Arkadium Rising (24 page)

A gun went off cleaving away a good chunk of the old man's skull. Gore spattered the nearby people. Screams issued from the crowd and everyone began to scatter. One of the denim and leather-clad gunman looked at his smoking gun in surprise, shrugged, and then fired at the nearest bystander. A handful of people went down as they tripped over each other. Another gunman opened fire, then another. Soon, bursts of semiautomatic fire sprayed the crowd.

Kat jumped from Jason's pack and scampered away from the chaos. Jason reached for his Taurus tucked into his belt at the small of his back, but he knew it was useless to try to help. He held his gun in a tight grip and ducked low against the tree as the gunfire continued. His pack covered him and seemed to press him into the grassy underbrush. Cries of bloodlust were soon drowned out by those of agony. He couldn't take it. He wanted to scream for the madness to stop, wanted to scream until the gunfire ended and the only madness left was his own. He closed his eyes and plugged his ears, cringing when stray gunfire strafed the nearby trees.

The gunshots became sporadic. The cries of the wounded and dying became the overriding sound. Jason trembled, still curled up and hiding, his entire world now the loamy earth inches from his face.

"Jesus Christ," one of the gunmen said.

"Now what?"

"We clear the fuck out of here. Pronto."

"Good idea."

Jason heard footsteps trailing away. A dozen or so people. Someone chuckled, sending a chill through him.

"Fuck me, that was crazy!"

"You see them dance like they was at a rave?"

"Yeah, no shit!"

He waited for a long time, even though his bladder suddenly felt full and his left leg had fallen asleep in his curled position. Finally, he lifted his head and saw bodies piled on top of bodies, blood and viscera still spreading in warm pools, legs and arms all akimbo, scattered like the broken trees left behind after the floodwaters receded from Concord. Broken, bloodied bodies left to rot in the midday sun.

The sounds of footsteps returned and a jolt of adrenaline flooded his system. He saw no movement below. But then he remembered…

Jason dropped back down as low as he could, hoping the woods would conceal him. The gunmen had rounded the bend and were now walking along the dirt road's incline behind him.

"What was that?" someone asked.

"Probably that old man you shot in the head. It's his wrinkly ghost come to haunt your stupid ass."

"No, seriously… you guys didn't hear that?"

Jason held his breath. His bladder ached so bad he was ready to just let it go.

"What could it be, a fucking gopher? Who cares? Nobody's gonna mess with us."

"Got that right…" someone said, and again gave off that chilling chuckle.

The voices drifted away, followed closely by the sound of their footsteps. Jason thought of nothing more than the pain in his bladder, wanting there to be nothing more in the world than that throbbing agony, because he didn't think he could face what awaited on the descending stretch of road.

He only opened his eyes and stood because he heard Kat's lonely whine. He scanned the road above, but it was still clear. Kat came bounding through the woods toward him, stopping a foot away. She gazed up at him, her crazed kattywampus hair no longer looking so out of place.

Kat rubbed against his leg, wanting to be held, and Jason started to cry.

2.

A couple of hours later, after Jason had put the horrifying scene on the nameless dirt road behind him, at least physically, he nearly ran into what appeared to be a block party.

The seemingly endless woods opened up to an affluent neighborhood of mini-mansions sitting on one acre country lots. The dirt road transitioned to brand new blacktop a block before the new development. He felt strangely comforted when his feet met the smooth tarry expanse.

He used the trees lining the narrow road for cover, pausing to listen after advancing to each successive one over a quarter mile stretch of road. He heard… music? Live music. A couple of guitars. A violin. A saxophone? The instruments trampled over each other, and when there was a break in the sound, laughter filled the void.

The street was clear, no people in sight. The lawns were already getting long, and he even spotted a weed or two. Both would surely be home owners' association no-nos. A couple of cars had been abandoned in mid-operation in the middle of the road, painting a still-life panorama that could be any other late afternoon in this wealthy exurban community. All that was missing were some kids engaging in the act of walking-while-texting and a trophy wife in fitness gear power jogging alongside her pampered dog.

