Will to Survive (2 page)

“They certainly did kill the stuffing in my bed. But they didn't pull back the covers to make sure, or they would have known. Probably too unnerved or scared or crazed to think to check,” Herb said. “I didn't hear them come in, and it looks like they used pillows as crude silencers to muffle the shots.”

“But you heard
me
come in,” I said.

“You came in so loudly you could have woken the dead. Wait—you
did
wake the dead.” He gave me a small smile, and I tried to smile in return, but I think it was more a grimace. “I'm just sorry I wasn't roused soon enough to save you, Adam.”

“I saved myself,” I said. I shut my eyes, trying to block the memory of firing my gun at the two men in the cabin of the Cessna. Was it my imagination or could I still smell the gunpowder from those blasts?

“I meant saving you from having to take those lives,” Herb said gently.

“I did what I had to do.”

“That doesn't make it much easier,” Herb said.

“Brett told them that he didn't think I had the guts to pull the trigger.”

“Brett doesn't understand that killing somebody is about a lot more than just guts. You always had the guts, but you also have the courage not to abandon your morals. You took those two lives with regret and remorse.”

I shook my head. “I don't feel either of those things right now. All I feel is, well, numb.”

“Numb isn't bad today. Tomorrow will be different. You need to come and talk to me and—”

We both heard the front door open and reached for our guns—being paranoid wasn't being paranoid anymore.

Then we heard voices—my mother's and Howie's.

“In here,” Herb called.

My mother and her lieutenant came into the kitchen. Mom walked right over and wrapped her arms around me for a moment. Then she and Howie sat down at the table while Herb fixed them each a cup of coffee.

We sat in silence for a while. I could hear the faint murmur of my father's voice from upstairs as he read the twins a story. I was drowsy and may even have drifted off for a second right where I sat.

Eventually I snapped awake and looked up to see my father standing in the kitchen as well.

“How many casualties on our side?” Herb asked.

“Five of the six prison guards are dead, and the sixth is up at the clinic being cared for by Dr. Morgan,” Howie said.

“But I thought he was just tied up,” I said.

“Tied up and then forced to watch as each of the other guards was executed. He saw them all being killed, and then Brett put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger, but the gun didn't fire,” Howie said. “The guard pretty much lost it at that point. The doc had to give him a heavy sedative.”

“Poor guy, but I guess he's lucky to be alive. Did the gun jam?” my father asked.

“No, it was a fake execution,” I explained.

“What?” my mother asked.

“Brett only pretended he was going to kill him.”

My father stared at me, surprised. “What sort of person would do such a thing?”

“A sociopath,” Herb answered.

“He would have to be a sociopath to just kill men in cold blood who were tied up and completely defenseless,” my dad said.

“Brett didn't kill any of them,” I said.

They all looked at me again.

“They—Tim and Owen—told me Brett made the others do the killing.”

“Why would he do that? They were tied up,” my father said. “They weren't a threat.”

“He did it so there was no way back for any of those men,” my mother said.

“The same way terrorist groups force children to kill their own parents before they kidnap them and make them into child soldiers,” Herb added. “That way the children can never return to their homes.”

“But why didn't he just have his men kill them all?” my father asked. “Why did he leave one?”

“So that there was a witness to tell us who had done the killing,” I guessed.

“But more than that, they wanted to spread terror,” Herb said. “Has anybody heard of the Gurkhas?”

“Aren't they an ethnic group in India?” my father asked.

“They are warriors from Nepal known as some of the bravest and most ferocious fighters in the world. For generations they have been professional soldiers. One of their ancient tactics was to steal into an enemy encampment at night. They would go into tents and slit the throats of all the men as they slept … except for one or two people. Those soldiers would awake to find everybody else in their camp dead.”

“But why wouldn't the Gurkhas just kill them all?” Howie asked.

“Because it was more effective to leave witnesses who would spread the terror of what went on. Those survivors infected countless comrades with those horrible stories, filling them with fear.”

“And you think that Brett is trying to terrorize us?” Howie asked.

“He wants us to fear him,” Herb said. “And we should.”

“How much can he hurt us?” my dad asked. “It's just him and those four men, and they're probably going to get as far away from us as possible.”

“You're wrong,” Herb said. “We're going to see him again.”

“And it's not just five of them,” I said.

It was time to share the last bit of news I had been keeping to myself since my encounter with Brett earlier that night. In a way, it was the most frightening news of all.

“Brett has formed an alliance with the colonel and the remains of the Division.” That was the group of ruthless bandits who had tried to destroy us weeks before—the enemy we had attacked more than once. “They're back at their original compound again. That was where I was being forced to fly the plane.”

“That can't be true,” Howie said.

“It is.”

“Are you sure?” Herb asked.

“I'm sure. Tim and Owen told me before I—”

I couldn't even say it.

“Before you
escaped
from them,” my father said.

“This has suddenly become much worse,” Mom said.

“Much worse,” Herb agreed. “Brett is now part of a force that we already know is big and lethal enough to present a threat to us. He knows the way we operate, our defenses, the positions on the line, the number of armed men, the level of training, our weapons supply. He knows everything, and on top of that he now wants revenge.”

“Then we have to start by changing what we can,” my mother said. She turned to Howie. “I want the guard stations switched, the times that the sentries are changed to be altered, the weapons on the walls to be reinforced. I want everything to be done differently.”

“I'll get right on that,” Howie said. “I already have some ideas.”

“There's something else we have to do immediately,” Herb said.

“Do you want to call an emergency meeting of the committee?” my mother asked.

“We don't have time for that. We have to act now.”

“What do you have in mind?” she asked.

Herb didn't answer right away, and the seconds painfully passed. Finally he spoke. “They're expecting the Cessna to land in the compound. We have to give them what they expect. And a whole lot more.”

