JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (12 page)

“Hey! You okay?”

Fran didn’t stop. The voice didn’t belong to Taylor, but she didn’t trust anyone walking alone at night. She tried to keep her balance, to plant her feet firmly after every step, but the slope was steep and she was still dripping. Her damp heel slid on a patch of weeds and she fell onto her back. Before she could move again a flashlight beam hit her face, prompting a wince.

“Fran? Is that you?”

Fran squinted into the light, couldn’t make out anyone behind it. But the voice didn’t seem threatening, and it was oddly familiar.

She managed to swallow the lump in her throat and said, “Who’s there?”

“Erwin Luggs. You work with my fiancée, Jessie Lee, at Merv’s Diner. I also teach Duncan.”

Erwin.
He was one of Safe Haven’s firemen, and he taught gym at the junior high. Her son liked him. Jessie Lee complained about him all the time, to the point where Fran wondered why she had agreed to marry him.

Before Fran answered, Erwin had his big hands on her arm and helped her up.

“Jesus, Fran, what happened?”

Fran’s eyes widened in fear when she realized Erwin was covered in blood. Erwin seemed to read her reaction.

“It’s from a deer,” he said.

Fran recovered from the shock. “My hands. Do you have a knife or something that cuts?”

“I’ve got some fingernail clippers.”

“See if they work on this plastic.”

Erwin disappeared behind her, and Fran could barely feel his touch as he manipulated her hands and arms.

And then, agony.

Her hands fell at her sides, and the blood rushing back in burned like acid. Her arms, and especially her fingers, were being stabbed with thousands of pins while simultaneously being dunked in lava.

Fran began to cry, and Erwin took his bloody jacket off to drape over her shoulders. It smelled rank, but she welcomed the warmth. Fran opened and closed her fists, trying to make it stop, and Erwin must have mistaken her pain for distress because he put his arms around her in a protective, brotherly way.

“What happened, Fran? Who did this to you?”

Fran sniffled, then went rigid, as if someone had stuck a pole up her spine.

“Duncan. We need to get to my son. Do you have a phone?”

“I’ve been trying for half an hour. No signal.”

“Let me borrow it.”

Erwin fished it out of his pocket, handed it over.

“Where’s your car?”

“Back at the station.”

Fran dialed, but her fingers hit the wrong buttons. She kept trying, getting the same results. Frustrated, she handed the phone back to Erwin.

“Dial for me.”

“There are no bars. We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Dial!”

Fran stated her phone number, and Erwin dutifully punched in the digits. Then he held the phone up so she could hear the
we’re sorry
recording.

“We need to get to my house, Erwin. Right now.”

“I need to get to town. Something’s happened to Josh and Sheriff Streng.”

“Josh?”

“There was a helicopter crash in the woods, and someone stole our truck. Then I saw the sheriff get attacked by some guy in a black uniform.”

Taylor wore a black uniform. And though Fran hadn’t seen his face, whoever was driving the fire truck with the mayor also wore black.

“Something’s going on,” Fran said. “Something bad. Which way is town?”

“About two miles south. This is Harris Street.”

Fran knew Harris Street. She hadn’t recognized it in the dark. Her neighborhood was less than a mile away.

“Duncan might be in trouble, Erwin. I think one of those men in the black uniforms has him.”

Erwin stepped away from her, spreading his hands. “I need to get to town, Fran. I need to—”

She grabbed Erwin by his shirt, the motion bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

“I need your help, dammit! Help me get my son!”

“These men—we need some help. We can’t do this alone …”

Fran pushed Erwin away, then began to run down the road. Away from town. Toward home.

“Fran!”

Fran ignored him, ignored the pain in her arms, ignored the throb in her injured foot that ignited every time it hit the pavement. Nothing would stop her from getting to her son. Nothing.

M
athison let out a screech of displeasure and hung on to the back of Dr. Stubin’s collar. That was how he hid. Stubin also felt like hiding. The helmet and fatigues made him feel like a child playing dress-up, and the fact he hadn’t been given a gun hammered home the point; he wasn’t a soldier.

Of course he wasn’t. Stubin was a scientist. Perhaps the premier brain specialist on the planet, a fact he would someday prove. Traipsing around through the forest playing commando wasn’t the best use of his time and skills. But he had to be here, much as he loathed it.

