Authors: Shawn Hopkins
And then the room disappeared in a flash of white, a piercing ring screaming in his head. His eyes didn’t want to focus. Everything was slow, blurred, but he could tell that he was lying on the floor, the pistol now absent from his hand.
Groaning in pain, he rolled onto his side. He could see the gun lying in some burning debris nearby. He tried to get up to retrieve it, but his body didn’t respond to the command.
After what felt like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than ten seconds, he started to regain the feeling in his limbs, able to hear past the ringing and see through the white haze. Crawling across the floor, he could also detect a fierce burning in his back. Moving forward an inch at a time, he tried to get a sense of what was happening. But everything was still spinning. Things were on fire, he could tell that much. A wall seemed to be missing, the dark shapes of people outside running past.
And then a huge monster — a locust freed from the depths of Hell — lowered itself down to the ground and sat staring at him through the hole in the wall, its tail extending away from its body and curling up like a scorpion.
He cursed and forced his body to move, even though he still didn’t have all the feeling back in his legs. Soon he was on his hands and knees, the ringing in his ears finally evaporating and giving way to another sound — the mutant insect watching him.
The Apache.
Finally, reality resumed, and everything began unfolding at normal speed.
Scott stumbled to his feet and dove for the gun just as the black AH-64 Apache helicopter tilted to its side and hovered laterally away from the opening while releasing a burst of fire from its automatic cannons. The sound was deafening, the rounds striking the floor, tables, and the back wall, shooting pieces of debris through the air like shrapnel. But Scott managed to avoid the somewhat passive assault still intact.
He got back to his feet and ran across the room to the crumpled wall, momentarily forgetting how cold he was, that he couldn’t feel his feet.
Climbing over the broken wall and stepping out onto the grass, he entered a war zone. He watched in horrible fascination as three Apaches circled the facility, strafing it with rockets and missiles. Their rotation was taking them away from him, so he was safe for the moment. But he knew they would be circling back around. He had to get to the woods. Without a second thought, he began sprinting toward a barbed-wire fence that was lying twisted across the ground.
As he sped across the fifty yards of open grass, he turned to see where the Apaches were and saw that one was swinging around toward him now.
A figure suddenly exited the woods with something on his shoulder, and a surface to air missile went streaming through the sky a second later, heading straight for the Apache.
It struck the tail of the flying beast and exploded, the heat wave forcing Scott to turn away, arms covering his face. Looking up, he watched the Apache — spinning in circles and a trail of smoke spiraling from its broken tail — crash into the building and burst into flames, its rotors snapping off on impact and flying through the air like huge lawnmower blades. A piece flew right by Scott as he started running for the person with the missile launcher.
But the man began jerking spasmodically, collapsing to the ground under an umbrella of blood.
Scott’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for the hidden culprit. What he found, however, were the two remaining Apaches swinging toward his position. Rising up above the building, they elevated together like uncoiling twin serpents, ready to strike. But they were still on the other side of the…
For the first time, Scott was able to get a good look at the complex. At the guard towers. The razor-wire fences.
A gulag.
Amidst the sound of explosions blowing the deserted prison camp to pieces behind him, the distinct sound of machine gun fire suddenly came erupting from his right. Swinging the pistol around, intent on covering himself from whomever was shooting at him now, he saw two men running toward him from a hundred yards away and shooting weapons from their shoulders. But Scott wasn’t feeling the reports of their aim, which, considering their rate of fire, should have been accurate enough. When one of the men noticed him bring the pistol up, he stopped shooting and began yelling in Hebrew, pointing at something behind him. Barely keeping himself from squeezing the trigger, Scott turned to see what it was they were shooting at, if not him. Four men with black ski masks over their faces. They were moving back and forth between scattered debris, shooting at either him or the two Jewish agents. Either way, he was in their line of sight.
The Apaches opened fire.
