Torn (27 page)

“
No,” Jesse said. “
You called the insurance guy.”

The corner of Chuck’s mouth r
ose
in a
smile
. “That wasn’t me.
That was
Colin. He had the keen foresight to know you’d go after that policy. And he called
the
insurance company.”

“Why would he do that? I am the beneficiary.”

“Yeah, but you know what? For how long? He was protecting his interest in Bret.”

“Why d
oes he have an interest in Bret?
”

“Why is it any of your business?” Chuck asked
as he stood. “Now if that’s all,
I
’ve
got to go.”

“I want in the house.”

“Then you have to wait.
”

“No, I won’t wait. I want my tools.”

“Then you should have thought of them before you left Bret fo
r the mail order virgin teenage
Geisha
girl wanna
be. Have some tact, Jess, and wait until she gets home.”

“Fine.” Jesse huffed. “But I want in that house for my tools the second she gets back.”

“
I’ll see
that she let
s you in the house. Have a good day.” Chuck turned.
He
didn’t let Jesse see his snide smile. Bret would surely let him in the
house
. As for his tools, he’d have to see Bruce about them, because last Chuck heard, he brought
t
hem off of Bret at a really discounted price.

They were on t
heir way back home. Their cell phones were charged
and in good shape. They estimated it would take an entire t
wenty-four hours, if not more,
to get back
to Pittsburgh. But with t
hree of them driving it would go by quickly.

Three of them.

Blaine was hitching a ride back with them. He convinced his editor that he had an exclusive to the
miracle
survivor story of Darius and Bret.

T
he news center paid for the SUV
and the expenses
of
the trip.

The vehicle was
decked out
,
t
he best possible
ride
home. They
needed
comfort after their ordeal.

They would
need the time to
come up with
the story and so forth.

They took off by
six in the morning, and Bret covered that driving. They stopped just before noon.

“Up ahead,” Bret announced. “Sign for a small town.”

Both sleeping men mumbled,
so
Bret took the exit. Of course, the exit didn’t lead directly to the town
;
she had to make a turn.

No big deal.

She could tell by the name and of course the sign announcing two-thousand-
something
population, that Hooks, Texas was going to be small
-
town charming.

It was. Perhaps farm-small town charming.

One of
those
corn towers greeted them at the
gas
station and
souvenir
shop. The shop and restaurant
had
signs miles up the road.

From the
dusty
windshield Bret could
see the small town. A one-stop
light place,
a
single street, both sides
with
shops. It
was
set about 100 yards from the Old Farm Market
boasting of
Texas
BBQ.

“Whew, it’s hot.” Bret declared. “The air isn’t even working.”

Darius sat up with a ‘huh’ as she pulled in
to
the parking lot. “Where are we?”

“I thought
we’d
stop for food,” Bret said. “Take a break.”

Darius
looked at his watch. “Wow, it’s late.” He reached
around
to the
back
seat
. “
You up?” he asked Blain.

“Yeah.” Blaine stret
ched. “W
hoa, look at this place
.
It’s great.”

“Yeah
,
it is.” Bret crinkled her brow. “It’
s
awfully quiet and dead though. I don’t see a car or a person.”

“It
’s too hot,” Darius said. “They’re
all staying in the air condition
ing.” He reached for
the car door. “Ready?”

Bret nodded and
opened
her door. All three stepped out.

Blain grunted. “God! It’s hot.” He pulled out his phone. “Hey you two
, go ahead.
I see a money machine down there. And
I think I see a sign that says e
spresso.”

Darius squinted. “Yeah, it does. Good
eyes
.”

“Eagle eyes when it comes to espresso.”

“I love coffee,” Bret said, “
But
not even I want a coffee now.”

Blain fluttered
his
lips. “Nothing better than an iced espresso. Go on in, I’ll be right back.”

Bret and Darius nodded and headed to the long
wooden
porch of the brown, log
-
style building. They watched Blaine, with his
phone
, move down the street toward
t
own
.

No
sooner
did
Darius
reach for the
door
,
it swung open.

“Holy shit, get in here!” the elderly man yanked Bret inside.
“We saw you pull up.
Wondered what the hey was taking you so long out there.”

At first Bret looked at Darius then to the room full of people standing there.