The helicopter had dropped him and Mathison off at the crash site. A sergeant and two privates were also deposited there—for babysitting duty—until the Green Berets arrived. His minders were humorless, no-nonsense, and though they weren’t openly hostile Stubin could feel their disdain for his presence.

The three didn’t approach the wreck of the chopper; they were probably under orders not to. But Stubin had no such orders, and he spent a few minutes examining the site, with a monkey literally on his back.

The decapitations in the cockpit were a surprise, but Stubin wasn’t shocked. Being a brain surgeon, he’d witnessed more than his fair share of gore. He looked closer, the flares and field lighting set up around the perimeter allowing him to do so without needing a flashlight.

The cuts were clean, almost surgically so. Cutting off a human head wasn’t easy, and Stubin felt strangely impressed.

Next he poked around in the back of the wreckage and found a large footlocker. It couldn’t be opened without a key, but next to it was an electronic panel with buttons and switches.

In the distance, Stubin heard another helicopter. He took it to be the Special Forces team. Stubin checked his watch, did a quick equation in his head, and estimated they’d be here within two minutes.

A moment later Mathison abandoned his hiding place on Stubin’s back and leapt out the side door, bounding off into the woods.

“Mathison! Dammit, come back!”

Stubin bounded after him, tripping over some debris on the ground. The soldiers didn’t laugh. Nor did they try to stop him when he picked himself up and headed into the woods after his monkey.

The light seemed to reduce by half every five steps, and after walking for less than a minute Stubin was surrounded by the dark. He stared at the helicopter coming in low overhead, holding on to his helmet as it passed. Stubin made an OK sign with his thumb and index, then stuck it into his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle could be heard above the din of the Huey, and Mathison came running out of the trees and stopped to stare at him.

“Don’t be afraid, Mathison. It’s just another helicopter. Come on.”

Stubin crouched down, smiling. He patted his thighs, and then a tremendous explosion shocked his ears, causing the ground to shake and momentarily turning night into day.

T
he fingers that locked around Streng’s throat were cutting off his air, preventing him from answering Josh. The darkness of the woods, and his inability to make a sound, meant he was going to die less than five feet away from his young friend.

Streng knelt next to the killer’s prostrate body and struggled against the grip, his efforts no more effective than when Santiago had been on top of him, mauling his kidney. The man had preternatural strength, and Streng felt like he had a noose around his neck rather than flesh and bone.

He reached down, trying to find Santiago’s face. The killer’s arms were longer, keeping Streng away. But they weren’t longer than Streng’s legs. Though on his knees, Streng managed to tilt left and get one of his feet in front of him. He kicked Santiago in the side, fiercely. Again. And again.

The killer held on. Streng’s balance faltered and he fell onto his side. Still, Santiago squeezed his neck, hands tightening, Streng’s vision blurring and going black.

Streng planted both feet under Santiago’s chin, using it as a fulcrum. Then he pulled back as hard as he could, using the muscles in his legs and his back, straining and pushing until the claws released him, allowing in sweet, sweet oxygen.

“Josh …” he croaked.

The flashlight came on, and then Josh hooked a hand around his belt and bullied him through the woods as fast as they both could move. Streng didn’t have a chance to catch his breath, and he kept tripping over things, but Josh never let him fall, never let the pace slacken.

The road appeared suddenly, rising out of the trees like a fever dream, and as the sheriff doubled over and sucked in air he barely noticed Josh yelling. A screeching sound cut the silence of the night, accompanied by the smell of rubber, and then Streng had a hand over his eyes, protecting them from the blinding light coming from—

“Sheriff? Josh? What in the high hell are you doing out here?”

—Olen Porrell’s Honey Wagon, a large tanker truck with a cartoon skunk painted on the side. The skunk wore big smile on its face and a clothespin on its nose, and the cartoon balloon next to its head said “Septic and Plumbing!”

Olen climbed out of his truck and hurried over to them. He wore the typical Olen outfit of stained bib overalls, stained T-shirt, and the world’s filthiest Brewers baseball cap. In the headlights Streng could see Olen’s face clearly but still couldn’t make out where the beard ended and the grime began.