The Mossad agents were instantly turned to hamburger, the large rounds from the helicopter shredding them to pieces. The four black masks concentrated their aim solely on him now, and the ground began to explode at his feet. He wasn’t going to make it. But then there was a deafening explosion, and pieces of the four masked men went flying past him.
He ran harder, the woods just feet away.
Finally crossing the tree line and finding cover behind a large rock, he turned to face the camp. The Apaches were taking fire from somewhere within the demolished building, and they were now pulling out of the area to get a better angle of attack. There were a few firefights unfolding in the surrounding area between Mossad agents and whoever these masked men were, and Scott thought it best to start making his way through the woods, to get as far from the place as possible.
The sun was dropping, and colder temperatures were coming.
****
Two hours later, darkness had spread itself over the woods, bringing with it a frigid air.
Matthew Scott was rolled up into a fetal position beside a small, almost insignificant fire. He couldn’t sleep. He was too cold to sleep. All he could do was stare at the pathetic fire he’d managed to create and hope he didn’t get hypothermia. It was maybe a degree or two above freezing. Too cold to spend the night shirtless and at the mercy of the elements. He’d thought about making his way back down to the gulag and taking the clothes from one of the corpses, but the sun had dropped before he could make up his mind. Besides, if the “enemy” — as the priest called them — had decided to prolong their stay there, they’d probably torture him just to stave off boredom.
As he lay there, his body convulsing from the cold, a distinct sound suddenly captured his attention.
Snap
.
Something was walking toward him. But the cold torment made it almost too unbearable for him to care. Familiar thoughts of suicide began tempting him with soothing promises of warmth. But Scott knew there was a very real chance that his afterlife might be a little
too
warm.
Through the struggling flames, he could make out the form of something or someone walking through the woods toward him. He tried reaching for the pistol but was shaking too hard to move. He felt his will drip away as he closed his eyes and somehow fell asleep… completely missing the loud noise and glorious flash of heat.
13
T
here was much more to see when next he opened his eyes, the sun just starting to climb into a cloudless sky and illuminating the forest around him. There was no sign of anything but trees — both bare deciduous and evergreen pines — in all directions. The fire before him was now a black spot on the ground, just a few charred remains glowing red with the morning breeze.
Scott sat up quickly, immediately confused by the army jacket and wool socks he was wearing. He jumped to his feet. A stab of pain shot all the way through his toes, and he had to step gingerly. Adjusting the jacket, he began looking around. There were footprints scattered around the scorched earth that weren’t his. The gun was still there though. He picked it up, checked to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with.
Strange.
The diameter of the scorched earth also indicated a rather large bonfire and not just the mere bundle of sticks he’d managed to gather together. He set his eyes moving methodically over the whole area, searching for a clue.
He found one in a broken branch. Delicately making his way to it, he bent to one knee and peered into the thick undergrowth beyond, looking for more signs. And he found plenty. They were so obvious that he could only assume they’d been left for him to follow. So follow he did, leaving all the confused and agonizing events of the prior day behind him, free to share their stories around the scattered remnants of the mysterious fire. But not with him. Not now.
An hour or so passed, and he knew that he’d probably only covered a mile and a half, but his feet were trying to convince him that it had been closer to a thousand. He kept moving forward, climbing up over a slight rise, and…
A house.
It was standing alone atop a small hill surrounded by trees. It had siding. A deck. Maybe up to four bedrooms.
Scott double checked the Israeli pistol and jogged toward the house, both hands gripping the gun, eyes scanning every inch of the two-story home. It didn’t appear occupied, but the new clothes he was somehow wearing might just be a clue to the contrary.
He very quietly took the steps leading up to the deck, staying beneath the windows. The sunshine warmed his face as he approached the back door, reaching for the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed it open, hoping it wouldn’t squeak or set off a series of blaring alarms. A pretty nice kitchen came into view — lots of cabinets, a huge island counter. He paused and waited for the sound of rushing feet.
Silence.