As he neared an intersection, a gentle breeze carried with it an unexpected odor—grilled hotdogs... fried onions… maybe even burgers. His mouth watered so suddenly it was painful. He had survived the last few days on protein bars and trail mix. He looked around in every direction. Still clear. He jogged ahead until he could huddle behind the final tree before the intersection. The street off to the left ended in a cul-de-sac. About twenty people were gathered in a big circle where the street ended. Some were seated on lawn chairs, while others were paired off for conversation. A little boy with downy brown hair trundled around the circle on a tricycle.

Jason was about to reveal himself, but something inside told him not to.

They looked and acted like normal people. Yet, he hesitated.

He didn't belong, and he didn't know how they treated outsiders. For all he knew, they rounded up refugees, and…

And he realized that's exactly what he was. A refugee. Just like those people he saw back on that nameless dirt road. Someone without a place in the world. Someone bandied from one area to another like in a game of hot potato.

And maybe they weren't so friendly to filthy outsiders with few survival skills, few supplies, and an ornery cat for his only companion.

"Let's keep things simple." Jason hoped Kat was listening from her nest on top of his pack. He could feel like he hadn't gone off the deep end as long as he knew the cat was listening. "I don't know these people. They seem friendly enough. But that could just be my stomach blinding my better judgment. What do you say?"

As his question lingered unanswered, a teenaged boy ran toward him, chasing a football that had sailed over his head.

"Derf wad." The boy picked up the ball, no more than thirty feet from Jason's hiding spot. "I'm tall but not that tall."

It would be so easy to step from the shady tree trunk. Give a small wave. Say a hello.

Kat meowed finally, saving him from indecision.

"So, it's just you and me, right?"

Kat meowed again, sealing his fate.

3.

After camping under an ancient pine's broad boughs, Jason folded his makeshift tarp shelter into his pack and lifted it onto his shoulders. Even though his food was running low, the pack felt heavier today. His bones ached deep into the marrow and his muscles felt like raw hamburger. He ran his fingers down his side; his ribs were definitely more defined than they were a short while ago. He still felt a sharp pain in his back ribs when the pack jostled too much. He'd eaten two cans of Vienna beef last night and the last of his trail mix. He no longer had any proper cat food, so he shared the processed beef with Kat, who didn't get nearly as much of the meal as she wanted. He'd fallen asleep with her meowing her discontent, wanting for her to spread her wings and embrace her catlike tendencies. Chase down a baby rabbit for once. Stalk a bird's' nest. Anything.

He made his way from the pine forest to the rutted blacktop he'd left the night before, his muscles loosening from their arthritic death grip. So today, after yesterday's cop-out with making human contact, Jason decided he would converse with the first person who seemed somewhat sane. He had to do something. He couldn't always count on Kat to respond whenever he felt like voicing his concern aloud.

Kat scampered along at his side, staying within five feet of him at all times. He never thought he'd feel any connection with a feline, but here he was relying on one to decide his future.

Luckily, the days were long, allowing Jason to cover mile after mile, putting as much distance between himself and Marcus as possible. He could run forever and not feel safe, but he realized that he also needed a plan, something to shoot for. After leaving the block party without announcing himself, he felt an overwhelming anxiety. Would he ever find a better opportunity to connect with people? And right now, that's what he really needed more than anything—sane human interaction. He had an almost overpowering need to talk to others, to learn about not only the widespread implications of the Arkadium's twisted plan, but also how individuals were coping. If he could learn about how others were coping, he could put his own traumatized response in perspective.

By midday he failed to make contact with the first group of people he encountered. While they seemed fairly sane, he wasn't sure he wanted to risk any fallout from interacting with them.

The people in question appeared to be two male relatives judging their similar facial features, and hopefully, one unrelated female. Before making his presence known, Jason had observed the two men stalking about the trampled grass outside a tarpaper shack. Neither wore shirts, and their jagged jean shorts barely covered their asscracks. They chain smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and passed a bottle of homebrew back and forth.

