brutally effective. If they caught him, they would find a way to make him talk. Sooner or later Ephraim would tell them anything they wanted to know, the only real question was how long would it take to break him.

As he packed, his hand brushed against a small figurine of a lamb from the shelf above his bed, knocking it off and sending it toppling through the air. “Damn!” He reached out to catch it and missed, but his fingertips brushed the delicate figurine just enough to alter its course so that, instead of following the wolf’s head to the hard floor, the lamb plopped down amidst the soft linens on the bed. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief when the delicate figure didn’t break, and reached down gently to pick it up. He didn’t miss the irony that he, the predator, had thrown away the wolf figurine and kept the lamb.

Former predator,
he amended, shaking his head.
I am not like that anymore.
He stared at the lamb for several precious seconds, remembering what it symbolized and making sure, in his heart, he’d made the right decision. Satisfied, he placed the tiny item into a small velvet bag and tied it shut, then placed the bag into his pack, stuffing it between the folds of a coarse brown tunic. He tied the pack closed and set it on the floor in front of him.

Ephraim then stepped over to the far wall and eyed his ancient
khopesh
, which he had wielded for over a thousand years, though the style of blade had largely gone out of use eight centuries ago. He reached a tentative hand up to the sword, but his fingers froze before they touched the handle. Ashamed, he pictured the faces of his many victims, heard again their anguished screams, and saw their mouths stretched wide in agony. The smell of their blood returned to him, sending an unwelcome rumble through his belly. Far from the pleasure these memories once brought, Ephraim now felt only shame.
How many?
He wondered.
How many have I killed with this very blade?
He had no idea, but the number must surely be huge.

“So great is my sin,” he whispered. He could not shed tears, none of his race could, but his face felt hot and flushed, nonetheless. He drew his hand back, unwilling to touch the ancient sword, his most trusted companion for centuries, now too poignant a reminder of who he used to be. With a sigh, he turned from the wall and walked over to the bed, determined to leave his past at his back.

Now ready to go, he just had to wait for his friend to come and help sneak him out of the city. Ephraim sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Malachi’s knock. He hoped it would not take long.

Please hurry, Malachi,
he thought.
Time is running out. They are coming.

* * *

Above Ephraim, crouched amidst the pressed oak beams that supported the structure’s ceiling, a single pair of eyes looked down at the one-time Enforcer. The Council's agents were not
coming
, as Ephraim feared. They – or rather,
he
– had already arrived. If he had looked up, he might have seen the dark shadow hiding among the lighter ones in his ceiling, but he never so much as glanced upward. His visitor thought lack of sustenance to be the cause of Ephraim's inattentiveness, and he shook his head in disbelief. From his dark vantage point, he watched the scene unfold, memorizing the layout of the room for future reference.

Earlier that evening, before he had left the Halls, the Council told him what to expect. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to believe that one of their own, particularly one with as glorious and faithful a history as Ephraim, could be capable of such treachery. Until he witnessed Ephraim’s hurried packing and the incident with the wolf’s head – an article of rank sacred to the
Bachiyr
– he’d hoped to discover his superiors mistaken. The longer he waited on high, however, the more he came to realize they were right.

They are always right,
he thought to himself.
I should have known better than to doubt. Just because he’s a friend—
he stopped himself there, not wanting to diminish his readiness. He couldn’t waste time thinking of past friendships and obligations. He had a job to do, and reminiscing would only make it harder and might even cloud his judgment, which could not be allowed. He had to be clearheaded and alert for the next few minutes.