Josh clasped the plumber on the shoulder. “We need to get to a hospital, Olen.”

Streng righted himself and shook his head. “First I need to get to my office outside of town.”

“You need a doctor.”

“I need a gun, a telephone, and a new pair of pants. The doctor can wait.”

“Someone want to tell me what’s going … Jesus H. Christmas, what the hell is that?”

Fifty yards ahead of them Ajax stepped onto the road.

“We have to go,” Streng said. “Now.”

He pulled Olen and Josh back to the Honey Wagon, which was every bit as filthy as Olen. It smelled like the sewage Olen spent his days pumping.

“Who is that guy? What’s going on, Sheriff?”

Streng jerked open the cab door and climbed up.

“Olen, where do you stash that twenty-two Long Rifle you use to hunt white-tail out of season?”

“Sheriff, deer season don’t start until November seventeenth, and—”

“Give me the damn gun, Olen, or we’re all going to die.”

Olen reached behind the driver’s seat and handed Streng a lever-action Marlin.

“Get in,” Streng told Josh and Olen. Then he cranked open the passenger-side window, chambered a round, and aimed at Ajax, who sprinted at them with astonishing speed.

Streng fired five times, fast as he could work the action. Then he checked the rearview. As expected, Santiago was coming up fast.

“Drive! There’s another one behind us!”

Olen didn’t need any more prodding. He stomped on the gas and the Honey Wagon lurched forward. Ajax hadn’t been stopped by Streng’s shots and continued to come at them, a charging rhino. Streng switched his grip on the rifle.

“Pull up to him, on my side!”

Olen complied. Streng leaned out the window, feeling Josh’s hand on his belt. As the truck passed Ajax, he swung the rifle like a baseball bat. The impact sent a shock of pain through Streng’s palms, vibrations traveling up both arms and shaking his shoulders. The walnut stock split in half on Ajax’s head, cracking along the pistol grip. But Streng managed to keep hold of the gun, and Josh yanked him back inside. Olen cruised into second gear and Streng dared to hope that they might actually live for a bit longer.

“Olen, you just saved our bacon.”

“Happy to oblige, Sheriff. Now one of you wanna tell me what just happened?”

“A helicopter crashed near the big lake,” Josh said. “I think it was hauling some kind of military prisoners. They escaped, killed Sal and Maggie Porter, and almost killed us.”

“I’ll be damned. Never saw a man that big before. Your shots hit him in the chest—I was watching. He didn’t even flinch. Think they know about the lottery?”

“Lottery?”

“Mayor called a town meeting, half hour ago. Safe Haven won the Powerball. Everyone is meeting at the junior high, because we all get a share. The phone lines have been burning up with folks sharing the news. I called ten people myself. Didn’t anyone call you?”

Streng remembered the mayor’s phone call earlier. He wondered if this was connected to the soldiers somehow.

“Turn on Harris, Olen.”

“But the junior high is—”

“It can wait. I need to get to my office first.”

Then the horizon lit up, accompanied by the
BOOM
of a massive explosion.

S
antiago watched the truck speed off, then turned to see the mushroom cloud rising in the distance. It blended into the black sky as the fire died down.

The Special Forces have arrived,
he thought and reached for a Charge capsule on his utility belt. His pack wasn’t there.

Santiago’s upper lip twitched, and a small jolt of panic worked its way through his central nervous system. He jogged over to Ajax, who seemed unaffected by the long gash spilling blood down the side of his head.

“They took my Charge.”

Ajax felt around his own belt, then wailed like a sick cow. He was out, too.

“
Putas,
” Santiago said. He touched his wounded ear and snapped his fingers. He didn’t hear it. Ruptured eardrum. Then he pulled the communicator out of his front pocket, slid back the cover, and held it to his mouth. “This is Santiago. The bird has flown. What’s your position?”

The reply came on the text screen, backlit by a faint green glow.

Gymnasium at the junior high. Running the winner’s circle.

“We’ll meet you there.”

Negative. Remain on target.

“We’re …”—the words seemed to stick in Santiago’s throat—“… out of Charge.”

You’re on your own. We’re not sharing. Out.