Finally, when Jason figured it best not to judge and was about to reveal his hillside hideaway spot, the third member of the group, a pear-shaped woman pushing fifty, who had neither seen a hairbrush in years nor worn a bra in decades, stepped clear of the shack. Languorous white smoke trailed behind her, wafting around her rats' nest of a hairdo. Her pendulous breasts trembled under her stained sleeveless shirt as she stomped down the two metal stairs to the trampled grass.

"The batch is done, boys." She took the hand-rolled from the slightly shorter of the two men and drew on it as if she were sucking a fruity cocktail through a straw. Smoke jetted from her nostrils and she gave off a whoop of joy. "We done good!"

The taller of the two said, "For real? We gonna be rich?"

"Got that right, sugar!" She laughed again.

"I just might love you, Jeanie." The shorter man pulled her into an affectionate embrace and kissed her hard on the mouth. He grabbed one of her massive ass cheeks and gave it a hard squeeze.

She pushed him away playfully. "Crap on a stick, Georgie." She gave off a throaty laugh. "You gonna leave paw print bruises on me."

"Not if I can help it." The taller man took hold of Jeanie's hand and gave it a tug. She twirled somehow gracefully into his arms. He guided her back through a semi-dip and then leaned over to meet her lips with his own. He was gentle in his own hillbilly way, but she seemed to like him just as much as Georgie.

"So the cook's done?" the shorter man asked again.

"Yes, sweety, ain't you listening?" she said as if talking to a child.

"Well, goddamn… you wanna fuck?"

"I know I need to bust'a nut." The taller man pushed past the other two, opened the door, and stepped inside a cloud of billowing white smoke.

"Jeanie's gettin' some." The woman danced and swayed as she headed inside. "Yes, Jeanie's gonna get a fuckin' tonight!"

Left alone, the shorter man grabbed his crotch as if his touch might ask the simple question,
Do you resolve to partake in these carnal festivities?
Georgie laughed as if he'd received his answer, and then headed inside, closing the door behind him.

Jason turned away, sickened but glad he'd taken a conservative tact when faced with meeting these strangers.

Maybe he wouldn't just meet any old group of people, even if at first blush they appeared to be relatively sane.

1.

Kylie was nearly delirious with thirst and had been on edge for so long that her mind had fallen into a numbed stasis. When her captors covered her head with a burlap sack, she had been staring in horror at her dad's scorched body as he cradled the dead little girl from the plane wreck. That image stayed with her the entire duration of their forced march.

A man walked by her side, taking hold of her arm to ferry her through rough patches of ground or around bends in the road. He never said a word, but she could sense his eyes on her.

For several miles the fresh scent of a pinewood forest filtered through the burlap's mesh, and that was soon joined by humid, muddy air gusting off a body of water. The sound of flowing water added to the picture. It was a river, a large one at that.

She could only imagine they were closing in on the Mississippi River.

She could only hope that they were planning to push her in to let her drown.

Her guide pressed his lips to the burlap. His hot breath brushed her ear as he whispered, "Almost there."

They reached a bridge and started across. The rush of water was so near, yet… they kept walking until they were clear over to the other side of the bridge. The burlap got even darker, if at all possible, as they entered an enclosed area. Not more than twenty paces later and they reentered the light of day. Heavy doors closed behind them.

"All right. Let's see what we have here," said a man with a booming voice.

Her guide finally removed the sack from Kylie's head. The sunlight was blinding, forcing her to shut her eyes no matter how much she wanted to see where these evil bastards had taken her, Dawn, and RJ. She closed her eyes against the glare and saw the little girl with the smoke-stained hair, the girl who had died in her dad's arms. She felt a pang of morbid jealousy.

Low chatter spread throughout the group. Her captors had collected other "volunteers" both before and after her own abduction. The voices were scared. Someone sobbed nearby. She heard a slap—perhaps a hand against the back of the crying person's head?—followed by silence.

She blinked several times and then looked at the man holding her arm.