After Darkness Fell (22 page)

Immediate silence followed.

Just as I lowered my arm, a shot came from the right, ricocheting off a log a few yards in front of me. Staying behind the jagged wall of gnarled branches, I peered through a narrow opening on my right and saw some bushes twitching unnaturally a few feet from a group of pines. I grabbed Fields’ .38. Using my left hand and bracing my elbow on my left thigh, I popped off three rounds. “That’s for you, Brooke,” I whispered. A scream echoed down the hill. Someone yelled, “
Motherfucker
!” Instinct told me to get down. Seconds later, a torrent of gunfire slammed into my barricade from three different directions.

I balanced my weight on a small pile of torn branches, between two logs and beneath a large, broken limb, and listened. Silence. Taking advantage of the break, I tried examining my wound, but my sanctuary was too dark and I had to work by feel. I could tell the blood had already started clotting. If I was careful, and didn’t do anything to re-injure it, I could wrap it. I needed a little time to take off my jacket and shred my shirt. I cursed myself once again for ditching my backpack. The first-aid kit sure would come in handy right now. The alcohol could at least sterilize the wound. Even if I couldn’t get to the kit, I could douse the wound with the whiskey from the flask in the pack. The last thing I needed right now was an infection.

Six more shots punched into my barricade. Silence followed for about a minute, and then three more shots ripped into the logs, vibrating the limbs and sending chunks of bark and dirt flying.

“C’mon out, asshole! You’re surrounded!” The voice drifting down the hill sounded like the same boy who’d been communicating with Marlon earlier.

A few seconds later, another voice, this one on my right, yelled: “You don’t have a chance, dickhead!”

Then, on my left: “Come out now! Maybe we’ll letcha have a crack at that skinny bitch before Simon dumps ’er!”

That perked me right up, but I knew they were baiting me. Kids seemed to know about such tactics at a very early age. I’d known quite a few sociopathic children during my school days. They always seemed to be on the defensive and were always looking for ways to hurt or shock others. When such a kid was allowed to turn into a predatory killer, human decency vanished and was replaced by cunning and a natural skill in manipulating his victims. Killer instinct came with the territory, serving as a powerful force.

My survival instinct came from practical experience. I’d been in similar tense situations, probably more than this wild pack would ever see. Even if they were keeping Fields somewhere close, they’d never let me get near her.

A couple of minutes later, the sound of a truck echoed through the trees. The screeching of brakes tore through the wooded area, and I knew right then that the number of my hunters had increased. Doors slammed shut; distant voices penetrated the air.

About a minute later, a high-pitched voice swept down from the top of the wooded knoll. “Hey, dirtbag! We’re gonna take you down!”

Laughter followed, and the woods exploded in gunfire.

I dove down deep into my cocoon of felled logs and felt the vibrations as slug after slug pounded into the deteriorating wood. I didn’t know how many more of them had come, but it sounded like there were at least a dozen or more perched at the top of the hill, shooting at me. I could also tell by the increased volume of the blasts that they were moving down the hill as they fired into my shelter.

I realized then that I couldn’t save Fields. Even if I knew where she was, I couldn’t possibly get to her in time. I couldn’t do anything right now—not with this pack shooting at me.

But I had to do
something
. I couldn’t let them pin me down like this, and I sure as hell couldn’t let them dump Fields down a well while I hid in a stack of fallen trees, cradling my wounded arm.

Crawl through to the other side
.

Once again, that same strange voice disrupted my thoughts.

I couldn’t tell if it was my own mind or my imagination inventing some unrealistic escape plan. Or maybe it was indeed that strange voice I’d been hearing erratically for the last several hours. Whatever it was, I felt I should listen to it. I figured I had no choice, and no other options. In fifteen minutes, they’d have reached the bottom of the hill, would have me surrounded, and would fire endlessly into the stack of timber until there was nothing left.

I crawled through a heavy mass of fallen branches and limbs. As soon as I began making headway, the gunfire started up again. I lowered myself closer to the ground and waited for the heavy assault to stop. It went on for what seemed forever, but I knew they’d eventually have to take time to reload.

After maybe a minute or so, the bursts trickled off, and a heavy silence followed.

I took advantage of the lull and resumed crawling through the narrow, twisted trail, squeezing between limbs and forcing my exhausted body through intertwined branches, vines and weeds. I trudged on, careful to shield my bad arm while consciously gripping the Ruger. After slithering through the endless trail, bright shards of daylight glittered at the other end.

I cautiously stuck my head out among the dangling vines and peered to my left, then my right. I saw no one, nor did I hear the crunching of leaves, the snapping of twigs or the clicking of a gun hammer. A sudden gunshot thumped into my fortress several yards behind me, but I heard nothing else. The creek awaited me straight ahead. Just beyond it, the heavy growth of pines and scrubs would provide concealment to enable me to get away. I might even have time to circle around and steal one of their vehicles.

I listened for a minute or so, waiting for the gunfire to resume. More shots rang out, one of them buzzing wildly into the brush. I still didn’t see movement in the woods or brush on the other side. They probably hadn’t had time to circle me yet, and were still easing down the hill and getting into position. I knew better than to waste any more time.

Keeping my bad arm free of the heavy vines and brush, I crawled out of my barricade. Just as I pushed myself up, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned and froze.

A slender figure dressed in camouflage pants, black tee shirt, and a pale green baseball cap emerged from one of the bushes about twenty feet away. He held what looked like an M16 rifle in his hands and had it aimed directly at me.

“Smile, dipstick!” he said, and pulled the trigger.

Two simultaneous explosions echoed up and down the hilly terrain. The kid’s rifle blast flew wild, narrowly missing my head the moment I dropped to the ground.