Everyone watched them. Staring. Some people huddled, some sniffled.

Curiously
,
Darius
glanced at Bret. “Are they looking at us li
ke this because we’re strangers?
”

Before
Bret could answer, the elderly man huffed. “No!
For
crying out loud.
Didn’t you listen to the radio?
Did the state police stop ya coming in on the road?”

Bret shook her head.

The elderly man whined. “Figures, they
abandoned
us. Maybe they’re getting
backup. Well, you two come on
in, it might be a long wait
. Make yourselves
at home
.”

“Wait for what?”
Darius
asked.

“
Until
it’s safe. It’s not safe out there,” the man said.

Darius asked. “Because of the heat?”

“The heat? No.” the man sh
ook his head. “Can heat do that?
” He pointed out the
window
.

Darius
and Bret moved closer to see.

Off to the side of the porch, not far from where they parked the car
,
were two bodies. Both
bloodied
, both a
mangled
mess.
Limbs
scattered
about
,
blood
formed a pool.

“Not safe for a second.” The man
repeated
. “Last three people who tried to leave met that fate.”

At the same time, Darius and Bret looked at each other and spoke out in concern, “Blain.”

Blain didn’t walk fast, n
or did he
pay attention
. One
hand
wiped
th
e sweat on the back of his neck;
the other hand
held
his phone.

He was sending text messages.

He wasn’t a pro at it. Good, semi
-
fast, but not one of those pros who could walk and type while never looking at the phone pad.

His phone allotted 160 characters. His message was long. He spoke of the heat, the trip, and the return shortly. It was to a girl he had met at a karaoke bar in Pittsburgh. He didn’t think he’d hear back from her, but
was
glad she sent
a message. When
was
she
returning
?

Mid
-
walk d
own the street he heard banging, or rather
knocking. It sounded like hands against a window. Blain paused, looked up and to his right.
Inside
the hardware store there were four people, banging on the window to
g
et hi
s
attention. The
y
were saying something, waving for him to go in.

Blain smiled. Waved, and held up a finger stating he’d be back.

He felt important
. Often
times when he was in small towns such as Hooks, people would recognize him from the news and he’d be treated like some big celebrity. He always made time for his fans. Without him and their faithfulness to his reports, he
wouldn’t
be the star reporter he was.

He kept walking,
chuckling
as they pounded
insi
stently
at him.

“Gotta love it,” he said to himself, with a shake of his head and a laugh.

Growl
.

He heard,
paused
, thought nothing of it, and hit the ‘send’ button.

Growl.

What the
heck
was that, he wondered. He flipped the p
h
one c
losed, put it in his pocket, heard
the soft growling again, and just as he looked up to
check
out the noise, he heard
someone call
his name.

“Blain!”

Darius
?
Blain turned around. “O
h
,
hey.” He lifted his hand in a wave and halted midway when he saw Darius and Bret at the end of the street.
Why does
Darius
have a shotgun?

“What’s going on?” Blain shouted.

“Get inside now!”
Darius
replied.

“What?” Blain walked toward
Darius
.

Growl. It
wa
s louder. More than one. The se
cond he saw Bret spin on her hee
ls and run back to the farmer
’s
market
, Blain slowly peered over his shoulder.

‘Holy fuck!’ blasted through his mind when he saw the pack of dogs. All breeds, shapes and sizes, all of them in a row, snarling, jaws dripping a thick white saliva.

Whether
or not it was a good idea, Blain ran. But he made the mistake of not thinking. Pulling a ‘horror chick
-flick
’ move, he didn’t think to run
into the building two feet away;
he ran toward Darius.

“What are you doing?” Darius yelled.

The moment Blain took off the dogs went from snarling to barking and they pursued.

Darius raised the shotgun and quickly moved closer.

Nine.
There
were nine dogs. The second the first one
leapt
toward Blain, Darius fired.

With a yelp it flew back.
T
aking
a few charging steps forward, Darius pumped the
chamber
of the shotgun, and fired again.

Down went a second dog.

He didn’t hesitate. It was like
a video game. About the fifth do
g that he shot, the others
seemed
to get the message and ran off.

“O
h my god. Oh
shit.” Blain grabbed his chest
and
hyperventilated,
trying to catch his breath.
“Where
did
you learn to shoot like that?
”