 

3

A half hour later, my father stood with Herb and me beside the Cessna. We'd taken the old plane from the Division weeks before, when we raided their compound and found they'd all fled. The plane, the engine not working, was left in a warehouse. Our mechanics and engineers had gotten it running and made sure that the plane was airworthy.

Mr. Nicholas, one of our neighborhood's engineers and top mechanics, had been roused from sleep to give the plane a quick check. He was just finishing up now.

“I still think it should be me flying this thing,” Dad said.

“If this were a jet, you would be flying it. Adam has more hours at the controls of a Cessna,” Herb said.

“I just wish…”

My father looked lost for a second, and I had to turn away. I couldn't afford to be undone by emotion. Not now.

Herb laid a hand on my dad's arm. “That you could put yourself in danger in place of your son?” he asked.

My father nodded.

“He's going to be all right.”

“I'm counting on you to keep your word on that,” my father said.

“You checked out the plane, as did Adam and Mr. Nicholas. It's guaranteed. We'll be back on the ground here in less than two hours.”

“I just wish it could have been taken up for a few more flights before you had to go that far,” my father said. “Just to be certain that it's still flightworthy.”

“The bullets didn't hit anything to be worried about on the plane; they just punctured the fuselage.”

He didn't mention that some of the bullets had punctured flesh before punching through the metal skin of the airplane.

“If we have any problems, we'll abort the flight and be right back,” Herb said. “It's just that we don't have much time. We need to get to the compound before Brett does.”

Brett and the rest of the escapees were probably still on foot. It would take them at least six hours to get back to their base—unless they'd hijacked one of the few remaining vehicles on the road.

“But why should getting there first be a problem—isn't Brett expecting you?” my father asked Herb.

“He's expecting the plane to be there when he arrives. If he gets there first, it's going to raise alarm. Our safety is predicated on surprise but also on expectations of our arrival.”

My father nodded although he still looked like he was feeling uncertain.

“We'll be back soon, safe and sound. You'll see.” Herb offered my father his hand, and they shook. Then Dad gave me a quick hug and walked toward the watchpost on the wall from where he could monitor the takeoff.

I understood the doubt and uncertainty. I didn't want to do what we were going to do, but there wasn't much choice. Delaying wouldn't work. It was now or never, and now seemed to be winning.

I fingered a bullet hole on the outside of the fuselage, on the pilot's side of the aircraft. I didn't even know how I could have made that shot, as it was on the side of the plane where I'd been sitting—and then I realized it hadn't come from me. It had been return fire from Tim or Owen. It had all happened so fast, in seconds, that I hadn't even realized it wasn't just me doing the shooting. One of the men had taken a wild shot or two back at me. It was probably nothing more than an involuntary twitch on their part after they had been shot, pulling the trigger and letting go a round or two before they died.

With hesitation I opened the door of the cockpit and climbed in.

Of course, the bodies had been removed and efforts had been made to clean away the blood and guts, but there was still a smell—a combination of gunpowder and something more sinister. Was that what death smelled like? As I looked over the instrument panel and strapped myself into my seat, I looked out the Plexiglas window to my left. Off to the side, next to the old Baskin-Robbins, the two corpses lay under canvas, waiting for the work detail that would take them out to the cemetery beyond the eastern wall for burial later today. I couldn't help staring at them. I couldn't help wondering if—

“Adam?”

I turned to face Herb, who was strapping himself into the seat beside me.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure … fine … I can do this.”

“I don't doubt it,” Herb offered. “Your passengers are counting on you.”

At his feet was our second “passenger,” a metal cylinder no larger than a propane tank from a portable barbecue grill but much more deadly. It contained a lot of high-powered plastic explosives from Herb's basement, part of the arsenal he'd acquired and stored before all of this happened.

We were transporting a bomb. A bomb made from explosives that had been sitting in the basement of the house beside our house. What a bizarre thought that my neighbor had grenades, sniper rifles, night-vision goggles, thousands of rounds of ammunition, and plastic explosives in his basement all those years.

“Adam, I think it would help if you turned on the engine.”

“Oh, yeah, of course … I was just checking the controls.” That was nothing but a lie—one I knew Herb would instantly see through.

I opened up the fuel line, pulled out the throttle, and started the plane. The engine roared to life and I slipped on my headset. The engine noise was muffled, and the ringing in my ears from the gunfire returned.

We bumped out of the parking lot, along the road, and through the gates. The guards there motioned us onward with a wave. They looked solemn and serious. They didn't know what we were doing or all that had happened, but they did know about the escape and the two dead prisoners and the guards who had perished at the hands of Brett and his men. Soon everybody would know. My mother was meeting with the families of the guards—bringing each family the news that their loved one had lost his life in the line of duty. Would the fact that two of the escaping prisoners had been killed mean anything to them? Would it ease the pain at all to know that there had been some form of justice?

Probably not.

I brought the plane to a stop in the middle of Erin Mills Parkway, which ran directly in front of the western wall of our heavily fortified suburban neighborhood. An open quarter-mile stretch of blacktop lay in front of me. The sun was just about to come up. It was good to have light for the takeoff and flight, but not so good for what we were going to do. Darkness would have provided cover.

I looked over at a flagpole that poked up from the front yard of a house just on the other side of our defensive wall. The flag hung there, limp. There was no wind to factor in. Instinctively I pushed the yoke in and then pulled it back out, watching the flaps respond. Everything seemed right.

I opened the throttle, and the engine raced in response, the buzzing propeller pulling us down the runway, faster and faster as we approached takeoff velocity. The vibration in the wheels stopped suddenly as we lifted off. I pulled back on the stick and we quickly gained height.