The Dark Roads (4 page)

Dundel stood, alone in his bedroom, and looked around. Nothing out of place. His shotgun still hung on the wall.

He thought about finding his shoes and decided against it. Whatever was going on in the house was something that called for silence and bare feet were better for that. His door was slightly ajar, letting a very dim light in, as if someone had been looking in on him. He used the partially open door to exit the room and closed it behind him, taking care to let the latch close gently.

The doorway to his daughters' room stood free of obstruction, so he looked there first. Dundel wasn't very surprised to see that his girls were no longer in bed.

It was the boy, Elvis, that they were probably after and he couldn't allow them to do anything to him. There were so few people left in the world now that anyone with any sense had to try to preserve what life could continue to exist.

Dundel closed the door and turned away. He padded toward the kitchen area, passing the room he'd lent to his guests. They were all sleeping, though one of them was obviously supposed to be holding some kind of watch over the others.

They'll have to get better about that,
Dundel thought as he reached the portal to the kitchenette.

They were whispering, his two girls, each of them holding a kitchen knife. One held a chef's knife, its edge honed by Dundel's hand just the day before, while the other held a serrated bread knife. That one would prove to be very wicked if used on flesh.

The girls hadn't noticed him yet, too caught up in their plans and fearful memories, allowing him to watch them for a moment.

Annie was sixteen and homely. She was just tall enough not to be considered short and was pudgy for most of her life. She'd lost weight in the last few months, but her body wasn't made to be a thin one and she just didn't look right without the extra pounds. Her rust colored hair could've been beautiful if her mother had ever taught her how to keep it, but her mom hadn't proven to be the most nurturing woman.

Theresa was thinner, at fourteen, had always been, but her looks weren't much different from Annie's. They both might have grown into themselves if their lives hadn't been filled with so much suffering.

Dundel wasn't a piteous man, but for his own daughters he held pity and regret. He'd known that they'd been through
something
at their mother's house, but they'd never let him on to what. The appearance of the boy Elvis and their obvious dislike of him was cluing him in.

"We don't have anything to eat that requires cutting," Dundel said finally, startling the two in his kitchen.

"Daddy," Annie began breathlessly, "He's bad."

"Who is?"

"That retard boy," Theresa answered, "He's like David."

Dundel could say nothing. He stood in the doorway, blocking the path to the boy his daughters had such terrible plans for. He was shocked and saddened. He hadn't known that there was anything going on with his ex-wife's step-son and his daughters, but he should've.

Steve Dundel was a thinking man, one who took the time to analyze everything, but he hadn't thought of this. He'd known that there were problems with the boy, David, but not to what extent.

It was a mistake that he would regret.

"He's not bad," Dundel choked out, "He's just a boy."

"He's a boy like
David
," Annie said, walking toward him, "And we got to get rid of him."

Theresa followed her sister's lead, staying in pace with Annie as they moved toward their father. Dundel refused to move. They stopped within a foot of him, holding their knives in a threatening stance.

"Move, daddy," said Annie, "We have to do this."

"I won't," Dundel returned sternly.

Their eyes met, father and daughter, and he felt that in a battle of wills he was more than capable of asserting his. This wasn't such a battle, not a mental one, and he could do nothing to stop the surprise of the chef's knife cutting across his chest.

Dundel grabbed for Annie's wrist just as the blade came away from his skin, the gash sending shooting pains throughout his upper body, and caught it. At the same time, he reached for his other daughter. He caught Theresa seconds before she would've stabbed him in the throat with her bread knife. He twisted both wrists with strong hands and both blades dropped.

Lord, he thought, What could've been done to you to cause this?

Dundel let go of Theresa for the short time it took to hit Annie hard enough to knock her out, before rounding on Theresa to do the same. When they were both on the ground he took the time to touch the wound on his chest. It was deep and nasty, but it wouldn't kill him if he got something on it. He wouldn't treat the wound, though. He walked to the pantry, reached down to the floor, and came up with a handful of bungee cords.

Tears spilled along Dundel's cheeks as he tied his girls, hoping that they wouldn't wake before he was done with what he needed to do.

In the next room, his guests slept.

***

Richie woke to the sound of footfalls. Buddy was pacing around the room for some reason, his revolver in hand, and shaking his head back and forth quickly. Richie thought he might be doing this to stay awake, but dismissed the thought quickly. Something was wrong.

"You okay, man?" Richie asked quietly, hoping he wouldn't startle his friend.

"We gotta get out of here, Richie."

"Something wrong? Did something happen?"

"I don't know man, but the fucking front door just opened
way
too early. It's still fucking
light
outside," Buddy answered in a strained voice.

"Who the fuck opened the door? Elvis, wake up man. Did you see anybody walking around, Buddy?"

"Fuck! I think I must have nodded off. I don't fucking know. I didn't see anything, but that doesn't mean I didn't miss something."

Elvis stirred for a moment and muttered something unintelligible before sitting up and looking around.

"Richie? It's not night yet, is it?" Elvis asked.

"Don't think so. Just get your shit ready. Something's going on," Buddy demanded.

Elvis hurried at the tone, packing their gear as quickly as he could in the gloom. He'd already gotten his pack ready and was working on Buddy's when they heard the main door swing open and then closed.