A large hole appeared in the boy’s chest as blood and tissue spewed out of him, splattering the ground. The boy arched his back. His head jerked back violently, as if someone had slammed his spine with a sledgehammer. His arms flew out to his sides and his rifle leaped from his grasp, landing in the bush ten feet in front of him. He fell face-forward onto the hard ground and did not move.

Once again I was perplexed and unable to analyze what had just happened. A fresh volley of gunfire had exploded from the other side of the hill, spitting into the timber and the wild brush around me. I sunk down even further into the shoulder-high weeds and began dragging my tired body awkwardly toward the creek.

Veer to the right
, the inner voice inside me said, and once again I chose to obey it.

Duck
!

I immediately hit the dirt. A bullet whizzed by me, slapping into one of the pine trees just beyond the creek. I lay motionless in the weeds, my heart pounding.

The sudden silence told me they were probably reloading again. That usually took them thirty seconds. I had to take the gamble.

Using my good arm, I pushed myself back up. Keeping low, I began duck-walking again, but as soon as I crossed the creek, I heard rustling in the bushes directly ahead. My pulse sputtering, I dove face-down into the dirt, rolled into the bushes and came back up on one knee, the Ruger braced in both hands, its barrel aimed straight ahead.

Don’t shoot
! the inner voice yelled.

I wanted to squeeze the trigger but found that I couldn’t. My hand had gone numb. After tense moments, feeling returned, and my finger eased off the trigger and backed away from the guard.

Strange. One of them was hiding in the brush, twenty feet away. He was probably the second rifleman. If I was right, he was going to finish me off, and I should do him before he did me. So why would the inner voice tell me not to shoot? Why shouldn’t I shoot someone who was obviously trying to kill me?

The more I agonized over this, the less sense it made. First Marlon, then the other kid. What was happening out here? Who shot Marlon? Who shot the boy with the rifle? Was the same person responsible for nailing both of them?

The brush rustled again. My back grew warm; every muscle in my body began tingling. Should I or shouldn’t I shoot? Who was hiding in the brush? Was this the same person who’d killed the boy? The same person who had also killed Marlon? Judging by the sheer size and power of the massive wounds that killed both boys, I was pretty certain the same weapon had been used. But I didn’t think either of the riflemen at the roadblock had used such a powerful weapon when they were shooting at me. A .30-06 would have penetrated the trunk of the Nova as well as the back seat, but would have also torn through the front seat, slammed into me, then pounded into the dash before losing its punch. I’d only had a glimpse of their weapons, so I really couldn’t tell. Even if I did know what weapons were being used, it wouldn’t tell me why two such skilled shooters had killed two members of their own gang.

So who was hiding in the bushes? And why would he be wandering around in the woods, picking off gang members at crucial moments?

None of this made any sense, and as I’d learned early on, if something made no sense, there was a damned good reason for it. The world I’d once known had died. No cavalry existed anymore. There were no more cops. No good guys. No communications or help network. I no longer had a cell phone, and if I did, it wouldn’t work. Even if it did work, a call to 911 or anyone else would be fruitless. It was just me and a wild pack of psycho kids who’d kidnapped the love of my life and were now coming after me. Whoever was hiding in that brush was one of them. He was either a terrible shot or a very good one. Either way, he was someone with his own sick agenda, and he was walking around carrying a powerful weapon.

In either case, I wasn’t about to give him a chance to kill me at such a close range. Still gripping the Ruger, I brought my finger back to its proper place in front of the trigger, aimed the gun and prepared to empty the magazine into the center of the bush twenty feet straight ahead.

“I’m a friend.”

This voice was real. It wasn’t in my head, and it was the voice of a grown man. It also sounded like it had come from the bush.

A
friend
.
“I’m a friend.”

What did that mean? Did I know him? Or did he mean
ally
?

Or was this merely another hallucination?

Confused and frightened, I finally noticed my arms, which still held the Ruger at arm’s length. They weighed a ton and had been shaking so much, I couldn’t get a clean shot even at a distance of twenty feet. Heavy waves of exhaustion had been thrashing into me more than ever; it wouldn’t be long before I collapsed. I’d been running on pure adrenaline the last few hours, but now my reserves were dangerously close to depletion and would soon shut down. The exhaustion was showing itself in many ways. Now, besides that “inner” voice, I was hearing another, and this one sounded more genuine than anything I’d ever heard.
Fight it. Ignore it
. I kept the Ruger pointed toward the bush.

More shots broke out. One of them slammed into the pine tree just a few feet behind me.

I dove into the bush again and huddled there, ignoring the intense throbbing in my arm while struggling to decide on my options. Despite my efforts, I could not grasp the reality of all this, nor could I think of a solution. Because of the increasing pain in my arm, I was having more and more difficulty concentrating. Hallucination or not, something inside me told me not to fire at the bush, and as I cautiously pushed some of the foliage away with my good arm, I saw someone moving around behind it.

Then I finally made a decision. I didn’t know if it was due to the exhaustion, my growing sense of helplessness or the pressure of being constantly fired upon. Whatever it was, it told me to trust the voice. And my instincts. I was looking at a man—not a hallucination. And if this man had wanted me dead, I would already be dead.

I lowered my arm.

Seconds later, a face appeared from behind the bush.

“Over here, Moss,” he whispered harshly. “And for Christ’s sake, keep down!”

***

The back of my skull buzzed.

Moss. He’d called me Moss. Yes, that was my name, but in this situation, it didn’t make sense. How did a man I’d never seen before know my name? What in heaven’s name was going on?

More gunfire exploded in the woods. A heavy barrage splintered into the group of pines around us. The gang had apparently continued down the hill and come much closer. I crawled over to the brush and rolled to the other side, until I was directly behind the pine tree. Then I came face to face with the man kneeling in the brush.