He entered, pistol ready.
He silently closed the door behind him, swinging the gun to the right and into the empty kitchen. Then he turned toward the den.
He moved ahead into a hallway, his socks not making a sound on the wooden floor.
And then a fit of coughing came echoing down from the second floor.
He came to a staircase and followed after the noise, one cautious step at a time. At the top of the stairs was another hallway, doors lining the walls. Standing before the door where the coughing was coming from, Scott wondered if he should just kick
it
down. He decided to knock.
The coughing abruptly stopped. And then footsteps.
Click
.
He could feel the cold steel pressed against the nape of his neck.
“Drop the gun, please,” demanded a soft and unfamiliar voice.
He set the safety lever and did as he was told. Before he could assess his situation and kill the guy, however, the door he was facing opened.
It was Daniel. He was holding an automatic rifle, the shoulder strap hanging to the floor. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” Scott replied.
“Is this the guy?” the voice behind him asked.
“Yeah,” Daniel responded.
The cold pressure against Scott’s neck vanished.
Daniel spread his arms, hands open. “Welcome.” But he didn’t smile. In fact, he looked quite a bit worse than the last time Scott saw him.
Scott turned to see the man behind him and came face to face with a six-foot tall, blue-eyed, medium built character dressed in light jeans, combat boots, and a long-sleeve shirt under a sleeveless jacket. He was holding a modified AK-47. His face was made up of mostly sharper angles partially hidden by a few days of stubble and a head of medium-length black hair.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Scott told him.
“Name’s Mayhew. Titus.”
Scott held his stare and asked, “Is that your real name?”
A thin smile. “Of course not.”
“Well in that case, I’m Matthew Scott.”
“Pleasure.”
Daniel came up beside them and grabbed Scott’s jacket, exposing his bare skin. “How’d it do?”
“Kept me alive. Thanks.” He looked down and wiggled his toes. Then glanced at Daniel’s boots. “No more boots?”
“Sorry.” And Daniel walked away from them, back into the room, talking over his shoulder as he went. “You remember the priest?”
Scott turned and stepped into the room. “Yeah.”
“He’s hurt pretty bad. It doesn’t look like he’ll make it.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Actually, he didn’t really care.
“We must have passed you in the woods on our way here. I waited until it got dark before going back to the camp to look for something that would help him.” He walked alongside a bed, and Scott recognized the face of the priest sticking out from beneath a blanket, his head propped up against a pillow. Daniel continued, “On my way back, I spotted your fire and found you freezing beside it. I gave you my jacket and socks and contributed to the size of your fire. I apologize for not brining you back with me, but…” He shrugged, trailing off, and turned his attention to the priest.
Mayhew asked Scott, “What took you so long? I mean for you to follow the trail?”
Scott leaned back on his heels, wiggling his toes again. “Baby steps.”
Mayhew’s scruffy face twisted into a grin as he bent over and retrieved the pistol, handing it back to Scott.
Without a word, Scott took it and stuck it down the back of his pants. “Any more clothes in this place?”
“Yeah, there’s a closet in the other room. Help yourself.”
Scott turned and walked out of the room, down the hall to the next door. He opened it and cautiously went in, still half-expecting some sort of danger. The room was big — two couches facing an old sixty-inch 3D TV, a bookshelf full of old novels and movies…
Walking to the window, he pulled the curtains away and looked down at the area surrounding the house. There was another quad sitting by the front door and a path that disappeared into the woods. Other than that, he saw nothing. He went to the closet, which proved to be a walk-in with plenty of clothes, and picked out some dry socks, a pair of running sneakers that were only a half-size too big, a pair of jeans that might fit him better than the ones he was wearing, and an old red Nike t-shirt. As he walked out of the closet, he noticed another door. It had to be a bathroom. The question was: did it have a shower?
He sure hoped so.
“Daniel,” he called, walking back into the room with the dying priest. “We safe here?”