Richie was up and on the balls of his feet, pulling clothing on and trying to hold his shotgun ready at the same time. The barrel of the thing wavered in his grasp, but never really aimed away from the main stairwell.

"You want the light?" He whispered to Buddy.

"No. Put that thing down and get dressed before you blow your fucking foot off."

Their whispering was harsh, but so quiet that no one could have heard them. Their hearing had adapted to the quiet whispers out of necessity. There were no footsteps on the stairway, no telltale creaking under the weight of a person, but they were waiting for someone to enter.

Buddy was aiming at the doorway that led to those steps with his finger on the trigger rather than the guard. He wasn't going to waste time. Richie, now clothed, followed his lead, aiming the barrels of his coach gun toward the lower half of the portal. Elvis was close to finished with the packing and would soon join them.

"What time is it?" Richie asked without looking away from his predicted target.

"Little after seven, I think. You're the one with the watch. Somebody popped the door three hours early.

“I heard someone walking. I was freaking out and thinking about waking you guys up, but what in the fuck can we do? We can't leave yet. The goddamn sun's still out. We couldn't even go if they'd waited until after sunset because the ground's too fuck hot to walk on. What the-“

"Dude. Calm down," Richie cut him off, "We're with you now. We'll figure it out."

"It's one of them girls, Richie," Elvis chimed in, "One of them girls went outside, I’ll bet."

"No fucking way," Buddy said, "That would be-"

"Suicide," Richie breathed.

They all looked at each other in the darkness. There wasn't very much to say about what was going on until they decided on what to do. If one, or both, of the girls had walked outside then there wasn't anything to be done about it.

Anyone crazy enough to go out into the sun would surely be dead within moments, or at least very close. There was nothing to ponder or debate. It was what it was.

"Check on them?" Buddy asked.

Elvis nodded. Richie shrugged. That was enough of a vote to pass the motion.

***

Knocking on the two doors that could house Dundel and his daughters proved fruitless. No one seemed to be home, which put more of a strain on Elvis than any of them.

He started rattling out questions as to where they could be, but not listening for an answer. His whispering was failing in places as he tried to catch his breath in order to ask more questions.

Buddy was ignoring it and moving quickly through the quarters to make sure the others hadn't gone into some room they hadn't noticed. Richie was trying like hell to calm his friend down and failing miserably. Anxiety was contagious and Elvis was spitting it out with every exhalation.

"Give me some light, Richie," Buddy said, walking back to the first door they'd tried.

The place was suddenly flooded with illumination, making them squint against the glare at first. Nothing seemed out of place. The area was as tidy as when they'd first been invited to enter. The doors to the rooms where their hosts should have been sleeping were closed. Buddy twisted a handle and the latch opened freely. Richie held the lantern up to check the area and found it vacant.

"The other one," Buddy said, making his way to their last option.

The door swung open just as freely as the first and the empty room was the thing to finally silence Elvis' machine gun questioning.

"Well that's not what I was expecting at all," Buddy said.

"Nope," Elvis agreed, looking around the place as if it should have been bigger.

Richie glanced at the table at which they'd been sitting earlier in the night and noticed a piece of paper laying in the center. He picked it up without much hope and began reading, silently. The other two looked at him as he read, being patient with his reticence. He looked at the page for a long time before folding the note and putting it in his pocket.

"Do we have any room in anybody's pack?" Richie asked them.

"I got a little," Elvis said, "Why?"

"We're taking as much of the food as we can carry, filling our water bottles, and getting the hell out of here as soon as it's cool enough. Eat as much as you can first, because we won't be able to take most of it. Drink the water too. They won't be needing it anymore."

Buddy and Elvis asked no questions, knowing by the look on Richie's face that he couldn't answer them yet. They would just do as he'd instructed and wait for him to explain.

They got to work, packing away everything that they could carry. Richie said nothing as he poured water into six meal packs and set them on the table to hydrate. He splashed water into glasses and set them out to cool before filling each of their bottles.

The work was helping him to get past the things he'd read. Part of him was angry and afraid. The other part was thankful to Steve Dundel, who had done something for them that he'd never be able to undo.

***

The night was still, without wind, and that was good. They were out a bit too early, but the situation had made their need to leave more essential than their comfort.

Buddy walked beside Richie, waiting for an explanation while Elvis trudged ahead, wiping his face and cursing the heat. Richie was quiet. He didn't want to let anything out, yet, and his friend knew to wait.

When they'd exited the underground home of Steve Dundel, Richie had made sure to get out first and lead the others away from the bodies that were surely laying at the entrance. He wasn't worried about Buddy seeing what had happened, but Elvis might have been more upset by the scene.

The door hadn't been pulled closed properly, which was why Buddy had heard it opening and closing on its mechanism. The bolt had been thrown, somehow, so that when the hydraulic arm that controlled the entrance tried to pull it shut, it would have to start the open and close process again after a set time. It had been a nerve racking sequence as they waited to leave.

Their bellies were full again, which was something to be happy about, or at least content. They'd gathered enough food for a week, or maybe two if they were prudent.

The dried stuff wasn't much better than the sun fried rodents as far as taste went, but flavor wasn't something of necessity. The parcels were, however, packed with nutrients that they wouldn't get from the small meals they'd gotten used to.

Richie thought they might even be able to stretch the stuff for a month if they could keep hunting the basements at night to supplement their appetites. As usual, it was a coin toss.